Unravelled

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.

“Good girl. Keep practising, and close the gate properly on your way out. Oh, and one more thing. Remember that birthday gift I gave you?”

I frown. “The chest?”

“The beaded ankle bracelet. The very old one.”

I nod.

“This might be a good time to start wearing it.”

I open my mouth to ask what he means but he shoos me away, eager to prepare for his trip. I leave him to his packing. In the corridor I reach into my pocket for my phone. It’s almost six-thirty. Dad’s probably not home, but Rakwena’s supposed to come over after work and I don’t want to make him wait.