I’m breaking my promise to my father. For that I’m sorry. I don’t want to disappoint him, or endure the devastated look he gave me in the garden when he said that my magic may never come. Arti has always made me feel less for not possessing magic, even if she didn’t do it on purpose. All my life I’ve watched the way she never doubted or second-guessed herself. The way her steps ring with pure, unchallenged confidence. I’ve always wanted to be powerful and sure like her—to have even a fraction of her gifts. For my father, my not having magic has never mattered. I wish it didn’t matter to me either, but it’s too late to wallow in my feelings about it now. I haven’t the time.
I squat in front of a stack of wood and set a fire to make the blood medicine for the Mulani ritual. Once the herbs—bitter leaf, goat weed, and senna—start to boil there’s nothing to do but wait. As I stare at the flames, I try to reconcile Grandmother’s vision with Arti’s. Tam all but confirmed that the green-eyed serpent was a demon. Demons need souls, and children’s kas are the purest. Now there’s no doubt left in my mind that seeking out the green-eyed serpent will lead me to the child snatcher.
When the herbs are ready, I mix them with ginger and eeru pepper paste and put the medicine in a vial. It’s as thick as molasses and the smell is sharp enough to draw tears from my eyes. To seal the ritual, I must add blood infused with magic—magic that I’ll have if the bargain to trade my years works. I’m nervous—more so than before the tests with Grandmother at the Blood Moon Festival. What will it be like when magic answers my call? When it becomes a part of me? Tonight, if all goes well, I’ll know soon enough.
Something as simple as dyeing one’s hair blue needs a bit of blood. My father’s ritual to extend life needs much more. That is the true limitation of flesh magic. There’s only so much blood a person can give over a short period of time. I’ve mixed countless medicines before on my own and with my father. None of them worked, but the action itself has always given me a sense of peace. This time my blood medicine has to work.
I work for hours, through the entire afternoon and late into the night. The first morning bells toll as I finish stringing a bone necklace. It’s a charm for protection in case something goes wrong. As much as I’m willing to sacrifice, I want to come out of this ritual whole. It’s foolish to think that a simple charm will protect me, but the necklace offers me the smallest solace. And right now, I’ll take what little comfort I can get. Sweat drips down my forehead as I rush to tidy up Oshhe’s shop. He might not notice the missing items, but if he asks, I won’t hide the truth. Once he learns of what I’ve done, he’ll see that I had no choice.
The moon bathes the cobblestones outside the shop. All the merchants have closed for the night, and most of the West Market is quiet. Fire lamps light my way through the darkened streets. I avoid the drunkards looking for owahyats, and the ones who lock arms with each other in song. As I enter quieter neighborhoods with the moonlight as my guide, every sound makes my heart jump.
It would’ve been safer to take the busier route through the East Market, but the hour is fast approaching. By the time I reach the sacred Gaer tree on the north edge of the city, I’m drenched in sweat. The bald tree is darker than the night itself. No leaves grow on its branches and no grass around its roots.
The first Ka-Priest of the Kingdom was buried here. It’s said that his magic was so powerful that his ka took root and grew into a tree rather than ascend into death. Outside of the Temple, this is the most holy place in Tamar—and the most practical place to perform the ritual.
I settle into the cool embrace of soil as black and iridescent as obsidian glass. As the hour of ösana approaches, sparks of magic dance across the bruised sky. I wait for two gods to cross paths, wait for the world to wake and the magic to burrow into my veins. The moment languishes so long that my heartbeat fills my ears with a desperate plea.
This won’t be easy. I’m not a fool, but I am a foolish girl doing a foolish thing. Magic has costs, even for those who make it look as effortless as kneading fufu.
First, the trade.
Magic will either obey or refuse me. It rejected me when I was a little girl at Imebyé and has forsaken me in all my years practicing with Grandmother. Now I have something to offer it.
Before I lose my nerve, I slam my hand into the sacred tree, and thorns pierce my flesh with the ease of a tobachi knife. The pain is hot and sharp, and I bite back a cry. One of the thorns cuts clear through to the back of my hand. I inhale a deep breath as my pulse throbs in my ears. The blood gathers at my wrist and drops down to feed the roots of the tree. It isn’t so bad, I tell myself, but this is only the beginning. It’ll be much worse before it gets better. The scroll had been clear about that.
I whisper the words to offer my life as payment for a taste of magic, and then I wait. I’ve been patient all these years; I can hold out a little longer. But the magic is impatient for once. Black vines sprout from the tree like weeds in a garden. They writhe and lash out at me. When I try to snatch my hand back, they burrow under my skin. I scream as the vines stretch up my arm, leaving a trail of excruciating pain in their wake. A new crop shoots from the tree and straight into my open mouth, cutting off my scream. I can’t breathe. My first instinct is to pull the vines out, but I’ve lost control of my body. I can’t lift my free arm. Fire burns down my throat, and I can’t hold on much longer. Panic sets in. I want to call it off, but it’s too late.
I can do this. The words taunt me as vines crawl behind my eyes and tighten around my organs. No, I can’t. I’m going to die. It’s the last thing that crosses my mind before everything blinks out and there’s only darkness.
Then I’m gasping for air, my face half-buried in the dirt. My right hand almost gives out as I drag myself to sit up. It’s crusted in blood, and the wound is raw. It takes a moment to gather my wits, and I lean against a place on the tree without thorns. I’m afraid the vines will come back, but I’m too weak to move, let alone stand up. I wipe away a sting of tears that turn out to be blood. Did it work? I can’t tell. There’s plenty of magic in the night sky, but it doesn’t come to me.
My stomach clenches. I can’t have failed again. Not after going through so much.
The bone charm rattles around my neck, reminding me of my father’s warning. When you barter your years for magic, it takes of you what it will. It could be five years, or your whole life as payment. It does not matter the complexity of the ritual, spell, or charm. There’s no way to tell until it’s too late. I waste no time: after adding my blood, I drink the medicine to find the child snatcher. I gag on the foul taste and my pulse quickens. I should heed my father’s words and stop before it’s too late, but what then? I can’t turn my back and pretend that everything’s okay. Kofi needs me. I should’ve found a way to protect him when I saw the Familiars in the market.
“Heka, father and mother of magic, please let this work.” The words taste rusty and bitter on my tongue. I wait for a sign, and a bird squawks above my head in the bald tree. My jaw hurts from clenching my teeth. I choose my next words with care. “Help me save Kofi.”
The ground stirs around my legs. Bits of magic caught in the wind swirl in front of my face and mist collects at my feet, snaking across my legs. It’s warm, and it makes my legs grow limp. Sweat trickles down my forehead. I wipe it away. My heartbeat thunders like drums in my ears. It’s really working. A part of me didn’t believe that it would. Magic is answering my call. I’m scared and thrilled at once after all these years of trying and failing.