There are flashes of awareness through the turmoil. A burning pain in my shoulder. Someone forcing me to sit up and pouring hot, salty broth down my throat. Retching the liquid over the side of the ship. Shivering in the dark against the thick, spiny fur of an animal whose feel I don’t recognize, my own skin slick with sweat or rain while the creamy blur of stars whirls through the blue-black sky overhead. The wind howling against the rain like the howl of the painted wolf when she was dying that night, the last night I spent in my mother’s arms.
I heard her dying from across the White River—yes, I’m sure I heard her, it must have been her. That’s the message she had come to deliver to me: that she was dying, and I am dying, my nyama linked with hers. Once I think I see land. Once I am on the land, though I am still in the boat. But then it recedes again, and I am being rocked, always rocked, cradled in the undulating arms of Agbe and Naete, the gods of water, herself, himself, themselves…
My mind returns to the world in the wake of the storm. When I sense myself in my body once again, I feel better than I have in a long time. I reach immediately for the green wolf around my neck, relaxing when I find it’s still there.
The rains have stopped and Lisa is high in the sky. It must be close to midday—whatever day this is.
As I stiffly sit up, it hits me that I’m chilled to the bone, even under Lisa’s bright glare. I pull the strange fur draped over me around my shoulders. The coarse spikes are drenched on the outside, but the inside is somehow still dry.
So it wasn’t all a dream: There really was a storm. It’s a marvel that the ship is still intact, if Agbe’s rage was as violent as I remember.
The wound. I was bleeding.
My hand flies to my shoulder. Someone must have tended to it, since it’s healed over neatly. It’s tender and will scar, but at least I’m alive.
I’m alive.
I climb to my feet, noting the weakness in my thighs with dismay as they adjust to the gentle sway of the ship. The wind blows my fraying braids in front of my face. I sweep them aside and find myself staring down a long, narrow deck at the back of the dragon head. The woman who saved me leans out over it, holding on with one arm as her own black hair whips around like licks of fire in the unfettered breeze. The other two women stand at either side, both wearing furs like mine, the soft tones of their hushed conversation only barely reaching my ears.
The same breeze puffs out the massive sail as we ride the dragon through the water with astonishing speed. The oars have been pulled onto the ship—except for one, which one of the men seems to be using to steer. The other men are either lounging on the deck or adjusting the ropes of the sail, the well-hewn muscles in their arms taut with strain.
Looking around, I see nothing but placid waves in all directions, save for the fleet of ships trailing behind us. A desert of water.
I stumble toward the women, nearly tripping over the interlocking planks as Agbe and Naete lurch beneath my feet. The men crane their necks as I pass. The stink of their bodies is nearly suffocating.
As I get closer to the prow, I notice the sturdy, straw-haired woman, the one who fought with axes, staring down into the water, as though looking for something to emerge out of the endless, formless blue. She’s the one who fed me in the night, I realize. She mutters something to the black-haired woman, who responds in kind.
As if sensing my approach, the black-haired woman lets go of the prow and spins to face me, her long hair brushing the edge of her belt. I’m surprised to see a simple tunic in place of the fearsome vest; perhaps I only imagined that she wore the face of an animal on her breast? Her icy-blue eyes send a jolt through my core like a bolt of Sogbo’s lightning.
She says something to me. That voice, like a man’s but conveying a uniquely rugged grace. I shake my head, expressing my inability to speak her tongue. The words are as fluid as I remember, wavy and flowing like the water itself.
I take a moment to study her face. Lines on her forehead and eyes, drawn by time, tell me that youth has long faded and wisdom has taken its place. She might have been handsome in her girlhood, but I can only imagine that her face had a wildness about it even then; the wildness is set in her features. For hard men, a harder woman.
Majūs. That’s what the slavers called them back in Anfa.
The memories flood back to me all at once. Mama’s story…Everything makes sense! My heart leaps in my chest.
That’s why Papa left—he went to sail with the Majūs!
“Yafeu,” I croak, wincing as my dry lips crack with the effort.
The black-haired woman hands me a jug of water and I drain it in one gulp. With a quick wave of her hand, she dismisses the women, who join the men at the sails, leaving us alone. She leans back against the bulkhead, her bottom resting precariously on the edge. In one blindingly fast motion, she whips a small dagger out of a sheath strapped to her calf and plunges it into a satchel hanging from her belt. I force myself not to flinch.
She smirks as the dagger emerges, spearing some kind of purple fruit. My mouth waters at the sight of it. She slides it off the blade and begins slicing it into pieces, and I have to tear my eyes away to see that she’s waiting for me to continue.
“Yafeu,” I say again. “My father, Yafeu. Do you know him?” My voice gains strength as I speak, eased by the smooth honey of my native tongue. I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve spoken at all. I feel a strange sensation in my mouth, like it’s starving for more words.
How far are we from another Soninke speaker? How many days by ship, by camel, by foot?
The woman shakes her head and hands me a slice of the fruit, her callused fingers scraping against my palm.
Either I’m that hungry, or it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life, sweet and juicy and crisp against my tongue. Maybe both.
She pops a slice in her own mouth. “Plum,” she says, spewing juice between bites. She holds up the rest of the fruit.
I nod, letting her know I understand. “Plum,” I repeat, pointing to it.
She gives me another slice, then pats her chest twice before speaking: “Alvtir.”
She’s telling me her name. I swallow and try to make the noise: “Ahh-ehl-ve-ter.” The watery sounds strain against my tongue.
She nods and gestures to me. “Yafoo,” she says.
She thinks that’s my name. Which means she’s never heard of Papa.
I feel my heart sinking into my gut again, a sensation that’s become all too familiar over the last few moons. Are these not the Majūs? And doesn’t Papa travel with the Majūs?
She asks me something else, throwing in another “Yafoo.” I shake my head again, feeling embarrassed for some reason.
The corner of her lip curls into another lopsided smirk. She reaches out and claps my good shoulder through the fur before turning her gaze to the sea, murmuring something under her breath.
I take it as a sign that the conversation is over—for now. Until I start to learn her language, there’s nothing more we can say.
Lisa sets at our left and rises at our right the next morning, revealing our heading as north. Getting my bearings is a small comfort, but a comfort all the same.
The cold seems to bother me more than it does the ivory-skinned warriors, who seem as at ease on the open sea as I am in the sunburnt lands of Wagadu. It feels right to me that their tongue should be as billowing as the wind that fills their sails, as undulating as the waves that carry their nimble ships.
I wonder what Papa felt when he made this journey. Did the waves echo the vibration of his nyama, or did every instinct in his body scream for the safety of land, as mine do now? In Mama’s story, he summoned Agbe and Naete at will…but that was just a story. She couldn’t possibly have known about his adventures with the Majūs after he left us.
Still, the thought of Papa surviving, even thriving, on these same waters wraps around my heart like a warm blanket, alleviating some of the agony of the last few moons. Someone, wherever we’re going, must know of him. Maybe he’ll be there himself.
But a strange discomfort settles over me as the hours wear on. My eyes have combed the blurry faces on the ships that follow behind us in the fleet. I’ve seen no one else with skin like mine. I feel like a raven among doves. I keep fingering the wolf around my neck, the last token of Mama, of the family that was wrenched away from me. But I won’t let myself give in to tears—not in front of Alvtir.
I distract myself by studying the other two women warriors. They look to be about the same age: definitely younger than Alvtir, but older than me by at least several years. I have a fragment of a memory, a blurry image of the long, leanly muscled arms of the taller woman wrapping this fur around me during the storm. She has willowy limbs and light-brown hair like a desert mouse, most of which flies free from the messy braid that stretches down her back. I watch her as she cajoles the men, moving as easily among them as if she were one herself. She laughs loudly and often, and I can’t help but like her. She isn’t especially pretty, not like Ampah or Mama, but she carries herself with an effortless poise that makes the men follow her with their eyes. They turn in a half circle toward her when she speaks, and though I don’t understand her words, I know she steers the conversation.
The only person she follows with her own eyes is the other woman, the sturdy one with the cropped yellow hair, who is as quiet and stoic as the other is boisterous and jovial. But I remember the way she fought in Anfa, and I know she’s eloquent with her axes if not her words. She spends most of the hours sharpening those axes on a whetstone, or watching the water with her arms folded across her chest, conferring with Alvtir here and there—who then barks orders at the steersman, who then makes small adjustments to our course. I can’t imagine what she gleans from the water, which looks unchanging to my untrained eyes. Maybe Agbe and Naete send signs only she can interpret.
The sturdy woman looks at the tall woman, and the tall woman looks at her, and the nyama that flows back and forth between them tells me they are only for each other. I wonder if the men don’t see it, or if they don’t pester the women out of respect for Alvtir. Or fear of Alvtir. Despite the narrowness of the ship, everyone manages to stay out of Alvtir’s way.
At some point we lose the wind, and the oars are hauled out again. One of the men thrusts an oar into my hand and shoves me toward an empty seat. I glance at Alvtir in confusion, but she gives me a stern look in return, so I sit and row without complaint, despite the ache of protest from my shoulder.
Later that very day, a steep green landmass rises in the distance, a chorus of whoops and cheers rising from the ships along with it. We turn to the east and follow the sea with Lisa at our backs as it narrows into a kind of river, the tide carrying us faster and the air growing warmer as the flanking mountains close in.
I can’t help but marvel at the hills as we pass. They are greener than any hill I’ve ever seen, every inch covered in thickets of trees and undergrowth. As they get closer, I squint to make out the strange vegetation. Some of the leaves are spiky and needle-like, similar to the hairs of this fur. I’ve never seen a tree that grows needles instead of leaves before, and for a moment I lose myself in wonder.
The river snakes through the hills, winding this way and that. Lisa disappears behind the clouds, and finally we arrive at our destination. It’s a place called Skíringssal, or so I’ve gathered from the men’s eager shouts. Our ship and most of the others turn in toward the harbor, but some continue on down the river, splitting the fleet in two.
The first thing I notice is the ugliness: gray wooden docks, framed by rows of squat, gray wooden dwellings. Why would anyone build so many houses out of wood? With such mighty winds racing around us, I wonder how the rickety structures don’t blow over.
A jostling crowd of faces ranging from ivory to faintly pink wait at the harbor for our arrival. As we draw near, it strikes me that even their clothes are ugly, with faded dyes and little patterning at the hemlines. Despite the crisp air filling my nostrils, I can’t help but wrinkle my nose in distaste. The women wear a short dress over a long one, with tools and baubles dangling from brooches at their shoulders. The men wear belted tunics over trousers and wrap their legs all the way up to the knee, like the warriors do.
I would think they take no pride in their appearance, were it not for the elaborate styles of their limp hair. I’ve never seen hair like the kind that spills down the backs of the Majūs, long and feathery and ranging from yellow to red to dark brown in hue. Men and women alike wear their hair carefully combed and braided, some with lines and circles shaved into the sides.
As soon as the ship reaches the dock, the warriors drop the gangplank and rush across. Alvtir waits for the others to disembark first, then motions to me.
I stumble across the dock, my legs struggling to recall their balance yet again. Tentatively, I step down onto the sliver of soggy shingle that separates the water from the land. Instantly I’m enveloped by the eager townspeople—mostly women and children, but quite a few men as well—all searching anxiously for their loved ones aboard the ships. The number of squirming, swarming bodies is overwhelming. I feel my own body seize up as my mind hurtles into memory.
I’m at the slave auction in Anfa. The shouts are bids on my price, and now I’m being sold to the man who will use my body for his pleasure. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. A hand locks onto my arm.
But it’s Alvtir’s hand, not the merchant’s. She leads me onto the shore and through the fray. The people move hastily out of her path.
An explosive cheer goes up around us, and I turn to see a hefty chest being carried off one of the ships. Alvtir shouts something to the men carrying it, then pulls me into the city.
I try to absorb all the strangeness around me as Alvtir leads me through some kind of marketplace. This city—if I can even call it that, after the golden grandeur of Koumbi Saleh, the dark magic of Anfa and its maze of alleys—is all wood and hay and mud. Long, narrow houses line both sides of a wooden walkway. Alongside the houses are dozens of patched tents and lean-tos open to the air. I peer inside as we pass. The Majūs stare back at me with naked curiosity, craning their necks. Not one other brown face meets mine.
They’re hawking all kinds of wares, spread along trestle benches—more strange furs, pots of clay, combs made of bone, a variety of glass and amber beads. It’s not entirely unlike the markets at Koumbi Saleh and Anfa—though much smaller. And dirtier. And the stink of fish is inescapable.
But the hills surrounding the city almost make up for its lack of charm. Every inch is burgeoning with green, with grasses and shrubs and trees of all sizes seemingly growing on top of one another, clamoring for space. There is so much more growth than I’ve ever seen at home, even after the rainy season. I wonder if the people here eat well all year long.
We pass a smithy at the edge of the market. The quenching hiss of iron plunged into water sends steam billowing out, and my heart clenches at the sharp smell of coal and slag. It smells like Papa. Like home.
The familiar nyama of the forge beckons to my own, and I desperately wish we could go inside. But Alvtir pulls me forward, unrelenting, toward some other fate. At least I can take comfort in the knowledge that Gu’s magic is here, too.
There are other familiar sights, sounds, smells: a cowhide stretched across a frame, the clack of beads rolling across a jewelry-maker’s table, the flinty sound of some talisman being carved with the point of a delicate knife. I stumble over an odd-looking chicken, who lets out an indignant squawk before roaming over to his companions to peck at the grains scattered across the ground. I try to cling to these sensations, desperate for a way to make this “Skíringssal” feel less overwhelmingly strange.
But something inside me revolts against the effort. I ache for the flat red stretch of the Sahel, the hippo and crab-crab grasses that line the banks of the murky White River, the sacred groves of sturdy-rooted baobabs on the fringes of Koumbi Saleh.
I want Wagadu. I want Mama, Kamo, and Goleh.
I want to go home.
As if responding to my thoughts, Sogbo thickens the blanket of gray over the sky and sends a light rain. We reach the end of the walkway and cross onto a wide, rutted dirt path, trudging through the mud. The clamor of the market fades away. The houses are fewer and farther between now, the land around us less tame. We pass a set of wooden totems standing in a circle. One has a long, swirling beard and a single eye; another has a protruding belly emblazoned with three interlocking triangles. Their faces are egg-shaped, their expressions distant. These must be their gods. They seem to mark the edge of the city, like the groves of Koumbi Saleh. Though this “city” is only half the size of the golden city at most.
I follow Alvtir into a much larger stretch of farmland. Squinting into the distance, I can just make out the wattle fences that separate the land into holdings.
My mind races. Alvtir didn’t greet anyone at the harbor, nor in the market. And she hardly strikes me as a farmer. So where is she taking me?
The rain stops and starts again as we walk. Lisa falls under the mountains, and a chirping noise rises up all around us. It reminds me of a locust’s song, only it pulses in and out, rhythmic like the beating of a drum. Only a few people are out in the fields at this hour, bent with labor, finishing up their day’s work harvesting some kind of grain. Their clothes are an undyed brown, even uglier than the clothes I saw on the Majūs at the docks. Not that I’m one to be talking right now. Under this cloak, Mama’s kaftan hangs off my body in tatters, soiled beyond recognition.
At the very end of the road, we veer left, heading for a cluster of buildings. It looks to be another farm compound, larger than the others we’ve passed. At last, we come to a stop at the biggest structure on the compound. It’s long and narrow, with an uneven triangular roof. Alvtir pushes the door open and motions for me to go inside.
I step in, blinking at the sudden darkness of the windowless room. The familiar scents of hay, livestock, and burning wood overwhelm my nostrils. As my eyes adjust, I realize there are two women huddled around a firepit in the near end of the room, stoking the low flames. They shrink back from us, fearful. Clearly, we’re unexpected guests.
The rustle of animals prompts me to look past them, to a row of stalls with cattle shifting and stamping inside, sensing a stranger in their midst. Various farming tools and cookware line the walls and hang down from the beams. The space seems to be part barn, part living area.
Suddenly the sliver of twilight filtering in from the doorway disappears with a bang as Alvtir shuts the door behind me.
My chest clenches. Panic overwhelms me again. “Wait!” I call in my own language. “Alvtir!”
I fling open the door and start after her, but stop short when I see a large, sour-faced man approaching. He has a round belly and a head of patchy, pale-yellow hair, too pale for his pink skin—sickeningly pale. He gives Alvtir a hard look down his nose, then turns that look on me. Disgust instantly washes over me. He starts arguing with Alvtir about something, waving his meaty hands in the air.
An instinctual awareness of danger prickles the hair on my arm, warning me not to interfere. I creep back into the barn and shut the door behind me.
The panic drains away, banished by exhaustion. I sink down against the wall.
The two women peer over at me from the other side of the fire. I can just make out their features. One of them has curly red hair, and faint little dots cover her face—though that could be a trick of the fire. She looks about my age. The other has a small frame and an ageless, triangular face, with thin eyebrows and hooded eyes framed by dark hair that stops short at her cheekbones. It’s a face unlike any I’ve seen today—or ever before. Maybe she’s from somewhere far away, like me?
The first girl gives me a reassuring smile. “Bronaugh,” she says. She points to the other girl, who keeps her gaze trained on the fire, her mouth pressed into a line. “Airé.”
“Yafeu.” I say Papa’s name in place of my own. The title I unknowingly gave myself, the title Alvtir knows me by; that’s the name I will take. For now.
Bronaugh rises and reaches into a basket on the far wall, emerging with a bundle. Despite a warning glance from Airé, she strides over and hands it to me: a long, plain dress and a shorter one with shoulder ties to change into, pointing to her own dresses for guidance.
I nod my thanks. I briefly wonder why I need to wear one dress over another, but as the night quickly descends, I’m grateful for the layers of cloth. I pull the fur cloak off my shoulders and lay it close to the fire. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s all I have for a bed.
It’s funny how a few moons in the open desert—or open sea—can make you grateful for the tiniest comforts.
A small, bony cat emerges from the darkness at the other end of the barn. She perches near Airé and studies me, swishing her tail in a state of calculated observation.
I gaze into the flames, reaching inside for my inner awareness, for that quiet place within where strength and wisdom reside. But all I feel there is emptiness.
Why did Alvtir leave me here? Is she coming back for me? In Anfa, I sensed we were…connected, somehow. Like she knew I was a warrior too. I thought that’s why she saved me.
Doubt seizes me. I ran after Alvtir without knowing the first thing about her. I was injured and weak, maybe even delirious…I could have been imagining the strong nyama between us.
What am I doing here?
I reach for the wolf at my neck, grasping onto the last remnant of Mama. Oh, Mama, I’m so sorry. I should have stayed in Anfa. In all the chaos, I could have escaped. I could have found my way back across the desert to you and Kamo and Goleh. Now the whole world stands between us.
Maybe I really am jugu. After all, none of this would have happened if I’d just kept my mouth shut that day in Koumbi Saleh.
I’ve lost everything and everyone I’ve ever loved—and I have only myself to blame.
At first, the shame is too overwhelming for tears. But the shadows on the wall become menacing to me in their strangeness, and finally I cry, letting the fear and shame settle in deeper than ever before.
When the tears subside, I find a morsel of comfort in listening to the familiar sound of the fire. The fire breathes; I too still breathe. I survived the desert and the sea. I survived hunger and thirst, beatings and lashings and even a knife to the shoulder. If I’m alive, it’s because the gods have a plan for me. At least, that’s what Mama would say.
But Papa…Papa would say that my will has sustained and saved me. That I can save myself again, so long as I believe in my own strength.
I don’t know which is true, if either. But I know one thing for sure: Papa was with the Majūs, and now I’m with the Majūs. That means I’m closer to him than I’ve been in six long years. It can’t be a coincidence.
The thought brings a glimmer of hope to the darkness and I cling to it as I fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.