Muezzinland by Stephen Palmer Read Free Book Online Page A

thorny bushes and an occasional tree relieving the brown monotony. Parts of this scrubland were supplied with water, and here herds of gnu and antelope shuffled in an uneasy truce with vultures, hyenas, and, far off, a pride of lionesses. There was a constant cackling of birds wheeling in the air. The grasses were tinder dry. Reeds grew as tall as people at the edges of waterholes, but elsewhere vegetation was limited to ground hugging root plants, black bushes, and the ubiquitous baobab.
    Gmoulaye walked naked, as ever, and, though they rested during the midday hours, Nshalla felt hot and sweaty enough to remake her dress as a corset. Msavitar wore a long white gown patterned with dust and sweat.
    They walked on.
    ~
    Daboya was crowded. They walked exhausted into the shambling town, having made thirty kilometres during the day in sweltering conditions, bothered by midges, eaten by mosquitoes, even losing their way for an hour in a plain of cracked boulders before Msavitar spotted a line of twinkling eyes that marked the beginning of the track into town. The shock of the crowds caused Nshalla to stand stunned for some minutes.
    Borassus palms encircled the town. It seemed a liberal place, this capital of Azaraland, as evinced by a lack of civic warriors, no gates or toll booths, nor even any flags flying. Nervous though Nshalla was, she felt she would be able to stay for a night before taking the riverboat.
    They were not bothered as they wandered the passages of the old town. Evening was near and street markets were closing down. Gmoulaye noticed a drumming circle, which she joined for a few minutes, playing her djembe, before asking for advice on accomodation. They were pointed in the direction of Warthog Lane.
    On this crooked row of azara shacks they spotted a long hut, tall, though only one storey, outside it a pole from which a chameleon skin hung. Msavitar thought it an inn, and it was.
    The owner was a local who spoke imperfect New-Oriental, a short man with a wooden leg and a lazy eye. His brown skin was as wrinkled as a town elder's, though he had not yet gained white hair.
    He introduced himself just as Mr. Mboup. "Look down the length of my inn," he said, "and see the many rooms you can choose, all cheap, clean, guarenteed free of rats and scorpions. These you can stay in. Riverboat? There is a timetable stuck to one of the palms by the jetty. Only two minutes from here."
    Waving Msavitar aside, Nshalla took out her bank and paid for all three of them. Mr. Mboup sniffed the card before slipping it into his transputer interface and allowing his systems to debit the sum agreed.
    "You have been on long journey," he said, nodding. "This smells of monkey shit, and there is no monkeys in Azaraland." He rubbed his stomach. "Pleasantest wishes to you all."
    "You're well travelled, then?" Nshalla asked him.
    "No. But I get all sorts of chaff types in here, the rough, the smooth. It is a living."
    Mr. Mboup showed them to their rooms. Through the roof of hers, Nshalla could see the moon.
    Later, Nshalla went with Gmoulaye down to the jetty, to discover that a riverboat was making north for Bolgatanga Bridge at dawn. Returning to the inn, she requested a call an hour before dawn then slipped under the mosquito nets of her room.
    The riverboat was a wooden affair, barnacles amidst peeling green paint, its array of solar cells hoisted up on fraying ropes. It was called The Late King of Benin. As the sun rose, the trio walked aboard and allowed a porter to take them to their cabins. A robotic arm emerging from a wall gave them booster jabs against new-malaria, yellow fever and shivering fever.
    Soon Nshalla was lounging on a deck chair at the stern of the riverboat. A dozen other travellers accompanied them. The crew consisted of four men, drunkards except for Captain Nfor, who was a very tall man as thin as an aether aerial, wearing an ancient uniform from some downfallen European country and who put on airs and graces. His