Granite. Jenny Robson

it.

      From behind his curtains of silk and gauzes, he said, “I cannot sleep, Shafiq the Arab. So tell me your stories of foreign places. Yes, your voice has a soothing quality.”

      I spoke on and on, recalling the tales of my grandfather.

      “Yes, and the Emperor of China has a giraffe there in his palace. A present from an Afrikan king from the land of the Jenz. This giraffe is a great wonder to the people of the Chinese court. Its droppings are collected for medicines and potions.”

      Still the King did not sleep. So I moved on to the stories about the Crusaders, as told to me by my great-uncle.

      I must be fair in my telling of facts. The Crusader massacres in Jeru Salem happened many, many years ago. More than a hundred, so my history tutor said. Yet still these people are known in my country as the Crusaders. I suppose it is easier than remembering their many tribal names: Germanics and Venice-dwellers and Franks and Englishers. And Bavarians and Austriars and Genoese. And more.

      “Yes, your majesty,” I said through the gauzes. “Their bodies are white all over, white as the milk of your royal herds. And with strange colours in their long hair and long beards: yellow as the gold from your mines; red as the flowers of the flame trees. And with eyes blue as the sky, or green as the grass. It is a great strangeness and wonder to all.”

      I spoke on and on, wondering if the King was now fallen asleep. Would his chamber-servants tell me? My throat grew dry and sore.

      Then I heard the King’s voice. Even this close, it seemed to echo with his power and majesty. “These cathedrals you speak of, Shafiq. Is it the truth that they reach high as the very clouds?”

      “So my great-uncle explained, oh Nameless One. I have not seen them with my own eyes.”

      “Aaha!” said the King.

      And a little later, the chamber-servant told me that the King was sleeping peacefully at last. And with a smile on his countenance.

      It was the early-morning council meeting. In the mist, as Mokomba tells.

      I sat on the long stone bench beside ReDombo. Most of the nobles were present. Shumba as well, the great explorer, newly returned from some insane journey across the sunset sea, and with his left arm only a stump and still healing.

      From the rock-throne way above us, way above the eagle statues, the King’s voice echoed through the mist. “ReDombo, you will go to investigate these cathedral buildings. Shafiq the Arab, you will guide him to this land of the Milk people.”

      The King’s word is a binding command. There is no arguing to be done. No heads may be shaken in disagreement. Even though his words struck terror in the hearts of those around me.

      Not in my heart though. Like young Tshangani, the idea of travel was always delightful to me. Wanderlust runs through my body along with my blood.

      So there in the sand of the council ground, I drew a map. Such as the map I have sketched for this chronicle. Hoping the King would see it through the dampness of the mist.

      I said, “This is the best route, oh Nameless One. We walk eastward to Sofala with the merchants. In Sofala here, we will wait for the monsoon winds. Then a dhow will carry us northwards along the coast, through the waters of the sea of sunrise. To my home country, Egypt.”

      I heard ReDombo’s gasp of anxiety behind me.

      I said, “Your people will all be made welcome in my country. Welcome and treated with courtesy. We are a worldly-wise people, accepting of those who are different from us in looks or manners. Then my cousins will help guide us past Jeru Salem and westwards into the territories of the Crusaders – the Milk people. My cousins and I can speak the languages of these peoples. Even though they have many different tongues.”

      And that was when Shumba took the drawing stick from my hand. Forceful as always, with his voice booming and echoing and filling the rocky council hall.

      “No, no, oh Nameless One. I have a better way. It will bring us to the same destination. Yes. First we head westwards towards the sea of sunset. My boat lies waiting in the sands there at the village of the not-witches. We will board with my Arab sailors and sail northwards. Past the land of the Yoruba. Past the Kingdom of Adashanti. Then on until we reach the lands of these Milk people.”

      And who can argue with Shumba? He is the hero of all Zimba Remabwe. He is the King’s beloved.

      I looked down at the directions he had traced.

      I wanted to ask him how far north he had in fact sailed on this sea of sunset. And what in fact had become of his missing slaves and his missing arm? But I had to hold my peace.

      That was when my own heart began to quake with terror. I wanted to cut out my tongue forever speaking that word “cathedral”. Why had I not told the King about the pyramids instead? Those high, high structures left behind by the ancients of my own country. True, the pyramids did not touch the clouds. But in my country, in Egypt, there are few clouds in the sky.

      And so I am to blame for the calamity which followed.

      Allahu Akbar.

      3. At the mouth of the cave of Mmwahhari

      So let me speak about this trouble with my sister Raii.

      It was evening and we were sharing our evening meal. You were not there, Shafiq. You went out walking alone beside the forests that night of the King’s command. You were gone till deep into that night.

      And my mother was sobbing.

      “I don’t understand this thing. Why must my husband and my son take this dangerous journey?”

      My father ReDombo explained over and over. He is a kind and tolerant husband. “The King needs a building of his own. One that will bear his name in generations to come. Once he is late and his name can be spoken again. Just as the people look at the hill-fortress and say: ‘Those mighty walls were the project of the great King LaShisha.’ Just as they look at the enclosure of the Queen that we have now completed and say: ‘Yes, that is the memorial to King Mzakane. It was the great King Mzakane who commanded its construction.’ So now the Nameless One commands that a cathedral be built.”

      “But if you never return?” sobbed my mother.

      Then Raii stamped her foot beside the fire. Yes, stamped in anger. Right there in the presence of our parents.

      “I want to go too. I want to ride in a boat across the sea of sunset. I want to visit the lands of these Milk people and see their hair the colour of gold and their eyes blue as sky. Why is it that Mokomba can but I cannot?”

      My father held his temper. “Don’t be silly, child. Don’t behave as if you have no sense. You are a girl. A girl’s place is within her family compound. Not wandering through foreign territories.”

      “But why?”

      “Because you have a girl’s duties to perform. You have firewood to collect and water to draw. There is sweeping to be done. And cooking. And who else will watch your little sister?”

      “This is not fair!” Raii screamed. Yes, screamed. Then she ran sobbing into the daughters’ hut with her meal half-eaten.

      My mother and father shook their heads, despairing.

      “I fear for that child,” said my father ReDombo. “Some wicked spirit surely entered her body as she lay there at the watering hole. When I return we will take her to the spirit-cleanser once more. Something must be done before she brings disgrace to our clan.”

      In those days of waiting for the journey to begin, my father spent much time praying at our family shrine. He spoke long and earnestly to our ancestors, naming each by name. Back through the generations.

      “Protect us, oh departed ones. Travel always by the side of my son and myself. Be our shield in the dangerous moments.”

      But not naming my grandfather