‘EVERYTHING IS ALIVE! EVERYTHING MOVES!’
And dad put me down on the bed and sat on his chair of golden butterfly lights. I saw him rocking on air, with his feet on the centre table that was ablaze with dense motion. An emerald wind blew into the room, bringing mum’s footsteps closer. And I saw that the darkness is nothing more than vibrations moving more slowly, and light nothing more than vibrations moving more swiftly. I noticed also that there is darkness in light, and light in darkness. Everything in the room shimmered and the glow of things made my head swell. I stared with amazement at the radiance of solid things and at the hidden glimmer of the air. Then mum came into the room, surrounded with a barely perceptible aura of emerald lights, bearing aloes and oregano herbs which she sprinkled on my head. She also had a piece of kaolin in her hand, and it had an absorbent quality made to soak up all the bad vibrations around me. With the kaolin firmly grasped, she circled my head thrice with her hand, uttering incantations and prayers, and then, taking the bad things around me with her, she went and threw the kaolin out on to the road. When she left my head cooled and the shimmering of things ceased and the radiance of the air returned to its hidden condition, but I saw the spirits of aborted babies crawling about and voices from realms both distant and near called my secret names, weaving them in sweet threnodies, and the forms of the dead appeared to me in flashes of darkness, and my head caught fire, and I began to rave again.
When the night became very dark dad ordered mum to sit beside me. He left the door open. He lit no candles. I could still see him rocking on air, could hear his jaws working, could feel him reaching for the place of spells and silences within, spells with which to cast a gentle enchantment over my ravings, silences with which to quieten the excessive motion of my being. I could even perceive the film of butterfly wings growing thicker over his eyes as he stared into a dim yellow paradise, full of doves and crystals and rubies and beings whose hearts gave off a brilliant diamond light. He stared into the yellow paradise, which was drawing closer, which would enter him briefly and leave huge unoccupied spaces inside him, spaces potent with yearning and dreams of a higher, hidden reality. And when the raving began to pour from me again, dad cleared his throat, creaked his neck twice, and started to speak. He spoke as if words were spells, as if words were a kind of magical wind that could blow away the bad vapours of the spirit.
‘Last night,’ he said, ‘I dreamt that I was in a world of rainbows. There were beautiful trees everywhere and they knew the hidden cures for all human diseases. The trees could talk and they were telling me their life stories when a tall man with no eyes in his head came up to me and said: “Do you remember me?” “No,” I replied. Then he smiled and went away. A long time passed as I watched him go. Then people appeared and began to cut down the trees. The rainbows started to fade. The world became darker. That was when I realised that I had a sun in my head. But it was going out slowly. I was worried, so I looked up at the sky. Then an alligator pepper seed fell on my head, knocking me down, and when I got up the tall man came back again. This time he had one big eye. The other socket was empty. “Do you remember me now?” he asked. “No,” I replied. “Look around you,” he said. I looked. All the rainbows had gone. All the beautiful colours of the world had gone. All the lovely lights and the sweet music had gone. The trees were turning into stumps. Some of them were bleeding. Many of them were ghosts. The air was dry. “Where have the rainbows gone?” I asked the man. “People like you have been destroying them,” he replied. “How?” “With your eyes,” he said. Then I realised that I could see in my dream. “Who are you?” I asked him. “Some people think I am an animal,” he answered. “People like who?” “People like you,” he said. “Are you an animal?” I asked. The man laughed. He laughed for a long time. His laughter frightened and confused me. When he stopped he looked at me and said: “If I am an animal, what kind of an animal am I? An antelope, or a leopard?” That was all he said. I didn’t understand him at all.’
Dad paused for a moment. His silence baffled me as much as his dream did.
‘Then what happened?’
Dad turned his face in my direction and, in a low voice, said:
‘Nothing. I woke up.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
The room fairly quivered with the unfinished riddle of his dream. We were silent. The darkness and my incomprehension were beginning to re-awaken the raving in me when dad cleared his throat again, and said:
‘Let me tell you a story.’
‘Yes, tell us a story,’ I said.
‘Once upon a time,’ he began, ‘there was a hunter. He was a great hunter and he could imitate all the different sounds and noises of animals. He understood their language. He also had a beautiful voice and when he sang even the fiercest animals would stop what they were doing and listen. He was so successful as a hunter that there wasn’t a day when he didn’t bring home a dead deer or duiker or a wild boar. It so happened that one day his luck changed. He tried hard, but he couldn’t kill anything. He didn’t even catch a single rabbit in any of his traps. The animals had begun to understand his tricks. This went on for seven days. All through that time he remained in the forest, swearing that he wouldn’t return home till he had caught something. On the seventh day he was so tired with trying that he fell asleep at the foot of a tree. In his sleep he heard the forest talking about him, planning the dreadful things they would do to him for killing off all the beautiful animals who hadn’t harmed him in any way. He was in a deep sleep when a strange light flashed past him. He woke up suddenly, and saw a woman standing in front of a mighty anthill. The woman looked left and right to make sure no one was watching her. And then she turned into an antelope and went into the anthill. The man was astonished.’
‘How can an antelope enter an anthill?’ I asked.
‘It seemed like an anthill,’ dad said, ‘but it was really a palace.’
‘How is that?’
‘It was a palace that only certain beings can see.’
Dad paused.
‘Your story isn’t going anywhere,’ mum said, in the dark.
‘A story is not a car,’ dad replied. ‘It is a road, and before that it was a river, a river that never ends.’
‘And then what happened?’ I asked.
‘The next day, the man returned to the same spot, at the same time, and pretended to be asleep against the same tree. He heard the forest talking about him again, planning something cunning and terrible to do to him. Then the light flashed past a second time. He opened his eyes and saw the most beautiful woman in the world standing at the door of the great anthill. She was naked and her skin shone like polished bronze and she was covered in golden bangles round her neck and ankles and up her arms. Beads of precious stones gave off wonderful lights about her slender waist. The man fell in love with her instantly. The woman looked left and right and then turned into an antelope and disappeared into the secret palace of the anthill. The man went home. He could not sleep. He could not eat. All he could think of was the beautiful woman. He fell so completely in love with her that he swore he would marry her even if it was the last thing he did on earth.’
Dad stopped abruptly, alarming us.
‘Fetch me some water,’ he said. ‘This story is making me thirsty.’
I rushed out to get some water and when I came back mum was sitting at dad’s feet, stroking his ankle. Dad drank the water and resumed his story, clearing his throat, while outside a mysterious new wind was blowing.
‘The next day the man went to the same spot very early. He pretended again to be asleep against the tree. This time the forest was silent. He kept his eyes shut and waited for the strange light to flash past him. He waited for a long time. Evening turned to night. The forest began to laugh. The man still went on pretending. Then when it was so dark that all he could see was the darkness itself a big light flashed past him. The light was so big that he jumped up, with his heart beating very fast . . .’
A
t that precise moment of the story the wind outside blew suddenly into our room, banging the door against the bed. Then I heard a deep growling noise that made me jump. Dad caught his breath. When I recovered, the room was silent. Then I noticed that dad was staring with an uncanny intensity at something near the door. I turned and looked, and saw nothing. Then the wind blew harder, blowing in the emerald form of a majestic and mighty leopard. A powerful light, swarming with the green vibrations of butterflies, surrounded the great invisible beast. It had eyes of diamonds and it sat there, on its tail, like a giant cat. Its wild and feral presence filled the little room with the vast smells of unknown forests. None of us moved.
‘What are you two looking at?’ mum asked, mesmerised by our concentration.
I couldn’t speak for the unearthly wonder of the emerald manifestation. And for a long moment dad was silent. Then, just as the sign of the leopard had gatecrashed its way into our lives, dad let it enter the spell of his narration. Rarely taking his face away from the radiant form, dad continued with his story, his voice quivering.
‘As I was saying, the light flashed past the hunter and it was so great that he jumped up, his heart pounding as if an earthquake had taken place inside him. In the darkness he could see the woman, because she shone. Her skin gave off light. Her golden bangles glittered around her in the moonlight of her mystery. But before the woman could change into an antelope, the hunter started to sing. He sang to her in the most enchanting voice he had ever managed. He sang to her with his heart full of weeping. And with his sweet voice he begged her to accept him as a husband, swearing that if she refused he would kill himself at the very door of the anthill.’
‘Typical man!’ mum said.
‘At first, the woman was shy, and tried to hide her nakedness. But he went on singing, he sang with all his soul, all his love, and he went down on his knees. The woman was moved by his singing and his gesture. Then, relenting a bit, she asked him how long he had been watching her. Still singing, the hunter told her the truth. Maybe it was because he told her the truth that she smiled. Then she said that she would marry him on one condition. The hunter swore by the many names of the great God that he would honour the condition to the day he died. And her condition was that he must keep what she is a secret for ever, he must never reveal to anyone or anything the mystery of her origin. He swore that he wouldn’t, and that if he did he deserved just punishment.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘The next day he led her into town and married her in the most lavish style . . .’
‘Unlike me,’ mum said.
‘Anyway, after they were married they had six children. The woman brought him incredible good luck. He stopped hunting, and became a successful trader. Everything he touched turned to money. He was blessed with good health, lovely children, and the respect of the world. He became wealthy and famous. They made him a chief in seven towns. Rich men gave him their daughters to marry. He had five wives, but his first wife remained special. He built a mighty mansion for her which she had all to herself. But as he got famous, he got proud. As he got wealthier, he got arrogant. And even his great happiness helped him forget the secret origins of his success. He boasted a lot and drank too much.
‘Then, one day, the king made an announcement that a black antelope with a special jewel in its forehead had been seen in the forest and that the person who killed the antelope and brought it to the palace would marry his beautiful young daughter and inherit the kingdom. The man, who used to be a great hunter, let it be known that he was going out into the forest to kill the animal. That night he had a terrible quarrel with his first wife. He was drunk and as they quarrelled he said, in a loud voice: “Is it because you are an antelope yourself that you don’t want me to go, eh?” The wife became silent. The man went to his room. In the morning he woke up to hear his other wives singing about his first wife, mocking her for being an antelope. Then he realised what he had done. He rushed to his first wife’s house and found that she had gone. He also found that she had taken their six children with her. Quickly he changed into his hunter’s clothes and went back to the forest to lie against the same tree. He pretended to be asleep, he listened to the forest talking about him, but he didn’t understand the riddle of their speech. Deep in the night the strange light flashed past for the last time. It was his wife. He began to sing in his most sorrowful voice, begging her forgiveness. But she stopped him, and said: “The black antelope you want to kill is my mother. The jewel in her head is God’s gift to her, and her crown. She is a queen, I am a princess, and what you think is an anthill is really my hidden kingdom. You betrayed my secret. What do you think I should do?” “Forgive me,” the man said. His wife laughed. Her laughter started a mighty sound in the sky. The hunter, terrified, looked up. When he looked down again he saw that his wife had changed, not into an antelope, but into a leopard.’
Dad paused again.
‘All things are linked,’ said mum.
‘Then, with a great roar of anger, the leopard pounced on the man, tore him to pieces, and ate him up. And till this day . . .’
I followed dad’s gaze, which had become more intense, as his words trailed off into silence. Up till that point of the story the emerald form of the leopard had been still, unmoving, as if it too were held captive by dad’s fable. But when I followed dad’s gaze I saw nothing there except a faint green light, like a mist, with butterflies tingling the air, and I smelt nothing but the haunting essence of the dying forest.
‘It’s gone!’ I cried.
‘What?’ mum asked.
‘It’s still there,’ dad announced, in a voice that suggested he had finally understood the meaning of the sign.
Then he rose from his chair. He rose like one who was lifting himself into a higher destiny. Such was the certainty and power of his rising that we were riveted and confused, unable to react. We watched him as if his new knowledge had cast a jewelled spell on us. Then, with the swiftness of one accustomed to sleep-running, dad bounded out of the room, and out into the dark street, following the sign of the emerald leopard.
It didn’t take that long for us to rouse ourselves from our astonishment, but when we got outside we couldn’t find dad anywhere. The moon was low in the sky. The night was warm. The unbearable stench of the dead carpenter encompassed our world. And butterflies vibrated in the secret heart of all things. It was a night of intense dreams. Everywhere I turned I encountered the bad dreams of our community. The dreams merged into one another and took on frightening and concentrated forms. The forms filled me with terror.
‘Let’s go back home,’ I said to mum.
‘But your father is blind. What if he falls into a well?’
I was silent. But the twisted forms of our bad dreams, bristling in the night air, also made mum scared. With great caution, and without daring to go near Madame Koto’s place, we searched for dad up and down the street. The negative potencies in the air almost made me ill. After we had failed to find dad, we hurried back to our room, and waited for him to return. We waited a long time. We waited through all the dreaming phases of the new moon.
BOOK FOUR
1
DELIVERANCE
A DREAM CAN be the highest point of a life; action can be its purest manifestation.
That night, as I waited for dad in the anguish of my spirit, I rediscovered the secret of flight. With the effortlessness of my hidden inheritance, I flew in and out of the dreams of the living and the dead. While mum sat on dad’s chair, praying in a voice weakened by hunger and the accumulated weight of her days, I took off into the air, leaving my body behind, and I followed dad as he railed against his own blindness, stumbling with new feet, naming the world with new words. I was in the air with him as he trailed the apparition, his spirit bursting the bounds of his agony, his voice raging out against the invisible censoring forces of our earthly sphere, calling on the winds to drive him on into greater powers, calling on the hidden God to liberate him from the fe
ars that kept him poor, kept him in a corner, kept him from discovering his true resplendent identity. Dad was a tempest of energies that night and we felt his passion in our squalid room where all our stories are stored.
Dad went on following the sign of the leopard. He stumbled over the debris in the street, but he walked on boldly as if his feet had an instinctive sight of their own. He dared the road to trip him, to keep him down; he dared trees to fall across his path; he dared the night to keep him from seeing; he dared the forces of the air to blow him away or dissolve his being altogether – and through all this he persistently followed the emerald hallucination of the leopard.
While he raged, voices of our area joined him, one by one. Dad unblocked the spirit of the community with his daring. He challenged the sorcerers of the air and mind, the negative spirits of the lower spheres. Dad didn’t know it, but his incandescent daring concentrated the spirits of the dead and the unborn around him. They followed him, marvelling at a man so blind – and so fragile, as forces in the universe go – who could muster so much rage when it was easier to lie down and die.
His voice rang out over the rooftops, penetrating the ears of dreamers who lay on beds bristling with the invisible broken glass of poverty; his voice was clear and harsh, resonating through the bald patch of trees, magnified by moonlight. And as he cried out for justice and more vision and transformation, cried out that the gods unveil to him his destiny, he unknowingly broke the seven chains that tied our dreams down, that kept our vision of more light disconnected from our reality. One by one we began to wake from a layer of sleep so deep that our lives had seemed to exist only in a somnolent unfolding of time – and that is why we had to resort to legends and myths to explain why time seemed to pass so slowly while momentous events exploded so rapidly and with such simultaneity in our dreams.
As dad’s voice lifted the sky higher above our heads, I realised that the whole community was dreaming him on towards our universal deliverance, urging him on towards our restoration, each within the indignities, humiliations, privations, fears, meanness and the great hidden goodness of their secret lives. We willed him on within our dreams, praying for him to succeed in countering the negative gravity of our spaces, the bad smells of our days, the dreadful weight of our cowardice and powerlessness, to neutralise the spells and enchantments of powerful witches who had been done injustices all their lives and who took out their vengeance by sealing us within the poisoned cage of limitations and hunger. We dreamt him on, calling on the road to guide his feet, and when he tripped over the extinguished lamp and fell on the bloated body of the dead man in an unholy embrace, when the body – stewing with bile and nauseous gases and suppurating gore – exploded its resentments, its foul purple liquids, its rotting flesh on dad, surrounding him with its noxious odour of death, we could not help him, he was alone, and we retreated swiftly from the void which was his incomprehension, and left him to disentangle himself from the wilful embrace of the neglected corpse.