The brute had retreated to near the women, preparing to use them as shields if need be. The brute, though twice the boy-man’s size, must have sensed something about him. An untamed spirit, a warrior’s fury. The boy-man let loose a frightful cry of his own. The brute brandished his dagger, the size of a small sword to anyone else, and leapt. The boy-man slid to the ground and drew his spear up. Off balance, the brute impaled himself on it, his momentum carrying them into a tumble. The brute uttered a death scream as the boy-man, now astride him, plunged the spear into his belly and ripped it to the brute’s groin.
The boy-man stood, his arms streaked with blood, his hands frozen to the spear. Studying the crimson-soaked dust all around him, he brought the spear to the ready at the sound of the approaching soft footfalls.
“Warrior,” a gentle voice said. He turned violently, blood-frenzy still in his eye. She continued in a soothing tone. “Come with us to our village. Let us celebrate your arrival and rejoice in your victory. Many will sing of your deeds.”
The black bird regained his attention. Feeling its withering gaze, almost human in its hatred, he watched as it took off on large black wings.
* * *
Jenne-jeno was a gem lost within the jungle confines, a mysterious juxtaposition of past and encroaching present. Surrounded by rice fields, a levee for the pasture, and a deep basin, it was a mix of huts and great houses. Though some of its round houses were constructed with tauf foundations, the puddled mud stood in stark contrast to the cylindrical bricks of the city wall. The palisaded walls, tall and proud, sealed the village from the rest of the world. A swarm of huts enclosed structures of stone, as if the huts settled alongside an older, abandoned settlement. The boy-man had traveled far and wide, and though the village reminded him of cities that he saw in Egypt, the town’s architecture seemed older. Truth be told, the rumors of treasure that outshone all the neighboring nations also lured him here.
“The raiders seek new territory. They, too, suffer from the drought that plagues much of the kingdom,” a fat faced man with postulant features pronounced soon upon their arrival. With a bulbous body, like a tree frog. A band of gold girded his fat neck. He looked more wealthy merchant than war-chief. Beside him stood a fine woman of dignified air, one who had to have been quite a beauty in her youth. The concerned on-lookers waited to hear something to allay their concerns, but their war-chief was too much the politician to give them any real answers.
“It makes no sense,” the boy-man spoke up. “There is plenty of good land only a few miles north of here.”
“You speak Mande?”
“I speak many languages,” the brooding boy-man said.
“Your words ring with truth. They think us vulnerable because our people are divided into small clans. It is said that someday a man will rise and unite the main clans of the Soninke. Then, we will be a force to be reckoned with.” The man stopped and studied the boy-man. “Where are my manners? I am Ghana Afer. And this lovely creature is my sister, Ermene.”
“I am Dinga of the clan Cisse.”
“Cisse? I am not familiar with that clan.”
“I am Nokian.”
Whispers rippled through the fathered throng. Fresh interest quickened the ghana’s gaze. Dinga knew the rumors that spread about his people. They were a barbaric, warlike tribe, intelligent but uncivilized. Ancient and proud, they kept their old ways, and their secrets, to themselves.
“Nok is on the far side of the desert. Few venture across it and live to tell the tale. What brings you to our land. I ask, not from suspicion, but curiosity.”
Be he scout or spy, Dinga knew he wondered. “Nothing. I simply wish to prove my mettle to Onyame. And see what the many lands and people have to offer.”
“Onyame? The god above all others? What say you to that, Bida?” Ghana Afer asked.
All eyes turned to the high priest. He stood a head taller than the tallest man, skin dark as tree bark. His orange robe seemed to glow against him. The crowd parted as he neared. Dinga failed to see the source of the reverence that they showed him. The priest adorned himself like a woman. Two snakes, painted in black on either arm, coiled along the length of his arms. Serpentine bracelets of gold dangled from each wrist. Crowned with a high cap—decorated with gold—wrapped in a turban of fine cotton, a necklace of human teeth circled his long neck. The figure circled Dinga once, though Dinga stared straight at the ghana without acknowledging the priest. Fox-faced, with far too crafty eyes, he met Dinga’s frank countenance. “Such a savage deserves such a savage god.”
Dinga Cisse remained silent.
“Bida, that is no way to treat a guest. Especially one that has already done so great a service to our village. Come, Dinga Cisse, sup with us. Enjoy all that our village has to offer.” Ghana Afer offered his hand, but before Dinga could move, all eyes turned to the high priest.
Bida's body jerked like a large bird caught in the throes of strangulation. The gathered villagers drew back, a wave of fear washed over them. He strode in a large circle around Dinga and the ghana, his spastic rhythms increasing when he neared Dinga. He reached into the folds of his robe and removed a small rod with what appeared to be beads tied to it. He yanked at the bag on his hip then upended it at Dinga’s feet.
Quite the show, though Dinga remained unimpressed.
“The warrior’s arrival is a powerful omen. Our village will go through a time of testing. We must have faith and we will not only survive but will shall know prosperity greater than before. If we cling to the old ways.”
“Show Dinga Cisse to a hut. Let him
