Mercy and Monsters - Chapter 2
Mercy and Monsters - Chapter 2
When she grew up, Mija resolved, she would be just like Calafia, her favorite heroine of all.
Know ye that at the right hand of the Indies there is an island called California, very close to that part of the Terrestrial Paradise, which was inhabited by black women without a single man among them, and they lived in the manner of Amazons. They were robust of body with strong, passionate hearts and great virtue. The island itself is one of the wildest in the world on account of the bold and craggy rocks. In their land there are many griffins … in no other place of the world are they found.
-The Adventures of Esplandián
Once upon a time, in the land of Zarzuela, a little girl was born. She was baptized and christened in the usual way, and given a plethora of names, as befitting her noble station. To the townspeople, she was called “my lady”. To her nursemaid, “young mistress”. To her parents, “mami” or “little one”. But the name she treasured most, and placed above all others, was the name given her by her elder brother: “Mija”.
When he caught her playing hide-and-seek, or sneaking up behind him, he would grin and ask, “Mija, what are you doing there?” And she would squeal and giggle before running away. When she was lost and buried among her menagerie of dolls, and supper had been prepared, he would call, “Mija! Time for dinner!” And she would pop her head out and run to his side. And when he fancied a stroll in the gardens, and the companionship of his sister, he would say, “Say Mija. Let’s go for a walk.” And every time, she would bound over to join him in his treks.
Mija treasured her elder brother. Her mother and father loved her in their own way, but they were so busy all the time. As the hidalgo of Zarzuela, Mija’s father was responsible for the governing of the town. And though she hardly paid it any attention, a murky pall of quiet unease hung over Zarzuela. Mija was only a child, after all, and a noble-born one at that. She rarely ever ventured into town, and when she did, such terms as “Andalusi” or “war” meant barely anything to her. And she hardly understood why her parents had to spend so much time entertaining guests who shouted such words, while she was left alone.
One day, Mija’s curiosity got the better of her, and she snuck out to place her ear to the door of her father’s meeting room. She would find out what was so important about these meetings, she resolved, though the words she caught made her more confused than comprehending.
“I tell you now, Diego,” a man was saying. “Ibery must unite! We can no longer afford to remain a series of squabbling fiefdoms, not when the Andalusi approach.”
“And I tell you, Aitor,” the voice of Mija’s father could be heard. “I refuse to follow this caudillo campaign you are so set upon.”
“But think!” Aitor cried. “The House of Aragó has already slid into King Rodrigo’s good graces. One way or another, we shall be united. But shall we be minor barons when that day comes, or noble dukes, sitting by the side of the king? If the latter, we must act!”
“Aitor,” Mija’s father sighed. “Zarzuela is too close to the border to even consider what you are suggesting. The peace we have won is tenuous at the best of times. If the Andalusi suspect an attack, who do you think will suffer the full brunt of their counterstrike?”
“We will not need to worry of such things should we win! Our houses shall be given new names and new titles should we drive the Andalusi from our lands.”
“We cannot win. Our days of glory have long since passed. And I have no wish to bring my people more war.”
“Then you would have us die out instead?”
“So long as the wish of Bernardo del Carpio remains alive and told, the dream of Ibery shall never die, regardless of what banner its king should happen to fly.”
Mija’s father said those words and Aitor grew silent, for that name was not one to be invoked lightly. Bernardo del Carpio, eighth of the Valiants, hailed from Ibery, the southern half of the Berber region. The Ibers were a proud people, who dreamed of freedom by any means. To them, to Bernardo, one conqueror was no different from another. And so, when the two kingdoms of Carolina and Mashreq waged war for the right of Berber, and the Carolingians requested Bernardo’s aid at the Battle of Roncevaux Pass, he held his army back, and let the two armies destroy each other. When he heard the olifant horn of Orlando, Carolina’s champion, sound across the mountains, it was Bernardo who strangled that paladin with his own hands. Bernardo believed it to be a call for aid, a request for more soldiers from Charlemagne’s army, and he would not allow more war in Berber. It was only when he discovered the truth, that Orlando’s horn had been a final prayer that war might end forever, that Bernardo wept and repented, and saw that in the end, the two had dreamed the same dream.
That dream of freedom was still whispered and told throughout the whole of Ibery, and snippets and samples had even reached the ear of a young girl like Mija. But the whole of the story was yet unknown to her, just as her understanding of the world was yet unformed and incomplete. And so, the words her father spoke meant nothing to her, even as she could tell that he had said them with dour reverence.
At last, Aitor broke his silence impetuously. “You are a fool, Diego. A weak, stupid, old, blind fool! If you shall not undertake this struggle against the Mustafan barbarians, I shall do so without your help!”
“If that is your decision, then so be it,” Mija’s father sighed, and Mija hurried away as she heard the scuffling of chairs in the room.
Her escape proved too slow though, as Aitor came barreling out of the room, and Mija was sent flying by his forceful opening of the door.
“What the-?” Aitor hissed as he saw the sobbing, injured child in his way, before snorting and calling out to her father.
“Diego! Did you not teach your daughter proper manners?”
“Eh?” Diego walked out and gasped as his daughter ran up to him, one hand wrapped around his legs, the other nursing her wound. The momentary dismay and despair of her injury was forgotten, as Mija saw an opportunity for her father to comfort her. He would pick her up and kiss her wound and bark away the man who had so rudely hurt his daughter, and for once Mija’s father would be all hers. She saw that vision and it filled her with joy.
“Mami!”
And so, when she looked up, to see not an expression of tender comfort, but a dark and disciplinary scowl, Mija was deeply frightened.
“Y-yes?” she murmured, confused and unsure.
“What are you doing here? Haven’t I told you many times before that when I am in this room I am not to be disturbed? If you wish for a playmate or companion, there are plenty of servants in this house to attend to you.”
“B-but…” Mija began to cry. Why wasn’t he taking her side?
“Nurse! Nurse!” Mija’s father called out, until at last her nursemaid appeared.
“Yes, master?” she bowed politely.
“See to this child’s injury, and keep an eye on her! When I am engaged in business I am not to be disturbed.”
“Of course, master,” the nurse bowed and bent down to escort the young mistress back to her room. And though the girl screamed and sobbed for her father’s presence, she was met only with her nurse’s gentle refusal, and her father’s cold shoulder.
“I hate you I hate you I hate you papa!” Mija kicked and tossed her pillows for many hours. That Aitor must have done something to him to make him so cold.
Mija’s mother, the lady of the house, was the most beautiful woman in all of Ibery. At least, that was what Mija thought. After all, she spent so much of her time putting on makeup and entertaining guests and going to parties, it stood to reason that all this effort was for some purpose. Mija did not really understand what went on at those events. The conversations she could overhear were of the same nature as those between her father and Aitor. And sometimes the guests would wear such outlandish costumes! One time, a man came with his entourage, and they all wore these funny hats, like scarves wrapped around their heads.
“You look like a mushroom!” Mija cried, as her parents’ faces went white with fear, and the man with the funny hat laughed a hearty laugh. He was quite amused by the child’s remark, but for some reason, after the ball ended, Mija was taken aside by her nurse and scolded harshly for her behavior. Mija cried, not understanding. The man had laughed, after all. Why was everyone else so upset?
Mija loved to watch her mother prepare herself. It was one of the only times they could spend together. Mija’s mother had so many jewels, so many brooches and pearls, so many perfumes and pins to do her hair in so many, different ways. And the dresses, Mija loved to rummage through the labyrinthine closet that contained her mother’s clothes, just to see how long she could remain hidden, before her mother or her nurse found her and took her out.
Mija’s mother was doing her hair when she noticed her daughter tasting some of her lipstick.
“Mami!” she barked, and Mija momentarily flinched as she realized she had done something wrong. But as the initial shock wore away from her mother’s face, the lady of the house smiled gently and took the lipstick from her daughter’s hand.
“I’m sorry, little one,” she said. “But this is not something you should be eating.”
“But you eat it,” Mija said. “I see you.”
“That…” Mija’s mother laughed. “Here. Let me show you.”
That day, Mija had her first lesson in the art of applying make-up. What started as simply lipstick went into the basics of foundation and the application of mascara, until finally Mija’s face was completely done-up.
“I look like you do!” Mija beamed at her reflection in the mirror, and silently congratulated herself on giving her mother such a skillful compliment.
“Yes…” Mija’s mother murmured, as her fingers brushed against the skin of her powdered cheek. “I suppose you do.”
“What’s wrong, mama?” Mija asked. “You look sad.”
“It’s nothing, little one,” Mija’s mother said. “Just remembering when I was young.”
“You’re not old.”
“I… well, thank you.”
“You’re not.”
“Well, maybe when you get to be my age, you’ll understand,” Mija’s mother smiled sadly.
“I guess so,” Mija shrugged.
“Mistress?” the maid knocked on the door. “It’s time.”
“Yes, tell them I’ll be down shortly,” Mija’s mother said. Then to Mija, “I have to go now. Important business.”
“Awww!” Mija moaned. “But you and papa are always busy!”
“I know dear, I know. But I have to. Be good while I’m away?”
“Alright,” Mija grumbled.
“Take her back to her room, and make sure she stays out of trouble,” Mija’s mother ordered the maid.
“Of course, mistress,” the maid bowed and did as she was bidden.
In her room, with the sole company of her nurse, Mija sulked and grumbled. What was so important that her mother had to leave her all alone?
“I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them!” Mija pouted and cried as her brother tried to comfort her. Why did their parents have to leave on some stupid trip?
“It’ll only be for a couple of weeks, Mija,” her brother insisted. “It’s all part of their duty.”
“So what?” Mija sniffled. “What about us? Why do they have to leave us behind?”
“They’re on a diplomatic mission,” Mija’s brother explained. “We’re on the border, remember?”
“I don’t know what any of that stuff means!”
Mija’s brother sighed. “Alright then… Here. Follow me.”
As he stood up and walked out of the room, initially Mija could only stare blankly at her brother. Where was he going? Was he leaving her? Why was he leaving her too? Before she could burst into tears though, her brother’s head popped into the doorframe once again, a quizzical grin on its lips.
“Well? Come on,” he smiled. “We need to go to the library for me to explain it to you.”
At that Mija’s mood made a complete one-eighty. The library! There her favorite stories, which her brother or her nursemaid would always read to her, were locked lovingly away. Mija had tried on occasion to enter the room on her own, but of course without the keys, guarded closely by her father, it had always proved futile. Now that the master of the house was away though, Mija realized that the young master had become the keeper of keys in his stead. And that meant she could go into the library whenever she wanted! At that Mija became aware of the potential benefits to her parents’ frequent absence.
Hurriedly running to keep pace with her brother’s elegant strides, Mija could hardly contain her boundless enthusiasm as they at last approached the doors to the mansion’s library. With a quick turning of the keys, Mija’s brother opened the floodgates, and Mija came rushing into the room at once. Here all her favorite childhood fables and fairy stories were contained, in the elegant pages of the sacred tomes that inhabited that library. And if her brother had brought her there that day, it must have been to read to her one of those treasured tales.
When her brother reached for a particular book, one so large he needed both hands to carry it, Mija instantly rushed over, eager to hear the story inside. To her surprise though, as her brother plopped the publication on a nearby desk, she saw that it was filled entirely with maps. What sort of book had only maps in it?
“An atlas,” Mija’s brother explained. “This is a book called an atlas. It shows all the world, or at least, all that we know of it.
“And here,” he pointed at a tiny point on the Iber peninsula. “Is us, Zarzuela.”
“Uh-huh…” Mija did not entirely understand but decided to humor her brother.
“And you see this big kingdom here?” Mija’s brother pointed at the colored splotch that straddled both sides of the Berber strait.
“Yeah…”
“This is the Andalusi Caliphate. As you can see, we’re right next to it, and we’re really tiny too.”
Mija saw that Zarzuela was one of many minuscule blotches on the map, trapped between the massive caliphate and another blob labeled “The Carolingian Empire”. However, she also noticed one tiny spot that was not so tiny in comparison to its brethren.
“What’s that?” Mija pointed at the spot.
“That…” Mija’s brother checked to see where she was pointing at. “Is the Kingdom of Antile. That’s King Rodrigo’s kingdom.”
“Who?” Mija was lost now.
“Ah, sorry,” her brother backtracked. “Rodrigo is a powerful king, and he hopes to someday reunite the rest of Ibery. To do that though, he needs to unite all of these little kingdoms first, and do so with the Andalusi and Carolingians breathing down his neck.”
“Why are they breathing down his neck?”
“Well, not literally, but… look at how big Andalus and Carolina are,” Mija’s brother pointed. “They’re both very big and very powerful, and they don’t like each other at all. Either one would love the excuse to attack the other. So, because of this, they’ve both decided that Ibery, the region between them, needs to be big and fat and, most important of all, fragmented.”
“How come?”
“Well, again, Carolina and Andalus both don’t like each other. So if one of them wants to fight the other, it’s better if there’s a buffer between them.
“That way, by the time one of them starts marching,” Mija’s brother made a walking motion with his fingers over Ibery. “Towards the other, then the other kingdom has time to prepare and push them back. Ahhhh! Help! Nooo!”
Mija giggled at the sight of her brother’s other hand pushing back the walking fingers, though there were still many questions she had.
“But why, because you said it was better if we’re fragmented? Why is that better?”
“Because,” Mija’s brother said. “As it is, the various kingdoms of Ibery all have to pay tribute to either Andalus or Carolina.”
“Tribute?”
“Like money or grain or other stuff. Every month, Zarzuela gives the caliph in Andalus a shipment of goods, and in exchange the caliph promises to protect us if Carolina decides to invade.”
“Does he?”
“Well, we haven’t been invaded yet,” Mija’s brother shrugged.
Mija had gotten somewhat bored by then, and as her attention had begun to wander, she suddenly noticed an island, out in the Océan Guinien. It caught her interest because, unlike the other, boring, drab kingdoms, this island was surrounded by illustrations of griffins.
“What’s that?” Mija’s voice radiated excitement as she gazed intently at the beasts and the name inscribed beside them: California.
“Oh, that?” Mija’s brother chuckled. “It isn’t real. Or at least, it probably isn’t.”
“Huh?”
“Well, it’s in the story of Amadix. You know him?”
“Yeah,” Mija had heard bits and pieces of his tale, though not the whole affair. Amadix, tenth of the Valiants, was a most indomitable Gaul. Born from a star-crossed love affair between King Perión and Lady Elisena, Amadix was abandoned at birth, to be found and raised by the noble knight Gandales. Many a wacky and wild adventure was had as Amadix grew into a man, as he passed through the Arch of Faithful Lovers, endured a brief bout of madness, and bested the giant Endriago in single combat. All this he triumphed over while being none the worse for wear, to win the love of his childhood sweetheart Oriana, and rule for many years. Mija knew all that at least, but as for this matter of California, she was at a loss.
“Yeah. Well, it’s in his story, but nobody’s ever actually been there and seen if it was real or not. It’s one of those mystic islands that may or may not be real. Still, it’d be neat if it was real.”
“Oh,” Mija was slightly upset that this island which had so excited her might not in fact be real. Still, her interest remained intrigued, and she pressed forth with her line of questioning.
“Why are there griffins there?”
“Ah, well,” Mija’s brother got up and walked over to another bookshelf, where he pulled down another elderly volume. “We have the story right here. So perhaps it’s better if I simply read it to you.
“Let’s see, ah!” Mija’s brother grinned when he found the page he sought. “Here we go! ‘And now, dear reader, we must depart our regularly scheduled story, and interpose this interesting interlude for your entertainment. This is the tale of California, an island in the sea ruled by the Soudanian queen Calafia and her Amazon warriors, and guarded by her force of five-hundred grotesque and grimly gruesome griffins.”
“Grosh.” Mija said, then quickly realized her error. “I mean-”
“Don’t worry,” Mija’s brother smirked. “I know what you meant to say.”
And with that, the young man read his younger sister the tale of California. How the village where Amadix and his fellow Gauls lived was attacked by a band of Rahmanites. After being chased off by Amadix, the Rahmanites fled to the island of California, where they asked the warrior queen there to aid them in their struggle. Having cut themselves off from the outside world, the Californians knew nothing of the struggle between Rahmanite and Yeshuan, and thus saw no reason not to aid the Rahmanite forces.
Thusly then, the Gauls soon found themselves beset once more by the Rahmanites, only this time with the aid of Amazon warriors, and a force of five-hundred griffins. Even with all their fighting might, the Gauls were no match against the power of California. And so, in a last, desperate attempt for survival, Amadix challenged Calafia to single combat. The Rahmanites howled, for they knew that the hero Amadix would find some trick to victory, but Calafia, an honorable and noble warrior, would not rebuke a request made in such earnest.
And so they fought, and Amadix won, and Calafia steeled herself for the final death-blow. But to her surprise, it was never struck. Amadix had no desire for more death and bloodshed. He merely sought to protect his home. At that, Calafia was struck by the Gaul’s bravery and valor, and thenceforth declared that she would never do war against his people again. The invaders retreated once more, and Calafia said that if Amadix ever had need of her aid, she would come at his call, and fight by his side till the end. Still it was said she ruled on her island, just as young and as beautiful as the day she’d first met Amadix. And though many had failed to find that island of California, it remained the dream of every sailor to someday witness that land with their own two eyes.
All this Mija listened to with rapt attention and awe. And when at last her brother shut the book closed, still she remained silent, her mind swimming with images of the black-skinned Calafia wielding her mighty sword. By that point, a maid had come into the library, to alert the siblings that the time had come for lunch. But as her brother put the books away, there was only one concern that remained in Mija’s mind.
“Um, after lunch, can we come back here, please?” she asked. “I want to read more about Calafia.”
“Well…” Mija’s brother chanced a glance at the maid. “I’m afraid that’s the only story of hers that we have. But if you want to hear some other stories like it, we should have some in our collection. And I don’t have a problem taking you here after lunch.”
“Thank you!” Mija lit up as she hugged her brother, and raced out of the library, eager to scarf down her meal and return to the wonderful world she had just witnessed.
From then on, Mija became obsessed with the tales of warrior women. Khutulun, from distant Tartary, Urduja, from fabled Tawalisi, Atalanta, from ancient Mycenae; Days she would spend reading of their exploits, before consulting the nearby atlas to track down the locations of their lands. Imagine, she would grin in ecstasy, all these strong and brave women, and they were real! They had all once existed, in this very world, and how she longed to be just like them! Now when she played with her dolls and stuffed animals, she led them on a mighty charge from the saddle of her rocking horse, to vanquish her foes and smite her enemies in the name of justice and valor. When she grew up, Mija resolved, she would be just like Calafia, her favorite heroine of all. Tall, strong, with dark, muscular skin and wild, flowing hair, wielding a powerful blade and beautiful in battle.
Of course, the maids and servants did not share this dream of hers. When they caught her exercising to build up muscle, they hurriedly halted her. A proper lady is slender and frail, they declaimed, not tall and muscular. When they caught her outside, trying to tan her skin, they briskly brought her back indoors. A proper lady has smooth, fair skin, they declaimed, not a dark and rough hide. And when they found her messing with her hair, attempting to make it fearsome and violent, they swiftly stopped such stupidity. A proper lady keeps her hair straight and combed, they declaimed, not wild and untamed. Honestly, the maids and servants would say. What had gotten into the child? It must have been those fantastic fables she had read in those books, they would cluck, and soon they had devised a solution to this serious issue.
Soon Mija was chaperoned by her maids through stories of dashing knights and damsels in distress, tales that stressed prudence and demurity in their female protagonists. It hardly did any good, though. Mija would laugh at such silly, flighty damsels. As Calafia, she would be a better choice by far for those dashing knights in their pursuit of true love’s kiss. She would meet them on the field of battle and challenge them for her hand in marriage. And only after they had won would she let them be hers, though it would not be an easy victory. Only if they survived the full force of her fury, and lived to tell the tale, could they win by the strength of their own skill. And then, when they won, they would cast aside their blade. You are too fine a foe to slay, they would cry. Will you not be my wife, and fight by my side forever? Yes, she would say! A thousand times yes! And then they would kiss (Mija had not quite worked out what would happen afterwards, but she was certain it would be worth it).
At this, the maids and servants shrugged. A half-victory was still progress, after all. And perhaps, with time, the young mistress would outgrow such childish fantasies. But in the meantime, they would have to contend with her challenging her largest stuffed toys to duels during playtime.
As Mija grew older, she began to see the world with a better understanding. Her brother was now no longer Mija’s brother, but Raul, first and only son of the Ventura estate. Her mother was now no longer mama, but Donna Mercedes, mistress of the Ventura estate. And her father was now no longer papa, but Don Diego, master of the Ventura estate and Hidalgo of Zarzuela. Now she saw that the men who looked like mushrooms were Moorish emissaries from Andalus, there to exchange pleasantries with her family. And though the exact subtleties of diplomacy still escaped her, Mija at least knew enough to no longer blurt out judgements on the guests’ appearances. Though still a young girl, Mija now knew how to behave at a ball, and the emissaries and diplomats from across the White Sea would often remark on how polite and well-behaved the daughter of the Ventura family was.
It was at one of these balls that Mija encountered the amazon Aminatu. Mija was surrounded by guests eager to shower her with praise, when she noticed the tall, dark-skinned warrior woman standing by the punch bowl. As soon as they noticed her lingering gaze, the servants, who up until that point had been proudly gazing upon their now-polite charge, began to sweat nervously. Something about the fire in Mija’s eyes as she glanced at the amazon through her conversations reminded them of her still-present passion, and quickly they moved to intercept her before she betrayed the image of a well-groomed noblewoman.
“Er, young mistress,” a maid moved towards her. “It is getting late. Little girls should be in bed at this hour.”
“But…” Mija pouted, and the guests around her sighed in lamentation.
“Please, young mistress,” the maid took her by the arm. “You must say your goodbyes now.”
“But I wanted to talk to her,” Mija pointed at Aminatu, who sipped tepidly at her punch, oblivious to the conversation.
The maid blanched at that, for as soon as they heard it, the surrounding guests instantly went over to Aminatu, eager to please the young mistress. Soon the warrior woman was by the girl’s side, confused but not displeased, and a conversation had been struck up.
“Are you from California?” Mija asked, and the maid silently groaned as the guests chuckled at the childish question.
“Er, sorry, but no,” Aminatu said. “Hate to disappoint you, but it’s the truth.”
“Oh,” Mija was deflated, but not defeated. “But… you are an amazon?”
“Well…” Aminatu glanced at the surrounding guests. “I suppose so. I am Queen Aminatu, of the Hausalands.”
“That’s in Soudania,” one guest said to Mija.
“I know,” Mija shooed the guest away, far too enraptured by Aminatu to care about him. “It’s between the Songhay Empire and the Kingdom of Sheba.”
“Y-yes,” Aminatu was surprise by Mija’s knowing that. “You know about it.”
“Of course. We have an atlas in our library,” Mija bragged.
“Ah, I see,” Aminatu grinned.
“Then do you know how Queen Aminatu united the Hausa tribes under her banner, to stand against both Songhay and Sheba?” another guest asked proudly.
“Well…” Aminatu protested.
“Even better than Queen Calafia, the natives call Queen Aminatu ‘as good as any man’!” another guest chortled.
“That…” Aminatu sighed.
“Truly, a Black Venus, she is!” the guests were now tripping over themselves, trying to impress Mija.
“Now…” Aminatu frowned.
“That’s… so cool!” Mija’s outburst silenced everyone present, and as she clasped Aminatu’s hands tightly the maid began to feel faint. “Please please PLEASE can you take me to the Hausalands? I want to be an amazon, and beautiful like you, but my nurses won’t let me, and I wish I could be as amazing and wonderful as you are! Please will you let me?”
“I…” Aminatu stared blankly into Mija’s earnest face, and saw that the girl was serious.
“Young mistress!” the maid was fuming now. “It is time for bed!”
“But-!”
“Now!” the maid screamed, and dragged the weeping child away.
As soon as she was taken out of the room, Mija was slapped furiously across the face.
“You stupid child!” the maid hissed. “What nonsense were you spouting? Do you want to be some filthy cocolo, pounding tom-tom drums in the jungle?”
“I- I think she’s beautiful…” Mija burst into tears, and spent all night wondering what she had done wrong.
The next morning, Mija was woken by the furious sound of knocking at her door. Hurriedly clutching her pillow for protection, Mija tentatively called out “Yes?”, and was answered by the entrance of her nursemaid, who bore a look of fury on her face.
“Y-yes?” Mija avoided the maid’s glare.
“The mistress has summoned you,” was all the maid said, before holding out a hand for Mija to take.
At that, Mija’s heart sank. If her mother wanted to see her, then that meant it had to be important. And if it was important, then that meant Mija was due for a punishment far worse than a slap. It was pointless to resist. And so, squirming and fighting back tears all the while, Mija took the nurse’s hand and let herself be led to the mistress’ quarters. Once inside, Mija saw her mother sitting at her dresser, an envelope perched between her fingers. At the sight of her daughter, Mercedes smiled, and bade the maid leave.
“I’m sorry,” Mija stared at her toes.
“For what?” Mercedes asked.
Mija had no reply, as she still wasn’t sure what she was supposed to apologize for.
“I received a letter from Queen Aminatu last night,” Mercedes said. “She wanted me to read it to you. She said you were a very sweet and kind child, and she asked me to also give you her best regards.”
Mija was confused now, but as she glanced up and saw her mother’s gentle grin, she began to realize that she was not going to be punished.
“Would you like to read it? The letter?” Mercedes patted her open lap.
“O-okay,” Mija nodded, and from her mother’s knee she read the opened envelope’s contents.
“To the young mistress of the house,
Thank you for the kind words that you said to me last night. Having grown so used to false compliments and flattery, I was caught off-guard by your innocent honesty. And as you must well know, a warrior should never be caught off-guard.
I am afraid I cannot take you to Hausaland. I am far too busy with the affairs of ruling my country, and you have a family that loves you and would be sad to see you leave. However, I hope I can at least impart you with the knowledge on how to become an amazon in your own country, and in your own manner.
As you no doubt witnessed last night, people do not like it when others forget their place. As a young lady, you are expected to behave in a certain way, just as I was expected to behave a certain way, after my parents and brother died, and I ascended the throne of my kingdom.
As you said last night, the Hausalands lie between two mighty empires, far larger and more powerful than them. And as a young, unmarried queen, I was surrounded on all sides by a surplus of kings, who saw my kingdom and my hand as ripe for the taking.
It is true that I united the various Hausa tribes under a single banner. And it is also true that I did so through the art of war, by which I earned my title “as good as any man”. But I did not seek to do this from the beginning. And even after committing myself to the task, I could not afford to rush my opponents head-on. After all, unlike your dearest Calafia, I had not one single griffin at my command, merely my wits and my tenacity. I won my battles not through glorious, open combat, like those amazons of stories, but through strategy and subterfuge, playing king against king, and later Songhay against Sheban.
Do not defy your opponents’ expectations. Rather, play into them, lull them into complacency, and then strike when they are at their weakest. Your weapons are your words and your opponents’ bravado. Know them. Use them. Master them as you would any other skill or tool, for therein lies your victory.
I wish that I could give you more of these lessons I have learned, in all my years of rule. But there is little space on this parchment, and little time for me to write. Even so, I am confident that you shall learn the truth behind my words. Your mother will provide you an excellent teacher, as I can tell she is already a capable warrior herself.
In the meantime, try not to get yourself into too much trouble. I hope we meet again someday.
Farewell,
-Aminatu”
Mija read the words, but still did not fully understand them. Her mother, a warrior? That didn’t sound right. Mija glanced up at Mercedes, carefully reading the letter herself, a serene expression on her face, and could not see a warrior in those features. Aminatu must have been mistaken.
To Mija’s surprise, as soon as her mother finished her reading, she wrapped the girl up in a tight hug.
“Mama? What are you doing?” Mija asked.
“Nothing,” Mercedes smiled. “I… am simply happy that you are my daughter, and I love you.”
“I… I love you too,” Mija smiled, and the two ladies remained in silence together.
