the woman, voice slurred.
‘I can get my father,’ I offer as I help her sit up.
Her brown skin is ashen and sweaty. ‘Don’t bother.’ She wipes dirt from her lips. ‘I only need to rest a spell.’
‘What are you doing out here?’ I ask, kneeling beside her.
‘I could ask the same, but I know the answer.’ A flicker of life returns to her vacant eyes. ‘There is only one reason a child does not take part in Imebyé.’
I glance away – she knows.
‘I don’t have magic either,’ she says, her words seething with bitterness. ‘Even so, it answers my call.’
I swallow hard to push back the chill creeping down my spine. ‘How?’
She smiles, revealing a mouth of rotten teeth. ‘Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay.’
Every year, the five tribes of Heka gather for the Blood Moon Festival, and I tell myself that this will be my year. The year that wipes the slate clean. The year that makes up for the waiting, the longing, the frustration. The year that magic lights on my skin, bestowing upon me the gift. When it happens, my failures will wash away and I’ll have magic of my own.
I’m sixteen, near grown by both Kingdom and tribal standards. My time is running out. No daughter or son of any tribe has come into their gifts beyond my age. If it doesn’t happen this year, it won’t happen at all.
I swallow hard and rub my sweaty palms against the grass as the djembe drums begin their slow and steady rhythm. With the tribes camped in the valley, there are some thirty thousand people here. We form rings around the sacred circle near the Temple of Heka, and the fire in the centre ebbs and flows to the beat. The drummers march around the edge of the circle, their steps in sync. The five tribes look as if they have nothing in common, but they move as one, to honour Heka, the god of their lands.
Magic clings to the air, so thick that it stings my skin. It dances in the night sky above endless rows of tents quilted in vibrant colours. My tunic sticks to my back from the heat of so many bodies in tight quarters. The sharp smell in the valley reminds me of the East Market on its busiest days. My feet tap a nervous beat while everyone else claps along with the music.
As Grandmother’s guests, Essnai, Sukar, and I sit on cushions in a place of honour close to the sacred circle. It isn’t because we’re special. We’re quite the opposite: ordinary and outsiders at that. Some people glare at us to make sure we don’t forget. I wish the looks didn’t bother me, but they only raise more doubts. They make me question if I belong here. If I deserve another chance after years of failing.
‘I suppose your gawking means the magic is coming,’ says Sukar, wrinkling his nose. The tattoos on his forearms and across his shaved head are glowing, so he knows as well as I that the magic is already here. ‘Either that, or you’re missing someone back home …’
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
