The Drum Poem

“He has the fever; by sundown, he will be dead.”

 Romiissi watched her donkey, close to death. Drum in hand. This misfortune threatened to undo months of careful planning.

 The creature that had served her and her brother Serimga well for four months on the pilgrimage way lay on the floor, head down, eyes wide of exhaustion. 

 Romiisii paced up and down around it in panic.

 Where is he? She thought.

 Her brother Serimga had yet to return. He had gone into the town, the town the caravan stopped for the day, to restock on supplies. And yet, it was already making moves to leave. At its center was the King's tent. His posse of donkeys, packed with bags that contained thousands upon thousands of spices, instruments of merchandise and gold. At the ready, his slaves fixed all the bags to camels behind the King's main entourage. Rosmissi could see the whole camp below the hill where their donkey had fallen. She could see the King's soldiers on guard around the encampment.

 The caravan was like a massive mobile city with soldiers, cooks, doctors, and merchants servants, and the enslaved. Its destination is to complete the pilgrimage to the grotto of the Grand Goddess Ouri.

 The veterinarian, a friend of her second uncle, bent over the donkey. He massaged the belly of the donkey in haste. Beside him was the translator, as the veterinarian did not speak sign

 Romissii waved to get their attention, then began to make intentional sign gestures.

 “ She says, Is there any way you can treat until we get to the next town”, the translator asked the veterinarian. 

 “Only if you want to die in the desert and get stranded,” said the veterinarian. The translator signed his response. Romissii bit her thumbnail. Her attention again turned towards the golden gates of the town, in the hope her brother would arrive.

 Pit stops like this were common, on the pilgrimage routes to towns like these. There was not much to see outside, tall mud-brick walks the landscape from her field of vision. If it were not on the pilgrimage, no one would consider such a place worthwhile or essential. But by its very nature, its location was a home for the many poets and scholars that made the journey.

 “Oh she asks if she and her brother could hitch a ride with you and your troupe sire,” said the translator.

 The veterinarian shook his head, his eye browns creased and tense.

 “No, we are already full, my family including a few of my students have already taken what's left of the rest of the donkeys and camels. We have none spare.”

 Romiisii signed. She stroked the head of her family's dying donkey, the snout already embedded in the ground

 “She says she understands and thanks for your help,”

 The veterinarian placed his wrinkled hand on Romiisii’s shoulder

 “I wish I could do more, despite its virtue, it is very costly to give thanks to the Goddess Ouri, few have the means. The fact you and your brother got this far is a testament to your faith and piety,”

 A moment of pride swept over her. Back straightened the hands flowed with poise, as flowing silk in a dry spring.

 The translator smiled and said,

 “Increase your strength; seek out your neighbor!

 Early at dawn, call upon the Goddess

 At the setting of the sun, display your power”

 The veterinarian's smile was deep and wide as the years of his face bore,

 “While there are many poets who practice the arts of the spoken word on among us, is good to see one with taste, Drawn, I presume?”

 Romissii nodded, and said "Yes!"

 “Yes, yes”, the translator began as well, “he came from my, I mean, her village of the Drawn. Her great uncle on her mother's side, she admires him” 

 The veterinarian nodded with understanding his eyes rested on Romissi, his smiles now strained.

 “Indeed, talent can truly come from even unexpected places!”

 “Romiissi!”

 Serimga ran to her, books in hand, Romiissi expression tense, arms folded and her dead stare was sharp, 

 “Truly, they say a never leave alone two scholars trying to investigate reality as he will lose track of it,” said the veterinarian, hands raised to the heavens

 Sergima shook his head in agreement.

 “ Sorry Romiisii, while trying to find a new donkey, I ran into so many scholars! Unbelievable, we are truly blessed! One in theology of Goodess of Oubri, and another in astrology. We may not be back for many years, so I had to make most of it”

 Romissim rolled her eyes, tongue in cheek.

 “Are you alright? Our donkey” said Segima 

 Romissii nodded and signed in response.

 “That's a shame! Ahh, I did not see many poetry teachers for the mute or deaf,” he said, gesturing to her side, “or singers in need of a drummer.”

 Romissii gripped the drum. The veterinarian's eyebrows raised

 “She looking for a singer, or bard to apprentice with,” said Sergima sensing the confusion to the veterinarian.

 “A noble goal,” said the veterinarian, “anyway I must take my leave, as you can see there are others that need my assistance on their mules”

 The veterinarian and translator disappeared into the caravan, an ocean of humanity and beasts, leaving the two siblings alone.

 What are we going to do? Romiisi signed.

 “It is not yet sunset, I heard Uncle Zabi. He was some way up the caravan, who might have spare.”

 The younger sibling made a gesture to their donkey while pointing to her drum

 “ Romiisi! Know one is willing to trade with a drummer without a singer, you know that!”

 Romissis eyes lit up, and she pointed at the main tent in the center of the King's caravan.

 “ The king? Don’t be foolish. He has many drummers, singers.....”

 Romiss sat on the sand, her back leaning against their donkey, clutching the drum close to her. After some time, Serigma gestured to a passer-by, a young boy, not much older than Romissi. He reached for a small bag on his side and handed the silver cowries. The boy nodded and began to unload the belongings and bags that were on the back of a donkey. Romissi's confused face looked up towards Serigma.

 “Despite what we do, what you do, we need a new donkey.”

*********

The enslaved girl opened the tent drapes and took Romissii to the women's quarters, where men could not enter. Inside were dazzling displays red drapes, rich silk hung on the ceiling.

The woman in the center of the room was the Queen, the robes wrapped around her, the headscarf golden with pins of white dust as if floating on top. Her skin bronze, her lips Scarlett, Romissii had never seen such a beauty.

 As she approached the feet of the bed, Romissii prostrated herself and stretched the drum out in front of her, as if making an offering. She knew her place 

 The Queen signaled her to rise, and Romissi obeyed

 “ You may be wondering why I let you in?”

 Romissi's hesitation made The Queen's smile, and she began to sign,

 Do not worry. There is no need for a translator. So I hear you want to offer your services as a poet.

 Romissii shook her head

 No, my great queen, due to me being deaf, I come to seek to only support those in song

 The Queen laughed 

 Don't the deaf speak? Does not the drum speak? Does not the drum and the hands mimic the human voice?

 Romissi stopped, She knew that was true, but many of her village and the scholars did not consider it true literature, either through word or writing. Even the sign language she used was not regarded as actual speech or the art of the spoken word.

 But the sound, sound is very important when we communicate, my queen?

 The Queen brought out a drum from behind her and rose from the bed. She glided closer to Romissi and sat on the carpet facing her

 Play for me

 Play, I can’t, not without a singer,

 Romissi immediately regretted those words as The Queen's warm expression turned to a frown.

 Then as your Queen, I demand it.

 Romisii mind raced on what to play. In the Drawn poem from earlier, she closed her eyes and tried and visualized the beats and phrases she could express. She held the waist of the drum between her arm and ribs.

 She began to play,

 “Strike the man, torment his heart

 Increase your strength; seek out your neighbor!

 Early at dawn, call upon the Goddess

 At the setting of the sun, display your power

 We give thanks!

 Once she finished, she opened her eyes from the trance. The room was silent, ghost quiet, and the wind outside began to whine with unease.

 After some time, The Queen shook her head as she raised her drum underneath her arm. Romissii's head sank, eye on the floor with disappointment

 The Drawn Drum, The Queen began, the poem is well known but that is not the whole saying. I will let you in on a secret, From one drummer to another drummer.

 When Romissii raised met the eyes of the Queen she leaned in so close Romissii wondered if any commoner had the right to be in this personal space. 

 Poets are frauds. Singers are frauds. They invent words with no meaning, to impress others, and the words themselves are self-absorbed in their own pity. The sound of a singer is the same; the rhythm, the melody is captivating but they worthless. A sham. Poets of the drum do not simply invent these phases; rhythm is not useless, rather they rely upon phrases sent to them by the Goddess, ready-made phrases preserved by the ancestors. The drum implies insight into the unknown; the person of tomorrow thus becomes a construction of today.

 The Queen then began to play, articulation of each pulse came, conversing out,

 Nations of the earth!

 For the first hour!

 Nations of the earth

 For the second hour

 Nations of the Earth

 The third hour!

 We give thanks

 To you Fathers

 We give thanks

 To are Mother’s

 We give thanks

 To our Ancestors

 We give thanks

 To You who laid the foundations for the earth

 We give thanks

 The Hunter’s that cast iron

 The sacred furnace strikes

 The forge is lit

 The hammer torments the heart

 The famine strikes the forge

 We give thanks

 Romissi noticed the light dim and the evening wind had more life to it. The

torches had more radiance, painting the tent inside a luminous hue.

 After The Queen had finished playing the second time, Romissi could see the streams of sweat. The sweat polished both her face and hands, her beauty coming alive with exertion.

 My Queen, wha- what does this mean?

 My child, the language of the drum is neither spoken nor written and defeats death by transmitting the words of generations past, so long as the ability to decipher its meaning remains intact. It is a direct line to the Goddess herself.

 The Queen straightened herself and placed the drum to her side, and held up three fingers,

 First, an appeal is made. Three times, after the third appeal, the people gather, and the poem can begin! Now proceed!

 Romissi took a deep breath. She knew the rest; he didn’t know what say, how to etymology of each word in each sentence could translate to the drum with complex patterns and beats. There is no language of the drum but a language of languages. A phrase to the drum, in context, is not an ordinary grammatical base, subject-verb-complement. One phase may emit a succession of subjects without verbs or complements, without subjects or verbs, without subjects or complements. But she was in the presence of the Queen. She believed in her; for the first time, someone believed in her! She needed to believe in herself. She closed her eyes; her thoughts dwelled on the remaining Drawn poem.

 She did the first three for strikes

 To your fathers

 And the other three, the second hit long and deep as she adjusted the tempo and strained the tension cord. She squeezed the drumhead, and it tightened, producing a higher note than when it was in its relaxed state to say express the words...

 We give thanks

 To our ancestors

 We give thanks

 To the gods of the earth

 The sons of Godesss Oubri

 Now salute!

 We Praise You

 We Praise you

 We Praise you!

 The waters of the sea

 The waters of the rivers

 The waters of the ocean

 The water of the well

 The waters of the Oasis

 The waters of the womb

 Now Salute!

 We Glorify you

 We Glorify you

 We Glorify you

 Do not fear

 For the future!

 At the cemetery

 There are no ghosts!

 No constraints

 Ever stop death

 The raised corpse

 Abandons his home

 the tombs goal;

 His feet must be free

 Death itself

 Satisfies all

 The poem finished. Romissi's hands were aching. Her eyes opened. Who stood before was not the Queen, no, someone more majestic. Her dark skin shone. Radiant, her eyes white, her sliver hair framed around her head like a halo. Romissii was not frightened; she knew who this was. She reached out her hand to her. As they touched, Romissi felt a burning furnace with prickled warmth. After a brief eternity, the image was gone, and the Queen's face appeared again, Both their palms drenched in perspiration. 

 “ Now, my child,” she said, “ you know the heart of a true poet!”

***********

The two donkeys were not as big as the last one the two siblings had, but the Queen's gift would be enough to get them to Goddess Groto. Romiisii didn’t tell her brother why this had been given nor did Serimga bother to ask.

 With Romiissii riding one of the mules and Serimga guiding the other, the two siblings began to move with the caravan as it departed before sunset.

 Romissi could see the little dots of citizen flock to the city wall battlements, watching them leave. In front of her, she saw her brother in deep conversation with another pilgrim walking beside them.

 She wished she could talk about what she saw. But her spiritual experience were private matters and only to be indulged with close kin. While her brother was kin, and close, the intimate encounter was so indescribable that even the best poet could not put it into words.