In a time lost to memory, Etana is born with the Sight and a rare gift whispered down through her bloodline: she can speak with elephants. When her father promises her in marriage to an older man, Etana chooses the unthinkableâshe flees. Escaping the ritual that broke her sister, she slips into the wilderness under the watchful eyes of the Beastgod.
Alone but guided by ancestral spirits and a bond with a mysterious elephant, Etana journeys into the realm of myth. A powerful ruler summons her to tame a ferocious elephant meant for war. But to claim her future, she must master more than beastsâshe must face enemies, and confront a court that thrives on secrets and blood.
As kingdoms clash and gods murmur in dreams, Etana rises to warrioress and commander. In a world where loyalty is eternal and power demands sacrifice, who will she become when everything she loves is threatened?
Told through the rhythms of oral tradition and infused with magic, myth, and cultural memory, The Weight of Dreams is a luminous tale of spiritual resilience, feminine power, and the living bond between human and nature.
For readers who believe the past still speaksâand sometimes, it sings.
In a time lost to memory, Etana is born with the Sight and a rare gift whispered down through her bloodline: she can speak with elephants. When her father promises her in marriage to an older man, Etana chooses the unthinkableâshe flees. Escaping the ritual that broke her sister, she slips into the wilderness under the watchful eyes of the Beastgod.
Alone but guided by ancestral spirits and a bond with a mysterious elephant, Etana journeys into the realm of myth. A powerful ruler summons her to tame a ferocious elephant meant for war. But to claim her future, she must master more than beastsâshe must face enemies, and confront a court that thrives on secrets and blood.
As kingdoms clash and gods murmur in dreams, Etana rises to warrioress and commander. In a world where loyalty is eternal and power demands sacrifice, who will she become when everything she loves is threatened?
Told through the rhythms of oral tradition and infused with magic, myth, and cultural memory, The Weight of Dreams is a luminous tale of spiritual resilience, feminine power, and the living bond between human and nature.
For readers who believe the past still speaksâand sometimes, it sings.
GATHER ROUND. Come close. I have a tale to tell.
In an age so long ago it is lost to memory, this wasteland of heat and dune that today spans an entire continent did not exist. The desert holds little evidence of Savannaâs former abundance. But once she was a lush plain that teemed with life and stretched beyond the imagination.
Savannaâs allure intrigued my second consciousness, perfecting my fascination. I craved her secrets. Only when her demise was evident did she reward my patience and reveal the mystery of her creation.
Her fractal existence began under a primordial sea. Savanna gathered the final remains of aquatic life and the detritus of river and stream. Through the eons, in a gradual rising, she cast aside her watery robe and was bared to Heavenâs admiration. Sky coveted her beauty, and Cloud paid homage with ardent seasons of rain. Adorned with tree, flower, and precious stone, she summoned the winds of Qebui.
Savanna welcomed pangolin, warthog, and rat who burrowed, aerating her fertile terrain. Uncounted herds of elk, zebra, and wildebeest feasted upon the riches of her Eden. Giraffe and ostrich foraged near rhinoceros and elephant. Loon and ibis thrived in lake and marsh, some picked off by sly crocodile. Lion, hyena, and cheetah preyed on all, culling the weak and infirm. Yet even the most skilled predators will perish, as must all living things. Returned to Earth, their flesh sustained the beetle, their bone the placid kernel. Their life force was freed to champion unborn cub or calf or rally the monsoon and guide the storm.
Savanna galloped from the setting sun to the dawn horizon, where mountains guard the Red Sea.
Into her cradle near those highlands, I was born, given the name Etana, and presented to my village. And it was from my village that I fled to escape the traditions of my people. Though alone, I managed to survive in the wilderness, living among elephants.
But my destiny lay to the north. Following the River, I was escorted to the mythical land of gold. Serving a great king, I learned military arts, experienced war, and endured sorrow. In due course, I returned to my birthplace. I taught women the skills of combat, took a husband, bore children, grew old, and died.
To my delight, my spirit endured after shedding my mortal garment. I became an honored ancestress and remained among those I loved, nourished by songs praising my feats. Invoked by my people during seasons of misfortune, I intervened on their behalf, asking the gods to aid and protect them. However, as generations slipped away, requests for stories of my deeds waned, and my veneration faded. My descendants were forced to scatter, and my legend was forgotten. I was abandoned to the ages.
More than five millennia have passed. My indignation and sorrow have fallen away. Still, I linger, a silent witness to war and famine that displace millions in my homeland. Haunted by memories of Savannaâs former abundance, I search thermal currents for diminishing flocks and comb the plains for dwindling herds. I reassure beasts who survive conflict, drought, and fire. Above all, I mourn lost species whose purpose goes unfulfilled in our dying world.
But as time without praise accumulates, I grow thin, for neither gods nor ancestors will endure if no one believes. I can no longer condense myself and hold my human form. In the past, I could appear to the living, and they heard my words. Now, I speak only to those who sense the echo of primordial drums or ancient song of malunga bow. Those who set aside disbelief and let the sleeping herb guide them to the spirit world.
I whisper my story, and they dream.
CHAPTER 1
I AM ETANA.
I hold my baby sister and sit among my people under the sacred mugumo tree. Firelight flickers over the silent villagers as they wait.
Our honored storyteller, sitting upon his stool, is close to the flame. He pauses, head bowed. Raising it, he intones, âMay the gods use my tongue. May my ancestors Debir, Sisay, and Septu guide my words.
âIn the beginning, the Skygod, Lord of the Sun, created the Human People. In his image, he created them. As Father and Mother in one being, he formed the first man and woman in the image of himself. Before he left them, he taught his mortal children the rituals to invoke the gods and open the spiritual realm. He gave them a place to dwell at the edge of the savanna close to his sacred mountain. A land called Mukâeti, which is the place of warmth.â
Griot begins to chant, tapping his drum. âHe forbade them to eat of the tree. And though the fruit was forbidden, the female ate of it first, gaining knowledge of good and evil. Thus, women ruled. Here is how authority passed to the men:
It was the early days of the YetsâeḼÄy, the People of the Sun. The women had sole power. The men obeyed them in the same way women obey men today. Men completed all the work. Men followed in the footsteps of women, and the women walked in front. Men cared for the children and tended the fire.
The women invented the Great Hut and its mysteries. They fooled the men, who believed they were spirits. The women would emerge from the Great Hut with painted bodies and masks covering their heads. The men could not identify their wives, who, acting as spirits, beat the earth until it shook, and yelled, howled, and roared. Hearing this, the men hastened into their homes and hid, full of fear. Thus, the wives held the men in submission so that they should do the work, as the women ordained.
The old man pauses, eyes peering from his wrinkled face to study us. He measures the tempo of our spirits. In the rise and fall of his voice, he knits words to capture our hearts, making us laugh, ponder, or weep. Griot continues:
One day, the man who supplied the spirits in the Great Hut with abundant game heard the voices of two girls. Curious, he hid in the bushes and saw them washing off paint, typical of the spirits when they appeared. They practiced imitating the voices and manners of the spirits residing in the Great Hut. Angry, the man leapt out and stood close to the girls, preventing their escape. âYou must tell me! What goes on in the Great Hut?â
The girls blushed in shame and finally confessed. âIt is the wives who paint themselves and put on masks. It is the wives who yell and howl when they step from the Hut to frighten the men. There are no spirits there.â Furious, the man returned to the village and told the men what he had seen and heard. In a desire for revenge, they set out against the women of the Great Hut armed with clubs, spears, slings, and bows and arrows. A terrifying battle ensued. When it was finished, the wives of the Great Hut had been killed or transformed into animals. The man, his brother, his brotherâs wife, and many others ascended to heavenâs canopy and transformed into stars.
The men took over the Great Hut and performed the mysteries within. When their sons married, the men gave their wives a small hut, and the wivesâ mysteries were restricted to womenâs concerns.
And so it was, a new social order came to be. Since that time, women have been subordinate to men.
Lingering in the mystery of Griotâs tale, our silence is unbroken. A log in the fire breaks, puffing sparks. A man adds another piece of wood.
Someone says, âStoryteller, please give us another.â
âTell us, âEtana and The Elephants.ââ
âYes, the story of the elephants.â
Griot nods assent. The tale is much requested. I like hearing it too. The story is about me, though at the time, having passed only two rainy seasons, I have no memory of the event. Like every villager who listens, I am a fly caught in the web of Griotâs voice. He begins:
Twelve seasons of rain have passed since that day. Many among us remember the tormenting heat. How thirsty the air.
The Skygod had withheld the clouds, and our stream was tired. The sacred mountain sent us only a trickle. Day after day, we beseeched the god, chanting the sacred prayer, making offerings. But we received nothing. No rain came, nor a sign of what we must do to please him. And so it was that we, the Human People who from the beginning lived in the land the Skygod gave us, began preparations. Our sacred home could no longer sustain us. We had to leave Mukâetiland. We had to seek a new place.
The night before our journey, dreams did not visit me. The heat sat on my chest. Atop my legs. In my nose. I lay, unable to move. Perhaps the night had condensed itself to trap me under its weight. The ancestors did not speak to me. Eyes closed, I gazed into the void, but no spirit presented itself, as if they, too, did not know whence this imprisonment came. I searched for escape. There was none.
At this, the villagers shift uncomfortably. Griot is not only our storyteller but also possesses powerful Sight. What evil had beleaguered him? Why could he not overcome the forces binding him?
Griot continues his story:
As the paralysis dragged on, I thought the time for my death had come. I must leave my community, my children, my wife, my friends. Yet, I was not forewarned. I had not revealed to my son his final instruction or prepared the feast, nor had I completed the sequence of rituals to bestow upon him the gift of Sight.
Not one person dares move. Even my sister of two rainy seasons is entranced.
In the early dawn, a cry reached me. My ears were opened! I rejoiced, yet the wail of Etanaâs mother brought worry. Her child could not be found. More people raised the alarm.
Then a second alert rang out. The drums signaled our most urgent warning. It meant we were beset not by Crocodile People, for the stream was dry. Not by Lion People, those creatures who see in the dark and break menâs necks in their mighty jaws. We were endangered by the Beastgodâs most favored and greatest animal. Those who, if angered, could destroy an entire village, leaving its Human People trampled. The Elephant People had come.
The familiar tale is troubling, for the mystery of the massive creaturesâ appearance baffles us still. They had not approached the village since the Storytellerâs fatherâs father was a child.
The debilitation left my body. I ran to find the priestchief. He had been led to the east road by the night watchman, the villagers trailing behind. Without speaking, the man pointed a trembling finger east.
Against the brightening sky, the great beasts gathered, facing the center of their circle. One would advance, trunk out, reaching to explore. Then it tossed a giant head or shouted as if pleased. Another would come forward, doing the same. The herd moved from edge to center in a slow churn.
The sun lifted from the rim of the world, and I learned the cause of their puzzlement. Etana, who had not yet seen her third rainy season, stood alone, a tiny form among the giants. She giggled when a trunk ruffled her hair. Smiling, she opened her arms and spoke. A baby elephant bolted toward her, and my heart clenched. She would be crushed. The watchman stepped forward, but I placed a hand on his shoulder. âThe Beastgod controls Etanaâs fate. Only he can save her.â
An adult elephant stepped forward, wrapped its trunk around the charging baby, and halted it. Etana walked to the baby elephant, laying her cheek on its face. She stretched her little arms to embrace it, her clear voice chanting the dawn salutation. The elephants rocked side to side, swaying to her tender melody. Her song complete, Etana spoke long, though I could not discern her words. Perhaps it was not the language of Human People, but a tongue sent from the Beastgod. With the village behind me, we watched. When the sun was four fingers above the horizon, the elephants moved away, one by one. The baby was last to go. With a final pat to its head from Etana, it trailed the rest, disappearing into the dust.
Furtive glances prick my skin. I ignore them and raise my chin as Griot finishes:
Etana was scooped up by her mother. When I questioned her, she spoke of âMbindy.â As no female among us carried that name, I left to seek the priest-chief.
Our hastily assembled council debated the incident. If it was a sign from the gods, we knew nothing of its meaning. Did Etanaâs communication with the elephants mean we should follow them? Or did the godsâ protection from the beasts indicate we should stay? After long debate, we agreed to set out the following dawn.
And lo, as the new sun was born over the horizon, the holy mountains were crowned with clouds. The season of rain had begun. By evening, water flowed in our river. And to this day, we, the YetsâeḼÄyi, created in the image of the Skygod, remain in the land of Mukâeti.
--- --- ---
The next afternoon, heat sidles into our hut. The mud walls have lost the coolness of night. Mama grinds grain for flatbread. My sister, Idun, older by two seasons, sits by the wall and stares at nothing. I scold my baby sister, Shiho, when she tries to grab Mamaâs necklace. It is a prized possession inherited from her mother, passed down for generations. To distract Shiho, I make faces. She laughs in delight as I show my tongue or jut my lip with crossed eyes. She runs to me and pats my cheeks. âMy Etana. Etenesh.â Her small voice is sweet with sincerity.
âEtana. Come.â My father summons me to his room. Our small wattle and daub house is round, as are all in the village, with an interior dividing wall. Females are forbidden to enter the husbandâs chamber without permission.
The smile for Shiho fixes upon my face. I know. With the dread of Death, I know. I look at Mama. She is powerless and avoids my gaze. Her pleas had thus far persuaded Father to delay my initiation into womanhood and the Marriage Ceremony that follows, because of my sister.
A large part of my time is devoted to Idunâs care, and she has improved. Even so, she needs more time. Though she no longer soils herself and will eat the food placed in her hand, she is unresponsive. She has not spoken since the day of her womanhood initiation. She is trapped inside her mind.
But two rainy seasons have passed, and Fatherâs humiliation at returning Idunâs bride-price yet festers. He yearns to end his poverty and redeem his respect.
Unsure my legs will support me, I rise slowly and turn to the worn cloth covering the doorway. âYes, my father?â
âEnter.â
My chest stutters, almost a sob. I stand tall, pull back the cloth, and step inside. Waterskins and his leather sack rest against the wall by his sleeping mat. Father sits on a fine rug, the most valuable item he owns. The wool is woven with the symbol of the patriarch, whose decisions are unquestioned. It signifies his responsibility to provide for his wives and children, and their duty to obey. To receive me, he wears earrings, ostrich eggshell beads, and his best robe. The finery does not soften the harsh lines of his face.
I stand so long, he says, âCome, daughter.â I force one foot to advance, then the other. I drop to my knees in front of him, placing my forehead on the straw-covered floor.
Daughter. The word sounds almost affectionate, but I have never known him to be kind. While often cruel, he is mostly indifferent, in the way men are to women.
I rise to sit on my heels and stare at my hands.
âI have received a generous proposal,â he says. âMogas is willing to give five pelts for you in marriage.â
My throat goes dry. Mogas is wealthy compared to our poverty. But he is old, having seen thirty-five seasons. His two other wives are arrogant. As a third wife, they will treat me as a slave, making me work from the sunâs birth to its dying, giving me scraps to eat. As with most wives, there is an occasional swollen eye or bruised cheek. I shrink from the thought of how Mogas will treat me.
Yet these things are not what frighten me most. My heart trips, and I shiver. I cannot think of a way to avoid the initiation into womanhood.
In my dreams, I sometimes relive the night of Idunâs initiation. At her shattering scream, I had jumped to my feet, ready to do the unthinkable: I would snatch her from the womenâs hut, and we would run away. Before I could rush into the night, her cry cut off. The terrifying silence was worse than her shriek.
Waking from the nightmares, I hear steady breathing in the dark. My sisters sleep as I wipe my tears.
We had been told nothing during Idunâs seclusion, those days following the Initiation Ritual that lasted one moon. Then, instead of a Marriage Ceremony and feast, she was brought home to us.
Father continues, âBut I said to Mogas, âEtanaâs beauty deserves more.ââ
Forgetting I am with him, I look up, shocked at his compliment. Father mistakes my expression for surprise.
âYes, I am determined to get as much as I can for you. Perhaps your reputation for impudence increases your allure for Mogas. Some men take pleasure in controlling defiant wives, knowing they want to be forced.â Father pauses, looking at me expectantly.
Unable to voice what I wish to say, I murmur my thanks.
He nods, adding, âTomorrow we shall see if he will offer another pelt. If not, so be it. Your Initiation Ceremony will be the day after.â I rise and bow, stone-faced, until I leave his room.
âYet my liberty is invigorating. I rise from sleep whenever I choose. I fetch water as I need and eat my fill of fat fish I lift from the shallows. I pray, dance, and sing with no fear of reprimand. I have no husband to walk behind, no father to obey. No man crosses my path for whom I must lower my eyes. I relish my freedom to wander where I wish and heed my own counsel. I am beholden only to the elephants for their protection, and they have no wish to rule me.â
This is a beautiful book that had me transfixed from the very beginning. I loved the poetic writing style, the immersive storytelling, and, of course, the evocative setting: the African savanna.
The story follows Etana, a young girl gifted with Sight. Etana is betrothed at a very young age to an older man who already has two wives, so she chooses instead to run away and seek her own freedom.
I loved Etana! I found her character so compelling. Not only is she strong and curious, she is also unwilling to surrender her spirit and spirit, not an easy feat for a young girl living in ancient Nubia. As I read, I couldnât help but reflect on how fortunate women are today not to live in such a way that they are ignorant of so much, by design, and how different life was then. That made me appreciate the character of Etana even more. The author captures that world so vividly when she writes about the female rituals that the young girls knew they would experience, but had no idea of the specifics. There was so much silence and keeping girls in complete darkness.
As a woman, Iâm always drawn to stories of strong female characters, and I felt a deep connection to Etana, for her courage, her independence, and her refusal to accept a life that would make her unhappy.
Another aspect I loved was the storytelling within the story: the presence of griots, the origin tales, the myths that explain gender roles and the natural world, and the animal stories that also carried lots of lessons. I loved the threads of magical realism that were woven in the story too. Highly recommended.