if the magic never comes,’ my father says, ‘you’ll still be my Little Priestess.’
I poke my tongue out at the girl. That’ll teach her not to be so mean.
Another girl asks why my mother isn’t here. ‘She has more important things to do,’ I answer, remembering how my father had begged her to come.
‘Why the sad face?’ my father asks, squeezing my cheeks. ‘Imebyé is a time of celebration. Tonight, you begin the long journey into adulthood.’
The djembe drums stop. I bite my lip, and the other girls startle. It’s time to go stand in front of the whole tribe so the chieftain can bless us. But for once, my legs still as the other girls hurry from the tent with their mothers.
‘I want to go home, Father,’ I whisper as the last girl leaves.
Some of the light fades from his eyes. ‘We’ll go home soon, okay?’
‘I want to go home now,’ I say, a little stronger.
He frowns. ‘Don’t you want to take part in Imebyé?’
I shake my head hard enough to make my bone charms rattle.
My father comes to his feet. ‘How about we just watch the ceremony together?’
The chieftain walks into the tent and I tuck myself against my father’s side. Her silver kaftan sweeps about her ankles and stands out against her midnight skin. Salt-and-pepper locs coil on top of her head. ‘Do my son and granddaughter plan to take part in a ceremony they travelled fourteen days to attend?’ she asks, her deep voice ringing in the tent.
My father wraps his arm around my shoulders. ‘Not this year.’
The chieftain nods as if satisfied. ‘May I speak to my granddaughter alone, Oshhe?’
My father exchanges a look with her that I don’t understand. ‘If it’s okay with Arrah.’
I swallow. ‘Okay.’
He squeezes my shoulder before leaving the tent. ‘I’ll save you a spot up front.’
The chieftain flashes me a gap-toothed grin as she squats on the floor. ‘Sit with me.’
The tent flap rustles in my father’s wake. My legs ache to follow, but the sight of the great Aatiri chieftain sitting on the floor roots me in place. I sit across from her as she raises one palm to the ceiling. Sparks of yellow and purple and pink magic drift to her hand.
‘How do you make the magic come to you, Great Chieftain?’
Her eyes go wide. ‘I’m your grandmother before all. Address me as such.’
I bite my lip. ‘How, Grandmother?’
‘Some people can pull magic from the fabric of the world.’ Grandmother watches the colours dancing on her fingertips. ‘Some can coax magic to come with rituals and spells. Many can’t call magic at all. It’s a gift from Heka to the people of the five tribes—a gift of himself—but it’s different for everyone.’
She offers me the magic, and I lean in closer. I hope this time it will come to me, but it disappears upon touching my hand. ‘I can see it,’ I say, my shoulders dropping, ‘but it doesn’t answer me.’
‘That is rare indeed,’ she says. ‘Not unheard of, but rare.’
The feather strokes of Grandmother’s magic press against my forehead. It itches, and I shove my hands between my knees to keep from scratching. ‘It seems you have an even rarer gift.’ Her eyebrows knit together as if she’s stumbled upon a puzzle. ‘I’ve never seen a mind I couldn’t touch.’
She’s only trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t mean anything if I can’t call magic like real witchdoctors – like my parents, like her.
Grandmother reaches into her pocket and removes a handful of bones. ‘These belonged to my ancestors. I use them to draw more magic to me – more than I could ever catch on my fingertips. When I focus on what I want to see, they show me. Can you try?’
She drops the bones into my hand. They’re small and shiny in the light of the burning jars of oils set on stools beneath the canopy. ‘Close your eyes,’ Grandmother says. ‘Let the bones speak to you.’
Cold crawls up my arm and my heart pounds. Outside, the djembe drums start again, beating a slow, steady rhythm that snatches my breath away. The truth is written on Grandmother’s face, a truth I already know. The bones don’t speak.
Charlatan.
The word echoes in my mind. It’s the name my mother calls the street pedlars in the market, the ones who sell worthless good luck charms because their magic is weak. What if she thinks I’m a charlatan too?
My fingers ache from squeezing the bones so hard, and Grandmother whispers, ‘Let go.’
The bones fly from my hand and scatter on the floor between us. They land every which way, some close to others and some far apart. My eyes burn as I stare at them, straining to hear the ancestors’ message over the djembe drums.
‘Do you see or hear anything?’ Grandmother asks.
I blink and tears prick my eyes. ‘No.’
Grandmother smiles, collecting the bones. ‘Not everyone’s magic shows so early. For some, the magic doesn’t abide until they’re nearly grown. But when it comes so late, it’s very strong. Perhaps you will be a powerful witchdoctor one day.’
My hands tremble as the Aatiri girl’s words come back to me: Maybe never.
‘Come, child, the celebration awaits,’ Grandmother says, climbing to her feet.
Tears slip down my cheeks as I run out of the tent without waiting for Grandmother. I don’t want to be a powerful witchdoctor one day – I want magic to come now. The heat of the desert night hits me, and my bare feet slap against the hard clay. Sparks of magic drift from the sky into the other children’s outstretched arms, but some of it flits away. I dart through the crowd and follow the wayward magic, determined to catch some of my own.
It weaves through the mud-brick huts like a winged serpent, always staying two beats ahead of me. Beyond the tents, the drums become a distant murmur. I stop when the magic disappears. It’s darker here, colder, and the scent of blood medicine burns my nose. Someone’s performed a ritual in the shadows. I should turn back, run away. The wind howls a warning, but I move a little closer. Fingers like crooked tree roots latch on to my ankle.
I yank my leg back, and the hand falls away. My heart beats louder than the djembe drums as I remember all the scary stories about demons. During a lesson, a scribe once warned: Don’t get caught in the shadows, for a demon waits to steal your soul. The younger the soul, the sweeter the feast. A shiver cuts down my arms at the thought, but I remind myself that those are only tales to scare children. I’m too old to believe them.
It isn’t until the outline of a woman comes into focus that I breathe again. Magic lights on her skin, and she writhes and thrashes against the sand. Her mouth twists into an ugly scream. I don’t know what
