Page 38 of Tangled at the Root
I let it build until I’m shouting, the melody and the words filled with power. The dance builds just as slowly, starting from my belly, then my hips, then my hands and feet, the tinkling of the bells coming in perfect harmony and rhythm. The carefully choreographed movements help with the cleansing, helps pull the poison from the earth in a pathway through my body that will leave me unharmed.
I keep to the circle as I perform the rite, the steps so ingrained I don’t have to think about it.
The eshé of the house, so much like the forest back home, comes to life underneath my feet. I don’t falter when I smell that festering rot, when it clings to my nose and the back of my throat.
I’m too entrenched in the ritual to react to the alarming depth of it, letting my body be the vessel to untangle the decay, thenchannel it out through the open windows to scatter and weaken in the earth’s light—sun, moon, or stars; all are enough to destroy the expelled fumes of a poisoned spiritual current.
I don’t know how long I keep going.
Keep dancing.
Keep singing.
Keep breathing.
Until it hurts. Until my arms and legs start to shake. The tinkling no longer matches the rhythm of the song. My throat is too dry to keep my words clear and firm.
The rot builds, fills me up until I want to vomit, then rapidly disperses as I spread my hands and fingers in the air at the end of the dance, flinging something invisible toward the open windows.
I do it, over and over and over again, but it’s endless. I’ve never cleansed a house with a decay this vast. I cut off an infected root, and the rot spreads to ten more, clinging savagely to life.
Despite my exhaustion, every inch of my body screaming with pain, I perform the ritual one last time, making sure I end it properly. When the song and dance come to an end, my hands outstretched, I immediately collapse to my hands and knees with a short cry of pain and relief.
At some point, I’d shut my eyes. I open them now to find that it’s dark outside, so dark I can barely see further than a few feet. The windows are still gone, though the bars stand firmly in their place, no openings in sight.
“F-Fuck,” I whisper shakily, my voice no more than a croak. My hands fist the soil underneath for some comfort.
I look up in search of Genevieve, wondering why she hadn’t turned on the lights.
Everything in me goes still.
There are multiple bright dots like embers glowing in the darkness, in the direction of the archway leading into thekitchen. I’m hoping the angle I’m kneeling makes them seem higher than they should be, but I know, deep down, I’m wrong.
My vision adjusts bit by excruciating bit until I just barely make out her shape.
She’s a shadow in an ocean of shadows. Is her form rippling and morphing, or is it a trick of the darkness?
Slowly, I get to my feet. My legs and thighs protest at the movement, reminding me how long I must’ve been dancing. I’m not sure, but it feels like it must be close to midnight; I’d been dancing for nearly twelve hours.Fuck. If I’d known—or my mother had known—how deep this rot would go, she’d never have let me come here alone. Some cleansings require more than one oerhwu; it had been one of my mother’s non-negotiables. It’s why I don’t tell her about any of my cases with new clients until afterward. Why I hadn’t told her about this one.
It’s time. Whatever deadline the dagbato had set for its sacrifices, it’s clear that Genevieve’s next ten years are up. My pulse flutters at the base of my throat.
There are no sacrifices here. What is she going to do? The house is still on lockdown.
There’s only me.
If she doesn’t present her sacrifice, the dagbato will takeherlife as payment.
I don’t want to force her, but if this is her choice, she’s going to have to accept that I’m the perfect candidate. Theonlycandidate. Maybe the house—or her grandmother’s shannko, knows this, too. Maybe her grandmother knows of my “gift”, and she doesn’t want Genevieve to kill an innocent. She knows, just like I know, that Genevieve would never be able to live with herself if she does.
The shadow in the archway remains unmoving, those multiple, glowing red eyes fixed unsettlingly on me.
“Genevieve?”
The embers brighten. There’s no response.
Fear kicks in—irrational and untimely. I try to remind myself this is Genevieve, but instinct is screaming at me to run. It feels like I’m back in that nightmare, the creature chasing me, Genevieve’s voice loud and mocking in my ear.
Chest heaving, I take one aborted step backward.
