Entwined

by Cheryl S. Ntumy

  It’s only when I’m halfway through my sandwich that I remember it’s Thursday. I think the curse has officially been broken.

  I’m standing near the bench at lunch, rifling through my wallet and trying to decide what I can buy with five bucks when Lebz suddenly starts smoothing down my still-straight hair. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a pot of lip gloss. “Quick!” she hisses.

  I open it, apply some gloss and stare at her, baffled. “Lebz, what in the world – ?”

  “Hello Lebz, Wiki.” It’s that sly voice again, accompanied by a faint smell of cigarette smoke.

  Oh, there goes my heart again. Wiki picks up his book, mumbles a greeting and heads to the library. They should really consider building him his own wing.

  I swallow hard, lick half the gloss off my lips and turn around slowly. “Hi.”

  “Connie.” Thuli’s lips stretch into a smile. Honestly, the boy is smiling way too much these days. His mouth must be in shock. “How are you?”

  “Good. You?”

  “Fantastic now that I’ve seen you.” Curiosity is coming off him in waves. He looks at each of my facial features in turn as if trying to figure out which part of the factory they were made in. I don’t understand why I’ve suddenly become so fascinating to him, but I’m not complaining. “Lebz, do you mind if I borrow her for a minute?” He’s talking to her but hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

  Lebz raises her eyebrows. “Oh. Sure. I need to talk to Kelly anyway.” She gets up reluctantly and takes her time walking away.

  I lower myself onto the bench. “Have a seat, Thuli.”

  Thuli drapes himself over the bench like a cashmere throw. “Your hair looks lovely like this.” He reaches up with long, thin fingers. “May I?”

  Yes, yes, please! “Sure.”

  He takes the ends of my hair and gently drags them between his forefinger and middle finger. “It’s so… soft.” He releases it and gazes at me in wonder.

  Is that a compliment? Do the KIA girls have soft hair, too? “Um, thanks.”

  “You’re quite pretty,” he says in surprise. “And you have such interesting eyes. Eyes that have seen a lot, I’m sure.”

  What the hell? I know I have limited experience of this sort of thing, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t the usual exchange between two flirting teenagers. He is flirting, isn’t he? Damn, I’m not even sure.

  “Thanks,” I say again. “What did you want to talk about?”

  He stretches one arm across the back of the bench and toys with my hair. “I think you’re a very interesting person, Connie. I like interesting people. I want to get to know you better.”

  “Why now?” I sound like Lebz, I realise in dismay.

  He smiles. “I was, you know, preoccupied for a while, so I wasn’t in a position to spend time with you. But that’s all over now.” He waves his hand dismissively. I wouldn’t want to be the girl described as a preoccupation, but her loss is my gain.

  “Sorry to hear that.” I wish my heart would stop hammering like that.

  “Break-ups are unpleasant,” he acknowledges with a nod. “But the old must make way for the new, don’t you think?”

  I nod eagerly. Would I be the new in this situation? Oh, I hope so.

  “Tell me about yourself.” He looks right into my eyes. He’s not just being polite – he really wants to know. “Everything. Background, family, hobbies.”

  I hate questions like this. I think I should have a pre-written bio that I can refer to for such situations. I push my hair behind my ear. “Well, I’m an only child, my dad teaches Science at UB, my mother died when I was five, my grandfather is… well, he’s sort of well-known.”

  “Lerumo Raditladi,” he says, as if he’s been waiting for the opportunity to mention him. “Renowned author, historian and expert on folklore and mythology. Interesting, interesting man.”

  “Yes, he is.” I smile, pleased that he made the connection. “We’re very close.”

  “Really?” His eyes light up and he leans closer. “How close? Does he talk to you about his work?”

  “Sometimes,” I reply cautiously. I’m not quite sure which work he’s referring to. So far he’s shown no sign that he knows anything about Ntatemogolo’s double life, and I’m not going to give anything away.

  He looks like he wants to cut me open and inspect my arteries. “What do you do for fun?”

  “I love movies.”

  “Movies.” He’s disappointed. “Do you read?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ah.” He’s happy again.

  I didn’t realise Thuli was so… strange. No, I shouldn’t be thinking such things. Three years! This is what I wanted. It’s just odd getting to know him after I had built up my own version of him in my head.

  “And you’re a loyal friend, aren’t you? I can tell. You’ve been friends with Wiki and Lebz for a long time.”

  “Almost all my life,” I tell him, nodding. “Like you and Mothusi and Simon.”

  He lets out a little laugh. He clearly doesn’t see his friends the way I see mine. “But you’re very picky about who you make friends with. I’ve noticed.”

  I raise my eyebrows, on the defensive immediately. “So are you.”

  He laughs again. “True,” he says without shame. “I only want to be around people who inspire me. Is it the same for you?”

  “Well, I’m a little less complicated. I want to be around people I like, who like me in return. Generally the people I like inspire me, but I think that’s true for everyone.”

  His eyes widen. “I’ve never thought of it like that. Hmm.” He starts playing with my hair again, but this time he traces his fingers along my hairline, making my pulse race. “Do you have a boyfriend, Connie?”

  “No,” I whisper breathlessly.

  His eyes narrow. He doesn’t believe me. What a joke! Too bad he can’t see into my head. “Be honest. It’s not nice to play with people’s feelings, you know.”

  “Trust me, I don’t have a boyfriend. Friends who are boys, yes. Boyfriend, no.”

  He smiles again. “Good. It would be a shame if someone got in the way of our relationship.”

  My eyes widen. Relationship? That was quick. Isn’t he supposed to ask me first?

  He notices my reaction and smiles. “I mean the relationship I hope we can have, in time. Once we get to know each other.” He traces his finger down the side of my face.

  I’m going to die. No one can possibly experience heart palpitations like this and survive. Good thing I’m sitting down, because I’m not sure I have the strength to stand.

  “Have a lovely weekend, Connie.” He lifts himself off the bench with the grace of a dancer and walks across the campus.

  Oh. My. God. He was wonderful in my fantasies, but he’s even more so in the flesh. Relationship? I slump back against the bench, exhaling loudly.

  “What happened?” demands Lebz, who is at my side almost as soon as Thuli is out of sight. “What did he say?”

  “He said he wants to have a relationship with me,” I tell her weakly.

  She shrieks. She radiates panic, then glee, then panic. Finally, because she knows it’s what a good friend should do, she flings her arms around me. I’m thrilled and stunned and weak with anticipation, but Lebz’s panic is contagious. Oh my God. Thuli thinks I’m interesting. Thuli is single and interested in me.

  “Breathe, Connie,” says Lebz, releasing me. “It’sOK. Be cool, just in case he’s watching.”

  I nod. Be cool. A voice is telling me I have no idea how to be cool, but I choose to ignore it. This is no time for negativity. Everything I have wanted for so long has just fallen into my lap. I have to be cool, because there is no way I’m going to screw this up.

  Chapter Nine

  My grandfather is expecting me, even though I didn’t call to tell him I was coming. I settle in one of the old armchairs in the living room.

  The room is sparsely furnished, with one huge, ancient table, an even older sof
a and three plastic chairs placed around the room in random positions. There’s no TV, no sound system. Instead the walls are occupied by maps of places he has visited, newspaper and magazine clippings and two bookshelves so heavily laden that the wood has started to bend beneath the weight. He has a laptop and a wireless radio, but he only uses them for work.

  Apart from books, Ntatemogolo doesn’t like stuff. He has a limited wardrobe, a beat-up old Toyota Venture and as few things in his house as he can get away with. There’s a small gas stove in the kitchen and a fridge that is often empty. He has one pot, one pan, two plates, two cups and two sets of cutlery. There’s no kettle.

  The kind of things he accumulates are the kind one doesn’t put on display.

  “Let’s go to the consultation room,” he says, leading the way.

  The consultation room is the first room on the left in the small, narrow corridor. The second door leads to his bedroom, and the door on the right leads to the bathroom and toilet. I follow him into the consultation room and sit cross-legged on the huge reed mat covering the floor. There’s no furniture in here. He has a chest in the corner where he keeps his tools, an unholy mixture of medical tools and paranormal paraphernalia. The windows are closed and the curtains are drawn.

  “I’ve been talking to some people,” he begins, sitting across from me. “They have heard of these girls you told me about. They have a reputation for dressing like older girls and loitering in malls.”

  I nod. “That’s them.”

  He shrugs. “No one I spoke to had noticed anything strange. What you’ve seen must be quite recent.”

  “I didn’t pay any attention to them before, either, and I’m sure I would have noticed.”

  “I think they might be under some kind of spell,” he muses. “Have you seen them doing anything strange?”

  “Not really. It’s the way they look that bothers me – that zombie face.”

  He reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. “Did you manage to get close to them? Did you find any of the signs I asked you about?”

  I tell him about Rose and what I’ve learned about the necklaces. “I’m sure that’s what the Puppetmaster is using.”

  Ntatemogolo raises his eyebrows, smiles and blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Puppetmaster?”

  “Yes…” I return his grin. “That’s what I’ve been calling the person controlling them. Someone is controlling them, right?”

  “Probably. The problem is finding this… Puppetmaster. I know most of the gifted in our community, and I am certain none of them are involved. If there is someone new at work… well, I’ll keep looking.” He looks at me. “And how are you? Has your telepathy begun to stabilise?”

  I explain about the fading and flickering. “I thought I was losing it for a while, but it’s fine now.” I give him a sly look. “Maybe now you can teach me how to plant thoughts.”

  He chuckles. “Always so impatient. You have only been a telepath for a few weeks, my dear. There’s something else I’d like to do with you.” He gets up and walks to the chest in the corner.

  Now my curiosity is aroused. I sit up a little straighter. He opens the chest. His back is turned to me, blocking my view of the contents. Unless he has something new, I can’t imagine what he’s going to show me. He turns around and returns to his spot on the mat. In his hands are several small objects, which I can’t really make out in the dim light. He puts the rest down and holds up one.

  “Take this.”

  I stare at him, then at the object. It’s a tiny bowl, a little bigger than a bottle cap. “I’m not allowed to touch your things.”

  He shakes the bowl at me. “I’m allowing you.”

  “But…” He has always said he needs to keep his tools free from interference. He doesn’t let anyone else touch them, and when he uses them to work with a client he always purifies them afterwards. How many times has he told me that my energy might pollute them?

  “Connie. Take it.”

  I reach out and take the bowl. Almost instantly I’m hit by a wave of nausea. The energy around the bowl is so murky and miserable that tears start pricking at my eyes. I drop it. “What is it?” I gasp in dismay. “I thought your tools were supposed to be clean!”

  I see a flash of white teeth in the semi-darkness. “I left these ones for you to practise with.”

  The nausea has passed, but I’m still feeling a little sad. “Ntatemogolo, whoever used that bowl is on the verge of suicide. Did you help him?”

  “Her. Yes, of course.” He picks up the bowl and sets it aside, then reaches for another object. “Try this one.”

  I hesitate, unwilling to take on someone else’s despair again. This time it’s a mangled, twisted root with a piece shaved off one side. I take hold of it. A sense of calm comes over me. “I like this one.”

  He laughs.

  “Why didn’t you let me do this before?” I turn the root over in my hands. “I’m sure I could have done it even before the telepathy.”

  “Maybe. But I didn’t want to overwhelm you. It was important to your father that you had a normal childhood.” He sighs.

  Dad wasn’t the only one who wanted me to have a normal childhood. Once I made the decision to hide my gift I avoided anything that even hinted at the mystical. Cemeteries and haunted houses were top of my list of forbidden places, and my mother’s is still the only funeral I’ve attended. It was only when Ntatemogolo came back that I developed an interest in that world. Even then, my focus was on the theory – what other people could do, what was possible. Until the telepathy.

  “Now you are maturing,” Ntatemogolo goes on, “and so are your gifts. It’s time for you to know the full extent of your abilities. I am not surprised that your sensitivity extends to objects. You might find that you can sense things from animals, too.”

  I like that. Conyza Bennett, cow whisperer.

  Ntatemogolo picks up another object. “Shall we try again?”

  I nod. I’m beginning to think it was silly of me to want so badly to be normal. Being a freak is much more interesting.

  I collapse onto Rose’s bench at quarter to seven on Monday morning. Ntatemogolo and I spent all weekend testing my skills. He was impressed with my development, and he isn’t easily impressed. The downside was that I got home exhausted, making Dad more suspicious than ever. He didn’t seem to buy my story that Ntatemogolo was teaching me about the ancient cultural practices of Sub-Saharan Africa.

  Rose arrives a few minutes later, bright and happy to see me. Like a puppy, I think to myself. A puppy bewitched by a necklace. She has an armful of papers with her.

  “You still have your straight hair,” she marvels. “I didn’t think it’d last.”

  “I’m washing it tomorrow,” I announce, reaching up to pat my sleek ponytail. “I miss my afro. What’s all that?” I point at the papers.

  “It’s for you.” She sits beside me and shows me the papers. “It’s information I got online about places that offer courses in drama and film.”

  I look at her in surprise. “Wow. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Apparently this university has a very good drama programme.” She flips through the pages and pulls one out, then glances up and gives me a shy smile. “I think you’d make a good actress. You’re really funny.”

  “Am I?” I shrug and lean over to look at the papers. “You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s important to make the right career choice, you know. You’ll be working almost every day for about half your life. You want to enjoy what you’re doing.”

  Hmm, good point. Still, I’m only in Form Four. I’d prefer to start worrying about this next year, maybe about a month before the deadline for university applications. As Rose flips through the pages, I notice something. “Why are so many of these institutions in the UK?”

  “They have good schools, and since your father’s from there you could stay with relatives.”

  I think of D
ad’s family and frown. I barely know his sister, an archaeologist who lives in Italy. My grandparents are conservative. I haven’t seen them for a couple of years, and although they’re fond of me, I get the feeling they would have preferred a less “sensitive” grandchild.

  “I don’t know about that,” I tell Rose. “But it was sweet of you to think of it.”

  She smiles and lowers her gaze. I’m still amazed that such a shy, sweet girl can walk around town dressed like some butt-shaking hip-hop video dancer, but I blame Channel O and the Puppetmaster.

  “OK, that’s enough school talk,” I declare, taking the papers from her. “What did you do this weekend?”

  “This weekend?” Her eyes widen and she turns away, fidgeting with the button on her shirt. “Oh… Nothing. You know. The usual.”

  I look at her, taking in her racing pulse, shaking fingers and the dark pictures in her head. Figures moving stealthily through the night, someone climbing into a big black Jeep with tinted windows, and Amantle’s face, blank with staring grey eyes. They did something Rose is ashamed of, something she’s afraid people will find out about. I try to keep my tone casual. “What’s the usual?”

  “Oh, you know.” I see the lies in her head before she voices them. “Studying. Watching TV. Nothing strange.”

  “I’m surprised Amantle didn’t drag you girls off to go shopping or something.”

  She’s more nervous than ever now. “We went to the movies on Friday.”

  “What did you watch?”

  Her eyes shift up, down, left, right. “It was, um, you know, that one with, um…”

  “Rose.” I take her hand. “Look at me.” Her eyes are wide with fear. “You don’t have to be scared. I know you’re in trouble. You know that I know, don’t you? That’s why it’s so easy for you to talk to me.”

  “You’ll think I’m crazy,” she whispers.

  I smile. “Trust me, I’m the last person who would think that. You can talk to me. You can tell me what you were doing in that black Jeep.”