Mamba

WHILE KHAMISI BEGGED IN THE MARKETPLACE, he kept a sharp eye out for certain slouching characters. For years he had watched them in longing. For months he had watched in eagerness, exhilarated to have been taken into the group. But today – today he watched in dread.

He knew they’d be angry at what he had to say, to do. Better to slink out of their path than face that fate.

He didn’t watch closely enough. A hand clapped him on the shoulder from behind, and Jafari’s voice hissed in his ear. “Where’ve you been? You knew what time to meet!”

Khamisi choked back a squawk. “I can’t!” he blurted as the older man dragged him toward a shadowed lane.

“You can, and you will. You know we need two lookouts for this job.”

“But I’ve been warned I shouldn’t—”

“Warned? Who’ve you been talking to?” Jafari’s grasp turned to sharp-edged steel.

“No one! Told no one, not a soul!”

“Then how could you get a warning, if no one knows the plan?”

Khamisi trembled. He bared his teeth in fear until his cheeks hurt.

“Don’t grimace at me, you ugly monkey!” Jafari shook the young man, then shoved him up against the rough, coral-block wall. “Who’ve you talked to? No lies, or I’ll throttle you!”

Khamisi begged with his gaze, not daring to shy away from Jafari’s anger. So much the thieves could read in a look, a glance. “I was w-w-warned in a d-d-dream! Never s-s-spoke to no one live!”

“A dream?” Jafari clenched a hand tight around Khamisi’s scrawny throat. “I should do it. But I’ll leave the pleasure to Mwita.You truly are a witless, ugly, jabbering monkey. Useless!” He threw the young man to the cobblestones.

Khamisi scrabbled back to his feet, coughing and wary.

Jafari goaded him along the lane and through a dark doorway.

Mwita, Jafari, and Zuberi pummeled Khamisi with questions and fists until satisfied he hadn’t betrayed them. “A dream!” spat Mwita, the ringleader.

“M-m-mamba Munti herself,” Khamisi protested. “She told me not to go this time!”

“Go this time, or I myself willl feed you to Mamba out in the bay, let her drag you down to your death.”

Khamisi groveled.

“If you value your miserable life, you’ll do it,” Mwita threatened. “Zuberi will be watching you.” He turned to the others, went over their plan for breaking into the guesthouse. “He’ll have gold and jewels in a locked chest. Jafari, you carry the pry-bar under your robes. Is your brother ready to climb the wall? Good. Here’s the rope to carry up.”

“City of Kilwa,” 1572

Jafari herded Khamisi to his lookout post across the square from the guesthouse just as its doors opened. Out strode the great man himself, the Muslim scholar Ibn Battuta, beginning his tour of the fabled trading city Kilwa Kisiwani. Like everyone else, Jafari gaped at the sight of brilliant robes and turban and the hawk-nosed, bearded, northern face.

Khamisi glanced around. Zuberi wasn’t in place yet. The young man ducked and ran, hobbling at a crouch. He slunk behind the stalls of oranges and lemons. He skirted tables displaying porcelain from China and spices from the Indies. He ran down an alley away from the Great Mosque with its pillared corridors and vast dome.

Footsteps slapped in pursuit.

Khamisi hid near the Small Domed Mosque before dashing to the closest city gate. The wrong one. This road didn’t lead to the mangrove swamp where he could have found easy hiding. It led out toward the sea-side of the island.

He glanced back. “No, no, no,” he groaned. Jafari was on his trail.

Khamisi scurried best he could with his twisted gait all the way out to Husuni Kubwa, the Queen’s House, where the massive complex perched on a bluff overlooking the eastern sea.

Jafari had halved the distance between them.

Khamisi pattered down the score of steps to the beach, not knowing what drew him, just knowing he needed to reach the water.

Mamba Munti was waiting. Her hair furled about her on the shining waves like trailing lianas in the swamp, long, springy, coal-black tresses. Her dark skin glimmered with scales. Her smile wove peril with beauty. “Come,” she sang, holding out her graceful arms.

Khamisi didn’t pause to wonder why the siren wanted him, the twisted, ugly beggar. He waded into the waves.

Behind him, on the sands, Jafiri gasped in astonishment. “She’ll devour you!” he cried.

Khamisi did not slow, but walked out beyond his depth and let the waters close over him.

“Mamba Munti,” 2019, by Joyce Holt, author

Years later, when Khamisi returned to the bustling Swahili city of Kilwa Kisiwana, he walked with grace and strength. His features shone with nobility and comeliness, and his pouch never lacked for gold.

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Based on legends of Mamba Munti (East Africa, Swahili) and Mami Wata (West Africa); Tanzania, AD 1331

text: © 2021 Joyce Holt

artwork: 16th century painting: in the public domain, according to these sources:

wikiart: “This artwork is in public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 70 years or less.”

wikipedia: “This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 100 years or fewer.”

{{PD-US-expired}} : published anywhere (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before 1926 and public domain in the U.S.

Third Knot

RASK ROWED INTO THE CHOP of Kattegat, the shallow sea off Sweden’s coast.  His sloop wallowed low, weighed down by twenty-four bushels of rye.  Not a breath of wind stirred to aid him on his way.

Rask would gladly row all day, clear to the shores of Denmark, with such a sight to feast on as the one perched in the stern.

The loveliest woman he’d ever seen sat daintily atop her cargo of rye.  Skin pure as pearls, eyes the color of evening sky, a brow like seafoam.  Silvery hair billowed, though no wind blew.  Her gown shimmered with blue-green hues, bright as fish scales.

Rask’s heart beat giddy with delight.  He grinned like an idiot, pulled at the oars, ignored one wise corner of his mind.  She had promised a fine fare, but had never said how much.

“Here,” the woman said at last.  “We’ve come to my home.  Please unload.”

Rask glanced around at the smooth silky billows.  No land in sight.  “Unload?”

“Yes.  Just toss them overboard.”

That wise corner of his mind shouted warning, but Rask heard none of it over the happy thrumming of his heart.  One by one he hoisted the barrels over the sloop’s edge to plummet into the depths.

The woman stood amidships, smiling at Rask.  “For your payment, come with me.  Take my hand and jump.”

“Fool!” screamed the tiny voice of sense.

Rask jumped.

Without even a splash, he found himself, still at the woman’s side, in a great hall beneath the sea. 

“Is that you, Daughter?” queried an old man sitting upon a whalebone chair.  His eyes stared, blank, sightless.

“I’m home with the rye, Father,” she answered.

The blind man’s nostrils flared.  “I smell the blood of a Christian,” he grumbled.  “Come over here, man.  Let me finger wrestle with you.”

The woman whispered to Rask, “Hand over an anchor hook instead of your finger.”

Rask did as told, and barely managed to hang onto the anchor with both hands as the fellow wrenched with a giant’s strength.  The old man chuckled in defeat.  “Not bad, not bad at all.  Daughter, pay this fine skipper his due.”

The lovely woman gave Rask a handkerchief in which three knots had been tied.  “When you get into a lull,” she told him, “you can open one knot.  And if you want to go really fast, untie two knots, but never untie the third.”

Rask found himself back in his sloop, handkerchief in hand.  A breeze tugged at the sails and soon swept him home where he told the tale to any and all.

Not long after, he found himself becalmed with a heavy load of wares and an urge to hasten home.  Rask untied one knot in the handkerchief.

The sail filled with wind.

He opened the second, and the sloop sped so fast it made the water hiss.

He must have opened the third knot too, for nobody ever saw him again.

---

Tale from Rolfstorp, Halland, Sweden

untitled painting, 1850, by Marcus Larson (1826-1864)

text: © 2021 Joyce Holt

artwork: 17th century paintings: in the public domain, according to these sources:

wikiart: “This artwork is in public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 70 years or less.”

wikipedia: “This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 100 years or fewer.”

{{PD-US-expired}} : published anywhere (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before 1926 and public domain in the U.S.

Wind and Windlass

from the diary of an accidental world traveler

“I HEAR YOU PRAYING!” Frederick yelled over the roar of the wind. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“That was in calm weather,” the sailor shouted. “In a hurricane like this, everyone’s a believer!”

The deck tilted to port then bucked like a rearing horse. The two of them staggered but regained their stance, feet spread to brace themselves as they heaved all their might into cranking the bilge pump’s windlass.

The sailor jerked in alarm then craned his neck to look back along the clipper’s deck. At the other pump, seamen gathered, frantically checking out the windlass. The gale swallowed their curses.

“What’s wrong?” Frederick asked.

His crank-mate grimaced. “We just lost the other pump.”

Frederick gulped. “Will one alone handle the task?”

The sailor spit to the side, swore, and shook his head. “Not at the rate the old lady is leaking.”

The bosun’s whistle announced shift change, and Frederick gladly gave over his crank to another seaman. He groped along the lifeline leading to the hatch down to steerage, but his mate pounded him on the back. “Come into the galley for a swig.”

“I don’t drink rum.”

“Then a mug of water. I’ve a question for you.”

Frederick gratefully ducked inside. The galley was cramped, but not so cramped as steerage, and not crowded. No cook bustling around, preparing drab meals.

“You been to the gold fields?” the sailor asked.

Frederick nodded. “My brother and I both.” He unwrapped his hands, checked for new blisters, swayed to the dance of the fickle ship.

“Had any luck?”

Frederick grinned. “We found our share of dust. And a nugget or two.”

“Rich then, are you?”

“I was. Spent a rather large chunk on passage.”

“Don’t take that big a fortune to sail on the likes of the Leaky Lady.” The seaman’s gaze turned sly. “Still carrying some, I’m guessing.”

“Truth is,” Frederick said. “I paid passage for several of the others in my group.”

“You’ve still got a stash, don’t you? A hidden stash.”

“What makes you think that?”

The sailor dropped his gaze to Frederick’s neck. “That cord don’t stay as hidden as you want.”

Frederick felt for the leather thong. “Sharp eyes you have. Yes, here’s my gold poke.” He drew out the small leather bag. “But no gold. Just a few keepsakes from my days on Australia’s coast.” He dumped out several shell disks, none any larger than a tuppence.

“Useless fripperies!” The sailor snorted and headed out again.

As Frederick slid the fossils into the poke, the seaman stuck his head back in. “Cap’n says it’s no use. We’re heading back to Honolulu.”

“But we’ve paid passage to San Francisco!”

“Not on this ship, leaking all up and down the belly, both sides!”

“Hurricane at Sea,” 1850, by Ivan Aivazovsky (1817-1900)

Down in steerage, Frederick huddled with his brother and the others in their company, discouraged at another setback in their journey. The clipper had been leaking all the way from Melbourne.*

Worse news was coming. When they arrived back in Honolulu, the ship was declared unseaworthy and sold for scrap.

Many in the group, which included whole families, had spent their last penny on this voyage. Frederick slit the lining of his pantaloons and took out the nuggets he’d hidden there. One thousand dollars** worth, enough to pay passage to the States for the women and children.

Frederick, his younger brother, and the other men waved farewell from the docks in Honolulu, fated to spend a penniless year stranded in Hawaii.

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* As Frederick recorded in his journal, “After five weeks of indescribable kind of times we put in in distress at the Sandwich Islands, the vessel so leaky she could hardly swim.”

After seven days in port there in Hawaii, they set out again, “supposing the vessel had been sufficiently repaired… We had a fair fine wind until we were clear of the land, then we lay eight days in a calm expecting the wind to blow again. Then one night it began, and increased against our fore quarters. From sunset until midnight it became almost a hurricane. This strained at the vessel until she leaked both sides of her worse than before. They kept the pumps working all night. At last one of them broke, but they kept one of them giving the water, 13 inches per hour. It was then concluded that the vessel was unseaworthy. Accordingly we put back to Honolulu.”

** According to family lore. (Frederick was an ancestor of the author: born on the Isle of Jersey in the English Channel, grew up in New Zealand, earned a fortune in the Australian gold fields, crossed the Pacific to Hawaii, then eventually on to San Francisco.)

text: © 2021 Joyce Holt

artwork: 19th century paintings: in the public domain, according to these sources:

wikiart: “This artwork is in public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 70 years or less.”

wikipedia: “This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 100 years or fewer.”

{{PD-US-expired}} : published anywhere (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before 1926 and public domain in the U.S.

Crows and Riddles

There was one time a child named Aslaug Sigurdsdotter, the daughter of a king. After the death of her royal parents, her foster father took her with him on a journey around the southern tip of Norway. They stopped overnight at Spangereid, a lonely coastal steading farmed by Åke and his wife Grima.

Åke was a cruel, devious, and greedy fellow. He murdered the wealthy traveller in his sleep, and took his goods. Stingy, cold-hearted Grima took the little orphan girl for a servant, setting her to the hardest work around the farm in the winter, and by summer, to herding goats up in the heights.

“Hestmanden,” 1834, by Knud Baade (1827-1879)

During her years at Spangereid — garbed in rags, surviving on crusts and scraps, dodging blows and insults — Aslaug grew more and more lovely. Envious Grima didn’t want anyone to see how beautiful the maiden was, so she forbade her ever to bathe or comb out her hair.

One summer the weather turned terribly hot and dry. Herding goats all alone in the pastures above the treeline, Aslaug longed for relief from the blistering heat. When a noisy troop of crows flew overhead, she called out to them, ‘Come back! Come back, and give me shade!’

To her surprise, the flock wheeled around at once and returned, cawing up a storm. More crows came in answer to their calls, and more and more, circling and wheeling until the sky vanished behind the sweep of black wings, blocking out the sun and bringing a blessed coolness to the air.

Aslaug marveled. Had they come at her call? None but royalty had such power over birds and beasts!

detail from “Wheatfield with Crows,” 1890, by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890)

So much for Åke and Grima’s claims that she’d been cast off by thieves. She had wondered why the two of them laughed so hard every time someone retold the mystery of the missing princess.

The tremendous congregation of crows broke apart at last, scattering in all directions — and leaving behind them a sky-spanning blanket of heavy black clouds that burst into torrents of rain.

In the miraculous downpour danced one golden-haired maiden of royal descent, a great burden lifted from her heart. From then on she took the name Aslaug Kråke — Aslaug Crow.

---

One day while Aslaug Kråke tended flocks on the heights above the fjord, she saw many great ships coming to land not far from Spangereid farm. From the ship banners, she knew this was the fleet of Ragnar Hairy Breeches, King of Denmark, one of the mightiest kings in all Europe, who went raiding in England every summer. What was he doing here in Agder,  the very southern tip of Norway?

Aslaug hurried down from the heights. In spite of Grima’s decree, she bathed, then combed the snarls out of her hair. With golden tresses floating about her like a cape, she walked toward the house.

King Ragnar’s cooks had come ashore to bake bread. They had seen Spangereid farm, and now came and asked to use the cookhouse. Grima agreed, telling them she had a girl who could help with the baking. She sent another servant to set Aslaug to the task.

When the golden-haired maiden entered the cookhouse, Ragnar’s cooks forgot their baking, stunned at the sight. They returned to the ships with blackened loaves and tales of unparalleled beauty.

Intrigued, the king decided he had to see the lovely maiden. If she was as ravishing as the cooks said, he might even take her to be his queen. He summoned the noblest of his men and sent them to the farm with a message for the maiden. But he wanted to find out if she was as clever as she was beautiful, and so the message contained a riddle.

King Ragnar said, ‘She shall come to me neither naked nor clothed, neither fasting nor full, and neither alone nor accompanied by a single other person.’

The messengers went up to the farm and delivered the message to Aslaug Kråke. She solved the riddle at once, and bade them take a message back to King Ragnar. The next morning, she told them, she would come to the king’s ship in just the manner he wished.

Early next morning, Aslaug rose and got herself ready. She wound a fishnet round and round herself, then combed out her golden hair to fall over the netting like a veil. Thus she was neither naked nor clothed.

She took one bite out of an onion. Thus she was neither fasting nor full.

Aslaug Kråke lured the big billy goat from the herd to follow her down to the beach. Thus she was neither alone nor accompanied by a single other person.

When Aslaug walked down the strand to water’s edge, the king called to her to come aboard at once. She hung back until he promised her complete safety, then stepped into the ship’s boat. Once aboard the king’s ship, Aslaug sat and talked with Ragnar until the sun went down. He delighted in her courteous speech and wise answers, and asked her to travel with him to England.

Aslaug said no. She told the king he must go to England without her, since he might have second thoughts. But when he returned, if he hadn’t changed his mind after such a journey, he could send for her.

King Ragnar sailed out from Spangereid then and set his course for England, but he couldn’t forget the girl robed in fishnets. He raided and he looted, but his heart wasn’t in it. With the viking season only half past, he upped anchor and set course for the Norse coast and the little harbor near Spangereid.

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Aslaug Kråke watched every day from her lookout in the summer pastures. Watched all summer, never knowing if he would return. Now at last she saw the fleet coming up the sound, banners flying, and Ragnar standing in the prow of the leading ship.

She left the flocks and scurried down from the heights, her golden hair trailing like a banner of her own. She ran past the outbuildings of Spangereid farm. She dodged the grasp of Åke and Grima. “Murderers,” she called back at them as she splashed out into the shallows to meet the ship’s boat.

Ragnar welcomed Aslaug aboard. He bade her join him on his travels — and on his throne. She took his offer with grace and dignity as befitted a king’s daughter, a rightful legacy she could claim at last. Only now did she tell him her parentage.

She took her place beside him in the prow of the largest ship. The Danish fleet rowed out of Spangereid’s harbor, then swung about to skim southwards toward Denmark, with a sea wind filling the sails, fluttering the banners, and combing through Aslaug Kråke’s golden hair.

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“kråke” means “crow” 

The tale of Aslaug Kråke appears in Snorri’s Edda, the Völsunga saga and the saga of Ragnar Lodbrok.

text: © 2021 Joyce Holt

artwork: 17th century paintings: in the public domain, according to these sources:

wikiart: “This artwork is in public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 70 years or less.”

wikipedia: “This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 100 years or fewer.”

{{PD-US-expired}} : published anywhere (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before 1926 and public domain in the U.S.