Listening from the entrance, I heard murmurs of childhood hardships and troubled romances. Some spoke of famines while others told of terrible beasts clamoring from the hills and sea. One of the four hags, Elder Hawa, was reciting a tired tale about tragic lovers, one from Umlomo and the other from northern Eemah, changing the names and places and dates, hoping new clothes would disguise her stolen story.
Certain I could sing a tale as well as any of them, I marched stalwart into viscous sound and smoke—spoke my piece. “Star-crossed lovers are as old as bones, Hawa. Even I could do better! Elder, why not let me—”
Kato cut me off. “You’re late, dog. We had to pack our pipes ourselves this morning.”
“You could have had Ishmael do it.”
The elder prodded my thigh with the hot end of his pipe. The others howled as I cried out, but he only scowled and scolded. “Don’t try to distract me. Why are you so late?”
“I just woke up,” I explained, wincing. “I was awake late last night—”
“Watching the stars again?” Kato rocked his balding head. “Kashim the Dreamer. Go ahead, then. What did you see this time?”
“Nothing.” That was the truth of it. Father’s inspiration, the memories and images hidden in the constellations, had been silent through that overcast night. Only the moon shown bright enough for me to see. But it wasn’t the stars where I learned my secrets—not that night. It was my dream. “I have a story I need to tell.”
“You have a thousand stories.”
“I mean for tonight,” I said. Elder Hawa laughed at that, let a fog of spirit-smoke roll over her chins. I had to bite my tongue to keep from spitting on the hag. “Please! I’ve been practicing all year now. Every day. I’m ready!”
Kato squinted at me through a row of smoke rings. “Kashim, you’re here every day. A dog doesn’t have time to make his own stories.”
“But at night—”
“Listen. I know you think that you’ve got your fathers blood, and you do, but even he never told his stories during the solstice. And he knew better then to ask. He was half again your age when he was taken, and that was still twice too young.”
“So, what? Am I supposed to wait till my life is over before I’m allowed to prove myself? Just give me a chance! It’ll be different, I—”
The elder sighed a silver-blue stream between his wrinkled lips, and as I choked on it, Hawa and the others erupted with laughter. Even Kato smirked, but then he signaled with his pipe for the yurt to fall silent. “No, Kashim,” he grumbled, “You won’t waste your life because your life hasn’t begun. You’ve been a dog too long; you need to go out and live. You’ve got your father’s boat. Learn to sail and how to fish, or how to spin the reeds into canvas and nets. You can move west to the silt farms or north into the city. Find a woman, have a son, raise your own family. If you want to prove yourself, go out into the world and live. Then, if you decide to return one day, you can tell your stories. When you do, these old bones will still be here, listening.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. All I could think to do was to turn my back and curse them for my welling tears. Then came the words on the verge of sobbing. “You’ll be ashes by then, burned up with all the rest. But that’s not me. That’s not my dream.”
“Kashim the Dreamer!” Hawa snorted. I fled before they could see me cry.
Outside, Ishmael’s legs dangled beside the door flap. His head was leaned back and his jaw hung open, and there were flies buzzing about his mouth. It made me smile despite myself, though as I dried my eyes and climbed the watchtower handholds, I kept in mind my words to Kato. Burned and forgotten. Upon reaching the top, I took the conch, slipped it around my neck, and pinched the nose of my fellow dog.
“Wake up, Ishmael. Your watch is over.”
†
Our ancestral bonfire burned orange as the setting sun falling fast over the hills to the west; and on the eastern beach, they grew brighter by the second as darkness swallowed the sea. The moon was high, and from my seat atop the watchtower, I could just make out the villagers’ tired faces, lulled by the tide, waiting for the dawn. Umlomo will sleep long tomorrow, deep into the day. I wetted my lips and tasted humiliation. Hypocrites. No amount of salt could wash away the shame.
“Ashes of my ancestors, breathe life into my lies,” bellowed the eldest singer as she dunked her torch into the bonfire and raised it alight with spirit in hand. “Guide me like those you shepherded through the mountains of Horeb. Inspire my words as did the serpent who fooled his children into swallowing the sun!”
She went on, but the rest went drowned under my grinding teeth and crackling knuckles. I wanted nothing more than to rush down there and hurl those bones into the ocean, to shove each and every face before the water and make them see who they truly are. Instead, I buried my head in my arms against the cold and waited for the seventh torch to touch the fire. It didn’t matter what Kato said; I had decided. I would tell my story. I would prove myself.
The hours dragged on and on and on, and I thought those same thoughts over again, stoking the flames, keeping them hot so as not to lose my courage when the moment came. But after a while, I realized I’d lost count of the songs. I glanced up expecting to see three or four torches, but there was only the ocean and its watery voice. “Bring out the sun.” They were the words of the sea just like in my
