Crowned. Cheryl Ntumy S.
drifter urges.
He desperately wanted to be ordinary like his mother, and did all he could to eradicate the part of him that took after Senzo. For a while it worked. Apart from his telekinesis, which he could do nothing about, he was almost normal. He never felt the desire to touch someone and absorb their psychic energy, or conquer, as the drifters call it. The serum couldn’t bury the bond, though, and when his brothers moved to Botswana to be closer to him it took all his strength to keep his distance.
Rakwena has been off the serum for months now, thanks to Connie. It was her grandfather, Lerumo Raditladi, who first gave Rakwena the anti-drifter serum. At the time Senzo was presumed dead and Rakwena’s drifter urges were growing. He would start fights at school to feed off the heightened emotions of the other children. His mother sought help, and Rre Raditladi provided it reluctantly.
The old man was ambivalent about the serum until a few months ago, when he suddenly told Rakwena to double his usual dose. The overdose would have killed him if Connie hadn’t come to his rescue. He was forced to stop taking the serum, and without it he was no match for the bond. Once he and his cell brothers were in the same room he finally understood what Connie had tried to tell him – he needed the cell as much as they needed him. But he needs Connie, too.
His connection with her is even more mysterious than the drifter bond. She absorbs his energy instead of the other way around, easing his turmoil while drawing strength from him. He wonders what she’s doing now. It’s almost eight p.m. – she’s probably home, watching one of her Rachel McAdams movies. The thought makes him smile again.
“Hey, what’s going on with you? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
Rakwena faces Elias and offers him a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“About what, man?” Elias reaches for another piece of meat.
“You mean who,” says a sly voice from across the table.
Rakwena looks into Duma’s eyes. Duma’s the baby of the cell, but sometimes Rakwena thinks the kid is the wisest of all of them. If anyone can understand Rakwena’s feelings for Connie, it’s him.
Silence falls over the table as the others catch on to Duma’s hint. Spencer shifts guiltily in his chair. Rakwena doesn’t want them to feel bad. It was his choice. No, it wasn’t a choice – it was inevitable.
“Are you worried about her?” asks Mandla.
Rakwena starts to shake his head, then remembers the Puppetmaster. “Yes.”
“We would have heard if something serious happened,” Mandla reminds him.
Rakwena nods – he has heard of the drifter network. They keep tabs on supernatural developments in case they might be affected, and information is disseminated quickly between clans. If some major event had occurred, Serame would have mentioned it.
Duma leans forward. “I’d sense it if she were…you know.” He trains his large, earnest eyes on Rakwena.
“That’s right,” says Reetsang, eager to reassure Rakwena. “She’s on Duma’s map, so if something happens her line will fade.”
Rakwena nods again. Duma can sense the gifted, and once he has located them they leave a stamp on his mind. What the others don’t understand is it’s not just about Connie’s safety. He misses her. He clears his throat and turns to Temper, but his question is pre-empted.
“Soon.” Temper’s frame almost dwarfs the chair he’s in. “There’s one more thing to take care of. I hoped we could do it tonight, but the other party’s absent.”
Rakwena scowls. “You want me to make up with Senzo.” He knew this was coming.
“I don’t care if you hate him for the rest of your life,” replies Temper. “He deserves it. But you’re in the same clan now, honour-bound to protect each other. You get that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” says Rakwena, through gritted teeth. He has taken the vow and he’ll keep it, but he doesn’t have to like it.
“You know the rules. You can’t involve us in your fight. We can’t be objective – we’ll always support you and his cell will support him, no matter what. He’s already using his influence to keep his cell away; they’ve missed three gatherings and Serame is not happy.” Temper takes a sip from his wine glass. It’s a weak blend but, as always, it’s the strongest drink on offer.
“Then he should be getting the lecture!” Rakwena snaps.
The remorse is instant. He winces. He’s still getting used to these immediate and unambiguous drifter emotions. Temper is the leader, acting in the cell’s best interest. It’s wrong for Rakwena to be petulant. His annoyance deflates almost as soon as it arises.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sure Serame has already tried getting through to him.”
Temper nods. “Senzo’s a jackass, we all know that. He’s taken his cell on a trip and hasn’t made contact. He might decide to move to China to avoid you.”
Rakwena frowns. “I thought he’d be dying to torment me, but he’s been so quiet.”
“Well, be prepared. When he gets back Serame plans to issue a directive. For the good of the clan, you two must call a truce in the presence of the council.”
Rakwena sighs. “Fine. And as soon as that’s done…?”
Temper smiles, bemused and a little exasperated. “You can call Connie. Or email her, or beam her up. Whatever you want.”
Rakwena returns his smile. Hang in there, he tells her, hoping she can read his thoughts. I’ll see you soon.
* * *
I lie in bed, unable to sleep. Someone walks down the street beyond my window and I pick up a jolt of satisfaction. Whoever it is, they’re feeling pretty good. I draw my gift away from the stranger. It’s like peeling old tape off a wall – slow and messy.
Since the night I had those dreams I’ve become more sensitive to my surroundings. Every sound, every scent, every emotion shimmering in the ether finds its way onto my radar. I pick up subtle cues that would normally have gone over my head. It’s as though the world of the unseen has been remastered in 3D high-definition, and it’s overwhelming. I haven’t felt like this since the day I came into my telepathy, over a year and a half ago.
At first I thought my gift had become erratic because I’ve taken a break from training. Now I realise that the opposite is true. Despite the fact that I’ve made no effort to develop it, my gift is getting stronger.
This is awkward. Not cute, romantic-comedy awkward, but ground-open-up-and-swallow-me awkward. I’m standing in my living room in my underwear, my clothes flung across the arm of the sofa. My best friend, Lebz, is bent over, measuring the span of my hips. Kelly, our group’s new fourth musketeer, has encircled my waist with her manicured hands to determine whether or not I’m an hourglass in the making.
I stare at the ceiling and try not to cringe. I resisted, as much as one can resist in the face of two tornadoes. I made some protest about my dignity, but by then my skirt was already around my ankles. It’s my fault for wearing a skirt for the first time in recorded history; Lebz’s keen eye noted that something was amiss. As if that wasn’t enough, the skirt didn’t hang from my jutting pelvic bones as expected. Instead it seemed to…fit.
I’ve always been the wrong kind of tall and the wrong kind of thin, the kind that makes you look like an alien struggling to fit into a human body rather than a supermodel. But something strange has happened to my figure lately. That is to say, I have one now. Hips. A butt. Dips and curves that make clothes cling to me in unfamiliar ways. I’ve taken to hiding it by wearing loose T-shirts over my jeans, but today is laundry day