Page 50 of Tangled at the Root
“I would assume so.”
“This confirms there really isn’t a dagbato. I’m assuming that’s what it means by “demon.””
“That’s what I think, too.”
“But …” She’s frowning, trying desperately to parse it out. I don’t think she can. I don’t thinkeitherof us can. We’re missing too many pieces of the puzzle.
“I also have a feeling the shannko isn’t as straightforward as it seems,” I say, ready to share my theory. “I think it might not just be one spirit, but multiple, somehow, all with conflicting … interests.” I’d initially assumed the shannko was either a shannde—an evil spirit—or a shannko being possessed by something nefarious. I feel now that neither of those ring true.
“Jesus Christ.”
She sounds so over it I laugh. She smiles, her expression softening. I tilt my face up when she leans down, our lips meeting in a sweet kiss.
“Now that I think about it, it kind of makes sense,” she says thoughtfully. “I think … I think something tried to kill me when I first came here. I’m fine,” she teases when she notices my worried gaze. “But whatever it was, it stopped. I’d thought it odd at the time, that perhaps it was just a dream. If your theory is correct, I feel now that somethingelsemust’ve stopped it.” She heaves out a heavy sigh. “How on earth are we going to find out what it—whattheywant—when they refuse to respond to your call?”
“I’m not sure. But I do know one tried-and-true method to at least get us a push in the right direction.”
This time, the four candles on the inner points of the cardinal directions are inky black, the yellow in their same positions toserve as a protective barrier. I have Genevieve sit with me as well; the black wax might’ve been made and blessed specifically for oerhwus from Maraya to contact our ancestors, but that doesn’t mean Genevieve can’t use it to reach out to hers. The more of any experienced spirits we can contact, the better.
My eyes are closed. On my head, I’m wearing a circlet of coral beads, held together with thin, elastic thread; they turn my body into a temporary vessel for my ancestors to speak through. I hold a piece of white chalk in my right hand, tip-down to the ground; some ancestors prefer to write.
We’d placed offerings in the circle, on my mound of dirt from home; honey, to sweeten their tongues, and dried kilishi—spicy, crunchy beef jerky—to ease away any hungers.
Focusing on the beads’ steadily beating eshé, I begin the chant recognising and honouring my ancestors, then respectfully ask for their time and wisdom.
As usual, I lose all sense of time, lost to the words and the magic, until I feel the coral beads spark to life on my head. My hand begins to move.
I stop chanting when my hand stops writing, and open my eyes. The honey and the jerky are gone, my mound of dirt seemingly untouched.
On the ground are two simple words, written in unfamiliar, looping script.
Gosu. Dream.
“Are we supposed to take that literally?” Genevieve whispers with amusement.
I laugh softly. “Yes. Some ancestors respond in riddles. Most of them, actually. I think they get a kick out of it.” Genevieve huffs out a slight laugh. “Some might’ve chosen to speakthroughme. But most of them leave their answers in dreams.”
“And “gosu”? What’s that?”
“It’s a herb.” I begin clearing up my items. “It sort of acts like a … hm.” I furrow my eyebrows, trying to think of an apt description. “Think of it like a ringing phone in the spiritual plane. So, we take the herb, then we go to sleep. The herb lights up our auras like a beacon to catch the closest ancestor’s attention, then it helps us receive and clearly interpret the dream our ancestor sends in response.”
“I guess we have no choice but to go to bed, then.”
The moment I finish placing the items back into my trunk, the bed from the guest room reappears with a heavy thud. The sheets are neatly made.
The gosu is a rare herb found specifically in Maraya. They’re petals plucked from the flowers in a particular wild bush, placed in wrappers and buried in the forest to obtain the land’s and the ancestor’s blessings, then boiled with a little bit of salt and palm oil, and dried afterward under the sun.
“What would you prefer?” I hold up a light green drawstring bag made of sheer netting. The herb, in shades of bright pink, purple, and white, sits inside. “We can have it as a tea, or just chew them as is.”
“As is,” Genevieve says.
The herb is bitter, making my eyes water, but it wouldn’t have fared better brewed, at least not without a shit-ton of sugar or honey.
Afterward, my trunk neatly shut, Genevieve watches me with dark eyes as I change out of my clothes and into my sheer, netted nightgown; teal green, with spaghetti straps leading to triangle cups that barely hide or hold up my breasts, the skirt barely covering my ass. I wear nothing but my waist beads and lace panties underneath. She slips out of her clothes until she’s in literally just her briefs. Fuck.
We meet in the middle of the bed and immediately start to kiss, like with no other distractions, all that’s left is this.Us.
It’s slower and sweeter this time. I think, if we’d given in back then, our first time might have gone exactly like this: on our sides, trading deep, drugging kisses, with me whimpering softly while she groans into my mouth. My fantasies had been so innocent when my love and desire had been a little sapling, before it had grown large and robust as an Iroko tree.
