Jakarta Missing (8 page)

Dakar fastened it. “You have to be absolutely quiet so I can start.” Feeling powerful and dramatic, she held up her arms. The bracelet gleamed. Dakar took a deep breath. The beginnings of stories were probably the most important parts to get right.

“Long ago in the grasslands of Somalia lived a man who was chief of a mighty clan, so rich he had a thousand camels. The man loved his camels and his horses, his sheep and his goats, but more, far more, he loved his daughter, Donbirra, who was graceful as a leopard.” She was relieved to discover she hadn't forgotten anything. She'd loved this story from the first time Dad told it. She loved “graceful as a leopard.” She loved it that Donbirra's father loved her more than anything in the world. “Nothing was too good for Donbirra,” she went on. “She always had hippopotamus hide sandals for her feet and amber beads to hang around her neck.”

“Wait,” Melanie said. “I'm sure we can find the hippopotamus hide sandals in here.” She rummaged, giggling.

“Year after year,” Dakar said, not waiting, “the man and his daughter and his clan moved with the rains, following the water.” Then there was this terrific place, when the story started to flow, the words blossoming out of her mouth like fancy, flapping butterflies. Fat, smooth words she could almost taste.

Melanie abandoned the box. “Go on,” she said. She sat on the floor and stared up at Dakar.

“Okay. Well, when the Dhair rains were few and water was scarce, they settled by a river. There the young men drove the camels out to find grass. And there Donbirra watched the sheep and goats and made rope, and in the evening she took smoke baths of myrrh and frankincense.”

“I knew it,” Melanie said triumphantly. “The smell in this room is perfect, isn't it?”

“Day followed peaceful day,” Dakar went on. “But one day a mighty noise shook the camp. When the chief stepped out from under his awning of palm branches and went to see what was happening, he found three young men standing in the middle of his camp.

“Two of the men were dressed in new clothes with ostrich feathers in their hair and ivory bracelets on their arms. By this the man knew they were great warriors. The first stepped forward and lifted his shield of rhinoceros hide. ‘We have heard of your wonderful daughter,' he said.

“The second stepped forward and shook his spear. Then he said, ‘Do you give me your daughter?'

“The chief looked at Donbirra where she sat with her sheep and goats, but he saw no softness in her eyes when she looked at the warriors. So he said, ‘But there are two of you. If I choose one and not the other, I may offend your father who will come and do me harm. And what about this third?'

“The oldest brother laughed. ‘This son of a hyena? He is our youngest brother, Jama. He never fights but plays his shepherd's pipe all day and half the night. We brought him along to carry our things.'

“The father looked thoughtful. ‘I cannot choose,' he said. ‘Give me time to think.'”

“How come he gets to choose, anyway?” Melanie asked.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Dakar said. “Change the story because we don't happen to think that's the right way to do things? My dad always says we have to meet people where they are. He also says, ‘Just be quiet and listen to what people have to tell you about their lives.'”

She paused. Did it make Donbirra mad or did it make her feel loved? Daughters of chiefs and kings couldn't reveal their feelings. They had to be secretive to survive. Did Alexander I and Alexander II and those other Russian czars have princess daughters? Why didn't school teach you the important things, like whether the daughters ever got to choose and how they felt when their fathers were off solving the important problems of Russia.

“Anyway, in the days that followed,” she went on, “Donbirra's father consulted the Koran and talked to the
wadad
, who was always wise. Every day the brothers came to him and asked him to make his choice. Every day Donbirra's father looked at his daughter, but her eyes were cool and smooth as eggshells as she watched the warriors. So he said, ‘I cannot choose.' The brothers walked by the river, waving their spears and talking. As for Jama, he played his flute so sweetly that Donbirra's sheep and goats seemed to smile as they grazed.

“Finally, one day when the brothers came to the man, he said, ‘I still cannot choose. But the
wadad
has made a suggestion. Tomorrow we will begin a contest to see which of you is most worthy to marry my daughter.'

“Next day, when the morning sun was hot in the sky, all the people gathered. ‘Now,' the chief said to the first brother, ‘what do you have to show us?'

“The first brother stepped forward. First he boasted of the many battles he had fought. Then he lifted his spear. He took a silver coin from his pouch and tossed it high in the air. For a moment it spun. Then the warrior hurled his spear.
Whoosh
. The spear pierced the silver coin while it was still spinning. The people cried out. The chief nodded in admiration. But when he looked at Donbirra, she was laughing at Jama, who had charmed some monkeys into throwing their fruit to him.”

Dakar looked at Melanie. She could tell Melanie was wanting to ask something, but when Dakar frowned, Melanie clamped her hand obediently over her mouth. “If you want to know where he got a silver coin, I don't know,” Dakar said. “They had silver coins in Ethiopia before Jesus was born, even. Maybe they have in Somalia, too. So, back to the story.

“Donbirra's father sighed. ‘I cannot choose. Go back to your tents, and we shall continue the contest tomorrow.'

“All that evening he weighed one stone in his hand and then another. He consulted with the elders and muttered and thought, thought and muttered. As for Donbirra, she helped Jama teach the milk camels how to dance.

“When the next day was golden with sun, the crowd again gathered. The people laughed and argued together, favoring first one brother and then the other. Finally the second warrior stepped forward. First he boasted of how fierce he was in battle. Then he said, ‘Look. With my spear I can take the twig that the boy over there holds between his teeth.'

“The boy stopped chewing and stood up. All the people watched. Almost before they could breathe, the spear shot through the air and knocked the small stick right out of the boy's mouth.

“The crowd clicked their tongues in awe. The chief looked at Donbirra. But she picked up her water jug and started down to the river to get water. ‘I cannot choose,' the chief muttered. The warriors shuffled impatiently.

“Suddenly two eyes rose up out of the river like bush fruits, and the water began to ripple. Just as Donbirra lifted her full water jug from the river, a crocodile sprang half out of the water, twisting its head sideways to open its mouth.”

Melanie gave a satisfying gasp.

“Donbirra leaped back,” Dakar said dramatically. “The crocodile's mouth crashed shut, catching the corner of Donbirra's
maro
. With a cry Donbirra dropped the jar.

“‘Your spears,' the chief shouted to the warriors. ‘Throw your spears.'

“But the oldest brother said, ‘In my clan only slaves and outcasts hunt animals. It would be beneath me to kill a beast.'

“‘For me it is just the same,' the second brother said.

“No one noticed Jama running toward the river. The crocodile opened its huge mouth again.” Dakar moved her arms wide apart to show the crocodile jaws, just the way Dad would if he were telling the story. “Donbirra fell backward against the bank. The crocodile's teeth flashed in the sun.

“Then Jama was there. Kneeling close to the crocodile and putting his flute to his lips, he began to play. The music tickled the leaves of the tamarisk tree and set the goats frisking in the grass. Slowly the crocodile closed its mouth. Then it slid back into the river and rolled over and over in the water, rippling bubbles as it went.”

Dakar paused for just the right moment. “As for Donbirra,” she said triumphantly, “perhaps the music charmed her also. In any case, her eyes, as she looked at Jama, were soft as moonlight on leaves. And when Jama stood before the chief and asked, ‘Do you give me your daughter?' the chief smiled and called to his people, ‘Let us all celebrate. May the feasts begin. At last I think I can choose.'”

Melanie sighed and flopped back. “How romantic,” she said. “Even if the dad did get to think he was choosing. Or do you think he knew?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Isn't it cool that we're having a sleep-over? I can't believe that I'm sleeping in the same room with someone who has slept in Africa. The most exciting thing I've done until now was wearing socks that don't match.”

Dakar closed her eyes. She had done such a good job telling the story. She could just imagine the audience clapping and clapping.
Thunderous
applause, the books always said. But tonight something about the story made her sad. Something about Dad. It wasn't that Dad would ever choose anything important for her. He was too big into
JUSTICE
, with capital letters. But would Dad study her eyes, trying to see if there was any softness in them? No, he would be busy thinking about something much more important, like finding a cure for river blindness.

“Tell me something you really, really remember from Africa,” Melanie said.

Dakar slid off the chair with her eyes still closed and balanced on one leg like the tall warriors she used to stare at, fascinated by their blue-black skin and their clay hairdos. Where should she start? Could she make the exact sound the lizards made when they woke her up in the morning, sliding down the tin roof? Could she explain about mornings Jakarta was gone, when Dakar scrambled up the hill to the village through a lion's mane of fog, the lion's tongue licking her all over, leaving her dripping wet? The sweet mist of eucalyptus smoke over the town? The thicker, warmer smoke smell inside Wondemu's house, and Wondemu's grandmother leaning over to hand her a fat, fleshy banana for breakfast?

She opened her eyes. “I don't know,” she said. “I live here now. Let's dig through the box, okay?”

S
unday morning Dakar woke up with princesses dancing in her head, and she couldn't get them out, even though Melanie's mom served omelets for breakfast. Where did Melanie get her genes from? Dakar looked back and forth between the two of them as they bent over a catalog. Melanie's mom had broad shoulders and a generous, practical face. Melanie was like a river sprite, delicate and small with almost white hair and river-colored eyes. Maybe she was a changeling. A jinn baby.

As if she had read Dakar's mind, Melanie looked up and gave her an elfin grin. “Come on,” she whispered into Dakar's ear. “I want to show you the most magical spot in Cottonwood. I've never showed anybody else.”

“What would you do,” Dakar said as they started to walk, “if you were a princess trapped in a high tower, and an evil hen gave you three impossible tasks you had to solve or you could never, ever get out and go home?”

“Well, what would the tasks be?” Melanie asked.

“One would be to turn that tree over there into a pomegranate tree,” Dakar said. “And the next would be to pick a pomegranate from the very heart of the tree and count its seeds.”

“First, she'd have to know what a pomegranate was,” Melanie said.