Children of Blood and Bone (Legacy of Orisha), Page 2

  Mama Agba’s strength disappears like a candle blown out by the wind. She grabs on to a mannequin for support, the lethal warrior I know diminishing into a frail, old stranger.

  “Mama…”

  I move to help her, but she slaps my hand away. “Òd5!”

  Fool, she scolds me in Yoruba, the maji tongue outlawed after the Raid. I haven’t heard our language in so long, it takes me a few moments to remember what the word even means.

  “What in the gods’ names is wrong with you?”

  Once again, every eye in the ahéré is on me. Even little Bisi stares me down. But how can Mama Agba yell at me? How is this my fault when those crooked guards are the thieves?

  “I was trying to protect you.”

  “Protect me?” Mama Agba repeats. “You knew your lip wouldn’t change a damn thing. You could’ve gotten all of us killed!”

  I stumble, taken aback by the harshness of her words. I’ve never seen such disappointment in her eyes.

  “If I can’t fight them, why are we here?” My voice cracks, but I choke down my tears. “What’s the point of training if we can’t protect ourselves? Why do this if we can’t protect you?”

  “For gods’ sakes, think, Zélie. Think about someone other than yourself! Who would protect your father if you hurt those men? Who would keep Tzain safe when the guards come for blood?”

  I open my mouth to retort, but there’s nothing I can say. She’s right. Even if I took down a few guards, I couldn’t take on the whole army. Sooner or later they would find me.

  Sooner or later they would break the people I love.

  “Mama Agba?” Bisi’s voice shrinks, small like a mouse. She clings to Yemi’s draped pants as tears well in her eyes. “Why do they hate us?”

  A weariness settles on Mama’s frame. She opens her arms to Bisi. “They don’t hate you, my child. They hate what you were meant to become.”

  Bisi buries herself inside the fabric of Mama’s kaftan, muffling her sobs. As she cries, Mama Agba surveys the room, seeing all the tears the other girls hold back.

  “Zélie asked why we are here. It’s a valid question. We often talk of how you must fight, but we never talk about why.” Mama sets Bisi down and motions for Yemi to bring her a stool. “You girls have to remember that the world wasn’t always like this. There was a time when everyone was on the same side.”

  As Mama Agba settles herself onto the chair, the girls gather around, eager to listen. Each day, Mama’s lessons end with a tale or fable, a teaching from another time. Normally I would push myself to the front to savor each word. Today I stay on the outskirts, too ashamed to get close.

  Mama Agba rubs her hands together, slow and methodical. Despite everything that’s happened, a thin smile hangs on her lips, a smile only one tale can summon. Unable to resist, I step in closer, pushing past a few girls. This is our story. Our history.

  A truth the king tried to bury with our dead.

  “In the beginning, Orïsha was a land where the rare and sacred maji thrived. Each of the ten clans was gifted by the gods above and given a different power over the land. There were maji who could control water, others who commanded fire. There were maji with the power to read minds, maji who could even peer through time!”

  Though we’ve all heard this story at one point or another—from Mama Agba, from parents we no longer have—hearing it again doesn’t take the wonder away from its words. Our eyes light up as Mama Agba describes maji with the gift of healing and the ability to cause disease. We lean in when she speaks of maji who tamed the wild beasts of the land, of maji who wielded light and darkness in the palms of their hands.

  “Each maji was born with white hair, the sign of the gods’ touch. They used their gifts to care for the people of Orïsha and were revered throughout the nation. But not everyone was gifted by the gods.” Mama Agba gestures around the room. “Because of this, every time new maji were born, entire provinces rejoiced, celebrating at the first sight of their white coils. The chosen children couldn’t do magic before they turned thirteen, so until their powers manifested, they were called the ibawi, ‘the divine.’”

  Bisi lifts her chin and smiles, remembering the origin of our divîner title. Mama Agba reaches down and tugs on a strand of her white hair, a marker we’ve all been taught to hide.

  “The maji rose throughout Orïsha, becoming the first kings and queens. In that time everyone knew peace, but that peace didn’t last. Those in power began to abuse their magic, and as punishment, the gods stripped them of their gifts. When the magic leached from their blood, their white hair disappeared as a sign of their sin. Over generations, love of the maji turned into fear. Fear turned into hate. Hate transformed into violence, a desire to wipe the maji away.”

  The room dims in the echo of Mama Agba’s words. We all know what comes next; the night we never speak of, the night we will never be able to forget.

  “Until that night the maji were able to survive because they used their powers to defend themselves. But eleven years ago, magic disappeared. Only the gods know why.” Mama Agba shuts her eyes and releases a heavy sigh. “One day magic breathed. The next, it died.”

  Only the gods know why?

  Out of respect for Mama Agba, I bite back my words. She speaks the way all adults who lived through the Raid talk. Resigned, like the gods took magic to punish us, or they simply had a change of heart.

  Deep down, I know the truth. I knew it the moment I saw the maji of Ibadan in chains. The gods died with our magic.

  They’re never coming back.

  “On that fateful day, King Saran didn’t hesitate,” Mama Agba continues. “He used the maji’s moment of weakness to strike.”

  I close my eyes, fighting back the tears that want to fall. The chain they jerked around Mama’s neck. The blood dripping into the dirt.

  The silent memories of the Raid fill the reed hut, drenching the air with grief.

  All of us lost the maji members of our families that night.

  Mama Agba sighs and stands up, gathering the strength we all know. She looks over every girl in the room like a general inspecting her troops.

  “I teach the way of the staff to any girl who wants to learn, because in this world there will always be men who wish you harm. But I started this training for the divîners, for all the children of the fallen maji. Though your ability to become maji has disappeared, the hatred and violence toward you remains. That is why we are here. That is why we train.”

  With a sharp flick, Mama removes her own compacted staff and smacks it against the floor. “Your opponents carry swords. Why do I train you in the art of the staff?”

  Our voices echo the mantra Mama Agba has made us repeat time and time again. “It avoids rather than hurts, it hurts rather than maims, it maims rather than kills—the staff does not destroy.”

  “I teach you to be warriors in the garden so you will never be gardeners in the war. I give you the strength to fight, but you all must learn the strength of restraint.” Mama turns to me, shoulders pinned back. “You must protect those who can’t defend themselves. That is the way of the staff.”

  The girls nod, but all I can do is stare at the floor. Once again, I’ve almost ruined everything. Once again, I’ve let people down.

  “Alright,” Mama Agba sighs. “That’s enough for today. Gather your things. We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

  The girls file out of the hut, grateful to escape. I try to do the same, but Mama Agba’s wrinkled hand grips my shoulder.

  “Mama—”

  “Silence,” she orders. The last of the girls give me sympathetic looks. They rub their behinds, probably calculating how many lashes my own is about to get.

  Twenty for ignoring the exercise … fifty for speaking out of turn … a hundred for almost getting us killed …

  No. A hundred would be far too generous.

  I stifle a sigh and brace myself for the sting. It’ll be quick, I coach myself. It’ll be over before it�
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  “Sit, Zélie.”

  Mama Agba hands me a cup of tea and pours one for herself. The sweet scent wafts into my nose as the cup’s warmth heats my hands.

  I scrunch my eyebrows. “Did you poison this?”

  The corners of Mama Agba’s lips twitch, but she hides her amusement behind a stern face. I hide my own with a sip of the tea, savoring the splash of honey on my tongue. I turn the cup in my hands and finger the lavender beads embedded in its rim. Mama had a cup like this—its beads were silver, decorated in honor of Oya, the Goddess of Life and Death.

  For a moment the memory distracts me from Mama Agba’s disappointment, but as the tea’s flavor fades, the sour taste of guilt seeps back in. She shouldn’t have to go through this. Not for a divîner like me.

  “I’m sorry.” I pick at the beads along the cup to avoid looking up. “I know … I know I don’t make things easy for you.”

  Like Yemi, Mama Agba is a kosidán, an Orïshan who doesn’t have the potential to do magic. Before the Raid we believed the gods chose who was born a divîner and who wasn’t, but now that magic’s gone, I don’t understand why the distinction matters.

  Free of the white hair of divîners, Mama Agba could blend in with the other Orïshans, avoid the guards’ torture. If she didn’t associate with us, the guards might not bother her at all.

  Part of me wishes she would abandon us, spare herself the pain. With her tailoring skills, she could probably become a merchant, get her fair share of coin instead of having them all ripped away.

  “You’re starting to look more like her, did you know that?” Mama Agba takes a small sip of her tea and smiles. “The resemblance is frightening when you yell. You inherited her rage.”

  My mouth falls open; Mama Agba doesn’t like to talk of those we’ve lost.

  Few of us do.

  I hide my surprise with another taste of tea and nod. “I know.”

  I don’t remember when it happened, but the shift in Baba was undeniable. He stopped meeting my eyes, unable to look at me without seeing the face of his murdered wife.

  “That’s good.” Mama Agba’s smile falters into a frown. “You were just a child during the Raid. I worried you’d forget.”

  “I couldn’t if I tried.” Not when Mama had a face like the sun.

  It’s that face I try to remember.

  Not the corpse with blood trickling down her neck.

  “I know you fight for her.” Mama Agba runs her hand through my white hair. “But the king is ruthless, Zélie. He would sooner have the entire kingdom slaughtered than tolerate divîner dissent. When your opponent has no honor, you must fight in different ways, smarter ways.”

  “Does one of those ways include smacking those bastards with my staff?”

  Mama Agba chuckles, skin crinkling around her mahogany eyes. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. Promise you’ll choose the right moment to fight.”

  I grab Mama Agba’s hands and bow my head, diving deep to show my respect. “I promise, Mama. I won’t let you down again.”

  “Good, because I have something and I don’t want to regret showing it to you.”

  Mama Agba reaches into her kaftan and pulls out a sleek black rod. She gives it a sharp flick. I jump back as the rod expands into a gleaming metal staff.

  “Oh my gods,” I breathe out, fighting the urge to clutch the masterpiece. Ancient symbols coat every meter of the black metal, each carving reminiscent of a lesson Mama Agba once taught. Like a bee to honey, my eyes find the akofena first, the crossed blades, the swords of war. Strength cannot always roar, she said that day. Valor does not always shine. My eyes drift to the akoma beside the swords next, the heart of patience and tolerance. On that day … I’m almost positive I got a beating that day.

  Each symbol takes me back to another lesson, another story, another wisdom. I look at Mama, waiting. Is this a gift or what she’ll use to beat me?

  “Here.” She places the smooth metal in my hand. Immediately, I sense its power. Iron-lined … weighted to crack skulls.

  “Is this really happening?”

  Mama nods. “You fought like a warrior today. You deserve to graduate.”

  I rise to twirl the staff and marvel at its strength. The metal cuts through the air like a knife, more lethal than any oak staff I’ve ever carved.

  “Do you remember what I told you when we first started training?”

  I nod and mimic Mama Agba’s tired voice. “‘If you’re going to pick fights with the guards, you better learn how to win.’”

  Though she slaps me over the head, her hearty laughter echoes against the reed walls. I hand her the staff and she rams it into the ground; the weapon collapses back into a metal rod.

  “You know how to win,” she says. “Just make sure you know when to fight.”

  Pride and honor and pain swirl in my chest when Mama Agba places the staff back into my palm. Not trusting myself to speak, I wrap my hands around her waist and inhale the familiar smell of freshly washed fabric and sweet tea.

  Though Mama Agba stiffens at first, she holds me tight, squeezing away the pain. She pulls back to say more, but stops as the sheets of the ahéré open again.

  I grab the metal rod, prepared to flick until I recognize my older brother, Tzain, standing in the entrance. The reed hut instantly shrinks in his massive presence, all muscle and strain. Tendons bulge against his dark skin. Sweat rains from his black hair down his forehead. His eyes catch mine and a sharp pressure clamps my heart.

  “It’s Baba.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ZÉLIE

  THE LAST WORDS I ever wanted to hear.

  It’s Baba means it’s over.

  It’s Baba means he’s hurt, or worse—

  No. I stop my thoughts as we sprint across the wooden planks of the merchant quarter. He’s okay, I promise myself. Whatever it is, he’s going to live.

  Ilorin rises with the sun, bringing our ocean village to life. Waves crash against the wooden pillars that keep our settlement afloat, coating our feet with mist. Like a spider caught in the web of the sea, our village sits on eight legs of lumber all connected in the center. It’s that center we run to now. That center that brings us closer to Baba.

  “Watch it,” a kosidán woman yells as I sprint past, almost knocking a basket of plantain off her black hair. Maybe if she realized my world is falling apart, she’d find the heart to forgive.

  “What happened?” I pant.

  “I don’t know,” Tzain rushes out. “Ndulu came to agbön practice. Said Baba was in trouble. I was headed home, but Yemi told me you had a problem with the guards?”

  Oh gods, what if it’s the one from Mama Agba’s hut? Fear creeps into my consciousness as we zip through the tradeswomen and craftsmen crowding the wooden walkway. The guard who attacked me could’ve gone after Baba. And soon he’ll go after—

  “Zélie!” Tzain shouts with an edge that indicates this isn’t his first attempt to grab my attention. “Why’d you leave him? It was your turn to stay!”

  “Today was the graduation match! If I missed it—”

  “Dammit, Zél!” Tzain’s roar makes the other villagers turn. “Are you serious? You left Baba for your stupid stick?”

  “It’s not a stick, it’s a weapon,” I shoot back. “And I didn’t abandon him. Baba overslept. He needed to rest. And I’ve stayed every day this week—”

  “Because I stayed every day last week!” Tzain leaps over a crawling child, muscles rippling when he lands. A kosidán girl smiles as he runs past, hoping a flirtatious wave will break his stride. Even now, villagers gravitate to Tzain like magnets finding their way home. I have no need to push others out of my way—one look at my white hair, and people avoid me like I’m an infectious plague.

  “The Orïshan Games are only two moons away,” Tzain continues. “You know what winning that kind of coin could do for us? When I practice, you have to stay with Baba. What part of that’s so hard to understand? Dammit.”

 
Tzain skids to a stop before the floating market in the center of Ilorin. Surrounded by a rectangular walkway, the stretch of open sea swells with villagers haggling inside their round coconut boats. Before the daily trades begin, we can run across the night bridge to our home in the fishermen’s sector. But the market’s opened early and the bridge is nowhere to be seen. We’ll have to go the long way.

  Ever the athlete, Tzain takes off, sprinting down the walkway surrounding the market to make it back to Baba. I begin to follow him but pause when I see the coconut boats.

  Merchants and fishermen barter, trading fresh fruit for the best of that day’s catch. When times are good, the trades are kind—everyone accepts a little less to give others a little more. But today everyone bickers, demanding bronze and silver over promises and fish.

  The taxes …

  The wretched face of the guard fills my mind as the ghost of his grip burns my thigh. The memory of his glare propels me. I leap into the first boat.

  “Zélie, watch out!” Kana cries, cradling her precious fruit. Our village gardener adjusts her headwrap and scowls as I hop onto a wooden barge teeming with blue moonfish.

  “Sorry!”

  I yell apology after apology, leaping from boat to boat like a red-nosed frogger. As soon as I land on the deck of the fishermen’s sector, I’m off, relishing the sensation of my feet pounding against the wooden planks. Though Tzain trails behind me, I keep going. I need to reach Baba first. If it’s bad, Tzain’ll need a warning.

  If Baba’s dead …

  The thought turns my legs to lead. He can’t be dead. It’s half past dawn; we need to load our boat and sail out to sea. By the time we lay out our nets, the prime catch will have passed. Who’ll scold me for that if Baba’s gone?

  I picture the way he was before I left, passed out in the emptiness of our ahéré. Even asleep, he looked worn, like the longest slumber couldn’t grant him rest. I had hoped he wouldn’t wake until I returned, but I should’ve known better. In stillness, he has to deal with his pain, his regrets.

  And me …

  Me and my stupid mistakes.