Rena Barron - Kingdom of Souls

‘So tell me something about the orishas that most people don’t know.’

‘The universe began with a bang.’ He whistles, drawing death stares from the other patrons in the hall. ‘You call it the Supreme Cataclysm, but it has many names. Think of it as a void of profound darkness that destroys and creates without beginning or end. Over the course of aeons, the first orishas crawled from its belly and cut their umbilical cords – so to speak. Each of them possesses some piece of the Supreme Cataclysm’s nature. Like the Cataclysm, the orishas love their creations.’ Tam adjusts his position, his focus turning to the Unnamed. ‘Unfortunately for us, a god’s love is both beautiful and terrifying.’

‘I’ve never heard the origin story told quite like that,’ I say, surprised.

‘I embellished it a little,’ he admits. ‘I became a scribe so I can tell lies once in a while.’

‘Tell me about her … the Unnamed.’ I point up. ‘The truth.’

‘We don’t speak of her.’ Tam shakes his head, his words clipped. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

My eyes linger on the serpents again. There was someone here … something, Grandmother had said. Someone who does not belong. Perhaps a relic from the past, I do not know, or an omen of the future.

‘A green-eyed serpent.’ I swallow. ‘Is that a symbol of demons?’

Tam startles and stares at me with one eyebrow quirked. ‘That’s an interesting question.’

‘Why interesting?’ I say, catching the sombre note in his voice.

‘That’s the name the orishas gave to the demons, yes,’ Tam confirms. ‘For though they possessed many forms, they all had green eyes, a mark of their race.’

My dread from earlier comes back in full force. If my father is right about the connection between both visions, then I have my answer. I know what a demon would want with children … with me .

This can’t be possible. It can’t be. The demon race perished in the War with the orishas, but had one survived? Could there be more? If demons have an insatiable hunger for souls, there are none more sacred and pure than the kas of children.

Long after leaving the Temple, I struggle to catch my breath. I take a short cut near the sacred Gaer tree on my way to the East Market. The tree stands naked and alone in iridescent dark soil – its black branches, crooked and bare. The magic here is so thick that it’s palpable. I don’t linger, but as I pass, the branches shudder. Outside of the Almighty Temple, it’s the most magical place in Tamar. How powerful had the first Ka -Priest of the Kingdom been to cheat death by taking up roots and becoming a tree?

When I set foot in the East Market, I see Familiars swarming like a nest of agitated wasps. Hundreds slither among the crowd and crawl across every place imaginable. Dogs howl at them, while most people are none the wiser. They draw the heat from the air, and even though it’s midday, a cool draught settles over the market. The sun is behind the clouds – a rare thing in Tamar, which enjoys sunshine on more days than not. Does the sun orisha Re’Mec feel the disturbance too?

On the surface, everything looks normal. People haggle over prices, and merchants outbid each other to attract patrons. Some older children play an upbeat tempo on the bottom of wooden crates, and people drop copper coins in a bowl in front of them. But bad energy hums through the crowd like the charge in the air before lightning strikes. Several fights break out and the City Guard steps in. It hits me at once. All the amulets with the orisha Kiva in the market today – now that the news is out about the children. When I was little, his bulbous face and lopsided eyes scared me. But Kiva protects the innocent. People wear his likeness when disease sweeps through the city, or when crops are poor. It’s a sign of fear.

I spot Rudjek ahead, fending off a street charlatan trying to peddle him charms. The charlatan wears a dozen bone necklaces and another two dozen on each arm. He gapes at Rudjek, his cataract-laden eyes stretched wide. His cheeks are sunken, his skin ashen and weathered – his movements slow and lethargic. People might think he’s drunk, but his face bears the signs of someone who’s been trading years for magic. Not all the charlatans do it, but this man clearly has.

‘You need protection,’ he proclaims, his voice like cracked eggshells. ‘I have a necklace for you. All the way from the tribal lands. Blessed by a great witchdoctor.’

The charlatan’s words stop me cold in the thicket of the crowd before I reach Rudjek. Patrons divide around me, some yelling to get out of their way, but I can’t move. I’ve always thought the charlatans weak. In truth, some have more magic than me even without trading their years. They flood this corner of the market, offering charms, sacks of herbs, and potions promising to deliver your heart’s desire.

I know what it feels like to want magic so bad that it hurts. To watch your parents impose their will on magic with the snap of their fingers, but not be able to touch it yourself.

A bitter taste sours my mouth and I swallow hard. What I can’t understand is why someone would trade their years to make petty charms. If you’re going to do it, do it for a better reason. Do it because you have no other choice.

It isn’t fair to judge the charlatans, but when I look at them, I see my own reflection. I see a yearning to belong. I see my desire to protect myself when the demon comes after me – for it will. I have no doubts about that now. Grandmother’s vision had been a warning for me .

Rudjek frowns. ‘I don’t need trinkets made from chicken bones.’

The charlatan sweeps his arms wide, rattling the bones. ‘Trinkets? These are genuine charms.’

‘Which tribe are they from?’ Rudjek arches one eyebrow at the tiny bones strung together.

‘Tribe Kes,’ the man says with a lazy wave. ‘Only the best bone charms from them.’

Rudjek rubs his chin. ‘Aren’t the Aatiri the bone charmers?’

The man grimaces, his expression so exaggerated that he belongs on a stage. ‘Where did you hear such lies?’

‘He heard such truths from me,’ I say, stepping forward.

Rudjek greets me in the way of the Aatiri, touching his forehead and flourishing a little bow. His cheeks flush and he’s grinning like a fool again. I can’t stop myself from blushing too. I try not to stare into his obsidian eyes or at his lips that look as soft as velvet, or his broad shoulders. Instead, I make the mistake of shifting my attention to the smooth brown skin visible between the slit in his elara. I catch a glimpse of the curve of his throat, his collarbone, and a pang of warmth spreads to my belly. So much for less conspicuous places.

‘She’s the expert on all things tribal.’ Rudjek nods at me, his deep voice rings in my ears.

‘Waiting for someone?’

‘You, of course,’ he utters under his breath.

‘And who are you …’ The charlatan cuts off mid-question when his eyes land on me.

He looks decades older and his hair is whiter since I last saw him at market, months before the blood moon. ‘Many blessings, young priestess.’ He bows, glancing to the ground. He must see my mother in my features. Most people do. The amber eyes, the high set of my cheekbones, the proud nose.

‘I meant no disrespect. May I offer a silver coin to the Temple to show my penance?’

I shift from heel to heel, looking everywhere but the charlatan’s face. He makes a show of digging in his pocket and his hand trembles so much that he almost drops the coin. Some of the other charlatans watch with curiosity. What do they expect me to do? I’m not my mother, nor will I ever be like her.