‘You’re learning to hack into other people’s dreams from a funk band?’ he asks.
‘Er, yeah,’ I say. ‘Don’t ask how that happened.’
‘This is awesome, man.’ He stands up. ‘Think what we could do in here. IN OUR MINDS! This is like the best thing that’s ever happened.’ He grabs my shoulders. ‘Teach me how to do it, Bax. I’m gonna go into Anwar’s brain and fuck shit up.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I mean, I don’t really know how. This is the first time I’ve done it.’
Kyle frowns. ‘You’re not holding out on me, are you, Bax? I mean, this is like gold and you won’t teach me? That’s bullshit.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Of course not, man. I’m just trying to get a handle on it first so I can teach you better.’
He looks at me suspiciously. ‘You’ve talked to the honchos at Hexpoort, though, right? About getting me in?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ I lie. ‘They say they’ll get back to me.’
That’s the second time I’ve lied to Kyle. The guilt rises in me like grey water. Unfortunately, because I’m in a dream, that means it rises in here too. Grey bilge water begins rushing into the cage, and Kyle and I are instantly up to our necks in it. Worse, there are things swimming in it, black shapes that writhe and twist. Something bites my left arm and I jerk it back. Blood stains the water.
‘You’ve got to control it,’ Tyrone says, paddling up next to me. ‘Think of something else. QUICKLY! THINK OF SOMETHING ELSE.’ His head goes beneath the water and I reach out for another memory. Something. Anything.
Ronin is crouched against an old gnarled oak tree, shivering. ‘Can’t get away from it. Even in my dreams,’ he says.
‘Get away from what?’ I ask. ‘Ronin, are you OK?’
‘Alcohol,’ he says, pointing a shaking hand.
There’s a low growling sound as a wolf steps out from a forest that I didn’t even know was there. Its eyes are red and its coat is sodden. It smells of pure alcohol. It growls again and whisky pours from its mouth in a torrent that pools around our feet.
‘Get away,’ Ronin whimpers, looking down at the whisky. ‘Get away from me.’
‘What do we do?’ I ask as the wolf edges closer, its jaws shuddering and snapping like those old plastic wind-up teeth toys.
Ronin sighs, draws himself up and pushes me out the way. ‘We do nothing, sparky,’ he says. ‘I’ve got to beat this myself.’ He turns and stumbles off into the dark forest, his trench coat flapping and the wolf loping after him.
‘Right,’ says Tyrone, putting a hand on my shoulder as he shakes grey water out of his afro. ‘I think that’s enough learning for today.’
‘Definitely enough learning,’ Junebug says, drying her hands. ‘We’ll try again, don’t you worry. You’ll get it.’ She reaches across and touches me on the forehead. ‘See you soon, honey.’
I wake up feeling like I’ve been mauled in my sleep. My Broken Teeth room-mates are sitting around eating breakfast, playing video games and smoking joints. Nom hands me a bowl of porridge and sits on the end of my mattress. ‘Thought I’d let you sleep in a little,’ he says. Even his usual hyperactive self has been muted by the brutal Hexpoort curriculum.
‘Thanks,’ I say, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. ‘I had the weirdest dreams.’
‘Nightmares more like. Looks like you scratched yourself.’ He nods to my left arm.
I look down and see a dark red wound. ‘Yeah. Must have scratched myself.’
‘I’ll get you a bandage,’ he says, standing up. ‘The Boer says he’s got something special planned for us today. Better make sure you’re fighting fit.’
I groan and put my head back against the cold stone.
I follow Nom, Faith and Chastity and Stevo through the Hexpoort courtyard to the east end of the perimeter fence. ‘Wait,’ I say, stopping. ‘I thought our tattoos would burn us if we went further than this.’
‘Are you scared, newbie?’ Chastity says, flicking her dark hair out of her face. She looks at me with those kohl-lined eyes and I draw myself up manfully.
‘The perimeter is extended here,’ Faith tells me. ‘We can go all the way up to the back of the canyon without getting tatburns.’
Tatburns. The painful experience that apparently happens when you step outside the Hexpoort boundaries without permission. Something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. Something I’ve been thinking about testing.
‘There’s a dam at the top of the canyon, newbie,’ Chastity says. ‘We sometimes go skinny-dipping there.’
I feel myself blushing. Goddammit, Baxter, you promised you would be nice. You never promised you’d be a socially awkward nerd.
‘Yeah,’ I say, nonchalantly. ‘Sure.’
‘We need to get to the Boer’s lesson.’ Nom is bouncing up and down on his heels. ‘Or you know what happens.’
That thought has all of us jogging quickly up the canyon.
‘Those are new,’ Stevo says, pointing to a set of steel cages that line the canyon walls. They’re covered with a huge black tarpaulin that doesn’t keep the stench from escaping. It’s a thick, animal stench, part wet dog, part rotting meat.
Faith holds her nose. ‘What is that?’
‘No worse than that perfume you insist on spraying on us, princess,’ Chastity says, folding her arms. We have reached the edge of the group of kids gathered around the Boer.
‘Ja, mah sunshines.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘We’ve got a kief surprise for you today. Newly imported to Hexpoort in order to teach you little naaiers some discipline and respect.’ He pulls the tarpaulin from the cages. ‘Say hello to your Draken.’
The things in the cages are like long pink mammalian snakes with short muscular legs. They shudder as they walk, like giant rolls of polony left on the bass bin of a speaker. Their eyes are slits and they have dragon-like snouts with long whiskers that hang down their faces. One of them stops in front of the group of students and hisses, its face filled with nothing but hatred for humanity.
‘Draken,’ the Boer says with a satisfied smile. ‘We got these from a gang we bust. They used them to dispose of bodies.’
‘Oh Christ,’ Stevo says. ‘He’s not going to make us—’
‘You will be assigned a Draken and you will fokken look after it like your own mamma,’ the Boer says, clapping his hands together. ‘So, mah sunshines. Are you ready to meet your new BFF?’
We gingerly follow him to the cages. As we’re stepping inside, I grab the edge of his khaki shirt. He spins around ready to drive the edge of his palm into my throat. I put my hands up and flinch.
‘What?’ the Boer says.
‘It’s just, I’m not really an animal person,’ I say. ‘The worst thing is when people post pictures of their cats online, am I right?’ He looks at me with his dark, unblinking eyes. ‘I mean, some people are able to find solace in the company of animals, while others are happy to enjoy their higher intelligence functions without lowering themselves to the babbling, infantile, sentimental idiocy of animal ownership.’
‘I’ve got just the one for you,’ the Boer says with a smile, and propels me into the cage towards an old Draken that is lying curled up and glowering in the corner. One eye has been gouged out, clearly the result of a fight. Its tongue lolls out of its mouth and its remaining pink piggy eye glares at me with pure, naked hatred. ‘Baxter, meet Gigli. You and him make the perfect fokken couple.’ He hands me a leash and an electric cattle prod. ‘The Draken pack works according to power. If you don’t show them who the alpha is, they’ll rip your head from your body.’ He turns around to help some of the other kids get acquainted. ‘Have fokken fun,’ he calls over his shoulder.
I look at Gigli. The scarred old bastard hates me already. That much is plain.
‘Make your Draken trust you, sunshines,’ the Boer shouts. ‘Talk to them, let them hear your voice.’
I clear my throat and Gigli begins to hiss.
‘Baxter, I don’t hear you talking,’ th
e Boer says.
‘Um, hi,’ I begin.
Gigli hisses again, a terrifying guttural sound that makes my nervous system tingle.
‘What am I supposed to say?’ I shout to the Boer.
‘Anything. Speak from the fokken heart.’
I hold the leash in one hand and the cattle prod in the other and consider my options. Gigli looks at me, his single eye narrowed and his double row of teeth bared.
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I don’t like this any more than you do. We don’t have to be BFFs, but maybe we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement?’
Gigli gets up and walks towards me.
‘That’s it,’ I tell him.
He stands in front of me and sniffs at my jeans.
‘Good boy,’ I say.
He wraps his tail around my legs and drags me to the ground with ease. Then he stands over me, his face close to mine, his terrible monster breath in my nostrils.
‘You two seem to be getting along fokken well,’ the Boer says with an unpleasant chuckle. ‘Don’t worry. They don’t really seem to like the taste of humans. Our ultimate goal is to have you and your Draken work as a fighting machine, two minds functioning as one to bring destruction to your enemies.’
I look up at Gigli’s face breathing down on me. Somehow I don’t think this is a mutual partnership.
I stay that way for the rest of the class. Everybody else gradually develops a bond with their Draken. Gigli remains steadfast in his withering, virulent hatred of everything that I am.
Nom, of course, has no problems. With his animal communication ability he chitters and growls his way through a quick conversation, and suddenly he and his Draken, Boris, are buddies for life.
‘Hey,’ I whisper from beneath Gigli. ‘Help me out here. Talk to him, would you?’
Nom looks around quickly and then nods. He stands in front of Gigli and utters a low rumbling growl followed by several high-pitched hisses.
Gigli responds with a single bark that sends fear coursing through my body and almost makes me wet myself.
‘He says you are human excrement. When he looks at you he sees nothing but a pus-filled bag of weakness that he can’t even be bothered to kill because it would be absolutely no challenge. He says that even if the Great Draken himself came down from the sky and ordered him to undergo the bonding ceremony, he would rather defy his own deity than be in any way linked to you.’
‘Jesus, you got all of that from one bark?’
Nom nods. ‘The Draken language is really quite efficient. Its syntax is remarkable. For instance, when he said you were excrement—’
‘OK, yeah. That’s great,’ I say.
Gigli gets off me and lopes away to sit and glower in the corner.
‘This is ridiculous. That fugly thing is never going to like me.’
‘Don’t worry, Bax.’ Nom puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘He may still come round.’
From: Bax ([email protected])
To: Kyle ([email protected])
Yo
So here’s another hit of that sweet, sweet magical theory you love so much. I’m still sucking at it so don’t ask me for any pointers. How things with you? Gotten laid yet? Wait, don’t answer that. I know the answer. BURN!
Oh, and send me something interesting/funny. This place is seriously getting to me.
Bax
‘South African Magic in Context’ by Si Konyela The Journal of Occult Practices 2002
South African magic is a confluence of magical influences: Xhosa and Zulu shamanism, the magic of the Dutch Hexenmeisters (from which the American Pennsylvania Dutch Pow Wow magic also derived), English High Ceremonial Magic, Vodun from West Africa, as well as the ecstatic practices of the Khoisan people.
The resultant discipline is a hybrid magical form that combines both high magic and folk magic from the oral tradition into an effective magical style that is eminently suitable for the South African context.
Although there are many regional variances and specialisations, certain core principles within the broader Southern African magical system remain constant.
!Num
!Num is a traditional term for energy in magic. The South African system places emphasis on achieving a balance between the aim of the spell and the energy it takes to achieve this end. For instance, using magic to pick up an object is possible but far less energy is used by simply using one’s hand to achieve the same goal. Thus ways of controlling and amplifying magical energy are important to the system, particularly for more complex spells.
Muti
Muti is the generic term for the ingredients of magical spells. The term includes herbs and plants but has increasingly come to refer to the blood and body parts used to amplify magical workings. Some examples of traditional muti are powdered vulture bones, hyena jaws, the teeth of various animals (including humans), organs and skin.
Blood is perhaps the most important muti in African magic. Magical ability is determined by the blood of the user (hence the importance of genetic lineage) and drawing magical power from the spilled blood of other creatures is central to creating magic that doesn’t totallydeplete the user.
The Mojo Bag
Traditionally called a wanga bag, but almost universally referred to as a mojo bag, this set of talismans is central to the South African practice of magic, an ancient technology that allows the interface of mind and energy. A sangoma’s mojo bag is as individual as a set of fingerprints and consists of a set of seven magical items accumulated over many years. Some of these magical items have become as famous as the magicians that wielded them: the White Ant carving of Eugène Nielen Marais, the bronze beetle of Miriam Makeba and the Coke bottle of Oom Dawid Kruiper.
Nobody understands the process of how an object links to a particular mage but one thing is clear: you don’t get the talismans you want. Many a mage has hoped for a tiger claw and ended up with a coffee-shop loyalty card.
Masters and Apprentices
Twasa is a term denoting a person undertaking the study of South African magic. In the South African system a twasa may have many teachers but only one master. As with many European systems of magic, the apprentice is bonded to the master and shares a lifelong mental bond. This is not always a happy arrangement and there are many instances of students murdering their masters, and vice versa, in the dark history of South African magic.
Conclusion
South African magic has primarily been transmitted as part of the oral traditions of the many disparate cultures that occupy Southern Africa. The attempts to formalise it have largely failed and it remains to be seen whether this raw, powerful art will be able to maintain its distinct identity in an age of globalised magical practices.
6
MUMBLEROCK
‘THE THING IS, we’ve barely spoken since you’ve been there,’ Esmé says.
I’m huddled in a cold granite corridor with my hoodie over my head and Nom’s cheap phone pressed to my ear.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just been a little intense here. It’s not going very well.’
‘Why?’
‘I suck at magic, I’m not an animal person, and not getting involved in school politics is like having a part of my personality amputated.’
‘Bax. You are doing that for yourself, right? The good thing, I mean.’
‘Yeah,’ I lie. My glasses start to slip down my nose and I push them up with the back of my hand.
‘OK. Because you shouldn’t try to be something you’re not.’
‘It’s just that—’
‘Hey, asshole,’ a voice calls down the corridor.
‘Shit,’ I say into the phone. ‘I’ve got to go. But I’ve found out a cool thing I can do. I’ll, umm, show you later.’
‘OK,’ Esmé says. ‘Later.’
‘I, umm, lov—’ I begin, but the phone goes dead.
‘Hey, asshole. I’m talking to you.’
I sigh and turn around to face Hekka and one of his cronies.<
br />
‘I see you have another phone for me,’ he says with a grin.
‘Yeah, come and get it.’ I smile and stick the phone down the front of my jeans and into my boxers.
‘Jesus,’ Hekka says with a grimace. ‘You can keep the fucking thing.’
I shrug. ‘Suit yourself.’
He covers the gap between us in an instant and pins me against the wall. I feel the weight of his arms on mine and I know I could slip them easily. I’ve watched him fighting in the Boer’s classes. He’s strong but he’s dumb. My new-found muscles ache to wrap themselves around his neck and squeeze the life out of him. But I don’t let them.
‘What’s going on here?’ King calls out, striding down the corridor. He’s wearing what looks like a blue toga today, revealing one furry shoulder.
Hekka dips his head. ‘I didn’t ask for this, Baxter,’ he says softly. ‘I don’t want to be different, I don’t want to be special.’ He turns his head to the side and gives a wink that only I can see.
‘Baxter,’ King says sternly. ‘Leave Hekka alone. He’s got enough to deal with.’
The rage burns so hot inside me that I feel like I could boil water just by touching it.
‘OK,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Sorry.’
King nods and continues down the corridor. Hekka gives the middle finger to his back and then shoves me up against the wall again. I clench my fists at my sides.
‘I hear you think you’re a Dreamwalker,’ he says. ‘Well aren’t you fucking special?’
I look directly into his eyes. ‘Listen, man, I genuinely don’t want any of your glory. You go ahead and be the hero. Seriously. I’m really, really not interested.’
‘So what you’re saying is that you think that being the Chosen One is unimportant?’
I sigh. ‘I think that if Fate really wanted to maintain the status quo or bring balance to the force or whatever, then many thousands of small processes running in the background, kinda like apps, would be better than investing all that world-saving in a single individual.’
Kill Baxter Page 10
