by Ayana Gray
“That monster was called a grootslang,” he volunteered.
Koffi stared at him a moment, then seemed to come back to herself. “Oh.”
“There’s a legend that when the six gods created the world, many of the animals we know today were different. Over time, the gods split some of them into two separate animals to make them less dangerous,” he explained. “Grootslangs are said to be the origin of both elephants and all snakes, incredibly powerful.”
“It was impressive, the way you used your book smarts to get rid of it.” Koffi popped another piece of the fruit into her mouth. “Pretty spectacular, actually.”
Something inside Ekon swelled with pride. He didn’t receive praise often, especially when Kamau was around. The compliment felt good. “Well, you weren’t so bad yourself,” he said, smiling. “I mean, you completely ignored my tutorial with the dagger, but—”
“I prefer a freestyle method.” Koffi stuck out her tongue, bright red from the fruit.
“You’ve got good form, I’ll give you that.” Ekon chuckled, putting the fruit down. “I’ve never seen a girl move the way you do.” The minute the words left his mouth, he hesitated. “Uh, sorry, I—”
“You should meet more girls.” Koffi’s voice was soft. “But that’s nice of you to say.” Something in her eyes had changed. Ekon couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there. His gaze dropped to her mouth again—why couldn’t he stop looking at it? He felt that hum again, stronger. Something was building, an urge to say something, to do something. He kept waiting for his fingers to start their tapping, to find their rhythm, but to his surprise, they didn’t. He found that, in this moment, he much preferred to be still. He didn’t want to count things; he didn’t need to.
“Koffi.” His voice was lower, quieter. Somewhere distant, there was a faint crackling sound, but he barely heard it over the roaring in his ears. Suddenly, he was all too aware of how little space there actually was between the two of them, only an arm’s length. She stared at him a second longer, and then, almost imperceptibly, she leaned forward slightly. It was the smallest movement, but it was enough. There was a quiet permission given with that fractional gesture, a permission he hadn’t realized he wanted until he had it.
“Ekon.” Koffi’s voice was barely audible, a whisper. She closed her eyes, and her lips parted. Ekon swallowed. They were impossibly close now. He could see the individual eyelashes fanned across her cheeks, could smell the red fruit on her breath. It was sweet, and he wondered vaguely if she would taste sweet . . .
“Ekon.” She said his name again, this time more quietly, with an urgency. Her eyes shot open and met his own, and then Ekon drew in a sharp breath. Something was wrong. The eyes that met his were glassy, vacant. A sheen of sweat had formed along her hairline, and her breaths were growing shallow, raspy. Ekon froze.
“Koffi?”
Another sound filled the space around them, more crackling. Ekon turned to find its source and felt the blood drain from his face. The trunk of the tree they were sitting beside had changed. No longer was its bark a rich brown, but gray, flaky. Above them, more of its fruit was falling, but it wasn’t red anymore. A chill shivered up his spine when he saw the flesh of the fruits was black, shriveled, almost like . . .
“Ekon . . .”
Ekon turned, but not fast enough. With horror he watched as Koffi stared at him, her body rocking from side to side where she sat.
Then she collapsed.
PART THREE
Wake not a sleeping hyena.
The Boy from the West
ADIAH
“His family’s from Asali in the west, that’s why he’s so handsome.”
I roll my eyes for the thousandth time as Nuru and Penda, two of my classmates, burst into yet another fit of giggles a few feet away from me. They don’t know that they aren’t alone in this corridor, that I’ve been crouched hiding behind an old statue of Fedu for nearly fifteen minutes. I don’t intend to enlighten them.
“I heard he’s already been picked for an apprenticeship.” I recognize the more smug voice—Penda—when she speaks. As another daraja, she and I have practically grown up together in this temple over the last seven years, but we’re decidedly not friends. I can imagine her painted face and annoyingly perfect Bantu knots even without seeing them. Absently, I touch my own hair. Almost a week ago, Mama put it into two practical plaits down my back, but they’re getting frizzy at the edges. It’s probably time for a washday. Ugh, I hate washdays. Maybe I can get away with a co-wash . . .
“He’s working down in the Kughushi District, under Bwana Martinique,” Penda continues, her tone full of knowing. “I’m going to see if I can find an excuse to stop by the shop tomorrow. Maybe I’ll ask to have something made.”
“Ooh.” The higher-pitched voice, the one who’d spoken before, belongs to Nuru. I can practically imagine her huge doll-like eyes widening, the way they always do when she’s excited. We’re not really friends either, but she’s certainly nicer than Penda. “Can I come with you? I’d love to meet him!”
They giggle again, and I suppress a groan. After all, I’m not supposed to be here.
My original plan had been a simple one—I’d hide behind this statue until afternoon classes had started, then make my way to the sky garden to meet up with Tao. No doubt my best friend is already there waiting, doing what he always does in his spare time—reading—but just about anything sounds better than yet another afternoon spent in a stifling temple classroom with old Master Lumumba. He’s my literature and linguistics teacher, and he’s currently trying to teach me how to conjugate basic Kushoto verbs. I’d thought nothing could be worse than listening to him drone about the proper inflections of my vowels; now I’m starting to wonder if I was mistaken.
“He’s just so gorgeous,” Nuru continues, sounding breathless. “Those eyes and those shoulders, and have you seen his hands? They’re huge—”
“You know what they say about big hands . . .”
“Penda!”
They start snickering again, and I eye a nearby window, seriously considering a leap. It isn’t that I mind talking about boys—gods know there are more than a few very handsome ones in my daraja cohort—but all anyone has been talking about for the last week has been this boy. I don’t even know his name, and at this point I don’t care. Every single person in Lkossa remotely close to my age seems to be obsessed with him. Girls think he’s cute, and even some of the guys seem preoccupied. I think it’s all ridiculous. You’d think no one in this city had ever seen someone new.
“What are you going to say to him,” Nuru asks Penda, “if you see him tomorrow?”
I peek around the statue just long enough to catch Penda’s sly smile. “He’s new to the city, and no doubt in need of a guide. I’m going to offer to give him a tour of the temple, maybe the western gardens.”
“Oh,” says Nuru. “Did they finally finish the repairs?”
“Yes, earlier this week actually. Adiah really did a number on the hedges.”
Even though I know they can’t see me, I shrink farther into the statue’s shadow at the mention of my name. Embarrassed heat flushes my skin.
“I can’t believe she took out that beautiful statue,” says Nuru. “I don’t think Brother Yazeed has gotten over it yet.”
I grit my teeth, annoyed. Brother Yazeed is being completely unreasonable. After all, I didn’t mean for the splendor I was using to hit the statue of Amokoya; it was an accident. Besides, I think the goddess of water looks better without that ridiculous tiara. Art is subjective.
“Honestly,” says Penda, “that girl’s a menace.”
I feel anger building inside me.
“She can be nice,” Nuru says gently. “It’s just that sometimes, she’s . . . too much.”
Those words cut worse than Penda’s. I take back what I thought about Nuru being the nicer
one of the two. Too much. I’ve certainly heard words like that before. Too loud. Too strong. Too everything. I know I’m too much, but I don’t know how to be less.
“Let’s go pick out something to wear for tomorrow,” I hear Nuru suggest, renewed excitement in her voice. “Penda, can I pretty please borrow your ankara dress? The green one from—”
“You mean, the one you spilled ogbono soup on last week?”
Their voices fade as they finally get up and make their way down the hall. I’ve been waiting for them to move for the better part of a half hour, but I don’t immediately get up. The girls’ words are still in my head.
That girl’s a menace.
Sometimes, she’s . . . too much.
They’re both right. I am a menace, too much. I don’t want to be. I want to be like the other girls in my year who know how to do their own hair and make clever conversation. I want to learn the beauty of being poised. The problem is, I’m not poised at all.
I’m not that kind of beautiful.
Not for the first time, I think back to that afternoon in Father Masego’s office when I was twelve, the day he told me I was extraordinary. It’s been a year since he died, since a new Kuhani took his place. Father Masego told me once that he thought I would do remarkable things. I’m less and less sure of that every day.
Slowly, I emerge from behind the statue. In this rendition, the god of death is sculpted to look like a cunning old man, his hippo familiar by his side. The statue unsettles me the longer I stare at it, and I waste no more time leaving the corridor to head to the sky garden. My detour, thanks to Penda and Nuru, has taken up valuable time, but with any luck, I can still meet up with Tao before—
I nearly crash into a person rounding the corner. They’re carrying a large crate, and when we collide, it nearly lands on me. I act without thinking, the splendor comes to me as always, and I use a small bit of it to push the sliding crate back into the carrier’s arms. Their face is still obscured, but I see the top of a head nod.
“Sorry about that,” says a low male voice.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, trying to step around him.
“This is my first delivery job to the temple.” The carrier shifts to the right at the same time I do, inadvertently blocking my path. “Guess I made a wrong turn. I’m still trying to learn all the ins and outs—”
“Tuh, good luck.” I step left, and this time find a space to squeeze around. “I’ve been training here for almost seven years, and even I still don’t . . .”
The words die in my throat as the carrier puts down the crate, and for the first time I see his face. The person staring back at me isn’t some crusty old master of the temple, but a boy with light brown skin and black hair. I know at once who he is: the one they’ve all been talking about. This is the boy from the west.
And begrudgingly, I have to admit—he’s decidedly not unattractive.
“Hello,” he says, offering a smile as he puts a hand to his heart. I recognize that gesture; it’s a common greeting in the Dhahabu Region of the west. He seems to realize what he’s said, and his expression turns slightly sheepish. “Uh, sorry,” he says in accented Zamani. “I’m still . . . getting used to the customs and languages of the east.”
“It’s all right,” I say before I can stop myself. “I know a little Kushoto.” As soon as the words leave me, I want to smack myself. Why did I just say that? I don’t speak Kushoto, I can barely conjugate a verb correctly. Suddenly, I regret not paying more attention to Master Lumumba’s lessons . . .
“Really?” His face lights up, hopeful. “That’s really impressive.”
Impressive. The compliment feels strange to me. There are lots of words—some of them choice—that people generally use to describe me. Impressive doesn’t usually make the list. After a moment, the young man extends a hand.
“My name is Dakari,” he says with a bigger smile. “I’m new here.”
I take his hand and shake it. It’s warm to the touch and almost entirely envelops mine. So he does have big hands . . .
“I’m Adiah,” I offer.
“Adiah.” He repeats my name and it sounds different on his tongue, like a song. “That’s lovely.”
“Thank you.”
He’s still watching me, studying me the way I’ve seen some of the masters study artwork. I’m not used to anyone looking at me for this long without looking away. It almost feels strange.
“Are you one of the . . . darajas?” he asks after a moment. “One of the students that train here?”
“I am.” At once, I stand taller, unable to resist a bit of pride. To my pleasure, he looks appropriately admiring.
“That’s amazing. There aren’t many darajas in Asali anymore, where my family’s from.”
So Penda and Nuru were right about that too.
“Darajas have been training at the Temple of Lkossa for years,” I explain. “It’s an ancient tradition.”
“Fascinating,” he says, and he actually looks like he means it. Something passes over his face, a hesitance, before he asks, “Could you . . . maybe you could show me around here sometime? If it wouldn’t disrupt your training?”
Something strange flutters in my stomach. He’s still staring at me so intently. It takes an effort to make myself sound offhand. “Sure.” I shrug. “I could probably find some time.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I guess.”
“Very well, Adiah.” The second time he says my name is different; there’s a hint of something else in the tone that I can’t name but don’t mind. “I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow.”
He bows his head then, a surprisingly regal motion for a boy who looks my age. I don’t know what to do in return, so I offer a small nod before skirting around him and back down the hall. I think I feel his eyes on me as I go, and so I wait until I round a corner to smile.
I realize that maybe, for the first time in a long time, I have a new friend.
CHAPTER 20
The Lesser Son
“Koffi!”
Ekon felt something inside him plummet as Koffi’s eyes rolled back into her head, exposing the whites. He moved to kneel beside her, shaking her gently by her shoulders. She didn’t respond, but shivered against him. He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. It was hot—alarmingly hot—to the touch. He looked around, frantic.
How? His eyes searched her face, then the trees. He laid her down again, then snatched Nkrumah’s journal from his bag. This time, he nearly tore the pages flipping through them, trying to find some explanation. He stopped at one of them. The tree in this illustration, gray and flaky, looked like the one before him now.
No, he realized. It’s the same.
And it was. There were lots of notes on this page, scrawled tightly as Nkrumah had tried to cram as much in as he could. Ekon’s eyes stopped halfway down the page.
Specimen 70R
Name: UMDHLEBI TREE
Pronunciation: oom-LEH-bee
Informal Name: dead-man’s tree
Habitat: The Greater Jungle, Zamani Region (Old East)
Description: Green leaves, red or black fruit, wood color may vary from brown to gray
Life Expectancy: Unknown
Additional Notes: The umdhlebi tree may in fact be one of the oldest trees to inhabit the Greater Jungle; attempts to ascertain its exact age have been unsuccessful, but it is believed to be more than five hundred years old. Its informal name, dead-man’s tree, is owed to its extreme toxicity; nearly every part of the umdhlebi tree is poisonous. Unlike most trees, it finds nutrients by killing those that feed on its fruit and by using the bodies of its victims to fertilize the soil around it. Victims may experience a variety of symptoms, including fever coupled with delirium, swelling of the intestines, and severe headaches. Once consumed, the fruit’s poison’s metabolizes ins
tantly. Vomiting is ineffective, and death is imminent.
Ekon kept reading, eyes flying across the page furiously. Koffi had only eaten one, maybe two small pieces of the umdhlebi tree’s fruit; he’d watched her. He skimmed over the other passages, looking for some information about an antidote to treat the poison. He found none. The last line of Nkrumah’s note repeated itself in his mind.
Death is imminent. Not probably, not likely—assured.
“Ek . . .”
He jumped. Koffi’s mouth was open, trying to form words. She was sweating through her clothes, spots in the front of her kaftan rapidly dampening. He gritted his teeth.
Stupid, stupid, how could I have been so stupid?
Koffi’s chest was rising and falling more rapidly, and her lips were darkening.
“Hey, stay with me.” Ekon’s own voice cracked. He slapped his hand against her cheek over and over, trying to keep her awake. “Koffi, stay with me.”
“It . . . hurts . . .” Koffi mumbled the words, her hand shifting to her stomach. A groan escaped her lips. Ekon remembered another part of Nkrumah’s note.
Victims may experience a variety of symptoms . . . swelling of the intestines . . .
“Come on, come on . . .” Ekon slipped one of his arms around Koffi’s middle to keep her upright, then used his other arm to grab their bags. It was beginning to dawn on him how truly alone they were here. He racked his mind, trying to think of a plan.
Leave her.
The voice in his head reminded him uncannily of Kamau—blunt, straight to the point. He flinched. That voice was practical, and served as yet another reminder. The Sons of the Six could be in this jungle, hunting. He remembered what Kamau had once said to him about trails, about the warriors’ ability to find and follow them.
Leave her, the Kamau voice repeated. You have a purpose here, a job, and your time is running out. Take the journal and leave her here. Her fate’s sealed, but yours isn’t. Find the Shetani, find your destiny. This is your last chance . . .
