Volume 1

Oh, my brothers, my children, listen well, Listen well to my name — Djeli
Mamoudou of the Children of Echoes. A singer am I of our tribe, a herald of epic
tales. From Bilali, that first singer of sagas, does my line begin, And Keitan
Kouyate and Bintu Kouyate are my forebears. Bilali it was who once followed a
wandering sage to learn ancient verses, And the Kouyates wove the ancient texts
into carpets and felt tents.

My mind comprehends the dragon-lords and barbarian kings of benighted ages, My
tongue can engage the most verbose Monetoo in verse, My stories illuminate many
truths, my words purify more falsehoods, For stories cleanse untruths and become
history, clear as a crystal mirror. Such mirrors gleam with rainbow light from
ancient days, but darkness too is dazzling, Like a glimmer in the unfathomable
eyes of the dead. History teaches the survivors, but stories are rooted in those
who have passed... As surely as gems of the future must spring from the veins of
the past.

So come, hear me sing, hear me tell of this hero, Listen as I chant the
soul-song of the children of the wild bull, the children of the rhinoceros. I
shall tell you of Magan Sundjatta, his deeds, and his fate, I shall speak of
Mali Djata's burdens and passion, I shall sing praise of Sogolon Djata's
illustrious reputation, And of Nare Magan Djata's final battle against the great
enemy... Oh, which hero has ever possessed so many titles? Neither the darkest
magic nor the foulest wraith could hurt him!

My brothers, my progeny, proud Children of Echoes, Listen, and I shall tell you
of a hundred thousand barbarian kings, now forgotten, Harken as I tell you of
their defeat at Sundjatta's hands, And how, once conquered, they fought by his
side, Let me speak of how foes become friends, how savagery may yet birth
goodwill... Let me tell of how the pitch-dark armies came forth like a mountain,
And how they dissolved before Sundjatta's might, For this is a tale of great
deeds once unrecorded, sacrifices misunderstood...

Volume 2

It is as they say, that many who are wise are not of noble birth. So too had
Sundjatta's lineage never been tainted by ancient royalty. The old tales have
faded like salt rivers in a darkened mine, Leaving but shimmering crystals of
truth for poets to reveal. So it is with Sundjatta, and many are the account of
his birth. Close friends may desire to embellish, and amongst enemies one shall
find a lack of praise. What were the names of his parents? Which tribe were they
from? Ask the pale light of three moons, and still you shall have no answer.

Story and song say Sundjatta was born blessed by the stars of dawn. No beauty
his mother, no strongman his father, But the celestial watcher-stars care not
for mortal appearance, For to weave the fate of heaven and earth alone is duty
eternal, a task divine. Mbande was chief of our tribe when Sundjatta was young,
Black-Jade Mbande, who was the mother of mines and gems, T'was she who chose him
to be our tribe's hero. And thus did his story begin, the hero great, the miner
mighty.

When young Sundjatta began his career in the mines, The mountain-carving hammers
were larger than his whole body. Yet he wielded them as though he were the wind
itself, So much so that heroes cried out, "The mine! It's about to collapse!"
"Haha! Brothers, sisters, do not be afraid!" "'Tis merely my hammer summoning up
a gale. See? A whoop, and a whoosh!" Thus did he swing on, chiseling into the
great mountain, sparks flying from the hammer's handle, And they all looked on
in joy and fear, as the champion's laurels he claimed!

When Lady Mbande returned to the Lord of the Night's embrace, Sundjatta was
already a young man, robust beyond his years. On the night when a chief was to
be elected, he left the tribe alone, Tribal champion though he was, Sundjatta
aspired not to power, But instead sought to find a proud testament to his
existence as one of us, Resolute was he, striking out on an adventure toward
lands distant and foreign, Yet his passion was misunderstood by his
tribespeople, who regarded him as a runaway, a traitor...

Volume 3

Sundjatta, who had lost his good name by voluntarily embarking on an adventurous
journey, Headed to the distant lava lake, letting the scorching waves burn his
body. This burning lake has now cooled, and dragons play havoc there no more,
But in those days, it was the abode ruled by the evil dragon Lukwata, One of the
few survivors of the ancient dragon race, Who, with malice in its heart, sought
ever to restore ancient draconic tyranny. The ancient war, which had rocked both
heaven and earth, had destroyed its tribe, But it hid in a dark, rocky cave,
thus evading utter devastation.

Without servants to wait upon it, Lukwata had grown decrepit, Eyes scorched
blind by sulfur's breath, mind becoming dull and frenzied. Inextricably trapped
in a delirious dream of battle against heavenly envoys, clinging to life,
Unaware of the human epoch that had come upon Natlan. So when a tiny slave came
to its hideout and issued a challenge, The ancient dragon arose in fury,
coughing and retching, hurling curses unceasingly, Along with which spewed
flames and sulfur from its maw, "You insolent wretch! You dare disturb my royal
slumber!?"

Sundjatta saw that the vile dragon of legend had long become doddering and
deranged, That it would claim a Sovereign's title while forgetting its race. So
he burst into laughter, hoisting his massive hammer, and mocked the enfeebled
drake: "I am merely a nameless miner, not some contemptible knave." "Just as you
are no king — merely a tottering lizard!" Rage surged in Lukwata's throat upon
hearing these words, and with more wild retching, It spat forth filthy,
scorching lava, billowing forth plumes of pitch-black smoke, At which Sundjatta
did not even frown, instead swinging his heavy hammer down on the old drake.

Old and infirm was Lukwata, yet when enraged it remained terrifyingly
formidable, And as the great heat of the magma scorched Sundjatta's hair and
eyebrows, The dragon's fierce venom again seeped into flesh and viscera, the
unbearable agony burning deep, And its massive yellowed fangs left festering
wounds, while sharpened claws tore open old scars. Yet on and on Sundjatta
swung, enduring tremendous pain, Until the dragon's craggy head split open,
until the hammer-storm blew the black smog away. And when the elder dragon's
soul had been scattered to the winds, and the magma lake had cooled by half,
Sundjatta lay down, contented — truly now did he deserve a hero's name!