Chapter VI: The City of the Fulani

Garram peered out from the treetop. Far away to the right and left stretched the high red wall of the city, unbroken in its smooth surface save for the single doorway from which poured a seemingly endless stream of farmers, traders with their donkeys and headloads, and women with earthenware jars going forth to draw water.

The boy had arrived after midday of the previous day, having traveled rapidly all night and morning. He had found no difficulty in discovering the city, the fabulous city of Yelwa, for all tracks for at least twenty miles around led directly toward it, converging upon each other, widening when they met as streams meet to form rivers.

In the rugged, thinly populated Hills he had neither seen nor imagined anything like it, had heard of nothing to prepare him for the sight of so many paths, such unbelievable streams of people. It was all so terrifying in its strangeness. Not a rock nor a hill was in sight, only level fields of corn and other crops stretching as far as he could see from his treetop vantage point. And always his eyes and thoughts came back to that towering city wall. Yesterday he had circled it, Kon at his heels, until dark, seeking some less public way of entrance than this city gate. Four gates in all he had found, one at each point of the compass, but each choked with jostling crowds, and there was no other opening. There was no crack or growing plant, either, to afford him finger and toe hold up the high wall with its crenelated top.

Under cover of the darkness last night he had made a closer examination. Cautiously making his way to the edge of the dry moat, he had carefully felt along between the poisoned stakes planted in the bottom of it and with the assistance of Kon’s unwilling tail, hauled himself up the other side. Then, flattening himself against the base of the wall so that people on top might not easily see him in the dim starlight, he worked round to the gateway, only to find it closed. This he had expected, but all the same it was disappointing.

So he had made his way back again to the uncultivated bush, had hunted and killed, eaten and slept. And now he was again seeking an entrance into the city of Yelwa as it poured forth its inhabitants by its western gate.

Garram climbed down again to where Kon was waiting for him, hidden in the small brush at the foot of the tree. As it was early morning the stream of people was emerging from the gates, but catching sight of some travelers about to enter he fell in behind the crowd, dread of the unknown giving him a sick feeling inside him and weakening his knees.

He had never imagined how strange and trying the quarter of a mile to the city gates could be. He had never heard any spoken language but his own, and here people were chattering and exchanging salutations in a tongue which seemed to him as meaningless as the calls of birds. But, all the same, they seemed to understand it, though it was hard to believe it wasn’t pretence. People looked curiously at him, for the men all wore long robes and baggy trousers, and the women a long straight cloth wrapped around beneath their arms and reaching nearly to the feet. Half-admiringly a girl nudged another girl, and they both smiled at him and pointed. But the boy grew hot under his dark skin and passed his hand over his shaven head. All the other men and boys wore turbans or round red hats, all crown, he noticed, and nowhere did he see such a leather loincloth as he wore.

Kon, however, seemed to be enjoying himself. Many yellow-colored dogs passed him, but on seeing him snarled and made a wide detour. Here and there he stepped aside to get a closer sniff at some strange scent of donkey, horse, or human.

By the time the slowly moving donkey train in front of him had reached the gate Garram was glad to lift his glance from the roadway with its deep-trodden sand. The gatehouse with a guard-room on each side made a tunnel of shadow through which could be seen a long street of flat-roofed houses, so unlike the round huts of the Hills that he scarcely took them for dwelling places. It was dreadfully like a trap, and it took all his will power to overcome his instinct to turn and escape before it was too late.

A man at arms on guard at the gateway took one swift glance at the strange young hunter, then called back to someone in the gatehouse. At the signal several others came out at a run, fixing on their red-tasseled sword slings as they came.

“A Hillman and his dog, though never before has one left the Hills!” the sentry cried.

“A terrible warrior indeed!” jeered one of those who had been called from his morning meal. “But now that he has passed, permit that we return, since you no longer require protection.” They turned back, unslinging their cross-handled swords, unbuckling the fastenings on their quilted armor.

“By Shehu, they took it coolly.” The sentry stabbed idle patterns in the sand with his spear point. “The unbeliever is young and comes openly, as in peace. But my father has told me of how, in the old days, when their hills were attacked they fought as lions, having no fear of death, but killing as they sank wounded to their knees, killing still as they dropped to one elbow, still stabbing as their eyes closed in death.” Admiringly the young soldier followed Garram with his eyes “Allah permit that I, a true believer and follower of the Prophet Mohammed may some day fight as well as these unbelievers!”

The young hunter, unconscious of these happenings behind him, had plenty to bewilder him. The sandy road, hollowed out by many feet and hoofs, narrowed between the houses, then opened wide into the market square, set with shady trees. From the trading booths of mud and thatch, from the groups of people who crouched over wares spread on mats in the open, came a bewildering hubbub of many voices, crying their goods, disputing prices, greeting each other, telling the news.

To his nose came also the strong scents of the market, of spices and strange foods, of the perfumes used by both men and women of these gowned people, of the smoke of the small fires round the butchers’ stalls where morsels of meat were grilled on slivers of stick. The boy turned, half seeking a way out of this, when Kon created a diversion which made retreat impossible.

The mangy market curs, underfed, timorous, and cruel, had come up one by one to inspect this unknown dog, who looked more like a young calf than a canine. One by one they had ranged themselves beside Kon as he followed a pace behind his young master. The hound, with majestic dignity, was ignoring them when with a flash of yellow teeth a cur made a slash at his hind quarters. But the teeth never met in Kon’s flesh, and the yellow torrent of dogs, which as if by signal closed on Kon, hurled themselves at empty air. For an instant Kon stood grinning where his sideways leap had landed him--then----

Garram turned swiftly at first sound of the flurry, but only in time to see the yellow pack in yelping flight across the market place. The dogs managed to dodge the more solid things such as mud walls and tree trunks, but that was all they dodged. Grave leather workers, gesticulating butter sellers, and such, had no warning before yellow bodies began sailing past their heads, emitting terrified yelps and scrabbling confusedly with their paws at turbans, faces of those who had knelt on the mats, bowls of milk, and anything else which might give foothold and increase their speed of flight.

What the curs could not go under they went through. Powdered tobacco became mixed with sweetmeats, fluffy mounds of ginned cotton spread like snow through the square, butter and milk shot high in the air and descended like blessings on ungrateful heads. The first yellow wave of curs crashed over and among people before there was time to shake a stick at them. As traders sprang up from mat seats, adjusting disheveled turbans, righting overturned calabashes, retrieving scattered market produce, a second apparition sent them groveling afresh, calling upon Allah and the Prophet.

One terrified glimpse they got of something huge and black. It was Kon, grinning but immensely determined, hurtling in pursuit. Behind him Garram, who appeared a small fiend armed with all sorts of outlandish weapons, and uttering strange calls, seemed to their astonished gaze scarcely to touch the ground as he dodged, swerved, and leaped in pursuit.

All those men whom Islam deemed holy and whose names could be remembered in a hurry were invoked as protectors in case Allah and Mohammed should again prove insufficient.

At the end of the market was a large flat-roofed building with an outside stairway, the Mohammedan mosque, the Place of Prayer for the Faithful of Islam. As the yelping, scurrying pack swept round the corner of the building out of sight, Kon withdrew from the pursuit. Garram, seeing this, turned in the act of leaping over some children and a pile of corded firewood and alighted in a space between some bowls of sweetmeats. He glanced around, seeking a way out of the awkward situation. Kon, still grinning, and dancing almost on tiptoe, came up, trying unsuccessfully to look apologetic.

But hurrying after them came a stout and wrathful trader, turban askew, his brown face almost black with anger. “In the name of Shehu, this exceeds all!” he shouted and with raised spear rushed upon Kon.

Garram could not understand the strange speech, but it was clear that his dog was in danger. The trader’s spear flashed forward and down. But with his left hand Garram had swung his keen hunting ax, cutting the spearhead from the shaft. Like a spinning leaf the broad blade flew, flashing from the shaft out into the air, and the lunge of the angry merchant carried the headless spear shaft harmlessly past Kon’s broad back.

The man was still recovering his balance, gazing with wonder at the wand he held, that had so short a moment before been a spear, then his eyes fell upon the knife in the young hunter’s right hand. The blade slid smoothly to the broad stomacher, was lost in the folds of the loose gown and withdrawn with the swift dexterous twist that only comes from much practice. Then Garram and Kon vanished round the corner of the Mosque.

Horror of death was on the broad face of the trader. His useless spear fell to the ground. A large hand felt at where the gaping wound should be, then astonishment and finally a broad grin spread across his face.

“Shaitan and Iblus!” Amazement was in his voice. “To cut my trouser string and make me think it was death!” Hastily he grabbed up the trousers which had settled round his ankles and, though much impeded, started in pursuit.

LAUGHTER MAKES FRIENDS AND FOES