Page 49 of Tangled at the Root
“I’ve always wondered,” Genevieve says a while later, after we’ve showered and reluctantly gotten dressed, “is the green an oerhwu thing? Or is it just a you thing?”
I blush. She’d watched me put on a new pair of lacy green underwear underneath yet another green Ankara dress. I’m keeping the dress and bra she’d ripped exactly as is—split down the middle, soaked in my blood; a memento of our first time together.
“A little bit of both.”
The bed is gone from the sitting room, presumably back in the guest room. It’s just past three AM. Genevieve and I should be asleep, but we’re too full of energy. After our last bout of sex, we’d had to hydrate and then made a quick snack after our stomachs had rumbled. That quick snack turned into a propermeal when we’d realised all we’ve eaten all day are plantain and oats.
When I’d popped a piece of toffee in my mouth to replenish my lost blood, she’d once again kissed the taste from my mouth, making me laugh. Feeling her smile against my lips had made my heart stutter.
“My mum says a colour, especially if its a favourite, can be grounding and can help strengthen our connection to the eshé.” She’s leaning against the back of one of the dining chairs, arms crossed, muscles sexily defined. As usual, she’s in her own getup of a black tank top but paired with loose grey joggers this time. The fact that I know she’s wearing briefs underneath should not be so fucking hot. “Like I said before, being an oerhwu is about being grounded. In knowing your roots and being connected to them. Before we left Maraya, I spent a lot of time out in Maraya Forest, the place where my ancestors are buried. For most children born, especially if your parent wants you to unlock the connection to the eshé—though its usually women and girls—they take the baby to Maraya Forest and perform what we call a grounding ritual.”
The chosen baby is bathed in a mix of pure earth and their mother’s blood, usually underneath the bright light of the moon.
The women, dressed in red and black cloth, chant and dance and sing, sharing stories of their history and where they’d come from, remembering their ancestors’ journeys and honouring their sacrifices; they sing about their gratefulness for life itself, for the connection to the eshé gifted to them by the oerhwus who had come before them. Offerings are placed for the ancestors and for the land—cloth and food and drink and blood, the balance maintained.
“I don’t know if its because of that first ritual, or the visits following since, or the pure, ancient eshé of the place, but there was something so peaceful about lying in the clearing, staring upat the rustling leaves of the trees.” Even thinking of it now gives me a wonderful sense of calm. The eshé inside and around me responds like its name, a gentle, undulating current against my skin. I’d felt the love and protection of my ancestors every time, as warm and familiar as an old blanket aged and softened by reverent hands. “Green’s been my favourite colour since.”
Genevieve’s lips curl, her eyes bright with unconcealed fondness. “That’s lovely.”
I look away, blushing. Her eyes are a soft weight on me as I get the things ready to call on her grandmother. Since we’re both too wired to sleep, I figured we could get this mystery sorted now rather than later.
The house is still on lockdown, and when I murmur the chant under my breath, the flames of the white candles flicker. The shannko is still here.
But, like I’d unfortunately suspected, she doesn’t appear. Trying the chant a few more times gets me the same result.
I take a deep breath, then place my palms flat on the cool, marble floors.
I’d initially assumed the reason the house’s eshé feels so familiar is because of how ancient and powerful it is; it wouldn’t make sense for it to be anything else. But this eshé feelstoofamiliar. The house is too in tune to my wants, responding to my commands before I’ve voiced them. It doesn’t make sense. I’ve never been to this house before, and as far as I know, none of my ancestors are buried here.
Somehow, the rot I’d glimpsed before has spread. My heartbeat stutters. The smell makes me retch. Where I’d had to dig deeper to find the decaying roots, now it’s all that I see.
Light flares behind my eyelids and my palms burn.
I let go with a startled cry.
“Rosemary!” Genevieve is within the barrier of the candles before I’ve even opened my eyes, holding me close. I melt happily into her arms. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” But I can still taste the decay in the back of my throat; it clings like an oily film, making me gag. “I’m fine,” I repeat when Genevieve eyes me worriedly. The stench and the taste are thankfully fading.
“What’s happening?” she asks softly when I’ve regained my composure.
I straighten, but she doesn’t let go. “The shannko is still here. I’m not sure if it’s your grandmother anymore or if it’s the spirit of something wearing your grandmother’s face.” She shivers at the implication. “Plus …” I hesitate. “Whatever’s wrong with the house has gotten worse.”
Genevieve is quiet for a moment. “Do you still believe the dagbato really isn’t here? That it has never been tangled with the house?”
Firmly, I nod. “There’s nothing here but the shannko. And the rot.” I swallow convulsively. “It looks like it’s been here for a long time, Genevieve.” Almost as old as the house’s eshé itself, and possibly sentient, too; I recall how viciously it had clung on when I’d attempted the cleansing ritual.
I try to make sense of it all, and remember my notebook. My trunk is sliding its way across the shifting floors before I make to stand. Where once the house’s sentience had left me feeling awed and intrigued, now I’m simply wary.
I open the trunk and fish out the notebook, opening it to the latest page.
Tell her there isn’t a demon. Tell her she shouldn’t try to …
“What’s that?”
“The shannko came to me yesterday morning,” I say, my voice low to match hers. “This is what it said before it disappeared.”In hindsight, it must’ve been cut off, making one of my vague theories start to seem plausible.
She swallows audibly. “Was it referring to me?”
