Muezzinland (6 page)

Chapter 5

Ouagadougou, one time centre of the old Mossi state of Ouagadougou, now capital of the remains of Burkina Faso, lay hidden amidst a dense forest created by the spirits of the afterlife. As they walked through the forest's chill interior, their heat-dazed minds began to notice ephemeral shapes darting from leaf to leaf, from twig to twig, and from branch to branch in a dance of misty light that seemed like a horde of moths. These shapes were inhuman. All were symbolic, baroque pictsym evolved in those teeming complexes of abstraction that constituted the aether, others simple geometric shapes glowing with unearthly light. These symbols were the exuberant mental effluvia of fetishes left in the forest by the people of Ouagadougou. Many of these fetishes had transputer origin, and because they were left in self-energising statuettes, or in lizard skin pouches retaining their optical strings, and so remaining on-line, they evolved after the deaths of their owners in symbolic unison with the local aether, thickening Ouagadougou's electromagnetic ocean like fowl bones thicken a soup, until a necromantic environment appeared. This environment then acted in a strange loop upon the minds and culture of the town, in order to survive as a dynamic entity.

Most of these fetishes were born of fear, some of evil, and so all exacted a price for their existence. Usually this price was energy in the form of blood red light, sent in pulses down the matted optical webs of the region, but some fetishes, those more powerful by reason of the exalted intellect or frenetic creativity of their makers, required a higher price. Those made by adulterers demanded precise descriptions of sexual dreams, including accompanying video footage, and these fetishes were especially active at dawn, entering the minds of susceptible men and women in the guise of these victim's real spouses. Some of these victims, however, had made fetishes of their own and deposited them in the forest, and so occasionally a self-reinforcing struggle would arise as if from nowhere, taking the form of an orgy, on one side the symbolic sexual desires of one person, on the other the equally vivid lusts of another. These symbol groups would wheel through the forest like glistening pink storms, until they became exhausted and disintegrated into wisps of cigarette smoke.

Other symbol hierarchies were of a more exalted nature, reflecting the austere characteristics of their root fetishes. Most of the town's academics were suspicious of the theories of their colleagues, and almost all of them had fetishes made, usually in the form of transputers with animal characteristics. These fetishes engaged in symbolic jousting of a mathematical nature. Occasionally, while strolling through the forest, people would be surprised by flocks of equations, as the source transputers battled it out in search of ultimate wisdom. Some of these symbol hierarchies were dangerous; it was commonplace for traps to be laid in the form of regression codes. An unwary walker with a sufficiently sophisticated outlook could accept these codes into the mind by way of their biograin hierarchies, never then to return from infinite cycling. A few fetishes were so sophisticated they were themselves environments, aethers within the aether, though, without sensory equipment, lacking a self-symbol. Such abstractions achieved personality. They were the first entities to be born after death.

So as the trio walked in wonder through the forest of Ouagadougou they felt they were being assaulted by an arcane ecology, split into a myriad of sensory forms, blurring reality, flickering in front of it, tinkling behind it. This made movement tricky. Often they tripped over twigs or brushed into branches, but at length they got used to the phantasmagorical display and found themselves able to sift reality out of the chaos.

It was with surprise that Nshalla discovered a personal element to Ouagadougou. As they walked along the track leading to Chemin du Gourounsi, the road to the centre of town, she felt a presence at her side. At first she thought it was an attacker so she tried to mentally swat it, as she might a mosquito. Yet the presence continued to buzz her, and she began to notice that its voice was familiar; and its smell. It smelled like home.

She stopped, letting Msavitar and Gmoulaye go on. They paused a hundred metres on, watching her, Gmoulaye with a suspicious frown, Msavitar nonchalant.

Nshalla tried communication. "Hello?"

Ruari Ó Bráonain. It was her father.

"Is it you?"

"It is three quarters of me," he replied. The fiery, bearded contours of his face floated in front of her, translucent, ejecting symbols like a fire spits sparks.

He had died in mysterious circumstances a few months after Nshalla's conception. Nshalla knew nothing of what had happened. Nonplussed, she asked, "But how can it be you?"

"I am a metaframe," he replied, "a self-perpetuating vortex of the aether. You have heard the term, I believe."

Vaguely, Nshalla recalled her education in Accra. "I think so," she said, nervously swallowing.

"I am an electromagnetic fossil of your father's public memories. I am not all of Ruari Ó Bráonain. But he was so intense a character that he left permanent traces in the Accra aether, and when he died various transputers around the globe automatically began to coalesce all those public memories, so creating a personality—me. Of course, no metaframe can access private memories. They are dead and gone. But I am, by my very nature, a symbolic imprint with much of Ruari Ó Bráonain's character." The image paused in its declaration. "How can I help you, dearest daughter?"

Nshalla felt like crying, but shock held back her tears. She understood that this aether creation could assist her, just as a father would a daughter. What interfaces would such an entity have with the global optical network?

She replied, "Mnada's vanished. I'm trying to find her. Any clues you could find, any sightings of her… And there's Msavitar. I'm sure he's an agent of mother's. Could you find out? He had an enemy on a riverboat, an enemy from Accra."

"Wait, wait," Ruari interrupted. "Who is Mnada?"

Shocked, Nshalla hesitated before replying, "My sister. Your first daughter."

"But you are my only daughter."

"No, no. Mnada is mother's heir. I'm just the younger daughter."

"There is a mystery here," Ruari replied. "But I will find out what I can. When you leave Ouagadougou, I shall reappear. I only manifest at the edges of the forest, where it is quieter."

"And try to find out where Muezzinland is. I don't think you'll have much luck, but please try. It's where Mnada said she was going. It's supposed to be to the north. There's some sort of connection with singers."

"If the name is recorded anywhere I may be able to help."

Nshalla sighed, remembering the Golden Library. "I've a feeling it's a modern name, a local name communicated orally. But try anyway."

Ruari nodded. "The dawn of the optical age and the demise of radiated electromagnetic waves used for communication fragmented the world. That's what you think, isn't it? But I know different. You would be surprised what information still exists from earlier centuries—albeit disjointed. Particularly in the remains of the West, there are ancient devices hooked up to shattered optical webs. Have hope in such places."

"All right."

"One final piece of advice. Learn the language of the spirits."

Nshalla shivered. Ruari disappeared like smoke up a chimney. She stood alone.

Rejoining the others, she said little about her encounter, describing it as a dream. They proceeded down the Chemin du Gourounsi, making for the centre of town, the forest thinning to a few jujube and whitewood trees. They passed the Kamsokko quarter on their left, with its vibrant market, the Pallemtenga to their right, this the abode of craftsmen, until they were in central Na-iri at the crossroads of four roads. With thumping heart Nshalla saw an old rusty sign pointing north, upon which was pictsymed 'Tombouctou.' Nobody had bothered to pull it down.

Gmoulaye seemed to deflate when this was pointed out to her. Perhaps, Nshalla thought, she had hoped Timbuktu was too far. Perhaps she hoped to return home. Msavitar, by contrast, was interested, adding the information to the scroll of papyrus that he had kept ever since the loss of his transputers.

"We need a friendly inn," Nshalla said.

People were staring at them. Amongst the negroes she noticed brown-skinned men, possibly of Tuareg or Berber origin, although if they were they were very far from home. Of course, their appearance was more likely an aspect transmitted by the aether. She decided to get off the street as soon as possible.

"A friendly inn, here?" Gmoulaye asked. Troubled by the ubiquitous presence of the spirits, she seemed shorter—arms folded—as if preparing for some physical attack.

"Just follow me," Nshalla said. She walked down an alley of stone buildings running parallel to the Chemin du Kibirisi, noticing that many houses had flags above their doors embroidered with the pictsym sigils for 'hostelry' and 'cosmopolitan'. Clearly, even in these piecemeal times, some people travelled. She stopped at the Inn Founi Kouni, then led the others inside.

Once again her education had led her to make a good choice. The inn was clean, tidy, with no evidence of rats. No dung lay on the floor, nor could Nshalla see even one blade of straw. A young woman, pale, yet with frizzy hair and a negroid nose in which gold rings were set, approached. "I'm Mmwo Ogbegu Ndjock. Do you need rooms?" Her New-Oriental was stilted, but comprehensible.

"Two," Nshalla said.

"Follow me."

They were led to the top floor. Msavitar was offered a tiny closet, which he accepted, while Nshalla and Gmoulaye accepted a large room overhanging the road. Nshalla handed over her bank.

It was empty.

"Your line must be down," she told Mmwo Ogbegu. "This must be an error. I'm rich."

"No… the line is good."

Gmoulaye said to Nshalla, "Check through another line."

Nshalla shook her head, embarrassed by Gmoulaye's naiveté. "The global network is a myth, don't you know that? Most of it is local traffic. Imagine a billion cobwebs each linked by a single silk thread."

Gmoulaye shrugged, turning away to look at the wall.

But with no other option Nshalla was forced to find a pathway to Accra, a task taking half an hour. She was rewarded with a red shut-sigil. She realised then that her mother had traced her bank and closed it. Cursing, she asked Gmoulaye for her earring to complete the transaction.

The interference of her mother brought the reality of her situation closer. Despite the distance, she had been traced; virtually traced, through countless optical webs, doubtless aided by her mother's transputer shaman, the dreaded I-C-U Tompieme. Her mother might now know that she had been in Ashanti City and through Burkina Sude. Danger would follow.

They spent the evening mulling over events. Gmoulaye realised that some entity had manifested itself in the forest, and she tried to coax the information out of Nshalla, but without success. Eventually the pair retired to bed. Msavitar had gone out, artlessly telling them he needed a prostitute.

Next morning Gmoulaye decided she would have to make a sacrifice to cleanse her aura, which was becoming soiled and distorted by the necromantic air of the town. Nshalla reassured her that soon they would depart. Secretly, she intended walking out to the edge of the forest that night to meet her father. They could leave next morning.

They strolled along the Chemin du Haoussa into Zang-ana, the supernatural quarter, where Gmoulaye, nosing amongst the stalls and rickety huts, located a herb seller, and then a plump chicken. Nshalla followed as her friend located a suitable fetish. Eventually she purchased the horn of a goat that, she was told, had died during birth and was thus suitable for cleansing.

Then Nshalla noticed her golden pinkie-ring had gone. Some pickpocket had spirited it from her. She cursed and stamped her feet.

They walked on until the houses began giving way to trees. In a glade Gmoulaye prepared her sacrifice. A smoky fire burned; she mumbled and threw herbs upon the flames, then drank a potion of spinach and roselle, a natural intoxicant. Nshalla watched, both repelled and fascinated. Her city background made her shun these rituals, but something, perhaps some deep Aphrican root, attracted her. Gmoulaye cut the throat of the chicken and let the blood drip upon the horn, until it was crimson. Then she threw the struggling fowl upon the flames, causing the fire to leap up, until, in just a few seconds, it had died, and so had the flames. Unsteadily, Gmoulaye stood up.

Nshalla did not see where the man came from. He was real, but he appeared suddenly. Perhaps he had hidden behind a tree. He took Gmoulaye's arm, steadying her.

He was dressed in a black cloak and a shiny top hat. His other clothes were of brown, mud-stained cotton, contrasting with his blanched face. In one hand he held a cora—the large harp attached to a pumpkin gourd, popular throughout Aphrica. It had been wired to an electric amplifier so that when it was brushed the pure sound of its strings became a metallic thrum.

"I am Massamba Kouyate," he said. He let Gmoulaye go and played a few power-chords in his cora, thrashing his head up and down in time to the rhythm. Oily dreadlocks fell from under his top hat.

"They call me the Baron."

Again he strummed his cora, leaping about now, head thrashing, legs jerking, holding the musical instrument at his groin, his face a contorted grimace.

"You will never be Empress," he said. "Accra will one day be a ruin. You have been through the forest and you listened to the spirits there."

Nshalla decided it was time to return to the town. Grabbing Gmoulaye's hand she ran off. Glancing back she saw the Baron playing a solo, fingers a blur, the cora's neck raised, the gourd between his legs, his tongue pushed out from between grinning lips and wriggling in an obscene gesture.

Back at Inn Founi Kouni, all was quiet. Too quiet. On the top floor they noticed the door to Msavitar's room open. Nshalla poked her head around the door, to see him lying motionless on his bed.

She squealed and ran in, Gmoulaye following. He lay unconscious, or dead, on his back, sheets a rumple around him. He was naked. Without touching him Gmoulaye examined the body.