The Book of Berber Magic

Chapter 6

It was approaching winter and there was snow capping the mountains, as Said set off early one morning to collect Kathia and from Tangier. She was in for a surprise. Most of their research that they did involved the same ritual of befriending the locals in the villagers and recording their stories for the Berber compendium, which was growing larger by the minute. But this time, Said had something different in mind.

He was taking Kathia to meet the Tomb Tellers, he declared as she stepped into the car.

"Tomb Tellers?" asked Kathia. "Yes," he said. "You want to know the secrets of Morocco, well they know the oldest kind."

"But what are they?" asked Kathia. "You will see," muttered Said, starting the car, which took four attempts.

Riding in his battered yellow Mercedes, they had driven for a day and a night, and then for another day and another night, until they reached a cemetery at the very top of a mountain where there were only three homes, an inn, and nobody around, save for a smattering of goats and their herder. A grizzly-looking youth, he gave them a big smile, as he ushered the skinny creatures back to their den. It was late, dark and cold, and they soon settled in for the night.

"Tomorrow, I will take you to meet them," smiled Said, bidding Kathia good night. It was by then, past midnight and they had dined quickly by a log fire before bed.

Said, Said. He was always full of surprises, thought Kathia, as she turned out the lights. He had been helping Kathia with her research for the past two years, going into villages that she could not enter because, sometime, often times, in fact, the mountain people were wary of a woman and a stranger.

In these cases, Said collected their stories for her. He had also taken it upon himself to share with her his own knowledge on the subject of magic, which was vast, and his opinions which were both intelligent and dismissive of the whole idea. He was a modern man whose notions, none-the-less, often strayed way into the past. Said would talk for hours about what nonsense magic was, in the minds of his people then, minutes later, be sharing with her some of his favorite rituals and beliefs from the village where he lived, as if it was Gospel. What a contradiction.

"Welcome to Morocco," he would say.

Now he had another trick up his sleeves. Kathia had never even heard of the Tomb Tellers before Said mentioned them. But she had become quickly fascinated. Even the name excited her. Over breakfast the next morning, Said began to explain.

"The job of the Tomb Tellers is to tell the stories of those whose souls already rest inside the gravestones they guard over, lest their histories be forgotten," he said, slurping loudly on mint tea.

So loudly, in fact, that even the proprietor coughed in alarm, before giving him the once over, which wasn't that surprising.

Said was wearing his one set of clothing, a brown sweater, red jacket, and shabby and vaguely matching red-ish trousers. He always got a few glances but he didn't have the money for anything else. What's more, he didn't care.

"There are still a few Tomb Tellers that the people of Morocco know of and visit to hear their stories," he said. "But really, this tradition has all but been forgotten. It has all but died out."

"In Marrakech, you can sometimes find the Tomb Tellers at the Saadian Tombs talking to the tourists. But no one ever comes to where we are going, except the locals to pay respect," he said.

Kathia stared at him and said nothing. It was a mystery to her that she had never heard of these creatures. But surely he wasn't lying? She would, in any case, soon find out.

As the sun began rising over the Rif Mountains, they packed and set off towards what Said declared was the oldest graveyard in Morocco. It was just 100 miles further on.

Kathia slept as Said drove, dreaming of other ghosts past. Of her family. The car wound through the ragged mountains, following dusty roads that seemed like they would never end. They had arrived bang at 8 a.m. when the cemetery opened. Said rattled the chains of the gate, until the groggy-looking guardian appeared and ushered them inside.

He wasn't used to visits at this hour.
The graveyard was set to the west of a long-forgotten of forest that stretched for three hundred miles. It seemed odd that it had been forgotten, for it contained the souls and the bones of 100 Berber Kings and great poets, of Berber mathematicians and saints. This region had once been the most important in the kingdom of the Berbers.

But that was long ago, Said reported. It was remote.

Said and Kathia wandered over to the oldest part of the cemetery to meet the men. Said claimed to know each of the 12 Tomb Tellers personally. He had grown up in a village, nearby, and after school he had come here each day to pray for miracles. But that was also long ago. It was before he became a thinking man, he said.

Kathia could see several of these Tomb Tellers in white dresses holding court with the skies, talking into infinity about, she presumed, their long-deceased masters. They waited until there was a pause in the proceedings, then they began approaching each of them in turn.

The men stood next to twelve pristinely kept gravestones. Each of them read from faded papers the stories of their masters. These were great kings and queens and poets and philosophers and warriors. Then, when the clock announced the turning of the hour, they would call out their names and kiss their graves, observing five minutes of silence.

What a wonderful way to honor the dead, thought Kathia who recorded each and every tale, as she walked from grave to grave. Kathia was most intrigued by the story of a Berber Queen named Dehiya. She had lead her people against the infiltration of the Maghreb by the Muslims in the 7th Century and ruled an independent Berber folk for five years. She listened closely to her tale. Dehiya was surrounded by mysteries it seemed.

She was rumored to be able to read the future and to fight like a King. Nobody was sure of which tribe she had come from, and the Muslims had gone so far as to call her a Jewish sorcerer for attacking them long ago. Most famously, she had fought a long battle near an old Roman amphitheater, close to a well that still bears her name. It was here that she was finally defeated. It was there that her head had been chopped off and delivered to the local Caliph, as proof. This story went on for 45-minutes. She had long hair, and three sons, Kathia learned.

There were other famous Berbers buried here too, including Juba II, the legendary King of Numidia, Macrinus, a Berber-born Roman Emperor, and Ibn Tumart, the founder of the Almohad dynasty. They listened for several hours the stories of all of them too.

Kathia dully recorded each and every one of their tales, listening intently for hours. She intended to read up on more,  once she got home. But for now there was no time left. They were due at the monthly meeting at The House.

As the sun set, and this is what Kathia found most beautiful, the Tomb Tellers laid on the graves to sleep. Kathia took some photographs of them falling into slumber, as the moon appeared over the trees, before they bid the guardian farewell. Odd, she thought then perhaps not, for in the land of the Berbers, in their magical minds, communing with the dead, cooking for them, consulting them and sleeping near them, was a big tradition, even still.

Seeing these twelve men laying in beautiful white robes fluttering in the wind on the perfectly kept gravestones, in this perfectly manicured cemetery, was a sight that Kathia would never forget, she thought, as they walked towards the exit.

The guardian waved goodbye after making them a tea for the road, and locked the gate firmly behind them. For The Tomb Tellers, there was no escape. They were forever bound to their dead masters and mistresses.