“Yes, yes, you deserve a rest from your ordeal,” crooned the eerie voice.
Sangara looked up, recognizing the voice was in front of him. He beheld a tall shape of a man. Though age had grayed his unruly locks, he stood as tall and lean as any man of Xaftaan, with magic and wonder dancing in his eyes.
“What of my clan brothers, woliyo?” Asked Sangara, blood drooling from his lips. “Do they prevail or suffer defeat? Does my father look for me among the dead or does he lay with them?”
“The conflict rages on,” replied the wizard. And with his frail form veiling great vigor lifted Sangara, and brought him over to a hidden fountain. “But of its present stage I cannot say. Perhaps they prevail, but only the gods can tell. Come and restore your strength.”
They approached a graven ox head jutting out of the course, rocky surroundings. Its recurved horns and massive head bore smooth and seamless details cleanly cut from the surrounding granite. A golden ring looping through its flaring nostrils. Water of magnificent clarity spouted from its bellowing mouth. Beside it stood a great, black eagle with a high crest crowning its head. It eyed the wizard as he approached with Sangara in tow.
“What is your name man-child?” asked the wizard.
“I am Sangara Aarn-Toura, son of Daan Binoudjan-Toura and great-grandson of Hadang Dafee-Toura”, answered Sangara.
“Ha! Your name is still shorter than mine,” laughed the wizard, “I am Youssou Ousman Ganaar Diop, Grand Woliyo to Buur Antu Lamin and Buur Idrissa Gancax, Reaper of the Striped-Wolf Horde, and the Destroyer of Chief Saikou Simbene,” proclaimed the wizard, “as well as the keeper of ‘the Fountains of Farro.’”
“You lie old man!” cried Sangara through gritted teeth. “Buur Antu Lamin and Buur Idrissa Gancax are bone-dust legends. No man lives so long.”
The eagle shrieked a jest bringing the ancient sorcerer to a haunting chuckle.
“Yes, the gods do seem to play more tricks than before. These new heroes are less courteous,” said Youssou, leaning Sangara against the fountain basin. “Boy! I am not bound to the mortal constraints of time. I have traveled beyond and within, through veil and dust, where gods bow and men fear to tread. Where lies find truth and truth twists into oblivion. Now, drink!”
Sangara looked into the rippling pool and wondered what the effects would be.
“Before I drink. What is this?” inquired the young warrior.
“I will promise to tell you,” answered the Youssou as his long fingers delicately caressed the great bird. “After you drink.”
Sangara took a deep breath and drank from the basin, cleaning his mouth of bloody spit. Almost immediately, the pain in his ribs subsided and powerful thighs erected his muscular body. He felt the strength of a Djeran bull flood his body with magnificent might, arousing him, puffing his deep chest with lean sinew.
“Yesss, yesss,” smiled Youssou. “This be the Fountain of Fear. The ‘Waters of Iron’ which bestows strength to those who have survived the second ordeal. Witness the powers awaken your form and heal your wounds. And the great eagle-head fount was the Fountain of Tuur. The one that has poisoned you with the ‘Waters of Fire’, fore a lesser man would have fallen on his sword than seek death in battle when the beasts gathered about you. These are the gifts to which you have earned Sangara of the Touras.”
Mighty black wings stretched out blotting the base of the wall behind him and a majestic cry resonated throughout the cavernous enclosure. At the spectacle’s conclusion, its wings folded back revealing a yawning tunnel mouth. Sangara knew it was not there before and no mist came to greet him, just the lean figure of the wizard calling him to follow. But he was no longer worried about the specter of magic that plagued these primordial caverns nor the beast he will be challenged to defeat.
Entering the mouth behind the wizard, “Ho scoundrel. Will this take me to my father?” asked Sangara, “I have . . .”
“How ungrateful a whelp,” chided Youssou. “Yes, I will take you to your sire.”
A few words escaped Youssou’s lips and the corridor glowed with the bewitching mist that brought Sangara to this mountainous mystery.
Youssou’s ancient words bothered him. Names and places were mentioned that were heard before but only in the praise songs of the djelis of Da Boura and Da Famadjan. Buur Antu Lamin was the King of Xaftaan before the Great War, but a thousand years is long even for the most renowned of woliyos. And the Striped-Wolf Horde was a hundred years before his birth and a continent away. How could this possibly be?
Sangara never noticed the wings cover the opening as they entered or the darkness creeping slowly behind them.
* * *
After a short walk they emerged into a small well-lit chamber adorned with glyphs of unrecognizable design. The carefully crafted motifs along the walls waved and danced in flowing dashes and bold lines, the work of expert hands and cursed minds. A section of the domed ceiling remained bare but for a single ivory orb at its apex. Sangara awed at the construct of this new space. Gone were the disfigured furrows of molten rock and marred stone. This was more like a temple than mountain cave. Time and space seemed to unfold unevenly within the presence of this ancient man and his monstrous omen-bird. Symbols and caricatures spoke to him from some distant past, from the eons of lineage and generations long dead. As he brought himself back to where the wizard stood,
