“In the words of my council sister Queen Min Ja,” I whispered back, “that’s what makes me so popular.”

Adukeh’s voice pinged from the echo-stone, words sliding in the tonal scale of ancient Arit orators. “N-Noble clans of the t-twelve Arit realms. Your obabirin b-bids you welcome to the first P-Pinnacle of her est-esteemed reign.”

On cue, my attendants passed bowls of kola nuts around the courtyard. Every clan leader took one, politely biting the pieces of small, hard fruits and spitting onto the floor: an acceptance of my peace offering. I wondered how long peace would last once I started talking.

“In honor of this m-momentous g-gathering,” Adukeh went on, clearly rallying her courage, “I, a f-former quarry girl, will t-tell you a story.”

Members of the crowd jeered at Adukeh’s impediment. She stole a glance at me, and I smiled, mouthing what I’d told her this morning:

Make history.

Adukeh’s eyes glittered. Brandishing her drum like a weapon, she tore on, her stutter growing weaker with every word.

“Hear a song of life and d-death,” she bellowed. “Hear the t-tale of Egungun’s Parade. I have three bells in my mouth. I do not tell a lie.”

Then she trilled, throwing her shoulder into beating the drum. When she started the song, my attendants and I joined in, crowing out the well-known refrain:

Egungun, I hear him! He was the first man.
Egungun, my ancestors’ ancestor.
Egungun wins souls with the beat of his drum—
Egungun, he leads the parade.

All around us, the court of nobles murmured, alarmed and discomfited. The tale of Egungun was said to have sinister power—that when sung, it awoke beasts who lurked in the Underworld, eager to pull souls into the depths below. As a result, the story was only told in whispers, or jeered at criminals on their way to execution, hoping to heap bad luck on already-doomed souls.

But Adukeh grinned and pressed on, declaiming in a strident sing-chant:

“There was no death in Human-town. Watch my eyes, I am not a liar! There was no death in Human-town; we walked the earth as gods. Our children lived forever until Warlord Fire cursed us. Hear the sounds of beasts baying: gorrun-go, gorrun-go! The Warlord has sent his thirteen monsters; they prey on Human-town!”

Adukeh hunched over as she drummed, baring her teeth in her best imitation of snarling beasts.

“Each monster is a death that you or I may die,” Adukeh continued, “and the strongest, Old Age, shall catch us all. Hear a wail lift up from Human-town. The children of Earth and the Pelican have known pain, but death? This is a journey no human has taken. Who will be the first?

“ ‘Me,’ intones the Gray-Beard Man, and so we call him, for we have lost his name to time. ‘I was the first that Earth shaped from blood and clay. My limbs are weak, and when the Warlord’s beast growls for me, I shall not outrun her.’ ”