left the sacred circle.
‘Have you been practising?’ Grandmother asks me with a toothy grin.
This is the real reason that I’ve been on edge all night. Each year at the Blood Moon Festival, Grandmother tests whether I have magic, and each year I fail.
‘Yes,’ I stutter as the medicine starts to take hold.
I don’t tell her that for all my practising, with Oshhe and alone, nothing has come of it.
‘Tomorrow we will talk more,’ Grandmother says.
Next to me Sukar falls on his face in the grass as the blood medicine takes him first. Essnai rolls him onto his side with her foot. A rush of warmth spreads through my body and my tongue loosens. ‘I still don’t have magic,’ I blurt out without meaning to, but I’m too drowsy to feel embarrassed.
Grandmother starts to say something else but stops herself. A pang flutters in my stomach. I can’t read her expression and wonder what the ancestors have shown her in my future. In all these years, she’s never told me. ‘Our greatest power lies not in our magic, but in our hearts, Little Priestess.’
She talks in riddles like all the tribal people. Sometimes I don’t mind the way she and Oshhe try to soothe over my worries about not having magic. Sometimes it’s infuriating. They don’t know what it’s like to feel you don’t belong, to feel you’re not worthy. To not measure up to a mother who all the Kingdom admires.
Before I can think of something to say, the blood medicine lulls me into a state of peace. The burning in my throat cools into a smothering heat, and my heartbeat throbs in my ears. Behind Grandmother, the other edam move at an incredible speed. Their faces blur and their bodies leave trails of mist that connect them to one another. Their chants intensify. Before long, most people lie in trances – Essnai, the elders, almost the entirety of the five tribes. The djembe drums fall silent, and the witchdoctors’ song echoes in the valley.
Grandmother grabs my hand and pulls me into the sacred circle. ‘Let Heka see you.’
This is wrong. I don’t belong in the sacred circle. Only the edam, and honoured witchdoctors like my father. Never someone like me – without magic, an outsider.
I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t remember whether I mean in the circle, or in the tribal lands. My mind is too foggy to think straight, but I’m warm inside as I join the dance.
Magic swirls in the air. It’s purple and pink and yellow and black and blue. It’s all colours, tangling and curling around itself. It brushes against my skin, and then I am two places at once, as if the bonds that tether my ka to my body have loosened. No. I’m all places. Is this what it’s like to have magic, to feel it, to wield it? Please, Heka, bless me with this gift.
One by one, the witchdoctors fall into a trance and drop to the ground too. There is no sound save for the crackling of the fires set around camp. The Mulani chieftain – my cousin – sweeps past me, her steps as silent as starlight. She’s the only other person still awake.
‘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
