Joseph McNair 
The Way To Orí
The two men followed a network of deer trails through the thick woods en route to their destination. Shango, the taller and younger of the two, carried his heavy pack with the ease of one who had labored many years at the blacksmith’s forge; whose powerful muscles were shaped and defined by the endless hours of hammering hot iron and cold steel, the shoeing of hundreds of horses and the making and repairing of tools. He stood over six feet tall, his mahogany brown face etched with a purpose that belied his eighteen years, for indeed, he was much more than he seemed.
His companion, Simon, a man in his early thirties, was not nearly as tall but had the powerful build of a wrestler and the quick nimble movements of a deer. In startling contrast to the message of masculinity sent out by his body was a face that can only be described as preternaturally beautiful. Simon was a hunter/tracker and a part-time law man often recruited by the local villages to track down and apprehend criminals. He was Shango’s friend and protector on this journey, a journey that would take the young man into the next phase of his life.
Their destination was a town about forty miles from the village where Shango and Simon had been born. They were well into their first day of travel and had been taking a leisurely pace. They had left Shango’s mother’s house before dawn that morning. Simon was not one given to much conversation, so Shango spent long stretches of time reliving recent events in his own head.
Shango was no ordinary eighteen-year-old. Neither was Simon an ordinary hunter/ tracker. They were members of a select group of human beings who practiced an ancient wisdom tradition led by Shango’s adopted mother, Maggie, the village healer.
For more than twenty-five years, as many as thirty “celebrants” had joined Maggie in a little copse, about half a league upstream in the deep woods behind her house -- a natural half circle opening up on the eastern bank of the stream, giving an unencumbered view of moonrise There, they would sing the songs and dance the dances from the old land, where their ancestors and their guardian spirits lived. It was there Maggie taught them the ways of the old ones.
It was there she introduced them to her guardian spirit, her Orísha, who possessed her, who in turn taught them through her, teaching them the meanings of the songs, dances and the rhythms they had learned from Maggie, who had first learned them from her grandmother -- preparing them for the time when "the ones that ruled their heads," their own Oríshas, would come.
An Orísha is an aspect of the Great Mystery, Olodumare, who is all there is, and as such, is one of the differentiated forces of Nature. Through certain songs dances and rhythms, the Oríshas can be evoked, where upon the Orísha come down and “take possession” of celebrants, ride them like steeds, prophesy out of their mouths and teach them, their children, the ancient ways.
But when Shango was born, everything changed. Shango was believed to be an avatar of Olodumare, the great mystery. He was born on a night of a terrible storm. His father sent for Maggie to help his mother deliver. His mother died in childbirth and Maggie cut the boy from the womb of his dead mother to save his life. His father wanted no part of the “devil” who killed his wife, so the village healer took him home and raised him as her own son. He was named for the spirit of lightning.
At five, the boy began to “remember” being the Orísha Shango in his elemental aspects and in his incarnation as the fourth king of the Yoruba people in ancient Oyo. At seven, the Orísha overshadowed the personality of the boy and made himself known to Maggie at a new moon dancing and drumming celebration.
The Orísha, speaking through the boy, proclaimed that he did not possess the boy, but was one with the boy, even though their identities had not yet blended. He called forth the guardian spirit of the village healer, the Orísha Eshu, and showed the Orísha how to integrate with his human host so that he and the village healer would become one and the same. This he declared was the new path, and that he was sent by the great mystery to teach it.
By twelve, the identities of the Orísha and the boy Shango were almost completely blended. His mother called upon her oldest and closest initiates (except Simon the hunter) to teach and apprentice him. The boy studied with them for a little more than a year before he called forth the Orísha in each and awakened them. This was done within one week. His own spirit was quickened in the process and his blending became complete. At the next ceremony at the full of the moon, Maggie/Eshu ,the village healer, awakened Simon, the hunter, and all six of them in turn awakened the rest of the celebrants present. Shango began that night to teach all of the awakened ones.
In truth, there was little to teach, because the process of blending identities with the one’s Orísha left the new personality much more than the sum of initiate and Orísha. Each quickened spirit knew with the certainty of insight who he or she was, their real spiritual history and the nature of their own personal reality. All one needed to do was ask the question and the answer was made known. Shango was often called upon to sort out some of the confusion, which he did by sharing much of his own personal story or drawing parallels to feelings and phenomena that he had himself experienced. He continued to work along side of Tom/Ogun the blacksmith, finishing over the next five years his apprenticeship. When anyone of the initiates had need of Shango, Tom would let him tend to them.
The village, of course, was transformed by the presence of so many awakened individuals, and Maggie/Eshu’s celebrations had grown so large that the copse in the forest, the dancing grounds, could barely contain them. But more important than even the “strange goings on” in the forest at the new and full moons, was the emergence of individuals, young and old, who worked at being honest, at keeping a civil tongue, who when wrong would acknowledge their wrong doings and sayings and seek to make amends. Other villagers saw in the initiates people who seemed to delight in problem-solving; who even took pleasure in finding the good in the challenges, mishaps and misfortunes that life served them. They did not seek out trouble, but when trouble came they embraced it with joy, anticipating the good that would come with moving through their fears, acting to keep the peace and ever seeking to do the next right thing. As such, the initiates were sought out by the other villagers for all manner of advice and help. Soon a new set of values insinuated themselves among the old and began to undermine them. And the villagers, while not perfect, began to try to do right by each other.
At the end of five years, Maggie/Eshu called the Original group of awakened initiates together to share their learnings and experiences, especially with regard to their blended identities. It was a powerful gathering. It was at this gathering that Shango announced that he would leave the village for a time; to go out into the world and follow his own personal path. He had revealed to them the new way and told them how to proceed. Now, there was important self work to do. He was after all, eighteen, and though he knew many things, there was much about the world that he had to re-learn.
“It is getting dark” said Simon/Oshosi. “We should make camp for the night. I will go hunt for our dinner.” He looked at Shango as if he expected some resistance from the young man. Shango merely shrugged and said “I will see to the camp while you hunt.”
Shango busied himself clearing a spot for the fire. He gathered some very fine kindling along with some medium sized sticks and large logs. He made sure that all the wood was very dry. He dug a small pit and arranged the kindling and the logs almost tent-like. He then took from his travel bag a large hand size piece of clear black flint broken off a spall. He also retrieved a “c” shaped piece of steel that he had fashioned in the forge at Tom/Ogun’s workshop. He then searched the campsite until he found a standing dead tree with white fungus growing all over it, very dry and rotten enough to break, very light in weight. With his knife, he shredded the rotten part of the wood and sprinkled it around the kindling. Then, holding the steel in his left hand and close over the kindling, he grasped the flint in his right hand, striking downward onto the face of the steel with the edge of the flint, causing a scraping, glancing blow at an angle of from 15 to 30 degrees.. This knocked sparks downward from the steel. Soon a spark caught in the kindling, and an area of red ember started to spread across the dry wood. Shango blew on the ember and the tinder burst into flame.
By the time the fire was roaring, Simon appeared with a pair of rabbits.
“Let us give thanks, “ the hunter said solemnly “to those who have given of themselves that we may eat.” He held the rabbits up to the sky. The light was fading from a discrete point of white to an all over pearl gray edging toward charcoal. The ambient light had faded to a point that the campfire was throwing flickering shadows around the trees circling the campfire. Shango could feel the presence of the animal spirits. He was awed by their sacrifice.
The hunter gutted and skinned the rabbits and soon they were on the fire roasting.
An evening breeze sang through the leaves and branches of trees surrounding the campsite. Shango sat cross legged on the ground in front of the camp fire and turned the spitted rabbits, engrossed in crackling of his fire and the sizzling of the rabbit juices as the two coneys cooked.
Simon, who was not much of a talker, busied himself by securing the campsite. It was said that Simon had an uncanny way with animals. Some even said that he could speak their language and often enlisted their help in tracking down criminals. What made him such an extraordinary hunter/tracker was that he was taught by the animals themselves even before he was overshadowed by Oshosi the spirit of the tracker. No doubt, he had arranged silent sentries of the four-legged kind to guard their sleep.
The two sat silently chewing on the roasted rabbit meat, each in their own world. Shango tried to draw the hunter into conversation.
“It is well that it is you, Simon/Oshosi, who accompanies me. It is you who finds those paths that lead to spirit growth. You will be my guide as you have ever been to those on such a journey.
“That may well be, Spirit of Lightning,” the hunter replied, “but my first order of concern is for your safety on this journey. I fear no man, but your mother is not someone I wish to face should harm come to you while you are in my care.”
“Where is the danger, my friend?” The young man challenged, probably more to keep the hunter talking than any other reason. “I am young and strong, my muscles shaped and hardened by Tom/Ogun’s forge and you, who can call every bird and beast in the woods to our aid --what foe would dare molest us?”
“Be that as it may. I have pledged my life to see you safely to the town called Destiny and see you set up in the blacksmith workshop that Tom/Ogun and your mother Maggie/Eshu have purchased for you. Until that is done I will know no real peace.”
“Alas, Oshosi,” Shango sighed. “I know so much; remember so much and yet I feel that I know so little. I was ready to leave our village and see the world. But now that I have left, I am ashamed to say that I am afraid – of what, I can’t say.”
Simon’s rueful smile over the campfire gleamed like the visage of a hyena – a startling mask molding itself over the hunter’s preternaturally beautiful face.
“Long it has been since the spirit of lightning has worn flesh. Never before now has an Orísha had to contend with powerful human feelings, master them, hold them in equilibrium. Make that fear your ally, boy. Do not give in to it, but use it. Listen to what your beating heart is telling you. Feel the soft melody of sweat as it trickles down your skin. Your eyes prickle with alertness. Your blood rushes to your muscles, pumping them up. Your hands get cold. You can move in an instant. Each moment offers its special challenge or challenges. Stay in the moment. Attack the problem posed there, solve it and your fear will turn to joy.”
They once again sat in silence.
“Simon,” Shango asked after a time, “what do you know of this town called Orí?
“Very little, my friend. I have had occasion to return a cutpurse or petty criminal or two for small bounty there, but I didn’t mingle with the people much. It is larger than our village and you ought earn a good living there for the blacksmith’s forge has long been cold. What happened to the blacksmith, I don’t know.
“Why did my mother insist that I go there?
“Shango, as your mother has become one with who she really is and has remembered, you of all people shouldn’t be surprised that she would intervene in your journey. She goes wherever she wills and takes pleasure in trying the strengths and weaknesses of us all. She owns all roads and has directed you along this one, with me as your guide.”
“It is as you say, Simon. The hand of Eshu is in this.”
“But there is more, Shango. I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that Eshu is also the owner of the ajogun, those forces which present us all with obstacles and challenges…” he stopped abruptly, as if thinking that he has said too much.
“It is okay, Simon. I remember the demon ajogun -- death, disease, infirmity, loss, curse, trouble, bondage and sin. So, do you think these thorns will litter the trail I travel?
“It is best that we sleep now, my friend, for we must travel at first light.” The hunter said evading the question. “Perhaps your answers will come in your dreams. I have taken precautions to ensure our safe sleep. Do not be startled if you chance see a movement in the night. We are surrounded by friends.” He spread out his bed roll and was asleep almost as soon as he laid his head to rest
Shango shrugged resignedly, retrieved his bedroll and made ready for sleep. Sleep would not come easy this night for there was much on his mind. As he settled himself near the fire, adding more kindling to the smoldering embers before retiring finally, he regarded the inadvertent little glade that was their campground. The tall oaks and stunted eucalypts, the ironwoods and dense thickets of weedy fern with large, triangular fronds seemed to undulate in the flickering glow of the fire, dance-like. As he spread his bedding, he thought he saw a fleeting image of a deer.
On his back, hands behind his head, he stared up through the treetops at what he could see of the stars. The night was unseasonably warm but not unpleasant. He let his mind travel back to the day before when he took his leave of the village and said his good-byes to his mother. Her face was forever etched on his memory – creaseless and mahogany with those strong African features; her bushy hair with those riotous streaks of white and those startling eyes -- eyes that held him in fierce embrace; that examined him closely like those of a mother bird examining a fledgling before she pushes it from the nest…
“And so the day has at last come, my son.” She said, sitting in her favorite chair by the table in her small kitchen.
“Yes, mother.”
“You have said to me that you must take your own path leading into and out of the darkness of illusion. Are you prepared to do this?
“Yes, Mother.”
“Very well. That path begins in the village down the road from here called Orí.” Her tone brooked no contradiction. “In anticipation of this day I sent Tom/Ogun there to purchase a blacksmith’s workshop that had been abandoned. He has outfitted it over the past year with the tools you will need to ply your trade. There is a man there, a farmer named Ojo, who is holding it in custody and watching over it until you come. You will present yourself to him and he will, after verifying who you are, turn the property over to you. Here is the letter you will give to him.” She placed the letter in his hand before continuing. “The workshop has a loft that will provide you living space until such time as you can make better arrangements.” She then handed him a small purse full of coins.
“It is not much but sufficient to see you through your first few months…,” she paused, “and you can always come home.”
“I am grateful, Mother. Rest assured I intend to succeed. Only then will I return to this village.”
“Then remember well, my son, what you have taught us about illusion –how they give us the experiences of what we are not so that we may know who we are; that overcoming the challenges posed by our illusions helps us to make of our lives glorious statements of who we really are. You will live this reality from this day forth.”
She embraced him; held him long.
“Simon/Ochosi will accompany you to Orí, for though you must walk your path alone, it is best to start such a journey in the company of such a friend. He will keep you safe. Go now, my son and the gods be with you. Though you will always be my little Shango, when you return to me you will be a man…”
The weight of memories forced his eyes close. The high pitched, hypnotic droning of the cicada and the eternal call of whippoorwill lulled him into a dream…
“Shango!” came a voice from a distance. And with it came the sound of drums. “Shango, come dance with me!”
A part of the sleeping Shango stirred, rose up out of his body and stepped into the dream. In the distance he saw in a swirl of green and yellow a portly black man of indeterminate age dancing with measured abandon. His feet were a blur.
Shango ran to him, his face reflecting the joy he felt and he joined the man in the wild dance. He matched him step for step as the drums grew louder and faster. Whatever the man did, Shango was his mirror. Wherever the drumbeats beckoned, they followed, moving progressively faster and faster. He knew this dance and he knew this Orísha. Finally, they both fell to ground, laughing, exhausted.
“Kabiyesi” the man exclaimed, “I see that the gift I gave you so long ago is unblemished. You honor me, Spirit of Lightning.”
Casting off the moment of levity, Shango in a ritualistic greeting that was thousands of years old prostrated himself before the cheerful, unaffected spirit who lay sprawled on the ground beside him.
“Spirit of Destiny, beloved Father, and leader of us all, it is you who honors me. Long ago so desirous was I of your skills at dance that I traded my gift of divination for the same. Even now I do not regret the trade!”
“Nor do I, Kabiyesi, nor do I!”
This unassuming Orísha was none other than Orunmila, the witness to creation. Also known as Ifá, the embodiment of all the knowledge and wisdom of the ancients as well as the divine wisdom of Olodumare and the Oríshas. He was said to know and understand every event in the universe and in the lives of all living things that has happened, is happening or will happen.
“Baba, will you hear my petition? Now, more than ever, I have need of your wisdom!”
“Ask what you will, my son.”
“Will you divine for me? “
“But you are an accomplished diviner, Spirit of Lightning. Why would you need me to divine for you?” The eyes of the Orísha sparkled with merriment.
“I am going to the town of Orí, respected one.” Shango replied. “What awaits me there, I don’t know. I do not wish to divine for myself for fear that I may see only what I want to see.
“You are wise, young one. But ask me the question for which you truly seek an answer!”
“Baba?”
“You are like one who has asked another to slap his face. You stand anticipating the blow, wondering if you will be able to withstand it, fearing the pain – fearing even more that you will betray yourself by showing pain.”
The young man’s shoulders slumped with resignation. “You are right, as usual, Baba. Will you help me?
The Orísha radiated abundant cheerfulness. His fat black face lit up when he smiled showing a mouthful of large teeth.
“In the old days, when man and Orísha traveled back and forth from to heaven, a contingent of robbers and evildoers made representations to me. They told me they were tired of going back and forth from heaven to earth and wanted to take refuge in heaven. I told them that they would not be granted their request until they fulfilled their destiny. When they asked me what I meant, I told them that they must learn the full knowledge of everything. They must live without any fear of enemy or confusion, without fear of disease or death; loss, witch, wizard, danger of fire or any form of accident; without fear of poverty. They must learn not to kill, steal or create discomfort to others or bring disgrace to one’s door and to The Great Mystery. Until they could do this, they were bounded to go back to the darkness of the world until the remembered who they were… Should you, my son, expect to do any less?”
“But Baba, that is the old way. I came to show the way of the new path. Certainly it is different.”
“Ah…” the jovial Orísha replied. “So it is. Let’s see, hmmm.” He closed his eyes and wrinkled his brow as if deep in thought. Then he smiled again that toothy smile.
“Yes, yes, that is it. Let us, then, pass your own words from one hand to the other like palm seeds and see what marks they make on the table of Ifá,”
Suddenly, a voice that Shango knew all too well, his own, reverberated:
“When we seek to know and experience the Great Mystery, Olodumare, we are seeking to know who we are. All we go through in our lives, the trials and tribulations, the tragedies and triumphs, the great loves and losses is but part of this process. Each experience is essential and when we remember we can apply what we have learned from the experience to our knowledge of who we are. We do not fail because Olodumare cannot fail. Failure is an illusion. We use this illusion to experience the aliveness, the joy of success…”
A pause… and then the voice again:
… Pain, heartache, trauma and destitution are experienced when we become lost in our illusions and forget that we have created them for our joy of creating… Confronting and overcoming the challenges posed by our illusions helps us to make of our lives gloriousstatements of who we really are. Our true happiness is derived from this. So I say to you, there is nothing that you have to do to traverse this new path but continue to live your lives fully. The illusions are but tools to help you understand what is truly real. They are designed to bring you joy not pain; pleasure, not sorrow, exhilaration, not defeat. “
“My dear son,” the Orísha said knowingly. “What can be more wise, more portentous than your own words, Not even the symbolic histories of Odu Ifa are clearer. This road to Orí on which you travel is your journey into shadow, into the illusions you have created for yourself. All you need do is remember what you have created. If you cannot remember, then that is your own doing. Would you have me spoil your joy?
The young man sighed.
“You are right, Baba. I only thought that by your coming you would speak to me of my truth.”
“There was a time, my son,” the Orísha took on the aspect of a storyteller, “when I walked the earth and gained the reputation as the greatest diviner in the old land. My head was a burden to my shoulders it had grown so large. I prided myself in my skill of always telling the truth. I traveled far and wide with my faithful dog who aspired to be like me in every way.
A certain king heard of me and summoned me to his palace. He asked me to divine for him as you have asked me. I told him the truth. I could not help myself. I revealed to him that he was not the rightful ruler. He dismissed me in a rage. I returned to my lodgings thinking how sad it was that he, like others, really did not want to know the truth.”
“But that is not me, Baba,” Shango interrupted. He looked so forlorn that the Orísha became overcome with mirth. Looking at Shango’s stricken face, he laughed so hard that he developed a case of the hiccups.
“Wait (hic), wait (hic)… let me me finish (hic) my tale.” He held his breath to regain his composure. In a moment, wiping the tears from his eyes, he continued:
The King was not through with me. He sent his soldiers after me to give me a royal beating. When they arrived at my lodgings, I hid in the closet thinking I would stay there until they went away. Imagine, a whole me, hiding among clothes and who knows what. Alas, my dog who led them straight to my hiding place betrayed me. They set upon me and beat me and then they drove me from that city. I have learned since that time to be circumspect in matters involving the telling of one’s truth.”
He said this last with a seriousness that overshadowed his previous merriment.
“No Shango, I did not call you to divine your future. I called you to help you remember that you were the first owner of the Tables of Ifa; that you came into this life with the ability to invoke Odu, to extinguish the troubles caused by the ajogun and re-create any aspect of yourself or your universe as you so choose… but,” and the merriment was back, “If you need someone to jog your memory from time to time, feel free to call on me. I have been with you all the while, even before you were born into this present coat of flesh … and will be with you hence.”
The Orísha stood up and dusted off his yellow and green robes
“Now on to more important matters. Shall we continue our dance…?”
Shango woke to the sounds and smells of morning. It was still dark but dawn was breaking. As he stirred and sat up and stretched, the robin announced the coming of the sun, his song sounding like two birds duetting, but was only the one bird using his two syrinxes creatively! The sparrow also sang its wake-up call, sitting in the gnarly eucalyptus at the edge of the campsite.
But overpowering the senses was the smell of roasting meat and the sound of its sizzling juices dropping into the fire. Simon/Oshosi had apparently been up for some time, had snared breakfast and got it going. He sat hunched across the fire turning yet another rabbit on the spit, looking at Shango speculatively. His gear was packed and lay next to him.
“ We ask much of our brother, the rabbit. When the animals say help yourself, we must have care not to take too much.” He said contritely, then changing the subject: “You spoke out in your sleep, young one. Did you have a fitful dream?
“Not at all, Simon.” Shango continued to stretch as he got to his feet. “I danced with Orunmila the whole night.
The hunter looked Shango over thoughtfully before responding.
“It is well.” He said at last, “ Considering our conversation before we slept, if anyone can answer your questions and put to rest your doubts, Orunmila can.”
The hunter took the rabbit off the fire, cut it up and handed a large portion of its haunch to Shango. “Eat now, young one, for if we are to reach Orí by evening today we must make good time.”
They ate, broke camp and were on the back paths in less than an hour after sunrise. Oshosi traveled in silence except to caution against a misstep or warn against a possible danger. Shango was able to walk from sunrise till noon, rapt in a reverie, amidst the oaks, pine, ironwoods, eucalypts and hickOríes in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sang around or flitted noiseless through the trees, until the spear point rays of the sun rising to meridian height, the gurgle of an inadvertent stream, the stiff-legged jumps of affrighted deer with all four feet hitting the ground together fleeing the clearing, or the pounding polyrhythms of the scarlet crowned woodpecker bOríng deep into rotting wood searching for carpenter ants, reminded him of the lapses of time.
“Do you smell the river, young one? The hunter had stopped a short way ahead, his nose up-turned, his wide nostrils flaring,
Shango looked about and sniffed the air. He noted that the trees had changed. The oaks and the eucalypts had given way to black willows whose early leaves were narrow and green; whose flowers were borne in catkins. He could, indeed, smell the ever-so-slightly rotten smell of fresh water,
“Yes.”
“ The banks of the river are close by. We will eat there and then follow the banks to Orí. We are making good time and should be there well before dusk.”
Just as the hunter had said, they soon emerged out of woods in a clearing on the banks of a large river. Simon quickly retrieved his bow and arrows from his gear. He waded into the shallows of the river, stood silently and looked as if he were listening, cocking his head, this way and that. Overhead, an eagle circled. Simon nocked his arrow and shot into the shallows. He reached into the water and brought forth a large black suckerfish. He held the speared fish up in acknowledgement to the eagle, who screeched once and flew away.
He gave the fish to Shango to prepare.
“ In truth, I was getting a bit tired of rabbit,” he said blithely
They were both hungry and made quick work of the meal. Soon, they were back on the trails keeping the river on their right. They traveled with some urgency, both wanting the journey to at last be over. As the evening began to lower, the town of Orí came into view.
Orí was a small fishing town situated in a sheltered location at the mouth of the Ela River just a few miles or so from the open sea, Small though it was, compared to the village where Shango and Simon were born, it seemed like a big, bustling city. The main square was centrally located, surrounded by a number of buildings comprising a business district of almost three dozen enterprises, -- all within a few steps of the large weekly market stretching along the river bank.
People from far and wide, from neighboring villages and towns, came to this weekly market. The commerce generated by the trade, which came in by boat or over land enabled the town to thrive. There were seven large inns, two drinking houses, three feed stores, two banks, an apothecary, four houses of worship, two stables, three coal merchants, two cobblers, a tailor, three dressmakers, a clockmaker and an undertaker.
In the square, also was the blacksmith’s shop that Maggie/Eshu had purchased for Shango, one of two at opposite sides of the square from each other. There were about a hundred houses scattered along the banks with small skiffs and fishing boats moored on makeshift piers outside their backdoors. Another hundred or so houses framed the rearward approaches to the town. Their inhabitants engaged in mixed farming as a principal source of income. There was also a quarry on the northeast edge of town that provided income for a significant number of town dwellers.
Shango’s eyes were full of wonder as he took in the sights of the town. Simon advised that they stop for a warm meal and some rest before seeking out the man who Maggie had entrusted with Shango’s property.
Simon led Shango to an inn on the backside of the square near his workshop.
“I know this place, ” he said confidently. “The rooms are clean and the food is good. There will be fresh vegetables, meat, some of the best fish, ocean caught or river and fresh baked bread. It is said that the innkeeper has the favor of the best fishermen in the area, whether they fish fresh waters or the sea it self. Something different from the fare we’ve eaten these past two days.”
“I am not complaining, Simon. You have provided well and I don’t have your short patience with rabbit.” Shango smiled. “I fact, I rather like your trail food.”
“You are a bush man, Shango. In the proud tradition, I might add, of our ancestors from the Old land. Please, suffer the refinements of civilized life. I, to be sure, know how to enjoy them on the rare occasions when I get them.”
The inn, named curiously “The Last House on the Square.” was a one-storey long house that in a distant past would have sheltered a farmer and his livestock under the one roof. What was once the byre for the animals, at the south end of the building, became the beer cellar. The worn flagstones, exposed timber beams and open log fires betrayed the building’s great age. It was appointed with simple square tables and sturdy square-backed chairs. They seated themselves at the rear of the room, Simon taking the chair that allowed him to face the front.
The innkeeper, a thin, taciturn black man whose frown lines etched his face like tribal marks, came from behind the bar to take their order. His face was sharp like an axe and his hair, what was left of it on the sides of his head was white and in sharp contrast to his dark skin. His demeanor belied a certain voluble and inquisitive nature.
“Good sirs, how may I serve you?” The innkeeper wiped his hands absently on his soiled apron. His manner was courteous if perfunctory. “Our fare is simple but excellent. We have a hearty fish stew with potatoes, mixed greens and fresh baked bread. If that is not to your taste, we have roasted fowl, or mutton from the farms across the river or thick steaks of tender beef. Our wine is imported and our beer, brewed on the premises, is the finest in town.”
“I will have the fish stew,” replied Shango over the growling of his stomach. He really was hungry.
“And I will have the beefsteak” added Simon,
“Will you have anything to drink? The innkeeper inquired.
“Just water for me, said Shango.
The innkeeper worked hard to keep from looking disappointed. Obviously the sale of strong drink was a chief source of his revenue.
“And me as well,” echoed Simon. “ But tell me good man, do you have rooms for us this night?
“I do, sir. I can give you one with two beds for four coppers,” he said with a gleam in his eye.
“Make that three coppers, you thief, and you have a deal.
“Done!” said the innkeeper laughing good-naturedly at the invective. His laughter completely transformed his face. “But please do not slander a poor man trying to make an honest living. Profit is made where one finds it. From where do you hale, good sirs? I seem to know you, sir. Are you not the one who returns criminals for bounty? You have been here before, I believe.
“You have it right, innkeeper. I have been in your town several times but in your inn only once before. I prefer to take my comfort in the woods.”
“So I have heard, Master hunter. What about you, young sir? Do you hunt bounties as well?
“No sir. But to answer your first question, we are from the small village of Aiye about forty miles north of here ” Shango offered. “My mother is the village healer there.”
“Forty miles, you say. A small village backed by a thick woods, peopled with farmers with a small bustling market? Nearly destroyed by the great storm about eighteen years back? That wouldn’t be Miss Maggie, would it, young sir?“ The innkeeper now regarded Shango closely with genuine interest.
“You are well-informed, sir. The very same Miss Maggie of whom you speak is my mother,” Shango replied.
“Alas, then,” the innkeeper sighed and threw up his hands. “The gods of profit have turned their faces from me. I cannot take your money. Please, your meal and your room for the night is on the house.
Long ago, before you were born, young sir, your mother came through here, perhaps en route to where she now lives. She had the look of a fugitive about her and the townspeople for the most part kept their distance from her. She took up residence on the edge of town, near the quarry, keeping to herself and bothering no one. Then there was an outbreak of the flux among the quarry workers. Many feared it was cholera, Your mother, without being asked went to stricken laborers with her herbs and remedies, working for days without sleep. Not one person died. Soon word got that she was a healer of skill, but people feared her, thinking her healing powers were uncanny. The word “witch” was bandied around when she was the topic of conversation; I am ashamed to say that even I for a time was guilty of that kind of slander.
But as fate would have it, my dear, beautiful wife, may she rest in peace, became afflicted with a dread ailment that caused the muscles in her face to droop and sag, She had difficulty speaking as well as eating or drinking. She could not close one eye and she drooled constantly. It gave her a frightful appearance.
Having nowhere else to go, I sought your mother out. At first she wanted nothing to do with me. It was clear that she didn’t trust me. But I was desperate. I persisted; I even brought my wife to her. When she saw my wife, her heart melted. She made her a tea of an herb she called wood betony and helped her drink it so that none of it was spilled. She came to my house every day for the next fourteen days to brew the tea and administer it to her.
Soon the condition cleared up. My wife regained the control of the muscles in her face and her health and beauty was restored. Your mother would take no pay for healing work. Strangely, she only admonished me to treat my wife kindly; that was the only pay she required. Shortly thereafter, she left this town. I have kept track of her through the news carried by travelers who have passed through your village and recently by a blacksmith who purchased the bankrupt workshop three doors down from here. I believe in my heart that your mother added years to my wife’s short life for she lived another fifteen years before dying…” his voice caught, “… in her sleep three years past.” He quickly collected himself.
“ I trust Miss Maggie is well?”
“She is quite well, sir” replied Shango, clearly affected by the innkeeper’s story. He looked more closely at innkeeper now, fixing him in his gaze. He let his vision blur and opened himself to the man; felt his pain -- waves of involuntary spasms in his heart. These were not physical pains. His very soul ached. Shango almost gasped aloud.
He saw behind and just above the innkeeper, the phantasmal presence of a plump, sad faced yellow-brown woman with large eyes a relatively small nose and thick, sensuous lips. She was dressed in a simple gray wrap bodice with a double opening skirt, covered by a white apron. She was, in spite of her sadness, quite pretty. He knew at once that this was the innkeeper’s spouse. He knew also that she was held fast by the innkeeper’s grief.
“Are you gifted with the healing arts, too, young man?” the innkeeper continued, quite unaware that he was being scrutinized.
Shango looked at Simon before answering. The hunter nodded imperceptibly. There will be another time, he thought to himself, to help this kind man. He answered the innkeeper:
Sir, I am Maggie’s son. As such, certain herbs and cures are known to me. But I am a master blacksmith by vocation who apprenticed for five years under one of the finest blacksmiths in this region.”
“That would be the one who brought news of Miss Maggie? The innkeeper interrupted
“The very same,” replied Shango. “I intend to ply my trade as a smith in this town.”
“Perhaps, good innkeeper,” Simon interjected, “you may know the man who has custody of that workshop? One Ojo? He is said to have a small farm at the rear of town…”
“Yes, yes, I know of Ojo. A strange man, that one. I will send word to him, if you like, that you have arrived. “
“Please, sir. If you will.”
“Very well. Now, enough talk. Let me get your meals.” The innkeeper called a young boy from the kitchen gave him terse instructions and sent him running out the door. He then disappeared into the kitchen himself. When he came out, he bore two large platters of food.
The fish stew was as good as promised. Shango dipped his bread into the broth again and again with relish. Likewise, Simon seemed to inhale the thick juicy steaks. When they had finished, they sat back in their chairs with bulging stomachs.
The boy came running back into the inn and whispered something to the innkeeper. The innkeeper right came over to the table.
“Ojo says he will meet you in front of the workshop two hours after sunrise tomorrow, if that is all right with you.
“That is fine,” said Simon. He turned to Shango.
Let us go to bed, then young one, I must return to our village as soon as you have transacted your business. Besides, the nights in this town offer naught but mischief. And..,” he added knowingly, “ there will be plenty of time for that.”
They were up at cockcrow. They ate a breakfast of eggs, fish and corn porridge. The innkeeper, whose name was Old John, showed them to the workshop. It was a cozy twenty by thirty foot A-framed building, built with stone and timber. It had two wooden front doors, a large door on the right side of a large multi-paned leaded window, twice the size of a smaller door on the left. There were two multi-paned leaded windows on each side and a third door on he right side of the building. There was a stream behind the shop that fed the gristmill on the town’s outskirts about a mile away.
At the appointed time, the farmer Ojo arrived to meet them in front of the building. Ojo was a scarecrow of a man. His arms and hands, legs and feet extended well beyond his sleeves and cuffs. He towered over Shango and Simon. His coppery skin was pock marked and pitted. One of his eyes, the left one, deviated to left and upward, when he looked straight on. He looked the two of them over suspiciously.
“Do you have that which identifies you?” He said going straight to the point of the meeting.
Shango, not knowing exactly to whom the man was speaking to, handed him Maggie’s letter. The man looked over the letter with his good eye.
“It is as agreed. The work shop is yours, young man.” He gave Shango a key to the large padlock which secured the front doors.
When Shango opened the larger of the two front doors, the interior revealed a double forge built of brick. Tool racks lined the front of the forge hearth. Two sets of double-acting bellows supplied the air to the forge—one on each side, and each was mounted to the ceiling on either side of the forge overhead.
The forge hearth was quite large giving a working area of about 5 feet between hearth and workbenches. There were two quenching pits, one on each side of the forge. A large tong rack took up the whole front of the forge There were tongs in the rack resting above the height of the hearth, several anvils and all of the necessary tools in place to shoe horses and oxen and make wheels and craft the necessary tools, implements for the local townspeople.
On the front side of building, above the two doors was a loft. That is where I will sleep, Shango thought. The shop was larger than Tom’s and in many ways better equipped. Aside from the dust that coated everything, he was well pleased. He began to ruminate on all the work he had to do to get the workshop operational.
“I must take my leave, my young friend.” Simon’s voice broke in on his musing. “I am satisfied that I have kept my word to your mother, and so it is time for me to go. You have been a good companion and I will miss you. Remember who you are, Shango, and what you are here to do. If ever you have need of me, know that I will come when you call.”
They embraced. Shango walked with Simon went back to the inn to pick up their gear. The hunter said his good byes to Old John, who asked to be remembered to Maggie. Shango thanked Old John for his hospitality and informed him that he would be sleeping in his shop that night. The innkeeper told him that he was welcome to take his meals at the end.
He walked with Simon to the edge of the woods. Simon was in high spirits. He waved to Shango one last time as he disappeared among the trees.
Shango went back to his shop and sat down on dusty wooden floor. The building dwarfed him. He looked small and alone amidst its dark shadows.
A people's spirit,