THE LOST PRINCE

THE LOST PRINCE, by Milton Davis, artwork by Miguel Santos

 

-1-

The caravan took its time crossing the expansive desert, its people and camels conserving their energy under the brutal sun. Though they resembled merchants, a closer look revealed their hidden swords, spears, bows and armor. A solitary child rode a camel in the center, his golden stitched robes signifying his status. The boy held onto the saddle horn tightly, afraid he would fall from such a great height. But this was only part of the reason fear commanded his young face. This was his first time in the desert and his first time away from home without mama and baba.

A white robed man sauntered up to the camel then shielded his eyes as he looked up to the boy. His hard dark features softened and he smiled.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m hot, thirsty and hungry,” the boy said.

“The oasis is only a few lengths away,” the man said. “The others will be waiting. We will eat, bath and rest before continuing our journey.”

The boy looked down. “Musa, will mama and baba be there?”

Musa’s smile faded. “No. They will meet us at our final destination.”

“I miss them,” the boy said.

“I do, too,” the man replied.

The caravan reached the oasis a short time later. The boy could see the camp beyond the date trees. He relaxed a bit; at least they would be out of the oppressive heat. As they entered the verdant sanctuary a man draped in blue robes walked up to his companions. His face was covered except for his large expressive eyes. He shook the caravan leader’s hand then locked his eyes on the boy.

“It is good to see you, Amadou. It that the prince?” he asked.

“Yes, Izil,” Amadou replied.

“Good. Follow me,” the blue robed man replied. “We have a special place prepared for him.”

Izil grabbed the camel’s reins, leading them through the oasis with Musa close by. There were other people in blue robes, their faces covered, the women’s faces exposed. Most of the men carried swords that hung from their shoulders in leather baldrics or shields with thin metal spears. The young boy’s regal appearance drew their attention, and they acknowledged his rank with slight nods and smiles. The prince smiled back; his anxiety lessened by their friendliness.

Izil led them to a large tent close to the oasis lake. He pulled on the camel’s reins, allowing the prince to dismount. No sooner did his sandaled feet sink into the sand did the tent flap open and a welcomed person emerge.

“Kinti!” the prince exclaimed

Kinti opened her arms.

“Little mansa!” she said.

The prince skirted across the sand then jumped into Kinti’s arms. Kinti was his favorite servant. She had been at his side since he was born; at least that’s what mama told him. She hugged him tight and her scent soothed him. Musa walked to them then bowed.

“I’m glad you are here,” he said.

“I am, too. You made it safely,” she said.

Musa’s eyes narrowed as he shifted them toward the prince.

“As expected,” Kinti added.

“Kinti, what did you mean . . .”

Kinti sniffed his clothing and her face crinkled.

“You smell like camel dung,” she said. “Let’s get you bathed and change those robes.”

Kinti carried him into the tent before placing him down on the carpeted floor. There was a small bed and chest with a few ornamental drums. She opened the chest and took out a thin cotton robe.

“Take that off and put this on.”

The prince did as he was told. Together they walked to the lake where the prince bathed. It felt good to wash the road grime from his skin after weeks of travel. Kinti toweled him dry then he put the robe on for their journey back to the tent. She gave him sleeping clothes.

“It’s not dark yet,” he said.

“I know, but it’s been a long journey. You’re tired. You just don’t know it.”

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Because you’re my little mansa,” Kinti replied. “I know everything about you.”

“I’m not sleepy,” the prince insisted.

“I tell you what, why don’t you lie down for a few minutes,” Kinti said. “If you are awake when I return, you can remain so until dark.”

The prince went to the bed and laid his head on the padded headrest.

“I will see you soon,” he said.

Kinti smiled then left the tent. The prince closed his eyes and slept.

 

*   *   *

 

Darkness ruled the camp when the prince awoke. Kinti laid on her cot beside his bed, her muted snoring making him giggle. He stepped over her like he did at home the tipped to the tent flap, taking one last look before sneaking outside. The oasis was completely dark, save for a single fire burning near the outskirts. The prince waited for his eyes to adjust to the night before creeping to the fire, stopping far enough away not to be seen. Musa and Amadou sat at the fire, drinking tea and smoking.

“How much longer?” Musa asked the caravan guide.

“Two more oasis, then we will reach Mara,” he answered. “Will they be waiting?”

“I hope so,” Musa said. “They have the payment. If we don’t pay, we can’t enter the city.”

“Or get the mercenaries,” Amadou added.

Musa took the pipe from his mouth to spit.

“I hate this plan. Too many things can go wrong. And to depend on mercenaries?”

“Let’s be honest,” Amadou said. “The mansa has only himself to blame. He knew this was coming. We all did. He had time to build up the army, but he chose not to. So now we flee.”

“I’d rather fight and die than depend on mercenaries,” Musa said.

“That’s not your choice,” Amadou said. “The mansa has decided.”

Musa was quiet for a moment.

“He should use the boy,” he finally said.

“Don’t say that,” Amadou replied. “It’s forbidden.”

“Forbidden to speak the truth? He’s worth an army.”

“He’s not ready.”

“Because of the mansa.”

Amadou placed down his cup. “He lost his daughter by training her too soon. He won’t make the same mistake again.”

The prince stumbled away from the conversation bewildered. He had a sister? What happened to her? And how could he stop an army?”

He hurried back to the tent. When he entered Kinti was waiting for him.

“And where have you been?”

The prince sat down before her.

“Kinti, did I have a sister?”

Kinti’s mouth dropped open.

“Where did you hear that?”

The prince pointed to the tent flap. “Outside. Musa and Amadou were talking.”

Anger marred Kinti’s countenance for a moment, replaced by a sympathetic smile.

“What else did you hear?”

“They said baba made a mistake. They said he didn’t need mercenaries, that he could use me, but baba was afraid because he tried to use my sister, but she died.”

Kinti shook her head. “Musa talks too much.

Kinti pulled the prince close.

“You did have a sister,” she said. “Her name was Nyima. She looked just like your mama but had your baba’s temper.”

“How did she die?” the prince asked.

“Nyima was a special girl. She was given a special power, but it was too much for her to control. Your mama and baba tried to help her, but by the time they found someone to teach her she died.”

“Do I have that power?” the prince asked.

“We don’t know,” Kinti replied. “That is why we are traveling to Zara. There is a person there who can tell us.”

“Musa said we’re going to Zara for the mercenaries.”

“Musa doesn’t know everything,” Kinti replied. “Now back to bed! You resume your journey tomorrow.”

“Are you coming with me?” the prince asked.

“Yes,” Kinti said.

The prince hugged Kinti and she held him tight. Kinti kissed his cheek and warmth spread through his body. Kinti was not mama and baba, but she was family. He climbed into his bed and fell asleep, looking forward to the next day.

 

*   *   *

 

Shouting men and protesting camels pulled Zakaria from his sleep. He rubbed his eyes as the commotion came closer, curious to what was causing such a disturbance. The tent flap flew open and Musa entered his sword in his hand. Kinti jumped up from her cot, her eyes asking the question her voice could not.

“They are here,” he said. “We must go now!”

Kinti’s face was stern when she looked at Zakaria.

“Put on clothes now!”

Zakaria scrambled from the bed and ran to the chest while Kinti gathered items from the tent stuffed them into saddle bags. Musa stood by the flap; his attention focused outward. Zakaria was securing his turban when Musa turned to look at them.

“Hurry!” he shouted.

Kinti grabbed Zakaria’s arm then dragged him to the tent flap. Musa held up his hand, his head twisting back and forth. He turned to them both, a remorseful look on his face.

“Stay close to me,” he said. “Do not look back.”

He ran from the tent. Kinti pulled Zakaria and he almost fell. When he looked up, he saw the camp in chaos. Men were fighting everywhere, and the animals were fleeing in all directions. Musa worked his way through the battle, avoiding the clashes and looking back to make sure they were close.

“Faster!” he shouted.

“I can’t!” Kinti said. “The prince.”

Musa turned around and ran up to Zakaria.

“Get on my back and hold on tight,” he ordered.

Zakaria did as he was told. Musa ran, working his way toward the camels that were still tethered to the date palms. Zakaria held on, Musa jerking movements jostling him about. He turned his head; Kinti ran, but she was falling behind.

“Slow down!” he said. “Kinti can’t keep up!”

“We can’t,” Musa said. “If we slow down, we die.”

Zakaria turned his head again. Kinti was falling further behind. A man with a sword chased her, his face covered like the blue robed men. The man raised his arm, a curved sword in his hand.

“No!” Zakaria shouted.

The man’s arm fell and Kinti winced, her body arching. She looked into Zakaria’s eyes struggling to smile. The man raised his sword and struck again; Kinti’s face when slack and she fell.

“Kinti!”

Zakaria let go, falling to the ground. He clambered to his feet, running back to Kinti. He was almost to her when the man with the curved sword stepped over her and strode toward Zakaria. The prince raised his hand, his eyes narrowed in anger. The man’s eyes narrowed as well. He tried to step forward but could not move. His eyes widened, showing surprise.

Zakaria looked down and saw Kinti, two deep gouges in her back spewing blood. He dropped his hand then knelt beside her. He didn’t see her murderer coming for him, his sword raised. The sound of clashing metal broke his trance. He looked to see Musa fighting the man, driving him back with swift and powerful sword strokes. Musa’s sword slashed the man’s throat and the man dropped his own sword as stumbled backwards and grasped at his wound. Musa spun on his heels, grabbed Zakaria by the waist then continued to run.

Zakaria felt nothing, his tear-filled eyes staring at Kinti. He barely noticed Musa stopping before two tethered camels and forcing the beasts to kneel. Musa lifted him again, this time placing him in a camel’s saddle. The ringing of Musa fighting off more attackers brushed by his ears as he remembered Kinti’s soothing voice and lively songs. He rose then bounced as Musa urged the camel through the intense fighting. The din of battle subsided; soon the only sound was the thump of the camels’ hooves pounding the soft sand and the rattling of their gear.

Zakaria emerged from his stupor. Musa rode the camel in front of him, his left hand holding the reins, his right-hand holding sword. Blood stained his robes at the shoulder and trickled from under his sleeve onto his sword hand. He looked back at Zakaria, then looked over the boy’s shoulder. Zakaria turned to look as well. The oasis was gone; all he saw was sand. He had no idea how long they’d been riding.

As his senses returned, so did his thirst. He searched his saddle pack and found a water gourd. The liquid was hot yet satisfying. He remembered not to drink too much and closed the gourd.

“By the gods!” Musa exclaimed.

Zakaria turned his head again. A line of camels broke the horizon. Musa turned his camel around then stopped Zakaria.

“Keep riding,” he said. “Don’t turn back. There is another oasis ahead. You should reach it before nightfall.”

“Where are you going?” Zakaria said. “You can’t leave me.”

Musa forced a smile. “Don’t worry, little mansa. I will meet up with you later.”

“What if you don’t?” he said. “What if they . . . kill you like Kinti?”

Musa’s face became stern. “That won’t happen.”

He slapped the camel’s rump and it loped away. Zakaria looked at Musa, his fear in full bloom.

“Don’t look back!” Musa shouted. “You will be safe soon!”

Musa turned away then rode toward the approaching riders. Zakaria turned away, keeping his eyes forward as Musa told him to do. The camel ran as if it knew the danger behind them, following its senses and instincts to their destination. Zakaria was too afraid to sleep, so he was wide awake when the small oasis came into view. As they plunged into the foliage, Zakaria dared to look back hoping to see Musa not far behind. Instead, he saw nothing and no one. The camel slowed then stopped before the small pond of water. Zakaria climbed from the saddle then took his provisions out. He nibbled on the dried meat, then took a sip of water. Grief left him exhausted; he lay beside the drinking camel then fell asleep. The nightmares descended; the image of Kinti laying on ground, her back bleeding, the carnage surrounding him during their escape, Musa’s bleeding arm as he led him away. Zakaria jerked up, his breathing shallow and rapid. He looked around hoping to find Musa, but still the warrior had not caught to him. A chill swept him; would Musa return? Was he stranded in the oasis? What would he do when his food ran out?

He opened his satchel. There was still meat and bread. There was more than enough water for him at the oasis, but he couldn’t stay forever. He would have to leave, but where would he go?  How would he reach get Zara alone?

He stood then walked to the oasis edge, staring into the sandy horizon. He shivered as he relived Kinti’s death, a tear escaping his right eye. He would never see her warm smile again or be comforted by her generous hugs. But where were the others? Where was Musa? Amadou? Izil?

Zakaria trudged back to the lake. The camel had wandered off, eating chewing on the grasses and shrubs. Zakaria sat and ate, trying is best not to eat too much. He didn’t know how long it would be before Musa found him. If he came at all. The thought brought tears to his eyes again. He shook his head.

“Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop crying! I have to be strong!”

He wiped his eyes then looked about. With nothing else to do but wait, he decided to explore the oasis. Though smaller, the refuge grew dense with shrubs and date trees. He found a few ripe dates around the base of a tree and indulged in the sweetness. There were signs of previous visitors; old tent posts, strips of canvas and old fire pits. There had been visitors, and there would be more. Would they be friendly? Zakaria had no way of knowing. It was then he made of up his mind. He would have to leave, hoping that he would reach Zara and mama and baba would be there.

Zakaria was returning to his hiding place when the camel grunted then trotted away. Zakaria took after it.

“Stop! Stop!” he shouted.

The camel ignored him, running from the oasis into the surrounding sands. Zakaria was pursuing him when he saw riders in the distance. He retreated into the foliage as he tried to make out who they were. They wore blue robes like the others they met in the other oasis, but he did not see his own people among them. Zakaria ran back to his hiding place. He would wait until the new people went away then he would try to find his camel.

The people entered the oasis few moments later.

“Search every bush and tree!” he heard a harsh voice. “He should be here. He could not have traveled too far!”

Zakaria held a whimper in his throat. He looked for a better place to hide, but he could find nothing. His head ached, and his legs became weak.

“I see him!” a man shouted.

Zakaria jumped to his feet then ran away from the voice. He was nearing the lake when two men appeared before him.

“He’s here!” one of the men shouted.

Zakaria veered away from them. His heart pounded against his chest, the pain in his head increasing. More men appeared before him and he turned again. He saw more men; he was surrounded.

One man came toward him, his voice familiar.

“Don’t be afraid,” the man said. “We are . . .”

The pressure in his head overwhelmed him. Zakaria fell to his knees then let out a scream full of frustration and helplessness. He jerked as a wave of energy escaped his body, smashing into the men surrounding him, throwing them into the air. Some smashed against the trees, others hit the ground and rolled through the shrubs. Zakaria fell onto his back, his body vacant of all vigor.

“By the winds!” he heard the familiar voice say. “Is everyone okay?”

The others answered with grunts and shouts. A face appeared over Zakaria; the mouth covered as was the desert folk way.

“Little mansa,” the man said. “We meant you no harm. I see why they were protecting you.”

The man reached down and lifted Zakaria from the ground.

“You must come with us,” he said. “Those who protected you are gone.”

“Mu…Musa?” Zakaria said. “He is coming for me.”

The veiled man closed his eyes then opened them.

“He is not. He asked me to protect you. I gave him my word that I will.”

Zakaria was too drained to cry. Instead, he went limp.

“Will you take…take me to Zara? Mama and baba are there.”

“They are not,” the man replied. “All of your people are gone. We will take you with us. You will become part of my kel, and I you will be an equal among my sons and daughters.”

Zakaria did not respond. There was nothing to say. Mama, baba, Musa, Kinti…they were all gone, and he was alone.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Izil,” the man said.

“I will not call you baba,” Zakaria said.

“You may do what you wish,” Izil replied. “In time, you may change your mind.”

“I am Zakaria.”

“It is a good name, Zakaria.”

Izil lifted him into his arms.

“Bring the camels. We must leave.”

One of the robed men led one camel to them.

“You will ride with me,” Izil said. “You are too weak to ride alone.”

Zakaria did not protest. He sat in front of the saddle, leaning back against Izil. He relaxed, feeling some comfort with the man. He did not know if Izil’s word were true, but now he did not care. He was safe for now. What the next days would hold, he did not know.

 

-2-

 

The blue robed men strode through the market, ignoring the glares and foul whispers from the crowd. They were not welcomed in Adara, and for good reason. Ten rains ago people dressed similar to them had come as raiders, killing many and stealing whatever they could. The fact that the Adarans could not distinguish these men from their adversaries spoke of their ignorance and hatred. They were Haggar, not Telgarin. Although these men were not guilty of the crime, they would be blamed nonetheless. It was a burden the Haggar bore with dignity and patience.

Though the robed ones were similar in dress, one stood out among them. His bearing was similar to the others; straight backed and powerful strides, yet he stood at least a foot taller. If the shesh covering his nose and mouth was removed, the features of his face would reveal that he was not of the same blood, even though those with him considered him as such. His light brown eyes shifted about, taking in the sights of the city. It was his first visit to Adara, and he was curious.

They reached their destination, the merchant sector of the city. Izil walked up to the large building with the elaborately carved door and knocked. Moments later a servant opened the door, his face twisted in a frown. He turned and walked away without speaking and the Haggar followed him through the home to a well-dressed man sitting at a desk, his back turned to them.

“You are late, Izil,” the man said.

“Yet I am here, Ebrima,” Izil replied.

Ebrima turned to face them. He eyed Izil up and down before reaching into his robe and taking out a bag of gold dust.

“Here,” he said.

Izil took the bag, testing its weight. “It’s not enough.”

“You were late.”

Izil’s sword was out of its baldric so fast Ebrima had no time to react, the tip touching his throat.

“We brought two hundred camels and twice as many people across the desert for you. Either you pay us properly, or ten camels and half of your salt leaves with us.”

Ebrima snarled as he took the bag from Izil and handed him another. Izil tested the weight then smiled. He sheathed his sword.

“Come, my brothers,” he said. “Let us leave this sheep stable.”

“I look forward to the day the Haggar are no more,” Ebrima said.

Izil stopped then turned to Ebrima. The merchant shrank away.

“Today is not that day,” he said. “Be careful, merchant. Be very careful.”

The Haggar left the house.

“Zakaria,” Izil said.

“Yes, baba.”

“Go to the market and get provisions for our return home. We will be waiting at the camp.”

“Yes, baba.”

Zakaria headed for the market while the others went in the direction of the city gates. In other cities they would have rented a hostel room, but Adara was not a safe place for them. Zakaria tried to ignore the unwanted attention but failed. While most glared, some ignored him, while a few gave him curious glances or a generous smile. His focus shifted back to his task once he reached the market. His list was short; they needed bread, smoked meats and anything else that would last until they reached the nearest oasis. The others would fill their water gourds before returning to camp.

He was browsing the stalls seeking smoked lamb when he heard it, a familiar voice singing a familiar song. He stood transfixed, old memories rising like fragrance from a field of flowers. Zakaria’s heart pounded as he jerked his head back and forth, trying to locate the person singing the song. He was about to set off to where he thought the song originated when he was shoved. He turned to see two city guardsmen standing before him. Both men wore metal helmets and chainmail; one leveled his spear and the other gripped his sword hilt.

“What’s wrong with you, sand jackal?” the spear wielder said.

Zakaria was so enraptured by the song he ignored the guardsman insult. He attempted to walk in the direction of the singing, but the other guardsman put his hand on his chest. His touch broke the trance; Zakaria grasped the man’s hand then twisted, forcing him to his knees. He grabbed the spear in the other guardsman hand, snatching it from his grip then tossed it harmlessly into the crowd. He took out his dagger.

“I am here to buy supplies, nothing more,” he said.

He let go of the guardsman hand. The man remained on his knees, rubbing his wrist. As he lowered his dagger, the other guardsman reached for the nut whistle hanging from his neck.

“You can call your cohorts, but I promise you won’t live to see them,” Zakaria said.

The guardsman lowered the whistle.

“Handle your business then leave, Haggar,” the guard said.

Zakaria went about buying supplies, the song lingering in his head. The guardsmen followed him but kept their distance. They were still behind him when he mounted his camel and road from the city walls into the desert. He still heard the song in his mind as he reached their camp. Izil approached him while he dismounted.

“What took you so long?”

Zakaria untied the provisions from his camel and handed them to Izil.

“I had an encounter with the city guard. Apparently, they don’t like sand jackals lurking in their markets.”

Izil spat. “I would curse Adara and never return if Ebrima did not pay so well.”

They joined the others at the campfire. Izil distributed the food and they ate. The others chatted about the journey, but Zakaria was quiet. He thought of the song and began to hum the tune.

“Zakaria, are you okay?” Izil asked.

“I am fine, baba. I heard a song while in the market. It was very familiar.”

“You could have heard it anywhere. We have visited many cities.”

Zakaria shook his head. “This was not a song from our journeys. This was a song from my past.”

Izil’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Zakaria said.

Izil patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry yourself. It has been a long hard journey and we are all exhausted. We will rest tonight and be on our way home tomorrow.”

Zakaria shared a half-smile with Izil. He joined in with the teasing, talking and boasting that always followed a successful trek, but his mind continued to drift to the song. Later that night as he slept, the song invaded his dreams. The city he remembered from long ago seemed sharper, the sounds, sights and smells more pronounced. But the most important images still evaded him, as they had done since the Haggar adopted him fifteen rains ago.

He woke the next morning feeling as if he hadn’t slept. The others were gathering their things and packing, eager to return to the kel. Zakaria joined them, the song returning to his mind. He hummed, then suddenly the words came to him. He began to sing, his voice louder and louder. The others stopped what they were doing, staring at him with worried faces. Izil trotted to him as he sang the last words.

“Zakaria?”

“I have to go back to Adara,” Zakaria said. “I must go now!”

He climbed onto his camel.

“Do not wait for me, baba,” he said. “I will catch up.”

“Zakaria, I’m worried for you,” Izil called out. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t say until I know for sure,” Zakaria replied. “Hut, hut!”

His camel stood, and Zakaria guided it to Adara. The city guards admitted him reluctantly; Zakaria took the beast to the closest stable then hurried to the market. He went to the place where he first heard the song and lingered. The more he waited, the more anxious he became. Anxiety became doubt as the hours passed. Maybe it was the fatigue of the journey that brought the song to mind, or maybe a long-lost memory shook loose and seemed to be real.

And then he heard the melody. It was clearer this time and much closer. He strode toward it, fear and hope fighting inside him. He turned down a narrow path and was struck still. Zakaria’s breath left him; his legs weakened, and he steadied himself by grabbing a nearby person.

“Let go of me!” the woman shouted.

Zakaria continue to stare at the singing woman. He needed to be sure before he came any closer. If he was wrong, his heart would shatter. The woman sang as she set out her wares, bolts of colorful cloth that immediately drew a large crowd, blocking Zakaria’s view. He let go of the reluctant woman supporting him and ran to the table then shoved the others out of the way. The woman looked at him in fear.

“Can . . . can I help you?”

Zakaria reached up then took off his shesh. The crowd gasped; everyone knew it was forbidden for the Haggar men to show their faces in public. Zakaria smiled as water came to his eyes.

“It’s me, mama,” he said. “Zakaria.”

The woman’s hands covered her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. Zakaria trembled as she reached out and touched his wet cheeks.

“Zakaria? Is it truly you?”

“Yes, mama. Yes!”

Recognition flooded her eyes with her tears. Her hands found their way behind his neck; Zakaria wrapped his arms around his mama then lifted her over the table.

“Mama,” he whispered. “Mama.”

She did not answer him. Instead, she cried into his shoulder. Time was lost to them until Zakaria put mama down and they sat on the ground, staring at each other in wonder.

Their silent reunion interrupted by a soft touch.

“Mariama, what’s going on?” the stout woman asked. “Who is this stranger?”

Mariama looked up at the woman, sharing her smile.

“This is no stranger,” she said. “This is Zakaria, my son.”

The woman stepped away. “You told me your son was dead!”

Mama turned to him, placing her palms on his cheeks.

“I was wrong,” she said. “Zakaria, this is Meme. She is my business partner.”

Zakaria stood then bowed to the short woman.

“I am honored to meet you,” he said.

Meme looked to Zakaria’s mother. “He’s polite. I see living among those sand jackals hasn’t robbed him of proper manners.”

Zakaria’s good mood fled with the woman’s insult.

“Do not speak of what you do not know,” Zakaria said. “The Haggar treat people the way that they are treated.”

Meme backed away. “It seems I was wrong.”

Zakaria ignored her ignorance.

“Mama. Where is baba?”

Mama lowered her head. When he raised it, Zakaria could see the grief in her eyes.

“Meme, can you manage the table on your own today? I need to talk to my son.”

Meme nodded while giving Zakaria a foul look. Mama took Zakaria’s hand.

“Come with me,” she said.

Zakaria followed his mama through the market to a narrow street bordered by narrow two-story dwellings. She led him into one of the structures to a small space that was cramped yet well kept. Mama sat on a worn silk pillow, pulling Zakaria down with her.

“I never thought I’d see you again in this world,” she said. “Every day I asked Sona to claim me so I could join you and Boubacar beyond. I poured libations for you both and prayed to be with you. One day, Sona answered. She said it was not my time yet, that I still had a responsibility in this world. I see now the wisdom of Her words.”

“What happened to baba?” Zakaria asked.

Mama dropped her head.

“He returned,” mama said. “He was tired of running. He thought if he went to your uncle and surrendered the stool to him, he would be lenient in his punishment. He expected to be banished. Instead, Youssouf killed him.”

Anger welled in Zakaria’s chest as his uncle’s face emerged from his memory. The man who had been kind to him as a boy murdered his father, his own brother.

“You were meant to inherit the stool,” mama said. “But Youssouf would not have it. He convinced the elders and others that he deserved to rule, but the elders would not support him as long as you and your baba were alive.

“Mama, I . . .”

Zakaria was interrupted by urgent knocking on the door.

“Meme, is that you?” Mama called out.

“Yes! Open the door quickly!”

Zakaria and mama looked at each other knowingly. Zakaria took out his dagger; Mariama opened the chest behind her then took out a short sword. She stood to go to the door, but Zakaria shook his head.

“I will go first,” he said.

“I just found you,” Mariama protested. “I can’t lose you again.”

Zakaria grinned. “You will not lose me mama.”

Zakaria strode to the door.

“Mariama! Open the door!” Meme shouted.

Zakaria snatched open the door. Meme’s eyes went wide as she was shoved aside and a bearded man brandishing a sword took her place. Zakaria lunged at the man, stabbing him in the throat then snatching the sword from his hand as he fell lifeless to the street, revealing an archer pulling back the bowstring of his bow. Zakaria pressed himself against the wall and the arrow whizzed by. He chopped the bow from the man’s hand, taking a few of his fingers as well. His scream was cut short by Zakaria’s blade plunged into his gut.

Three more attackers dodged the dead archer’s body to get at Zakaria. He backpedaled into the narrow entryway, forcing them to confront him one at a time. Zakaria cut each of them down, ignoring the minor cuts they inflicted the way Izil taught him. He turned away before the last interloper fell to see a terrible sight. Mama leaned against the wall, the archer’s arrow in her upper body just below her collar bone. He ran to her.

“Break the arrow,” she said. “We must flee.”

Zakaria gripped the arrow the broke the shaft. Mariama grimaced but did not cry out.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Izil and the others are waiting for me outside of the city. We’ll be safe with them.”

“We won’t be safe with anyone,” Mama replied. “Your uncle has been watching me for all these years.”

She nodded at the dead men.

“Still, it will be better among them, and they can treat your wound.”

Mama went to a plain ebony wood chest at the back of the domicile. She opened it and took out a leather shoulder pouch, wincing as she put the strap over her head.

“I’m ready,” she said.

They stepped over the bodies of the slain attackers and into the street. Meme stood before a crowd of Adarans glaring at Zakaria.

“Dirty Haggar!” Meme shouted. “You bring death wherever you breath!”

Zakaria ignored her. He led his mama to the stable where he left his camel. He paid the stable hand then waited nervously as the woman brought the beast out into the street.

“Tuk took!” he said.

The camel knelt and he helped mama onto its back before mounting it.

“Tuk tuk ta!” he shouted.

The camel clambered to its feet then galloped down the narrow street, knocking anyone and anything out of its path. The lethargic soldiers at the gates barely noticed as they sped out of the city.

“Haggar halt!”

Zakaria looked back to see a dozen mounted Agaran guards pursuing him on their sturdy desert horses. Though famed for their speed and endurance, they were no match for a Hagaran war camel, even with two riders on its back. The chase continued for three great strides into the desert before the Adarans relented. Zakaria continued to push the beast until he was sure the pursuit had ended.

“Tuk took ti!” he said.

The camel slowed to a trot. Certain that they were no longer being pursued, Zakaria changed directions, his destination the last whereabouts of Izil’s encampment. He hoped they were still there.

Mama slumped against Zakaria. He wrapped his free arm tighter around her.

“Stay with me, mama,” he said. “We are almost there.”

Izil’s encampment appeared on the horizon at dusk. Zakaria urged his camel into a full gallop then called out. Moments later, a pair of camels rode out to him, mounted by familiar riders. Othman and Rali were his age-group brothers; they had been raised and trained together. There was no closer bond among the Haggar. When they reached him, their eyes widened upon seeing his passenger.

“Who is this woman?” Rali asked.

“My mother,” Zakaria replied.

The shocked looks on their quickly faded. They knew Zakaria’s story, and they realized the importance of the moment. The trio entered the camp and continued until they reached Izil’s tent. Izil emerged from his tent as they dismounted. He strode to Zakaria, his brow wrinkled and frown on his face.

“What have you done, Zakaria?  Who is this . . . Aga Mariama!”

Izil’s eyes went to Mariama’s wound.

“Othman! Fetch Gwafa immediately. Zakaria, bring the Aga into my tent.”

Zakaria carried mama into the tent then laid her down on Izil’s blankets. She managed to open her eyes.

“Where are we?” she whispered. Her eyes opened wider.

“Izil?”

Izil bowed. “Aga. Praised the Winds you are alive. Our healer is on his way.”

“You protected our son and made him a fine warrior,” Mariama said. “If I die this moment, I go to my ancestors in your debt.”

“Do not speak,” Izil said. “Save your energy. You will need it.”

Izil’s tent flap opened and Gwafa ducked to enter, carrying his healing chest. Zakaria and Izil stepped aside. Gwafa knelt beside Mariama and examined her wound.

“Good thing the Adarans make terrible bows,” he said. “I’ll give her something to make her sleep, extract the arrow then cleanse and cover the wound. She will be fine.”

“Take special care, Gwafa,” Izil said. “She is an Aga.”

“And my mama,” Zakaria added.

“Interesting,” Gwafa replied. “One’s status doesn’t determine the level of my care. I give all to all.”

Zakaria and Izil left the tent.

“Tell me everything,” Izil said.

Zakaria recounted the story and Izil listened. When he was done, Izil grasped Zakaria’s shoulder.

“This is a bittersweet day,” he said. “It is a blessing to find your mother alive. But now your lives are in more danger than they were the day I claimed you as a son. Your uncle will soon know you are alive, and he will stop at nothing to kill you both. Your mother was safe as long as he thought you dead. The fact that he had someone watching her all those years meant that he suspected you were not.”

“I don’t want the stool,” Zakaria said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Izil said. “You are the rightful heir. There are many who are not happy with his rule despite his sanction by the elders and the ancestors. They would rally in your name to challenge him, even without your presence or you permission.”

“How do I stop this?”

“You can’t. Your only chance is to disappear again.”

“We can’t stay with our kel?”

Izil looked away. “When we took you in, it caused anger among the other kels, an anger that lingers to this day. When they discover your identity and location has been revealed, that anger will swell again. The only way it can be calmed is that they know you are no longer among us.”

“Is there no other way?”

“The only other way would be for you to kill your uncle and take the stool.”

Zakaria closed his eyes to fight the fear threatening to fill his head. His fingers curled to form fists and he pressed them against his thighs.

“Zakaria, I wish . . .”

Zakaria shrugged Izil’s hand off his shoulder. He stomped back to the tent then threw open the flap.

“How is she?” he asked.

“I’ve cleaned and closed the wound. With a few weeks rest she will be fine.”

“We don’t have a few weeks,” Zakaria said. “Can you make her ready to ride tomorrow?”

Gwafa turned and gave Zakaria a confused look.

“Why? You are safe here.”

“We’re not,” Zakaria said. “I must speak with her alone.”

Gwafa stood and left the tent. Zakaria knelt by his mama.

“Mama, can you hear me?”

Mama reached for him. Zakaria took her hand.

“Yes,” she said. “What is it?”

“I must ask you to ride tomorrow,” he said. “We cannot stay here. Izil refuses to protect us.”

“I feared as much,” she said. “I will be ready.”

“I must go prepare,” he said. “Rest well.”

Zakaria kissed mama’s forehead then stood to leave.

“Kari?”

Zakaria stopped and a smile came to his face. The last time he was called his small name was by Kinti.

“Yes, mama?”

“Don’t be angry with Izil and the Haggar. They have gone far beyond their promise to our family. They could have left you in the desert to die or given you to your uncle. They did neither. Instead, they raised you into a fine man and warrior. Be grateful for the time they shared with you.”

“But where will we go?” Zakaria said.

“We will go to where we were destined long ago,” she said.

“And where is that?” Zakaria asked.

“Zazza,” mama said. “We will be safe there for a time.”

“I don’t know the way to Zazza,” Zakaria said. “I have never heard of this land.”

“It is my home,” mama said. “And I remember the way. Let us hope they remember me.”

 

 

 

The sun had fled the sands of Tarwen, taking its heat with it. Zakaria pulled his robes tighter around his body for warmth then looked up to his mama sitting on his camel, swaying in time with the animal’s rhythmic gait. She was healing, was still a long way from full health. Zakaria yawned then shook his head to jolt himself awake. They were only a few hours away from sunrise, and he was anxious to set up camp.

Zakaria went to his camel, looking in his satchel until he found his ngoni. He inspected the strings then began to play.

“That sounds beautiful,” Mariama said.

“I’m sorry, mama. Did I wake you?”

“No. My wound is still uncomfortable which makes it hard to sleep and ride.”

“The sun will rise soon. I can set up camp so you can get more rest.”

Zakaria played more and Mariama listened.

“You are very good,” she said. “In Zazza, only djeles play the ngoni. How is it that you came to play it?”

“Izil taught me,” Zakaria said. “The Haggar make no distinctions of lineage and skills. A person does what they feel capable of doing. His other children showed no interest or talent for it, so he was happy when I did.”

“His other children,” Mariama said thoughtfully. “So, you see Izil as your father?”

“He has raised me since I was five,” Zakaria replied. “How else am I to think of him?”

“You mustn’t forget your true father,” Mariama said. “Boubacar a great man and was responsible for the status you have. He would have taught you many things as well.”

“I have not forgotten him or you,” he replied. “But Izil is just as important to me.”

“Even though he did not allow you to stay among the Haggar?”

“I know the ways of my people,” Zakaria said. “He had no choice. As akemal, his priority is his kel. My presence put them in jeopardy. And since I’m not truly of his blood, he made the right decision.”

“And you agree with it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Zakaria said. “He is my akemal, and his word is law.”

Zakaria wished his feelings were as firm as his words. Izil’s refusal to support them hurt, and Zakaria still thought often of it. But he was not the boy Izil adopted as his own. He was a man, a warrior of his kel, experienced in the ways of Tarwen and the world. Izil had confidence he would survive.

Sunlight began to creep over the eastern horizon. Zakaria led the camels to a dune that would provide shade at least until the sun reached its peak. He set up their tent then started a fire with dry grass and sticks stored in his bag. Mariama sought refuge in the tent, falling asleep moments after she lay on her blankets. Zakaria took out his ceramic pot and brewed coffee, sprinkling igi bunkum in for its cooling effect. He poured a cup and was about to sip when he felt vibrations under his feet. Zakaria dropped the cup and ran to his camel, grabbing his agar and allarh then rushing and taking a defensive stance in front of the tent. Five camel riders rounded the dune moments later, their takoubas drawn.

No part of Tarwen was not claimed by a kel. Zakaria knew this before they set out on their journey. They had passed through numerous kels but had been left alone because there was only two of them and posed no threat. Apparently, the warriors of this kel thought different.

“What is your kel?” one of the warriors said.

“Kel Izil,” Zakaria answered.

“What are you doing this far north?”

“We travel to Zazza,” Zakaria replied. “We request safe passage.”

“It’s a little late for that,” the warrior said. “Give us your water and you will be allowed to leave.”

Zakaria’s eyes narrowed as he gripped tightened on his agar.

“You know I cannot do that.”

The warrior grinned.

“So be it.”

Zakaria crouched behind his shield as the warriors attacked. He stabbed the into the thigh of the closest man who yelped in pain then staggered back. One of the warriors struck the iron spear shaft downward and tried to pin his foot but Zakaria withdrew it too quickly. He deftly deflected the sword swings and thrust while driving the warriors back with the spear, inflicting small cuts in with every encounter. But it wasn’t enough. Zakaria’s arms tired under the onslaught. He would have to take the offensive, but he was sure to suffer when he did. His attackers pushed him back closer to the tent where his mama slept. Desperation revived him and he pushed back against them, pricking their arms and legs with the agar.

The tent flap opened and Mariama emerged. Zakaria’s head jerked toward her.

“Mama! Get back inside!”

Mariama ignored him. She ran toward the warriors weaponless, her hands raised over her head. One of the warriors broke from the group, charging at he with his sword raised. Zakaria tried to work his way to her but the others cut him off. Mariama dropped her hands then thrusted them at the warrior. He stopped as if he slammed into an invisible barrier, his sword flying from his grip. Mariama clasped her hands together and the man grimaced, clutching his chest. She squeezed her hands tight and the man cried out before falling lifeless on the sand.

Another warrior attacked Mariama. This time she reached out for the fallen sword, lifting it with the same unseen force then sending it streaking at the man as if shot from a bow. The sword burst through the attacker’s forehead then out the back of his head. Zakaria took advantage of the others shock, driving his spear into another warrior’s throat. The remaining two warriors fled. Zakaria stared at Mariama for a brief moment before running to his camel. He grabbed the reins, pulling it down and climbed into the saddle.

 

 

“Tuk tuk ha!”

His camel jumped up, almost throwing him. He guided it around the dune and saw the warriors fleeing. He quickly closed the gap, the warriors not realizing they were being pursued. Zakaria lifted his agar over his shoulder then threw it. The spear pierced the rider’s back and he tumbled off his camel into the hot sands. Zakaria glanced at the dying man as he closed the gap between him and the second rider. The man glanced back then reined his camel, forcing the beast to turn about. He pulled his sword from his baldric then rode toward Zakaria. They met, swords clashing and camels grunting as they pushed against each other. The warrior was skilled, but Zakaria quickly gained the advantage. He slashed downward, separating the man’s fingers and sword from his right hand then slashing his throat, stifling his cry. Zakaria maneuvered close to the riderless camel, grabbing its reins. After a brief protest the camel followed him and his mount. He stopped to get the other camel, then hurried back to camp. He rounded the dune to see Mariama sitting outside their tent, a solemn look on her face. He dismounted then went to sit beside her.

“What was that which I witnessed?” he asked.

“It is your birthright,” she answered. “It was the reason we were taking you to . There was a person there that would determine you ashé. But it is too late now.”

Zakaria was silent for a moment. He had no idea of what his mother spoke, but now was not the time for discussion. He went to the fallen men and began searching their bodies. Zakaria approached the man Mariama killed. He glanced at her before stabbing him in the throat with his agar.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Making this look like an ambush,” he said. “Warriors from a rival kel would loot the bodies. When their kel mates find them, they must think that is what happened. We’ll take their camels, too. We’ll release them once we reach Zazza.”

Zakaria completed his grim task while Mariama broke down the tent. Zakaria gave her one of the camels; the others they loaded with their provisions and loot.

“How much further to Zazza?” Zakaria asked.

“A week at the most,” Mariama replied.

“Good,” Zakaria said. “I have much to ask you.”

Mariama smiled. “And I have much to tell.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

-4-

 

The city of Zazza straddled the natural border between the desert and the grasslands, a manmade gateway to the interior. A major merchant city, Zazza displayed its wealth in its dizzying towers looming over its high granite walls and gilded entryways. Fertile, well-tended fields formed a green ring around the city, the soil fed by the seasonal flooding of the nearby Baluo River.  Zazza’s mansa ruled the city with a firm yet just hand, descendant of a dynasty that had governed the city since its beginning. Mariama, Zakaria’s mother, shared blood with that lineage.

Zakaria look at the city with wonder. Never had he seen such an opulent place, and he was still on the outside of its walls.

“This is your home?” he said.

“Yes,” Mariama replied. “To see it fills my heart with joy.”

“It is a strong city,” Zakaria said. “We will be safe here.”

“Don’t be so sure,” mama replied. “Strength comes not only in numbers, but also in relations. Zazza was once a strong ally of .”

“But this is your home,” Zakaria said.

“It’s not that simple,” Mariama said. “Nothing ever is, especially with people of our lineage.”

Mariama reached into her pouch and took out a necklace Zakaria had never seen before. The cord consisted of cowries threaded on a leather string. Attached to golden ball was an amber disk etched with pictograms. Mariama studied the disk for a moment then lifted her head, a smile on her face.

“Now we are ready,” she said. “You must ride behind me on my right.”

“Why?”

“Because it is customary,” she said.

Mariama snapped the reins of her camel and it sauntered toward Zazza. Zakaria shrugged then followed. As they neared the city, Zakaria watched Mariama transform. Her back straightened, and she lifted her chin. With those small gestures she emitted the aura of a person deserving attention and deference.

Mariama did not enter the long line of people waiting to enter Zazza. She rode outside the line directly to the entrance. When they reached the gate, she commanded her camel to kneel then she dismounted. The guards were almost to her by the time Zakaria did the same and reached her side.

“You cannot break the line,” the first guard reaching her said. “You must . . .”

It was then the guard noticed the necklace.

“Where did you get that?” he said, his voice unsure.

“It belongs to me,” Mariama said.

The guard ran into the city, leaving his companion alone and dumbfounded.

“What is happening?” Zakaria whispered.

“Be still and be quiet,” she replied.

The other guard returned moments later with a woman whose clothing and bearing identified her as a person of rank. The woman’s expression displayed her annoyance. That expression disappeared once the woman looked at Mariama. She fell to her knees, as did the guards.

“Aga Mariama!” she said.

“Rise,” Mariama said.

The woman came to her feet, her eyes filled with admiration.

“Who are you?” Mariama asked.

“Saijo Ngum.”

Mariama grinned. “Little Saijy?”

Saijo smiled. “I’m not so little now.”

“I see. You are Gatemaster as well. A compliment to your skill and trust. Your family must be very proud.”

“They are,” Saijo replied. “It was a dark day in Zazza when we received word of your death. The mansa declared the entire city in mourning. The towers flew the white mourning flags for an entire moon cycle.”

A guard approached them with a magnificent roan stallion.

“I sent word to the royal compound of your arrival,” Saijo said. “I did not say it was you, for I didn’t know.”

Saijo looked at Zakaria and her face bunched as if a foul smell overwhelmed her. She took a small leather bag from her pouch then tossed it to Zakaria.

“Your services are no longer needed, sand man,” she said. “Take whatever provisions you need then go.”

Zakaria laughed as he caught the bag then inspected the contents. It was filled with gold dust.

“Saijo, allow me to introduce you. This is my son, Zakaria.”

Saijo’s hands covered her mouth, her eyes wide. The other guards were just as astonished. She fell to her knees with the others.

“Please forgive me!” she said. “I did not know. You dress like the Haggar.”

“Zakaria was protected by them,” Mariama said. “They have protected him all this time.”

Saijo stood. “I will have a horse brought for you.”

Zakaria shook his head. “I prefer my camel.”

“So be it.”

Zakaria went to his camel as his mama mounted the horse. More guards arrived, their pristine uniforms and stern demeanor revealing them as palace guards. Like Saijo, they looked at him with disdain until the others revealed his identity. Saijo mounted her horse then guided it to the head of the impromptu column.

“We are ready!” she shouted.

The processional set out for the palace. Zakaria rode next to Mariama. She looked up to him with a warm smile.

“I hope Saijo’s words did not hurt your feelings.”

“They didn’t. What hurt my feelings is how little they paid me for protecting you.”

Mama laughed and Zakaria smiled. There had been no joy during their journey to Zazza, and to see her happy made him happy as well. He was no longer a lost prince. He’d found his family and his legacy. It was all he could ask for.

 

________________________________________

Milton Davis is an award winning Black Speculative Fiction author and owner of MVmedia, LLC, a publishing company specializing in Science Fiction and Fantasy based on African/African Diaspora history, culture and traditions.  Milton is the author of twenty-one novels and a short story collection and editor/co-editor of ten anthologies.  His short stories have appeared in a number of anthologies and magazines, most notably BLACK PANTHER:  TALES OF WAKANDA, OBSIDIAN LITERATURE IN THE AFRICAN ARTS DIASPORA, and TALES FROM THE MAGICIAN’S SKULL.  Milton’s story, “The Swarm” was nominated for the 2017 British Science Fiction Association Award for Short Fiction and his story “Carnival” was nominated for the 2020 British Science Fiction Association Award for Short Fiction.

Miguel Santos is a freelance illustrator and maker of Comics living in Portugal.  His artwork has appeared in numerous issues of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, as well as in the Heroic Fantasy Quarterly Best-of Volume 2.  More of his work can be seen at his online portfolio and his instagram.