Kingdom of Souls. Rena Barron
onslaught of a headache. The vision has Grandmother scared too. She’s trying to protect me, but I want the truth. I need to know if the green-eyed serpent is a demon … how could it be possible and what does it mean? Could this be the reason my magic is asleep, or why Heka’s grace had only touched me in passing in the sacred circle? I’m reaching for straws, but I ask anyway, ‘Does this demon have anything to do with my magic not showing?’
‘It’s possible,’ Grandmother says, her voice so very tired. ‘There’s much in this world that even I cannot perceive. As I said, I must consult with the other edam. Together, we may be able to find an answer.’
My father’s practised calm gives away to frustration. ‘How do I keep Arrah safe?’
Grandmother thinks long before answering, ‘I do not know, but we’ll find a way.’
I don’t miss the uncertainty between her words. I’m irritated that they need to protect me. If I had magic of my own, I could protect myself. My mind reels with the grim news. Not only has Heka forsaken me, but things are much worse. I once laughed at stories about demons, and now I know that one may walk in my shadow.
She does not mean me well.
RE’MEC, ORISHA OF SUN, TWIN KING
Tell me again, sister, why do we tolerate such disrespect from these tribal people? I have a mind to stomp out their lives like the ants they are. They think magic is a gift. A gift! How can they be so foolish? Magic is a curse for mortal kind, and in time they will use it to destroy themselves. Who knows that better than us? We saved their world once, and I’m not of the temperament to save it again. I should take another nap. Twenty years wasn’t enough. I grow tired.
Heka is to blame for our new troubles. Had we not lost so many of our brethren in the War, we could have stopped him from giving them magic. Now we find ourselves in this new predicament.
It’s not that I’m sentimental. This world can burn today and I will have forgotten it by tomorrow. It means nothing to me. It’s the principle of the matter. We gave everything to protect them from that bastard Demon King, everything. Now this is how we’re repaid for our sacrifice, our kindness?
I’m sorry, dear sister. I know that the blood moon is your time. It is your way of remembering our fallen brethren, as the Rite of Passage is mine. As he’s done for a thousand years, Heka has come back to ruin your bereavement. His very presence is an act of pissing on our siblings’ graves, if we had bodies to bury. Or do they burn bodies now? I forget what’s popular these days.
You don’t have to remind me of our failures, Koré. They haunt my every thought. I should’ve known that we’d only postponed the inevitable. After five thousand years, I hoped that it wouldn’t come to this, but the beast stirs even now. We must act before it’s too late.
Alas, sister, as always you’re right. I could not stand by and let this world come to an end. I couldn’t do it then, and I won’t do it now. I love it too much, and that is my greatest failing above all else.
It’s never easy returning to Tamar after spending time in the tribal lands. I’m bone-tired and more than a little cranky from sleeping in a tent the entire time. The whole trip had taken a month. Eight days of travel each way with the caravan and two weeks at the festival. We arrive in the middle of the night, and I’m so relieved to be back home that I go straight to bed. Mere hours later, I wake buried in pillows and sheets that smell of lavender and coconut. They were fresh and cool last night, but now they’re ruffled and sweat-stained. The curtains around my bed keep out most of the sunlight, but some slips between the gaps and I can’t fall back asleep.
This was supposed to be my year – the year that I can finally say that I have magic too. The year that I hold a light in my mother’s shadow. Even an ember would’ve been enough for me. I tell myself for the one-hundredth time that there’s still a chance, that I can’t give up. But hope is a fleeting thing when met with repeated failure.
Since the first night of the blood moon, I’ve dreamed about magic. The good dreams always end with some version of me possessing Heka’s gift. I step out of the sacred circle so powerful that the edam name me a witchdoctor on the spot. I glide on a cloud like the Aatiri in the opening ceremony. I leave my body to wander the spirit world and find Heka waiting for me underneath a palm tree. I come back to Tamar and tell Rudjek, and for once he’s speechless. When I wake up, still on the edge of sleep, a sense of peace settles over me. But the moment never lasts.
In the bad dreams, I step into the sacred circle and the edam stop their dance. The valley falls silent and one by one they turn their backs to me. Or the Litho boys drag me out of the circle, kicking and screaming because I don’t belong. Or as punishment a witchdoctor turns me into a ndzumbi to live out the rest of my life doing their bidding.
I shake my head. Dreams aside, Heka’s magic rejected me. That was real. And that’s the hardest thing to wrap my mind around. Yes, I have gifts, but what good are they if I can’t use magic? What will these gifts do to protect me from the green-eyed serpent if she decides to show herself again? What if next time she can’t be sent away? Seeing how powerful she’d been against Grandmother – it’s possible that she’s the reason my magic hasn’t shown.
I pull the sheet up to my neck and screw my eyes shut. Terra is shuffling around my bedroom, so I pretend I’m still asleep. She usually hums to herself while she prepares my bath, but this morning she’s quiet. Ty, our matron, along with Nezi, our porter, have been with our household all my life. Nezi bought Terra’s indenture contract two years ago, after her father’s debtors caught up with him. Terra told me that they would’ve cut off his hands had she not agreed to work off his debt.
Before I can bury my face in a pillow, she pulls the curtains back and the full brunt of the sun blinds me. In Tamar, the sun is also called the eye of Re’Mec, but right now more colourful names cross my mind.
‘Twenty-gods,’ I curse, shielding my eyes. ‘Is it eighth morning bells already?’
Someone clears her throat and I sit bolt upright – it’s not Terra. A short, stout woman with grey cornrows stands at the foot of my bed with her fists on her hips. She purses her lips in that way that leaves no doubt that she means business.
‘Ty!’ I slip out of bed in an instant. ‘Pardon my language. I thought you were Terra.’
She stares at me and blinks twice, and I brush the wrinkles out of my nightgown and stand a little straighter. Ty never comes herself. This isn’t her domain. She does all the cooking, and Terra takes care of the rest of the chores.
She shakes her head and taps her foot, a sign that she wants me to hurry up.
My cheeks warm as I rush into the washroom where my bath is waiting. I don’t linger long. Then I slip into a fresh cotton robe that smells like home. I inhale deeper, taking it in, trying to push the tribal lands out of my mind. When I return to my room, it’s pristine. The white sheets are as smooth as stretched papyrus, the pillows stacked in a neat row. Cold stabs through my slippers as I pad across the stone floor to my vanity in search of my favourite balm.
Ty sorts through the shelves of clothes in the armoire next to the window. When she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, she crosses the room to the closet by the door. On the way, she fluffs one of the velvet pillows on the settee in the centre of the room. She’s not the most cheerful person, but today she’s more somber than usual. It isn’t one of her bad days, but definitely not one of her good days either.
While she’s searching through my clothes, I go to the shrine next to the bed. Dust coats