“Foolish woman!” His voice was scornful, albeit I detected a hint of compassion in his bloodshot eyes. “I did warn you, didn’t I? I am only a mouthpiece to the oracle and the gods never lie, not in my lifetime, nor in the lifetimes of my grandfather and great grandfather. I come from a long line of shrine-keepers and our juju have never failed.”
“Then why am I not pregnant? Why has my son not returned to me yet?” My voice was shrill in the dead silence of the night.
“A life for a life, a son for a son. Fear not; the bloodline is not broken. The oracle never lies. Return to your home, woman, and disturb me no more. My patience with you now wears thin.”
The witchdoctor waved me away with a casual flick of his hand, as if I were no more than a troublesome gnat, as if he hadn’t just destroyed my life with his words, as if the death of an innocent child by his actions was no more than a splash of water on a Sunday gown. I stumbled out of his hut and into the warm blackness of the night. My body was shivering uncontrollably. My heart was pounding painfully, and a loud voice kept screaming, no! no! no! inside my head. What have I done? Oh dear Jesus, what have I done?
✦✦✦
Following Nwanna’s death, Enu and the three fat sisters called several meetings of the clan to air their suspicions and vent their rage. The clansmen consulted several witchdoctors, who all pointed their fingers at me. They said that the curse of Queen Ill-fortune had been brought upon the family by my actions when my son died. They claimed that I had an unholy union with some powerful deities which defied their own powers. The house of Agu, son of Onori, was a doomed one. The only way to break the curse was to sever my link to the family.
The elders reached a decision that I was to be sent back to my father’s house without delay. I read the fear and repulsion in their averted eyes as they told me my fate. The only eyes that held no fear was Enu’s. If hatred alone could kill, I would have been struck dead in seconds. Her eyes were the only gaze I could not hold in that large gathering of clansmen and clanswomen.
Our husband vetoed their ruling, telling them in no uncertain terms that I was his wife of no regrets, as he put it. He said that if anyone was to leave his house, it was Enu, not I. I heard Enu’s sudden gasp, echoed by the rest of the family at Agu’s words. His unusual stance confirmed all their suspicions but there was little they could do but wait, scheme, bide their time.
Until the day Agu finally succumbed to the infection that had journeyed from his deformed Amu to his veins, poisoning his blood and stealing his breath. He died in my bedroom, right on my bed, still trying to mount me even as death pulled him to its black door. The last words I heard from his lips were “Nkem,” repeated over and over till his speech was silenced by eternity.
And I suddenly found myself at the mercy of all the enemies I had made in that accursed village, Ukari, helpless, childless and with no- one to protect me from their collective hate. I had no one to speak for me, plead my cause and spare me from the nightmare of my ordeal in the accursed forest of Ukari and the terrifying judgement of the Tree of Truth.
✦✦✦
UKARI FOREST – 5:15 AM
Above me, heaven suddenly opens its mouth and spews down a thunderstorm on mankind. God’s eyes flash His wrath across the skies and His anger roars over the world. In seconds, I am drenched, the rain washing the matted filth and blood from my body. I raise my face to the skies. My mouth is open as I drink in God’s holy water of my salvation; real water at last, not the corpse water I’ve endured for days. The water rejuvenates me. It also rejuvenates the world of the living—and of the dead.
I see them. Suddenly, I see them in the deep gloom of the forest. They are everywhere; soulless spectres, the restless spirits of all the victims of The Tree of Truth. They crowd around the tree, howling, pleading their case, begging forgiveness for past crimes, cursing, laughing—the pitiful laughter of the insane. They fly against the tree, through the tree, around the tree. They’re drawn to the tree like moth to flame, powerless to leave the scene of their demise or the towering judge that sentenced them to sleepless eternity.
I recognise some of their faces; Ugomma the witch, Adaku the husband poisoner, one-eyed Chiadi, the child-napper and Ijeoma the night-flyer. The great tree had judged them all guilty, just as it might yet find me guilty. It seems to have a peculiar penchant for the evil souls of women. I do not want to be judged by The Tree of Truth. I fear I may not survive its wrath. I pray I do not become an unclean. Ajọ-ọfia is no place for eternal rest.
I see my son, Ebuka, hovering beyond the ring of salt. He is murky, coated in dirt and a strange darkness that renders him almost indistinct. My heart swells with delight then shrivels with terror at the look in his eyes. They blaze with hate, with rejection. He points at me, an accusing finger and I hear his voice, louder than the thunder that had heralded the storm.
“You lied to me,” he screams. “You lied! You cannot bring me back because I don’t belong to Agu’s Obi, his ancestral compound. His blood does not flow in my veins so I can never be reborn to his bloodline. I can never return anywhere. Only Nwanna can go back. His bloodline is intact. His mother is pregnant. You have doomed me to Ajọ-ọfia for eternity. I hate you, Mami, I hate you.”
I am wailing as I see my son fade into the night, the night that has suddenly turned as bright as day, lit up by the engorged moon.
Then, I see Nwanna. He flies like all the other spectres, hovering in the clearing, laughing, his voice tingling like little bells, his child’s eyes happy, innocent. They bear me no malice, no hatred for my deeds. He glows with a dazzling brightness that is almost blinding in its intensity. Then he winks out, just like a star. And I am all alone with my guilt and my shame. The rain pounds down on me, relentless, merciless.
It has all been for nothing…nothing. After everything, all my suffering, all my hopes, my plans, everything. In the end, it has all been for nothing. If only I had gone back to Pastor Brother Ezekiel rather than that accursed witchdoctor, Ogbunigwe. If only I’d been born under a brighter Chi.
I hear a rustle. My head swivels. I see the waifs melt into the Tree of Truth, disappear into the massive trunk. The bark turns a sickly grey colour and the roots begin to heave. Oh Holy Mary! The Tree is alive! It moves! My husband’s corpse stirs, sluggishly, blindly, its arms lifting, slowly. A bloated hand gropes its way to its Amu. It clasps the erect vileness and starts to yank in a grotesque act of masturbation. I gag, my stomach heaving, my muscles contracting, aching, hurting.
The head turns, silently, heavily, towards me, where I cower at the edge of the salt ring. I begin to shudder. My entire body is one continuous rattle, my teeth, my bones. Oh Holy Mary, sweet mother of God, don’t let him open his eyes, please… Keep his eyes shut…
The lids lift and I see those eyes—bloody, black. They stare at me, fix me with their dead glare. I shut my lids and cover my head with my arms. The heavens continue to pour, and I hear my moans, whimpers that sound like Agu’s dog when it is whipped for misbehaving. I hear another sound, a croak, like a strangled man’s dying gurgle. Then I hear the words, repeated over and over and over and over…
“Nkem…Nkem…Nkem…”
I jump to my feet and scream. I remember too late the salt ring, the charmed circle made by the powerful witchdoctors to keep me trapped under the Tree of Truth. I hit an invisible wall. Bright lights explode inside my head as I stumble back, falling, falling, right atop the rotten carcass of my randy husband. I feel arms encircle me, strong arms, skin slimy against mine, sleeked by decay and death.
The stench is overpowering and just as in my nightmare, I feel the hard thrust of that rotting, jutting deformity against my thighs, feel the touch of those putrid hands pushing, prising my thighs apart with a strength not of the living. The pain is excruciating, unbearable. I hear that awful gurgling sound repeat the accursed name, “Nkem” into my ears. My soul is pulled, dragged from my being by a malignant force beyond the realm of the living.
And I am screaming, shrieking. Queen Ill-fortune is cackling, crowing with unholy glee. The fat moon smiles down benignly at my unholy ravishment and impending death. God is thundering, roaring, helpless as He’s always been in the face of mankind’s tragedy. Our husband is grunting, panting. The spectres gather closer, their ashen faces greedy for my dying soul, eager to welcome me into their foul and restless fold.
From a distance, I hear the sound of the approaching villagers, murder in their voices. A small smile twists my bruised lips. They will be too late. I can already sense my soul fleeing, fighting for release from my dying body. I am happy to give it its freedom. I am ready to be judged, to end this accursed cycle and heaven willing, begin a better one. If nothing else, I shall share the same unhallowed grounds with my son and be with him for as long as the gods wish. It is a better fate than one of eternal sexual servitude to our husband, who is still panting his pleasure on my immobile, dying body. I feel nothing now, not the rain, not the pain, not even the fear.
I cast my dimming eyes at The Tree of Truth, awaiting its final judgement. But the Tree of Truth… The Tree of Truth is silent. And in its silence, I hear my judgement, my salvation. Gono’s voice, my sister’s raging voice rising above the din of the villagers, ordering the police to arrest my abusers, handcuff the lot. My heart soars, my tears flow. I feel arms around me, different arms, warmer, firmer arms, loving arms.
“It’s okay; it’s alright, my sister. You’re safe now. You’re coming home with me, you hear me?” Gono’s voice is urgent in my ears, her voice trembled by fury and pain.
I hear her. I also hear them; their unholy shrieks, their angry howls as they retreat into The Tree of Truth, disappear into the approaching dawn, The Unclean, the accursed ghouls. They will not have my soul after all, not this time… not yet. My blood will not fertilize the roots of The Great Tree; my soul will not be chained in eternal enslavement to my husband. The Tree of Truth has rendered its judgement and has deemed me worthy in the end. I am free…free…free…
I look up to the greying skies. The moon is a fading round shadow, weak, powerless. I listen for that cackle, that terrible screech of doom. But for the first time in a very long time, I hear nothing. Queen Ill-Fortune is finally still, as silent as the Tree of Truth.
Ω
A MASTERY OF GERMAN
MARIAN DENISE MOORE
Somewhere in the world, there is a man, seventy-years-old, a native New Orleanian who has never left the city except for the occasional Category 5 hurricane. He has a sixth-grade education but has always held some type of paying job. However, if you ask him a question in German, he will answer you without hesitation in an accent reminiscent of the region around Heidelberg. I still remember watching one of our Belgium-born board member’s eyes widen in shock as Victor—that’s his name—responded to a question in German. The executive immediately asked Victor where he had served in the army. No, he did not serve in Germany, or anywhere else for that matter, for as I said, he had rarely left the city and has never actually left the state.
Victor Johnston was sixty-five then and secure in his position as an elder, so he laughed in the manager’s face. If asked, Victor could have also told the manager what it felt like to be an eleven-year-old girl and how it felt to have your period start thirty minutes before you left for school. But the executive did not ask those questions. Their conversation was brief, so the manager didn’t notice that Victor’s vocabulary was stuck at the level of an eighteen-year-old girl, my age when my family returned to the U.S. after my father’s third tour of duty. He turned to our second trial subject and missed the problem and the promise of Engram’s newest spotlight project. That was exactly what I planned.
✦✦✦
“We need a win, Candace,” Lloyd said. He pulled his hand through his sandy hair, got up from his desk and checked the door to his office which I had already snicked closed. The move disguised his need to pace. I had struggled when describing him to my father. He was tall, but with too much nervous energy to be a golfer. I had decided on a retired track star who had graduated to the coaching ranks. He stood beside the desk now, too high-strung to sit down. Despite the chill of the room, his jacket was slung over the back of his chair.
We need a win. Translation: “I need a win.” No difference. Lloyd was my supervisor. If he won, I won.
“I thought you wanted me to hang back and shadow Helene?” I said.
“Yes, well. About that,” Lloyd sat on the edge of his desk. “I need you to take over one of Helene’s projects. She’s taking leave early.”
“Before June? Before the bonuses are calculated? Isn’t one of her projects on the spotlight list?”
I watched the flicker of annoyance cross Lloyd’s face. Poor Lloyd. Saddled with two women to mentor—even if one of them did bring him plenty of reflected glory. I was willing to become a second star in his constellation. I had moved to New Orleans because of the opportunities presented by a new and hungry company.
“Doctor’s orders,” Lloyd said. “Nevertheless, she says that she will be checking in occasionally. That should be enough to keep her from losing out on a bonus because her baby decided to raise her blood pressure.” He took another nervous pace to the door and back.
“I want you to take the Engram project,” he said. “It’s not on the company bonus timeline. But I need you to either kill it or bring it to some sort of conclusion. The technical lead is giving Helene the run-around.”
“I’ve never heard of an R&D project named Engram,” I said uncertainly.
“Because it is more research than development, I suspect,” Lloyd said, frowning. “You need to talk to the lead. I think that he told Helene that he’d gotten approval on human trials.”
Lloyd hailed his computer and directed it to send me the project plan. I felt the phone in my pocket vibrate as the new task jostled itself into my short list of responsibilities. Kill it or bring it to conclusion sounded like an execution order.
✦✦✦
I should tell you what type of company Engram was at that time. For one thing, Engram wasn’t the name. The name of the company was QND, named after Quinton Nathanael Delahousse, a MacArthur-recognized geneticist from LSU. QND was renamed Engram when it became the most successful product. When Lloyd handed me the Engram project, QND was five years old and still a startup as far as the tax laws of Louisiana were concerned. Some of the founding staff wagged that QND stood for “quick and dirty” because most of the projects were out the door faster than any other pharmaceutical company. During the first five years, most of our products were generics of existing drugs. None of them was the fame -making formulations that the Delahousse name seemed to promise. The spotlight projects were the high-risk, high-yield portfolios that QND hoped would support them after the state tax credits expired. Helene’s spotlight had been underway since the company’s founding and was finally coming to a close.
✦✦✦
I weaved my way through the alleys of cubicles on my way back to my desk. Pausing, I poked my head around one of the seven-foot walls of textured fabric. Helene looked as busy as I anticipated. She was on the phone, firmly rehearsing the steps of some procedure or another. Her voice was level, but I could see the lines around her mouth deepen as she became more annoyed. The desk was full of folders, no doubt one for me. Helene was famous for killing trees. She’d had one presentation crash and burn because of a hard drive failure one day before an implementation review.
Glancing up at me, Helene nodded and tapped a cream folder on the top of the stack. “Yours,” she mouthed.
I took the folder and retreated to my own austerer desk. I dropped Helene’s folder into an almost empty desk drawer where it could rattle around with the one pencil and a cheap ad pen. I promised myself to check it for notes in Helene’s handwriting before I shredded it.
I tapped the keyboard embedded in my desk and brought up the project timeline that Lloyd had already sent me. Within te
n minutes, I kicked my chair away and stood over the wavering image of the project plan. Pages of bullet points were followed by empty spaces. Months of deadlines blinked in red because the dates had passed with no input. Pushing the display back into the desk surface, I leaned over it and silently cursed Lloyd, Helene and the entire board structure of QND.
✦✦✦
I was still standing when a triple raps came on the metal frame of my cubicle wall. I looked up from my angry notes to see Helene. She pulled my rolling armchair toward her and lowered herself into the padded seat. Helene was ‘all baby’ as my elderly aunts would say. Her arms and legs were toned and model thin from years of yoga— she was always inviting me—and her face was the polished nectarine of a southern aristocrat framed by frosted blonde hair. The baby had concentrated all of its gravitas to her middle and she sat solidly in my desk chair with one hand perched protectively on the beach ball protrusion above her lap. Do I sound jealous? Maybe I was. It didn’t matter that it had taken four years for her to become the yardstick by which I was now judging myself.
“What do you think?” she asked, pointing through me to the display on the desk. “I suggested that Lloyd give you this project,” she added before I could answer.
“There are a lot of empty spaces in this plan,” I said carefully.
“Yes, I know.” Helene’s eyes seared the surface of my desk pointedly. “There’s more in the folder that I gave you. Desmond’s not fond of filling out status reports. I have to drag information out of him every week. Maybe he will respond better to you.”
I felt my back tense, but I retained my casual posture. And why would he respond better to me?
“When is your last day?” I asked instead. “Lloyd said that you will brief me on the project. Why is it so open-ended? That isn’t QND’s standard procedure.”
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