Muezzinland (4 page)
A minute later he sat upright, grinning. "Logged on, little subsystem, transfering data at ninety megabytes per sec! Ah… there are omens here. West is the direction of your subconscious. West." He stared at Nshalla. "You have come from the south, pale, pale negro, and there is dust on your feet and in your remarkably uncurly hair."
Insulted, Nshalla replied, "My father was Irish."
"Blood is blood is blood."
"I'm the daughter of an empress."
The pygmy ignored her. "The journey will be long, and yet short. Much can be achieved in a matter of days. Two will go and three will return. I have seen it. Upload time over, logged off!"
Disgusted, Nshalla departed the tent, followed by Gmoulaye. In the passage they argued.
"He was a charlatan," Nshalla said.
"All diviners connect with the spirit world," Gmoulaye replied, in what Nshalla knew was a put-on sensible voice. "We must expect a certain amount of lunacy and listen to the
words.
"
"I do know a
little
about diviners. Aren't they supposed to speak in tongues? Where was his interpreter? All diviners are supposed to have interpreters. He spoke in New-Oriental!"
Gmoulaye looked angered. "Did you see nothing of him, his shades, his phones, the microphone? The man
himself
was the interpreter. We have just spoken with an entity of the aether, Nshalla, a real spirit of the optical network." She uttered a scornful laugh. "You city women know nothing."
Nshalla tried to control her anger, but it made her voice low and grim. "Let me tell you something. I'm going to Timbuktu, to the Library of West Aphrica. If you're my friend you'll come with me, if you're not you'll go back to Accra." She turned on her heel and ran back to the street.
"I'm going south!" Gmoulaye shouted after her.
Back at the inn, Nshalla ran into her room to weep. When the outburst was over she walked down to the common room where, amongst his guests, she found Lechat Ndoye, the innkeeper. He consoled her with a free mug of cocoa.
"There, there, my lady. We all have our disagreements. You have been friends for many years with the villager, and that means it will last into the future."
Nshalla sighed. "It's over."
"Odomankoma, the Wise One, would surely not allow it."
"She'll never come north with me. I've got to go to Timbuktu."
He stared. "Timbuktu? But isn't that, well, it's a long way away. Surely…"
"I have to," Nshalla said. "You don't understand."
A rustle behind them spoke of a presence. Nshalla turned to see a small man, dressed cheaply but tidily in a brown cloak and breeches, with acne scarred skin and crooked yellow teeth. "Gracious lady, I could not help but overhear your heart rending conversation. But your little difficulty could be solved. I am a professional guide. It is my duty and my pleasure to assist those few travellers remaining in our lands into other climes. No, I have never been to Timbuktu, but I have been to Ouagadougou, a town not far from Timbuktu. Take me on! You will not regret it."
The man's patter was persuasive. His manner lay just on the good side of unctuous. Nshalla looked him up and down, then said, "What would you take for a fee?"
"It would be a horrendous dishonour to discuss fees," he replied, "when we have only just met." He bowed, grinning, then offered her his hand. "I am Z'agoubya Nsangue, and I cannot express my pleasure at meeting you."
Taken aback, Nshalla pumped his hand. "I'm Nshalla."
"Trekking from—"
"We need not go into that."
He bowed again. "The phrase will never again pass my lips."
Nshalla turned to Lechat. "D'you know this man?"
"I never set eyes on him until he arrived this morning."
Nshalla considered the situation. She felt insecure. The majority of people living in Ashanti would have appearances altered by the aether. How could she tell if this man was fake or genuine? Well, there were certain tests that could be performed with sensing transputers, but even an ordinary person could fool such a machine. The only reliable test was to consult an intelligent animal, such as a chimp, divorced from the sensory complications of the aether. Nshalla possessed no such beast.
And care was required when dealing with charismatic or persuasive individuals. Deep down, Z'agoubya's psychology was altering the image he wished to present to the world, implying his oiliness was a symptom of insincerity—or, worse, he was an illusionist able to transform his appearance by force of will, externally malleable because of a fractured personal identity.
Nshalla sighed. Evening was close, and she felt tired. "I'll take you on," she said. "Meet me at the north gate tomorrow morning."
She turned and made for her bed. On Gmoulaye's pillow she left a note saying what her intentions were but offering no thoughts on the advisability of Gmoulaye following. She signed it with the pictsym for Empress-Daughter, but then, realising what she had done, crossed it out and made the symbol for friend.
She slept.
She woke.
The room was dark. Outside, distant drums passed messages, while donkeys tied in the street groaned and rooftop monkeys chittered. Gmoulaye lay asleep in her bed. Nshalla crept to the window and saw that dawn was near. Downstairs, she waited for the innkeeper to appear. As the sun rose, he did, dressed in a satin gown that revealed his muscled torso.
"I'm leaving after breakfast," Nshalla said.
"Very well, my lady." From the pouch he took a number of cowries, before tossing it over. Nshalla secreted it in her backpack.
The innkeeper clicked his fingers at his daughter. "Breakfast now."
Nshalla was served with fried egg chopped up with tomatoes and garlic, toast, and freshly squeezed orange juice. A plate of mangoes was laid at her table, but she waved them away.
Gmoulaye did not appear.
Nshalla departed the inn, wishing good health and a surfeit of obedient children upon her host, then began the walk through the city to the north gate. Bustling bodies surrounded her. The market was beginning its day, and shrouded women were haggling for fowl, paw-paws, and giant mangoes. Nearby a neon sign flickered:
Drink Virgo le Cola!
She felt a little dazed. Though handy with weapons, she was taking a risk, going out into unknown bush with a man she knew nothing of. But it had to be done. The extremity of her position had hardened her resolve, and made her realise just what an extraordinary thing Mnada had done. She was the rightful heir to Ghana. How could she have thrown all that away? And why?
At the north gate a small figure awaited, flanked by two dozy spearmen. It was Z'agoubya.
"Gracious lady—"
"My name's Nshalla. Let's have none of this gracious nonsense."
"As you wish. My apologies."
She looked him up and down, trying to see if his appearance had changed. It had not, though he was prepared for travel, carrying twin packs on his back, weapons at his belt, transputers in his pockets. Wooden beads dangled on optical cables looped around his neck. Again she studied him, remembering the vendor and the static-box. His nails were broken, but clean. No. Not enough clues to make an accusation.
"So," she said. "You want to guide me to Ouagadougou."
"To Timbuktu," he corrected. "During the night I downloaded information from a resource. I have old maps that will lead us to Timbuktu." He patted a transputer and grinned.
"Show me the maps."
He called up a selection of screens. Nshalla recognised the colouring and the format.
"And your fee?" she asked.
He glanced away. "You try to shame me, and I do not deserve it. We must not be mercenary so early in our relationship."
Nshalla detected a trap. It would be easy for him to avoid her questions, lead her hundreds of kilometres, then demand payment as he wanted. The onus would be on her to pay up. She was having none of that. And she had detected a flaw in his character.
"We'll decide now," she stated. "You might as well know that I've penetrated your disguise, such as it is. I know you're not Z'agoubya. Who are you?"
The bald declaration unnerved him. His hands trembled for a few seconds before he took charge of himself. He shrugged, looked at the eyes in the road, glanced up at her. "My fee is one cowrie per day. I will pay my own board, when such luxury is available. As for my identity…"
He hesitated, glancing at the spearmen, then gesturing them away. "The truth is I am wanted in Ashanti City. I used to deal in illegal optical processors. There, you have it." He tipped his head toward her. "My name is Msavitar, and I am still glad to be at your service. Nshalla, we will make Timbuktu, I promise on the grave of my mother."
"We'll see."
Then he asked her, "For future reference, how did you know?"
Nshalla began to walk away from the city. He followed, glancing back at the walls like a nervous puppy, skittering two nervous steps for her one. She made him wait for some minutes before replying, "I looked at a few maps when I visted the Golden Library, and I'm sure it's not a coincidence that the maps in your transputer are exactly the same as theirs. So any
professional
guide would know that Ouagadougou is only half way to Timbuktu."
He grinned, and shrugged once more. "You have me. I exaggerated because nobody likes to walk a road alone. I heard your story and wondered if we could make a team."
Nshalla took him by the shoulder, trying to physically overwhelm him, for she was a head taller than he. "We might yet. But if you double cross me you're a dead man."
"I most perfectly understand. It shall be as you say, oh how it will be!"
"Are you sure?"
"Nshalla, I have been neither to Ouagadougou nor Timbuktu, but on my honour I am well travelled. You must believe me."
Nshalla nodded. "Then let's start."
~
The next day felt like the loneliest Nshalla had so far experienced. Out in lightly wooded savanna once again, the sun burning her back and a silent Msavitar two steps behind her, she missed Gmoulaye more than anything else. At least Gmoulaye chatted. Msavitar said nothing unless it was germane to their journey, offering no observations, no jokes, no small talk. Nshalla began to feel she had made a mistake.
One cowrie a day seemed excessive as a fee. Realising that many days would offer him nothing more challenging than finding the shallowest part of a stream, Nshalla made new conditions. He would be paid one cowrie on those days where he proved his worth. Five days of uneventful walking would not accrue him five cowries. He protested, but Nshalla insisted. "If you don't like it, leave," she told him.
He grinned, but he did not like it. For a few moments Nshalla was again reminded of the expression on the vendor's face.
As the sun sank westward into crimson splashed clouds, Nshalla began to look for a likely campsite. She scanned the rolling landscape ahead. The road, its eyes sparkling now evening was drawing in, was already fading, and soon they would be crossing more open country. Far off she could see the eye line end upon a hill. No more access to the optical networks.
On the horizon she saw smoke from a village fire. A few antelope grazed. Nearby, egrets stood on the ends of tree branches.
The only shelter was provided by a baobab tree. It had been struck down by a storm, but some roots had remained in the ground, and so it had survived, its bole curving upward. Msavitar, perhaps sensing something of Nshalla's reserve, waited until she dropped her bedroll, then dumped his belongings on the opposite side of the tree. He started a fire on his side.
Evening sounds oppressed Nshalla. Insects chirrupped and buzzed, bats squeaked, distant hyenas chuckled. Looking south she tried to spot the glow of Ashanti City, but all was dark.
There was a silhouette moving towards her. Immediately alert she drew her weapons, laying the dart gun on the ground. This could be an accomplice of Msavitar's; though, on reflection, such a person would be unlikely to approach so openly.
Then she recognised the walk, the figure. Gmoulaye.
She ran down to greet her friend.
"Gmoulaye! I'm here."
"Shhh!" came the reply. "You will have something onto us."
Nshalla hugged her friend. "It's you!"
"I thought about what I said, and I realised I could not let you walk on alone. It is not what I wanted, but…"
"I'm glad you followed me."
"You
both,
" Gmoulaye said.
Nshalla nodded. "You saw his tracks. Msavitar is his name. I don't know much about him, but I had no choice but to take him on."
"You did right choosing a companion," Gmoulaye said, "but only time will tell what sort of a man he is."
"We could dump him right now."
Gmoulaye shook her head. "He cannot overpower us. I will search his belongings when he sleeps tonight to check for aether devices. We may need him, for I know where you are going."
"Timbuktu. It's at least two month's walk to the north. You'll come all the way?"
"If the spirits allow it."
Nshalla laughed, greatly relieved. "Then you'd better come and meet Msavitar the guide."
Chapter 4
Ejura, the nearest town to Ashanti City, lay two days off. Nshalla expended considerable effort trying to rid herself of the obsequious Msavitar, but he clung like a leech, despite his obvious dislike for Gmoulaye. In turn Gmoulaye thought little of him. They walked north, speaking little, Nshalla's mind boiling with plots to distance herself from the little man.
For herself, she felt no enmity towards Msavitar, but Gmoulaye's appearance rendered him superfluous; and he was restricting chatter with her friend. When a goatherd girl asked her who her friend was, she replied, "He's no friend, just a guide." Gmoulaye chuckled.
From Ejura they made north through hilly, dessicated terrain towards Kintampo, a stretch they estimated would take four days. Msavitar earned his cowrie guiding them with transputers through a maze of dried riverbeds, crevasses, and hillocks. Gmoulaye, apparently stung by his display of worth, though she said nothing outright, made extra efforts collecting food, dislodging animals from trees and locating campsites.
On the third night out from Ejura a disagreement arose. Nshalla decided to tell Msavitar that they would not require his services once they had made Kintampo, an unsubtle attempt that made him laugh.
"How will you pass through Volta Blanc?" he asked.
"Where?" they chorused.
"You see, you don't know where it is. Oh, it would be an outrage if I were to leave you in the clutches of the men of that country."
"What is it?" Nshalla asked.
"I, Msavitar, shall take you through that terrible land, and maybe earn an extra cowrie for my trouble. Volta Blanc is the country of men. All the male criminals for many kilometres around go there, to live a purely male existence. Women are banned. They have no children. The men there are all fantastically ugly and they are afraid of mothers. They fear water. I myself, brave heart that I am, have been through Volta Blanc, for the only way to pass through is on the riverboat. I shall escort you there, have no worries, and you will be safe."
Never having heard of Volta Blanc, Nshalla had no answer to this. It could be true; there were thousands of countries in Aphrica. Or Msavitar could be lying for his own purposes.
"Fair enough," she said. "We'll keep you for the riverboat ride at least."
"And somewhat further," he replied, grinning, "for there are many difficulties ahead, many, oh so many."
Kintampo was deserted except for nomadic goatherds sheltering in tumbledown huts, so they began the six day march towards Daboya, where they hoped to board a riverboat.
Woodland was now becoming dry savanna with only thorny bushes and an occasional tree relieving the brown monotony. Parts of this scrubland were supplied with water, and here herds of gnu and antelope shuffled in an uneasy truce with vultures, hyenas, and, far off, a pride of lionesses. There was a constant cackling of birds wheeling in the air. The grasses were tinder dry. Reeds grew as tall as people at the edges of waterholes, but elsewhere vegetation was limited to ground hugging root plants, black bushes, and the ubiquitous baobab.
Gmoulaye walked naked, as ever, and, though they rested during the midday hours, Nshalla felt hot and sweaty enough to remake her dress as a corset. Msavitar wore a long white gown patterned with dust and sweat.
They walked on.
~
Daboya was crowded. They walked exhausted into the shambling town, having made thirty kilometres during the day in sweltering conditions, bothered by midges, eaten by mosquitoes, even losing their way for an hour in a plain of cracked boulders before Msavitar spotted a line of twinkling eyes that marked the beginning of the track into town. The shock of the crowds caused Nshalla to stand stunned for some minutes.
Borassus palms encircled the town. It seemed a liberal place, this capital of Azaraland, as evinced by a lack of civic warriors, no gates or toll booths, nor even any flags flying. Nervous though Nshalla was, she felt she would be able to stay for a night before taking the riverboat.
They were not bothered as they wandered the passages of the old town. Evening was near and street markets were closing down. Gmoulaye noticed a drumming circle, which she joined for a few minutes, playing her djembe, before asking for advice on accomodation. They were pointed in the direction of Warthog Lane.
On this crooked row of azara shacks they spotted a long hut, tall, though only one storey, outside it a pole from which a chameleon skin hung. Msavitar thought it an inn, and it was.
The owner was a local who spoke imperfect New-Oriental, a short man with a wooden leg and a lazy eye. His brown skin was as wrinkled as a town elder's, though he had not yet gained white hair.
He introduced himself just as Mr. Mboup. "Look down the length of my inn," he said, "and see the many rooms you can choose, all cheap, clean, guarenteed free of rats and scorpions. These you can stay in. Riverboat? There is a timetable stuck to one of the palms by the jetty. Only two minutes from here."
Waving Msavitar aside, Nshalla took out her bank and paid for all three of them. Mr. Mboup sniffed the card before slipping it into his transputer interface and allowing his systems to debit the sum agreed.
"You have been on long journey," he said, nodding. "This smells of monkey shit, and there is no monkeys in Azaraland." He rubbed his stomach. "Pleasantest wishes to you all."
"You're well travelled, then?" Nshalla asked him.
"No. But I get all sorts of chaff types in here, the rough, the smooth. It is a living."
Mr. Mboup showed them to their rooms. Through the roof of hers, Nshalla could see the moon.
Later, Nshalla went with Gmoulaye down to the jetty, to discover that a riverboat was making north for Bolgatanga Bridge at dawn. Returning to the inn, she requested a call an hour before dawn then slipped under the mosquito nets of her room.
The riverboat was a wooden affair, barnacles amidst peeling green paint, its array of solar cells hoisted up on fraying ropes. It was called
The Late King of Benin.
As the sun rose, the trio walked aboard and allowed a porter to take them to their cabins. A robotic arm emerging from a wall gave them booster jabs against new-malaria, yellow fever and shivering fever.
Soon Nshalla was lounging on a deck chair at the stern of the riverboat. A dozen other travellers accompanied them. The crew consisted of four men, drunkards except for Captain Nfor, who was a very tall man as thin as an aether aerial, wearing an ancient uniform from some downfallen European country and who put on airs and graces. His New-Oriental was as formal as a courtier's.
The papyrus-shrouded riverbanks slipped by to the sound of a chugging solar engine, but almost immediately there was trouble. One of the passengers began to suffer a fit. Her friend laid her down on the deck, where she twitched and swallowed convulsively. Nshalla was shocked when the image of the unfortunate woman began to oscillate between two figures, her normal self, and a darker, more primeval self. The changes were instantaneous, like a flickering fluorescent lamp.
The crew were afraid, shrinking back and bringing forth wooden charms against the evil eye. Gmoulaye ran off with other passengers, but Nshalla stood still, Captain Nfor nearby. At length the fit subsided.
The woman's friend bowed to the captain and said, "My apologies. She suffers from epilepsy. It is as if the neuro-electrical storms in her brain are switching lobes on and off. What you saw were her real self-image and a baser self-image, brought out by the aether. We think it relates to a childish self because the epilepsy began when she was seven."
Captain Nfor nodded. "I have seen something similar," he said. "Once I was commanded to take a youth upriver by his parents, who were chiefs in an Azaraland village. The lad had been treated for neurotic paranoia by the cutting of the corpus callosum. The two halves of his brain separated, he developed two self images that were transmitted to the biograin hierarchies of all who saw him. I recall them vividly. One was a limp youth, artistic and damp of skin. The other was rough, a grainy image like that of a low resolution screen, dark and ugly. The boy's identity was whole and he saw himself as a single person, but depending upon his brain mode two aspects were transmitted."
Nshalla approached the captain, saying, "Were the lad's parents warm and loving, or did they ignore him?"
"I do not know," Captain Nfor replied.
Nshalla frowned. "I'm looking for my sister. Our mother was distant and cold, and bad to us, and our father we hardly knew. He was from a remote European land. Have there been any reports of shapeshifters in this part of the world?"
Captain Nfor seemed intrigued. He took a hash cake from his pocket and began chewing. "Why do you ask?"
"I know a lot about the aether. My sister was trained from an early age to be like her mother. She's an heir, you know. Now she's run off, and I expect her sense of who she is has gone haywire. Her identity crisis will be transmitted by the aether."
"I see, I see," Captain Nfor said, nodding. "Many of the repressed parts of her personality will surface now she is free of her mother. Did she have a cultural role?"
Nshalla gave a sad smile. "She would've become an Empress."
He seemed taken aback. "I thought I detected a foreign accent. You are from far off."
"Ghana."
Captain Nfor took her by the shoulder and led her down the side of the riverboat. "We will look after you and your friend," he said in a fatherly voice. "If there is any news to be had from the bush we will certainly pass it on."
Nshalla thanked him, then departed to find Gmoulaye and Msavitar. The rest of the day passed peacefully enough. As dusk fell they heard from both riverbanks the sounds of drumming, while occasionally the still evening air was split by the noise of screeching birds. Nshalla slept fitfully under her dusty nets.
Next day they entered Volta Blanc. As noon approached most of the other passengers retired to their cabins to escape the heat, and from one end of the ship came the sound of choral singing—'
Ye Ke Ye Ke!'
—underpinned by djembes, talking drums, cass cass and calimba. Nshalla and Gmoulaye donned floppy hats and sat at the stern of the boat with Captain Nfor, curious to see how the Volta Blanc men would react to their passage.
"Will they fire arrows at us for being women?" Nshalla asked him.
"No. To them you are one with the water. Deep in their subconscious minds they identify water with the eternal mother. They are primitive men who experience men and women as permanently different. Men are free beasts, women are a dangerous ocean." Captain Nfor nodded to himself and took a lazy drag from his reefer, as if pleased with the wisdom he was disseminating. Now they could see men with staring white eyes upon the riverbank. "Notice how ugly they are," Captain Nfor continued. "This is an aspect of primitive male identity. Each man considers himself bad, a bad boy if you like, and so the image he projects of himself through the aether is harsh, ugly, as if to equate ugliness with badness."
"Who are they?" Nshalla asked.
"Criminals for kilometres around are attracted to Volta Blanc. See, corpses!"
Nshalla was disgusted to see the vulture ravaged corpses of women lying in mud near the river. No attempt at burial had been made, and the bodies had been left as carrion. A troupe of hyenas were attacking some unfortunate victim not far away.
Captain Nfor said, "You see, they cannot accept women. The cultural identity of Volta Blanc and all who live there has been built up over decades, and it is wholly masculine. Some ordinary men come here and they are immediately corrupted."
"But why?"
The captain shrugged. "Many decades ago there was a womens' revolution here, led by the heroine Jawah in response to the excesses of the local fetish priests, who took young girls as slaves. Those slaves were supposedly sent by the gods to atone for the previous sins of local families."
Nshalla shivered. "It sounds perverted beyond belief."
"It is belief that sustains this violent place. Around here death comes by berserker."
"Berserker?"
"Indeed! There comes a point in each man's life when aspects of Volta Blanc culture boil over in his mind. Every man living there represses his feelings and emotions, but always some event sparks off a geyser of emotion, usually anger. Then they run berserk. The biograin hierarchies in their brains transmit the truth of how they perceive themselves. They swell up to bear-like size, foam at the mouth, and they develop gigantic erections that they twist off and use as a weapon. Eventually of course they are killed by real weapons. Often their blood is collected and made into an alcoholic brew called mortebeer, which is drunk by the man who killed the berserker. That man becomes a shaman and is considered in touch with the eternal masculine."
Nshalla shivered. "It's a foul place."
"It is. But worse, some of the entities that inhabit the aether seem attracted to the place. Most are from the remains of America, but some seem to have emerged from Chauvenist France and Free Muscovite Russia. All are savagely male in their aspects—competitive, aggressive, intellectual, narcissistic. I gather the local Aetheria thinks it could become quite a problem."
Nshalla nodded. "Somewhere there must be a female equivalent, some matrilineal culture of love and connection. It must exist." Suddenly brave, she asked, "Have you ever heard of Muezzinland?"
"Never." It was the expected answer. But then Captain Nfor added, "Long ago I heard of a feminine land. Indeed I believe it to be located at a place called El Qahira—the country known as Bast."
"I would not go there," Gmoulaye remarked.
The day passed slowly. The burden of hating male stares was never lifted. Nshalla slept little during the night, fearful despite reassurances of attack, jumping at every whoop, growl and thud from the riverbank.
The boat chugged on. A third and fourth day passed. On the fifth they left Volta Blanc, on the sixth they were free of it.
Other passengers boarded, many of them local entertainers hoping to make money. Noticing that Msavitar was quiet, Nshalla tried to engage him in conversation, but the attempt was abortive. He demanded the cowries that so far he had earned. Nshalla lodged her purse with Captain Nfor, not trusting Msavitar, and made the transaction bank to bank. Was he about to jump ship?