by Tracy Deonn
She sits down across from me and rubs her palms down her pants.
“Just for a minute, I promise. Then we’ll go inside.” My mother’s eyes flick over my head, like she’s looking at someone behind me. I turn to follow her gaze, but she presses fingers to my chin and turns me back. “Look at me, Bree. Then we can go inside and get fried Twinkies.”
“Okay!” I say, and bounce again.
My mother pushes out a short, fast breath, and her gaze sharpens on mine. “Mommy has to say something hard to someone else, like a speech, but I need your help practicing first. Is that okay? Will you help me practice? Mommy’s going to say a lot, and I just want you to listen for now, okay? Like the silent game.” I nod, and she reaches for my head and pulls it gently down so she can kiss the crown of my hair. “Good girl. Thank you.”
In the memory her eyes glisten with emotions I’m too young to parse, but now I can see the determination there, and the fierce pride.
“Okay, here we go.” She takes a deep breath. “Bree, if you’re seeing this again, it’s because I’m not with you.”
My younger self opens her mouth to ask what she means, but my mother shakes her head. “Silent game, remember? I’m just practicing. I know it’s confusing.”
I nod again.
Just practicing.
“I am so, so sorry, because the pain you’re in right now is pain I know well, and I hate that I’ve caused it. I hope my old charm bracelet gives you some comfort. You can’t stop sneaking into my room and playing with it at the moment, so I told your dad that I wanted it to be yours one day. I hope he gave it to you right away, but knowing him… it might take a while.”
My mother smiles fondly, but I can see the sadness there. An awareness of what my father would go through after her death. She knew she would die.
She sits back and takes another fortifying breath. “I’m going to tell you what my mother told me. Bree, we descend from a line of Rootcrafters. Black folk who can borrow power from our ancestors and use it to heal, or to speak to the dead, or protect others, or divine the future, and more. I use my power to manipulate plant energy for healing and medicine.”
I can’t help it. I interrupt her. “Magic? Like spells?”
“Not spells.” She presses a thumb over her laughing mouth. “Just listen for now, okay? Do that for Mommy? Usually, I would be the one to help you with your Rootcraft, just like your grandmother helped me with mine, and her mother helped her with hers, but things are”—she looks away for a moment, shakes her head—“different for you than they were for me. As far as all practitioners know, if a child has a branch of root, that branch—that gift—manifests early. Five, maybe six, with some small, accidental crafting. That’s how it happened to me. It’s how it happened to your grandmother. When you turned six, I took you to that nice woman who lived in the country. Do you remember her? Ms. Hazel? She has a special gift too, where she can see light and energy around someone. I asked her if she saw the craft in you, and she didn’t.”
I make a sad face and cross my arms. This speech sure seems like it’s for me.
“Believe it or not, not having root isn’t a bad thing for our family,” my mother says with a wry smile. “I thought maybe our string of bad luck was broken. I’m still holding out hope for that. I want nothing more than for you to have a happy, healthy, normal life.
“But…” She sighs, and her eyebrows draw in tight. “I’m telling you all of this now as a fail-safe—a ‘fail-safe’ is a plan, B, like ‘just in case’—because, up until now, the women in our family have never been just regular Rootcrafters. We have something else even more special inside us that we keep secret just in our family. A gift that only we know about, because other Rootcraft users wouldn’t like what we have.”
Bloodcraft. She means Bloodcraft.
She takes another shaky breath and grabs my hand, leaning down to fix me with a stare. Her dark eyes bore into mine as if I’m an adult, not a child.
“Bree, if you’re hearing this a second time, then you already know what I’m talking about. The subtle, persistent abilities, like the one you just used with my bracelet: enhanced sight that lets you see things that other people can’t. A heightened sense of smell, touch, hearing, even taste, when it comes to the root in our world. Certain enchantments that work on other people won’t work very well on you, if at all. These passive abilities allow us to detect an encounter with root—or magic, or aether, or whatever another practitioner may call it—and avoid it, if you choose to. And there’s nothing wrong with that, Bree, nothing at all, because the most important thing you can do in this world, the most necessary thing, is to survive it. You can’t do anything for anyone else if you don’t take care of yourself first. Do you understand me?”
Small me has gone still, but I nod.
“Good. Now, I think of these abilities like fight or flight. This first group allows you to flee if you need to, but if you choose to stand your ground, if you choose to fight… well, our gift will help with that, too. But before I talk about that, I want to talk about the cost of these abilities. The reason we don’t tell other Rootcrafters what we can do is because this power was done through Bloodcraft—where power was taken forever, not borrowed. Someone, somewhere in our bloodline, bound all this power to our bodies, Bree, and I don’t know who or how. Your grandmother didn’t know either. As best we can tell, the last of us who knew where these powers came from died in childbirth, so she couldn’t pass it on to her daughter, which brings me to my next point.…
“The reason they call Bloodcraft a curse is because the universe will come calling for its payment in one way or another. And for our family, that cost is that the power can only live in one daughter at a time. Maybe it’s because all that power burns us out, I don’t know, but none of us get very long with our mothers. Each mother’s final act is to pass these abilities on to her daughter. Which is how I know that if you’re hearing this now, it’s because you have it. And if you have it, I am gone. I know you’re thinking it, but it’s not your fault I left you, just like it wasn’t my fault that my mother left me. I know you have those feelings now, but don’t let them sour inside you. Let the pain be a part of you, but know that it’s not all you are. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
A sob from a small chest. Mine.
My mother pulls me from the bench and holds me in her arms. “Oh, don’t cry, baby. This is just me practicing. I’m still here. I know it’s confusing.”
“I don’t want you to go…”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here in front of you. I need you to be brave while I tell you the rest of this story. Can you do that for me? Okay? Thank you.
“I said fight or flight, right? The fighting part will only happen when you really need it to, when you’re angry or upset enough and you can’t escape. It happened to me one time and one time only. I saw something at school that I couldn’t ignore: innocent people getting hurt. I made a choice to fight, baby, and it was worth it. I’d do it again if I had to. But a consequence of that choice is that I’ve had to hide myself since then from people who don’t understand who we are or what we can do. And that’s why, if there’s any chance you don’t have these abilities, I’m gonna do all I can to hide this from you. Because if you don’t know any of it, then maybe they won’t find you. Maybe you won’t be drawn to that school the way I was. But that’s also why I’m telling you now, in a way that means you’ll only hear it if and when you absolutely need to understand who we are.
“I won’t say that what I did back then was a mistake. I’d do it again if I had to. I think the mistake was in letting the anger and guilt from my mother’s death soak into my bones so deep that I lost a part of myself. I’m working on it. I’m trying.
“I want you to know that you are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. You’re already more of a warrior than I ever was. I believe with all my heart that if you want to, you can change the world.”
She takes both of my hand
s in hers and squeezes our fingers together as if to push her love into me by touch.
“When the time comes, if it comes, don’t be scared. Fight. Take risks. Follow your heart. And move forward.”
My mother squeezes her eyes shut, and when they open, they’re glassy with tears. She looks over my head again and gives a subtle nod. “And she won’t remember any of this until… after?”
“No.” A woman’s voice says from directly behind me. I turn again, but my mother’s hand shoots out, gripping my shoulder hard before I can see who’s there.
“Bree, Bree, look at me, baby,” she says quickly. “Just look at me.”
The last thing I see is my mother, holding me still while she whispers, “I love you.”
* * *
I come back from the memory on my knees. All of it, every word and image and sound, is there now, like a file in a drawer. Like something I’ve always possessed but didn’t have the key to open. The flame on the bracelet in my hands dies down, but her message echoes in the air around me. I let the words flow through me and over me until my eyes close and I’m full of her words.
Move forward.
That’s the message my mother planted in my mind for the moment I’d most need to hear it.
When I open my eyes, I know what I need to do.
43
THE AIR IN the cemetery is charged. Unsettled. Even the leaves on the trees stir and shiver, like the whole place knows I’m here for root.
I wait in the unmarked grave section after last class, feeling more bold than frightened.
Two figures in light jackets approach over the gravel path. I recognize Patricia immediately; as she comes closer, I can see that her scarf is a deep copper. Beside her, Mariah is in jeans and fur-topped boots, sleek poof exploding into a puff of curls that add at least eight inches to her petite height. She carries a basket of offerings, just as I’d asked.
“Bree,” Patricia murmurs, clutching me in a tight hug that soothes my nerves. “Your call scared me. You said it was an emergency? Are you all right?”
I pull back and swallow hard, take a deep breath. “I will be. Thank you for coming today. Both of you. I know the way we left things was… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for my behavior.”
Patricia tilts her head, and her eyes roam my features before she nods. “Apology accepted.”
“Same here.” Mariah shifts the basket to her other arm. “As long as you tell me what we’re doing here? Not that I don’t mind a graveyard, of course, but I don’t come to one lightly.” She peers around me. “Restless spirits follow me home if I’m not careful, then I’ve got to clean house, and it’s just a whole process… ugh.”
“I need your help to speak to someone in my family.”
Patricia and Mariah exchange glances. “Bree, what’s going on?”
I tell them about my mother’s box, and I don’t hide any of it, even the Bloodcraft. In the moment of silence after I finish, the wind picks up Patricia’s scarf, Mariah’s curls and my own.
Patricia has been studying me, and I’m worried she won’t help after all. “You deserve to know why this bargain was struck. But even though I want to, I’m afraid I won’t be of much help. Bloodcraft among our people is so shunned that those who practice it keep it secret. I don’t know how your abilities work or where they came from.”
“I know. Which is why I need to speak to an ancestor of mine who can explain. I want to know more about what I am and why.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to get lost in the past. I want to embrace it and understand.”
Mariah shrugs. “I’m down to help, but I can’t promise you’ll hear from anyone,” she warns. “And even if you do, there’s no promises about who shows up, remember? Could be your mom, could be someone else.”
I say hastily, “I actually don’t want it to be my mom. I need to go further back.”
Patricia considers this and nods slowly. “Okay, Bree.”
Five minutes later we’ve settled into a triangle, hands linked, our knees faintly touching around the offerings in the middle. Since I didn’t know what offerings my ancestors would prefer, I’d asked them to bring a small bowl of fruit, some candy, a glass of juice, and nuts. Things my mother liked and I like too.
Patricia repeats her previous instruction in a low voice. “Focus on your love for your mother, to start.”
I pull up an image of my mother from memory and there’s almost no pain, just a tiny smidge of it around the edges like a bit of burned paper. I see my mother in the kitchen, humming and mixing a bowl of deviled-egg fixin’s. She dips a pinkie in to taste and calls me over to test it too. It feels like we’re making magic. That’s how it always felt when we made food together.
Patricia whispers, “Now imagine the love stretching to your grandmother, and stretching back again.”
“Like a strong thread,” I murmur.
I hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Yes.”
I imagine the thread, thick and wound tight, from my mother to my grandmother—and it stops. I can’t go any further. I’m blocked…
By a wall.
I’ve known that this image, this internal construct of my own making, was part of my survival toolbox. I just hadn’t found any reason to take it down.
But now I do.
Now I have to.
I imagine my wall crumbling to pieces, one brick at a time. I pull down the chains, the metal, the steel. I peel it all away until I can see beyond it to find that hard, tight knot of pain in my chest, the one wrapped in layers of bright, unending fury—the part of me I call After-Bree.
And then I unwind her.
One strand for my mother.
One for my father.
One for me.
I unravel the rage until it courses through my veins like fuel in an engine. I let it become a part of me, but not all of me. Hot, scorching pain under my skin, under my tongue, under my nails. I let it spread through me—until there is no more “Before” and no more “After.”
I am her and she is me.
“I’ve got the thread,” Mariah says excitedly. “I’m following it.”
I feel warmth pulling at my fingers, like the tide of the ocean is inside me and it’s flowing out to Mariah.
“I hear someone,” Mariah whispers. “A woman.”
I take a deep breath and focus on the thread. Please, please. Please help me.
“She’s powerful. She has a lot to say,” Mariah says, her voice strained. “No, a lot to do. Oh wow, oh wow—” She stops speaking abruptly, and her fingers curl into claws around mine, squeezing the bones of my pinkie and forefinger. I open my eyes to see hers rolled back in her head, her rapid breathing.
“Mariah?” Patricia leans over, but does not break our connection. “Mariah?”
I start to call her name too, when the ocean comes rushing back through my hand so quickly that it sears up my wrist and forearms and swirls in a hot whirlpool in my chest. I cry out, but I can’t let go.
A low voice burns into my ears and onto the back of my eyelids. White curls, bronze skin, barely any wrinkles, my mother’s eyes and my own. She cracks a wry grin.
‘Took you long enough.’
* * *
It’s a strange sensation, having a whole other person inside your skin. It feels like I’m a human-shaped glass fish tank, and every step makes the water of my grandmother slosh up my sides, almost tipping over the edge.
Patricia holds on to my elbow. “Bree? Talk to us.”
“I’m…” I blink several times, in what feels like slow motion. “I’m okay. Except I feel drunk.”
‘And how do you know what being drunk is like?’ Grandmother says, jabbing at my ribs somehow.
“Ow,” I say, and grab my side. “Is it supposed to feel like this?”
Mariah shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. Possession is really rare. It’s never happened to me, personally, but my uncle Kwame gets possessed all the time. Family spirits take his body for a spin, or sometimes they sit insi
de him and the two of them just talk and fellowship awhile until the ancestor leaves.”
“Not every Medium gets possessed?” I cry, panic rising slightly.
“Nope. Mediumcraft is a branch of root with its own sub-branches. All different because ancestors themselves are different.” Mariah peers up into my eyes. “Wowwwww. I can definitely see your grandmother in there.” She stands back and raises her hand for a high five. “Welcome to Club Medium!”
I can feel my grandmother frown at her gesture, so I frown too. It all makes me a little woozy. “Thanks? I don’t understand, though. Why didn’t I find out I was a Medium when I was a kid?”
“Perhaps it’s the Bloodcraft, and the original nature of that spell. You’d have to speak to an ancestor who knows and, as your mother said, you’ll need to go back further than your grandmother.” Patricia hums speculatively. “Your mother practiced Wildcraft, which is a different branch. Different power. As a Medium, your power is wound tightly with death, and as your family’s Bloodcraft is triggered by death, perhaps the two branches intertwined in you until they became tied together in unpredictable ways. I’m afraid I’m not certain.”
Mariah cocks her head to the side. “But why didn’t both of your branches manifest when your mom died?”
The answer appears in my mind before I even finish the question. “That’s my fault.” I see the truth of it in my mind’s eye. “That night at the hospital was the birth of… this version of myself that I named After-Bree. The…” I look to Patricia, and she nods for me to continue. “The trauma created her, but I spent all of my energy containing her.”
Patricia nods. “Sometimes our brains protect us until we’re ready. The most important thing is now you know. And right now, you have help from Mrs.…?”