The Myth of Merula

He suddenly stood there facing me in the courtyard where I sat cross-legged on the foam mattress in the same clothes I had worn for the last four days — a T-shirt and a pair of bicycle shorts with a long, Malian-style skirt pulled over them. First I saw the crocodile-shaped scar on his left hand. It was darker than the rest of his skin, and the scarred flesh was slightly raised. It looked like a crocodile thrashing its tail and twisting its body around, with its mouth wide open. I had noticed Akyundo’s crocodile mark the first time I met him four days ago.

I craned my head up to meet his eyes, going past his indigo pants and shirt, up to his short white beard and brown, conical hat. Squinting in the morning sunlight, I tried to read his expression. Had I really seen him buy a white infant caged inside of a wicker basket? Or had that all been a dream? I could hear the people of the village talking to each other, with their incessant greetings. “Sewa, sewa.” Fire finches sang as they flew overhead. A hen foraged through the courtyard with five chicks hopping desperately after her. Akyundo had the bearing of the same wise, compassionate old man I had warmed to at our first encounter. I saw no hostility in his eyes. Wasn’t it possible that he had purchased a tiny monkey with pale hands, not a baby? Maybe it was even some type of a pale lizard with a strange, high voice resembling a human infant.

“You want to learn the story of Merula very much, yes?” he asked me in French.

“Oui.”

“Pour quoi?”

“Because I think it is important for the world to know her true story,” I said in French.

He did not seem satisfied by my answer. “You feel you are ready for the truth?”

I started to answer, but he held up his hand.

“I will see if you are ready. Will you meet me tonight to eat the root that gives visions?”

I wanted to ask, “What do you mean?” You don’t ask the high hogon that question when he is offering you the privilege of interpreting your Ibogaine-induced visions under his guidance. I hesitated for a moment, realizing fully that I would be placing my psyche for hours into the hands of a man I was not sure I could trust. I also realized fully that if I didn’t take that risk, I would likely have to go home and give up on my goal of being the very first person to tell Blackbird’s story to the world. I would have to return my grant money, paying back what I’d spent so far. I would have to pick another Masters project. I would have to explain to people why I chickened out. Worst of all, I would always wonder what would have happened and what I would have learned…I simply couldn’t give up. I was too determined and too curious. Turning back was unthinkable to me.

I realized that I had nodded my head, when Akyundo said, “Good. Apurali will bring you. Eat no dinner tonight.”