Zulu Heart Read online

  ZULU HEART

  By Steven Barnes

  A Mystique Press Production

  Mystique Press is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright © 2018 Steven Barnes

  Previous publication by Warner Books—2003

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Steven Barnes is a New York Times bestselling, award-winning novelist and screenwriter who is the creator of the Lifewriting™ writing course, which he has taught nationwide. He recently won an NAACP Image Award as co-author of the Tennyson Hardwick mystery series with actor Blair Underwood and his wife, Tananarive Due. For an overview of his 20-plus novels, visit Amazon.com.

  But Steve’s true love is teaching balance and enhancing human performance in all forms: emotional, professional and physical.

  In addition to being an author and writing instructor, he is also a life coach, CST coach and certified hypnotist. He has more than 30 years’ experience in the self-development arts, including hypnosis certification with Transformative Arts Institute in Marin, CA, training as a yoga and Tai Chi instructor, and fourth-degree black belt. He has counseled executives, royalty, prominent politicians and Hollywood celebrities at the Moonview Sanctuary in Santa Monica.

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  To my wife, Tananarive Due:

  My Nandi, my Lamiya.

  Sometimes, one is enough.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Zulu Heart is dedicated to the friends and colleagues who never allowed me to forget either my bliss or responsibilities. This is the life I chose, and no matter how steep the path, one can only climb: for every blister and exertion, there is a commiserate heightening of perspective.

  But beyond those stalwarts …

  To my daughter Lauren Nicole, who has so wonderfully fulfilled her promise.

  To Rebecca Neason, Brenda Cooper, Todd Elner, and Tiel Jackson for reading and for comments that helped to clear away the fog. To Toni Young, mother of my child, for both comments and her wonderful maps. Bless you. Once again to Heather Alexander, for permission to quote her wondrous words of song.

  Charles Johnson and Harry Turtledove, for encouragement.

  Betsy Mitchell, who first believed in the dream.

  Jaime Levine, my current editor at Warner/Aspect: you demonstrated patience above and beyond the call. This one was like pulling teeth, I know, but you applied what emotional Novocain you could, and were kind.

  For Eleanor Wood, my extraordinary agent and friend. How incredibly lucky I was to find you. Thank you for everything, always.

  Mad props to Wendi Dunlap for her knowledge of African culture in general and Yoruban philosophy and the Orishas in particular.

  Shall I tell you what acts are better than fasting, charity and prayers?

  Making peace between enemies are such acts, for enmity and malice tear up the heavenly rewards by the roots.

  —The Prophet Muhammad

  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

  —Jesus Christ

  If you could get rid

  Of yourself just once,

  The secret of secrets

  Would open to you.

  The face of the unknown,

  Hidden beyond the universe

  Would appear on the

  Mirror of your perception.

  —Rumi

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Bilalian weights and measures are modifications of ancient Egyptian standards. The royal cubit is here interpreted as about eighteen inches. A digit is about an inch. A kite is approximately an ounce. Ten kites equal one deben, ten debens equal one sep.

  The dates given in chapter headings are rendered in both Hijri (dating from Muhammad’s flight from Mecca) and Gregorian (dating from the birth of Christ).

  ZULU HEART

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PART II

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  PART III

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  PART IV

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
r />   CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  PART V

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  CHAPTER NINETY

  CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

  AFTERWORD

  PROLOGUE

  Edge of the Dahomy Empire,

  central West Africa

  A.H. 183 (A.D. 800)

  In the verdant grasslands a brisk hour’s run from the coast, close enough for to spice the air with the ocean’s foam, thirteen solemn men sat circle, speaking of death.

  These thirteen represented the twelve independent Yoruban city-states. Different tribes they were, but a single nation when faced with disaster, whether that grief was occasioned by man or nature. This day they confronted the greatest challenge within living memory: a vast and voracious Dahoman army even now preparing to march against their farms and towns.

  Although they had freely elected to lay their lives down for their people, terror and despair gnawed at their hearts. The Dahoman empire had consumed all within its path, offering liberal terms to those who laid down their arms, but destruction, torture, and slavery to any who dared resist.

  Negotiation had failed. With the morrow’s dawn, the Yoruban forests and plains would churn with battle.

  Akintunde, senior war chief and griot of the Yoruba, was a man of fifty rains. Despite his burden of years and scars, he stood as erect as any man twenty rains his junior. His shaven head and torso were intricately tattooed with keloid scars proclaiming Yoruba battles, calamities, and triumphs. Even in silence, Akintunde was his people’s living history.

  Whatever misgivings the Twelve might have felt, they held themselves straight and strong, eyes locked on the man whose very name meant “courage returns.” Akintunde had called this gathering that his people might march to the rhythm of a single heart. His courage would be theirs. As he had done so many times in the past, Akintunde locked his own fear deep within his breast, that only vitality might shine from his eyes, only words of power issue from his tattooed lips.

  Each subchief represented many hundreds of fighting men. In peacetime they were farmers, hunters, fishermen. In time of war, they kissed their wives and children good-bye, gave their souls to Chango or Ogun, and marched off to war. This, then, was their final meeting before the morrows fateful clash.

  “Men have faced such odds before,” Akintunde began.

  “Did they survive?” asked a short, muscular young blacksmith. He squatted on his heels, obsidian face taut with worry. Akintunde knew that Ojo was troubled: his breathing was shallow and high, his posture canted forward, denoting tightness in the gut. During a war-dance hours before, Akintunde noted that Ojo’s coordination was degraded by tension. Hunger or fatigue could do these things, but the old war-chief intuited that Ojo yearned for more than food or sleep: Ojo was famished for hope.

  “Survival is for the beasts of the forest,” replied their leader. “Men are born to conquer and prevail.”

  Every eye was fixed upon him. Battling desperation, Akintunde scanned his memory for some bit of encouragement he might offer. His chiefs would fight and die if he so ordered them. But if only he could find the words, they might do much more.

  If Akintunde was truly worthy of the name his father had given him, they might fight and win.

  So, steadying his voice and expanding his chest, he began to speak. Not of their own ancestors, who, though mighty and brave, had never faced a challenge such as that the morrow would bring. Instead, it was a tale of an ancient, faraway people, a tale that had traveled with the Abyssinian and Egyptian traders who had plied the coastlines for a thousand years. A tale that lived in the writings of Aeschylus, long-dead bard of the fabled city of Athens, who had raised his spear above a plain called Marathon, and thought that moment of ultimate trial the greatest of his life.…

  In the days before the rise of Pharaoh Haaibre Setepenamen, Darius, the King of Persia, dreamed a dream that all the world should rest in his bejeweled hands. Between this king and his loathsome vision stood only a tiny group of free warriors who would bow their heads to the sky, or their ancestors, or the Orishas, but never to mortal men.

  Darius considered himself more than mere flesh, and vowed to humble the Athenians, or destroy them.

  The Persian soldiers were more numerous than ants in the forest. Their mighty warships dominated the oceans. Armor-plated Persian warhorses darkened the horizon. So abundant were Darius’s bowmen that their flights clouded the sky. His commanders, Datis and Artaphernes, were demons in fleshly form, beyond human capacity to defeat.

  Ten thousand Athenians marched forth, a force that was to the Persians as a stripling is to a blooded warrior. Their tribe, the Greeks, had spawned great Setepenamen, whom some called Alexander.

  Unlike the Persians, these Greeks fought not for a distant god-monarch, that his shadow might enfold an entire world. Each fought that his children might live their lives, till their soil, love their women in their own way, and not at the pleasure of a madman who thought himself beyond death and judgment.

  Each and every Athenian fought not for gold, but for a dream. No professional soldiers, they were poets, philosophers, teachers, fishermen.

  These men had vowed victory, or death in its attempt.

  Minds unburdened by the fear of death, they gained the clarity Ogun gifts only those true in every part. They saw not disaster. Instead, the god of war gave them a vision: by meeting the Persians in a narrow place, then stretching their lines out so they could not be flanked, the number of their enemies mattered not.

  All that mattered was the absolute courage in each heart, the strength in each Greek arm.

  The battle was the crash of waves against a rocky shore. Pitted against a Persian ocean, the Athenian rock did not yield. As the tide retreated, so fled the Persians.

  Wise in the ways of war, the Greeks did not pursue. They knew the Persians would send their fleet to Athens, hoping to deceive the city into opening its gates, attempting guile where force of arms had failed. The Greeks sent a runner on ahead, a man of quicksilver tread named Phideppides. Fleet as an antelope, he ran for hours without an instant’s rest. Upon reaching his people he cried, “We have won!” and fell, his heart at rest, the ancestors welcoming him home.

  When the enemy arrived, the Athenians knew better than to open their gates. For the first time, the Persians knew defeat.

  The Greeks won because Ogun smiles upon the courageous, because each and every Athenian was righteous in the eyes of his ancestors, who watched from the shadow world, and were well pleased.

  They won because the Persians were slaves of King Darius. He, and the mad King Xerxes who followed him, were weak and arrogant.

  The Athenians won because they were free men.

  As Akintunde concluded his story, his voice rose to a crescendo. The twelve chiefs stood, pounding their spear-butts against the ground, howling their defiance and battle-fever to the sky. Akintunde was proud, and knew they would give the last drop of blood from their veins, wring the last crumb of strength from their sinews. More than that Chango himself could not ask.

  And on that next fateful day, the Yoruba prevailed, inspired by an ancient tale of a long-vanquished people. A tale that, with the passage of centuries, would seem ever more mythic than historical.

  After a
ll, Europe was a conquered continent, its children raped and slaughtered, its lands divided among the Africans who washed her soil with blood.

  But the Yoruba remembered: once, before the fall of barbarous Rome, had lived the Greeks. And for a single scintillating moment, they had shone as a beacon of light in the diseased soul of a war- and plague-torn continent. On a distant day, Athens had chosen death over slavery, and had been rewarded with freedom. And if her descendants had forgotten that lesson, there were others who held it close.

  As a thousand years of monarchies held Africa and Europe in thrall, as emperors clutched the throne of China and the Gupta controlled all of India, as kings and princes of all stripe ruled the islands east of Abyssinia, along with the vast tides of wealth in trade and tribute flowed another current, one carrying not men or materiel, but an idea stronger than either.

  Freedom, it whispered.

  And one day, though it might take another thousand years, that whisper would become a roar.

  PART I

  The Wakil

  “I have studied for many years,” said the student, “and yet have not experienced that of which you speak: that clarity, that connection with the divine. My heart yearns for that food I have yet to taste.”

  “It is the yearning that sharpens the student,” said the master. “And also separates him.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “We yearn for what we do not have, so that our minds are there, and here, and there. You seek what was yours at birth.”

  “Then why do I not feel it?” asked the student.

  “Because you have entered the world of men, in which lies are often preferable to truth.”

  “And in the world of spirit there are no lies?”

  “None,” said the teacher. “Nor truth. Only Allah.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Songhai Islands, south of New Djibouti

  8 Ramadan A.H. 1294

  (Sunday, September 16, 1877)