Shuri

by Nic Stone

  “There. I sent.” K’Marah has appeared in the doorway of Shuri’s dressing chamber with her own Kimoyo card in hand.

  Except Shuri’s been off in what the queen mother calls “intellectual la-la land” … which means she hasn’t gotten dressed.

  “Do you mind?” she says to K’Marah, ducking behind the mannequin.

  (Yes, there’s a mannequin in Shuri’s closet. As well as a fold-down experimentation station that is presently tucked into the wall. Mother forbids Shuri to spend all her waking hours in her lab, so the princess had to improvise. Eureka moments wait for no one.)

  “Oh pish posh,” K’Marah replies with a wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes. “It’s not as though you have anything to see.” And she walks out.

  Despite the sting of the comment, Shuri is thrown back to the Taifa Ngao and the thought of Wakanda’s exposure. Because one thing’s for sure: While Shuri might be shaped like the River Tribe elder’s walking stick, there’s definitely plenty in Wakanda to see.

  And steal if you let the head of the Border Tribe tell it.

  He was outraged at the very idea of Wakanda’s existence being revealed to the rest of the world. He spat phrases like invitation to colonizers and pillage of resources and utter razing of our land at the queen mother like poisonous darts. Never had Shuri been more aware of the empty throne at the center of the room.

  And never had she been more afraid for her brother—and her homeland.

  Another dissenter? That was K’Marah’s beloved grandmother.

  “K’Marah, may I ask you something?” Shuri asks as she steps back into her bedroom. The other girl is now lying belly-down on the four-poster bed, flipping through Shuri’s old textbook on particle physics. Which is missing from the bedside table.

  “You just did,” K’Marah replies without looking up. “How can you stand to read this dreck? It looks like an alien language.”

  “I’m serious.” The princess pulls the book from K’Marah’s grip and shuts it with a snap before rolling K’Marah over like a log and taking a seat on the bed beside her. “You’ve invaded my space. Might as well make yourself useful.”

  “Well, tell me how you really feel, Princess.”

  “Do you think it would be bad if we weren’t hidden?” Shuri continues, ignoring the sarcasm.

  “Last I checked, you hide by choice. Which is probably good considering your severe lack of panache and tiresome insistence upon ‘empiricalism,’ or whatever you call it. You could stand to lighten up a bit.”

  “Empiricism,” Shuri huffs. “And that’s not what I meant.”

  “So what do you mean?” K’Marah drags herself over to the edge of the bed and sits up so she and Shuri are side by side.

  “Our nation. We’ve been hidden for centuries. Never invaded. Never conquered. Wholly independent. What do you think would happen if other nations knew about us?”

  “Other nations do know about us, Shuri.”

  Panic. “What do you mean?”

  K’Marah looks at Shuri as though she just asked for the definition of a molecule. “You are aware that we are landlocked?”

  “Umm … yes?”

  “And that landlocked means ‘surrounded by land’? And that the land we’re surrounded by is broken up into other nations?”

  “Yes …”

  “Are you under the impression that those nations are unaware of our landlocked position between them?”

  Shuri doesn’t respond this time, but she does see her “friend’s” point.

  Now K’Marah falls back. “If you are under that impression, I can assure you: T’Challa attends every gathering of the Pan-African Congress. And based on some of the stuff he said at the most recent one—”

  “You were there?”

  “Mm-hmm. I’ve been to two so far. Part of my Dora Milaje training. Anyway, I’m pretty sure your dear brother wants more people to know about us.”

  Shuri’s so shaken by K’Marah knowing this firsthand, she can hardly form words. “But what about colonizers? Pillagers? Those who would seek to do us harm?!” There’s plenty Shuri doesn’t know, but one thing she does: Her father’s killer wanted Vibranium.

  “I’m not sure the world is as awful as you think, Princess. From what I’ve seen, the ruler of Narobia is a little off, but no one who knows about us thus far seems to wish us ill. Besides, I’m sure everyone will find out about us eventually. Nothing stays hidden in the age of the internet. Now if you don’t mind, I’d love to get to my reason for being in your quarters.”

  Shuri sighs, knowing she’s not going to get any further with her personal royal-guard-in-training. And K’Marah’s right, isn’t she? It likely is only a matter of time before they’re discovered. Perhaps this is something preemptive on T’Challa’s part.

  Where is her darling brother? And what could he possibly be doing?

  “So are you ready to hear where we’re going on our quest?” K’Marah says, clearly oblivious to the magnitude of Shuri’s distress.

  “I’m not going on any quest.”

  “Fantastic!” K’Marah sits up and scoots close to Shuri so their sides are flush. The excitement radiating off the shorter girl is so palpable, it makes the tiny hairs on Shuri’s arms stand at attention.

  Shuri hates it, but now she has to know what’s going on. “Well?” she asks.

  “Ha! Knew you’d come around,” the other girl says. Then she drops her voice to a whisper. “We’re going to sneak down to the bonfire.”

  “The what?” Shuri asks.

  K’Marah puts her head in her hands. “Bast forgive her on my behalf.”

  “Oh, just get on with it,” Shuri says, giving her friend a shove.

  “It will never cease to amaze me how little the princess of this nation seems to care about our traditions.”

  “You sound like my mother now.”

  “Once a year there is a ritual bonfire near the baobab tree, and it is said that while the fire burns, a pathway to the Djalia is opened and the spirits of the ancestors will come down to commune with anyone who seeks their wisdom and guidance.”

  “Wonder if they can tell me how to fix T’Challa’s suit,” Shuri mumbles irreverently.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. I won’t—” But just before Shuri can get “be doing that” out of her mouth, it occurs to her that accompanying K’Marah to the baobab tree will put her in the perfect position to make a visit to the Sacred Field—the only place in Wakanda where the heart-shaped herb grows—without Mother’s knowledge. She needs more bulbs and leaves.

  “Okay,” Shuri says. “When do we leave?”

  Within two minutes of reaching the bonfire, Shuri regrets her decision to come. She and K’Marah are both in disguise—in addition to being the Mining heiress, K’Marah is also the niece of the clothier, which means unlimited access to the royal garment repository. But the fear of being spotted isn’t as easy to shed as the clothes will be once the princess returns to the palace.

  The air is hazy with what amounts to more vapor than smoke. Shuri can feel the difference in the moist coating on her skin and in the way the spicy-sweet scented substance feels inside her nose. She has no idea what substance is at the center of the blaze licking up from a large crater in the landscape some hundred meters from the baobab tree, but she is sure nothing organic—nothing of this world even—could cause this mist when burned. It makes her spine tingle.

  “Perhaps we should go,” Shuri says under her breath to K’Marah as a woman cloaked in serpentine green cloth passes by, shaking a collection of gourds and what look like … bones. On strings. “This was maybe a bad idea—”

  “Where is your sense of adventure, O Royal One?”

  “Don’t call me that here! Mother will rake me over the holy coals if it gets back to her that I left the palace with no guard!”

  “I am your guard.”

  “Not yet, you aren’t!”

  K’Marah rolls her eyes, but as they continue toward the fire�
�and into thicker crowds—even she looks more alert. If Shuri didn’t know better, she’d say her dear “friend” is looking for someone. “Don’t tell me you have a rendezvous planned …” the princess says. “K’Marah, I swear to the gods—”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” The shorter girl rises to her toes (like that helps) and cups a hand over her brow, squinting. She turns her gaze skyward before shifting to look in a different direction, then she jumps once (which does help … Girl’s got hops, Shuri thinks, tugging on a phrase she once heard T’Challa say while watching something called basketball). “Nothing like that at all. Come, let’s get closer.”

  The heat rises as they near the blaze, but Shuri has a sinking suspicion that the increase in temperature has more to do with the increase in bodies wrapped in thick fabrics than with the fire itself. In fact, as she sticks a hand into the air, it feels cooler.

  The girls reach an open space and stop. Shuri has to admit, the sparkle, flicker, and dance of the bright orange flames against the ink-dark sky is entrancing.

  For a moment, at least.

  Doesn’t take long for the princess to realize the pungency and harshness of woodsmoke are completely absent from the atmosphere, and as she ponders over the nature of actual fire—the combustion-based chemical reaction that permanently alters the molecular composition of whatever’s burning—she becomes more and more convinced that this fire is … scientifically unsound.

  “K’Marah, what exactly are they burni—?”

  “Shhhh.” The other girl, who, despite the grandmotherly frock and hooded cape she decided to wear, looks just like that—a girl—is standing to Shuri’s right with head tilted back and arms slightly aloft, palms up. “The plane is open, and the ancestors are near. Close your eyes and lower your guard so you can feel them.”

  No, thanks, Shuri thinks but doesn’t say. And besides, she couldn’t close her eyes if she tried. They’re too busy darting around, struggling to process everything she’s seeing: the U-shaped arrangement of male drummers, all shirtless, but with intricately painted designs all over their chests and arms; the assortment of dancers, some solo, some in groups, all in varying states of bliss; the smattering of individuals either kneeling or prostrate in prayer.

  Beyond the bonfire, the baobab tree looks lit from within, and Shuri could swear there are dark shapes, lounging it seems, in the high branches.

  A flicker of blue pulls Shuri’s gaze to the flames. Then a tongue of green licks up to her right before a swirl of red begins to spin and twist and dance deep within the blaze. And she feels pulled toward it. The only thing keeping her sandal-clad feet rooted in place is the tenuous grip she’s able to maintain on reason.

  “K’Marah, do you see that?”

  But the voice that responds doesn’t belong to Shuri’s friend. Nor does it come from K’Marah’s mouth. In fact, Shuri has no idea where the whispers of “Uya kuvuka” and “Sisindisiwe” are coming from. She does know that their meanings—She will rise; We are saved—would be alarming if not for the fact that they feel like sighs of what must be Earth’s most pleasant wind breezing over her skin, even beneath the dense tunic, pants, and cloak she’s wearing.

  But then the red flare begins to move. In Shuri’s direction.

  She blinks, hoping that what she’s seeing isn’t real, but that just seems to increase the speed of the mysterious light. There are images forming within it now, nebulous at first, but then condensing into what looks like the torso of a woman holding a globe. The whispers shift, and the wind becomes icy: “Khusela, khusela …” the voice—voices now—cry out. Protect, protect. Louder and louder, as the red leaps, now panther-shaped, from within the fire and wraps itself around the princess so tightly, it becomes difficult to draw breath.

  Shuri’s head swims as the smell and feel of true smoke—the dry, toxic kind that irritates the airways and prevents the transfer of oxygen to the blood—overtake her senses.

  Then everything goes black.

  Shuri is hot. Unbearably so. Her mouth is dry, and as she inhales, the air feels so much like sandpaper against the delicate tissues of her throat and windpipe, she wonders if it’s better to just not breathe. Something sharp runs over her cheek, and her eyelids snap open …

  Though she immediately wishes she could shut them again. There in front of her is a woman. Red-eyed and dry-lipped. Dry-everything, in fact: The woman’s skin is so lacking in moisture, Shuri can see tiny fault lines where it’s begun to crack. Like the drought-wrecked landscapes she’s seen in her environmental science digital textbook.

  The woman lifts a hand, and the globe Shuri noticed before floats above her palm, seemingly lit from within. And speaking of within, the more Shuri stares at the glowing orb, the more she recognizes what’s inside it: her homeland.

  “What … what are you doing?” Panic claws its way up the inside of Shuri’s chest, more painful than the dry air going down.

  And it’s warranted. Because the moment the princess looks into her enemy’s (she’s sure of it) crimson gaze, the woman smiles, revealing jagged teeth, some of which fall from her head as the princess stares, and squeezes her hand shut, crushing the globe—and Wakanda within it—to dust.

  Shuri opens her mouth to scream, and cold air rushes down into her lungs.

  “Princess Shuri?”

  A male voice.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Laced with panic.

  “Does the queen mother know you’ve come?”

  The space comes into focus around her as her vision adjusts to the darkness. In front of her stands a bald man draped in dark fabric, and leaning on a staff carved to resemble a thick vine.

  As Shuri realizes where she is—the veiled entrance to the Sacred Field—the priest peeks over his shoulder and turns back to her.

  He’s petrified.

  “You saw her, too?” Shuri asks, too shaken to even wonder how she got here from the bonfire. Though now that she thinks of it—

  “Saw who? Did you bring someone else?”

  Now he really looks scared.

  Something’s not right …

  “Are you all right, Priest … ?”

  “Kufihli.” He bows. “At your service, Your Highness.”

  “Do you …” Now Shuri’s the nervous one. “Uhh … know how I arrived?”

  His brow furrows. “I am not sure I understand what you mean?”

  How to ask without sounding as though I’ve lost all of my Kimoyo beads? “Have I been … standing here? For very long, Priest Kufihli?”

  “Oh no, no! We would not keep the princess waiting! I came as soon as I heard your approach.” He takes another worried glance behind him.

  So she walked here while in the thick of her vision? And where is K’Marah?

  Also: Why is the priest beginning to sweat?

  “Is something the matter?” Shuri says, attempting to look past him. When he steps to block her view, she knows something’s up.

  She also knows she’s dealt with enough unknowns tonight to last her a lifetime. “I need to grab some bulbs and leaves of the herb to run some tests—”

  “NO!” He throws his hands up.

  “Excuse me?” The statement flows out of genuine bewilderment, but the priest takes it as an assertion of authority.

  “I … I am sorry, Your Highness,” he says with a bow. “I mean you no disrespect. It is just that … ahhh …” Another wary look backward. “This is not the best time. Perhaps you can return—”

  “No, I cannot.” Not without Mother finding out … Which reminds her to get an oath from him that he won’t mention her little visit to anyone. “I must gather the supplies now.”

  And she pushes past, with him calling “Wait!” to her back.

  Twenty paces into the tree-shrouded space, she sees why: Half of the Sacred Field is dark, the gently phosphorescent leaves of the heart-shaped herb not only devoid of light, but gray and shriveled.

  Dead.

  She steps forward, i
nstinctively reaching for one of the desiccated plants.

  “Don’t!” Priest Kufihli catches Shuri’s arm before her hand can make contact. That’s when she notices the tiny blooms of yellowish flowers dotting the soil like spores of mold.

  “What is that?”

  “We are unsure, Your Highness. We only know that as the plants die, those blossoms spring up in their place.” He gulps then. “Another priest, he … well, he fell unconscious very shortly after touching those with his bare hand.” He points to the mucus-colored blooms. “He had to be revived by a healer, and he—” Priest Kufihli shudders.

  “What? What happened?”

  “He almost died, Princess. And he still has not regained use of his right arm.”

  Shuri is speechless.

  “We don’t know what is happening, but I can assure you that we are working around the clock to find out—”

  “How quickly are the plants dying?”

  For a moment, Priest Kufihli is silent. Then he sighs. “At the current rate, the entire field will have withered in approximately five days’ time.”

  “Five days?” Shuri blinks, and the image of the dry woman crushing Wakanda flashes behind her eyes. “But the Challenge is in five days! If, Bast forbid, someone bests T’Challa, and needs to partake of the herb to gain the Panther enhancements—”

  There won’t be any herb left.

  And more important: If the herb dies out completely, there won’t be any for Shuri to consume in the event that she has to take up the mantle.

  “I will get to the bottom of this,” she says.

  MISSION LOG

  THIS IS VERY BAD.

  Thirty-six hours have elapsed since my return to what should be Regularly Scheduled Programming, but after the bizarre events of Bonfire Eve, everything feels upside down, inside out, and backward.