Chapter One

Know, O Prince, this tale I tell you. Long ago, when the Empire of Aenea stretched across the White Sea, a great evil arose to overtake the land. So mighty was this evil’s power, every man cowered and trembled beneath its glare, and none dared step forward to challenge it. None save Lon the Lionheart. Hither came Lon, armed with three magic keys to seal the evil away, and a heart that burst with valor. It was he who sealed the evil away, he who brought peace and prosperity to the land once again, he whose story every man should know and remember. Listen, O Prince, as I tell this tale to you.

-The Chronicles of Lon

“It was a dark and stormy night, and Anansi the spider was bored, for there were no stories yet to be told in the world.”

For many hours, Imam Malik al-Shabazz dutifully transcribed the griot’s tale as it was told to him, only stopping on occasion to clarify certain sentences or phrasings. From the little mosque on the outskirts of Timjeli, where traders from all corners of the White Sea gathered, the imam had made it his mission to put all the tales of the great storytellers into writing and had already amassed an impressive collection, though it was but a smattering of the total griot canon. And today, the imam was particularly excited.

When the griot responsible for Anansi’s tales had stumbled into his mosque, Malik had hardly believed his luck. But now, to his amazement and excitement, he was putting the stories of the very first griot down to paper.

Just as the Songhay Empire traced its lineage to the Mandé, the Mandé Empire traced its heritage to the Wagaduan. And from Wagadu had come Anansi, the father and founder of the griots, those noble storytellers that kept the tales of Soudania alive. To maintain those stories, to keep them preserved and protected from the ravages of time in the pages of a book, as each new word flowed from Malik’s pen to the paper, he praised the Almighty Ar-Rahman for blessing him with this chance.

Indeed, so enraptured was Malik in his duty, that when Pakeezah, the first of the imam’s two wards, came knocking at his study door, he did not even hear her. It was only after she entered, and he turned to berate and remind her that he was busy, before seeing the tears in her eyes, that he realized his duties lay elsewhere.

“Pakeezah, what’s wrong?” Malik bowed an apology to the griot before making his way to his ward.

“I-it’s Morien,” Pakeezah cried. “I looked all around the mosque but I can’t find him anywhere. He’s gone!”

“Gone?” Malik gasped. That was bad news, and a situation that required his immediate attention. Where could Morien have gone?

~ * ~

“Bastard!” the word and the fist collided with Morien’s skull at exactly the same time, with each making the other hurt all the more.

Morien knew, as the bullies continued to trample and insult him, that what he had done had been foolish. From the day of his birth, it had been explained to him by Imam Malik that he was not allowed to leave the confines of the mosque. In there, with the forgiving light of the Almighty, Morien and his mother were protected. But out here, in the real world, the hatred and bile felt for Morien and Pakeezah did not need to be held back. It could be let out into the open, and Morien could do nothing to stop it.

“You haven’t even got a name!” one boy laughed, and he was right.

A name was everything to a Mandenka, to the people Morien’s mother came from. To know one’s name was to know one’s fate. Keïta was the name of kings. Kouyaté, the name of the finest and noblest of griots. But Morien? No-one knew the name of his father, or the origin of his own, solitary name. He was nothing but an illegitimate child, and his mother nothing but a fallen woman in the eyes of polite society. All this Morien knew.

And yet, he had wanted to go outside, to see the world with his own eyes. Every Friday, when all the townsfolk gathered in assembly at the mosque, Morien and his mother would sit silently in a darkened corner, where no hateful stares could reach them. And every Friday, after the congregation concluded, Morien would stare at the imam’s flock, slowly flowing out of the mosque and into the world outside. How Morien wished, every Friday, that he could join the other children when they left! It was foolish, he knew, and yet it was a dream that had filled him with such longing and desire. To walk outside without fear, to see the world as other boys did, to be normal and free, that was all that little boy wanted. But the world would not even give him that.

So the local boys continued to beat and berate him, to call him and his mother all sorts of nasty, terrible names. And as he slowly became more battered and bruised, Morien realized that this would be the rest of his life. This would be every second of every day until the day he died, and there was nothing he could do about it. Better to lie down and accept his fate than resist. Better to simply give up. Better simply to surrender and die.

“What’s going on here?” a heavily accented voice pierced through the air, and the boys all scattered as a strange, foreign man leapt from his cart to chase them away. As the man checked Morien up and down to see if he was alright, the young boy could hardly believe it. Was this real, and not just some strange dream? Had a hero truly come to save him? If he had, he was like no hero Morien had ever seen. His beak was long and hooked, not at all like Morien’s own broad and flat nose. His mane was wavy and matted, not at all like Morien’s own thick, wiry curls. And his flesh was an amber brown, not at all like Morien’s own dark black skin. He seemed more alien creature than hero, as he gazed concernedly down at Morien and continued to ask if he was alright.

“M’fine,” Morien mumbled, as he tried to stand up.

“Whoa there, easy now,” the hero’s voice had a thick accent, and Morien wondered where he was from. “Why were those boys after you?”

“’Cause,” Morien shrugged. “My momma’s a dirty woman.”

“What?”

“It’s the truth,” Morien muttered. “Everyone knows it. Everyone says it. And it’s all ‘cause she had me.”

“I…I see,” the hero sighed. “I’m sorry. No-one should have to go through what you’re going through, least of all someone so young.

“But…y’know,” the hero glanced back towards his cart. “Orlando, the greatest hero in all of Romany, started out just like you.”

“Who?” Morien stared blankly back at the hero.

“You know,” the hero laughed. “Romany, in Augusta.”

“Augusta?” Morien was still confused.

“Hoo boy,” the hero sighed. It was obvious he had some explaining to do.

“Okay, so around the White Sea,” the hero drew with a branch in the sand. “There are three continents: Soudania, to the north, Augusta, to the south-east, and Cathay, to the south-west.”

“Where’s Timjeli?” Morien asked, enraptured by his first proper geography lesson.

“Right here,” the hero drew a point on Soudania. “By the Niger region of the White Sea. And Romany is here, by the Tiber region.”

“Do you come from there?”

“No, no,” the hero chuckled, and drew a little island in the center of the White Sea. “I’m from here, Cagliostro.”

“Kai-leo-stroh…” Morien tried to wrap his tongue around the word.

“Er, close enough,” the hero grimaced. “Yehovah knows I’m probably mangling my own pronunciations.”

“So, what are these?” Morien pointed at the spaces between the three continents.

“Oh, those are the océans,” the hero said. “They’re big bodies of water, even bigger than the White Sea. This one here, between Soudania and Cathay, is the Océan Lemurien. This one here, between Cathay and Augusta, is the Océan Xothique. And this one here, between Augusta and Soudania, is the Océan Guinien, the biggest body of water in the world.”

“How big?” Morien asked intently.

“What?”

“How big are they?” Even more intently now.

“Uh…like, really, really big?”

“Whoa,” Morien stared awe-struck at the tiny, makeshift map.

“Morien!”

Morien and the hero glanced up to see Pakeezah, tears in her eyes as she ran towards Morien and wrapped him in a massive hug, with Malik and the griot following close behind.

“Oh, Ar-Rahman, I was so worried!” Pakeezah sobbed as she kissed her son’s bruises.

“It’s okay, Baa. I’m okay,” Morien mumbled.

“So, I take it you’re the boy’s parents?” the hero asked.

“Er, w-well, practically,” Malik coughed as the griot smiled knowingly beside him.

“Well, in that case, I guess my work here is done,” the hero smiled humbly before making his way back to his cart.

“Wait!” Pakeezah cried. “You saved my boy. Please, do you have a place to stay the night?”

“Er, well…” the hero stammered.

~ * ~

As Morien sat at the table, his wounds freshly treated and his belly begging for food, he was amazed at how many guests they were having for dinner that night. Five whole people at the table. It was a veritable banquet to the impressionable child.

“So, what exactly do you do for a living?” Pakeezah asked.

“Oh, I’m just a humble merchant,” the hero laughed. “I sell books.”

“Ah yes,” the griot smiled. “You know, our imam here has written a few books himself.”

“Eh?” Malik protested. “No, no! I’ve only ever transcribed stories.”

“Such a task is still holy work,” the griot said. “With your help, all our stories may travel across the globe.”

“Books, eh?” Pakeezah pondered. “What sorts of books?”

“Oh, all kinds,” the hero said. “I’m afraid I don’t have that many in Songhay or Mandenka though.”

“I’m not surprised,” Malik sighed, as the griot patted him on the shoulder.

“Still, I figured there were enough Rahmanites in this land to sell my Khaleeji books,” the hero shrugged.

“Are you a Rahmanite yourself?” Malik asked.

“Er…well…” the hero shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Malik,” Pakeezah chided the imam. “How would you feel if a priest asked if you were a Yeshuan?”

“I was just curious! That’s all!”

“Ah, you two make such a lovely couple,” the griot laughed.

Morien meanwhile wondered what would be for dessert, as he gazed forlornly at his now-empty plate.

~ * ~

First there was nothing. Then, there was light. A holy light, it stretched across the heavens, to bring color and life to all the corners of the world. This light’s name was Elohim, and His children, cast out from the Garden of Paradise to wander the earth in exile, were called man. Those who worshipped Elohim and sought to keep His light in their hearts were called Eloy, and though the many kingdoms man made sought to stamp the Eloy out, they could not destroy the light. And one day there came a Messiah, Yeshua, who preached a gospel of love and peace and who died for the sins of man. And though some did not believe in Yeshua’s holiness, those who did came to call themselves Yeshuans, and the holy light Yehovah. Then one day, a new figure, a Prophet, Mustafa, came into the world, who preached another gospel of love and peace although he was but a man. And again, there were those who did not believe. But again, there were those who did, who came to call themselves Rahmanites, and the holy light Ar-Rahman. To this day the three houses of the light continue to bicker and squabble amongst themselves, in the region of Yeber, where the holy land of Yerushalem rests. But even as its designs and aspects are debated, the light remains, as pure and eternal as the sun in the sky.

~ * ~

The next morning, as the hero prepared to go into town to ply his wares, he stopped to give Morien a little gift.

“Here,” he smiled as he handed the heavy tome to the boy. “It’s a Khaleeji copy of the Twelve Valiants’ stories. You can read Khaleeji, right?”

“Um, yes,” Morien stared blankly at the strange book in his hands. As the ward of a Rahmanite cleric, Morien had naturally acquired a knowledge of the religious lingua franca. But what were these Twelve Valiants the hero mentioned?

“The mightiest heroes in all Augusta,” the hero grinned. “Everyone there knows their stories. I just thought you might enjoy it. It’s got that Orlando fellow I mentioned to you.”

“And you’re sure you’re alright?” Pakeezah asked. “You’ve got enough food and everything to last you?”

“I’ll be fine, ma’am,” the hero bowed. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“It’s just…books aren’t exactly popular in these lands,” Pakeezah said.

“Believe me, ma’am, they’re not popular anywhere I’ve traveled,” the hero laughed. “But who knows? If the whole book merchant thing doesn’t pan out, maybe I’ll just join the army. Ha-ha-ha.”

Even if it had only been for a day, Morien was glad to have met the hero. And after his departure, as Morien began examining the battered book left behind for him, he soon found himself enraptured by the tales within.

When Morien first opened the voluminous volume, he only intended to read the section containing the songs of Orlando, as had been recommended by the hero. But when Pakeezah called to her son, to alert him to the presence of dinner, she found him still enthralled by that tome’s pages. And even after he had scarfed down the food prepared for him and run back to his room, Morien stayed up until the next day’s sunrise, just so that he might finish reading the whole book. In this he failed, for even the most studious of readers would not have conquered the whole of that volume in so short a time.

But for the next few days, Morien stayed by the side of the book as though it were his dearest friend, as indeed it might as well have been. By the end of the week, Morien knew the book’s contents cover to cover, and could recite the tales of each and every valiant that it recounted.

Perseus, who slew the gorgon Medusa for the sake of his mother. Aeneas, who braved the Ilion War and sailed uncharted waters in his quest for a new home. Lon the Lionheart, who fought the Black-Blooded Baron and restored peace to the empire Aeneas had founded. Pryderi, who witnessed the wonders of Cantre’r Gwaelod still told and sung by the cyfarwyddiaid. Fionn mac Cumhaill, who held the heart of Hibernia in his hands. Beowulf, whose heroism led both to his rise and his downfall. Orlando, who grew from an unwanted child to the hero of Roncevaux Pass. Bernardo del Carpio, who sacrificed everything for his dream of freedom. Holger Vanske, who never let honor or loyalty blind him to what was right. Amadix, who was a most indomitable Gaul. Arthur Pendragon, who ushered in the golden age of Camelot. And lastly, Väinämöinen, who was old when the world was young, and remained the eternal bard forevermore.

All this Morien read. And in those pages, he saw himself reflected back. In the parents of the Valiants, he saw Malik and Pakeezah, raising their child who possessed a great destiny. In the bards and cyfarwyddiaid he saw the griots, with their own noble task and own noble stories. In the Ilion War and its survivors, he saw Bilal, the Prophet’s dear friend and ancestor of all great Soudanian kings. In the rulers and kings, he saw Sundiata, the great lion-king of Mandé, and the greatest Mandenka ruler to ever live. And in all these stories, he saw laughter and love, sadness and fear, dreams and desire, all that existed just as brightly and brilliantly as they did in the Soudanian stories Morien had read and heard.

Imagine, Morien sighed, as he would sit down to read yet again another of his favorite tales from that book, what wonders this land of Augusta must possess. What exotic and exciting adventures awaited him there in that foreign land? The question haunted his dreams, and filled him with a boundless desire.

Above all others, the favorite hero of Morien’s was Lon the Lionheart. Third of the Valiants, it was he who stood against Tar-Cruorem, the Black-Blooded Baron, who sought to take the Aenean empire for himself and usher in a new era of darkness. To halt his bid for power, Lon traveled all across the world, and even to the moon, to collect three Keys with which to seal Tar-Cruorem away on the isle of Thule. Though he faced many trials and tribulations on his quest, with the aid of his Keys and the sacred sword Crocea Mars, Lon was successful and he sealed Tar-Cruorem’s evil once and for all, before retiring to the life of a humble traveler. It was even said by some that Lon was still out there, righting wrongs and helping those in need by whatever means he could.

And when Morien read that final part, his mind flashed with the image of his hero. Had that been him? Had Morien met a living legend? As the months and years passed, pieces of that day slipped from Morien’s memory. But he never forgot that kind and gentle face, the face he now knew to be Lon the Lionheart’s. If only he could meet the hero again, to speak to him and tell him what he meant to Morien. If only, he sighed, as he traced his hands over what would be the first of many books in Morien’s library.

~ * ~

“And then! With a fire in his soul and a cry upon his lips, Lon swung his mighty sword, and slew the horrid beast with one blow!” Morien leapt and laughed as he read his favorite of Lon’s exploits.

“Wonderful! Bravo!” Pakeezah clapped at her son’s storytelling skill. “There’s a griot’s soul inside you, Morien.”

“It’s wonderful, Baa!” Morien ran to his mother’s lap. “There are so many stories, from all around the world! And the Valiants, they had baas like you. They seemed normal at first, but actually they were princesses and they got to live happily ever after.”

“That sounds nice,” Pakeezah smiled as she hugged her son tightly. “But you know, so long as I have you, I don’t need to be a princess.”

“But don’t you hate it?” Morien asked. “Never being able to leave the mosque? Everyone always being mean to you? I hate it. And I hate Baaba, whoever he was!”

“Morien!” Pakeezah chided him. “You mustn’t say such things.”

“Why not?” Morien huffed. “He doesn’t care about us. If he did, he wouldn’t have left us in the first place!”

“That’s not true,” Pakeezah sighed, her eyes gleaming sadly. “If he could, your father would come running back to us right now. But he can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He…he just can’t. Maybe when you’re older you’ll understand.”

“Adults always say things like that,” Morien grumbled.

“I know,” Pakeezah laughed softly. “But I also know your father loves us very much, Morien.”

Morien heard his mother’s words but could not believe them true. If his father loved them so much, why did he not come to take them away? Why did he not shield them from the cruel gazes and scornful jeers of polite society? Why, when Morien prayed to Ar-Rahman to see his father again, did his prayers go unanswered? Morien gazed into the sky, as blue as the fabled sea the people called White, and wondered if his father was somewhere in that sea.

“Baa?” Morien asked. “What was your name? Before…”

Pakeezah turned away, before answering at last. When she spoke, it was barely a whisper.

“Sanji,” she said. “I was born with the name Sanji. But I lost that name a long time ago. Malik, he gave me the name Pakeezah, and together we gave you the name Morien.”

“I hate that name,” Morien mumbled. “I might as well really have no name at all.”

“But you do,” Pakeezah smiled. “There’s not another Morien in all the Songhay Empire, or the whole world. It’s a name that’s yours and yours alone, like Pakeezah is my name and Malik is his name.”

“And Baaba? What about him?”

Pakeezah sighed.

“Someday…someday I’ll tell you. But not today.”

And so, the mother and son contented themselves with the other’s company, and Pakeezah began to teach her son Mandenka words.

“Yiro,” she pointed at a tree.

“Silo,” she pointed at a road.

“Tulo,” she pinched Morien’s ear and he giggled.

“Tilo,” she gazed up at the sun, burning brightly in the sky.

Morien repeated the words as best he could, but Pakeezah knew he would soon forget them. In this empire Songhay had usurped Mandenka as the lingua franca. Even she mainly conversed in Songhay with Malik. But if Morien could remember only one word from his mother tongue, she hoped it would be “baa.” Baa, mother, the sea, great. It was a word of many meanings, and when her son called her by it. she felt truly loved. His own eyes now glowed just as bright and as brown as hers, and when she saw them she could remember how once she had been so young. That was when everyone far and wide had gazed awestruck at her beauty. She had been wanted and courted by many men, and she could have had anyone she’d wanted. But her heart had belonged to only one, and though it had cost her everything, she would never regret the moments they had shared. Tightly she clutched the saphie talisman that hung round her neck, and she whispered the words he had written for her, on the day he had left her.

“His mouth is sweet and true; he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, my friend, O daughters of Yerushalem.”

Those words, this holy charm, it had carried Pakeezah through so many trying years. Even now, she would sometimes wake up, with a deep, black pit in her stomach, and she would curse and weep and pray, asking Ar-Rahman why He had cast her such a fate. But in that scarred and hardened heart, Pakeezah knew the answer. Morien, her son, he made it all worth it. Every day he grew more like his father, and every day Pakeezah did the best she could to raise him right. No matter what pain she felt, she could endure it all if she could take it away from her son.

Pakeezah gazed into the midday sky, and saw clouds forming in the distance. Sanji: the rain. Soon it would come, and wash everything away.

~ * ~

From the top of the stairs where he hid, Morien watched the argument between Malik and a griot who had stopped by the mosque.

“Please, honorable sir, I beseech you!” Malik bowed and prostrated himself before the griot.

“Do you? You really have no pride at all then,” the griot chuffed.

“But can’t you see how important this is?” Malik cried. “What this transcription can accomplish? Why, with it, the tale of Sundiata could be told to hundreds, nay, thousands, of souls!”

“Souls unworthy!” the griot spat. “You bring shame upon your name with these books and transcriptions. Your writings have no soul, no magic! They are merely empty scribblings on withered parchment. You petrify and pervert our stories by writing them down.”

“I preserve them,” Malik insisted. “I keep them alive, even as sickness and war claim our numbers and stamp out our stories.”

“Our?” the griot bellowed. “You have no right to claim the name of griot after what you have done. I should burn this mosque down for your blasphemy!”

“Look around you!” Malik howled. “The Mandé Empire has fallen!”

“Yes! To your people!”

“But through words, through the pages of a book, the Mandenka stories may live on!”

“They live as a statue lives. Beautiful, but a poor substitute for true life.”

“Ar-Rahman, can’t you see?” Malik cried. “Can you even comprehend? You and all the other griots who scorn these books have become blinded with pride! You have fallen, but you refuse to realize it! Just because something has been done one way for centuries does not make it the way it always must be! What do you think will happen as the empire ventures into the White Sea? We are still so new and unknown to all the others who seek Aenea’s glory. What will happen when they turn their attentions in full towards us, and cannot find our history and legends, because you hide them? Will they think we simply do not have such things? Will they hunt us down like beasts, and conquer us without a thought for our humanity? Why shouldn’t they, when to their mind we are nothing but illiterate savages?”

“It is not our business to bother with the affairs of foreigners,” the griot sniffed.

“It should be,” Malik whispered. “Or Songhay will fall just as Mandé did before it.”

“You give them too much credit,” the griot made his leave, and Morien could only watch silently as Malik fell into despair.

~ * ~

They had said it was for freedom. When Wagadu, that wondrous city of science and art, of gold and of griots, fell as all empires must, every tribe and nation across the Saheli Steppes had sought to claim its fallen glory for their own. None knew success though, until that legendary king, Sundiata Keïta, forged with his hands the Mandé Empire, with his people, the Mandenka, as its rulers. Of all the tales told by the griots, none were so valuable or timeless to the Mandenka as his.

But the Mandenka grew proud, as all empires do, and soon the disparity between rich and poor, noble and slave, Mandenka and others, grew too wide, and the other tribes and nations that held Mandé up swept that empire from beneath their cruel masters’ feet. One tribe, the Songhay, led the charge from their capital of Kawkaw, and they had said it was for freedom.

The noble families of Mandé were made into slaves, or forced into hiding, or reduced to paying tribute to their new masters, the Songhay. And the cries of freedom rang so loudly amongst the people that none stopped to realize; the empire had not fallen. It had merely changed hands. The slaves and the lower classes still came from the same tribes. They simply now had Mandenka in their ranks. The Songhay ruled just as justly and as cruelly as their Mandenka predecessors. They simply spoke a different language and instated different customs. And the freedom men had sought still was distant and unfound. They simply had been fooled for a moment.

As time’s spiral kept on turning, Wagadu to Mandé to Songhay, the empires grew grander and greater. And only Malik saw the next empire on the horizon, far grander and greater than any before it. What would it swallow and destroy, as it descended upon Soudania? What would be lost, as so many Mandenka stories had been? What would happen, should no-one intervene?

~ * ~

“Imam,” Morien asked one night, as he sat silently watching Malik’s scribblings at his desk. “What did that griot mean, when he said you brought shame to your name?”

Malik paused, as he turned to glance at Morien in surprise.

“You…you heard all that?” Malik mumbled, embarrassed.

“Yes.”

“I…I see,” Malik sighed, before turning his chair around to face Morien.

“I suppose…it’s difficult to know where to begin. But I’ll try my best.

“I was born to a family of griots. Our line was responsible for preserving the story of Faran Maka Boté.”

Morien nodded as he remembered the tale. Faran was the greatest Songhay hero to have ever lived. It was he who had vanquished the mighty hippo Mandé, who had plagued the river-dwelling Songhay for centuries. And it was he who had ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity for his people. Everyone knew that story.

“It wasn’t always told that way,” Malik said. “The hippo’s name used to be different. But my family saw the value in turning our folk hero into a propaganda piece, and soon our story became more popular than ever before. But I knew there were other stories. In Timjeli one can hear tales from all corners of the globe. That was when I first realized the world was so much greater than the Songhay tribe. And then, when Mansa Guimba made his pilgrimage to Pharan, I leapt at the chance to join him.”

Morien’s eyes widened as he heard of Malik’s hajj. Pharan! On the glimmering island of Khaleej in the Océan Lemurien, the fabled promised land of every Rahmanite, where the Prophet himself had been born and where every Rahmanite must journey to if they are able. And Malik had made that exact journey? It was all too wonderful for Morien to bear, and he listened with rapt attention as Malik described the voyage down the Stygian coast, through the Yeber Canal, and westward towards that wondrous city.

“When we finally made it to Pharan,” Malik said. “I was utterly in awe. I’d never seen so many people, even in the streets of Timjeli. And they’d come from all around the world. Men and women of every color, race, and nation, all united in their love for Ar-Rahman. It was incredible. We were there for five days, during which time we performed all the rites and rituals as expected of us. And, as befitting our noble mansa, the king took every opportunity to flaunt his wealth and power, to make sure those foreign dignitaries did not forget the Songhay Empire.

“That was where I met the cheikh. I never actually learned his name. I simply addressed him by a noble title, not knowing it was a strictly Soudanian term. He was from Persia, a land far to the west of here, and after I helped him find a package he’d thought to be stolen, we soon became friends. He thought I was mocking him when he first heard me call him cheikh. But once he realized the truth, he took the name as a precious gift, a token of our friendship.

“When he told me tales of Fereydun and Rostam, heroes of his native land, he would show me pictures and paintings in the books that he owned. He would lend me Khaleeji translations, so that I might read and experience the stories for myself. And he would bring me to other pilgrims there, who would know the stories just as well and grin excitedly as they told them. But when I tried to tell him tales of Faran, I found I could not preserve the beauty and wonder of the original Songhay words. I had no pictures or paintings to show. I had no translated texts to lend. And apart from my fellow Songhay travelers, no-one knew that tale of Faran in Pharan. I had spent my life dedicated to memorizing every word and knowing every motion of Faran’s story, and the cheikh could tell, as he saw me dance and sing the tale, that it was a marvelous epic worthy of his attention. But his enjoyment was hampered by his incomprehension, and though he congratulated me on my performance I felt so weak and powerless.

“On the day of our departure, the cheikh gave me a Persian Book of Kings. He asked me to watch over it, like the royal eagle: Shahbaz. And though I had nothing material to give to him, he would always remember the story I had sung. He said all that, and yet I could not believe him. It had taken my whole life to memorize the story of Faran. The cheikh could not possibly remember it all after only having heard it once. But there on that boat, I held not one, but a whole set of stories just as wonderful as Faran’s, with their words preserved in print for eternity.

“I had seen countless people from countless different countries there at Khaleej, and we had traded and received many precious gifts from them, which Mansa Guimba would proudly display upon his return. But what had we given in return? Nothing but gold and slaves, which Guimba had thrown away so carelessly in his effort to display his importance. He had made this journey only partly to serve his faith, and partly to show the world the opulence and wealth of the Songhay Empire. But he had taught the outside world nothing, save that the Songhay held resources which they desired. Even now the griots scoff at the outside world. They would rather keep our most valuable treasures hidden, for only a select elite to know. Someone needs to change things. Someone needs to spread the stories of Soudania far and wide across the world.

“So, when I came back from Pharan, I cast aside my family name, and took up a new one: al-Shabazz. It was the closest I could render the original Persian.”

“Is that where Baa’s name came from too?” Morien asked.

“Yes,” Malik said, as unbeknownst to him, Pakeezah stood by the door, listening with a sad smile on her lips. “When your mother lost her old name, I gave her a new one, the most fitting one I could think of.”

“What does it mean?”

“Virtuous,” Malik smiled. “Remember Morien, a woman’s virtue comes not from her chastity, but her charity. Your mother is the kindest and most caring woman I’ve ever met, and she loves you with all her heart.”

“I…I mean…aw…” Morien blushed and stammered beneath Malik’s gentle gaze.

Then a knock came from the door, and Pakeezah peeked in.

“Pakeezah!” Malik gasped, as he too began to blush and stammer, although for a different reason. “I! Er! We were just talking about—”

“Dinner’s ready,” Pakeezah smiled. “I just wanted to let you know.”

“Er, y-yes, of course,” Malik cleared his throat. “We’ll be there shortly.”

As Morien ran into his mother’s arms, he knew Malik was right. Pakeezah was the best mother a boy could have. And Malik…yes. Morien knew then what it was to have a father.

~ * ~

Soon Morien began to help Malik with his work, at first simply assisting him in the organization and filing of papers, before slowly being given more tasks and responsibilities as the years passed.

After many years, Morien grew into a fine young man, and an able and well-versed scholar. With Morien at his side, Malik was able to transcribe and preserve even more stories, and soon the young man was able to journey to the Grand Mosque in Timjeli, where Malik met with other Rahmanite scholars to discuss denominational matters as Morien devoured all the books in the library. Even with the matter of his parentage, Morien impressed the librarians with his knowledge of the literary classics, and it was mentioned in hushed whispers that perhaps there might be a position in the clergy waiting for him, once he came of age.

Ah, but Morien’s dreams were greater than that. Though he adored the comfort of the library and the safety of the mosque, in his heart he dreamed of becoming a great hero, as true and noble as any of the Twelve Valiants. Every chance he got, he would search for new Augustine stories in the Grand Mosque’s library, and sink his teeth into his quarry once it had been found. Indeed, as he went back and re-read the story of Lon in particular, how that dark-haired and sullen-eyed warrior was still out there helping those in need, he saw the hero who had given him his first book. Lon, the hero, he was still out there somewhere. Morien knew it. And though his heart leapt at the thought of his own library, it was a pale flicker to the brilliant bonfire that was his dream. He wanted to find Lon again, to meet him one last time and show him something great that he had accomplished. Look, he would say as he showed Lon his deeds, all this I have done for you. All this I did because you believed in me, and I believed in you. Oh, how his heart sang as he imagined it!

As soon as he was able, Morien went to the markets of Timjeli and purchased a wooden, training sword, with which he practiced daily. He also began to study the more advanced alchemical and mathematical texts that lay within the Grand Mosque, and teach himself the southern tongues, such as Roman and Antilian. It was difficult, Morien’s head swimming with new languages and formulas and his muscles aching with new bruises and bumps every night as he went to sleep. But the thought of Lon, of his hero, kept him going. To be strong of body, sharp of mind, and pure of heart, that was Morien’s goal in life. This goal gave him purpose and something to strive for. It made him complete.

Of course, not everyone else saw it that way.