Sister Mother Warrior: A Novel

Fort Madame

June 8, 1805

It’s on my heels again, making me pace, tripping my feet. I fall against the freshly whitewashed wall and allow Death’s passage.

The dark angel won’t stay away from my life. From the beginning, it pursued my bloodline, everyone of African descent, swiping at the harbors, huts, and homes. Now it stretches a wing to a protected fort high atop a mountain.

I’m filled with fear, not merely for me but for the emperor and the new nation.

The bright red-and-blue madras scarf wrapping my braids has come loose. My hair drops to my shoulders. I focus on the wrinkles in my yellow muslin dress and smooth the pleated train falling at my back. I don’t look the image of a dutiful wife, a regal empress, or anyone’s proud sister or friend. What prayer does one offer the Virgin Mary for intercession or St. Louise for energy, when the heart is full of regret?

Wanting to be anchored, wanting to be right, I embrace the wall. My fingers feel the roughness of the joints the plaster tries to hide.

The truth always reveals itself and demands its pound of flesh. And I’m tired of being left to scrape the bottom of the soup pot and lifting an empty ladle.

Can’t pretend anymore.

Can’t forget the sins of others, or mine.

A large window in the outer wall of my fort allows the air to enter. The breeze is scented with pine and fresh earth excavated for the last fort to be built, La Fin du Monde, the End of the World.

Calming, I force my eyes to acknowledge it’s not a thick window but a large loophole for firing a cannon. The sixteen-pounder that’s been brought here mirrors the many that lie about the island I’d known as Saint-Domingue. Forged in bronze, the long barrel uses its strong shoulders, the trunnions, to balance on a cartwright’s carriage. The wooden structure must be strong to bear a ton of weight. It’s underappreciated how it helps the weapon aim and perform its calling.

Craning my head in the direction of the cannon’s bore, I wonder what it targets. This high in the sky, will its lead balls or grapeshot blast clouds or ghosts?

Finding my strength, I move to the barrel and let my fingers thumb its worn cast crest.

Can’t read the Latin. I’m unsure which king could claim it or if his army tried to seize our land. Regal men rose and fell or changed alliances too quickly to remember, too quickly to trust.

Grasping the knob at the back, the rings that reinforce the heavy trunnions, I understand better that with all its power, the costs to maintain its strength overwhelm the soul.

The scent of gunpowder lingers in the empty chamber. If I close my eyes, Death will remind me of the faces lost, those I’ve tended and fed and still lost.

It could all start again—sin, war, murder—that’s the prophecy the duchess will use to coerce my agreement.

I don’t think she’s wrong, but I’m loath to promise anything.

Ma’am. My servant, my friend, has found me in the hall. Ma’am, are you well?

Yes, just a little warm.

Turning away from her clear eyes, I step closer to the loophole and see the Artibonite Valley below. Houses on the hillside look small, even happy with their coconut palm roofs. It’s not Le Cap or Léogâne or any of the places I’ve known. Still, this valley has a quiet dignity, a unique peace.

My husband’s Marchand palace is below, with a smooth, tiled roof, gingerbread in color. He’s not here. Another part of the country needs him.

He named this abode Fort Madame. It’s a gift to me. I’ve made this instrument of war my palace—my refuge . . . from him.

My friend taps my shoulder. Madame, the duchess is worse. She’s asking for you.

For me?

The battles we’ve endured say it’s not me. I’m not her first choice. She’s looking for repayment, a pound of flesh—mine.

Remembering my station, my duties, I tie up my braids. Let us go to her.

The young woman with her straight posture leads me down the hall. It’s a passageway heading in the direction of the powder magazine. Tallow candles sit in sconces along the wall, burning their good fire to show me the way. Each step draws me nearer to the barracks, the duchess’s quarters.

A servant running fast like a musket ball intercepts us. His dark face holds a frown that could block the sun even atop this high hill.

I squint at his uniform, the rich red and the bleached white, and take pity. Journeying to the top of the mountain can wind the greatest athlete.

The emperor is delayed in Le Cap, madame. I sent soldiers to hurry him.

Delayed.

Another euphemism. He’ll find his way home.

Head shaking, I dismiss the officer and refuse to think of what excuse my husband will have this time—politics, another widow to woo?

This wasn’t how things used to be. We once had no doubts about each other.

Unwilling to turn the corner, I clasp my sleeves right at the gathers of the cuffs. Perhaps we should try again to get the duchess something to drink. Fetch some asowosi tea with a pinch of salt. That will cut the harshness. Then she’ll not say it’s the bitter alomo broth her king refused.

Asowosi? Oh, the crawling ivy with berries. Your knowledge of plants amazes, madame. Oui to the salt. The duchess hates pungent taste, no matter how tough she is. I’ll get the tea at once.

My friend nods and runs toward the building with the kitchen.

She disappears around a corner like smoke from a dying flame.

Now that I’m alone, the cloven hand of Death grabs my ankles. I can’t shake free. Nor can I lead the dark angel to the duchess. Toya deserves better.

Singing hymns, my aunt’s songs, renews my peace. Freed, I float to the barracks with the grace of my grand-mère and hum all the way to Toya’s bedchamber. Like my maman, I’ll see what I want and pretend that Death is not coming, not now.

All will be well. The sands of time should be infinite for us—the duchess and me. Our grains in the hourglass should fall forever, not be measured and wasted and soon gone.

My chest gongs beneath my airy bodice. The soft soles of these lilac slippers slap the stone floor in my retreat.

Marie-Claire? That you?

I stop and turn back. The duchess’s voice is low. The vinegary smell of medicine reaches the doorway.

Lying on the mattress, Toya has her eyes closed. Sheets rustle about her diminished form. Her lungs struggle with noisy breaths.

Asowosi tea will let the good air in. That’s what my botanist prisoner once said. I’m having some made.

Come in, my empress, she says. I have something to ask, something to say. There’s little time.

Non. Stalling, I trace an imagined line on the floor. When the tea comes, it will have a little salt. Just for you, Duchess.

Nothing but a groan is uttered.

She knows I haven’t crossed her door. Like a coward, I stand at the ready, clutching the frame that separates her side from mine.

The tall woman looks small with her spine curled, shoulders hunched, head low. I miss the days when she stood erect and swung a cutlass with abandon. Toya twirled a bayonet better than any man.

Her brown eyes stir. She waggles her index finger. A mango. Find me a mango. Slice it for us. Let’s share and agree. Like sowing a seed.

Us agree? The jealous part of my broken heart wonders if my sleep will ease when her soul leaves and Death wins again.

A mango, Marie-Claire.

If that is what you wish.

Her lips are drawn, and she nods, then turns deeper into the pillow.

Get up. Reign again. Claim the power. I won’t fight.

Hands lifted in prayer, I beg the Virgin Mary and St. Louise for her life, then whisper to the duchess, Don’t leave him—not now. He needs you.

Toya’s movements still, but her yellowing eyes are on me.

I’m ashamed but draw upon the strength of my blood and vow to break its curse. I’ll get the mango, Duchess, even if I have to yank it from the tree myself.

With all the peace I can muster, I search for a glimpse, a sparkle, the tiniest oui—an agreement that an offering of fruit will pay my debts.

Part One: The Time Before

The Prophecy

One day gods from heaven came down.

The earth shook, dancing from the sound.

All knew they arrived to loose the bound,

And this hope made the world feel new.

—Anonymous, styled in the form of Utenzi

1

Adbara

1750

The Outskirts of Gbowélé

The strange warriors looked at me as I stood on the side of the road. Their harsh gazes burned into my chest, searing holes into my soul, which had already escaped. Everything I knew, everything I wanted was dead.

The day was overcast. The air felt hot and dry. Dipping my chin, I glanced at the ground, the thick red clay beneath my feet. The oppressive afternoon sun that hardened this mud must surely dry my tears.

The enemy had destroyed peaceful Gbowélé—all the huts burned, our growing grounds trampled. All the villagers, my neighbors . . .

My father had led us from the north to Gbowélé two years before. He wove baskets. My mother made medicine. When he died in a hunt during the last rainy season, the elders asked us to stay. In our mourning, we found home. Now it was gone again.

Nose wrinkling from the haze lingering in the air, I wished it smelled of the seasoned stew my mother, my iya, had started before dawn. She’d cook down sweet yams and onion with bush meat, letting it simmer all day. In the evening each morsel melted on the tongue.

We didn’t make it to dinner. The Dahomey came. Like my iya, the kettle burned, the hut became ash, all the food and our dreams dissolved to soot.

Foreign words surrounded me. Different and angry and impatient commands echoed. They rumbled in my head like my iya’s last moans. Why did she let the fire take her? Why didn’t she fight?

Movement, fast and precise, fluttered in the distance. When I lifted my gaze, I saw guards draw spears and force crying girls down the red road. Some I knew. Some were younger than my twelve years. Why were they going? Why was I not with them?

Soldiers carrying muskets looked in my direction, toward me and the young ladies who stood nearby. Ashamed of the dirt on my bared bosom, the blood staining the kente silk of my wrap, I let a shiver overtake my limbs.

Leave me to mourn.

Don’t say another foreign word to my face.

Yet what was I to do if they did? Nothing but comply, like I had as I watched them rape Gbowélé of her treasures.

I wanted the tongue of my mother. I wanted her. Wish she had wanted me, wanted me enough to fight.

Heavy tears tracked dirt down my thin cheeks. I sniffled, then held my breath, as if that could subdue the pain swirling inside. These people had stolen enough, even ripped away my beads, my family’s generational wealth, from my neck.

Sinking to the ground, I wrapped my arms about my bosom. My wrists crossed where strings and strings of carnelian beads had once hidden me.

Was it not a week ago when they were given as part of my purification ceremony? I was pristine. My mother had sung to me. Her little Adbara, she said as she made my skin soft with her special creams. Didn’t she know her daughter couldn’t live without her?

The pots she labored over for her medicines combusted when the fire started. All my years on this earth, I’d been jealous of her work, everything she did for others. I watched the fire destroy them. I cried as she chose to burn with her jars instead of hiding with me in the woods.

My eyes grew weak again, then the tallest woman I’d ever seen stopped in front of me. She wrenched me up by my shoulders and bellowed more stiff-sounding words. With her spear, she knocked my knee and made me bow.

My palms covered my face. My bony arms rattled like wind chimes.

Axɔsu! Axɔsu! She pointed to a man in rich royal robes. Axɔsu Tegbesu!

Their king? The Dahomey’s leader, Tegbesu, was here and coming my way. The warrior woman jerked my chin lower. She wanted me to greet this man, this king of the killers.

The Dahomey army gathered the remaining Gbowélé men, the young and strong, the ones who weren’t wounded, and made them march along this red clay in the same direction as the crying children. The rumors must be true. The Dahomey sold their vanquished enemies to the white devils. This was under the direction of Axɔsu Tegbesu.

I wanted to fight. I was twelve, but I’d performed the blessing ceremony with the white strips of calico on my head, with the leaf pressed between my lips. The elders had sanctified me as an adult, a woman.

The girl behind me grabbed me and kept me kneeling. You must submit, she said. It’s the only way to live.

The tall warrior, with cockle shells dripping from her hat and a glorious jet tunic covering her, nodded and moved to the next girl.

I tried to turn to see who whispered at me, but she slapped my cheek forward.

Sorry, she said. But don’t get me in trouble. I’m only trying to keep you from being sent to Ouidah. All those not wanted are sent there. They’ll be boarded on boats and sold.

This language was not Kwa or Yoruba, but close. I understood what the girl meant and was happy it wasn’t what the Dahomey spoke. I made my voice slow. Tell me what is to happen to us if we’re not sold?

Silence was my answer and then the small sound of teeth chattering. She was scared, too. She didn’t know our fate.

Move them out, a commander, a thick-muscled man, shouted in my language at their prisoners, then waved his large hands. Lead them forward!

He and other armed men drove what was left of the people of Gbowélé down the red clay road, right past me and the girls kneeling. I was glad our heads were bowed, offering a parting sign of respect.

When I looked up, I saw that the last person in the line was the son of a neighbor whose father had been beheaded hours ago. This young fellow with hands tied with jute rope about his wrists locked his black eyes to mine. This look was more than fear, more than loss or even grief.

It had no name, this feeling, but I knew it in my soul. It had visited me watching my mother die.

The chief warrior woman, with her bulging limbs, poked at me with a spear. Sit up straight. Raise your chin now.

Her tight voice enunciated my language. It rang with authority. She dropped the weapon in front of me as if I’d be stupid enough to grab it.

The warrior drew her cutlass to my chin. I said lift your face. Axɔsu Tegbesu, the king, is coming.

This woman was in charge. My iya would say her shiny cowrie shells were of great value. She was the only warrior to wear such beading.

Pebbles I had scooped from the clay swirled in my palm. If I tossed them at her, she’d cut off my head. Then I’d join my mother and my father.

Yet Death was fickle. It might not unite us. It might send me somewhere angry orphaned girls, girls with fury at their mothers, spent eternity.

I lifted my face. My vision became soggy. The sobbing wouldn’t quit.

Stop it, stupid girl. Stop it, for your own good. Smile so he’ll choose you. Then you’ll know life. Her tone wasn’t as angry as before. It almost sounded kind.

Six more warriors, all women, all dressed in dark tunics with off-white sashes from which hung weapons—cutlasses and muskets—led a man in purple robes. A turban of dark blue topped his head. His jaw was strong, and his eyes were as dark as the black stones I’d fished from the rivulet. I smelled the sweet perfume of his clothes, saw his shiny onyx skin.

The woman chanted. Axɔsu ɔ, tɔ mì ton wɛ, togun ɔ bi sin tɔ.

The commander translated. The king is our father, father of the people. He is to choose if you’ll become wives, first wives, or warrior wives.

The soldier women parted, bending in low bows, and the king approached us where we knelt on the road that led to banishment.

In the point of his chin, the straightness of his carriage, I saw dignity and strength. He was beautiful, different than any man of my village.

The king made a broad circle around us. Then he stopped, looked up to the sky with his hands held wide. Time slowed until he moved. This time he extended his palm over one girl.

She looked relieved and fell on her face, kissing at his feet.

He passed over the next young woman. His palms remained flat at his sides. When he did this, two of his female guards led her away.

No!! Please! The girl struggled, but they hit at her legs and forced her to walk.

She screamed even after I’d lost sight of her.

That wouldn’t be me.

The courage I didn’t have to save my mother would come. I rallied and wiped my eyes. If I were led away, it would be with a dry face. I owed no man my tears.

The head warrior bowed again to the king. Axɔsu Tegbesu . . . Whatever she said sounded pleasant. The king nodded as if he were immune to the chaos and continued his process of selecting and discarding, until only I was left.

I didn’t lower my eyes. I waited and looked forward to my fate. He stopped in front of me. Readying to be skipped and join the castoffs, I stared at the king.

Different and powerful his features—his broad nose, his strong thick lips—the beauty and symmetry of his countenance became shaded. His hand hovered above my head.

He’d selected me. I was chosen.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t left behind. An unexpected sob welled. My chest loosened. I took a deeper breath and bowed low, lower than all.

When I arose, the king had departed.

The head warrior gathered me and the eighteen others the king had spared. Congratulations, she said. You’ll be tested to see if you stay and become Dahomey.

Turn into one of them?

My brow rose. Being picked didn’t change what had happened. They slaughtered Gbowélé.

A big woman with arms that looked as if she could crush coconuts smiled the smile of a green mamba snake readying to strike. The process to become Dahomey, the Minos, the brides of King Tegbesu, begins in the morning.

It’s just training? We have nothing to fear?

The lead warrior shook her head, then gathered up her discarded spear. If you fail in your training, you’ll be executed or sent to Ouidah. The Dahomey want only the best to serve the king.

The girls to my left and right looked frightened. My cheeks felt fevered. I, the one Iya had left behind, had been selected to train as a killer and to destroy villages.

The warriors moved us along the red clay road, walking us in the direction opposite the slave coast. Though my gait was even, my insides spun. Like the whirly bone toy my father made twirl faster and faster on a vibrating leather strip, I became dizzy. Tomorrow things had to slow, then I’d find my way. At least I’d been promised the morning.

The smell of fiery ash, Gbowélé’s ash, was in the air. We’d passed the burned elder’s hut. A pile of embers and brokenness was all that remained.

For a moment, I’d allowed myself to be flattered, but it was impossible to serve the Dahomey, the men and women who’d doomed my home and given my mother her chance to die.

The sun beat down on my sweat-drenched brow as I marched with the soldiers across the dry plain. For the past three months the Minos, the fierce warrior women of the Dahomey, had tested me, me and all the girls the king had chosen.

The trials, the repetition of tasks, wore down my soul. I simply looked forward to morning. Yet many disappeared each time the light came. Only ten of us girls had survived.

At first, I hated everything. Then after weeks of training something changed. The fifth night of being left alone in the Lama Forest with only a cutlass for protection, I gave myself to the experience. I found a new me. The thrill of learning my strengths made my heart leap.

The Dahomey feats of endurance pushed me to demand excellence. The thorns of the vine-laden hill knew my flesh. They pierced every limb until I no longer winced, until I cheered the exertion.

Gaou Hangbé, the lead woman, said it was good to feel nothing, to shed no tears for torn skin. Soon I stopped remembering the pain of Gbowélé or even missing my mother.

Take positions along the ridge. Gaou waved her hand, rushing us. Today we study the battlefield.

As trained, I unhitched my cutlass. The metal gleamed; the leather wrapping the handle felt hard but supple. Within my palm, it gave me power and control.

Creeping in the finger grass with emerald blades cushioning my knees, I found a spot, then looked to the valley below.

What do you see? Gaou asked. Notice everything.

In the distance a naboom tree grew. Its skinny trunk held a weighty canopy that curled like a baby boy’s rich, thick hair. On the other side of the plain, elephants surrounded an umbrella acacia. Its thorns, both the straight ones and the hooked ones, held yellow-orange seedpods.

The breeze scattered them, sending the bright colors to the ground. Such a contradiction for the acacia to have great weaponry and still lose its treasure.

But then, then I remembered my iya gathering bark from these trees to fight swelling. In a glimpse, I saw her making teas for the sick. I caught myself looking back, thinking of the old. I made a heavy blink and chanted, nothing came before.

That was what Gaou taught us to do, and I promised never to fail myself or the Minos. With them I belonged. Awkward and gangly me had forced a place as a warrior. They were my home.

You see the trees and the five elephants, but do you see the lion in the distance? Gaou’s voice was strong. I doubted she feared anything.

If we were the elephants, she said, what would we do, Minos?

Many yelled, Hold your ground, others, Attack.

I . . . we all revered animals. They were the gods’ handiwork. I couldn’t think of attacking one, but I focused on Gaou calling us Minos, like we were all equals. I didn’t know one could hunger to belong, not until now.

You would attack the elephants and then the lion? Her tone was lower. Though she asked everyone—the tilt of her head, the angle of her face with the slight jiggle of those glossy shells on her helmet—her question seemed directed at me.

With a shy cough, I shook my head. We do not have them surrounded. The elephants will escape if we charge. The lions are powerful. They cannot be ignored.

Good. And we wait for one or the other to make a mistake. Every battle is a strategy. Gaou half smiled, then turned and looked away.

My friend—the young woman captured the same day as me, one with whom I’d secretly shared a sweet ogbono in the depths of the Lama Forest—winked at me. We survived hunger because of the fruit. We outlasted training because of our bond.

"All animals are beautiful, but we must think of them as a threat. Study our prey, Minos. Elephants are big, but they have weaknesses. Gaou tightened her grip around her spear. We must face the enemy without fear. It’s the same as facing a man on the field of battle. We must not give an inch, no deference because they are male. To win, we will not accept their terror."

Terror.

My iya’s . . . she had stayed inside the burning hut until the thatch of the roof glowed. She was yelling at me to run, but I refused to leave her. She and her beloved pots burned before my eyes.

Did Iya know the Dahomey would take me? Did she want me to go with them?

The earth trembled. Three young elephants trampled near, kicking up dirt. Dust rolled up to our ridge. When the fog lessened, I saw a fast-moving lion. It prowled and attempted to cut a stray from the pack.

Swatting their long trunks, two big elephants approached. They trumpeted and charged until the lion backed up. The young elephants rushed to the herd. The older gathered around them and formed a protective ring.

Gaou moved her hand through the air as if she were wafting the fragrance of a hot stew set before us. Smell the honey in the breeze?

Faint as it was, the sweetness tickled my nose.

The young calves are male. They give off that scent to let the older know they are no threat.

One would think their size would do that. I covered my mouth. I shouldn’t be free with my tongue, but thoughts that burned needed to be said . . . especially goodbye and sorry.

I knew that now.

Soldiers who serve other kings first think Minos are weak because we are women. Then they meet us in battle. One taste of our cutlasses, they die knowing the truth. Gaou rose from her crouched position and pointed below. The lion sees the strength of the battle line. The elephants protect what’s important. They’ve forestalled the attack.

A horn shrieked. A medium-sized elephant in the far distance was being chased by another lion. The defeated one joined in and the two big creatures pushed the loner toward our ridge.

Pouncing on his back, clawing from behind, the lions took down the elephant. Dust and raw honey scent came at us.

As the beasts struggled, Gaou made a gesture sending six of the fleetest, strongest Minos forward. She counted down, lowering fingers until her hand was balled.

The warriors raised weapons, ran into the fray, and chased the lions away. The hunted elephant stood anew, but like the other predators, the Minos attacked from the rear, jabbing with spears. Wrapping its hind legs with ropes, our women brought him down.

The earth shook. I coughed at the dust clouds gathering, but the smell, the sweet smell, turned ferrous.

Gaou snapped her fingers. A second wave of Minos climbed down to the beast and finished sending the elephant to eternity.

Cutlasses dripping with blood, the women returned, displaying pieces of dismembered flesh stabbed on their spears. Two returned with the trunk, the tenderest morsel on an elephant.

Tonight, like the seed of the ogbono, the meat would be roasted. Our warriors would give thanks and cook the kill on a spit and flame.

We, the new recruits, stood still. Not quite in control of my thoughts, my body started to quiver. I wanted the honey, not the blood.

King Tegbesu would be proud, Gaou said, then led us to camp chanting, Axɔsu Tegbesu wɛ ɖÓ acɛ daxÓ é è nan ɖɔ lé é mì nan nɔn gbon é nu mì."

The Fon language they’d taught us sounded like music. The words meant King Tegbesu had the divine right to dictate the way we shall go. He’d chosen me for this.

I closed my eyes and I saw those words scribbled on my lids. My iya was a healer. I would have followed in her path, but now I was a hunter. I had to let go of my fears and be one with this path.

My friend brushed my shoulder of dust. She smiled at me and I watched her mouth the Fon words.

My thoughts stilled and I drank in the dust and the perfume of killing. Axɔsu Tegbesu wɛ ɖÓ acɛ daxÓ é è nan ɖɔ lé é mì nan nɔn gbon é nu mì. I said this, and meant it, more than I had ever before.

Being set apart is lonely, until you find purpose. Gaou’s voice—strong, bold, and assured—penetrated my skull. It pierced my heart.

Whatever happens, my friend said, we’ll survive together. We’re twins, becoming Minos the same day. I stand with you.

We had no names yet. When we finished training, the fire ceremony would give us one. I couldn’t wait to say hers and to hear mine.

They say a mature elephant is only good for a hungry man.

Keep talking. I let my whisper kiss her ear. All will be well. There’s nothing to fear anymore.

Always something. We’re giving up everything to belong. A frown dulled her brown eyes, eyes I found hooded in shame.

We aren’t alone in this, not anymore. I pumped my spear into the air. Together and belonging is better.

Freedom is better . . . She looked away, not finishing her thoughts.

I decided not to dwell. If I was to be a warrior, that meant I had to become comfortable with bloodshed and destruction.

At camp, the steaks of our kill sizzled and spat bubbling fat. My gut forgot the honey and succumbed to the fragrance of charred meat and spice.

2

Adbaraya

1758

Calmina, Dahomey Kingdom

If Gaou Hangbé looked down from her place with the ancestors and saw what I was doing—shirking my duties, running around the walls of the city looking for my friend—shame would fall from the skies like balls of fire.

Eight years I’d served at her side, learning from the great Gaou every movement and strategy, until she fell in battle to the Oyo three rainy seasons ago.

Toya? Adbaraya Toya?

Hearing that name, garbled and low as if it came from the waters of the rivulet, made me stop.

Made me remember.

Gaou Hangbé led me to the babbling stream at the center of camp. My sisters, my soon-to-be sisters, danced and ate of the feast, the roasted fruits and hearty stew that scented the air.

Creamy white carnelian beads straddled my hips, forming an apron that protected my womanhood from the spitting ash.

The fire will greet you, she said. The beading of her hat, of her breastplate, jingled when she leaned forward, warming her hands over flames that glowed red, red like blood. Take the leaf from your mouth, Adbara, she said. Give it to the flames. Then we shall know your new name.

Holding my breath, praying to retain a bit of the old, I did as she asked.

In seconds, the leaf ignited, licked away to nothing. Sparks hissed as the logs offered mournful crackles, then all dulled. Silence.

Had the gods rejected my offering?

Everything, everyone celebrating the completion of our training, of becoming Minos, stilled. It felt like the world ended before Gaou raised her arms.

You shall be called Adbar . . . aya. Adbaraya Toya.

My leader’s voice sounded strangled, but my cheeks began to burst. I had something of the old. I would keep my name, most of it. Thank you, Gaou. Thank you.

Dancing and singing began anew, but the woman I idealized frowned as if the sky had fallen. Do not be thankful for a curse. Adbaraya means torn apart, torn away. You will be torn away from all you know.

No. That’s already happened. It’s why I’m here.

She put her hand to my chin. Again, judgment comes for you. Toya means water. The water will take you. You will be set apart for betrayal.

Toya? Adbaraya Toya?

My face fevered.

Adbaraya Toya, are you all right?

Eghosa’s voice. Blinking, I came to myself, turned from the rivulet then began searching for her.

Made a warrior the same day as I, my friend was given the name Eghosa, which translated to god’s servant. Yet, when I saw her grinning at me like a Guinea baboon and reaching for an ogbono instead of manning Calmina’s western gate, I suspected her god was mischief.

Come down, Eghosa.

Who’s to catch me? She’d scurried to the highest part of the bowing tree. Our troops are away and the new Gaou is my friend, my champion.

My hands felt damp curled about my spear. I feared less about Eghosa falling and more that we’d be caught, and I’d disappoint my king.

Sweat dampened my brow under my bronzed hat with feathers and cowrie shells—Gaou’s helmet. Down, now. You’re to guard the gates of Calmina. The palace can’t be unprotected.

Adbara, with most of the Minos away training new recruits in the Lama Forest, no one is around to catch us.

My forces were woefully diminished. It would be easy to attack the city. I couldn’t let that happen, but the pleasure on her face . . . Be quick.

A concession? Perhaps I should continue to call you by your old name, Adbara. Then you’ll pay attention to me. You don’t. Not that much anymore. I’m not as important to you, now that you’re Gaou.

That’s not true or fair. I slapped at the trunk. My strong arms could shake it down, knocking her from her perch, but my patience had grown. Summoning my authority, I craned my neck toward her. Come down, Eghosa, now.

Afraid King Tegbesu would see and know you aren’t perfect? Or would think you remembered a friend? Her voice mocked, but she wore her begging smile that made me feel guilty about upholding my responsibilities.

Why not be a first wife, Adbara, to justify your being away from me? Don’t you ever yearn to be more than a glimmer in the king’s eye? I’d want that for you.

At twenty, I knew my mind and what contentment was. I advise the king. Nothing more.

Eghosa still pouted and remained high in the tree. Maybe I have things to tell you, too. But you’re busy. I don’t make you red in your cheeks. Not anymore.

Her voice was bitter, as if I’d purposely been aloof. Eghosa and I . . . we’d always been close, but I had responsibilities. Those came first. You can’t be away from the gate. It’s a breach.

She stripped off her beaded headband, tossing aside the precious leather adorned with yellow-orange cowrie shells, one of the many treasures bestowed to the warrior women by Tegbesu.

Her shiny braids glistened and fell upon her shoulders. You’re a good leader, but I’m a better friend. She clasped the elusive ogbono and shook it. You need more pleasure.

Gaou Hangbé would want—

You’re Gaou, Gaou Adbaraya Toya. Don’t walk upon her shoulders. Choose your own path. Eghosa’s words were lyrical. With a kiss to its skin, she held up the fruit, and I imagined the tangy taste of the ogbono, the way the slick flesh settled on my tongue and dripped tart and sweet juice. This is not ripe enough. Must get one worthy of us.

No, Eghosa. Come down. Stand in front of Calmina’s high walls and guard the gate. Let’s have no more foolishness.

Her eyes became small. Did becoming Gaou mean losing us?

Eghosa—

Remember how you’d dip in the water to cool your heels every time we ended patrol. Then you’d clasp my hand and say, ‘Together we win.’

That was early on. We had to mature. I had to outgrow the prophecy.

Do it now. She pointed to the water. Show me our proper Gaou can be fun.

With the sand beneath my bared feet burning of the day’s scorching heat, the draw to be carefree and reckless like Eghosa was magnetic. If I turned to the western gate and splashed my thorn-scarred soles in the glistening waters, who would know? Who would suspect that the new Gaou was human? And no longer fighting the past.

Adbara . . . ya. You look as if you’re going to pass out. It’s just water. The king won’t see his favorite misbehaving.

My cheeks felt flushed. She knew my heart and my unrequited feelings . . . but voiced it to the wind.

The breeze made leaves rustle, even those of the nearby baobab. You sound boisterous, but do be careful not to play with temptation and pride. The god, Cagn, might hear and flip you upside down like he did those trees. Till this day the baobabs look as if their roots are growing to the sky, and their trunks remain fat and stunted.

Eghosa did a flip out of the tree and landed. I’ll take care after pleasure. She wrapped her arm around mine. Come to the grassy knoll and share in friendship and ogbonos. My friend, my temptress, pointed to one in a neighboring tree.

Then she leapt like a scurrying mongoose, twirled between the acacia’s branches until she swooped into the green canopy that held our jewels, yellowed ripe ogbonos. Arms stretched wide, she balanced on the knurled limb and seized the one. For you, my Gaou.

What has come over you, Eghosa? You seem rebellious.

Maybe I am. Maybe I’m remembering the old, all we gave up . . . when we were forced to live as Minos. You and I would be married women now with children, something of our own to love. She hung upside down. The shells of her bracelets rattled. The breastplate of her tunic slipped, sending the biblike grass cloth to her chin.

Come down, my Minos. Stop looking to the past.

Eghosa swung by her knees. I had a lovely village. A happy home. A mother and father who were proud of me. I liked the neighbor’s son. He was nice. And I dream of a man’s eyes looking at me like I’m a woman, a lover, not a soldier, not a killer.

She’d never talked of the time before. I didn’t understand why she sounded hurt about our duties. Eghosa, what has happened? What is this about?

Nothing, not that you’d notice, not unless the king said it.

Pounding my spear along the ground, I stood up straight. Come tell me your troubles. I pointed over my shoulder at the red walls of reinforced brick and thatch. Behind those proud gates that we’ve polished with palm oil until our hands are numb, that we’ve lined with the skulls of every transgressor who has come against us, our king sleeps at ease. We stand at the ready against attack. We must always be ready. There is pride in being fierce and prepared.

Ready for what? The next war? What about what I want? What about freedom?

We are not enslaved, Eghosa.

Are you sure? We can’t go and come as we please. We cannot love and be loved. We must think and do for a king who can have what he wants, and that means keeping us servile. We are slaves. We’ve just been trained not to care.

Heresy.

Temptation be gone. King Tegbesu cares for us. Axɔsu Tegbesu wɛ ɖÓ acɛ daxÓ é è nan ɖɔ lé é mì nan nɔn gbon é nu mì. I chanted this over and over and waited for her to repeat it.

She didn’t. Instead, she bit an ogbono, devouring it with its juice dripping down her plump lips.

Thinking of what Gaou Hangbé would do, of Cagn’s wrath, I clasped my palms about the spear instead of shaking Eghosa. I’ve been made the leader. I have to protect the king, us, all our ways.

But they’re not truly our ways. They’ve been drilled into our skulls. She held an ogbono to me. When I refused, she took a big bite. Her purr of pleasure was loud enough to wake the dead. You have forgotten too much, Adbara.

"And you’ve awakened at the wrong time. This should’ve been said