“No. Kha and I just met.” I checked his nose for a telltale matrix of scabs. To my relief, it was merely blistered. He had not been sick for long. “Now, I have a question for you,” I said.

He perked up.

“Why do you call him Kha?”

“Because that is the name he answers to!” The boy smiled, as if I’d asked the silliest question. “Do you know that my special gift is to sing?” he went on, seamlessly. “Father Potoo told me this.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. He said, ‘Fount, you sing better than all the rest of the flock, but not better than me.’”

I examined his thin chest. I estimated he was in the first stage of the disease. He had yet to start the crippling cough which, I thought grimly, would silence his singing voice for days.

“I will be like Father Potoo when I am older,” he said.

“You want to be a medicine man?”

He shook his head. “I want to be the Master of Music.”

“I think you mean the music teacher, at the Academy.”

He shook his head. “No, Auntie, I don’t.”

Auntie. I paused, fighting the urge to gather the little boy into my arms and run as fast as I could. I swallowed and the feeling settled in my chest. Fount was still waiting for an answer. “If you want to be like Father Potoo, you want to be a music teacher,” I explained. “That is the position that Father Potoo holds, medicine man and music teacher.”

“Yes, but Father Potoo is in charge of music in Cobane,” Fount replied. “I will be in charge of music all over the Kongo. The Master of Music.” He spread his hands in the air.

I smiled, gently. “I don’t believe such a master exists.”

“Not yet.” He settled back. “I will be the first.”

My smile died. After being erased he might not remember this ambition, let alone achieve it. “What about the Rebirth,” I said, tentatively. “It’s coming in just a few weeks. Soon you will be old enough to participate.”

“Yes,” he said, simply.

I waited for him to add more, to show some sign of dread. But he was too young, I realized. He had not learned enough about pain to dread the future. I began to rub ointment on his chest, feeling sadder with every slight beat of his heart against my hand.

“Tell me your name again,” I said.

“Fountain. They call me Fount.”

“What a special name.”

“Father Potoo says, on the day I was born, a crow came down from a great oak to croak on the window ledge of the birthing hut.”

“Now, why would a crow do that?”

“Father Potoo says a conjure man sent the crow to curse me.”

I stopped rubbing. “That’s terrible.”