who drew the tattoo.
I ring the bell again, and the fragmented thoughts in my head start to knit together. He’s not a tattoo artist; that much is clear. The first time I saw the tattoo the skin looked raised and a little swollen, but now I realise that wasn’t because of a needle. It was because of the influx of energy moving through Thuli’s body – energy his body isn’t used to. His tattoo was done with ordinary paint, and the only thing keeping it from washing off is the fact that the artist is gifted.
But who is he, and why would he give Thuli a tattoo infused with psychic energy? Money? It’s possible. Maybe the artist is poor and Thuli offered him a fortune. Or maybe Thuli bullied him into it. Either way, I have to track him down.
I ring the bell once more for luck, then put it away and return to bed. There’s a good chance Ntatemogolo knows this gifted artist; a lot of gifted come to him for counsel.
I curl up in bed and drift off, my mind clear and quiet. I dream of a forest with rich black soil that smells of living things. I’m barefoot, but it doesn’t bother me. Despite being a child of dust and thorn trees, I am at home in this wilderness.
It feels old, as old as time itself, and somewhere in the midst of all the chirping and bird calls I hear a soft voice like a fading echo. I follow it through the trees, pushing aside leaves large enough to serve as blankets.
There’s someone sitting at the bank of a small, narrow river. She turns to face me. Her eyes exude bright green energy. Everything about her stirs a vague sense of recognition deep inside me. Primal. Yes, that’s it. This dream, like the one of the figure lying in the field, feels primal.
I approach warily. “Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Connie.”
“You can’t be Connie. I’m Connie.”
“Yes, but I’m Connie Who Knows.”
I wake with a start and stare around my dark bedroom. I’m not alone. The feeling is so strong it propels me forward. I jump out of bed, almost tripping over my shoes, and stumble towards the desk. My heart thuds in my ears as my hand scrabbles for the desk lamp. Light floods the room and I whirl around, expecting to see the intruder. There’s no one there.
* * *
“Your dreams have become quite enigmatic,” Ntatemogolo remarks the next day.
“Is that important?”
He shrugs and takes a long pull on his cigarette. “It is interesting. Important? That is more difficult to say. Who do you think she is? This girl with the green eyes?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said she seemed familiar.”
“But she didn’t look like anyone I know.” I frown. “She looked like a random person, except for those eyes.” I wish I knew what that green light meant. “There’s something else, Ntatemogolo. The freak hunter I told you about. Thuli. Do you remember?”
“Of course.” His features settle into a frown. “Is he causing trouble again?”
I sigh. Thuli doesn’t cause trouble; he is trouble. “He’s working at the same place as me. He’s been bugging me, trying to be friends – but that’s not the problem. The problem is he has a magic tattoo.”
My grandfather blinks. “How is that possible?”
“It’s not a proper tattoo, but it’s painted on his arm. A snake. Yesterday when I was with him I had a premonition. There’s energy in the tattoo, and I think I saw the person who gave it to him.”
Ntatemogolo leans forward. “Tell me more about the premonition.”
I recount it in as much detail as I can. “The tattoo contains gifted energy that changes the way Thuli speaks,” I conclude.
“Changes it how?”
I shake my head. “I can’t explain it. I guess it makes his words more…I don’t know, persuasive? Charming? I can’t really tell. The other day he spoke to the receptionist and she changed her attitude completely. But when he talks to me he just sounds like Thuli.”
“Such a thing would not work on a gifted at your level,” he replies with a dismissive wave of one hand. “It is low-grade trickery, and you have the anklet.”
Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? My gift picked up the strange vibe Thuli was giving off, but the anklet kept me from being susceptible to the changes in his voice. “What do we do about this artist? Do you know any gifted artists?”
“Not yet. I will find him. There is something else we must discuss.” He puts out the cigarette. “You must have heard about the unexplained energy surge that has happened here and in nine other places, and we have discussed the changes in the gifted here – the slight increase in our abilities.”
I get a chill as I realise what he’s about to say. “The growing gifts are happening in other places, too, aren’t they? The same places as the energy surges! Talk about coincidence.”
I see a brief flash of teeth. “What have I told you about coincidences, my girl?”
“They’re something in the supernatural world manifesting in the physical world.” I look at him, willing him to give me an explanation.
He’s quiet for a moment. “I have tried to find out what is causing it, but there is nothing. Gifted in all ten places are investigating. All we can sense is a build-up of energy, but no gifted signature. If it is a ritual of some sort it is very well protected.”
“By a powerful, egomaniacal sorcerer?”
He looks at me sharply. “We must not assume.”
I sigh, frustrated but not surprised. Ntatemogolo always prefers to err on the side of caution.
“We should get back to work,” he murmurs.
My gaze drops to the book on the mat. I haven’t tried to open it since that first time. “Maybe I’ll have a breakthrough,” I remark, cracking my knuckles in preparation.
“I doubt it,” he says cheerfully. “But there’s no harm in trying. Are you ready?”
I take a deep, steadying breath. I focus all my attention on the book, letting my gift dance around it for a minute before trying to break through it. Like a human mind the book is surrounded by a barrier, only this barrier is artificial.
When I read the Puppetmaster’s magic box I could see the words of the spell that protected it. All I had to do was unravel them, like pulling stitches from a piece of fabric. This is different. Ntatemogolo has put up a barrier to conceal the words in the book, and then a barrier to conceal the concealment. So far all I’ve done is walk my gift round the barrier, searching for a weak point that doesn’t seem to exist.
“Take your time,” he tells me. “Focus.”
Focus. There must be a crack. There’s always a crack. I just have to keep looking.
Or you could break it open.
