Unravelled (37 page)

“The bond,” I whisper in wonder.

“Yes, that is exactly what I thought!” He nods, pleased by my deduction. “So you see, if I am right, the drifters are very much human, born out of human suffering to absorb the excess psychic energy we produce, energy that the ungifted are not capable of using efficiently. They are not monsters that feed off us – they
help
us. Like all living things, they have their part to play. Do you understand what this means? It means supernature works exactly like nature – one great network of interconnected beings, each one contributing in some small way to the whole!”

His excitement is infectious. “Like an ecosystem.”

“Yes! A supernatural ecosystem that works in conjunction with the material one. When something is needed, nature provides it. For so long those who study the supernatural have thought of the material and the supernatural as two worlds, linked, but separate, with separate rules. But they are one.”

There’s a long silence as I digest this information. “They don’t know,” I whisper finally. “The drifters are still not sure where they came from. You have to tell them!”

“Of course, but not yet. I have no evidence,” he reminds me. “I can’t even think of approaching the drifter council until I prove this theory, or they will never agree to see me, let alone believe me. I must return to D’Kar to visit the girl again.”

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. The implications of this discovery are tremendous. If Ntatemogolo is right, the drifters will never have to fear prejudice again – not from the gifted, anyway. The knowledge of their true origins might change their whole system! I care about all that, really, but I can’t pretend that my concern isn’t for one drifter in particular.

Rakwena will finally have proof that he is not a monster or the result of a botched experiment, but a new class of human evolved for a noble purpose. Maybe then he can fully accept his nature.

“That is not the only discovery I made.” Ntatemogolo’s voice startles me.

I frown at him. “What do you mean?”

He sighs and looks directly into my eyes. His gaze is so intense I flinch. “I think I know who the Puppetmaster is.”

“What?” I glance at Dad and lower my voice, but my heart is beating so loudly I won’t be surprised if it wakes him. “How?”

Ntatemogolo looks tired and haggard, wearier than I’ve ever seen him. “I did not think it was possible, but…it must be. When he came today he wore my face, but I felt that I knew him, and now I’m sure. I’ve met him before. Years ago.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “He’s been watching us. All of us. You, me, probably Rakwena. From the very beginning. The first time I met him I had just won a government scholarship to study in the US. Before I left there was a party at the home of a prominent American historian – he was my mentor, the one who had helped me get the scholarship. I met a lot of people at the party, but one of them stayed with me all these years. A man. Ordinary-looking, short, with glasses. We had a long, engaging discussion about folklore. He was brilliant, very knowledgeable and very interested in me. I never got his name, but I remember the way I felt in his presence. I was sure he was gifted, and I wanted so much to ask, but he slipped away before I could.

“Years later, after I came home and married your grandmother, I met him again. Your grandmother and your mother had accompanied me on a trip to Angola, and once again I met him at the home of a friend. Your mother was about six or seven at the time. He still seemed very interested in my life, but again he slipped away before I could get his name or find out anything about him. Your mother didn’t like him at all. She said he made her feel as if he was looking inside her. I knew then that he had to be gifted, but I never saw him again.”

I ponder for a while. “But what makes you think he was the Puppetmaster? He could have been any gifted person.”

Ntatemogolo nods. “True. He wore a different face then. I could have dismissed it as a chance encounter, but your mother met him many years later. The same man. She remembered him because of the way he had made her feel as a child. The second meeting bothered her so much she told me about it when I came home to visit. She was especially concerned because she was pregnant with you at the time and he showed far too much interest in the pregnancy.”

A shiver moves through me, and I think of the milk tooth the Puppetmaster has kept all these years. I thought his interest in me was a result of my ability to interfere in his plans, but now it seems I may be part of his plans. “You’re saying he’s been watching our family since you were my age?”

“Perhaps longer.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Ntatemogolo begins another story. “When Rakwena and his mother sought me out in Peru, I had nothing to offer them. I knew nothing of drifters. But a strange thing happened. Not long after I replied to their letter, telling them I would see what I could do, I heard of a powerful medicine the village medicine men were using for their patients. It was said to drive out evil spirits. I grew curious and went to find out more. It was clear to me that the medicine was not what they thought it was – what they called evil spirits were everything from ulcers and ordinary mischief to volatile gifts. The medicine weakened the patients, increasing their psychic energy but decreasing their ability to use it. Instantly I saw the potential. I found out how to make the medicine, and when Rakwena and his mother came to see me in person I gave him a small dose.”

“Wait,” I cut in. He glares at me, but he’s going to have to forgive this interruption. “You mean you didn’t make the serum yourself?”

He frowns. “No. Where did you get that idea?”

“When the Puppetmaster was impersonating you, we talked about the serum,” I explain. “He said he developed it. Meaning
you
developed it. Why would he want me to think that?”

“A slip of the tongue. He was referring to himself, not me.” Ntatemogolo smiles. “You see, this is what I am trying to tell you. The serum is not your typical traditional brew. It is sophisticated, created with consummate skill and painstaking care. It seemed far beyond the capabilities of an ordinary medicine man. They deal in herbs and old earth magic, but the serum is different. The medicine man assured me the recipe had been in his family for generations, but I knew it must have been given to them by a stranger. It did not matter much – it served the purpose and the villagers displayed no side effects. Of course, there were no drifters in the village.”

I close my eyes for a moment, the thoughts rushing too fast in my head. “You think the Puppetmaster made the serum and gave it to the villagers?”

He nods. “I think he created it especially for Rakwena, to change him into what he is now. Part-drifter, part-human, part something else.”

A horrible thought creeps into my head. “The connection between me and Rakwena – that’s not natural. It’s because of the serum, isn’t it? If Rakwena had never taken it, if he had grown up like the other drifters, I wouldn’t have the same effect on him. When he touched me it would hurt, just like the others.”

Ntatemogolo hesitates, then nods slowly. “That is what I suspect. I believe the Puppetmaster’s plan involves more than just an army of bewitched ungifted soldiers. I think it also involves a powerful telepath and a telekinetic drifter. I think he has a role for you, my girl, and one for Rakwena, and he put the plan in motion long before either of you were born. When he came to that first party to meet me, he was searching for something. He didn’t find it, so he came back when your mother was little. Again he didn’t find it, and he returned once more, to search the next generation. This time he found it.”

“What?” My voice is a strangled whisper. I can feel my body trembling, and rubbing my arms isn’t helping. “What did he find?”

Ntatemogolo shrugs. “I don’t know. A telepath, perhaps. A very special telepath. I have no idea what the man wants, my girl, but if he has worked this hard to get it, he must want it very badly.”

The room is far too cold. I get to my feet. “We should take Dad to his room.”

Ntatemogolo nods, and the two of us lift Dad’s prone body and half-drag him to his bedroom, then lay him on the bed. I tug off his shoes and we leave him asleep on top of the duvet.

“I could be wrong,” Ntatemogolo ventures as I close Dad’s door.

“You’re never wrong.”

“I was wrong about the serum.”

Yes, he was. I cling fiercely to that. I don’t want to believe that my whole life is part of someone’s plan. I don’t want to believe that the connection between me and Rakwena is a product of the Puppetmaster’s brilliant and twisted mind rather than kismet. I like kismet!

Besides, no one would go to all that trouble. Decades of plotting, putting things in motion, just to end up with a stubborn telepath and a reluctant drifter? No. Impossible. Which means, in my world, it could very well be true.

***

Dad wakes up around three. He wanders into the living room, where Ntatemogolo and I are busy tidying up. He lingers in the doorway, hair dishevelled, expression blank.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“You mean after your grandfather drugged me?” He can’t even summon a trace of bitterness. His voice is dull, lifeless, all the energy drained from him.

“You were hysterical,” Ntatemogolo explains. “The shock was too much for you. Seeing something like that can be highly traumatic.”

Dad exhales slowly. “So it was real. Everything I saw. The two…the two yous.”

Ntatemogolo nods.

Dad clears his throat and takes a few cautious steps into the room, then pulls a chair towards him and lowers himself onto it. “Tell me. There is an explanation, of course. Magic and monsters, no doubt. Tell me.” The dullness is quickly fading, and a note of anger has crept into his voice. “It appears I’ve been left out of the loop.”

“Dad, I tried to tell you.” The flash of fury that crosses his face tells me I’ve said the wrong thing, as usual.

“And I didn’t listen, stubborn scientist that I am. Well, I’m all ears now, I assure you.”

No one speaks. I have no idea what to say, and Ntatemogolo seems to be weighing his options.

“Tell me!” Dad bellows suddenly, pounding a fist on the table. “Tell me how the devil I saw two identical versions of my father-in-law standing in my living room, surrounded by a bloody magic force field, or whatever it was! Tell me!”

I glance at Ntatemogolo, hoping he has more of that sedative on hand, but he makes no move towards his bag of tricks. Maybe he thinks it’s best Dad gets it out of his system. Ntatemogolo meets my gaze and raises his eyebrows. I nod.

“Can you stop with the bloody signals?” Dad protests furiously. “No more secrets!”

“Are you sure you want to get involved in our mumbo-jumbo?” asks Ntatemogolo, and Dad’s face reddens. “Very well. You can’t protect Connie if you have no idea what is at stake. So I will tell you. And you will listen. Whether or not you believe is another matter.”

Dad purses his lips, but I can sense his fear. I put down the stack of papers I was sorting and drop onto the nearest chair.

“First things first,” says Ntatemogolo. “I apologise for invading your house. Mine has been…compromised, and I needed a safe place to work. The man you saw impersonating me is called John Kubega. A false name, probably. Connie calls him the Puppetmaster because he is famous for using mind-control to get people to do his bidding.”

“Wait – I know that name,” Dad interjects, glancing at me.

I nod. “He was in the papers last year, for bewitching – um, brainwashing – a group of girls.”

“But that was nothing compared to what he has achieved since,” says Ntatemogolo, and proceeds to tell Dad everything. He doesn’t sugarcoat it, doesn’t leave anything out. From my telepathy to Rakwena’s past to the Puppetmaster’s recent antics, the whole story comes tumbling out like an epic folktale, so outrageous that I almost forget it’s my life.

Dad listens. He doesn’t interrupt again, but sits, soaking up the tale, emotions flickering across his features. He’s guarded, but I can still read him. He’s confused, annoyed, sceptical, outraged, then confused again. Underneath all that is a constant current of fear. I remember that fear. I used to experience it when I was young and heard stories about people using their gifts for evil. You hope it isn’t true. You dismiss it as gossip. But you’re still afraid, because on some level you know it’s more than gossip.

There’s a long silence after Ntatemogolo’s story is over. Dad runs a hand through his hair. “Everything you have just said is impossible. You know that, right?”

Ntatemogolo shrugs. “I know what I experience. I can’t know anything beyond that. You also know what you experience. What did you experience when you entered the house earlier?”

“An illusion,” Dad replies automatically. “Like a stage magician’s trick.”

Ntatemogolo shrugs again. “Perhaps it is an illusion. Perhaps everything is an illusion. Perhaps this conversation, your entire life is an illusion. It is possible. Nevertheless, you are participating in it, and you must see it through. And even illusions have rules.”

“But…” Dad scrambles after the last car in the logic train rapidly pulling out of his station. “But there must be a reasonable explanation! Everything has a reasonable explanation.”

Ntatemogolo sighs and looks at me as if to indicate that he’s done his best. I turn to face Dad. It’s my turn now. The words flee, scared off by his defiant rationalism. What do I say? How do I convince him? Maybe I shouldn’t try to convince him. Maybe I should just talk, and hope he catches some meaning along the way.

“I don’t know how this stuff works,” I admit. “I don’t know how I can read minds or how Ntatemogolo knows the things he knows. I don’t know how a few words can make reality shift. I don’t know how a man can turn himself into another man. Like you said, there’s an explanation, but right now none of us have it. All we know is that stuff happens. When you throw a ball, it falls. When you boil water, it turns to steam. When I focus on you, I can read your thoughts. When the Puppetmaster decides to look like Ntatemogolo, his cells transform. It happens. Just like anything else in the world, magic happens, and some people can manipulate it.