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.
The Mulani come last. They live the closest to the Temple of Heka.
It was a Mulani woman Heka revealed his presence to when he first descended from the stars a thousand years ago. Now the Mulani chieftain serves as his voice. The position would belong to my mother had she not left and never looked back. When she was only fourteen, the tribe named her their next chieftain and emissary to Heka because she’d shown such remarkable powers.
I could never live up to that legend either, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to.
Unlike the witchdoctors of the other tribes, who vary in gender, Mulani witchdoctors are all women. I cover my eyes before the flashes of light that always come when they enter the sacred circle. Sukar curses under his breath because he’s too busy not paying attention to remember. From the groaning around me, he isn’t the only one. When their auras cool, the Mulani stand facing the crowd. They have broad shoulders, curvy bodies, and skin ranging from deep brown to alabaster. My amber eyes and some of my colour come from them, while my lean build favours the Aatiri.
‘I speak for Heka.’ The Mulani chieftain’s words echo in the valley, silencing all. ‘I speak for the mother and father of magic. I speak for the one who gave of himself when the orishas withheld magic from mortal kind. I speak for he who has no beginning and no end.’
The Mulani chieftain is my mother’s first cousin, and her voice rings with authority. Almost as much authority as my mother’s: Arti is soft-spoken, but she commands as much respect in the Almighty Kingdom as her cousin does in the tribal lands. I tell myself I don’t mind that she’s not here. It isn’t so different from how things are at home. There, she spends most of her time at the Almighty Temple, where she and the seers serve the orishas. When my mother left the tribal lands, she adopted the gods of the Kingdom too.
When I was younger, I begged my mother to spend more time with me, but she was so busy even then. Always busy or unavailable or unhappy – especially about my lack of magic. A pang of resentment settles in my chest. If I’m honest, a part of me still wishes things could be different between us.
‘For a thousand years Heka has come to us at the start of every blood moon,’ the Mulani chieftain says. ‘So it will be again. On this night we gather in worship so that he may show favour to our people. We shall share our kas with him so that he can look into our souls and judge us worthy.’
Anticipation quickens my heartbeat. Every year children from the very young to sixteen come into their powers after Heka’s visit. This year has to be my turn – before I’m too old and it’s too late. Magic will stop my cousins from looking at me like I don’t belong.
Magic will finally make my mother proud of me.
After the Mulani chieftain has delivered her speech, the dance begins. The witchdoctors move around the fire, all thirty-five of them, chanting in their native tongues. Their songs fit into an intricate pattern that’s at once odd and beautiful. The ceremony will go on for hours, and the drummers adjust their tempo to match the edam’s rhythm.
Farther back from the sacred circle, campfires crop up between the tents. The smells of brew and roasted meat fill the air. People pass wooden bowls through the crowd, and when one reaches me, I take a sniff that burns my nose. I recoil before I can stop myself.
‘You of all people should be used to a little blood medicine,’ says Sukar, his voice smug.
‘I’ll take the next pass,’ I say, shoving the bowl into his hands.
He laughs, then takes a dramatic gulp.
Someone thrusts another bowl into my hands, and I almost drop it when my gaze lands on Grandmother. She’s broken ranks and stepped out of the sacred circle. Now she towers above me, and my breath hitches in my throat. No edam has ever left the circle during the dance.
‘Drink, Little Priestess.’
Her voice carries on a secret wind, loud and clear despite the noise from the crowd, the curses, the dirty looks. It’s only a pet name when Oshhe calls me that, but there’s weight in Grandmother’s words. She looks down at me, hopeful and hesitant, as she studies my face.
I’m not a priestess. I’m only going to disappoint her.
Unable to refuse, I take a sip. Heat trails across my tongue and down my throat. It tastes herbal and metallic and rotten. I clench my stomach to keep from gagging. Grandmother nods, takes the bowl, and passes it to Sukar, who swallows
