Foregone (Fiction)
Foregone
Fiction
It is abominable, that which I do.
But I hurry to it anyway.
I follow the stream by the white light of the moon, stilling myself at every sound of crunching leaves or rustling bushes. I have wrapped myself in the darkest Ankara, on top of it, is my father’s hunting tunic, darker than night. I have smeared his tobacco and spice behind my ears to ward off any strangers or their dogs.
A traveling stranger is less interesting if she smells of tobacco and roots, than of hibiscus and lemons.
In my hand, is my shepherd’s crook. It whacks and chokes, whether it be sheep or person.
This is no man's land, distant from mother's watchful eye. Any assailant would be out of range of father’s arrow.
Now well into the forest, I hear the faint roar of the waters and my heart races. Quickly, I begin to climb the hill.
It is dark but I know where to place my feet, where to grip and brace, where to heave and lift. The darkness amplifies the thunder of the rushing waterfall of Arè. It surrounds, it terrifies. It is enough to fail a heart.
I remove my sandals and wade into the river, she welcomes me and draws me in along the current. I hold unto familiar stones, slippery and some tufty with growth, my feet find ground on the sandy bed. I feel for the rocks and climb out into a cave.
At last.
He is there waiting.
He rises to his feet. My heart thumps, my belly flutters.
Tórę.
The face of a god, of a slight frame and the hugest boyish grin. I run into his arms and remain.
His scent is warm with cloves, and leather and fresh with zest.
By now, he should have come to my home with his kinsmen to ask for my hand, instead, we meet in secret, in a dark, cold cave.
It is destined not to be, this love of ours, for etched deep in my father's aging cheeks are the markings of the Iwui dynasty and right next to Tórę’s clear, searching eyes is the mark of the Ara tribe.
It is an abomination to love this man, as every Iwui man and every Ara man is required to kill the other by law.
We are lying now on the floor of the cave, atop a blanket. Our passion which burned bright is now a simmer. His skin is like new leather. His back glistens as I rub shea butter into his skin. His back muscles relax. Like father, he is a fighter, a warrior, one doused with honor.
His body is marked so, with scars, long ones, short ones, ugly ones, curious ones.
I run my fingers over a repeating pattern of incisions over his back.
They are like little sticks. Eighty-five of them.
“In Iwui, these markings are meant for protection,”I say. “Put by the Water priestess on the backs of our fighters.”
He says nothing.
“Your priestess must be beautiful.” I frown. ”Is it why you visit her all the time?”
He turns around and catches me in his arms, “If old, wrinkly Baba Rimi is your idea of beautiful that would concern me.”
I giggle as his lips meet mine.
“I want you to meet my father. I can come with him next time.” I say, pushing him off.
He raises a brow.“It would be a challenge getting around your old man for a kiss—”
“I'm serious. We can't do this forever.”
“You know that isn't possible. The moment he sees me he will kill me. I am Ara, he is Iwui.”
“I am Iwui!”
“You are different,”He twists my hair around his finger,”You are very different.”
“You and father are the same,”I slap his teasing fingers away from my chin. Unthetered by duty, father would roam the ends of the earth, searching for the sweetest waters, and the finest company, those who ponder deep and search for truth. If he were not fifth in line to the throne of Ara, Tórę would roam the ends of the earth seeking the quietness of the night sky and the heavens beyond it, seeking the voice of the wind to steer his path.
Either way, they both would roam and search.
I tell Tórę this.
“Let us remain here. We don’t have to think about Iwui and Ara,”He sighs.
“Why don't you meet him? He will love you.”
He is silent.
“Say something!”I grunt in frustration, “Can you not speak to your father—the king? If he hears you have found love in Iwui, he might consider it and try to build us as allies.”
“Nothing would bring him more joy, honestly. He has been talking about an alliance with Iwui for years.”
I sit up excitedly.
“So, what’s stopping him?”
“He treads carefully. Change is difficult to sell.”
“But he must try.”
“There are some who want the throne,”He says,”And this change is the makings of a rebellion. He says it often, that he may not see this alliance in his lifetime or me in mine.”
He falls quiet and I am lost in my thoughts.
The Ara and Iwui have hated each other for decades. Our affair was not going to change this. So I choose to be present in every breath and I collect our moments like shells at a shore.
“You are in love.” My father smiles at me.
“No!” I laugh. It is all I can do to prevent from fainting, as my father has found me out. He sits beside me on the bench. I am running my fingers through the wool of my sheep, checking their bones and wool.
“Is it the son of Ajani? He visited with his father yesterday while you were away with the sheep. He seeks your hand.”
“Roti? No! Never. How can I be in love with Roti?”
“We will send back their gifts tomorrow night.” Father sighs.
“Thank you, Father.”
“You are away so much with these sheep. Let me buy you a fishing net, only a small one. You will find more opportunities at the river—”
“Father, I am content with my trade.” I smile at him, lifting a lamb into my lap,”And you mean I will find a husband at the river.”
After a long stare, a smile tugging his lips, “No matter how unsightly, you must know your mother and I will never stand in the way of your choice. For a man.”
I smile.
“Roti is the fourth man we have turned down,”He continues, “Even the princess Demori hasn't turned down as many as you.” He stands to his feet. “When you are ready…”
I want to tell him about Tórę. About how this son of Ara rescued my sheep with his arrow in the heart of a wild dog, about how I know our love is so real that it breathes. That the water helps me to our cave. She makes my feet steady with her sandy bed, that she watches over us in the water fall as we sleep and sprays at us to wake us up so we aren't found out.
Instead, I smile at him.
“Yes, father. It won't be much longer.”
I wake with a start to the feeling that we are being watched. Tórę awakens too. His dagger is in his hand and he is on his feet. The thunder of the waterfall and gush of the waters surrounds us.
There is a presence, we know it is there. It is watching.
“Let us get you on your way home,” Tórę hurries, “Follow the river and stay close to her.” He rolls up our blanket and throws his quiver across his chest.
He bends and ties up one leg of my sandal, as I struggle with the other one.
Of a sudden, he jumps to his feet, plucks an arrow. It whizzes past my ear. It strikes. Something heavy falls out of the tree to the ground.
I run to it.
“Stay back,” Tórę yells at me.
A person.
I see the tribal marks first on the man's cheeks. They scream loud. Iwui!
It is Roti.
The one whose hand I had turned down.
He lay on the forest floor dead.
Tórę drags Roti’s limp body to the river. Roti stares at the sky through unblinking eyes. I steady my breathing. With weak knees, I catch up to Tórę and with trembling hands, I grab Roti around the ankles and lift, so he doesn't drag in the dirt. We ease him into the river and let her take him away to rest. Exhausted, I sit along the stony river bank and cry for Roti.Tórę sits on a rock beside me and rolls his tobacco. His hand is steady as he brings it to his lips. He sinks into his quietness, tapping off ashes and looking at the waterfall.
I shiver.
I don't know why.
Tórę drags on his tobacco.
The news of Roti’s death spread. I had hoped the river would cover for us as she always did, hide this deed and settle him in a peaceful place but she took him downstream right to the banks of Iwui, where the fishermen and girls washed and children squealed and played.
He is recovered and the whole land whispers about the arrow head that was found in him—that of the Great Terrible of Ara.
That was what he was called—my Tórę.
The Great Terrible.
In the weeks that followed, bands of Iwui men would go out at dusk, fresh with incisions from the priestess and return bloodied and fewer in number.The Water priestess was clear. Roti’s death was a sign from the river. The river demanded blood. Ara blood. A new decree was issued that we all remain inside. All cooking, planting, traveling, visiting, all of life stopped right before sun down. Father has picked up his bow and arrow. The lengendary archer of Iwui has picked up his bow. Steady as his hand may be, they now tire with age.
“Maybe my greatest feat would be to pin this Great terrible with an old man's arrow?” He laughs, my mother places his quiver across his chest. My heart sinks.
“You can't go, Father,”I stammer. “He..They are favored by the wind. His arrow will hit you first.”
“I have been known to be favored by all the elements, both wind and water. Even fire! Look at your mother,” My mother slaps him playfully.
“Father, please.”
He touches my cheek lightly.
“Don’t worry, my love. No matter how unsightly. Your mother won't stand in the way…” With that he journeys into the night.
The same night, I leave Iwui, following the path I know by heart. There is no moon.
When I arrive, Tórę is waiting.
“What are we going to do?” I croak, wiping the tears off my face as he holds me.
“There's nothing to do. I want you to go back home, by the river. We stop seeing each other for now.”He lets me go. I search for his eyes but they don't meet mine.
“How can you say that?”My voice trembles.
“It’s not safe anymore. You were followed last time.”
“Tórę,” I say, “We can end this madness!”
He scoffs.
“How?” Now he looks at me, his eyes burrow deep into mine.
“I don’t know.” I say quietly.
Tórę freezes, he draws out an arrow.
“Shh.”He mouths.
I am still.
“Tórę!”A voice calls through the waterfalls.
“Uncle?”Tórę’s eyes dart around. He pushes me behind him as they come into view.
There are four men.
“Bring the girl out.” The largest one calls to Tórę .
We don’t move.
“Go and bring them out here.”He orders two of the men. The men wade in the river.
I watch and wait for the water to rise and sweep them away. But she lets them through and they drag us out of the cave to the clearing.
“By law, you are required to kill an Iwui, Nephew.” Up close, the large man has Tórę's large eyes, and high cheeks, but his face is wider and his form is heavy. He has the body of a wrestler and not an archer. And like a wrestler, he is bare chested. He has the same incisions that Tórę has on his back, only his back is covered in them and they are present on his shoulders also.
“Uncle, I am required to kill an Iwui man. She is a woman,” Tórę adds, ”My woman.”
“She is no woman if she births an Iwui.”His Uncle says. He appears bored.
I struggle against the men holding me.
“Well, you must do what you should, it is the law.” The man says.
“Tie her to that tree.”He orders. Two men grab and drag me.
I scream, kicking as I go.
“Leave her alone,”Tórę charges but stops when his Uncle holds a dagger to his neck.
“Please,” The man says, “Please give me a reason to cut out your throat. You are one too many in line for the throne anyway.”
“Is that what this is about?”Tórę says, straining against the blade.
“I’m just saying you’d only bump me up to fifth in line.” His uncle shrugs his heavy shoulders.
The ropes cut into my arms and my belly, as the men work quickly.
His uncle throws his bow and quiver at him.
“Live up to your name, Great Terrible, and make us proud as always.”
It is second nature, the way Tórę throws his quiver across his chest and picks a thick arrow.
He keeps his gaze low.
“Address your target, son of Ara!” His uncle yells.
Tórę stands there, bow drawn.
In a blink, Tórę spins on his heel, the thick arrow splits into three arrows. He sends them the way of the men. They drop to the floor.
His uncle is left standing. Immediately, his uncle charges at me. He is still holding the dagger.
Of a sudden, he lurches forward and jerks, then stops. His eyes are wide. They stare at me. Shocked. An arrow head has pierced him through, it sticks out of the front of his neck. Blood gurgles. He drops to the floor like a sack of flour.
I know that arrow head, with its serrated slants.
My heart skips.
My father.
He emerges from the bushes.
Tórę hurries to my side and cuts me free.
“Father,”I greet him, as he approaches.
“Son of Ara,” He addresses Tórę, his bow drawn, “You will step away from my daughter.”
“Father.” I step in front of Tórę.
“Move out of the way! Now!”Father snaps.
“Father,”I spread my hands wide as I can.
“You promised. No matter how unsightly…”I say.
He stares at us.
“Eki,”He says, “A son of Ara?”
“You said you'd never stand in the way.” I remind him.
He spits on the floor.
“Do you know they mark themselves with a tally of the number of Iwui men they kill?” He says. His bow is now across his chest but he unsheathes a dagger and holds it close to his side. He takes another careful step our way.
“No, that is not true…”My voice is low.
I think about the scars, the incisions. On Tórę. On his uncle.
Father takes another step, “You want me to bless a marriage of my daughter to an enemy?”
“How many markings does he have?”
My heart is beating hard. The air is heavy and I breathe quicker. I glance over my shoulder at Tórę.
“You are not a child,”Father barks, “How many?”
“I —”
“How many?”Father snaps.
“Eight-five.”
He is silent.
“Eighty-five of your brothers. Of your own blood.”
Something rages on the inside. It is akin to a darkness. A sorrow. The kind that suffocates.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”I turn quietly to Tórę.
“Let me explain,”Tórę reaches for my arm. I let him caress it, maybe I could feel the truth through his fingers.
“Why didn't you tell me what the markings meant?” I am tired from the thought. My fingers recall the tally.
“These markings have nothing to do with us.”Tórę’s grip is gentle but firm.
“They have everything to do with us!” I shake his hand off. “You tally the number of Iwui you kill?”
“They are my people!”I scream,”You killed Roti!”
“I was protecting us.”
“Is it a game to you?”
“It is nothing.”He pleads.
“It is not nothing.”
I lean against a tree and weep.
For a moment no one speaks. The roar of the waterfall surrounds us, birds chip and sing.
“The Iwui kill us too,” Tórę says. His tone is quiet.
He looks up and addresses my father.
“How many have you killed, Archer of Iwui?”
My father is silent.
I stand there and look at both men who I love. They are the same, they would roam and wander if they could, both with calloused hands for combat and temperamental fingers for shooting the arrow. Both have built a name for themselves on the annihilation of the other.
They are the same— my father and Tórę.
I am saddened by this. And never in any moment have I hated and loved them more.
By law, if an Ara man and an Iwui man meet, one must kill the other. It is the law.
But not today.
Tórę puts down his quiver and bow and kneels before my father.
Father stares at him.
“Two years ago, your arrow was found in the heart of my brother, Great terrible.”
Father’s older brother.
I remember.
He takes a rope from his pouch and binds Tórę’s hands.
We begin the journey along the river to Iwui.
I am in tow.
The envoy arrives at first light. A host of Ara men have come to negotiate for Tórę. His father— the king of Ara seeks an audience with our king. He remains on the border for an invitation. Day after day, I loiter as far as I can with my flock, hoping for a glimpse of Tórę at the palace where he is imprisoned, but he remains kept. On the fifth day, all of Iwui is summoned to the square.
For the first time since Iwui and Ara walked the earth, their kings stand side by side.
Behind them are the royal court, and the royal family.
The end had come to the killing of our brothers, the Ara, the wind tribe. Our king says. It was time we united wind and water. He talks about strength in unity and the power of clemency. He talks about binding Iwui and Ara with a symbol of our alliance.
With that our king steps to the side. Tórę makes his way to the front of the royal party. My heart flutters. He is alive. Someone else steps out beside him. It is Demori of Iwui, our princess. Our king places the hand of his daughter in Tórę’s. They both look down at their hands, and at each other. Tórę leads Demori as close to the crowd as possible. They raise their linked hands up above their heads.
The crowd erupts in a loud cheer all around me.
It is required by law. All peoples small and great, of both tribes, must witness the union of the Iwui dynasty and the Ara tribe.
The union of the water and the wind.
Of Demori and Tórę.
She is beautiful, our princess. She has woven gold threads into her hair, her skin glows like father’s drinking gourd, her neck is heavy with beads and corals from the shore lands. Her hand searches for Tórę’s. It finds it and fits.
He still looks like a god, with a faultless frame and the calmness of a lake.
The old Ara priest announces their union.
Princess Demori smiles up at him and he smiles at her.
The tribes roar with shouts and shrill whistles. The beat of the drums are feverish and frantic. Dancers somersault and songs are on the lips of the women of Ara and Iwui.
The joyful trong pushes me this way and that.
Songs have already been written about him.
Tórę, the Leopard of Ara, the Great Terrible, has become a singing Love bird, the Gentle Lover.
He laughs at something our king whispers to him. He hails the crowd by raising the hand of his bride. The sound is deafening.
I will him to look at me.
Look at me, Tórę.
Please.
He does not.
He kisses the hand of his new bride.
The End
Written by Ike Adegboye
