“Abelzowadyo.” A patchwork clown with beaded braids and a silver mustache burst onto the balcony over the stage. “Greetings.” His deep resonant voice was a guest in Zamanzi. He winked at Awa and her troupe. “Tomorrow is now and yesterday.” He jumped to a tower ledge then to the ground, where he shifted to Empire vernacular. “Hold your purse. Clutch your child. The gods of carnival are rainbow spirits. Watch your heart. Crossroads tricksters crack you apart, and everything goes upside down and inside out, right side wrong and backside front.” He spun around in billowing curtains and displayed a woman’s face and form. “Nobody”—her voice rang like a bell, high and clear—“is who you think she is.” The audience applauded carnival conjure.

Even Awa was captivated as an iron horse with a cloud-silk mane and feather tail glided through the curtains on a cart and bumped the shapeshifter. She and Bal squealed at the horse’s ruby eyes and golden heart wheel. Smoke poured from flared nostrils and enveloped the clown who jumped up on the horse backward. His silver mustache twitched in the first face again, but the womanly form persisted. “Welcome.” This voice was high with deep overtones. “We shapeshifters tell an old tale from before the void, a story learned from Yari, the griot of griots, who heard it from Anawanama ancestors.” The audience roared their delight. Nobody jeered at a man-woman masquerade, a Lahesh trickster. The cart revolved and the clown proclaimed, “Today and tomorrow, we discover who we are together.” Vie disappeared beyond the curtains shouting, “Xhalan Xhala.” Djola jerked at Lahesh conjure words.

Awa patted his shoulder. “Tomorrow in yesterday need not be pain.”

Djola jerked again. “Yes, Samina said that too. Xhalan Xhala is not just bleak visions.”

Talking drums hushed the crowd. Even the noisy slurping of free festival food ceased. A warhorse pranced through the storm-cloud curtains as Green Elder music wafted from the trees. Two acrobats in moon masks and black cloaks dropped from a raintree branch and landed back-to-back on the red gelding. Tiny crystals on their cloaks sparkled and moon faces glowed.

Awa recognized warhorse and players. “The Zamanzi twins from Holy City huts.”

“Rebels now,” Bal said.

“Zst!” Kyrie shushed them.

Fish acrobats burst up from stage trapdoors, trailing blue-green fabric. They tumbled underfoot, like waves rising and falling. Above the audience, Green Elders materialized in a treehouse—the griots from the back alley. They spoke the Anawanama legend in Empire vernacular while the moon masks and stilt monsters danced the tale: