The Penumbra Volume 4: Visitations: The Penumbra, #4

By Ben Wari

What Is The Penumbra?

 

The Penumbra is:

 

-The very edge of the border between light and shadow.

-A series of connected, interrelated fictions spanning the supernatural, horror, and science fiction genres, along with their cousins.

-An homage to anthologies of speculative fiction in TV, comic book, and prose form.

 

In this volume:

 

-A musician and storyteller in 14th century Mali discovers a mysterious song that shows him other times and places and is sent on a perilous quest to find out what it means. 

 

-A cursed witch has lived almost a thousand years, but a seemingly chance meeting with a man who is immune to her Gift leads her to examine her past and future.

 

-There are new arrivals in the house of Charles Gloaming, brought there from places farther than expected. As people gather, they try to unravel the mystery surrounding them, and of the cabin in the woods deep behind.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Wari
• Release date: Oct 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215492642

Book preview

Stories From

The Penumbra

Vol. 4:

Visitations

by

Ben Wari

Copyright © 2021-2022 Ben J Wari

Cover Design Copyright © 2022 Jordan Bouma

Lines from:

Copyright the respective rights holders.

Used under Fair Use.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in reviews and the like.

This is a work of fiction. All persons, personalities, events, institutions, and references are part of the rich, fictional tapestry that authors love to use for ours and others' amusement. Any relation to anything in our reality is entirely coincidental,or perhaps a product of our subconscious.

First Printing, 2022

ISBN -

thepenumbra.net

-Dedication-

For Phillip, William, and Ursula,

who twisted and formed what came before

into what is now.

Contents

Title

10 – A Song Of The Sahel

11 – The Harridan

12 - Arrivals

Author Bio And Links

-10-

A Song From The Sahel

Or

A Bard's Tale

"Say there's no more good water/Because the pond is dry,

I walked down to the river/then turned all 'round and 'round"

- Jaybird Coleman, No More Good Water

*

Note:

This is a work of historical (supernatural) fiction. The named historical figures certainly existed among these places at this time, but events, locations, and personalities have been shifted somewhat to fit around the fictional people of our tale.

This story also came about partly due to a program in 2013 that detailed insurgents/rebels in the north of modern Mali banning, among other things, music of any type, destroying equipment and threatening anyone playing or even listening to music. Even now in 2022, there are still pockets of fanatics that do this, in a land that is defined culturally and historically by their music.

There was never any doubt that monsters exist on this earth, but this is a reminder for us all.

*

A Basic Primer on West African Instruments:

Ngoni – There are a few different shapes of instrument that have this name, as well as other names used for similar items by different tribes. It is primarily a harp or lute-like instrument with 4-7 strings attached to a hard gourd and long stick for a neck. It is usually played with the body upright against the player like a bass or cello, or crosswise like a guitar or lute. It has a unique playing style, less like guitars and lutes, and more like harps and banjos, and has been in West and Northern Africa for centuries.

Kora – More harplike than an ngoni (except in areas where they are very similar shapes), played more like a traditional harp, and sounding very similar to one, usually has 21-24 strings. Very courtly, auspicious.

Djembe – The ubiquitous short West African drum, a short base holding up the wider hide-covered top. Usually played in pairs or more.

Udu – The 'water jug,' a clay instrument that looks like a jug except for an additional round hole along the side that the player slaps or taps, along with drumming on the solid clay, making a sound like water in a jug.

Balofon – Much like a marimba, but smaller. This has short legs and the bars are placed over a series of gourds of different sizes, giving a variety of rolling, soft tones when struck. Played while seated and solo or up to as many people with mallets can fit on either side.

Djeli – Or jeli, or some variation. Called griot by French colonizers, that name has stuck just as much. Not a physical instrument, but a person like a bard, who is trusted to sing the historical stories and teaching fables from ancestral times to now. Sometimes they sing and play solo, sometimes only sing with accompaniment, or play in a group. They still exist, and still hold great importance in places where the spoken word is still the quickest messenger.

*

Hear now my song, as I pluck at the strings of the storytelling ngoni, and know that I am Hamidou, son of Mamadou the great djeli of Mansa Musa, son of humble fisherfolk of the great river Niger. Know that I too am djeli, and that while we are keepers of our people's history, of great figures and their deeds, that I also have struggled and strained through turmoil, through things that cannot be, yet have been felt by my own senses, which I now pass to you.

Listen! Listen to the strings and my song as they ring out past the desert palms into the night. May anyone who hears learn from it, whether as fireside tale or as warning.

*

There were new slaves out tending the hard-to-till fields where there hadn't been any before. Their faces and songs marked them as being from far to the east, descendants of Nubia. I and my beautiful betrothed, Bintou, were hurrying across in the morning sun to meet with my uncle and depart for Timbuktu.

I thought the governor took the villages' words to heart, my love said, dressed in brilliant green and gold. I opted for simple raw cloth for the journey, though my blue-white and purple-gold performing robes were tucked away for later.

"About keeping foreigner hands away from our land? I guess the mansa had other plans. Come, we're falling behind." I tried not to look their way, out of pity and out of what you could call spite. Such sights were common enough further east, closer to the markets where trade was more heavy. It was a sign that even our humble villages were part of something greater. 

They say that our empire has been gifted three things that make it mighty above all others in the world: Gold, Salt, and the light of Allah. Though many consider that the third in all truth is Knowledge in all its forms, collected since the great lion Sundiata united us, and our scholars have continued to do for almost a hundred years. Others would argue it is all one and the same. I cannot say, I am but the keeper of the stories of my tribe, and of those my father served, living in his shadow.

It was at that time that great mansa Sulayman honoured the passing of a Sultan to the north while hosting the arrival of someone almost as legendary as Sundiata. He called musicians, artists, storytellers from across our empire to meet in the humble trade town of Timbuktu. From the shores of the vast western ocean to the northern desert salt mines, from the lush forests that hid gold mines and the rich river farms of the south, we came as commanded.

The Son of Battuta, is it? I heard tales of him in Araby, my mother's brother said as he met us, leading our camels. Maghan, he was called, like the mansa before Sulayman, though this one was missing toes on his left foot and most of his hair.

My uncle, I'm surprised you have not heard the songs and tales of this stranger, the man who has traveled across the world and back! From the northern coasts all the way to where the sun rises out of the east. Or so they say.

Ah yes, to have so much wealth and time to go about becoming famous, said my uncle, making a snorting sound like a hippopotamus. Well, I suppose we should be so honoured that even after years and years abroad he makes the trek across the sands to see us, our lands, share in his wisdoms. Come.

Sadness filled my heart as I turned to face Bintou, her high, proud head, her curiously round face. Her hair piled high, her round little nose and the prettiest eyes in the village. Though her ears were weighed down by the two hefty gold hoops I had given as a betrothal gift. Real gold, pure as I could afford. I've heard that the more devout from Arabia shun the wearing of ornaments and jewelry, our empire swims in the shiny stuff, and we show it freely.

Yes, it was good to live in the empire, and even better to have a famous father. Though with that came burdens and responsibilities, and my own path to being a master. I dipped my head, staring at Bintou, but also thinking of my father with Allah in paradise. I wanted to kiss her, cry and wail at being parted, sing sweet good byes. I did not. Maghan and others were around to see. I grasped her arms with my own and stood until Maghan whistled. I should have kissed her in view of everyone.

*

On the trail we met with Didi, the old drummer that sometimes played with my father. He always seemed to wear a silly smile about something, his skin partly covered in burn scars from when he was young. Like a dark stickbug, he came traipsing up to us, nearly jogging along as we moved eagerly.

They say this man, the Wandering Berber, he means to see our cities and villages from now to Ramadan! Maybe even longer. And he brings us all the stories of the world he has spent his life seeing.

We shall return it in kind, doing what we do best, I said. "Singing the songs of or people, the land, our conquests and lineage. And he will see that djeli are only second to the mansa, reminding him who and what is Mali, giving him counsel."

Didi sucked at his teeth in exclamation. Just like your daddy might have put it! He trained you well, young man. Though it looks to me that you need to eat a little more, bring out that belly, deepen that voice even more. Hopping in place he turned to wave at the village behind. They say this Ibn Battuta  has been to lands where people grow tusks like elephants, to places with lizards as big as hills, sailed in seas with whales that navigate for boats by night!

I shook my head. Father had told me of many strange things when he had gone on hajj to Mecca with great Mansa Musa, but nothing like that.

"We shall all hear it for ourselves when the mansa graciously sees us at court to feast this mighty traveler."

Mighty, pah! said my revered uncle. Maybe to the easily amused across Allah's blessed lands. That reminds me, I hope this guest doesn't impose more of what they think is 'proper.' Those eastern brothers and sisters, so uptight! Never getting to see a woman's figure or even face. Not all their rules can work in other lands.

We had to agree, though I wouldn't protest if it came to it. After all, I was a humble songkeeper. The music was how we served, though some believers insisted the only notes anyone play be in calling to  prayer and prayer alone. That, I would not abide.

We went on through the dusty hills, ready to meet with more fellows, old and young, before turning toward the riverlands and on to the city of scholars, salt, and slaves.

*

Two days later, there ten of us, five musicians, one bossy wife that insisted on coming along to keep an eye on her wandering kora-playing husband, her servant, and four hired men, mostly for the pack animals and our gear. 

It was prime sowing season, so the smaller trails were still quite empty, with farmers, along with the mansa's slave contingents, filling the fields more and more heavily as we went. At night, northern breezes from the Saharan sands swept in, reminding our bones of the chill that remained at night.

The night after, we camped early by the roadside to practice, rehearse, stretch our vocal cords and our fingers as they slapped goatskin and plucked gut strings.

The youngest among us, Raba, played on the udu with a frantic rhythm, undisciplined. We tried to get him to play in time, but his hands had a mind of their own. Laughing, I made a note to keep him in check. No surprises for when it was our turn to play.

Afterward, I could not sleep. Was I exhilarated, Concerned? Was there a hint of something else on the air, something about big, notable gatherings? Shivering, I went out into the night and looked at the stars, the moon only a sliver. 

Of course, now when I think of it, some of them seemed out of place. What I did notice was the ngoni in my hand, the strings shivering as well, possibly in delight instead of cold. They sang to me very slightly, picking up the music of the heavens. So I foolishly stepped past our tents and plucked away, following the strings as they danced under my fingers, showed me how to pick with fingers and thumb.

I gasped, as a sound answered. Not from far off in the fields or any nearby huts, but as though next to me. The air grew denser, cloying, as though fresh incense was lit, and between the notes I played, an echo came. Not from the land, but the air itself. Clear notes, heavier pitch, buzzing, in a chord I had never heard before. It was loud, like horns blowing, but I could almost see the strings that made them  vibrating. For a moment, there was a tang of briny ocean air.

I nearly dropped my instrument, whirling around to see. Nothing, of course. A low voice moaned. Musical, pained, wordless. Then it ceased. My heart was racing.

I carefully went back to bed, and swore to tell no one. Longer travels could see people fall into desert madness, but this I could only blame on some waking dream.

*

The following days saw more and more traffic, farmers and traders with camels and donkeys, a haughty chieftain or two on horses with wives and retinues behind, several dogs, flocks of goats, and many children running back and forth up and down the road.

You know, I'm surprised old Sulayman is going to this much expense, tightwad that he is, said Zaira, the wife of Yacoub our master instrumentalist. She was fond of saying everything she thought out loud. Though for an older woman, she still retained a desirable, plump figure, even jiggling arms whenever she waved them, trying to make a point. 

I'm sure it took some convincing, said Maghan, who had taken to discussing everything politics with the woman. Even for this worldly Berber, I'm sure it will be a night or two of revelries for a select few, then he kicks us back out to the dust and spend the rest of the year back in Djenne or Gao while the traveler pays the rest of his way. That's what esteem buys you here.

I wouldn't mind seeing Gao, said the Raba, or the mud mosque at Djenne! They sound so much nicer than dried out trees and endless lines of miners back home in the hills. I suppose Timbuktu will have to do for now.

Didi laughed loud and hoarse. Tell me, farm lad, have you been to any city before? The boy shook his head.

Didi laughed again and slapped at his flank. "Soon you shall see. Even with the mansa's men patrolling, I'd hold tight any valuables!"

Less than a day later, we crested a hill and saw the young man's mouth drop open. Timbuktu was a steadily growing city from when I had last visited, but this was something that.

The great mud buildings rose tall as ever, the mosque and the university, surrounded by the market and royal quarters farther on, by the river. But now there stood many more huts, tents, stalls, huddled caravans, and people, people everywhere. So many colours, animals, robes, hairstyles, and everywhere gold jewelry and goods, all moving into the city. A slow, but inevitable gathering by what seemed like all of Mali.

Come, I said at last. We are to meet our escort.

If  we can find them in this mass, said Maghan. 

Oh my dears, don't you worry. My sister is handmaiden to the queen, she will see to us, said Zaira, fanning herself though the heat had yet to rise.

By Allah, I'm hungry, said Didi. I will pay double to whoever is frying those delicious smelling cakes with honey!

I tried to keep them focused on our task, but bits of music floated to my ears, taking my mind all sorts of places, trying to place the instruments, their styles, the voices that went with them.

Eventually, we made it to a cordon where fierce soldiers on horseback kept the line.

Zaira sucked at her teeth looking at the crowd, then drew herself up in her camel saddle and haughtily rode to the most decorated man. I couldn't hear them over the rest of the travelers shouting, animals braying, but didn't need to.

So foolish, woman! said Yacoub. "She thinks her sister has any power here. She does not have the looks to convince these sort of men, nor gold to get the rest of us