Prince of Flames: Chapter IV The Lady in the Bottle

I won't paywall this one

“What is thy business herein Fadaodi?” One of the guards asked impatiently, of Nibilan who answered at once, in what Charáji had come to know all too well.

“I have goods to trade,” Nibilan replied in a voice that could have been that of a mouse.

The pleading, pathetic tone was one that gave the two guards before the enormous twenty meter high and four meter thick walls of the city, and equally high gates pause. The two of them stared at the thin figure before them, neither one able to resist the urge to demand from so squeamish and pathetic a figure, a little more than was usually levied on travellers.

“It is fourteen silver hyenas,” the one to the left demanded of the traveller seated in the front of the caravan, referring to the principal currency utilised throughout the lands of Hausa, Edo and Ife.

Indignant at this gross breach of justice, Nibilan squawked at them, “But that’s twice the amount that you said before!”

“But that was before you refused to let us look into the caravan,” Said the second guard, the one to the right who continued to cast dark eyes upon the caravan, evidently suspicious of it. “It is for that reason we must insist that you offer up more, to compensate us for our troubles.”

“What troubles?”

“If you happen to be smuggling goods in, we could find ourselves in a great deal of trouble soon,” Said the first of the guards in a sibilant tone, “Therefore pay us.”

Nibilan hemmed and hawed over this command, for some time and strove to find some way to weasel out of this situation he had put himself in. From the very first time she had met him, Charáji had been confronted by someone who was utterly passive, yet had the aggressively self-centred vanity of a weasel. Somehow these two aspects of his character were always at war with one another, even as they dominated him.

Unpleasant, he was to suck his lower lip between his teeth and rocked himself back and forth as though he were on the cusp of tears. Eventually, in spite of his previous show of bravado he gave in and nodded his head several times, slipping over the coin they wished for to them. “Here you are, you filthy thieves.”
“Mind thy tongue, knave,” Said the second of the guards.

“I think someone is hardly grateful enough, in my view,” Muttered the first of the two, as he accepted some of the coin also.

The two were to signal the caravan forward, even as they counted their respective bribes with greedy gleams in their eyes. Heaving a heavy sigh of relief Nibilan was to whip the camels tied to the caravan forward, with visible eagerness.

Turning to Charáji he was to proclaim in a triumphant tone as he did so, “You see my dear, I knew we could gain entry to Fadaodi, the Marche-City as many call it! And here it is that we shall find our destiny, my dear!”

“Release me, and I will show you what your destiny truly is, you pitiful wretch of a man,” Charáji threatened her captor as she struck against her container’s walls.

It was humiliating for her, a lesser goddess that of the Charáji-Oasis to be reduced to so low a place by not simply any mortal, but by the most lowly of them all that she had ever known. Familiarity had truly bred in her contempt in her, for him as the proverb goes with her contempt coupling itself together with a growing sense of resentment and disdain for him.

Nibilan for his part was utterly unaware of her continued discontentedness towards him, so that he was in her eyes the lowliest of all creation’s creatures. He was of a mind still that, he might someday persuade her to appreciate him better.

“We will be together, in this place fear not Charáji,” Nibilan assured her, eagerly to the disgust of his prisoner.

“I would prefer it otherwise,” She snapped at him.

Their discussion was interrupted by the likes of one of the guards who were to ask of the thief, “Wait!”

“Wh-what?”

“Who is it that you are speaking to?” The guard in question demanded of him, visibly confused by his seeming madness.

“I er, myself?” Nibilan replied weakly.

The disgust on the face of the guard was unmistakeable. Shaking his head he was to tell him sternly, “You stay away from decent women, slime such as thyself has no place near them.”

Insulted though he was, Nibilan could not quite bring himself to snap at him, such was the spinelessness of his nature. So that he simply nodded his head, preferring to make his way at last into the small town, with his caravan jostling on every hitch and bump and hole, in the road.

Hardly paved, the path that had long ago become used to enter the town was unlike those further to the north in the Empire of Orissia.

To either side of the caravan, advanced a great throng of people, eager to enter and to see to trading what they could of their wares. The city was a location that served as a mid-point of sorts between three kingdoms, those of Ife, Edo and Hausa so that in spite of its small size it was a popular destination for travellers. Dwarfed by a great many others, it was however due to wise stewardship growing ever larger, with every passing year.

The crowd of people was larger and more formidable than any previously faced real or imagined by the cowardly Nibilan, who though daunted urged his camel forward. Tugging at the rope attached to her, he was to move his way ever so slowly and steadily through the throng of people. His apprehension such that he continuously glanced back to the sides of his transport, for fear that someone might peek into the caravan interior and if so, that they might steal some of the gold and jewels that he had stolen from Kolwé.

The village had at its centre a large citadel-fort much as that of Puppata, though this one was not separated from the rest of the village by a second wall. The stone-houses and thatch ones that decorated the village surrounded the citadel in a manner that could best be described as haphazard and utterly disorganised at worst.

“Beautiful place, is it not?” Nibilan asked of Charáji.

“I care not for it,” Charáji snapped impatiently, startling the thief who blinked in surprise at her words, “I do not like great cities and village.”

“I shall remember that for the future,” Nibilan said cheerily.

Charáji did not reply. She had no wish to feed him any further knowledge regarding her, due to her disdain for him and frustration with his obsession with her. It was for this reason that she was to once again wallow in self-pity. This had begun to become an ever more common occurrence for her.

She had no wish to be with him, all that she wished for was Aganyú, to be with him and to be free from the company of the likes of Nibilan. A Nereid, a water-spirit she could only think to pray to her father Pontus, in the hopes that he might surge forward with some miraculous rescue.

Nibilan’s good mood did not last though, as he drew nearer to one of the larger inns, of the town. The place in question was one that he was quite familiar with, there was an image of a large warthog, and one that was as poorly drawn as it was crudely painted. The wooden sign was stuck in the ground just outside the tavern, and was one that wore to her confusion, in place of a crown a large goblet for a hat.

It might have amused her, had she not been a prisoner, with the goddess frowning rather than smiling or giggling. Striking against the bottle’s walls with all the waters inside of it, for the hundredth time that day, all to no avail, Charáji was to sulk and fall into a fouler mood at this failure.

“The Warthog’s Goblet, ah the finest of all taverns and inns I have ever had the pleasure of visiting,” Nibilan was to remark to his prisoner, quite happy with himself as he pulled up next to the stables. If he was at all put off by the icy silence of his captive, he did not let it affect him as he carried on cheerfully, “This is where we shall stay, while I make my fortune. A fortune that will help to buy me a finer home than that which the local lord currently squats inside of! I daresay that soon, our dreams of a fine home and of wealth and happiness will be more than mere dreams, what say you Charáji?”

“I say that I hope you choke on any hog they feed you, or wine they serve to whet thy appetites knave,” she snarled at him, with no less hatred than before.

Nibilan did as he always did when she snapped at him, and pretended not to hear. His strange habit of turning to speak to the clear bottle, by his side was one that not everyone in Fadaodi was blind to. It was a habit that might convince some that he was daft, and simply talking to himself or addressing someone within his caravan.

His only thought was to sell what he could of his caravan, and to find himself a place to stay for the night. It was necessary he told himself that he first find guards to protect it while he found himself a room at the inn, so that he was to have the tavern send word to the local lord that he wished his caravan guarded. The lord of the city was a man by the name of Bukola, and was a man renowned for his uprightness. It was said that for a small price, a man could request guards from the lord to be placed around his house, horses or caravans, to shield them against thieves and brigands.

The lord when he received this message he did not ponder a great deal about the coin that had been sent with the messenger. Pleased at the payment, he was to dispatch four of his most trustworthy men, to the caravan in question.

Nibilan for his part, was to wait just outside his caravan until the guards arrived, with their captain to inform him, “I am Ayinde, head of lord Bukola’s guards. We will be guarding thy caravan throughout the night; we ask only that you remember us when eating your dinner and that we be paid ourselves on the morrow.”

This Nibilan agreed at once, paying them what they asked, which amounted to five bronze coins each, with the man’s beard and lower lip almost quivering as he passed along the money from his pouch. This did not go unnoticed by the three men, as they looked at him with disdainful and rueful smirks on their lips.

Irritated by how the three with him in the stables looked down on him, with as vicious sneers as had all others on the road and at the gates, Nibilan almost hissed at them. Remembering his temper, and his prize he was to instead thank them.

“Thank you for your aid, and I shall have food sent down in due time,” He was to say to them, as he bowed his head slightly to them in gratitude.

This gesture they accepted if with growing contempt for him, ere they turned away to settle in for the evening, resolved to nonetheless do their duty. What they did not see was the returning sneer, and glittering eyes of Nibilan as he bowed his head before them in seeming submission.

Stepping around them, to head to the stall where he had settled his horse, and over onto the front of the caravan, he was to while the horse chewed on some of the choicest hay move to sit by Charáji’s bottle. Those men, he told himself may have been stronger, taller and better fed than he, but he had the love of Charáji this set him apart and above them.

“I go now,” He whispered to the woman he loved, who did not answer him preferring instead to turn away and sink into the waters below her, melding with them. “Come along, mayhap we could share a drink together if you so wish, Charáji.”

“I would prefer never to share one, unless it is at thy funeral,” She retorted coldly to the bewilderment of her captor.

“Why would you speak so, to me? When I have done all within my power, to give you happiness and to bring you to one of the finest cities that I know of,” Nibilan exclaimed hurt by her words.

“I speak so, because it was you Nibilan, who stole me away from the only one that I could ever love, and forthwith took me to a city when I have no love for such places.” Charáji snapped at him, displeased and full of venom when she spoke.

The goddess remained firmly convinced that he was her greatest enemy, and there was naught that he could say or do to dissuade her of this. It was thus, with a heavy heart that Nibilan began to realise the depth of her hatred.

But denial, which knows no age, and no race and tends to infect many across the whole of the world whether they be gods or men, was to return in full force. Never, he told himself would he so easily accept defeat and let her slip from within his proverbial grasp. He had given up too much, and sacrificed too much he told himself, to have her by his side and so he merited her love, more than any other, especially one so ungrateful and brutish as Aganyú.

“Very well, I leave you here to ponder thy fate, and to think on thy lack of gratitude,” Nibilan snapped at her, never one to deny himself the slightest of comforts.

“He is gone now thither, into the inn,” One of the guards muttered once the thief had gone inside, with a bounce in his step at the pleasures that surely awaited him inside. The guard for his part, was a young man one who had gained his captain’s respect, along with that of Lord Bukola, for his dedication and honourable nature. Yet he suffered from one fatal flaw; he was an overly curious fellow, one who was haunted by a persistent sense of curiosity. “Now, may I examine his cart and possessions?”

“No, Abike, you may not,” The captain grumbled irritably.

“I swear it is not to steal from him,” the guardsman promised and he meant it.

“I do not think you would,” His superior replied at once, speaking the truth ere he turned away to study the open doorway to the stable, “It is only that I do not like this fellow, and find him very strange.”

“It is not for us to question, who our lord assigns us to protect,” His superior scolded him, if without bite.

“I am aware captain, however is it not strange that he spoke to someone, and then when we glanced over near there after he departed, it was to find no one there,” Abike the guardsman said to the older man. “There is something very queer about this fellow, about his cart and I say we should investigate it, in the event that there is more to it than meets the eye.”
“I agree captain,” said the next man in support of his friend, “I have served for twelve years and never heard of a man talking to thin air, save once and that other man was drunk.”

The captain considered their request. In truth, he was no less consumed by curiosity, and no less disconcerted by Nibilan. The man was a weasel; this much could be discerned by anyone with eyes. It was for this reason that he might have liked to investigate the man himself, were he not given the command by his lord not to investigate the caravan.

An order from Lord Bukola in his eyes, was tantamount to a command given by the very gods themselves, it was for this reason that he refused his subordinates permission to quench their proverbial thirst for the truth. It was also very strange, he mused to himself how the man had uttered the name Charáji, which sounded akin to a woman’s name and yet there was no woman present.

“He could be daft,” He muttered almost more to himself.

“Of that I have no doubt,” another of the guardsmen agreed at once, with a derisive snort one which soon proved itself to be fairly contagious.

How long they sat there for, none of them knew. In time though, their captain apportioned to each of them a watch-time, saying to them as he did so. “We shall divide watch-duty into three parts of the night, I will take up the first watch, then two of you will take up the second and then the last will be taken up by Folarin and myself.”

At this suggestion, several of them protested out of loyalty and fidelity to their much loved captain, for they felt that it was too much for him. As he was advancing in years, it seemed to them to be unreasonable to ask of him, to take up the lion’s share of the hours expected of them all.

“Captain,” said Abike, astonished by his volunteering to do more than all of them. “You are old, where we are young, might it not prove better, wiser one might also say for you to work only one shift, while we divide the other two amongst ourselves?”

“There are four of us, and we must tread lightly where each of our shifts is concerned, and as the most senior in rank it ought to fall on myself, to take up the greater part of the work.” Ayinde the Captain said attempting to convince them that all would be well, if he took up the greater part of the nocturnal-watch as he had proposed to them.

It was a view that few of them shared, for all of them bore a special love for their captain. It was he who had sought to teach them, guide them since they were young and had first entered into the Lord Bukola’s service. It was thus, for this reason that they were to assort among themselves in quiet whispers just how might the shifts be re-allotted.

In the end it was Abike who decided, “Uche shall have the first shift alongside the Captain, then I myself will awaken to take up the middle shift, with Folarin wherefore I shall take up the last one alone.”

“If it means that I shall not have to speak with that weasel of a man, I shall be perfectly content to take up watch for half of the night.” Uche agreed at once, with a nasty look in the direction of the inn where Nibilan’s laughter could be heard echoing outwards.

None argued with him on this matter, with the Captain though visibly moved by their devotion to him, agreeing if begrudgingly so to their suggestions. Doing so out of sincere exhaustion and because he felt in his heart that it might somehow prove ungrateful, to turn away from their genial offer, he was to lay down and immediately go to sleep.

Once he was safely asleep, and his snores echoed throughout the stables, alongside those of the man who had the last watch, Abike was to wait nearby. His curiosity still had not been properly sated and it so happened that the other man on watch Folarin, was no less curious. Yet neither of them wished to see the other sate his curiosity in any way, by letting him inspect the caravan. Quite why this was could not wholly be determined, with the two men eyeing one another suspiciously for quite some time.

That is until Folarin began to drift away, seemingly falling asleep while on watch. Abike ought to have spoken up or done something to rouse him, but he had little desire to do so, though this did not mean that he simply threw himself forward onto the front of the caravan immediately. To the contrary, he wrestled with his own inquisitive spirit and duty-minded ways for quite some time.

“I really ought to rouse him,” he told himself, more aware than any other man in the world of his duties, “Folarin is also on duty, and the Captain said no peeking into the caravan.”

He might not have glanced inside, were it not for Charáji speaking out all of a sudden. Sensing someone up above her, she was to twist about deep within her bottle, thinking that it was Nibilan she said as she awoke after a deep sleep. “Filthy wretch you ought to be fed to Apophis the great serpent, and left to be digested over the course of a thousand years.”

It was such a black curse that Abike the guard was at the first more upset by it, so that he momentarily forgot to be afraid of a talking bottle full of water. “What? What have I done, to merit such a foul malediction? I have done nothing wrong, as of yet to deserve you cursing me so hatefully!”

Realising that it was not Nibilan, Charáji was to gape up at him. She was to swallow down her own sense of outrage, which was considerable so that she could plead with the man who seemed to loom above her. Desperate for aid, she was to beg of him hardly caring at that moment, how humiliating it was for a goddess such as herself to be begging a mortal. Fate could be a whimsical mistress, and one whose cruelty affected all; be they mortal or divine. “Please I beg of thee, do release me I did not mean to curse you O Mortal, I had thought you to be that knave Nibilan who imprisoned me in this bottle!”

It was with a start that the guard realised that he was speaking to a bottle of water, unsure of himself he was to ask of her. “How is this real? And how could anyone become entrapped in a bottle of water?”

“It is a magical bottle, I do not know how it came into being only that Kolwé the Sorcerer had it first and that Nibilan stole it from him,” Charáji told him only to press her hands against the sides of her container. “Please, will you not liberate me? All I wish for, is to be reunited with my Aganyú, I never harmed anyone!”

Hearing her heartfelt entreaties moved the young Abike, who was to swallow deeply and ponder her strange request. “Very well milady, though how do I do that? Is there some magical ritual involved?”

Sensing his apprehension Charáji, was to smile gratefully at him from within her bottle, saying as she did so, “O kind sir, all you need do to liberate me is to uncork this bottle!”

The man with some trepidation was to do exactly as bidden.

The moment that the top of the bottle was removed, there was a great explosion of light. Light that so overwhelmed the poor man that he threw himself back, head over heels and off of the caravan, as he sought to divert his gaze. Never before had he seen such a strange sight, and never before had he been more encouraged to pray, to the gods than at that moment.

To Abike it was a terrible experience, one that left him befuddled and stunned. Yet for the lovely Charáji it was the most liberating one of the whole of her existence (saving Aganyú’s heroic rescue of her). It was as though she had for the first time returned to herself, returned to her oasis and returned to her former glory all at once.

It had been weeks since she had felt such exhilaration, such gladness. Her arms thrust up into the air she gave loud thanks to her father Pontus, crying out, “Thank you O Father! Thank you, for having heard thy humble daughter’s prayers! And thank you O Father of mine for this liberation!”

Her voice echoed as never before, as she almost burst into tears such was the gladness that she felt fill the whole of her being. Once again Charáji was freed to walk the earth, to revel in the simple pleasure of her feet upon the ground. Free to indulge in the most basic of sensations from a cool breeze on one’s face, or any number of other pleasures.

“By the gods! What are you?” Abike exclaimed given over to wonder, as he stared at her, as she stood upon the front of the caravan where her bottle had previously stood.

Smiling beatifically upon him, as one might one’s child Charáji was to give unto him what blessings she had at that moment, saying to him. “O may the blessings of my father and of my grandfather be upon thee, brave warrior of Hausa. You have restored to me that which was lost, and which I most craved! My liberty!”

Gaping at her, in awe of her beauty which seemed more natural than all the rest of the world, and more terrifying and wonderful than any stream, forest or mountain any man had ever set eyes upon. More woman than any living woman, she was so completely and entirely otherworldly that when he saw her, Abike knew a desire greater than any other he had ever felt before that moment.

It was with a start that he knew her to be a goddess, not simply by her words but by some instinctual knowledge. It was a knowledge that came to him, born long before he was and that harkened back to an infinitely more primordial age, when men wandered the land clothed in loin-clothes and the skin of lions rather than in proper raiment.

Startled and bewildered he was unable to find the words to answer her. How could he? To have been able to speak at that moment was beyond any man’s ken. One would have to be a god or a demon to have been able to dress beauteous Charáji so readily then. This was what he was to later tell himself, when he went away from the stable, having lost his heart to the lady in the bottle.

If Abike lost his heart to her eyes and voice, which was akin to a song in full crescendo, or a painting that was newly finished and painted by the finest of Quirinian or Orissian painters, Folarin the guard was to react very differently to him. Where the first guard had released her out of curiosity, from her imprisonment the next who beheld her was to react quite differently.

This second guard was not the man that Abike or their captain was, an envious creature he was to at the sight of Charáji be no less enthralled. His own sense of passion though, was one that was to blind him to all that was good and moral in him as he observed her with greed in his heart.

“What is this?” He was to call out, to the surprise of Abike who turned to stare at him, unsure of how best to answer him.

“I erm, that is to say,” He stuttered at a loss.

“Who is that woman?” Folarin was to ask of him, pointing at the goddess who was in the middle of seizing her bottle from the other guard.

“I do not know,” Abike answered honestly.

“I am Charáji daughter of Pontus, and granddaughter of Mngu,” Charáji interrupted as she leapt down from the front of the caravan. “Now if you will excuse me, men of Fadaodi I must return to my oasis and find my way from there, to my Aganyú.”

Staring in bewilderment at her, the two men knew not what to say or do. A part of them at once grieved that she might leave them alone, were horrified at the notion that they might never again see her. Her reference to her oasis confused them, as they hungrily longed to know more even as both were filled with jealousy for this man, this Aganyú. How could they not be? Neither of them had ever seen a goddess before, and neither of them knew what to do with their newfound passion for her.

The first to react was Abike ever the honourable man; he sought to cast away the darkness that had begun to form deep within his heart. He was to step forward to inform her of where she was once more, to ensure she knew where it was that she found herself and to add for good measure. “Milady, for surely this is the only title by which any man can ever call upon thee, I must ask of you to pay heed to the dangers of the night.”

“What dangers?”

“This is a city of merchants, not all of them honourable or chivalrous; I would counsel you to wait until the dawn before you depart.” Abike was to urge her, keen to do right by her no matter how she made his heart thunder in his chest.

“I have no wish to hesitate, or to wait for my Aganyú to come to my rescue, I must see him as soon as possible that he might know I am well.” Charáji snapped furiously, with nary the patience of mortal men who knew the world to be an unjust and fallen thing. A world that was hardly worthy of so beauteous, so magnificent a goddess as she, or so Abike was to upon reflection on the state of affairs in the city and king, to tell himself later.

The stable was silent, what music there had been that had echoed from the inn itself had long since gone silent. There was to be none of the boisterousness, none of the joy of drinks shared between friends for some time. It was a time of dark shadows, of quietude and of miserable expectations for a great many within the city. None knew though, of the great even that had taken place that night, at least not quite yet.

Nibilan whom she might once have feared was no longer so great a threat to her, nor was he a concern. Not when she had the bottle herself, and with her newly won liberation from it. Her pride newly restored she was not alone under the stars, in feeling determined to have things her way, as it might be said. Folarin far more terrible, wicked and wretched in nature than Nibilan could ever prove himself to be, looked on her with the hunger of a starved lion.

It was with a short bound to the ground, and with a proud flourish of her hair tossing the long mane she had, back over her shoulder that Charáji made to set out. Hers was a departure that those around her would have been sorry to see, such was the fervour she had already inspired in them.

But she did not give way to irrationality where the matter of ‘her’ bottle was concerned, taking it and the cork from Abike, whom she was to smile gratefully once more to. “Thank you, for liberating me from imprisonment and I do believe I shall take this with me. I will see to the discarding of it for I have no desire to once more face imprisonment.”

It was a bold statement, and one worthy of a lady such as herself. It was a statement that worried Abike, who wondered if destruction of the bottle was truly possible, yet he did not say aught more on the subject. Fearing it might chase her away all the faster, for he wished to have her company as long as was humanly possible.

“Milady, if I may it truly is a dangerous place,” Abike warned her.

“Agreed,” Folarin said to the surprise of Abike who had hardly noticed him, so entranced was he by the goddess before him. Eyeing his friend long and hard, he was to open his mouth to reply shortly to him, when the latter man bowed before Charáji saying to her. “I am Folarin, son of Valarin.”

Looking on him with more than a little disinterest, Charáji was to hurry to step around him with the intent of leaving the city. In this regard she was to be thwarted by Folarin, who was to seize her by the arm. Hardly willing to let her go, he was to seize her by the wrist, in a gesture that could not be described as aught else than rude.

His impoliteness was to extend further, when he insisted that she remain within the city, “It really will not do if you were to go now, not with the city so full of miscreants and villains.”

“Release me at once!” Charáji countered at once, offended by his forwardness, “I did not give you permission to grasp me in so forward a manner. I said I shall brave it, and so I shall!”

“But it would be improper on our parts to let you go, especially when you have yet to meet our liege-lord and allow him to pay his respects to you,” Folarin was to reply, only to turn to Abike. “Would you not agree that, a lady of such refinement and beauty’s place is in the lord’s palace, Abike?”

“Well, I would not presume to know better than the lady, however I suppose,” Abike retorted only for his face to redden even more as he added with a warm glance to the lady. “I would argue though that her place is hardly in a lord’s countryside palace, but rather in a King’s palace.”

If looks could kill, there would already have been a murder and it would hardly have been a mystery as to who the culprit was, or who the victim. Such was the fury that Folarin felt at that moment that he was to go to considerable efforts to compose himself, and even when he did it was not wholly convincing. Neither of the other two before him was to trust in him when he next spoke, with neither of the two doing much more than eyeing him cautiously. Such is the nature of changeable men; they inspire neither trust nor confidence.

“Milady I insist for the last time, you do as I suggest!” Folarin pleaded for the last time, or so the lady hoped.

Hardly bothering to answer him, Charáji was to move to step past him, keen to put the whole of the city behind her, at the soonest opportunity. She was to take one glance outside when she came to the realization that the two men had come to the conclusion of long before her. Coinage would indeed be necessary, she thought as she hurried back to the caravan, to the joy of the two men.

“You see now milady?” Folarin taunted her.

“See what? All that I saw was a larger city than I had expected, and that I will require some of Nibilan’s gold stolen from Kolwé the Sorcerer.” Charáji snapped evenly, as she took up one of the many satchels to the front of the caravan wherefore she was to seize from the back of the vehicle a handful of coins.

Once she had deposited them, and tied the satchel to her belt she was to make to leave once more from the stables, she was to once more move to step past Folarin. He was to interpose himself before her, with the noise of their conversation by this time awakening Ayinde.

In the midst of a dreamless sleep, he awoke to discover the most beauteous lady he had ever seen, attempting to slip out from the stables. At first bewildered, he was to blink several times before he realized it was not simply one of his dreams, and confused he regained his feet as quietly as a panther, and with the same deadly purposefulness. Though, a part of him had no wish to doubt such a woman, he could see the bottle she held and was at once convinced that she was a thief, for he recognized the bottle as being the possession of Nibilan. And if there was one thing that ought to be known about Ayinde, it was that he was married to his duty.

“Who is that woman? How did she come to be here?” Captain Ayinde was to demand of his men, stunned at the vision of Charáji.

It was at this time that a wicked scheme came into Folarin’s spirit. One that so alarmed Charáji that she was to at once make to fly away such was the fright that overtook her. “She is a thief Captain, has sought to steal from that man, Nibilan who hired us to guard his treasures!”

“Liar!” Charáji shrieked only to take flight when she saw the Captain who had just awoken, step up towards after rising to his feet.

Convinced that she had indeed sought to rob Nibilan, Ayinde was to order three of his men after her, so that though he had liberated her out of curiosity and had sought to treat her with honour Abike it was who soon seized hold of her. Catching her by the waist he lifted her high off the ground, in the middle of the main road through the city. Few were the people who were still awake at this time, and bore witness to Charáji’s capture and even less so offered any sort of objection.

It happened that though she might turn liquid, or might otherwise have unleashed untold wrath upon the man who had grabbed her, Charáji did not do so. Quite why, was beyond the comprehension of those mortals aware, she was a goddess. The true reason though, was that she feared the loss of the bottle-prison that had been used to capture her, feared that they might gain hold of it and use it to once more imprison her.

And so it was that she clung to her prison as one might one’s life, and she in this way just as it is said many of the mortal races so often do, clung to her doom in this manner. What she could not have predicted as she withheld her wrath, for fear of shattering it unsure of what might happen should it be destroyed, and for their sake that she would be carried off.

“Take her to the prison for the night,” Ayinde commanded sharply studying her intently, a hint of admiration in his gaze as he looked on her then. “Take her away; theft under such circumstances is a terrible crime.”

“What of this bottle?” Folarin asked eager to lay claim to it, aware as he was of its great magic, “I shall have it stored away myself.”

“No,” Ayinde said surprising his men by taking hold of it himself, “I do believe I saw it earlier with that fellow, Nibilan. It is his and we shall leave it to him, as surely as we shall leave the very last coin this thief took.”

Folarin ground his teeth together, and he might well have liked to say aught more, yet could not under the circumstances. And so it came to pass that Charáji was stripped of her prison, and escorted off to prison behind the citadel walls after she had dared to hope. Cursing them all the while she was escorted away, she was to give vent to a variety of tasteful insults, as she resisted feebly. Separated from her oasis she was little different from other, more ordinary women. Full of impotent rage, she was to vent her fury as might a caged tiger, not that her attempts to bite or kick her new captors did her much good. Losing patience with her, Ayinde was to resort to slapping her, to tame her violent spirit.

At last her efforts to resist properly subdued, she now had only muttered threats and prayers to her father Pontus, and for Aganyú to come rescue her quickly.