allowed the vitriol a moment to anesthetize, to sink as deeply as bone. Then he pinched the nose’s jumbled rubble back into order. His tongue sealed and shortened, trembling and achy. Estranged from his own emotion and fatigue, he cleaned wounds, sewing some. He kept having to blink to clear away his leaking tears. And why tears? Why
not
? This night had been long, trying, and widely various in its trials. And now that the last of the fires was all put out, he must not forget to grab by the neckscruff the rascals who set this blaze, and make them contemplate the smoky ruins.
“Xho and Walé, you two listen up.” Demane began to pack up his
medicia
. “What happen is, sometimes qaïf can go bad, see, and [mycotoxic fungus] grow on it . . . like a rot, you understand? That’s why you don’t smoke it.
Shouldn’t
. Smoke some bad qaïf, and it [can induce choleric schizophrenia] . . . mess up your head for good. That’s what
he
done a long time ago, what messed him up in the first place. Qaïf
poison
, very dangerous. It’s [an insult to the homeostasis of body and mind]. You understand me?” Well, how can they, fool? You’re speaking half in your own language!
Anxious to demonstrate rehabilitation, Xho Xho and Walead said, “We ain’t smoking no more.”
“Nope. Not again, uh uh.”
“I don’t even really
like
qaïf, never did. You, Walé?”
“
Hell
no—I
hate
that shit!”
There was a bit of back-and-forth over whether that one dude, or Messed Up, or indeed some other dude, had first thought it a good idea to do something so bad—“Myself, I was like, ‘I don’t think we
should
, though, y’all. I don’t think it’s
right
.’”—but certainly neither of
them
, the two boys concurring here, had been the original instigator.
Such eagerness to create space between present self and past sins obliges adults in the room to wonder whether callow youth has really wised up. “What if the fo-so had showed up?” Cumalo spoke harshly from the dark. “What if Captain had gone upside y’all peanut heads hard as he did Messed Up?”
“He
has
before.”
“Yup! Cause, remember that time? I couldn’t see straight for
days
. . .”
The noise of frustration Demane made turned to a huge yawn. His burning eyes, all at once, would hardly stay open.
T-Jawn groped for Demane’s shoulder. “You sound all done in, Sorcerer. Vous pouvez partir, and take your rest. Messrs. Xho Xho and Walead shall retire for the evening, while Cumalo and I keep our eyes on things. I daresay no further mischief can be forthcoming from our sleeper—not tonight, non?”
So Demane left.
There was to be, after all, no rendezvous, laid up together under palm tree fronds on the banks of Mother of Waters. That hope had always been a mirage, though anticipation of it had carried Demane through all the weeks of the desert crossing. Now he’d find some spot in the open air to sleep beside the lake. But not quite yet: a night so evil required exorcizing before sleep. Wise words, or even the company of wisdom though nothing was said, would be enough. Along empty alleys, Demane returned to the piazza. The throngs there had become stragglers, and the awful fluorescence of the greatorch banked down to a sulfurous glow. And yes: Faedou and his jar even now sat against the wall. Demane took seat beside his elder brother. Content to say nothing, they watched the remnants of the night revels.
A lone drummer beat his jimbay with closed eyes, inspiring the feet of the last score dancers. Two of the caravan’s merchants, Qabr and Iuliano, slowstepped tiredly and in synch among those final revolving few. The two men possessed the same fine manners, eloquent hands, and trim small size: alike as twins, though obviously
not
kin—the one being pale and sharp-featured; the other dark, full of mouth and nose. What a blessing, what wonderful good luck, Demane thought, to make this long crossing with such a friend to share the travails. Never did
not
? This night had been long, trying, and widely various in its trials. And now that the last of the fires was all put out, he must not forget to grab by the neckscruff the rascals who set this blaze, and make them contemplate the smoky ruins.
“Xho and Walé, you two listen up.” Demane began to pack up his
medicia
. “What happen is, sometimes qaïf can go bad, see, and [mycotoxic fungus] grow on it . . . like a rot, you understand? That’s why you don’t smoke it.
Shouldn’t
. Smoke some bad qaïf, and it [can induce choleric schizophrenia] . . . mess up your head for good. That’s what
he
done a long time ago, what messed him up in the first place. Qaïf
poison
, very dangerous. It’s [an insult to the homeostasis of body and mind]. You understand me?” Well, how can they, fool? You’re speaking half in your own language!
Anxious to demonstrate rehabilitation, Xho Xho and Walead said, “We ain’t smoking no more.”
“Nope. Not again, uh uh.”
“I don’t even really
like
qaïf, never did. You, Walé?”
“
Hell
no—I
hate
that shit!”
There was a bit of back-and-forth over whether that one dude, or Messed Up, or indeed some other dude, had first thought it a good idea to do something so bad—“Myself, I was like, ‘I don’t think we
should
, though, y’all. I don’t think it’s
right
.’”—but certainly neither of
them
, the two boys concurring here, had been the original instigator.
Such eagerness to create space between present self and past sins obliges adults in the room to wonder whether callow youth has really wised up. “What if the fo-so had showed up?” Cumalo spoke harshly from the dark. “What if Captain had gone upside y’all peanut heads hard as he did Messed Up?”
“He
has
before.”
“Yup! Cause, remember that time? I couldn’t see straight for
days
. . .”
The noise of frustration Demane made turned to a huge yawn. His burning eyes, all at once, would hardly stay open.
T-Jawn groped for Demane’s shoulder. “You sound all done in, Sorcerer. Vous pouvez partir, and take your rest. Messrs. Xho Xho and Walead shall retire for the evening, while Cumalo and I keep our eyes on things. I daresay no further mischief can be forthcoming from our sleeper—not tonight, non?”
So Demane left.
There was to be, after all, no rendezvous, laid up together under palm tree fronds on the banks of Mother of Waters. That hope had always been a mirage, though anticipation of it had carried Demane through all the weeks of the desert crossing. Now he’d find some spot in the open air to sleep beside the lake. But not quite yet: a night so evil required exorcizing before sleep. Wise words, or even the company of wisdom though nothing was said, would be enough. Along empty alleys, Demane returned to the piazza. The throngs there had become stragglers, and the awful fluorescence of the greatorch banked down to a sulfurous glow. And yes: Faedou and his jar even now sat against the wall. Demane took seat beside his elder brother. Content to say nothing, they watched the remnants of the night revels.
A lone drummer beat his jimbay with closed eyes, inspiring the feet of the last score dancers. Two of the caravan’s merchants, Qabr and Iuliano, slowstepped tiredly and in synch among those final revolving few. The two men possessed the same fine manners, eloquent hands, and trim small size: alike as twins, though obviously
not
kin—the one being pale and sharp-featured; the other dark, full of mouth and nose. What a blessing, what wonderful good luck, Demane thought, to make this long crossing with such a friend to share the travails. Never did
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