Jeru Salem. Marching all the long way from their own lands, a hundred hundred of them. With blood-red crosses on their banners and blood-red rage in their hearts. Because they said Jeru Salem was the home of their own god. And they slaughtered the women and the children and the babies until the streets of Jeru Salem were thick and slimed and slippery with blood. Scattered with severed heads and limbs.
And then the Crusaders would invade my dreams like a hundred hundred milk-coloured ghosts with blood-red teeth.
My father said, “It is the King’s command. We have no choice, Mokomba. Just as your grandfather had no choice when he was commanded by the King’s late father, MtotonyaTsi. Come. We will break this news to your mother. And we will ready ourselves.”
That was the evening my sister Raii caused such commotion. She is my twin sister and she has been always difficult and uncontrolled and with a wild tongue.
When she was a newborn baby, she survived the three days and nights left out in the forests and beside the waterhole of the lions. In midwinter. As instructed by the midwife because she was a twin and a girl.
And she has always been like this, loud and demanding, and forgetting at times that she is only a girl and of little importance.
*
This was my fault. Beneath it all I, Shafiq bin Fatmar, must bear the blame for this mad expedition.
It was late one night when I was summoned to the King’s chambers. His subjects knew well how he kept strange, unnatural hours. But willingly I climbed those many, many steps, slippery in the rain. Perhaps the King wanted to discuss further this matter of writing? And I was eager for that, eager to begin my teaching.
I had considered it deeply by then. Many sounds of the language of Zimba Remabwe were similar to sounds of my Arabic tongue. So therefore Arabic letters could be used. For the other sounds, I would need to create letter-shapes of my own. Yes, that would be the best way.
Because the nobles’ sons must surely learn to write in their own language?
And I was planning how I could teach them with sticks in the sand. At least until Mustapha’s papers and inks and pens arrived. That was how I learned first to write as a small boy, when paper was scarce and expensive.
So yes, I climbed the steepness of the hill willingly.
Guards posted along my way held torches that burned into the darkness. I was grateful for the light. Many of those steps were treacherous and narrow, particularly the steps closest to the summit.
But no. The King did not want to discuss writing. So of course I dared not mention it.
From behind his curtains of silk and gauzes, he said, “I cannot sleep, Shafiq the Arab. So tell me your stories of foreign places. Yes, your voice has a soothing quality.”
I spoke on and on, recalling the tales of my grandfather.
“Yes, and the Emperor of China has a giraffe there in his palace. A present from an Afrikan king from the land of the Jenz. This giraffe is a great wonder to the people of the Chinese court. Its droppings are collected for medicines and potions.”
Still the King did not sleep. So I moved on to the stories about the Crusaders, as told to me by my great-uncle.
I must be fair in my telling of facts. The Crusader massacres in Jeru Salem happened many, many years ago. More than a hundred, so my history tutor said. Yet still these people are known in my country as the Crusaders. I suppose it is easier than remembering their many tribal names: Germanics and Venice-dwellers and Franks and Englishers. And Bavarians and Austriars and Genoese. And more.
“Yes, your majesty,” I said through the gauzes. “Their bodies are white all over, white as the milk of your royal herds. And with strange colours in their long hair and long beards: yellow as the gold from your mines; red as the flowers of the flame trees. And with eyes blue as the sky, or green as the grass. It is a great strangeness and wonder to all.”
I spoke on and on, wondering if the King was now fallen asleep. Would his chamber-servants tell me? My throat grew dry and sore.
Then I heard the King’s voice. Even this close, it seemed to echo with his power and majesty. “These cathedrals you speak of, Shafiq. Is it the truth that they reach high as the very clouds?”
“So my great-uncle explained, oh Nameless One. I have not seen them with my own eyes.”
“Aaha!” said the King.
And a little later, the chamber-servant told me that the King was sleeping peacefully at last. And with a smile on his countenance.
It was the early-morning council meeting. In the mist, as Mokomba tells.
I sat on the long stone bench beside ReDombo. Most of the nobles were present. Shumba as well, the great explorer, newly returned from some insane journey across the sunset sea, and with his left arm only a stump and still healing.
From the rock-throne way above us, way above the eagle statues, the King’s voice echoed through the mist. “ReDombo, you will go to investigate these cathedral buildings. Shafiq the Arab, you will guide him to this land of the Milk people.”
The King’s word is a binding command. There is no arguing to be done. No heads may be shaken in disagreement. Even though his words struck terror in the hearts of those around me.
Not in my heart though. Like young Tshangani, the idea of travel was always delightful to me. Wanderlust runs through my body along with my blood.
So there in the sand of the council ground, I drew a map. Such as the map I have sketched for this chronicle. Hoping the King would see it through the dampness of the mist.
I said, “This is the best route, oh Nameless One. We walk eastward to Sofala with the merchants. In Sofala here, we will wait for the monsoon winds. Then a dhow will carry us northwards along the coast, through the waters of the sea of sunrise. To my home country, Egypt.”
I heard ReDombo’s gasp of anxiety behind me.
I said, “Your people will all be made welcome in my country. Welcome and treated with courtesy. We are a worldly-wise people, accepting of those who are different from us in looks or manners. Then my cousins will help guide us past Jeru Salem and westwards into the territories of the Crusaders – the Milk people. My cousins and I can speak the languages of these peoples. Even though they have many different tongues.”
And that was when Shumba took the drawing stick from my hand. Forceful as always, with his voice booming and echoing and filling the rocky council hall.
“No, no, oh Nameless One. I have a better way. It will bring us to the same destination. Yes. First we head westwards towards the sea of sunset. My boat lies waiting in the sands there at the village of the not-witches. We will board with my Arab sailors and sail northwards. Past the land of the Yoruba. Past the Kingdom of Adashanti. Then on until we reach the lands of these Milk people.”
And who can argue with Shumba? He is the hero of all Zimba Remabwe. He is the King’s beloved.
I looked down at the directions he had traced.
I wanted to ask him how far north he had in fact sailed on this sea of sunset. And what in fact had become of his missing slaves and his
