Page 29 of Tangled at the Root
“Right.” I feel her staring at me.
Inwardly, I brace myself, left with no choice but to let go of one more secret.
9: A DELICATE FLOWER UPROOTED
Ialready feel stronger thanks to the candy, so I reluctantly drop my hand and shift until I’m sitting on my own, propped up against the wall. I expect Genevieve to do the same, but she moves until she’s against the back of the two-seater sofa, facing me.
I hate the distance but it feels necessary.
“Can I—?” I lift a hand questioningly. She’s still covered in my blood. The sight should make me uncomfortable. She’s covered in myblood. My heart pounds.
Genevieve nods. I murmur the chant. She blinks when she no doubt feels the tingle as my eshé wipes away all foreign particles from her entire body. Her tongue darts out to wet her now clean lower lip, as if trying to catch a lingering taste. My lower belly twists with a terrible heat.
I look away, sinking back into the wall. “Like I said before, anyone can be an oerhwu if they’re open to it and take the time to learn it. Opening up your spiritual veins, as my grandmother used to call it, to the eshé, and learning how to harness it is all about belief, strength of self, and, most importantly I think, a deep connection to your history—to your ancestors. It’s also about give and take, about respecting all life and the very land we live on; all oerhwus usually perform rites and leave offerings to the land and to our ancestors to maintain and appreciate the balance. The only difference from one oerhwu to another lies in ability—in talent, practice, and, often times, age.
“In my village, it’s different, though; unlike other practitioners, oerhwus born in Maraya are given what we simply call a gift.” I stare at the floor, unable to look at her. “Harnessing the eshé is like breathing; there’s only so much your body can take at a time. That’s why most oerhwus use incantations, tinctures, juju, or charms placed on items blessed by the gods and the land, like the beads in my hair.
“The gifts, however—given to us by our ancestors—are things we can do with mere intent, while harnessing a great amount of the eshé without any strain. Some can wordlessly and effortlessly heal. Some can literally call down the rain. Some can communicate and control animals. Some can make sure the crops grow green all year long.” I stop and take a breath. “My gift—though my mother’s the only one who’s ever called it that—is that I can’t be killed.”
The silence is loud. I take another chunky piece of toffee from the transparent bag for something to do. It melts in my mouth, the usual warmth and comfort it brings overshadowed by the heaviness in the air.
“You can’t … die?”
“I can’t be killed,” I correct quickly, my heart hammering. “A selfish gift, the elders in my coven had called it,” I addemotionlessly. “All our gifts are supposed to help better our community and the world in some way.” I don’t need to tell her how my “gift” doesn’t fit the description.
I finally force myself to look up. I don’t quite know how to describe the expression on her face.
Needing to lighten the mood, I say with a faint smile, “My mother told me this story once—though I’m sure she made it up just to cheer me up—that a very long time ago, before our coven had settled in Maraya, we’d lived in another village further south—somewhere not too far from here, actually. The chief of the village believed a monthly sacrifice was necessary to appease the gods. The coven had been much smaller back then—holding a single family unit, I think, and due to the Chief’s demands, one of the coven members had been blessed with the first ever gift from our ancestors; a person who could not be killed.”
Genevieve is staring, just as enraptured as I’d been the first time my mother had recited this tale to me.
“So, every month when the Chief ordered a sacrifice, they’d send this oerhwu to “die” in a public ritual, and have them sneak back home afterward with the Chief none-the-wiser. The village had been grateful at first—they no longer had to agonise over who of their own would be the Chief’s next victim.
“But they eventually grew anxious. What if the coven stopped sending the gifted oerhwu? What if the coven started making demands of the villagers for saving their lives?” I’ve always hated this part of the story. Genevieve’s mouth turns down. She knows what’s coming, too. “So, rather than going through the whole farce of pretending to give a villager up for the sacrifice, they sold the coven out, revealing the secret of the oerhwu. The Chief was overjoyed. He abducted the oerhwu with the promise that he wouldn’t touch the villagers ever again.
“My mother doesn’t know how long the oerhwu stayed locked up in that palace, their gift abused for the Chief’s beliefs andwho knows what else.” I exhale softly. “Months, maybe. Years, possibly. The ancestors must’ve eventually grown upset because at some point, the Chief announced that the gifted oerhwu was a fake, and the villagers would need to continue with the sacrifices. But this time, as punishment for their deceit, the sacrifices would be weekly.”
“The oerhwu lost their gift?” Genevieve sounds surprised and upset. “Did they die? Permanently?”
This part of the story has always made me feel bittersweet. “Unfortunately, according to my mother, yes, they did. The coven, enraged and distraught with grief and horror, decided to move so they wouldn’t be found and taken advantage of again, leaving the villagers behind to face the wrath of the Chief.
“My mother likes to believe the oerhwu had only pretended to have a permanent death in order for them to escape with their coven. And, even though she’d made this whole thing up, I tend to believe it, too.” My mouth curves, then my smile fades. “I …” I hesitate, but Genevieve’s expression is open, non-judgemental. I still can’t quite meet her eyes as I admit, “Sometimes, I can make myself come back faster if I want to. I could … stay dead for longer if I wanted to.”
Twelve hours. That’s my maximum. At least it was, the last time I checked.
Twelve hours, then I’m abruptly yanked back to the land of the living. I never remember where my soul goes, if it even goes anywhere, or if death is just that.
Nothing.
Darkness.
I die, for however long, and then I wake up.
I don’t say it out loud, though. I don’t want Genevieve to wonder what I’d had to do to confirm that number.
“Fuck. That’s …” The sentence hangs, unfinished.
I push my glasses up my nose, ducking my head. “Anyway. That’s why a part of me believes maybe the oerhwu had simply faked a longer death, then snuck away when it was safe to join their runaway coven. And that’s apparently how Maraya was founded,” I finish.
