Unravelled (36 page)

***

The next night, after the wedding festivities are over, I climb into bed and lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling. I’m exhausted, but I need to conduct an experiment. I need to know whether I can reach out to John Kubega the way he reached out to me. I need to know if this channel runs both ways.

I reach out across the ether, seeking him. He’s slipped back into hiding for now. I relax against my pillow, close my eyes and hold his image in my thoughts. It’s just the image from the identikit, but it’s all I have. I don’t know whether he can hear me. I don’t feel his presence, but I decide to try anyway.

I will find you,
I tell him, the words clear as a bell in my head.

It takes a moment for his reply to reach me. I feel that cold thread slip into my head again, and block it before it moves past the surface.

I know.

He was close, then, waiting to hear from me. I grit my teeth in frustration. That tells me nothing. He still has the power – he’s still the one in control.

I will fight you.

His response is laced with pride.
I know.

And I will win.

No, you will not.
His tone is indulgent, like a father speaking to an overly ambitious child. My hands clench into fists beneath the covers.
You are young and headstrong, and must earn your crown. Goodbye for now. I’ll be watching.

He withdraws quickly, leaving my pulse racing. Earn my crown? What does he mean?

***

I don’t hear from the Puppetmaster again, and my attempts to reach him fail dismally. Dad and I return to Gaborone on Sunday, and before lunchtime the taxi pulls into our street.

Dad gets out his wallet as the taxi slows down, and I look outside at the familiar sights. The corner tuck-shop, the black dog from across the road that is always basking in the sun in front of the gate, the big thorn tree near our house…and a beat-up Toyota Venture, parked inside our yard behind Dad’s car.

I suck in my breath. “Dad!”

“Hmm? What’s the…” His expression turns stormy. “The nerve of the man,” he mutters.

I leap out of the taxi as soon as it comes to a stop and run to the gate. We left it padlocked, but the chain and lock are nowhere in sight.

“Wait!” calls Dad. “Connie, a little help, please?”

I turn back to the taxi to help with the bags, almost hopping with impatience. Ntatemogolo is home!

“Why the devil would he be here while we’re away?” Dad grumbles as the taxi drives off. “And how did he even get in?”

“Let’s go ask him.” I’m dying to get inside and make sure it really is Ntatemogolo.

I lift the latch and take a wary step into the yard, then stop short. A sudden cold, wet sensation comes over me, like being licked by a giant dog. It dissipates quickly, but leaves behind a faint pulsing beat that throbs in my head. Uh-oh.

I go on ahead, Dad at my heels. The Venture is covered in dust, mud, bird droppings and leaves. The house is quiet and the curtains are drawn, but the front door is ajar.

Dad pushes past me irritably. “What in the world…?”

“Dad, wait!”

It’s too late. He marches into the house. I rush in after him and stop dead in my tracks. The house is barely recognisable. Every available surface is buried beneath notes and maps and diagrams, and various bits of magical paraphernalia. But that’s not the problem. The problem, which Dad responds to by dropping his luggage, eyes agog, is the two men facing off on the living room carpet.

I say two men, but really it’s two versions of one man – Ntatemogolo. They stand on opposite sides of the coffee table, staring each other down. Around them is a reddish film that resembles a sheet of cellophane. I reach out to touch it with my hand, but it crackles fiercely and I yank my hand out of harm’s way. The second time I approach I use my gift. The film sticks to my mind like tape, then peels off, leaving my thoughts tacky and hazy. I shake my head to clear the mist. This feels like the Puppetmaster’s work.

I send a worried glance in Dad’s direction. He’s standing stock still, staring at the spectacle before us. Slowly the shock wears off and gives way to fear. He backs away, hands scrabbling behind him for support. I’m not sure what I can do for him now, so I turn my attention back to the war of wills. I can’t tell who’s winning, but more importantly, I can’t tell who’s who. They are identical, down to the uncombed hair and wrinkled shirt.

“Ntatemogolo!”

No one answers. Their eyes are glazed over, as though they’re in some kind of trance. The Puppetmaster must be playing one of his mind games, and my grandfather is trapped inside it. I cast my eyes around me for a weapon, something I can use to break the barrier, but there’s nothing. No, hang on – the anklet. My gaze drops to my feet. The barrier must be protecting the Puppetmaster from the power of my anklet. The only way to shatter his shape shifting illusion is to get past the barrier. I inch towards it.

“C-C-Connie, d-don’t!” Dad hisses, but I have to do something.

I’m close enough to feel the static when I sense a cold thread at the base of my neck, and the Puppetmaster slides smoothly into my head.

Hello, Conyza. Welcome home.

Damn it, why can’t I ever keep him out? Even with the anklet protecting me, he’s too strong!

Did you ever doubt my power? You are no match for me, my dear. Not yet.

My eyes scan the two identical faces in front of me. Neither has shifted as much as a muscle.
Let my grandfather go.

I have no wish to hurt him. I came to have a civilised conversation and he attacked me with his clever little spells. I had to defend myself.

Well, you’ve proved your point. Let him go!

You’re angry with me.
He sighs.
Why can’t you take my actions in the spirit in which they were intended? I wanted a chance to get to know you better, and I knew you wouldn’t accept me in my own form.

Let him go!

I’d be happy to. On one condition.

Ah, there it is. He didn’t come here to see Ntatemogolo. He came to see me – or to make sure I saw
him
. It’s another move on his chessboard, designed to push me into a corner so he can score his checkmate. He’s manipulating me again.

You give me no choice, you know,
he says, almost apologetic.
You’re so stubborn!

I can tell the difference now. The real Ntatemogolo is tense. His hands are clenched into fists, while the impostor is relaxed, pleased with the progress of his plan.

What’s the one condition?

I can almost hear my grandfather screaming at me to hold firm, but he knows I can’t take that risk. The Puppetmaster could kill him – and would do it in an instant, if it would further his goals. The false Ntatemogolo’s lips curl in a barely perceptible smile.

Three meetings. Face to face, at a time and location of my choosing.

Forget it,
I scoff.

The real Ntatemogolo jerks, his head lolling to the left.

One meeting!
I concede.

Three, Conyza. You can wear your precious anklet if it will make you feel better. If you can handle the sight of my true form.

Two.

Ntatemogolo jerks again.

Fine! Three.

The doppelganger smiles a proper smile. A rip forms in the red film and travels downward, like a torn seam in a dress. Without its protection, the Puppetmaster’s stolen face begins to flicker and fade.

I’ll be in touch,
he promises.

I don’t respond. My throat has gone dry. I watch his features stretch like a rubber mask, see his frame swell and then snap back so suddenly I almost expect to hear a twang. Behind me Dad swears loudly, furniture scrapes across the floor and objects fall with a series of heavy thuds.

In a move too out there even for me, the Puppetmaster melts into the wall and disappears. I stare slack-jawed at the spot where he stood a moment ago, my mind scrambling. I’ve seen many an odd thing in my time, but this beats them all. The last of the red film vanishes with a pop and Ntatemogolo crumples to the floor. I start to move towards him, then turn back to see Dad gripping the table, his face ashen. For a fraction of a second I’m torn. Ntatemogolo solves my dilemma by raising his head and inclining it in Dad’s direction. I run to Dad and wrap my arm around his waist.

“I’m dreaming,” he mutters hopefully. “I’m dreaming. Connie, I am dreaming, yes?”

“No, Dad. Come on, sit down.” I guide him to the nearest chair.

His breathing is ragged. His eyes are wide and staring. I dash to the kitchen to get him some water, but when I return he barely glances at it.

“Dad, you’re in shock,” I tell him gently. “Please have some water.”

His head turns slowly in Ntatemogolo’s direction. “It’s him. He’s done something. He’s trying to drive me crazy. It’s him!”

“Dad, no – stop – ” But he’s out of the chair, walking on wobbly legs towards my grandfather.

Ntatemogolo gets up, rubs his eyes and looks at my father.

“Y-you!” Dad stammers, pointing a trembling finger. “What did you do? Some kind of trick? You disappear for months and then…and then…”

Ntatemogolo is cool as can be. He walks to the dining table and opens the small bag lying there. He retrieves a tiny container a little larger than a coin, opens it and turns around to fling the contents in Dad’s face.

“What are you doing?” I cry out, horrified.

Dad coughs, stares, and starts to sway. Ntatemogolo and I catch him before he falls, and ease him into an armchair.

“It’s just a mild sedative,” my grandfather explains. He sighs and turns to me. “Sit down, my girl. We have a lot to discuss.”

Chapter Eighteen

The lines in my grandfather’s face have deepened these past months. His hands seem thinner, more frail, yet there is a resolve and power in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Something has changed.

“What did he do to you?” My voice is a fearful whisper.

Ntatemogolo reaches up to massage the back of his neck, wincing. “A form of paralysis. I could see and hear, but couldn’t move. An old trick, but always effective.” He looks at me. “You should not have given in to him. He wasn’t going to hurt me, not really.”

“I thought the drifters weren’t going to hurt me, but that didn’t stop Rakwena,” I counter.

Ntatemogolo raises his eyebrows. “You have a lot to tell me.”

I nod. He waves a hand for me to continue, and I take a deep breath. Where to begin? With Ntatemogolo’s “return”, I suppose. I tell him everything, stumbling a little, missing points and going back. The thread of the story gets tangled and knotted, but by the end it reveals a sort of pattern, and somehow he manages to make sense of it.

He’s quiet for a long time after I stop speaking. He sighs a few times, glances at Dad, and scratches his beard. “I am sorry,” he says finally. “If I had known what he was planning, I would have waited. I would have been more careful.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m the idiot who forgot to wear the anklet from the beginning,” I point out. “I could have avoided a lot of trouble.”

“Perhaps.” He sounds thoughtful. “Tell me again how you opened that spell box.”

I repeat the story, with a little more flair this time around. “I didn’t know I could do that.”

“I didn’t know
anyone
could do that,” he adds with small smile. “And Rakwena.” The smile fades. “You say he’s with his cell now?”

I nod, and try to ignore the painful pang in my chest. It’s been months now. Why does it still hurt?

My grandfather leans back in his chair and takes a long, deep breath.

“Where were you, Ntatemogolo? Why didn’t you come home?”

“I went to find the answer to Rakwena’s problem,” he says, with a wry smile. “For some time I had started to believe that the serum was doing him more harm than good, but I was not sure. I needed proof, a way to learn more about his kind. I had heard rumours of others like him, but nothing concrete. Then I received the call about a girl in D’Kar, almost certainly a drifter, but living among normal, ungifted people. I had to meet her.”

His face lights up. “She is…remarkable, Connie. I have never seen anything like her. She can remember everything that has ever happened to her. Everything, from as far back as infancy! She has no cell, so she is volatile, but not nearly as volatile as Rakwena was. Her family allow her to conquer, which eases her urges. After spending time with her I realised that the serum had to be destroyed.”

I gasp. “Destroyed? Isn’t that a bit drastic?”

He shakes his head. “You said yourself, Rakwena was fine without the serum. More vulnerable, a little moody, but not dangerous. The serum fundamentally changed him, changed the way his body works. I should never have administered it in the first place. His mother wanted him to be fully human, and I thought it was my responsibility to make that happen. I did not know enough about drifters then. I had heard the same rumours as everyone else – that Rakwena and his kind were a man-made aberration, victims of a disorder. And all disorders can be treated. But I was wrong, so wrong! They’re not a failed experiment or gifted deviants. They’re just a different kind of human. They were born from necessity.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell him.

He nods patiently. “Over these past few months, I have travelled to many places following the trail. Every clue led me to the same conclusion. The first drifter sightings were in places that carried the burdens of great trauma. Wars, sickness, tragedy. In these places, the negative energy multiplied to a point where the people could no longer take it, and so they started to change. It always started with one child, a child so beautiful that everyone was drawn to them. A child who somehow managed to make everyone feel a little bit better. No one realised it at first, but then something would go wrong and someone would get hurt. The tides would turn, and the child would flee. And somehow these children from different places found each other and banded together.”