Kingdom of Souls. Rena Barron
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all. ‘I speak for the mother and father of magic. I speak for the one who gave of himself when the orishas withheld magic from mortal kind. I speak for he who has no beginning and no end.’
The Mulani chieftain is my mother’s first cousin, and her voice rings with authority. Almost as much authority as my mother’s: Arti is soft-spoken, but she commands as much respect in the Almighty Kingdom as her cousin does in the tribal lands. I tell myself I don’t mind that she’s not here. It isn’t so different from how things are at home. There, she spends most of her time at the Almighty Temple, where she and the seers serve the orishas. When my mother left the tribal lands, she adopted the gods of the Kingdom too.
When I was younger, I begged my mother to spend more time with me, but she was so busy even then. Always busy or unavailable or unhappy – especially about my lack of magic. A pang of resentment settles in my chest. If I’m honest, a part of me still wishes things could be different between us.
‘For a thousand years Heka has come to us at the start of every blood moon,’ the Mulani chieftain says. ‘So it will be again. On this night we gather in worship so that he may show favour to our people. We shall share our kas with him so that he can look into our souls and judge us worthy.’
Anticipation quickens my heartbeat. Every year children from the very young to sixteen come into their powers after Heka’s visit. This year has to be my turn – before I’m too old and it’s too late. Magic will stop my cousins from looking at me like I don’t belong.
Magic will finally make my mother proud of me.
After the Mulani chieftain has delivered her speech, the dance begins. The witchdoctors move around the fire, all thirty-five of them, chanting in their native tongues. Their songs fit into an intricate pattern that’s at once odd and beautiful. The ceremony will go on for hours, and the drummers adjust their tempo to match the edam’s rhythm.
Farther back from the sacred circle, campfires crop up between the tents. The smells of brew and roasted meat fill the air. People pass wooden bowls through the crowd, and when one reaches me, I take a sniff that burns my nose. I recoil before I can stop myself.
‘You of all people should be used to a little blood medicine,’ says Sukar, his voice smug.
‘I’ll take the next pass,’ I say, shoving the bowl into his hands.
He laughs, then takes a dramatic gulp.
Someone thrusts another bowl into my hands, and I almost drop it when my gaze lands on Grandmother. She’s broken ranks and stepped out of the sacred circle. Now she towers above me, and my breath hitches in my throat. No edam has ever left the circle during the dance.
‘Drink, Little Priestess.’
Her voice carries on a secret wind, loud and clear despite the noise from the crowd, the curses, the dirty looks. It’s only a pet name when Oshhe calls me that, but there’s weight in Grandmother’s words. She looks down at me, hopeful and hesitant, as she studies my face.
I’m not a priestess. I’m only going to disappoint her.
Unable to refuse, I take a sip. Heat trails across my tongue and down my throat. It tastes herbal and metallic and rotten. I clench my stomach to keep from gagging. Grandmother nods, takes the bowl, and passes it to Sukar, who swallows hard. ‘Thank you, Honoured Chieftain,’ he says, bobbing his head to her. He looks surprised that she’s here too. None of the other edam have left the sacred circle.
‘Have you been practising?’ Grandmother asks me with a toothy grin.
This is the real reason that I’ve been on edge all night. Each year at the Blood Moon Festival, Grandmother tests whether I have magic, and each year I fail.
‘Yes,’ I stutter as the medicine starts to take hold.
I don’t tell her that for all my practising, with Oshhe and alone, nothing has come of it.
‘Tomorrow we will talk more,’ Grandmother says.
Next to me Sukar falls on his face in the grass as the blood medicine takes him first. Essnai rolls him onto his side with her foot. A rush of warmth spreads through my body and my tongue loosens. ‘I still don’t have magic,’ I blurt out without meaning to, but I’m too drowsy to feel embarrassed.
Grandmother starts to say something else but stops herself. A pang flutters in my stomach. I can’t read her expression and wonder what the ancestors have shown her in my future. In all these years, she’s never told me. ‘Our greatest power lies not in our magic, but in our hearts, Little Priestess.’
She talks in riddles like all the tribal people. Sometimes I don’t mind the way she and Oshhe try to soothe over my worries about not having magic. Sometimes it’s infuriating. They don’t know what it’s like to feel you don’t belong, to feel you’re not worthy. To not measure up to a mother who all the Kingdom admires.
Before I can think of something to say, the blood medicine lulls me into a state of peace. The burning in my throat cools into a smothering heat, and my heartbeat throbs in my ears. Behind Grandmother, the other edam move at an incredible speed. Their faces blur and their bodies leave trails of mist that connect them to one another. Their chants intensify. Before long, most people lie in trances – Essnai, the elders, almost the entirety of the five tribes. The djembe drums fall silent, and the witchdoctors’ song echoes in the valley.
Grandmother grabs my hand and pulls me into the sacred circle. ‘Let Heka see you.’
This is wrong. I don’t belong in the sacred circle. Only the edam, and honoured witchdoctors like my father. Never someone like me – without magic, an outsider.
I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t remember whether I mean in the circle, or in the tribal lands. My mind is too foggy to think straight, but I’m warm inside as I join the dance.
Magic swirls in the air. It’s purple and pink and yellow and black and blue. It’s all colours, tangling and curling around itself. It brushes against my skin, and then I am two places at once, as if the bonds that tether my ka to my body have loosened. No. I’m all places. Is this what it’s like to have magic, to feel it, to wield it? Please, Heka, bless me with this gift.
One by one, the witchdoctors fall into a trance and drop to the ground too. There is no sound save for the crackling of the fires set around camp. The Mulani chieftain – my cousin – sweeps past me, her steps as silent as starlight. She’s the only other person still awake.
‘Wait,’ I call after her. ‘What’s happening?’
She doesn’t answer me. Instead she climbs up the Temple steps and disappears inside. Something heavy pulls against my legs when I try to follow her.
I glance down and my breath catches at the sight of my body lying beneath me. I’m standing with my feet sunk to the ankles in my own belly. I gasp and my physical body mimics me, chest rising sharply, eyes wide. Is everyone else’s ka awake too? I can’t see them. Can they see me? I try to move again, but the same strong pull keeps me rooted in place.
My ka holds on to my body with an iron grip—a chain around my ankles. I wonder how I can let go—and if I want to. According to my father, untethering one’s ka is a tricky business. Only the most talented witchdoctors can leave their bodies. Even they rarely do it, for fear of wandering too far and not finding their way back. The blood medicine alone couldn’t make this happen. Grandmother must have performed some magic when she pulled me into the sacred circle, so I’d have a better chance at being seen by Heka. That has to be it.
My body calls me back. The call is a gentle beckoning at first, then grows in intensity. My eyelids flutter and I fight to stay aware as bright ribbons of light set the night sky on fire. I fall to my knees, the pull growing stronger, the source of the light drawing closer. It’s both warm and cold, both beautiful and frightening, both serene and violent. It knows me and something inside me knows it. It’s the mother and father of magic. It’s Heka.
He’s