Granite. Jenny Robson

only for fair reasons, when the King was betrayed or his orders were disobeyed. Or when treason was proven.

      Shafiq says to me now, “I think you must continue with your own story while it is still light.”

      So yes, there from the archway of the enclosure of nobles, my father ReDombo appeared. Walking towards us, with Tshangani’s father Chivhu at his side. They were both returning from the King’s early-morning council meeting, up there in the mist. And there was worry on both their faces.

      I do not like it when my father seems worried. It makes me afraid.

      And why should he be worried? Surely all was well?

      The King was pleased with him, with our whole clan. The inner walls of the enclosure of the Queen were fully complete now. The most beautiful section of that whole structure. The most finely wrought masonry with stones so even and balanced. With each granite block so perfectly fitted to its neighbour that not a single strand of a princess’s hair could pass between! And so solid and steady that even the Queen’s strongest bodyguards were helpless as babes to sway it. Though they tried over several days, as was their duty.

      My father and his slaves had worked with greatest care for many winters and summers. Setting the fires to the perfect heat, funnelling the water in perfect lines, for the cleaving of the granite slabs. Tapping with the sharpest chisels and the lightest hammers for back-breaking hours. I know because I stood by them, marvelling while I learned the craft of my clan.

      Yes, the walls were safe and steady and immovable as a mountain from the beginning of time. There was no danger that they might topple onto the heads of the fine citizens of Zimba Remabwe. Nor onto the sacred heads of the queens and their princes and princesses.

      “Who knows, Mokomba,” said my father in those final days of construction. “Who knows what building this king will demand from us next. But we will be ever ready.”

      And yes, the King was well pleased. He gave a special feast of celebration with two of his royal herd slaughtered in my father’s honour. My mother received fine presents for our compound: bright-red cloths and thick karosses and a gold ankle-bangle. Even a delicate porcelain bowl brought from the land of China. She treasured the bowl especially and kept it safe in the far back section of her hut.

      “There must be no touching. Only looking!” my mother warned us. “And only when you have permission!”

      So then: why did my father ReDombo have such worry in his eyes, coming from the King’s meeting?

      “We must make ready for a journey,” my father told me.

      “A journey, ReDombo sir? But where are we headed?”

      “It will be a long journey, my son. We will be gone from your mother for many round moons, I understand. We will first walk far past the outer villages of the Kingdom. And then we must cross the sunset sea. In a boat.”

      “The sea? The sunset sea?” I was filled with dread. I knew the stories, even though the sunset sea was far away and I had never laid eyes on it. “But it is full of monsters and fish larger than elephants and fiercer than lions! And water that boils suddenly as if in a giant’s pot on a giant’s fire!”

      “This is the King’s command,” said my father with stern warning in his voice. Even though only the four of us were present.

      Tshangani’s father Chivhu spoke now. Wanting to comfort me. “The great Shumba will lead us. He is our finest and bravest explorer. He knows the wildest sea and the wildest land. He will find the way through.”

      I kept silent then. But I was thinking: Shumba came back from his last expedition with half his slaves missing. And missing as well, half his left arm.

      Beside me, Tshangani was smiling with hope and excitement. “And us too, father? Must we go too?”

      Chivhu nodded. But he was not excited like his son. “Yes, the King wants a full report made of the travels.”

      “But why?” I asked. “For what purpose?”

      It was my father who explained.

      The King had heard tales of tall buildings in faraway lands. Buildings that were far higher than my father’s walls. Buildings that stretched up to touch the very clouds. Buildings that were called by the name “cathedral”.

      And the King wanted such a cathedral built here in Zimba Remabwe. My father must find out therefore how these buildings could be constructed in safety. He must investigate the methods of the Stonemason clans there in the lands of the Crusaders.

      The lands of the Crusaders? Oh holiest god Mmwahhari! Was that our destination? It was more terrifying to me than crossing the sea!

      And I saw that my father too was afraid. And Chivhu with him. Only Tshangani still stood with the light of excitement and adventure in his eyes.

      But Tshangani did not know the stories about these people of the white bodies, these Crusaders. I had never passed them on to him. I could not bear such words to pass my lips.

      Stories that you told, Shafiq.

      To my father, do you remember?

      But I heard them too, eavesdropping from my sleeping-mat in the sons’ hut. Yes, Shafiq, I confess to you. Those late nights when you and my father sat at the fire still talking, I was awake inside my hut and listening too. Unable to stop myself.

      You told how the Crusaders came marching across the deserts to the Arab town of Jeru Salem. Marching all the long way from their own lands, a hundred hundred of them. With blood-red crosses on their banners and blood-red rage in their hearts. Because they said Jeru Salem was the home of their own god. And they slaughtered the women and the children and the babies until the streets of Jeru Salem were thick and slimed and slippery with blood. Scattered with severed heads and limbs.

      And then the Crusaders would invade my dreams like a hundred hundred milk-coloured ghosts with blood-red teeth.

      My father said, “It is the King’s command. We have no choice, Mokomba. Just as your grandfather had no choice when he was commanded by the King’s late father, MtotonyaTsi. Come. We will break this news to your mother. And we will ready ourselves.”

      That was the evening my sister Raii caused such commotion. She is my twin sister and she has been always difficult and uncontrolled and with a wild tongue.

      When she was a newborn baby, she survived the three days and nights left out in the forests and beside the waterhole of the lions. In midwinter. As instructed by the midwife because she was a twin and a girl.

      And she has always been like this, loud and demanding, and forgetting at times that she is only a girl and of little importance.

      *

      This was my fault. Beneath it all I, Shafiq bin Fatmar, must bear the blame for this mad expedition.

      It was late one night when I was summoned to the King’s chambers. His subjects knew well how he kept strange, unnatural hours. But willingly I climbed those many, many steps, slippery in the rain. Perhaps the King wanted to discuss further this matter of writing? And I was eager for that, eager to begin my teaching.

      I had considered it deeply by then. Many sounds of the language of Zimba Remabwe were similar to sounds of my Arabic tongue. So therefore Arabic letters could be used. For the other sounds, I would need to create letter-shapes of my own. Yes, that would be the best way.

      Because the nobles’ sons must surely learn to write in their own language?

      And I was planning how I could teach them with sticks in the sand. At least until Mustapha’s papers and inks and pens arrived. That was how I learned first to write as a small boy, when paper was scarce and expensive.

      So yes, I climbed the steepness of the hill willingly.

      Guards posted along my way held torches that burned into the darkness. I was grateful for the light. Many of those steps were treacherous and narrow, particularly the steps closest to the summit.