Chapter 17
“I’m sorry,” Genevieve says. “I know it’s inadequate, and you probably can’t even hear me, but I’m so fucking sorry.”
We’re back in the underground room. Genevieve had insisted on giving my ancestor a proper send-off. She’d destroyed the stand, and placed the slab flat on the ground. The mound of strange flowers look like the perfect resting place.
“Teach me the rite,” she whispers.
I do. In Maraya, we have a specific ritual performed for late oerhwu elders. She’s so intent on doing this right that she learns the song and dance in less than fifteen minutes.
We’re supposed to be dressed in white, in a place in Maraya Forest selected for the late oerhwu by the other elders.
Our palms and the bottoms of our feet should’ve been dipped in a reddish-brown dye obtained from the leaves of one of the great trees, our wrists and ankles covered in swathes of cowrie beads.
There’s supposed to be a procession carrying her body through the village, the rest of the townsfolk joining in as the elders make their way to the forest, new voices swelling with theirs in song.
But Genevieve and I will have to do. At least we’re barefoot, and I know the steps. I have a feeling all my ancestor wants is to finally rest.
My heart blooms as Genevieve and I perform the rite, our voices blending beautifully—her tenor to my alto. Outside, the rain has stopped, and the sun is slowly rising. The underground room seems—and feels—brighter.
I feel the flow of the eshé as we dance, moving happily along our limbs. The weight that had been there before—the pollution borne from the oerhwu’s suffering is dispelling, fading slowly away as the current goes back to being clear. Neutral.
We’re breathing heavily when we’re done.
Genevieve takes a breath. At the foot of the slab, we’d placed some offerings, all of them handpicked by Genevieve.
Honey, for something sweet. Palm wine, to soothe the nerves and tease out the laughter.
Fancy slippers, because her feet had been bare.
A brand new silk and lace blouse with two velvet wrappers that Genevieve had never worn.
And finally, blood spilled from Genevieve’s palm, the cut made from her grandmother’s dagger, for penance and reparations.
She joins her bloody hand with my clean one when she’s done, then recites the four short sentences she’d memorised in Ibiiom, using the rhythmic cadence I’d taught her.
An acknowledgment that the oerhwu had been born, and she’d lived.
A recognition that as she’d come to this earth, she’d left behind an impression, one the earth will never forget.
A wish that her journey through the otherworld will be good, and easy, and safe.
And should she be reborn, a prayer for good tidings in her next life.
Genevieve adds an extra sentence, acknowledging the wrong her family had done and making a sincere apology. She doesn’t ask for forgiveness.
I’m crying when she finishes, Genevieve sounding just as choked up. It’s probably my imagination, but when she’s done, the walls seem to slowly expand and contract, heaving out a low sigh.
We spend a few minutes in silence, letting the emotions wash through us. Then we turn, hand in hand, and walk up into the sunrise.
The house has never looked this bright. The curtains and windows are wide open, letting in a cool, refreshing breeze.
The sun’s up and out, casting its warm glow into the sitting room.
The missing emergency openings on the burglary proof bars are back in their spots, the doors sitting in their rightful places.
I’ve gotten so used to the blank, seamless walls that seeing the doors back gives me a little jolt of surprise every single time.
The cleansing ritual had worked.
“Is it weird that I miss it?” We’re in the kitchen, now, trying to figure out what to eat for breakfast. Well, an early lunch; the cleansing ritual might not have taken as long as last time, but it had still taken a few hours.
Genevieve is standing in front of a cupboard, staring into it with indecision. “The house being sentient, I mean.”
We’re still rain-kissed and in our night clothes, our feet bare. I’d gone straight to cleansing the house the moment we’d come in, then cleaned us up a bit with the eshé. We’re still going to need a proper shower after, but we’d just been too hungry to wait.
The house seems to have gotten its sentience not only from the eshé of my previously enslaved ancestor, but the eshé of Genevieve’s mother’s and grandmother’s combined shannkos as well.
My ancestor’s eshé, poisoned by years of hatred and suffering, had bled into the house—it had been the rot I’d sensed tangled into the house’s own eshé, only given sentience when Genevieve’s mother’s shannko had also tethered itself to the building, her grandmother’s shannko eventually joining the fray and forming this twisted, cursed spirit that had only further complicated it all.
Now that all those things are gone, the house has returned to the neutral silence of an inanimate object, all its personality—it’s life—gone.
“Genevieve?” I prompt when she doesn’t respond.
Her hands are on the counter, knuckles clenched and protruding. Everything about her is strangely silent. Still.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand.
Predator!
My heart starts to race. A part of me had wondered about Genevieve’s hunger; there isn’t and has never been a deal with a dagbato to quell it, and my ancestor, along with whatever special property had made her heart so rich the legbajus only had to feed once every ten years, is gone now.
It’s only been a few hours—less than a day—and her hunger is back again.
“Genevieve.”
One of her fingers twitches.
I swallow thickly. My eyes dart to the back door, which we’d left wide open, almost as if—despite my successful cleansing and the house losing its sentience—we’d still been afraid, despite everything, that if we shut it, it would disappear.
When I glance back at Genevieve, my breath catches in my throat. She’s twisted her head around almost three hundred and sixty degrees, her eyes completely black with two red dots in the middle, staring directly at me.
Fear shoots through my bloodstream like an addictive drug. She reads my intent before I’ve even finished thinking it.
“Don’t.” Her voice makes goose pimples burst to life on my skin. It’s gravelly. Hair-raising. Inhuman. “Don’t you dare, Rosemary.”
One heartbeat.
Two.
I’m holding my breath.
Three.
I bolt out the door.
What am I doing? What the fuck am I doing?
This isn’t a dream. I’m able to manipulate the eshé to speed up and cloak my movements as I dart around the back of the house. The back gate is still sitting open, and I eagerly speed through, disappearing into the trees.
This isn’t a dream. My bare feet actually hurt.
Sweat has drenched my face, neck, chest and back in seconds.
The rain had dropped the temperature a bit, but the air is still hot and humid.
My lungs strain. The sounds of the forest seem muted, every whistle through the trees—every creak of a branch and snap of a twig sending the fear and adrenaline in my veins pumping harder.
I slip and cut my feet on wet rocks and fallen branches. The sting of the cuts as they heal only adds to my excitement.
Oh God. What the fuck. What the fuck.
I don’t glance over my shoulder, but I can’t hear or sense Genevieve behind me. Is she actually chasing me? Will she chase me? What had even been my goal when I’d done this?
I feel silly, self-conscious, but I don’t stop, don’t turn around.
Whenever I think about pausing to catch my breath, another twig snaps—I hear something that sounds like breathing, and it sends me speeding right back up, sends me frantically grabbing at the eshé to wrap around my form like its a protective blanket.
I run until my entire body hurts, until I know my feet are coated in more than just dirt and mud. I’m crying with how exhausted I am, from how hard my lungs are straining to breathe.
I’m slowing down. I can barely use the eshé anymore; just like my lungs now struggling to take in air, the magical current is darting in and out of my grasp like the oxygen shuttling rapidly through my nostrils.
I trip and fall over a fallen branch I’d clocked too late, landing painfully on my hands and knees.
Immediately, a powerful hand wraps tightly around my throat from behind and shoves me face-first into the forest floor.
My scream is genuine, raw and broken, torn from my exhausted lungs.
Sharp, serrated teeth sink viciously into my shoulder blade.
I scream again. Another hand grabs my hip and, oh fuck, oh fuck—yet another hand grabs my waist, keeping my hips hiked up.
I whine when those teeth pull out of my flesh, leaving me shaking, my pussy throbbing.
The cuts sting, hot blood spilling sluggishly down my shoulder.
The creature is breathing heavily as it uses its knees to shove my thighs apart. I’m not even sure it’s Genevieve anymore. What if I’ve been found by some other mythical beast, wanting to take advantage? Heat floods my face and neck as my pussy grows even hotter, even wetter.
“Fuck, fuck,” I keen, fingers scrabbling uselessly at dirt and leaves as my nightgown and underwear are ripped off my frame, leaving me in just my waist beads.
I’ve never felt so naked. Anyone could come into the forest right now, drawn by the sound of my broken scream. Anyone could see me like this, face down, ass up, spread wide for a monster.
I’m dripping down my thighs, my cunt clenching uselessly, my nipples stiff, little peaks.
“Is this what you wanted?” The voice is an unrecognisable snarl. The hand on my throat shoves my face further into the dirt, scraping it hard and painful against the rough ground. A fourth hand appears, gripping my left shoulder. “Filthy fucking minx.”