Page 1 of Tangled at the Root
1: TEN YEARS; A SINGLE HEARTBEAT
The cab crosses the invisible boundary of Ghenelo, and I think,fuck, maybe Ishouldn’t have come.
My heartbeat and breathing speed up as we go deeper into the village, through the scanty centre, and past a mix of mud huts and concrete bungalows. Ghenelo might literally be sun-kissed, but, unlike its name, there’s a barely perceptible darkness here, settled in the air like a thin veil of ash. The streets are practically empty, most of the villagers perched just on the edges of the open doorways to their homes, peeking out like the head of a tortoise that preferred the comfort and safety of its shell. A woman walking down the side of the road stops and tugs sharply on her child’s arm to pull them close, her stare oddly blank as she waits for the cab to pass them by.
I don’t look out the windows again.
I can’t stop thinking,what if—?My heart pounds like a deyé oerhwu’s drum, beating out a rhythm that sounds like a premonition.
Jesus Christ, I’m being ridiculous.
She hated it here,I remind myself.She’snothere, Rosemary.
She won’tbehere.
Stop fucking thinking about her.
I tap my darkened phone screen, and try to wrangle my mind into matching colourful candies.
We’re in the middle of the forest when I notice the cab is slowing down. I glance surreptitiously at the driver as the beat-up vehicle jerks to a stop, thinking through the quickest incantations for protection and disorientation.
“I’m sorry, ma, but I won’t be going any further than this.”
I blink, the sound of the spells stolen from my parted lips. “I don’t understand.”
Activating the charm on my glasses reveals nothing; the road ahead is practically identical to the part of it we’ve already travelled—inadequately paved tar cracked and overrun with carpets of dirt and grass. The bracketing trees, which seem to have been well taken care of once upon a time—at least enough to be welcoming—give the same air of wild abandonment as the deeper parts of the surrounding forest.
The driver shakes his head. At some point, the rosary that had been hanging from the rear view mirror made its way around his right hand, its cross hidden in his clenched fist.
“For say I had known this was where you were going, I wouldn’t have accepted your ride.” The switch to pidgin tells me how serious he is.
“But—”
“By the time I realised, we were already here. Please, ma. Abeg. I cannot—Iwillnot be going further than this.”
I glance out the windows again, one hand clutching my phone, the other the handles of the large handbag resting in my lap.
The sun is going to set soon. I know I should’ve left earlier, but I’d let my anxiety take over, as if arriving while the sun had been high—its blinding light banishing any and all shadows I could hide in—would’ve increased my chances of running intoher.
When Iknowshe’s not here. I’d only taken this case precisely for that reason.
My mouth opens, then closes. There’s no point asking what he knows. Small village; possibly ancient, possibly haunted house sitting alone in the middle of the forest. I got it.
I settle the payment and watch as the cab reverses down the single road, leaving me standing in the middle of it with my handbag, an old trunk, and a medium-sized duffel bag.
The forest is a little too quiet. There’s sound—skittering critters and chirping birds and the rustling of small animals; just enough noise not to raise the suspicion of the common folk. But the darkness I’d sensed in the heart of the village is here, too, lingering like a wraith in the spaces between the trees.
I murmur a quick incantation to activate the beads in my hair for protection, then I’m stuffing the duffel properly on top of my trunk, swinging the long strap of my handbag over my shoulder, and beginning to trudge my way down. Thank God I’d worn my crocs.
The house looks deserted. Grass has grown in the connections between the worn paving stones leading up to the gates, breaking and stealing their way through the cracks of some of the weaker slabs.
The fence—probably once painted white but is now a dull, washed cream with darkened spots of black and green algae—might as well be there for decoration for how badly it’s fallen apart. To the right, a single step could take me over the collapsed blocks, like a giant hammer had been taken to that section of thewall. To the left, a crumbling part of the fence sits at about hip-height.
Not that any of that matters, because the rusty, black iron gate is currently wide open.
Even from here, outside of the compound’s perimeter, I feel the pulse of an ancient and strangely familiar eshé—a vision of a great tree with deep, winding roots. Though fainter, possibly because I’m standing just out of reach, it’s the same feeling and image I get when I’m in the heart of the forest in Maraya, my hometown, where most of my ancestors are buried.
On the surface, it doesn’t seem particularly off or malicious, though not all cleansings are requested for polluted or poisoned eshé. Sometimes, it’s as simple as having a spirit who’s a little too friendly and the client just wants it to stop bothering them.
