Page 8 of Tangled at the Root
All right. So. Maybe Genevieve is one of the few common folk in the know; her acceptance of the front door’s disappearing act is simply too … straightforward for her not to be. Unless she’s a master at controlling her reactions, which, I admit, she kind of is. I can count on both hands the few times I’ve ever seen her lose control, including now.
Especiallynow. I’ve never seen her so animated, her feelings obvious to the world, instead of the scanty map I’d slowly and meticulously illustrated over the course of our friendship until I’d had every micro-expression faultlessly memorised and preserved.
She’s always been so perfectly restrained. Every time that tightly wound control had frayed, I’d felt the feral urge to push and push andpushuntil she completely unravelled. I’d always held back; I don’t have to ask to know she’s the way she is for a reason. I’m not an asshole. But that wildness, carefully contained, had been the very thing that had called to me—to a part of me I’ve ignored so completely and instinctively I’m still too afraid to acknowledge it.
But, fuck, I want to see her come entirelyundone.
For the last ten years, I’ve been drifting. I see her again, and I’m rooted firmly to the ground, more present in my body than I’ve ever been.
I feel so fuckingalive.
And God, Iwant—
Stop it, Rosemary.
Don’t forget why you left—why you letherleave.
Don’t forget why you’re here.
The reminder drenches me in glacial desolation. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I think of home, of Maraya Forest—the single, immutable constant I’m going to have for the rest of my life. The eshé in my beads and my core warms, rushing eagerly to drive away the cold.
When I open my eyes again, the house’s silence seems almost expectant.
The foyer opens up to a dining area directly to my left, with a sitting room further inside. There’s an archway on the wall after the dining space, which I’m certain leads to the kitchen. To myright is a corridor, with two doors spaced apart on the wall to the left, and a single door toward the end of the wall on the right.
There’s a good enough amount of space between the foyer and the living area, and that’s where I drag my things. I remove my duffel and handbag, then topple my trunk on its back and unbuckle it.
I’ve already checked the spot where the door had been for anything that might’ve been hidden; perhaps whatever—or whoever—is doing this had simply cast an illusion. But every spell I’d cast had been unfruitful. The wall is solid and firm and blends seamlessly with the rest of the house, like it had been built that way.
I’d tried my phone again, but the little service I’d miraculously gotten at the gates is completely gone. The call history taunts me—proving someonehadcalled me yesterday morning and we’d had a ten-minute conversation. In my appointment book, the house’s address sits innocuously where I’d jotted it down, along with a brief note summarising the need for my visit—cleansing; medium, in my neat hand.
I wait a few moments to make sure Genevieve won’t be returning any time soon, then flip open my trunk, picking out eight candles; four yellow and four white. A gleaming calabash follows, and three small, green velvet drawstring bags.
The yellow candles are placed three feet from and around me in the four cardinal directions. A whispered incantation has a flame the size of my thumb bursting to life a few inches above my palm. I light the candles, and feel the ward snap into place.
The white candles go a foot from the yellows on the inside in the same spots. I light those, too, maintaining my breathing as the room’s warmth and oxygen immediately drop, the flames flickering. There’s definitely a shannko here.
I kneel in the middle of the candles facing south, toward the wide windows over the dining area looking out into the frontof the house. Resting back on my calves, I breathe deeply and slowly to centre myself. The yellow candles don’t only serve as a protective barrier, but are slightly scented with jasmine and lavender, made to be calming.
Apart from my breathing, the house is scarily silent. I wonder what Genevieve is doing, my heartbeat speeding at the thought of her finding me like this, before I force myself to focus.
Soft chanting falls from my lips; a prayer for my ancestors to allow the eshé to flow through me, and a call respectfully requesting the appearance and assistance of any lingering spirits close-by.
The dirt from the first drawstring bag is emptied first. I spread the earth from home on the clean marble floor in a semi-even square.Earth, for grounding.
Next goes the calabash, which fills to the half-way point with clear water the moment it touches the spread dirt.Water, for clear communication.
The last bag holds the cowrie beads, which I gently shake in my fist, rolling them in intent and eshé, before throwing them into the calabash, the shells landing on the surface of the water with softplinks.
My chanting stops.
My palms are open and relaxed, resting on my thighs. I wait for the cowrie beads to sink, telling me a spirit is about to appear, or to change shape, spelling out the spirit’s message.
Sometimes, it’s a patience game, so I allow myself to wait. I have to recentre myself each time my mind strays to Genevieve, panic flaring at the thought of her coming down and—
My knees are starting to hurt. I try the chant again, my voice firm but soft. The flames of the white candles flicker, but the cowries don’t move, sitting still like the water’s surface has frozen over.
I think of the hint of old and powerful eshé I’d sensed when I’d been outside the gates.
