Unravelled. Cheryl Ntumy S.

I hold it in both hands and close my eyes, trying to reach out to him across the ether. When I open my eyes, the crystal is glowing. I smile. It works every time.

      My cell phone rings and I scramble across the bed and snatch it off the rug, where it fell when I was changing. “Hey.”

      “I hear your pal Kelly’s throwing a party this weekend.”

      I laugh. “When did you start tapping into the grapevine?”

      “When I found out you were invited.” Rakwena’s tone is light, but I know he didn’t call just to hear my lovely voice. “Who else is going?”

      “If you’re asking about Thuli, I don’t know if he’ll be there.” I’m pretty sure he would kill Thuli if he ever touched me again. It’s a sobering thought.

      Rakwena is quiet for a while. “He’s still keeping his distance?”

      “Hasn’t come near me all term,” I assure him. “Besides, I doubt he’ll go to the party. He’s not really friends with Kelly.”

      “He’ll go.”

      I frown into the phone. “How do you know?”

      “Because he’s a collector of exotic toys, remember? And Kelly’s new guy and his buddies are the most exotic toys in town.”

      His words make bile rise in my throat, but he’s right. Thuli doesn’t just hunt the gifted, he hunts anyone who is remotely out of the ordinary. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already made friends with the Cresta Crew.

      “Connie, please don’t go. You promised you’d stay out of trouble.”

      “I’ll be fine. Lebz and Wiki will be there, and I don’t think Thuli’s interested in me anymore.”

      There’s a terse silence on the other end. “You promised,” he hisses.

      “It’s just a party!” I protest. “And I’m just going to look around, that’s it. I’m not wandering off into people’s bedrooms; I’ve learned my lesson.”

      “Connie – ”

      The shrill ring of the landline drowns him out. “Ooh – better get that, it could be Lebz. Relax, OK? I’ll be fine.” I hang up, wishing I’d never made that silly promise, and wondering once again why he’s so adamant that I keep it. It’s just a party. What’s the worst that could happen?

      ***

      Dad and I have an unspoken agreement – we’re not going to talk about our fight. We’re civilized, but if he thinks I’m letting it go he doesn’t know me very well.

      On Thursday afternoon I head to Bontleng for another session. Ntatemogolo is waiting for me outside with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

      “You’re late.”

      “Sorry – we had a meeting after Peer Counselling.” I lower myself onto the dusty veranda and drop my school bag beside me. “How are you?”

      “Fine. How’s Ray?”

      My eyes narrow. “He’s OK.”

      “He’s coping with his workload?” There’s a nasty glint in his eyes.

      I keep my mouth shut, trying to find the most diplomatic way to tackle this. It’s obvious he knows about Dad’s work with the Salinger Institute – they must have called him to find out whether he’d be interested in getting involved. I take a deep breath to diffuse my rising anger. One unreasonable relative I can handle, but two?

      “Ah. He’s struggling, isn’t he?” Ntatemogolo chuckles. “He’s a proud man, that Ray Bennett.”

      “So are you,” I mutter under my breath.

      “What was that?”

      I sigh. “I was just wondering how you know he’s struggling.”

      He shakes the ash off the cigarette and takes another long pull. “I ran into Dr Whitman from the Salinger Institute the other day. Nice lady. She mentioned a project your father was working on and seemed surprised that I hadn’t heard from him. You see, she doesn’t know we’re connected.”

      A lot of people don’t know, and Dad and Ntatemogolo are happy to keep it that way. I take another deep breath. I’m dying to yell at my grandfather, but he doesn’t take kindly to kids who talk back. “Why didn’t you offer to help?”

      He raises a sparse eyebrow at me. “I don’t go offering my services where they’re not wanted, my girl. If he needs my assistance, he knows what to do.”

      “But he hates the idea of asking you for anything!”

      “Yes, because he’s a fool,” he snaps. “He thinks he knows everything, with his biology! I was already studying the ways of my people when he came into this world, and he thinks he knows better?”

      I really don’t feel like hearing this right now. As annoyed as I am with Dad, I’m even more annoyed with Ntatemogolo. You’d think someone with his insight would be less petty. I clear my throat. “Ntatemogolo, maybe you should reach out to him. I’m sure he’d be happy to accept your help. Who knows – this could be a chance for the two of you to put your differences aside and do something great. And maybe this project will give Dad a better understanding of our world.”

      He shakes his head. “Your father will never understand. He’s not like Dr Whitman – she’s interested in learning about how other people do things. Your father thinks there is only one way, and he can’t see beyond that.”

      “But maybe if you just give him a chance – ”

      “I will not work with someone who doesn’t respect me,” he interrupts with a note of finality.

      Fine. I’m sick of mediating between the two of them. If my mother had lived, maybe things would have been different. Maybe they would have found a way to get along. Maybe Dad wouldn’t have been so threatened by my relationship with Ntatemogolo. But she’s dead, and I’m not a miracle worker.

      I take out my phone and glance pointedly at the time. “I have to be home by seven.”

      He nods and drops the cigarette on the floor, grinding it beneath his shoe. “Let’s go inside.”

      I pick up my bag and follow him into his sparsely furnished house. Beyond the bare living room is a corridor, and the first room is where Ntatemogolo does his work. We call it the consultation room. The curtains are always drawn and he keeps the light off. I glance at the big chest in the corner as I lower myself onto the reed mat in the middle of the floor. The chest contains all his “tools”, and also the objects we’ve been using to practice. Usually Ntatemogolo likes to cleanse everything after use, but he keeps a few things from his consultations to test me with.

      He opens the chest and removes a goatskin bag, which he deposits on the mat in front of me. He sits cross-legged opposite me and opens the bag. I watch him close his eyes and mumble a few words as he holds his hands above the bag, then he falls silent, takes several deep, steady breaths, and then opens his eyes. His energy has shifted now – he’s clear-headed and objective and ready to work.

      I take a moment to get into the zone. I don’t have to be particularly calm to read the objects – if the energy around them is strong enough I can pick it up no matter what – but if I’m not careful to distance myself, I end up carrying around other people’s baggage for days. In one of our earlier sessions I held a plastic cup used by a woman who had been killed by her boyfriend. The woman’s family had come to my grandfather because they believed her spirit was haunting their home. I spent the next hour crouched over the toilet bowl, retching. Ntatemogolo has since promised to keep me away from that sort of thing. I want to improve my skills, but I have my limits.

      He loosens the drawstring and opens the bag, then reaches in and pulls out a folded piece of paper torn from a book. Even in the dark I can see there’s writing on it. I raise my eyebrows.