That Cunning Mask by Gabby Ozems Excerpt

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CHAPTER I

They raised me who thieved me from a battlefield, so I know no family and have chanced upon naught in the hunt for my roots. I grew up in the jungles of Isiko, in the land of deadly warriors, but being a son of their enemy they taught me no skill to tend or mend.

Darabi’s Dija, that cemetery of woods, where a healer died of fever, where the widow’s tear was for her husband’s rival, there I met my foremost calling in life. Wood hated me, I knew, and I hated wood, but here I was, the disciple of a lumberjack, so I smiled upon wood.

On the day I was expelled, wood had its muscles tightened against the blades of my trade, blunting them as I hacked into its lanky nape. I conquered, but the kill that fell before the buyer, as I was told, was as hideous as a pauper’s purse, so Darabi dragged me to conference and dismissed me with no less than: ‘Loafer, loafer without patrimony, go to Maaya; go to the witch, for only such a one can dismember you from doom.’

Hunger then put me in the cult of a charlatan who was a herbalist who traded impotent concoctions. Our market was shingles, boils, barrenness and all manner of diseases that the sons of women grumbled of.

On the morning of our confinement, we had washed a foetus off the innards of its parent till they both became corpses. I swore innocence but my liberty came by Darabi, who was representative of me, for he argued: ‘This loafer hasn’t a knowledge of herbs, nor has he the eye of a diviner. His hands are not skilled. His brain hasn’t a discretion; he wanders into all servitude, profitable or vain.’

Then as I was let out of the courtroom, he crowed, ‘O loafer, loafer without patrimony, go to Maaya; go to the sorceress, for only such an one can pull you away from doom.’

Maaya’s cult was at the shore of Tilisi and there went I, greeting her in the words: ‘Rescue me, O famous witch.’

‘Anything for thee,’ said Maaya, swinging her wand. ‘Whose soul may I murder? Forty cowries a death.’

‘Don’t murder, good witch,’ spoke I, ‘fix.’

‘Fix what?’

‘But … I am a loafer. Fix me. Separate me from doom.’

‘That would need … let me see … two, three, five, yes five pots of cowries.’

‘But … but, I’m as pauper as I’m loafer.’

‘I could accept it in installments on a condition that there’s collateral.’

‘I have no income, no collateral.’

‘Go ask your uncle.’

‘I haven’t an uncle.’

‘Or your mother’s sister?’

‘I haven’t a mother or her sister.’

‘Go to your clansmen then.’

‘I haven’t a clan.’

‘Any patrimonial assets?’

‘I have no patrimony.’

‘That makes you a worm … come on earth to suck. Parasitic ruin.’

‘Mmh!’

She walked to the altar that held the candles and their stands. She stood behind the altar, stirring three pots bearing greenish potions, and called to me: ‘Come loafer pauper!’

I went and stood before her and her potions.

‘Look deeply into the darkest potion,’ ordered she.

I deeply looked into all three potions but none was thicker in hue. The lights went out and her voice filled the room, chanting:

‘Your star is the drabbest in heaven,

So the yoke chose you from the heathen.

Your grace is slave in the occult tomb,

So glory despised you from the womb.

Fated one, your woe is immortal

And the cord of your grief, eternal.

Drop loafer drop:

I doom.

Fall loafer fall:

I fate.’

The place felt heavy and sinister and gluttonous, thus I fled. As I did, she shouted, ‘Just as others are come to lift the mantle, some are come to joy in the victories of the victorious.’

Hope thus lost; I decided to migrate to the islands of the far west. I wept while shuffling through marshes and canes, and with a jar of bubbling spirits entered the abode of my drunk friend called Nomdi. This Nomdi, who drunk with a religious craving, had begun well in life, but was reduced to gin by a whoresome mistress.

‘Farewell, my friend,’ said I, handing him my jar of alcoholic spirits.

‘Whose funeral is this?’ he tearfully asked.

‘Mine, Nomdi, tomorrow I part ways with Isiko.’

‘I’m glad, my friend,’ said he. ‘Go well; never forget this place, for here life mocked at us. Seed my words in your heart?go with them to the grave. Life is like a thread that hinges on two feeble stands: its mightiest grief is not met in death, but encountered when hope and dignity die as we yet live. Men do not die where they are born, that is proof that tomorrow is dynamic.’

He sipped some of the spirits and placed his hands on my shoulders. They were cold and shaky, and perhaps more ghostly than his dull sickly face had ever gotten.

‘Life condemned me to this terrible concoction,’ said he, weeping and watching the jar I had given him. ‘Behold the pride of Jhene … dissolved in spirits. Fidani, she is where I fell. She is what undid me. Money, pride and a woman are the captors of the naïve; those are the fiends that robbed me of my life. The world seems beautiful but it is an ocean of snares. Life is a lengthy race haunted by a sinister tactician who snatches all who turn to seek attention. I feared death. I feared his narrow pits, but no more. In that cold messenger of time, I shall find solace.’

We drank to eternal companionship and he said while we parted; ‘Farewell, dearest acquaintance. Beware, misfortune gazes attentively on mankind and will race to embrace all who are enticed. Suicide is cowardly. Have sympathy, yet see no justification in this final deed.’

The next morning, on the floor of an ancient fountain that stood at a crossroad, Nomdi lay unconscious, drowned in alcohol, delivered by death, and bathed in the solemn waters of the famed fountain.

My name is Zowdor Nemoso, I don’t own the gadgets of these engravings but the writings belong to me.

To the far west went I, to the archipelago called Taila, where dwelled six islands and no monarch. I penetrated there by the west and arrived to a brutal raid which made me yell several shames at them cowardly Tailan men who hid like crabs in rocky gorges behind the Wambian cave Daserwa. They were hiding from death and duty. From death because the raid that was ongoing in their settlements was fatal, and from duty because they had abandoned their obligations as fathers, husbands and sons of the land.

Seeking refuge from that far distance, they listened to the voices of brutally. Fear had permeated the kingdom, causing all who dwelled there to leap many a heartbeat. It was a Numunguan invasion, an unprovoked raid that handicapped the physical and placed the emotional in agony. It was the sort of a confrontation that hacked on the back of a man and peeled off his dignity as though it were fleece that was being sheared from the back of a sheep.

‘Muyamba,’ an aged man whose name I came to know as Titiadi sharply whispered; his face was green with pain and disappointment, ‘do we remain calm when they molest our women and take away our possessions. What would be said of a man who sees fireballs flying over his roof and flees in the name of refuge?’

‘He should without doubt be declared insane,’ returned the said Muyamba, who was kingmaker of Taila and chief custodian of Wambi.

‘All men from Taila are like that man. They merely wear masculine skins. They’re gutless, shameful, static …’

‘Patience, old man, patience I say,’ grumbled Liyanga, the chief executioner, ‘or we’d all get killed.’

‘You prefer this pathetic life?’ fumed Titiadi. ‘Won’t you rather die? Arise, people, let’s defend the ancestral legacy.’

‘With what do we implement that defense?’ debated Liyanga.

‘With men. Men like you. Men like your tribesmen. Men like your sons.’

Laughing at them pitiful refugees, I crept to kneel beside a fidgety lad.

‘What trouble? Were you first to offend them bandits?’ inquired I from him.

‘A spy! SPY! We’re discovered,’ shouted he abnormally.

‘Where?’ asked his countrymen, their heads floating above the rocks.

I sped so hastily that by the time he positioned his finger and pointed at me, I was in front of Daserwa. I hurried to their settlements and hid on a loner of a cashew tree, which resided in some sort of a ceremonial ground and overlooked a garlanded altar.

The warriors of Numungu combed the kingdom from end to end, seizing as much property and women as they could, and made for their kingdom.

Men gushed out of the rocky gorges like hot blood from the stabbed and perishing, and headed for their native islands. The kingdom was in turmoil. From Nuamba to Azumba, there was wailing.

The chief custodians and elders remained in Wambi and camped on the Wambian ceremonial ground, where I was, under the loner tree on which I hid. Here they held an emergency meeting; at which meeting there arose a unanimous point that Taila’s continuous defeat was because her warriors never fought as a unit and should one army be formed from the warriors of all six islands, Numungu’s aggression could be crushed. A durbar for the formation of an all-Tailan army was scheduled to the dawn of the next day.

My teeth gnashed and my body, which stuck tight to a tree branch, was getting exhausted. My breath was cautious and my movements, calculated. I dreaded the coming of dawn, which was to encircle me with thousands of embittered Tailans, all chanting battle cries. From my hideout, I could hear Nimatua the town crier announcing all around the kingdom.

‘Warriors of Taila,’ he would yell, while hammering hard on his silver gong, ‘I salute you. The elders also send their regards. Men are not the masculine beings that reside on earth: men are the safety of the frontier and the confidence of the union. With a wounded heart and a tearful face, Taila comes to you. “Deliver me from the adversary!” she cries. “Take me back to the days of my ancestors, to the days of peaceful pride.” The model of man Taila needs in our time is man with daring heart who shall seek to unite all Taila under one cause. A durbar for the unification of Taila shall be held at dawn tomorrow. Gallant beloved of Taila, come vow to Tailans that you shall take them from this grassy shame to a place of glorious ecstasy. Naamu, people of Taila.’

Throughout the six islands there was jubilation; a celebration of the gallant beloved man about whom Nimatua spoke. But, the people misunderstood Nimatua. They thought the durbar he had informed them about was an enthronement. Some Tailan warriors considered themselves crownworthy, and to them the durbar was going to be the grandest since time memorial. They looked forward to that solemn moment when Muyamba would place a crown on their head and declare, ‘I crown you king over all Taila.’

News reached the elders and chief custodians about the happenings on the six islands; especially, news about the Trinity of Taila. In Azumba, a member of the Trinity had summoned his wives and children and was already whistling, ‘Sovereign, a-coming, sovereign.’ His name was Zomo Nanna and he presently sat on a throne mounted on his tree-house. He wore a model crown and smiled all night long.

On the hills of Agunbe, Tsambo, another member of the Trinity, stood dancing in a palanquin held high by eight men. He held a leopard skull and he gyrated upon his thick, thick ankles. ‘Tsambo way!’ sang he. ‘Tsambo way, way, way!’

Mogoona’s was within the Nuamban’s. He, the third member of the Trinity, was the best hunter Taila had ever known. He was the pride of Nuamba. On a big stool mounted on Mount Dau, he sat, gazing across the many coasts that wound about. The Nuambans sang to his name and bowed to him anytime they beheld Mount Dau.

News from Wambi, Emorna and Twessi did not talk of things less jubilant, only that these islands did not have warriors who merited singular popularity; hence, the engagement of large numbers of warriors in mass jubilations.

At the first glimpse of dawn, the people of Taila held their durbar. A wave of optimism, sparked perhaps by the previous days misinterpreted announcement, blew across the venue, placing a smile on every face that gathered there.

It was dramatic. The jubilation that followed the arrival of most of the warriors made the early stages of the durbar very lively. I would have enjoyed the joyous air too, if it wasn’t my tree branch had taken to dangling irrationally and making crackling sounds. The witch came to mind. I remembered how ill fated she had foretold I would forever be, and this made me sad.

When the venue was fully occupied, Liyanga escorted Muyamba to the ceremonial altar and clashed his swords repeatedly to mark the commencement of the durbar.

‘People of Taila, I salute you,’ greeted Muyamba. ‘We’re assembled here today to launch Taila’s resurrection. You warriors ought to be united. The rivalry amongst you is what has enabled Numungu to be victorious over the past few years. All of you shall be brought under one leader, who …’

The members of the Trinity curtailed Muyamba’s speech with a performance. To show their preparedness towards the position named in the kingmaker’s speech, they sped to the altar and performed the Lenli of Kalante: a warrior dance of the Tailan people. They knocked the tips of their weapons against the ground and run about, shouting battle cries.

‘Elders and people of Taila,’ boasted Mogoona, ‘from the lofty coast of Nuamba to the inquisitive jungles of Azumba, there’s never been a warrior as fearsome as myself. When I roar, the beasts of the forest flee. In my fury, the eagles high up soar to safety.’

‘Mogoona, don’t bite more than you can chew,’ disputed Tsambo, tapping the Nuamban on the chest. ‘Your blabber blossomed from ignorance. Without a tour of the chief farmer’s plantations, the okra farmer dwells within his okra shoots, boasting of his weather dependent harvest. I am the Tsambo of the warring jungle, the tornado of the earth, the executioner in your nightmare, the fiercest that has lived. At the mention of my name, warriors sense danger and run to seek refuge in the dark places.’

‘Tsambo, be cautious the way you gabble; and, Mogoona, monkeys acquaint by size,’ Zomo Nanna cautioned the duo, with a frown as wrinkled as it was ugly. ‘I am the Nanna of the renowned Zomo clan of Azumba. I am the reason why their nerves trembled. I am the tension that caused their hearts to skip a heartbeat. It shall be sinful against the ancestors, if the throne eludes Zomo. Elders of Taila, now is the time. Choose righteously. The Nanna of Zomo has spoken.’

Other warriors came to the altar, dancing the Lenli.

‘Marvelous!’ Titiadi clapped.

‘Taila shall have many heroes,’ Muyamba said with smiles, ‘Liyanga, bring three of the ancestral swords. That gallant, outspoken trio shall lead our men into Numungu. Under their leadership, Taila shall wage war against Anona Sissi.’

‘WHAT!’ the warriors of Taila fearfully exclaimed.

Fear glowed in their eyes. None found the courage to utter another word. The Lenli shrunk into the dew-laden soil and in its place was a faint echo of Anona’s dreaded name.

Liyanga went to a primitive fort and fetched three ancestral swords, which he handed to Zomo Nanna, Tsambo and Mogoona, who reluctantly took them.

‘You shall be the face of this part of our history,’ he told the trio. ‘These swords are the symbol of your authority. With them you shall decree. When you surge, Taila shall pursue. When you withdraw, Taila shall retreat. May our ancestors be with you.’

‘NO!’ bleated Zomo Nanna, throwing away his sword.

‘Have you no respect for the ancestors?’ raged Titiadi. ‘You shall pick up that sword and behave in a manner similar to that brave man you described yourself.’

‘Don’t be a hypocrite, Titiadi,’ Zomo Nanna quarreled. ‘You know better; Anona is not a thing of mockery. Forget about war. Taila shall not confront Numungu. I came aspiring for a crown, not to plot against death.’

Tsambo and Mogoona threw away their swords and supported Zomo Nanna. Many others nodded in favour of Zomo Nanna. This thing made the elders and chief custodians despair.

Then, the high priestess of Ninaya’s shrine danced for attention, Zomo Nanna beside her.

‘Are we guided by him?’ asked her meandering brother, Uono, who was chief custodian of Azumba.

‘Truly,’ claimed the priestess, ‘Ninaya has given his counsel.’

‘What was it he advised?’ Titiadi happily inquired.

‘He recommends that if any should be made king, it should be the Nanna from the Zomo clan.’

‘Nay!’ wailed Titiadi. ‘That selfish, roguish, cowardly, quarrelsome Zomo Nanna? But who shall serve him? Who?’

Wambians shook their heads. Emornans shook their heads. Twessians shook their heads. Nuambans shook their heads. Agunbeans shook their heads. Azumbans nodded.

Announced Liyanga, ‘Be reminded, people, that we haven’t come here to crown a king. We have come here to plot against our enemy.’

Uono got hold of his sister and meandered away with her.

‘Naamu!’ Titiadi shouted Taila’s battle cry.

‘Naamu!’ responded the people.

‘Listen, every son of Taila, you failed to secure the land of your fathers. All they ever laboured to build, you’ve rendered useless. In our time, when the great Odu Nyaasa sailed with four hundred into Taila, we did manly wonders. We sang and slew for Taila. Every single attack was crushed and Taila’s fame spread far and wide. All that pride has dripped like water from the peforated walls of a basket. Think of posterity; think of what shall be told about you.’

His words were calculated as history, so the elders and chief custodians met aside to work out a resolution.

Meanwhile, the spine of my tree branch was creaking rapidly. The branch itself was tossing emotionally, aided by a careless wind.

‘Warriors of Taila,’ Muyamba announced after the recess, ‘we’ve decided to crown a king, but we still are not convinced there can be a Tailan resurrection without a Numunguan defeat. All who aspire to be king must battle in Numungu. He shall be king, whoever brings to Taila the head of Anona Sissi.’

That moment, my tree branch betrayed me. It broke and I fell heavily, first landing on one leg and then knocking my side against the trunk of the cashew tree.

‘The spy!’ shouted one who had earlier called me spy.

‘The spy?’ queried his compatriots.

‘Him,’ he who shouted returned.

Half scared, half annoyed, Taila’s warriors became an armed circle around me. I thought of a plan: I would pose for a priest.

‘Hold on!’ spoke I to them, gyrating like some spiritual being. ‘You need not be troubled. I am a servant of the gods of your ancestors. I have been sent to rescue you, to take you back to the days of tranquility and pride. I shall lead you into Numungu to murder Anona Sissi.’

‘Intruder!’ clamoured the warriors, diminishing their circle and frowning more.

‘Will you fight the gods of your ancestors?’ wept an old woman with a bald battered head. ‘O Taila, listen to the voice of divinity.’

‘Don’t listen to her. Kill the demon!’ screamed Tsambo.

‘Destroy him!’ ordered Zomo Nanna.

‘Nonesense, away from him!’ intervened Titiadi, shooing the warriors away and bowing before me. ‘I trust you, brave servant of the oracle. You’ve got the voice of Wazeyme. Live long, kindred of my fathers.’

‘NAY!’ shouted the warriors. ‘No false priest of the adversary shall lure us to death.’

‘You are faithless,’ said the battered old woman. ‘Didn’t you see how marvelously he somersaulted from the heavens? This is the dawn of Taila’s liberty.’

‘I saw it,’ supported another old woman. ‘He landed on one limb and with his side, kissed the bosom of the ancestral tree.’

‘We don’t care where he landed,’ grumbled Zomo Nanna. ‘We simply don’t want him lorded over us.’

‘Yes, he’s an imposter,’ backed the other warriors.

‘I’ve got a better resolution,’ said Tsambo, wearing a hellish grin.

‘Kill the bogus god?’ his compatriots asked for a hint.

‘Nay. Wage war.’

‘BAAAD!’ his compatriots disagreed.

‘We should, or the world would laugh at us. This wretched creature chants the ditties of battle while we howl like frightened dogs. We’ve got numbers and he stands alone. Let him be single and all of us shall unite under me.’

‘Not while I live,’ quarreled Zomo Nanna. ‘The imposter stands alone and all combine under the Nanna.’

‘Under me!’ yelled Mogoona. ‘Or each island to itself and that priestly ruin stands alone.’

‘Sounds better,’ consented Tsambo, ‘but we shall share Wambi, Twessi and Emorna among ourselves.’

Nearly the all of the warriors nodded in support.

‘Do you agree, potent kindred of Taila?’ Zomo Nanna taunted.

I said yes.

‘So it shall be,’ jubilated the warriors.

Their well wishers chanted battle cries and joined in a performance of Kalante’s Lenli; the elders and chief custodians applauded to confirm their acceptance of the resolution.

‘Naamu, my warriors!’ bellowed Muyamba.

‘Naamu!’ the warriors replied.

‘The battle of Taila shall be staged on the moon of Jimra, exactly a month from today.’

‘Naamu!’ chanted the jubilant warriors.

That’s how the durbar ended: all Tailans were eager to war, a war with four goals. The warriors and their well wishers hoped to defeat Anona and return with his head beside mine. The elders and chief custodians hoped that the war would be won, priest or no priest, and that Numungu’s defeat would unite Taila for good. The last two goals were mine. I was a refugee of misfortune who had been offered a temporary shelter affixed to the limbs of time. If they aged in favour of Taila, I would retain my space and receive royal treatment. If it ticked against Taila, not only would I have to return to my curse, I also would have affirmed the accusation that I was an imposter; a demonic imposter who had come to lure many to the grave. I desired either a Numunguan defeat in which I should have played a role?or death. Death because beyond Taila I would be a wretched wreckage, lacking lodging, food and purpose.

Three warrior groups were formed towards the war. Zomo Nana assembled the warriors of Azumba in Zumbi and named them Zomo Warriors. Their Battle cry was, ‘Osunda! Masanda! Monkeys acquaint by size.’

Tsambo’s was the Spear Makambes. Their battle cry was, ‘Tukule! None equals the Tsambo.’

Mogoona formed the Jungle Masquerades of Nuamba. That was the largest and most unskilled group. Their battle cry was, ‘Mutatar! Tawuder! Mogoona is fiercest.’ This slogan annoyed Zomo Nanna and Tsambo so much.

The warriors of Wambi, Emorna and Twessi were numbered and dispersed among the three warrior groups. These three groupings camped where their leaders came from, preparing for the war.

During the dimmest hours of night, when it was six days away from the war, I sat outside my given abode in the comfort of a coy flame, troubled by the noisy crowing of an orphan chick. Nature was at her evil, stealing steam from the sleeping sun and converting it with a harlot breeze to make dew for a virgin day. Eighty yards away, I saw a raffia torch sneaking through the dozing grass. It’s end was held prisoner by a human limb, which limb was locked to the shoulder of an aged man whose head loitered about with snakeful curiosity. I was alarmed, so employing a tattered stick I ruffled my fire to death. My sight improved instantly: there was behind the aged man ten youthful shadows, all carrying raffia torches and hissing forth with identical curiosity. When they drew forty yards closer the aged man became Titiadi and his followers became ten lads, each flanked by a gouge and a raffia torch. The gap soon closed and Titiadi stood with his followers before me.

‘Your Worship, I’m at your feet!’ he saluted.

‘Live long, mighty archer,’ responded I.

‘You are not alone, great one. Here are ten lads from Wambi and Emorna. I bribed them with cowries and gouges of wine, and recruited them into your army.’

‘I’m impressed, noble Titiadi,’ said I to him.

‘Our regards, great oracle,’ greeted the young men.

‘My sentimental regards,’ responded I.

‘Great one, you disciples wish to alert you,’ Titiadi told.

‘I’m very attentive, friends of mine,’ was my reply.

‘Good god, thy warring foes,’ said the eldest of my disciples; ‘they seek thee not Numungu. If there’s ever a cry beneath the jungle shades, it is the cry of embittered warriors wishing death upon a lonely god. We shall surely be killed if found on your side the day Taila departs for war. I am Monara, son of Kan.’

‘Good god, the hidden blades,’ said another; ‘they swear to crush them through the ribs of divinity. Beware, the archers of Zumbi. Their plot is to brutalize the oracle of war. A quarter the troop shall be assigned to thee. “Death to the oracle,” a cry so vengeful is chanted across the land. We sail asunder and escape the snare, but sail with the union and death shall eat us all. I’m Kulonko, friend of my friends.’

‘Great oracle, the evil abroad,’ said a third. ‘Mischief is seeded in the souls of your foes, nursed by envy, guarded by spite, and blossomed of cowardice. Fulfillment dwells in your murder and not in the defeat of Numungu. When the oracle beheads Anona, the war shall be won and he be needed no longer; then shall the evil come to light. Pherfer’s advise is return with the union and death we shall have. Return asunder and the snare is escaped.’

‘Great god, the ocean encircled,’ said a fourth. ‘Beyond the waves, where the waters are still, your blood shall stain the duplicate blue. The oracle shall be slain and woe to his disciple. I’m Mena, son of my dad.’

‘Immortal one, the talisman of Saundu,’ said a fifth. ‘It is an evil which weakens the spiritual being. The eye of the evil cult shall spy and hunt you, and even long after your death, shall guard your bones to dust. They call me Dolum, yet my name is Lodum.’

‘Eternal kindred of Taila, the request be done,’ said the other five. ‘Our names are Ader, Dawre, Jetama, Meiro and Siso, sons of the motherland.’

‘Live long, sons of Taila,’ I said to them. ‘We shall set sail a day after them.’

‘Foul,’ cried Titiadi; ‘the battle dwells on you, immortal oracle. I beg that you go ahead of your foes, or they curse the land with their talisman. Humans are nothing to trust. The gods bless the land but we humans oppress it to tears. I kept a canoe for you by the mangroves. It’s packed with bread and bows and a basket of venomous arrows. About shelter, you need not worry: Numungu is surrounded by solitary caves.’

‘For this reason,’ spoke I, ‘we shall set sail in the privacy of tonight. You may hurry home and prepare yourselves.’

‘We have nothing to fetch,’ said my disciples.

‘Then go is what we shall do,’ said I, smiling, a very dry smile.

My disciples put out their lights and with me trailed Titiadi by a gap of about sixty yards. Titiadi led the way and ensured it was clean of spies. We moved like floating phantoms across fields of rice and millet until we reached a lagoon where was the mangroves.

‘Farewell, kindred of Taila. Strength to your men,’ whispered Titiadi, who sped off after showing us the canoe he had kept for us.

‘We’re grateful, great archer,’ we whispered back.

The eleven of us dived into the bosom of the brackish lagoon and swam to our canoe. Paddling and humming, we set sail, aided partially by the sympathetic hands of the night waves. Above peculiar waters dark as the night, we surely advanced.

I halt here to relay this baton of our times to another; one in whose bosom dwells the advantage of the legends of the merchants, and whose name is not unknown to the fisher folk by the Nile.