Kingdom of Souls. Rena Barron
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that I don’t understand. ‘If it’s okay with Arrah.’
I swallow. ‘Okay.’
He squeezes my shoulder before leaving the tent. ‘I’ll save you a spot up front.’
The chieftain flashes me a gap-toothed grin as she squats on the floor. ‘Sit with me.’
The tent flap rustles in my father’s wake. My legs ache to follow, but the sight of the great Aatiri chieftain sitting on the floor roots me in place. I sit across from her as she raises one palm to the ceiling. Sparks of yellow and purple and pink magic drift to her hand.
‘How do you make the magic come to you, Great Chieftain?’
Her eyes go wide. ‘I’m your grandmother before all. Address me as such.’
I bite my lip. ‘How, Grandmother?’
‘Some people can pull magic from the fabric of the world.’ Grandmother watches the colours dancing on her fingertips. ‘Some can coax magic to come with rituals and spells. Many can’t call magic at all. It’s a gift from Heka to the people of the five tribes—a gift of himself—but it’s different for everyone.’
She offers me the magic, and I lean in closer. I hope this time it will come to me, but it disappears upon touching my hand. ‘I can see it,’ I say, my shoulders dropping, ‘but it doesn’t answer me.’
‘That is rare indeed,’ she says. ‘Not unheard of, but rare.’
The feather strokes of Grandmother’s magic press against my forehead. It itches, and I shove my hands between my knees to keep from scratching. ‘It seems you have an even rarer gift.’ Her eyebrows knit together as if she’s stumbled upon a puzzle. ‘I’ve never seen a mind I couldn’t touch.’
She’s only trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t mean anything if I can’t call magic like real witchdoctors – like my parents, like her.
Grandmother reaches into her pocket and removes a handful of bones. ‘These belonged to my ancestors. I use them to draw more magic to me – more than I could ever catch on my fingertips. When I focus on what I want to see, they show me. Can you try?’
She drops the bones into my hand. They’re small and shiny in the light of the burning jars of oils set on stools beneath the canopy. ‘Close your eyes,’ Grandmother says. ‘Let the bones speak to you.’
Cold crawls up my arm and my heart pounds. Outside, the djembe drums start again, beating a slow, steady rhythm that snatches my breath away. The truth is written on Grandmother’s face, a truth I already know. The bones don’t speak.
Charlatan.
The word echoes in my mind. It’s the name my mother calls the street pedlars in the market, the ones who sell worthless good luck charms because their magic is weak. What if she thinks I’m a charlatan too?
My fingers ache from squeezing the bones so hard, and Grandmother whispers, ‘Let go.’
The bones fly from my hand and scatter on the floor between us. They land every which way, some close to others and some far apart. My eyes burn as I stare at them, straining to hear the ancestors’ message over the djembe drums.
‘Do you see or hear anything?’ Grandmother asks.
I blink and tears prick my eyes. ‘No.’
Grandmother smiles, collecting the bones. ‘Not everyone’s magic shows so early. For some, the magic doesn’t abide until they’re nearly grown. But when it comes so late, it’s very strong. Perhaps you will be a powerful witchdoctor one day.’
My hands tremble as the Aatiri girl’s words come back to me: Maybe never.
‘Come, child, the celebration awaits,’ Grandmother says, climbing to her feet.
Tears slip down my cheeks as I run out of the tent without waiting for Grandmother. I don’t want to be a powerful witchdoctor one day – I want magic to come now. The heat of the desert night hits me, and my bare feet slap against the hard clay. Sparks of magic drift from the sky into the other children’s outstretched arms, but some of it flits away. I dart through the crowd and follow the wayward magic, determined to catch some of my own.
It weaves through the mud-brick huts like a winged serpent, always staying two beats ahead of me. Beyond the tents, the drums become a distant murmur. I stop when the magic disappears. It’s darker here, colder, and the scent of blood medicine burns my nose. Someone’s performed a ritual in the shadows. I should turn back, run away. The wind howls a warning, but I move a little closer. Fingers like crooked tree roots latch on to my ankle.
I yank my leg back, and the hand falls away. My heart beats louder than the djembe drums as I remember all the scary stories about demons. During a lesson, a scribe once warned: Don’t get caught in the shadows, for a demon waits to steal your soul. The younger the soul, the sweeter the feast. A shiver cuts down my arms at the thought, but I remind myself that those are only tales to scare children. I’m too old to believe them.
It isn’t until the outline of a woman comes into focus that I breathe again. Magic lights on her skin, and she writhes and thrashes against the sand. Her mouth twists into an ugly scream. I don’t know what to make of her; she looks both young and old, both alive and dead, and in pain.
‘Give me a hand,’ says the woman, voice slurred.
‘I can get my father,’ I offer as I help her sit up.
Her brown skin is ashen and sweaty. ‘Don’t bother.’ She wipes dirt from her lips. ‘I only need to rest a spell.’
‘What are you doing out here?’ I ask, kneeling beside her.
‘I could ask the same, but I know the answer.’ A flicker of life returns to her vacant eyes. ‘There is only one reason a child does not take part in Imebyé.’
I glance away – she knows.
‘I don’t have magic either,’ she says, her words seething with bitterness. ‘Even so, it answers my call.’
I swallow hard to push back the chill creeping down my spine. ‘How?’
She smiles, revealing a mouth of rotten teeth. ‘Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay.’
Every year, the five tribes of Heka gather for the Blood Moon Festival, and I tell myself that this will be my year. The year that wipes the slate clean. The year that makes up for the waiting, the longing, the frustration. The year that magic lights on my skin, bestowing upon me the gift. When it happens, my failures will wash away and I’ll have magic of my own.
I’m sixteen, near grown by both Kingdom and tribal standards. My time is running out. No daughter or son of any tribe has come into their gifts beyond my age. If it doesn’t happen this year, it won’t happen at all.
I swallow hard and rub my sweaty palms against the grass as the djembe drums begin their slow and steady rhythm. With the tribes camped in the valley, there are some thirty thousand people here. We form rings around the sacred circle near the Temple of Heka, and the fire in the centre ebbs and flows to the beat. The drummers march around the edge of the circle, their steps in sync. The five tribes look as if they have nothing in common, but they move as one, to honour Heka, the god of their lands.
Magic clings to the air, so thick that it stings my skin. It dances in the night sky above endless rows of tents quilted in vibrant colours. My tunic sticks to my back from the heat of so many bodies in tight quarters. The sharp smell in the valley reminds me of the East Market on its busiest days. My feet tap a nervous beat while everyone else claps along with the music.
As Grandmother’s guests, Essnai, Sukar, and I sit on cushions in a place of honour