Page 147 of Children of Blood and Bone

“You still haven’t explained why you’re not sharing the scroll.” Amari stands, studying me. “There’s a whole valley of divîners out there waiting to become maji. Why aren’t we giving that to them?”

Amari’s words hit me like Mama Agba’s smacks. Like the sword Lekan took to the chest. They gave up everything to give me a chance like this, and yet all I can do is throw it away.

When I first thought about sharing the scroll tonight, I couldn’t stop imagining all the beauty and joy the new magic would spread. For once it would feel like it did before the Raid. The maji would reign again.

But now each smiling divîner twists into all the pain that could lie in their wake: Grounders ripping the earth under our feet; Reapers losing control and unleashing waves of death. I can’t risk their magic coming back. Not without rules. Leaders. Plans.

And if I can’t do this now, how will I be able to complete the ritual?

“Amari, it’s complicated. What if someone loses control? What if the wrong person touches the sunstone? We could awaken a Cancer and all die of a plague!”

“What are you talking about?” Amari grabs my shoulders. “Zélie, where is this coming from?”

“You don’t understand.…” I shake my head. “You didn’t see what Kwame could do. If Zu hadn’t stopped him… if stockers had that kind of power or a man like your father—” My throat goes dry at the memory of the blaze. “Imagine all the people he’d incinerate if he could conjure flames!”

It all pours out of me at once, the fears, the shames that have plagued me all day. “And Tzain—” I start, but I can’t even say the words. If I can’t even trust myself to keep my magic in check, how can I expect untested maji to fare?

“For so long I thought we needed magic to survive, but now… now I don’t know what to think. We have no plan, no way to make rules or establish control. If we just bring it back, innocent people could get hurt.”

Amari stays silent for a long moment, letting my words simmer. Her eyes soften and she pulls me by the hand.

“Amari—”

“Just come.”

She drags me outside the tent, and in an instant I’m blown away.While we were inside, the settlement came alive. The valley bursts with youthful energy, glowing red with soft lantern lights. Savory meat pies and sweet plantain pass under our noses as vibrant music and thundering drums reverberate through our skin. Everyone dances to the joyous music, buzzing with the excitement of the procession.

In the festive craze I spot Inan, more handsome than anyone has a right to be in a dark blue agbada with matching pants. When he spots me, his mouth falls open. My chest flutters under his gaze. I look away, desperate not to feel anything else. He approaches, but before he can catch up, Amari pulls me through the crowd.

“Come on,” she yells back at him. “We cannot miss it!”

We zip through the crowd while the celebrants thrust and shimmy by our sides. Though part of me wants to cry, I crane my neck to take in the crowd, craving their joy, their life.

The children of Orïsha dance like there’s no tomorrow, each step praising the gods. Their mouths glorify the rapture of liberation, their hearts sing the Yoruba songs of freedom. My ears dance at the words of my language, words I once thought I’d never hear outside my head. They seem to light up the air with their delight.

It’s like the whole world can breathe again.

“You look magnificent!” Zu smiles as she takes me in. “Every boy will be dying for a dance, though I think you may be spoken for.”

I tilt my head and follow her finger to Inan; his eyes trail me like a lionaire on the hunt. I want to hold his gaze, to hold the rush that blossoms under my skin when he looks at me this way. But I force myself to turn around.

I can’t hurt Tzain again.

“Mama!ÒrìsàMama!ÒrìsàMama,àwáun dúp1péegb3igbe wá—”

The closer we get to the center, the louder the singing grows. It takes me back to the mountains of Ibadan, when Mama would use this songto sing me to sleep. Her voice flowed rich and soft, like velvet and silk. I breathe in the familiar sensation as a petite girl with a powerful voice leads the crowd.

“Mama, Mama, Mama—”

As the voices fill the night with their heavenly song, a young divîner with light brown skin and cropped white hair enters the circle. Dressed in rich blue robes, she looks like Lekan’s painting of Yem?ja, the goddess who took Sky Mother’s tears, come to life. The divîner spins and twirls with the song, a jar of water resting on her head. When the chorus peaks, she throws the water in the air and opens her arms wide as it rains back down on her skin.

The crowd’s cheers rise as the divîner twirls out of the circle and Folake shimmies in. The beads of her yellow kaftan catch the light, shimmering as they move along her skin. She teases everyone with her smile, no one more than Kwame. When the crowd can take no more, her hands erupt. The crowd cheers when sparks of golden light shoot from her hands, dancing with her through the camp.

“Mama, Mama, Mama—”

Divîner after divîner enters the ring, each dressed like Sky Mother’s children. Though they can’t do magic, their imitations fill the crowd with joy. At the end, a girl who mirrors my age steps forward. She’s dressed in flowing red silks, and a beaded headdress glitters against her skin.Oya…My sister deity.

Though nothing like the brilliance of Oya in my visions, the divîner has a magical aura of her own. Like Folake, she has long white locs that spin as she dances, twirling around her like the red silks. In one hand she sports Oya’s signature irukere, a short whip with the hair of a lionaire. As she spins it around the circle, the divîner’s praises grow.

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