‘Give me my daughter!’ Mremí winced as she yelled, stretching her arms towards the woman. The people of Oru were utterly ignorant of powers that weren’t of their gods and were taught to fear everything not of the sands and sun, but she wasn’t going to let that keep her from her daughter.
The midwife took another step back and glanced at the door, her hand outstretched. Her palm started to glow a deep orange as she drew on her agbára. ‘The child is gone, and a mother can’t set eyes on her dead child – our gods forbid it. Don’t come any closer.’
Mremí struggled off the floor, and every move hurt more than the last. When she tried to walk, she fell to her knees. She rose again and was nearly blinded by the light emanating from the midwife’s palm. Even from where she stood, Mremí could feel the heat quickly filling the room.
‘Not a step closer!’ the midwife warned. A moment later, the smell of smoke caught her attention: a spark of flame had blossomed from the heat in her palms and spread to the outer layers of the cloth. She cried out and shoved the child into Mremí’s arms, staggering to the corner of the room to dunk her hands into one of the clay pots filled with water. A white mist rose from it, and she exhaled slowly.
A faint cry.
Mremí locked eyes with the midwife.
The baby cried again.
‘Gods of sun and sands!’ the midwife cried. ‘What sorcery is this? The child was dead. What have you done to her?’
Mremí felt her heart tense. Hope blossomed in her chest as she realized what had happened. ‘I didn’t do this. You did. You warmed her with your agbára. My child lives. Your queen is alive.’
‘There was no heartbeat,’ the midwife said, her face full of horror. ‘Who … What … Who are you? Where do you come from?’
Mremí held her child closer to her chest.
‘Answer me! Who gives you life?’ the midwife said, her voice warbling.
‘Go and tell your High Priest that his daughter lives. Tell him that his firstborn is alive. Tell my husband that the queen is born!’
The midwife grew hysterical, ‘Ir?! You lie! This thing will never be our queen. The Holy Order will hear of the evil that runs in your blood.’
Mremí noticed the midwife glance towards the doorway and a sudden dread overcame her. The woman would report her and ruin everything. Mremí had seen people burnt alive for merely saying the names of the old gods, let alone possessing the blue, glowing eyes of her agbára – and as a wife of the High Priest, too. Holding her baby tight to her chest, she launched herself at the midwife, grabbing her by the arm. Her agbára burst out of her, the warm, prickly sensation flowing through her hands. It happened so quickly that the midwife didn’t realize what was happening to her until the sharp pain of frost bit into her skin, turning it dark and cold. She screamed and fell, hitting her head against the wall on the way down.
Mremí stared at the woman sprawled on the ground, and could only think one thing: run. She moved quickly, pulling off her blood-soaked nightgown and finding a new ankara dress from her clothes. The large búbù gown gave her room to breathe. She tied a wrapper across her waist and tucked loose pieces of fabric firmly between her thighs to stop the fluid from dripping down her legs. She wrapped her daughter in another warm cloth and limped out of the room.
Mremí stopped at the doorway, pausing to breathe. The birthing chamber was in the east wing of the temple – the birthplace of kings and queens. She closed her eyes, and tears formed in them again. Her daughter deserved to claim her birthright.
The open courtyard before her welcomed in the blood moon’s red light, and she looked up to the sky and wondered if her mother was seeing the same moon this night. If her mother knew that despite her doubts, her daughter had birthed the next queen of Oru.
She raised her baby to her face, feeling the warmth of her breath, and sighed. Mremí used the wrapper to strap the child to her back, tying a firm knot across her tummy to hold her in place. She peeped into the next room, checking that the coast was clear. All attention was on the woman at the room’s heart, suffering through her own birth. Relieved, Mremí made to run, but a loud cry stopped her short. ‘It’s a boy.’
Mremí watched the other woman cradle her son, a thought crossing her mind. Only the midwife had witnessed her powers; if she killed her, she wouldn’t have to run. No life was worth risking her people’s survival. The midwife had to die.
The faint beat of her daughter’s heart and the warmth of her skin gave Mremí more courage than she could haveimagined, more will than she thought herself capable of. She turned back towards her birthing chamber, but footsteps approached from behind – Àlùfáà-Àgbà’s robes dragged along the ground, creating an eerie, sweeping effect as he walked. His figure moved like a ghost across the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the armed temple maidens before him.
Blood rushed to her head, and the sound of her own heartbeat made her choke with fear. Her fingers tightened against her daughter and she wrapped her agbára around herself like a cloak, hiding her from view. As his lanky frame loomed nearer, Mremí saw the deep wrinkles etched into his skin as the torch flames flickered against his glowing white robes. She glanced towards her birthing chamber, the distance now too far to cover without drawing attention. Her chance was gone – the midwife would live to tell everyone what she’d seen.
Àlùfáà-Àgbà walked the length and breadth of the birthing square, coming to a stop just before the chamber of the woman whose son was still wailing from the terrors of being born. Mremí drew carefully on her agbára, concealing herself again as he drew nearer. The only thing between them was the door to the other woman’s birth chamber. Mremí stood still as ice, praying for him to walk through the doors so that she could run, but instead, he stopped in his tracks, his deep-set eyes peering into the shadows. Although no more than ten steps apart, Mremí knew that the Elder Priest couldn’t see her, not with her agbára shielding her. But she also knew that he was perhaps the most powerful priest in the kingdom, and he could probably sense her magic. As she fought the pain still coursing through her body, she heard her mother’s voice.Don’t move an inch. You’re invisible, not untouchable. You can’t be seen, but you can be struck down. Slow down your heart but don’t faint, or you will fall, and the illusion will shatter.
Her energy was slipping away. She was succumbing to thepain from childbirth, her stomach still cramped, pulling in on itself, her muscles sore and fatigued, and she felt her heart slow dangerously. At any moment, she’d fall.
Àlùfáà-Àgbà swiped slowly, grabbing at the empty space a hair’s breadth from her face. He knew something was there, and just as his hand was about to strike her illusion, the new mother called out to him from within her chamber, ‘Àlùfáà-Àgbà, come and meet your king.’ Choosing the boy over his curiosity, the Elder Priest walked into the room and his maidens followed behind him.
Mremí would later think back to this moment so often that it would drive her to the edge of madness. She’d wonder if she should’ve revealed her child as the true firstborn, if her husband’s love would’ve saved her from the Elder Priest’s wrath. But at that moment, Mremí broke the illusion and emerged from the cocoon of ice she’d hidden herself in.
And ran as fast as she could, leaving behind a crash like that of falling mirrors.
So it is you the gods sent to take my à?írí.
Sit if you must, I’ve got a lot to say and so little time. You see the sands of that hourglass dripping slowly next to you? That’s how long I’ve got to tell you the story that keeps me bound in this oblivion.
So sit, please. Listen and release me,
