Page 9 of Tangled at the Root
It thrums right now, a faint pulse underneath my knees. Instinct has me leaning forward to place both palms flat to the cool floors, my eyes falling shut.
Oh.
It’s exactly like the eshé of Maraya Forest—a great tree with thick, endlessly winding roots. If the eshé belongs to the shannko, then the spirit is definitely ancient. After all the trouble it had gone through to get me here—obviously without Genevieve being the wiser—why wouldn’t it talk to me now? Is something preventing it? That seems unlikely; “ancient” doesn’t always equal powerful, but in my lifetime as a practitioner, at least nine times out of ten, it does. If there’s anything with a stronger eshé here, I’d have sensed it. Besides that, I know to go through every possible option until I’ve exhausted them all.
I try to go a little deeper, mentally following the path of the roots, repeating the incantations for protection and to keep me open to the eshé almost distractedly, the charms woven into my beads activating at my command.
Eventually, I get something. That faint whiff of damp rot. The vision in my mind’s eye has changed, the roots turning from rich and brown and harmoniously winding, to dark and decaying and hideously gnarled.
Light flares behind my eyelids, sending them flying open.
The candle’s flames are so bright I flinch, blinking rapidly. The light dims back to normal the moment I lift my hands, breaking the connection.
So. Something—or someone—doesn’t want me peeking.
I try the incantation again, and it’s the same routine. The flames of the white candles flicker. The shannko doesn’t appear or respond.
“Why did you call me here, then?” I mutter under my breath, rolling my eyes.
I scoop the cowries and return them to their designated pouch. When I pick up the calabash, the water drains, disappearing into nothing. I roll my right hand over the dirt and it collects into a neat ball against my palm, then I drop it into its pouch, watching with a pleased smile as it softens and collapses once inside.
A wave of my hand and a single intent sends a small breeze blowing out all the candles. Oof, it’s darker than I’d thought. All the items are placed in their assigned spots in my trunk, which I shut and lock with a soft, relieved breath and a quick glance at the still silent foyer and stairwell.
I wonder if the house has any electricity as I make my way to the light switches, thinking of the generator I’d noticed outside.
The lights come on, thank God. I wait a moment, blinking, assuming the bulbs are those current-adjusting ones that brighten slowly after a few seconds. They don’t.
The dimness isn’t natural. The darkness I’d noticed in the forest and the village hadn’t literally been visible, only something I’d been able sense as someone sensitive to eshé.
This darkness is. It’s playing with my mind, undulating and dancing across my vision like I’m about to pass out. I wrap the eshé around me like armour, and when my glasses don’t reveal anything nefarious, I tell myself maybe the current is always this low; it must take a lot of effort to supply electricity all the way out here. At least there’s just enough light to see every corner in the room.
With this missing-doors-and-sealed-windows fiasco, the last thing I want is to be trapped in the complete dark with my ex-best friend,alongwith an old, evasive spirit.
I’d known this case was going to take a while, if only because of the strangeness of the call I’d received. Whoever—or whatever—had called me hadn’t wanted to admit how they’d gotten mynumber; it’s something I’m used to, so I hadn’t questioned it. Nigerians are generally superstitious people, but intentionally seeking out an oerhwu is treated not just like a moral failure, but as though you’re contacting the devil itself. Admitting they would stoop so low as to go searching for a native doctor ironically seems more shameful and taboo than the act of asking said practitioner for their assistance.
There’s something desperately wrong with my house, and you’re the only one who can fix it.
Again, not unusual. Nigerians don’t like airing their business out to strangers over the phone, andespeciallynot to one who’s a witch.
So, I have three options. One; the shannko, for whatever reason, does not want to talk to me at this time. Two; the shannko has somehow been blocked from communicating with me and has in turn locked me in the house until it finds a way to impart its message, or three; whatever is blocking the shannko’s communication is the very thing keeping me trapped. I’m really hoping it’s option one.
I think back to my arrival, to the figure I’d seen briefly in the upstairs window. If the old woman is the shannko, she must be someone who’d either died here a long time ago, or who’d at least once owned the house; the eshé is too firmly and deeply rooted to belong to a wandering spirit.
My mind inevitably turns to Genevieve, how it had felt to hear her voice again after so long—
I frown, dimly registering the words she’d actually said.
Who had she been talking to? She’d claimed she’s the only one here, and I’d believed her. I still do.
Maybe she’d been talking to the shannko.My pulse speeds up. If that were the case, it’s obvious why she’d lie.
My breathing is erratic as I move around the room, closing the curtains.
Nigerian society and its bigotry had been the excuse I’d shamelessly clung to when I’d let Genevieve go. But the truth is, as our friendship had strengthened and my love for her had deepened, I’d cared less and less about society and what they might think. The fear of discovery had seemed inconsequential in the face of my sheer desire.
I’d found myself wanting, so badly, to be selfish. To stop thinking and justlive.
I could’ve made juju to protect us. I could’ve made the eyes of whoever might’ve caused us harm slide right over us. I’d beengiventhis gift by my ancestors; whycouldn’tI use it for me? For us?
