He must have looked a sight, barely clothed in filthy rags, the reddish-dirt that passed for soil here caking his brown skin, and once well-coiffed bushy hair now matted into clumps. What he must have smelled like he dared not venture. That had been the sixth time he had been chased away, when all he asked for was work. He would do anything—haul goods, clean animals, even shovel ofal—just so it earned him enough to leave this place. He had thought he would be safe in this drab town of mud-bricked buildings with dust-beaten roads, so small that foreigners more than often outnumbered locals. It was more a way station than a true settlement, a place for caravans and merchants to rest, water their animals and trade for supplies—before they ventured out into the open desert. He had expected to disappear in this isolated place, away from the large cities he had once called home. But the night past had shattered any such hopes.
He had stumbled from the alley earlier this morning, his chest throbbing in pain, and his head filled with the faces of the three men he had killed. Or the thing inside him had killed. Is there a difference, he condemned himself guiltily. More troubling, they had known about the markings, which seemed impossible. Those that saw the strange lines etched onto his chest never lived long enough to speak of them. Yet these men had known, and they hunted him—claiming they would receive payment for his capture. But who? What madmen would dare seek out such horror and death? He ran a hand across his chest absently, where beneath his torn shirt he could feel the markings gliding beneath his skin. He had no answers to these questions, but he had to keep moving, until he could not be found by friend or foe. It was better for him that way; it was better for everyone.
A familiar sound caught his ear, faint chanting and the beating of nearby drums. Curious he followed it, turning several corners until coming to an open clearing. There, in the center of a gathered crowd, atop a raised platform, several men pounded out powerful rhythms with their palms on ornately carved wooden drums. The instruments were slung across their bare chests, hanging at their sides where their palms could reach. Bright golden kilts embroidered with patterns hung from their waists to past their knees, offering a stark but fitting contrast to their dark bodies. Beside them were other men, these however covered in voluminous but equally brilliant colored cloth. They sat strumming and plucking their fingers across the strings of wooden instruments. But more captivating was the figure before them.
A woman stood in front of the drummers, dancing to beats with such ease and grace it seemed they had been created for no other purpose. Chest bare like the men that accompanied her, she wore only a girdle of beads and shells that covered her wide hips down to the top of her thighs. Muscles flexed and tensed across her coffee-colored frame as she swayed and shook, beads of sweat causing her oiled skin to glisten in the mid-morning sun. Her ornate hair was arranged in thick coils, held in place by rounded bits of gold. As she danced, she sang loudly in some faraway tongue, calling to the drummers who responded back with their own chants. Small metal balls attached to her wrists and ankles rattled in accompaniment to her every move, blending into the music.
Makami watched entranced. The drums and dance reminded him of his own homeland, that he had left so long ago. No wonder they called to him. But even more so, the woman and her dance evoked other memories. Kesse.
He closed his eyes, swaying slightly as a rare bit of peace settled over him. Beautiful Kesse, whose rich laughter always tickled his ears. Kesse who would sing softly and dance for him in the morning as the sun crept into their room. How he loved to watch her hips sway, drinking in the way her ample backside jiggled as she glanced back and smiled brightly. How he loved to nuzzle his nose in her bushy hair, or trace his fingers across her mahogany skin as she slept beside him. Kesse, who had been his life, who was now forever gone. Dead.
The reality of that one word crashed in on him, banishing the fleeting moment of happiness. His eyes flew open, and he was struck with such deep anguish any other pain dulled in comparison. He would have cried, but there were no tears left to fall.
The drums suddenly hushed, and the dancing woman went into a still pose lifting her arms high. The gathered crowd erupted into cheers and applause, many throwing tiny sacks, most likely filled with gold dust or other valuables towards the entertainers. Armed men with swords and spears kept the delighted onlookers at bay, while smaller children rushed out to collect the tributes of praise from the ground. A tall man wrapped in rich cloth that barely hid his fat belly lifted a staff and cried out praise for his performers, urging the crowd to shower them with more gifts—to which they obliged.
“You have a fine ear.”
It took a moment for Makami to realize the nearby voice was meant for him. He had become so accustomed to disgusted stares and curses; he did not expect conversation. A man walked towards him, a bright smile showing beneath a starkly white beard that adorned his brown face. Hands clasped behind his back, his belly surged before him, as if trying to escape the white shirt beneath his long indigo robes. He came to stand before Makami, a gleam in his dark eyes.
“I was remarking on your ear for music,” he said. Rather short and squat,
