Unravelled

This must be her idea – Kelly doesn’t even know my name. Amantle and I aren’t close, but we share the sort of bond only a supernatural crisis can form.

“Anyway,” says Kelly, eager to get back to the topic at hand, “it’s a China-themed party so you have to dress up.”

Wiki and I exchange surreptitious glances. I know I shouldn’t, but it’s too good to resist. I look up at Kelly. “Can I come as a chopstick?”

Her expression is priceless; one side of her face is trying to smile politely while the other side is determined to reveal her disdain. “Um, no. You’re supposed to wear…you know…red and black, martial artsy stuff, Mandarin collars and stuff with dragons. Obviously.”

I can’t read Kelly’s mind – supposedly because my dislike of her has created a psychic barrier – but I don’t need telepathy to know that she thinks I’m insane and probably dangerous. I nod, revelling in her discomfort. Serves her right for throwing a culturally insensitive party. Out of the corner of my eye I see Lebz glaring at me.

“Thanks,” she simpers. “We’ll be there.”

“Cool.” Kelly sashays away and Amantle waves goodbye and follows.

“That was strange,” remarks Wiki. “Connie, are you actually going?”

“Why not?” I turn the invitation over in my hands, amazed that anyone has the time to get things like this professionally printed.

“It’s Kelly’s party,” he reminds me. “You can’t stand her.”

I give him a serene smile. “I’m learning to be more tolerant. Besides, it’s the perfect opportunity for me to meet this Spencer character and his Cresta Crew. I’ll blend into the crowd, talk to a few people, pick up some clues.”

Lebz snorts loudly. “You? Blend into the crowd at a party? You’ll need an extreme makeover for that.” Her eyes light up.

“Forget it,” I tell her firmly. “The last time you dressed me up for a party I almost ended up as the latest name in Thuli’s little black book, remember?”

She falls silent and shrinks into the bench. Yep, she remembers. Who could forget? I try not to think about the agonizing moments I spent in Thuli’s room, but every time I see him I feel a painful stab of panic. He’s doing Form Six at Syringa, and there are only a few more months before he leaves to terrorise some unsuspecting university.

Lebz is still trying to disappear into the bench, and Wiki is biting his lip nervously. Even though the “incident” happened last year, they still tiptoe around it as if they’re afraid any mention of it will send me over the edge. I guess I could have reported it but I knew there was no way I’d win that battle, not against Thuli’s father’s money and influence. Someday, somehow, that freak-hunter will get what he deserves. Right now, though, I have other things on my mind.

“Do you think Kelly would mind if I brought Rakwena?”

“Yes,” my friends chorus, as I knew they would.

I scowl. “Fine. It’s not like he’d want to come to a stupid party anyway – he’s in university now.” I know it’s silly to feel smug about this, but I do. I’m proud of Rakwena. He’s going to wipe the floor with all those fresh-faced UB students, and when he’s a rich and smarmy physicist I’m going to be one of those insufferable gushing girlfriends.

Lebz rolls her eyes as the bell goes. She gets up and pulls me to my feet. “Forget about your wonderful boyfriend and focus on what’s really important.”

“What’s that?” asks Wiki, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder.

“What she’s going to wear to the party!”

Wiki and I exchange amused glances and the three of us make our way to class.

***

By Tuesday everyone is talking about Kelly’s party, Kelly’s boyfriend and Kelly’s unexpected approval of that strange girl in Form Five (me). I don’t think I’ve had this many glances cast my way in all my years at Syringa. Suddenly people think they should start paying attention to me because the most popular girl in school has invited me to her party. How ridiculous is that?

“Connie, you’re cool,” says Lebz in wonder as we eat our lunch.

Some girls I’ve never spoken to walk past us and smile. I stare at them, my mouth full of hot dog. “I was always cool,” I remind Lebz, when I’ve swallowed and the groupies are gone.

“Yes, but now you’re super-cool.” She beams. “Everyone wants to know why you’re suddenly part of Kelly’s crew. You’re mysterious and interesting.”

“For now,” I mutter, taking a sip of water. I will admit I have a newfound respect for Kelly. Well, sort of. Anyone who can put up with such nonsense on a daily basis must be made of strong stuff.

To my relief, by the end of the school day I’m no longer “super-cool”. It might have been the way Kelly walked right past me outside the tuck-shop that clued everyone in. As I pass a group of Form Two girls on my way down the corridor, I hear them whispering.

“No, she’s not actually friends with Kelly. She’s just sort of friends with Amantle, and you know Amantle is like a sister to Kelly, so she had to invite her.”

“I heard last year she saved Amantle’s life.”

“I heard she killed that sangoma who was trying to bewitch Amantle’s friends.”

“Didn’t you read the GC Chronicle? The guy ran away to Brazil!”

Looks like my fifteen minutes of fame are up. I make my way to the bench to wait for Lebz and Wiki. Lebz comes running, clutching an armful of magazines.

“I have some ideas for your hair,” she announces breathlessly.

Oh, no. “Didn’t we talk about this? You’re not touching my hair.”

“But –”

“You’re not touching her hair,” Wiki interjects, dropping his books on the bench.

“Thank you.” I shake my stiff halo of curls at Lebz for good measure. She pouts but doesn’t protest.

“Can you ladies trade beauty tips later? We’re supposed to be going over that Maths past paper.” Wiki glances at his watch. He still insists on wearing a quaint, old-school leather-strap watch, even though there’s nothing wrong with the clock on his cell phone.

We organise a few snacks from the tuck-shop and head to an empty classroom to work. Studying is not fun. Anyone who says otherwise is either a liar or related to Wiki. Nevertheless, I’m determined to prove to Rakwena, Dad and myself that English is not the only subject I can do well in. I have low expectations for Maths, but the others look promising. Let’s just say I might not be a C-average student forever.

***

When I get home I find Dad sprawled across the sofa, dead to the world. He’s fully dressed and his briefcase and keys are on the armchair, so he must have headed straight for the couch when he arrived. Poor thing – he must be exhausted, but his neck is twisted at a terrible angle and I know if I don’t do something he’ll wake up aching.

I approach quietly and shake him. “Dad?”

After a few more shakes, he opens his eyes. “Oh…hi, love,” he mumbles. “You’re home.” He closes his eyes again. A second later he springs to life, leaping off the sofa and nearly knocking me over. “You’re home! What time is it?”

I glance at the wall clock. “Just after five.”

“Five?” he croaks in horror. “But…don’t you finish school at quarter to three?”

I frown at him. “I have study sessions and clubs, remember? Are you OK?”

“Right. Yes.” He removes his glasses and wipes them on his shirt, then puts them back on. “I just didn’t realise it was so late. I have a mountain of work to do.”

“Have you eaten?”

He thinks for a moment. “I don’t think I have, darling. I forgot all about food.”

Poor Dad. “Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll make us something? Then we can sit down and talk.”

“Talk?” He gulps. “Why? Are you all right?”

“Yes, but you’re not.” I give him a stern look so he knows I’m not going to be dissuaded.

“A shower sounds good,” he mutters, and shuffles off to the bathroom.

I drop my things on a chair at the dining table and head to the kitchen to see what’s what. Sometimes Auntie Lydia cooks or sets things out for me to prepare, but today the countertops are bare. There’s some leftover pasta in the fridge, so I whip up a quick pasta and tuna salad and by the time it’s ready Dad is back in the living room, dressed in an old tracksuit.

“Looks good,” he says with a smile, as I deposit a plate in front of him.

“Thanks.” I curl up in the armchair and balance my bowl on my knees. “Feeling better?”

He nods, his mouth full.

“Good. What exactly is this big project you’re working on, anyway?” I take a huge bite and watch him expectantly.

He swallows, then promptly stuffs his mouth again so he doesn’t have to answer.

“Dad?”

He swallows again. “It’s about, uh, indigenous knowledge systems. It’s an investigation of different indigenous plants and their properties, how they’re used traditionally, and so on.”

My fork has almost touched my lips. I lower it back into the bowl and stare at my father. I can read him like a billboard; he’s dying to change the subject. “Do you have any help on this project?”

“I have research assistants. Well, I will, once I find time to look over the applicants. The project won’t begin officially till next year, but there’s so much prep work to do. I’ll be working with people from Salinger, so I’m not entirely on my own.”

“Shouldn’t you be working with the local traditional healers?”

He gets a funny look on his face and decides to finish the last of his pasta before responding. Ah. I see it now; the little piece of information he’s trying to hide from me. If only he knew what an open book he is.

I lean forward. “The Salinger Institute doesn’t expect you to do this alone. They expect you to find a local expert to help. Right?”

He leans into the cushions, his plate empty. “They made…a recommendation. But since I have a bit of time before I’m due to start, I’m considering my options.”

“Your options.”

He knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Connie, I know exactly what you’re thinking – ”

“I’m thinking you’re self-sabotaging!” I interrupt, exasperated. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground because you’re too proud to ask for help!”

“I have no trouble asking for help,” he bristles.

“Just not from Ntatemogolo.”

Dad sighs. “The project supervisor at Salinger only spends a few months in Botswana every year – she doesn’t know how things work around here. If you’re somewhat well-known and well-respected, yours is the name that pops into people’s heads, but that doesn’t mean you’re necessarily the best person for the job.”

Eish, sometimes I wonder who’s supposed to be the kid in this house. “Ntatemogolo is the best person for the job, and you know it. That’s why it’s taking you so long to consider your options.” I put my bowl on the coffee table. “He knows all the traditional healers, he knows about local plants and traditional medicine…I can’t believe you!”

“Watch your tone,” he snaps, but he’s only irritated because I’ve caught him out. “Your grandfather is not a biologist, nor is he a traditional doctor, even if he wants to call himself one.”

“Dad!”

“Enough, Connie!”

I can’t believe this. I know my father can be pig-headed when it comes to Ntatemogolo, but this is just ridiculous. “You’re cutting off your nose to spite your face, or whatever. You need him, and if the two of you work together you could get so much more done! This project could be great for both of you, and – ”

“Conyza!” Oops. It’s his don’t-mess-with-me-I’m-your-father voice. “I am not discussing this with you.”

“But – ”

“You can analyse me when you have a degree in psychology, and not a moment before!” His jaw is twitching. He’s really angry now. “Go to your room.”

I hesitate. “The dishes – ”

“Just leave the bloody dishes and go to your room!”

I get up in disgust, march over to pick up my school stuff and then storm across the corridor to my room.

“And don’t even think about slamming that – ”

I fling my door shut with a bang, drowning out the rest of his idle threat, then lock it just to piss him off. Ugh! I throw my bag on the floor, tug off my uniform and change into my pyjamas. I was planning to study a little, but I’m too upset to concentrate. Ray Bennett is the most unreasonable man on the planet! Hating my grandfather is one thing, but doing everything on his own because he’s too friggin’ proud to ask Ntatemogolo for help is sheer stupidity.

I throw myself on my bed with a sigh, wishing Rakwena was here. On my bedside table is a large crystal the size of a fist. Right now it’s dull and lifeless. I reach out and pick it up. Rakwena gave it to me for my birthday as a symbol of our crazy connection; he has one exactly like it. 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. Paper is difficult. Ceramics, wood, metal and stone are the easiest materials to read, followed by natural fabrics, followed by synthetics and plastic. Paper gives me trouble because I always approach it with my mind instead of my gift.

He hands it to me. “Slowly, Connie. Don’t cheat.”

My first instinct is to unfold it and search for the words that must be on it, because that’s what you do with paper – you write on it, you read it. I have to stop myself, take a breath, and change the way I look at it. It’s not a letter or a page from a book. It’s an object like all the others, like a cup or a piece of cloth. In the semi-dark room the white of the paper looks dull grey. I’m trying to look with my other eyes, but my head keeps getting in the way, telling me there’s nothing to see because the paper is blank.

I drop the paper so my frustration won’t taint it.

“It’s OK,” my grandfather says gently. “Try again.”

I close my eyes as I hold out my hand, so the words on the page won’t distract me. The page is small, just a little larger than my palm. For a moment I feel the usual resistance, but I push it aside and focus on the texture of the paper against my fingers. And then I sense it – anxiety. It starts as a small, nagging twitch in my stomach and then blossoms, spreading through my torso, making my heart race and my muscles knot up. I drop the paper and open my eyes, gasping.

“Well?”

“He’s worried about something.” I reach up to rub my shoulder, which suddenly feels like I’ve been lifting cement blocks. “Very worried. Panicked, tense. He’s been worried for a long time, too – it’s making him sick. His body is…” I pause to find the right words. “Fighting itself.” Now my gift takes a step back and my intellect takes over. “Is he dying?”

Ntatemogolo laughs. “You’ve never done that before,” he says in delight, leaning forward to pick up the small page. “You made a deduction based on what you felt. Usually you just feel and leave the thinking out of it. What made you switch?”

I shrug, still tense. “It just happened. It seemed…I don’t know…necessary. Am I right, though? He has some kind of terminal illness?”

“He does. And yes, he is a very anxious man – he always has been.” He beams at me. “You’re getting very good at picking up gender signals, too.”

I return the smile, feeling rather proud of myself.

He looks at his watch. “That’s enough for today. You did very well, my girl. You finally broke through your paper barrier.”

He’s right – I made progress. I’m pleased, but my sense of achievement is ruined by a nagging concern. “Thank you, Ntatemogolo.” I hesitate before speaking again. “Will you please do something for me?”

“Of course. Unless it has to do with your father.”

Eish. I wish he’d leave the mind-reading to me. I get to my feet with a sigh while he empties the bag in preparation for purification. “Never mind. I’ll see you next week.”

His phone buzzes. I jump at the sound; usually he leaves it in the living room when we’re practising so it doesn’t disturb us. He glances at the message and inhales sharply.

“Bad news?” I ask.

“No – just the opposite.” His teeth are tinged green by the light of the phone. “It might be the news I was hoping for.” He gets up, suddenly in a frightful hurry. “Connie, I have to go out of town for some time.”

“Right now?” I follow him out of the consultation room and linger in the doorway as he rushes into his bedroom.

“Yes.” His voice is muffled. “Something very urgent has come up. I must see to it immediately.”

I shrug. I’m used to his frequent trips. If he’s not called away to help solve a magical mystery, he’s off doing research or investigating some unexplained occurrence. “OK. How long will you be gone?”

“I am not sure.” He emerges from the room clutching a duffel bag. “You’ll be fine?”

I nod. His eyes are shining. It really must be good news. I’m curious now, but I don’t dare ask. There’s a lot he shares with me, but most of the work he does for clients is confidential.