Muezzinland (10 page)

Chapter 8

Colours clashed inside Nshalla's mind as she walked the streets of Timbuktu: the red sun rising and setting, the intense indigo of the gandurah robes worn by the Tamasheq-speaking camel people, the neon pink of laser scrolls sent up into the starry sky by mosque transputers. The pale ochre dust of the streets. As she searched for Mnada she felt that she walked inside a hyperpict tinted to the music of Ali Farka Toure, in which every image she perceived was backed up by centuries of culture, so becoming more intense.

Two days after she spotted her sister's red hair, she saw it once again. This time she scoured the Francophile Yobu Ber District in the south. This time Mnada was nearer and had her back to her.

Without thought she ran up and spoke. "Mnada? It's me."

And it was her sister.

Mnada turned to show a face haunted by something, some memory of the past that made her expression one of fear, her eyes wide, her mouth open. She took fast, shallow breaths. The aether transmitted this fear as miniature ghosts that entwined themselves in her greasy hair, laughing in high-pitched voices, showing their faces, then hiding again. Nshalla recognised some of these faces as palace officials, and realised that they represented childhood traumas.

"Nshalla?" whispered Mnada.

Nshalla took a step closer, but Mnada fell back, holding out her hand and crying, "No, no, don't come nearer. Mother sent you—"

"No," Nshalla said. "I came to find you. Nobody sent me."

"I-C-U Tompieme! He's behind you. Look at his wheels!"

Nshalla looked, but there was nobody present. She turned to see Mnada cowering before her; madness not far away. Suddenly she realised the delicacy of what she attempted. She lost confidence in herself. She stood silent. The wasted moments ticked by, and then Mnada stood and said, "The gods are coming! They're almost here! The gods are coming!"

"What gods?"

An expression of confusion crossed Mnada's face. "You don't know?" She looked around, as if expecting capture. "I have to leave Timbuktu. I have to go on!"

She ran like a hare. Nshalla tried to keep up, but all she could do was follow the abstract trail of sigils and images left by the panic stricken Mnada, until they were dispersed by the Islamic winds of the mosques, and all she was left with was a sense of profound loss that brought tears to her eyes.

She stumbled back to the Cocoa-Gold Inn. In their room, Gmoulaye sat tapping at her djembe.

"I saw Mnada, but she ran off."

Gmoulaye was instantly alert. "You met her?"

"Yes. She was as frightened as a child. We must go out searching tonight."

"I suppose so."

Nshalla glanced at the motor bike.

"Look at his wheels!"

Clarity came to Nshalla's mind. Mnada had seen something in the aether. A motor bike.

"Ataa Naa Nyongmo!" Nshalla breathed. "Our bike. The morphic bike. They're the third agent!"

Gmoulaye leaped from her bed.

Already the motor bike was transforming, its sidecar loose, its wheels trying to escape the chains that bound it. But Nshalla had done a good job of immobilising the machine, and with two of them on it, it was unable to act.

"Grab its cables!" Nshalla told Gmoulaye as she struggled to calm the writhing machine. "Pull them out before it destructs!"

Gmoulaye did not know what to do. She pulled everything that twitched. Too late. The motor bike stopped moving, setting like coagulating plastic into a mis-shape, a trampled fungus of steel.

Nshalla sat back and sighed.

"What happened?" Gmoulaye asked.

"It committed suicide. They're told to if they're discovered and they can't escape." Gingerly, she pulled out from behind the instrument dial a panel of biochips, all steaming, melting into the circuit boards. She cast it aside. "If we'd managed to save it, we could've analysed that and learned alot."

She stood.

"What now?" asked a nervous Gmoulaye.

"The Empress knows we're here. Damn you, Msavitar!"

"Msavitar?"

"That was why he told us to keep the motor bike here, where it could listen. He knew it must also be morphic, and he guessed it was part of the third agent. And that was why he gave his little speech in our room a couple of nights ago. He wanted to ingratiate himself back into the Empress' service, so he said aloud what he'd done. I'll kill him if I see him again."

"You will not see him. We have to leave soon."

"Yes. They'll be after us."

"Where to?" Gmoulaye asked, shrugging.

Nshalla felt that now she must come out with the truth. She did not want to, but there was no other choice, for Gmoulaye could not be kept in the dark any longer. "We found Muezzinland," she said, hugging Gmoulaye. "We found it in an atlas."

Gmoulaye showed no emotion. Nshalla had expected this response and had prepared for it. There was no point in procrastinating. "It's a long way off. Across the Sahara. I've got to go there with Mnada."

Pulling away from the embrace, Gmoulaye turned an accusatory glance upon Nshalla. "You did not tell me you had found any information. So, across the Sahara, you said?"

"I'm afraid so."

"It cannot be done. You have lost both Muezzinland and your sister."

For a few seconds Nshalla did not understand. "No, I am following. Don't you understand how important it is? That's why I asked
you
to come, somebody I could trust. And Mnada is
here,
now. So close!"

Gmoulaye shook her head. "We would be entirely out of our element. We are negro women. Even in Timbuktu we stand out. We cannot stay in, or go to places where we might be enslaved by moslems."

"Don't be absurd. Enslaved by who? Aphrica's enlightened these days."

Gmoulaye laughed a bitter laugh. "The educated rich may be enlightened, but most Aphricans remain tribal villagers. Suffering slavery and mastering slaves is in their blood, in their bones. Aphrica is the country of servitude. You would not last ten seconds in those moslem lands."

Nshalla felt anger bubbling up inside her. Aware that during such times she could appear haughty, she fought down the emotions and replied, "That's just village gossip. Besides, we're in an Islamic land now. Nobody's come to take you away, have they?"

"A couple of mosques does not make Dogon Mali a moslem land. I am refering to the moslem countries of the north. You know as well as I do that their culture will be wholly different to Timbuktu's, and to ours."

Nshalla retorted, "The aether's the same everywhere. It's the great leveller."

Gmoulaye snorted her derision. "Yes, levelling the most psychologically damaged. And have you forgotten that aether technology was evolved by moslems working in Greater Palestine?"

"Don't teach me what I already know. I know who invented the aether—"

"So your argument is that you are right because you have the education of the daughter of an Empress? Is that it?"

Nshalla span around and walked to the window of their room. Outside, the courtyard was in shadow, black and grey, while above the first stars were twinkling in a violet sky. Distant wailing music floated over adjacent buildings to be siphoned down by the darkness.

To avoid suffering eye contact, she remained standing, looking out of the window as she formulated, then spoke her reply. "You are a truly wise woman, Gmoulaye, and I wouldn't have asked anybody else to come with me. But there's alot you don't know. Look how you thought I could just contact Accra through the optical network as if there was a direct line. Yes, there is trouble ahead. The Sahara is a terrible place, and maybe the lands north of it are too. But the people there won't be barbarians. We'd survive. And, in the end, if you won't come I'll have to go on my own."

Silence.

"Even if I captured Mnada," she concluded, "Muezzinland would still be the goal. Mnada is possessed. It's the truth."

After a long pause, Gmoulaye said, "If you lose Mnada you will never manage it on your own. How could you cross the Sahara without guides?"

"Okonkwo will be able to help me." Nshalla turned and made to leave the room. "Whatever happens, I
am
going."

Gmoulaye said nothing as she departed.

She felt let down. The prospect of crossing the Sahara was nothing compared to the prospect of making the journey alone, or with dubious guides picked up on the way. A single woman, alone in the desert; how dangerous that could be.

At the Library of West Aphrica, Okonkwo was about to lock the doors. Nshalla said, "I've decided to attempt the Sahara journey. You said you might be able to help me?"

"Well…"

He seemed uncertain. Again Nshalla felt tears spring to her eyes. So much rested on this, so many drives, and needs.

"Hush!" Okonkwo said. "There is one possible answer. Just across the way is the Sankore Mosque. There you should find an acquaintance of mine, Moustapha Cisse. He is a marabout—a wandering religious teacher who knows the desert around Timbuktu. He may even have heard of Muezzinland! He will advise you. Go there now, and tell him that I sent you."

Nshalla nodded, dried her eyes, and departed the library.

Sankore Mosque was over eight hundred years old, yet its form had remained unaltered since it was constructed. Nshalla peered up at mud walls that bristled with the wood scaffolding necessary for continuous repair. At one end a pyramidal tower rose up, while at the other a castellated length ran, fluidly built and pierced with doors. The mosque was like a massive brown cactus, and it intimidated her. Men wearing brown robes and black headscarves frowned at her.

Eventually she plucked up enough courage to approach one. "I'd like to speak with Moustapha Cisse, please."

They looked her up and down. She knew they would not be kindly disposed to a woman, least of all a foreign one, but she stood her ground. The man disappeared into the mosque, to return five minutes later with an old man, bearded and dressed in white desert attire.

"What do you want?" he asked in guttural New-Oriental.

"Okonkwo at the Library sent me," Nshalla began. "Might I have a few minutes of your time?"

He shrugged and walked with her into the lee of the building opposite. A dozen men had now come to the doors of the mosque to watch what was happening; they jested with one another, and leered at her.

Nshalla explained her situation, concluding, "I, unfortunately, have lost all my money, but my friend has a bank. We could pay our way, and pay you for your trouble."

He was a gruff old man, but there was a kindly twinkle in his eyes, and Nshalla felt, not exactly trusting, but not afraid. For some minutes he squinted at the mosque opposite, before saying, "I suppose it could be done. I am due to travel north, but only to meet one of my wives at Touerat Oasis. From there, you would have to find alternative assistance. But to trek across the Sahara would be too difficult for you. I would advise against it."

Nshalla shook her head. "We've walked from Accra in Ghana. Besides, we've no option, we've got to find Muezzinland."

He nodded. "Then we will make for Touerat Oasis. But this is not a good thing, and evil may come of it."

Nshalla shivered as he spoke. "We really have no choice," she said.

"Then let it be. When you are ready, call for me here."

Nshalla thanked Moustapha, then ran back through the town towards the Dyingerey Ber District. Deciding that she would need desert clothes, she walked through the centre of Timbuktu to Yobu Keyna in the Badyinde District, where numerous small shops spread their wares untidily into the streets. With no money she could only look and price items. She would have to return to work out a deal with Gmoulaye. That would be painful.

Now oil lamps illuminated the streets. Night had fallen. Along the sides of stone buildings lay rows of glowing pinpoints, rainbow connectors into the local web, many trailing optical cables. From yellow windows came cooking smells, the sounds of arguments and screaming children, and music piped from local mosques to a multitude of eye-radios. Soca battled qawwali battled oriental jazz.

The Sankore and Djinguereber Mosques sent holograms into the air, cream and pink and pastel blue, so that, from certain angles, the confusion of Arabic lettering was resolved into geometric shapes; onion domes, scimitars, and the three dimensional solutions to chaos equations. Nshalla paused to admire them.

And then she saw Mnada.

At first she just saw that length of red hair, so familiar, yet so unexpected. Further glimpses confirmed that this was indeed a woman, dressed in dark clothes. The figure slipped into an alley.

Nshalla had to stop herself shouting. If, frightened, Mnada ran, her sister could easily disappear once again into the town's maze of passages; if she left Timbuktu things would be worse. Nshalla sped over to the alley and looked down. Nobody. She crept in and began to tip-toe along the alley.

An arm strangled her; another grabbed her wrist and pulled back her right arm. She was bundled off the alley into a passage.

Pushed into a doorway, she tripped and fell. A man towered over her, armed with a dagger.

Msavitar, she remembered, was an illusionist.

He laughed at her, then glanced up and down the alley. They were alone.

"We seem at liberty to talk, gracious one," he said, savouring every word. He spoke in Gan, so that if anybody did overhear they would understand nothing.

Nshalla cringed. The dagger was very long.

"I have decided, in my great wisdom, to put an end to you. You have upset me. I believe you stole some transputers of mine some time ago. And you have damaged my reputation, and soiled my honour. That cannot be allowed to go unpunished."

"You're a vengeful fool," Nshalla replied. For the moment she was stuck. Best to keep him talking.

"Don't make it worse for yourself."

"I know you were an agent of my mother's," Nshalla said, standing up, but remaining in the doorway. "I know about the agent you beat on the riverboat." She put a superior tone in her voice to remark, "And I know about the third agent."

This unsettled him. Waving the point of the dagger at her, he said, "I care nothing for any of that. It was oh, so far in the past, and the past is not so vibrant as the present."