Rena Barron - Kingdom of Souls

‘Wait,’ I call after her. ‘What’s happening?’

She doesn’t answer me. Instead she climbs up the Temple steps and disappears inside. Something heavy pulls against my legs when I try to follow her.

I glance down and my breath catches at the sight of my body lying beneath me. I’m standing with my feet sunk to the ankles in my own belly. I gasp and my physical body mimics me, chest rising sharply, eyes wide. Is everyone else’s ka awake too? I can’t see them. Can they see me? I try to move again, but the same strong pull keeps me rooted in place.

My ka holds on to my body with an iron grip—a chain around my ankles. I wonder how I can let go—and if I want to. According to my father, untethering one’s ka is a tricky business. Only the most talented witchdoctors can leave their bodies. Even they rarely do it, for fear of wandering too far and not finding their way back. The blood medicine alone couldn’t make this happen. Grandmother must have performed some magic when she pulled me into the sacred circle, so I’d have a better chance at being seen by Heka. That has to be it.

My body calls me back. The call is a gentle beckoning at first, then grows in intensity. My eyelids flutter and I fight to stay aware as bright ribbons of light set the night sky on fire. I fall to my knees, the pull growing stronger, the source of the light drawing closer. It’s both warm and cold, both beautiful and frightening, both serene and violent. It knows me and something inside me knows it. It’s the mother and father of magic. It’s Heka.

He’s going to bestow his grace upon me.

I can’t believe it’s happening after all these years. My body lets out a sigh of relief.

My mother would be proud if I showed a sliver of magic. Just a sliver. I shut my eyes against the intense light and let his power wash over my skin, his touch as gentle as brushstrokes. It tastes sweet on my tongue, and I laugh as it pulses through my ka .

Then the light disappears, and I’m left empty as the magic flees my body.

The morning after the opening ceremony, I’m in a foul mood as Oshhe and I deliver gifts to his countless cousins. He watches me like a hawk, but I don’t know why. I’m still the same magicless girl I was the night before. Nothing has changed. I want to believe that some magic rubbed off on me – that this year will be different.

My hands tremble and I keep them busy so he doesn’t notice. I have my tests with Grandmother at the hour of ösana . I can’t face her right now, not after entering the sacred circle. Not after feeling magic at my fingertips, feeling it in my blood, and then feeling it abandon me. That’s when the trembling started – as if the magic snatched away a piece of my ka when it left.

I catch the scent of cinnamon and clove and mint on the air and it reminds me of home. Every year my father brings me here so we can spend time with his family and I can get to know my mother’s tribe better. When older Mulani look at me, they see Arti: it’s only the rich brown of my skin that sets us apart. For my mother was not much older than I am now when she left her tribe for the Kingdom and never looked back. I can’t hide from my own reason for coming, the one fuelling my anticipation.

We only stay for half of the month-long celebration. Oshhe has his shop to run back in Tamar, and I have my studies with the scribes. A part of me is anxious to return home, where I’m not so much of an utter failure, especially after last night.

Our Aatiri cousins bombard Oshhe with questions about the Kingdom most of the morning. They ask if Tamarans are as ridiculous as they’ve heard. If the Almighty One is a bastard like his father before him. If Tamar smells of dead fish. If leaving his tribe for the lure of city life was worth the trouble.

While my father talks to old friends, I eavesdrop. I don’t understand everything they say in Aatiri, but I follow enough to stay abreast. They complain about the council that represents their interests with the Kingdom. They want more in return for the precious metals mined from the caves beneath their desert lands. Many times, friends have asked my father to help with trade negotiations, but he always refuses. He says that Arti is the politician in the family. To call my mother a politician is an understatement.

A witchdoctor asks after the health of the seer from Tribe Aatiri who serves in the Almighty Temple. He is very old and wants to return home. The tribe will meet in three days and Grandmother will ask for a volunteer to replace him. They say that only the very old will go because no one else wants to live in the Kingdom. Oshhe laughs with them, but his eyes are sad.

I thread my fingers together to keep them steady while my father hands out the last of the gifts. They’re still shaking from the ritual, but also because my great-aunt Zee has just asked me about Arti. When a simple shrug doesn’t deter her, I say, ‘She enjoys being Ka -Priestess of the Kingdom very much.’

With a nod and a laugh, Zee tells me that Arti could have married the Almighty One had she been clever enough. Joke or not, this is news to me, but it doesn’t come as a shock. My mother has done well for herself in Tamar. Having risen from nothing, she holds the third most powerful position in the Kingdom, behind the Vizier and the Almighty One himself. Not a day goes by that she lets anyone forget it.

‘If you were a princess,’ Zee says, ‘you wouldn’t need magic then.’

At her slight, I forget her comment about my mother.

You wouldn’t need magic then .

Everyone knows about my little problem. My younger cousins at least pretend they don’t, but some of the elders are blunt about it, their tongues sharp. Zee’s the sharpest of them all.

‘If I were a princess, Auntie,’ I say in a slippery sweet voice, ‘I wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing you every year. That would be such a shame.’

‘Speaking of shame,’ Zee says, fanning a worrisome fly away, ‘I can’t for the life of me understand why my sister would risk angering the other edam by bringing you into the sacred circle.’ She draws her lips into a hard line. ‘What did she say to you last night?’

Grandmother had said surprisingly little, but I won’t tell Zee so she can spread rumours.

‘I see you still like to gossip,’ Oshhe cuts in, fixing his stony eyes on his aunt. ‘A wonder your tongue hasn’t fallen out from talking too much.’

Several people cluck at Zee and she rolls her eyes.

Late afternoon, my father is asked to step in to mediate a dispute between two friends from his youth. He fusses about leaving me until I tell him that I’m going back to my tent to rest before my tests with Grandmother tonight. I’m supposed to meet up with Essnai and Sukar, but I decide to take a walk to clear my mind first. I’m still seething at my great-aunt and seething at Heka too.

In Tamar, hardly anyone has magic, and no one cares that I don’t either. But here magic plays on the wind like dust bunnies, teasing and tantalizing, forever out of reach. Most tribal people have some magic, even if it’s not as strong as Grandmother’s and the other witchdoctors’.

As I move through the patchwork of bright Aatiri tents, a cousin or an old friend of my father greets me at every turn. They ask about last night, but I want to be alone, so I leave camp, hoping for some peace. I weave through the white Mulani tents nearest the Temple of Heka. The Temple stands on the north edge of the valley, the golden dome shimmering against the white walls. A group of Mulani decorate it with flowers and bright fabrics and infuse the stone with magic. I walk by as a procession of women, each with a basket of water balanced on her head, march across the stone. The art is so detailed that you can see the water sloshing around in the baskets.