The Final Strife

“If you looked outside that night you might have seen other couples in flight. For the Sandstorm knew their craft. The craft of people wronged. Twelve children they stole and disappeared into the beyond.”

The griot’s voice softened, grew weaker, like he spoke his musings to himself.

“And that is where their story is silenced. A tale with no ending. What happened to the children they stole? Their doom impending.”

He raised his head, his eyes shimmering.

“Dead is what the wardens say, destroyed like every rebellion. But sometimes I wonder, what was the Sandstorm’s plan? And that of the stolen?”

The griot stood, the moroseness that had burdened him vanquished with a mischievous grin. “Remember, my friends: love gives you strength, but retribution gives you purpose.”

Thump-ba-da-thump.

The audience cheered and stamped their scythes as the tale came to an end. The griot stood and reached for his trinket box, now brimming with slabs. He looped the strap of the djambe over his other hand and made his way through the crowd who congratulated him on his tale.

As he ascended the steps to the street above he listened for two things. First, to check whether the tidewind’s wrath had quietened for the night, and secondly to hear the distinctive thud of an officer’s boots. It was easy to know if an officer was nearby, as few people in the Dredge owned shoes.

When he heard neither, the griot pushed open the door to the Maroon and slipped out into the blackness of the night.