Page 4 of Tangled at the Root
When I open my eyes again, the tall iron gates are shut. I don’t think about it. I grab the handle of my trunk, adjust my duffel atop it, and start moving.
I get three feet from the closed gates and believe I must be doing something subconsciously. Sometimes, when I’m especially emotional, my eshé tends to have a mind of its own.
But I really can’t take another step forward. I take a step back, and it’s like unsticking my foot from the floor; it takes so much effort it makes me stumble. Once I’m free from whatever had held me stationary, I can move again.
Anywhere but forward.
There’s a modest, though equally rundown bungalow to the left from the main house, nestled close to the fence. What must’ve once been a field occupying the corner between the two buildings is now a plot of weeds, wildflowers, and untamed grass coming up to about hip height.
The back of the house holds a decrepit garden with a fancy gazebo in equal disarray to the rest of the compound. Something about the crumbling structure makes me feel hollow. It leeches the warmth from my bones and steals the air from my lungs, making me instinctively hold my breath until I’m well past it. It glares imposingly in my periphery, and for a moment, the smell of rot is so thick and cloying I gag, frantically pinching my nose shut.
I force myself to look directly at the gazebo, to take a tentative breath when I can no longer hold it, and feel instantly ridiculous. The building is completely ordinary. There’s only the thick scent of vegetation and sun-warmed earth, nothing putrid underneath. I activate my shoddy glasses. There’s no hidden trickery here.
I study the gazebo for a minute more, not one to ignore my instincts, but whatever I’d sensed is gone now. Silenced, it feels. Suppressed.
I frown, then breathe deep and keep moving.
Yet another gate sits in the old fence a few metres behind the house, smaller and less impressive than the one in front, but made with the same black iron in an identical design. The gates are similarly shut.
A second bungalow, also smaller than the one at the front, sits close to the corner of the fence on the left, with a roofed platform at its side covering a mustard yellow, large-scale generator.
My situation remains the same; I cannot step closer to the fence or either gate any closer than three feet. I can only go backward, toward the main house.
I don’t give up just yet. I don’t want to see Genevieve again. Not when she doesn’t want me.
Here,I amend desperately. She doesn’t want mehere. Another swell of grief and loneliness washes over me, which makes me clench my jaw. I thought I’d come to terms with these fucking feelings, God.
I try a few incantations to break through a ward or eshé-erected barrier. I try a few to reveal invisible walls and doorways, using my glasses for good measure. I try everything I can possibly think of to get rid of whatever this is and make my way out.
When I’ve exhausted all options, I turn helplessly to face the house. It stares down at me.
In my attempt to find out if whatever juju keeping me captive affects the whole fence, I’d left my things behind, by the front gates.
I notice now they’re up on the veranda, by the front door. The walls encasing both sides of the porch protrude where the rooms of the house itself extend in a geometric design, giving the welcome stoop a cosy, intimate feel.
I’m still staring when the front door eases itself open.
The incantations to several protective enchantments are on my lips, the beads at the tips of my braids warming readily against my collarbones and shoulder blades. When no one steps out or reveals themselves, I clench my hands into fists by my sides and resolutely move forward.
Despite my swiftly gathered nerves, my right foot lands tentatively on the first step.
“Hello?”
Left foot; second step.
Silence.
“Hello?” I say, louder. “G-Genevieve?” I hate the way my voice breaks around her name. “Genevieve?”
I’m right at the edge of the top and final step, a few feet from my things. There’s a small foyer through the wide-open door, and a staircase sitting directly opposite. The space opens up toward the left, while the right looks like it leads to a corridor. The inside of the house looks shockingly well-kept.
Slowly, I walk closer to the opened door. I have no plan if Genevieve responds. How am I supposed to explain that I’m magically stuck here when she more than likely doesn’t even know or believe magic exists?
“Genevieve?” I try again.
“Come inside and stop making so much noise.”
I jolt despite how faint the voice is. It seems to be coming from the left.
