Rena Barron - Kingdom of Souls

A flush of warmth creeps up my neck. We both know who he means. I try to imagine Rudjek here, perched on a cushion in his fancy elara. He’d stand out worse than me and love every moment of it. The thought brings a smile to my face and eases my nerves a little.

Sukar, Essnai, and I made the journey from Tamar with the caravan, crossing the Barat Mountains at the western edge of the Almighty Kingdom to reach the tribal lands. Some two hundred people had come, but many more Tamarans of tribal blood hadn’t bothered. ‘We should’ve left you in the Kingdom too,’ I tell Sukar, casting him a scathing look. ‘Some of us are respectful enough to pay attention to the ceremony, so please stop distracting me.’

‘Well, if it’s a distraction you need …’ He winks at me.

‘Back me up, Essnai,’ I beg. ‘Tell him to pay attention.’

She sits cross-legged on the opposite side of Sukar, her face stony as always. My father brewed a blood medicine to colour her hair last night, and the shock of red looks good against her ebony skin. As usual, she’s caught eyes, although she never seems to notice. Instead Essnai looks like a lovesick puppy without her ama Kira at her side.

She shrugs, watching the drummers. ‘He won’t listen anyway.’

I sigh and turn back to the sacred circle. The moon has settled into a crimson hue, deeper red than only an hour before. In Tamar, we’re taught that the moon orisha, Koré, cries blood for her fallen brethren on this night. Five thousand years ago, she and her twin brother, Re’Mec, the sun orisha, led an army to end the Demon King’s insatiable thirst for souls. But the tribes believe the blood moon represents their connection to Heka. For it is only during this time that he returns to give his gift to future generations.

Even from this distance, the fire draws beads of sweat from my forehead. Or at least, I pretend it’s the fire that has me on edge. I wish I could be like Essnai and Sukar. They don’t care about not having magic, but it’s different for them. Neither of their parents have the gift. They don’t have to live up to the legacy of two prominent bloodlines.

When I think of the other reason I’m here – the tests – my belly twists in knots. The drums stop, the sound as sudden as the calm before a storm, and my muscles wind even tighter. The musicians stand almost as still as the statues in the scholars’ district in Tamar. Silence falls upon the crowd. The moment we’ve been waiting for has finally come, but it stretches a beat too long to spite me. In that space of time, the what-ifs run through my mind. What if it doesn’t happen? What if it does , but my magic isn’t strong like my parents’? What if I’m destined to become a charlatan peddling good luck charms?

Would that be so bad?

I draw my knees to my chest, remembering the woman at Imebyé writhing in the sand. Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay. Her words ring in my ears, the words of a charlatan, the words of someone desperate for magic. I push her out of my head. There’s still a chance for me – still time for Heka to give me his gift.

A hum rises from behind me and I crane my neck to see the witchdoctors weaving through the masses. They will perform the dance to start the month-long celebration. The blood moon casts them in eerie crimson shadows. Save for their voices, the entire valley quiets. No whispers, no children fooling around, only the whistle of wind and the rustle of feet in the grass. I want so badly to be in their ranks, to belong, to measure up to my family’s legacy. Instead, I’m stuck on the side watching – always watching.

For the ceremony, seven witchdoctors stand for each of the five tribes. Under their chieftains, the other six make up the edam , the tribal council. Although many of the tribal people have Heka’s grace – his magic – witchdoctors stand apart. The chieftains gifted them the title because they show a mastery of magic above others. Of all the tribal people, only a hundred or so have earned this prestigious appointment. They are the ones that the others revere and the ones I envy the most.

As the witchdoctors grow closer, their chants rattle in my bones. What would it be like to command magic with the ease of taking a breath? To reach into the air to collect it on one’s fingertips, or walk in the spirit world? To not only see magic, to tame it, to bend it, to be magical?

First come the Tribe Litho witchdoctors: four women and three men. Their tribe lies southwest of the Temple of Heka in the woodlands. White dust covers their bodies and vests of rawhide. Their intricate crowns, made of metal and bone and colourful beads, jangle in the breeze. The ground shifts beneath their feet, moving as gentle as ocean waves, gliding them to the sacred circle, which only the edam are allowed to enter.

As the procession draws closer, the djembe drummers start again, moving away from the circle to settle in an open spot on the grass. Their slow beat surges faster when the Litho chieftain enters the sacred circle.

Tribe Kes comes next – the smallest of the five tribes, whose lands border the valley to the northwest. Their diaphanous skin and near-colourless eyes remind me of the Northern people. Two are as white as alabaster and their bright clothes stand out in stark contrast. With each step they take, lightning cuts across the sky and sparks dance on their skin. They fan pouches of smoke that burns my nose. It smells of bloodroot, ginger, and eeru pepper: a cleansing remedy I’ve helped my father make in his shop at home.

The tribe from the mountains south of the Temple arrives next. The Zu witchdoctors leap above our heads, their feet supported by air. Tattoos cover their bodies and they wear crowns of antlers, some curved, some hooked, some large, some small. Some fashioned out of slick metal with edges sharp enough to sever a finger. With one misstep, an antler could fall upon the crowd, and it wouldn’t be pretty. I tuck my fingers between my knees just in case.

Sukar nudges me, a lopsided grin on his face. His family is Zu, and although he’s got at least two dozen tattoos, he doesn’t have nearly as many as the edam from his tribe. ‘As always, the most impressive of the five,’ he whispers.

I swat Sukar’s arm to shush him at the same time Essnai slaps the back of his head. He winces but knows better than to protest. It’s the Aatiri’s turn, which Essnai and I are anticipating the most. Even with her short-cropped hair, there’s no denying that her high cheekbones and wide-set eyes mark her as an Aatiri. We’d become friends after she’d found me in the desert at Imebyé with the charlatan.

Relief washes over me as Grandmother steps from the shadows, leading Tribe Aatiri. I hadn’t expected anyone else, but she’s the first familiar face among the edam . I sit up taller, trying to look like even a shadow of the great Aatiri chieftain.

The Aatiri do not walk or leap, for clouds of magic carry them. Grandmother’s silver locs coil on top of her head like a crown, and she wears a half-dozen necklaces of teeth. The Aatiri are tall and lean with prominent cheekbones and wiry hair braided like mine. Their skin is as beautiful as the hour of ösana .

My father is the last of them to enter the circle, and my heart soars. He’s tall and proud and magical, more so than any of the edam aside from Grandmother. He stands upon his cloud with his traditional staff in one hand and a knife carved of bone in the other.

He is an honorary Aatiri edam as he doesn’t live with his people, but they don’t deny that he’s one of the most powerful among them. I’m not foolish enough to think that if … when … my magic comes I’ll be as talented as he is. But seeing him fills me with pride.