Dinga followed the ghana's retinue, first catching the high priest's gaze then turning his back to him.
The short hairs along the nape of Dinga’s neck stood on end.
* * *
Dinga held his sword before him lost in his meditations. Having cleaned and sharpened the blade, he held it aloft in front of him, knowing it, feeling its heft. Learning its delicate balance, he taught his muscles to think of it as an extension of his arm. His dagger lay to the left of him, sharp and pointing toward the hut entrance. His spear keeled to his right within easy grasp. With them he always had the trappings of a home, no matter where he rested his head.
He knew who approached his hut long before she made her presence known.
“What are you doing?” she asked, entering the hut as if it were her own.
“I am resting in the presence of Onyame," Dinga said, his eyes still closed.
“I’m not interrupting you, am I?”
“If a warrior can be disturbed so easily, he needn’t be a warrior,” Dinga said.
“I wanted to thank you personally for my rescue.”
“What rescue? You seemed to have your assailant where you wanted.”
“Still, I thought you would enjoy this.” He opened his eyes to see her carrying in a bowl of fruit and a carafe. “From the ghana’s table."
Dinga glanced up, inscrutable as ever. He had only seen fifteen summers before setting out to prove himself. The fairer sex remained as much a mystery to him as any culture he visited. He kept to a code, hating the distraction of women. They interfered with his dedication, his worship: the art of combat.
“By Onyame,” his voice trailed off.
“I am Ifriquia of the Kante clan.”
“How many clans are there?”
“The major Soninke clans are the Kante, the artisans and metal workers; and the Drame and the Sylla, who see to agriculture, fishing, animal husbandry.”
“Maybe it is time to add a fourth. Cisse. The ruling clan.”
“You shouldn’t joke. Bida, too, speaks of there needing to be a ruling clan.”
“What clan is Bida?”
“He is a foreigner. Like you. From Kawkaw.”
“Kawkaw? The land of magicians?”
“The Pharaoh has chosen many from Kawkaw for his personal court.”
“Bah.” His dismissive snort belied the fascination he held for the city of Kawkaw. He heard tales of its gleaming cities, dark ways, and darker gods. His heart longed to one day see it, yet he feared it all the same. Still, he was young and had time.
“And what stirs your heart for Onyame?”
Dinga took his knife and scratched a symbol in the earthen floor. Ifriquia stooped to study it over his shoulder. His reedy frame leaned to the side of scrawny, as if he had been sickly. His round face beguiling in its innocent air, hid hints of mischief in his grin. “‘He Who Roars So Loud that the Nations are Struck with Terror.’ The name above all names. Honor, bravery, loyalty; these are virtuous traits. Honorable combat is my worship.”
“That sounds . . .”
“Barbaric? Simple? Yet, I know who I am and what I am called to do. Fulfilling who I am is how I draw close to him.”
“And where would Onyame take you for your next trial?”
“I plan to return well north of Kush and Egypt. Into the hinterlands and beyond before returning home.”
“Why?”
“My grandfather wandered to the four winds before settling among his people. He called it the rite of Onyame. He took part in many a battle, faced many a beast, before proving his worth as leader of a people.”
“Is that what you plan to do? Lead a people?”
Dinga smiled a wolfish smile.
* * *
The fire was warm, the food filling, and the wine soothing. Despite his wishes, eventually he had to sleep, to prepare himself for the next day. But when he slept, he dreamt of death and dying comrades.
Comrades betrayed.
And when he awoke, his friends were no less dead.
* * *
The next day, the ghana was found dead.
There was no talk of a new ghana. Ermene’s son, though destined to be the next ghana, was only months old. Bida, himself, had cut his umbilical cord with an arrow to ensure that he would be a good hunter. Until he came of age, Ermene allowed Bida to assume the role of his uncle.
Noting Ermene’s weakness, Dinga watched all with a detached bemusement.
“The time of testing has begun,” Bida announced, preparing the village for the ceremonies that would accompany his burial. Per the old ways, the villagers interred Ghana Afer with food, clothes, and cooking pots—the things he would need in the next world—with the funeral lasting several days. As divine minister, harborer of the protective powers of the spirit world, Bida oversaw the ceremonies. The high priest was seen as the spirits’ representative; in exchange, he was protected by the spirits and could make use of their power. “The ghana has passed over. He has joined with our ancestor spirits but remains present with us. May we continue to benefit from his wisdom.”
Ifriquia led the women in their dance about the spewing pyres of the central fire. The warriors gave voice, yelling as they pounded the drums. Their grim beat—a dull throb with a near sinister aspect—stirred the ladies to swaying. The drum mutterings increased, building in intensity until they swept the ladies up in their contagious rhythms. The ladies gyrated and pranced, oblivious to the stares, caught up in the spiritual ecstasy of their dance.
Dinga’s eyes followed her every movement.
Only then did Bida begin his harsh, guttural intonations. His peacock feathers clung to his back, leering over each shoulder. He appeared almost regal in his high head dress. The drum ceremony continued. Bida moved to the uncomfortable rhythms, though—surely a trick of the dim light—he seemed like an old man in the fire’s lurid glow. Ancient and gnarled, Bida appeared ravaged by years under an unceasing sun and wind. Withered hands cast
