Divinity was a strange city situated in the upper echelons of the soul tree. Those materialising as worthy souls entered the city gates at the start of time and split into equal halves. Royal lines built the city outward from the crown of the soul tree, who’s roots touched chaos and transmuted it to order. Today, the soul is guarded by flesh, blood and bone. To find your half and become whole, one must gaze through the guarded gates of the eyes.
Chantria’s final test to get in to the University of the Wise and study the art of the mind was to allow an old Master a look in to her normally shrouded eyes. She sat before three old men in a wide-open room looking at her with a mixture of frustration and sympathy.
“Is this your first soul gaze?” Master Sangare asked, his light brown eyes clouded with grey framed by clear spectacles in contrast to her tinted glasses.
She nodded, staring up at the professors dressed in black robes lined in green; a stark contrast to the pearl room. All were male and former soldiers of the city.
Professor Ngalula stroked his greying brown beard and pierced her with his deep green eyes. “How old are you, dear?”
“20.” Chantria said, keeping her words short and to the point. Her uncle Ayele didn’t know she applied to the spirit healer's course. He thought she was looking for a job in the cobbled streets of the city with her school certificate, and she was, until she saw applications for the University were about to close. She thought, she wouldn’t get past the initial application, but her sister’s, Liseli and Taraji, convinced her there was no harm in trying. Their aspirations were practical in nature, in fashion and music, but her sister’s wanted her to do something for herself.
“Don’t the girls start going to the gatherings at 16?” Professor Nkurunziza said, bushy eyebrows furrowing in to a unibrow that creased his wrinkled features and further obscured his periwinkle blue eyes.
“My uncle wanted my sisters and I to finish our education before we found our halves.”
“Ah, that’s wise of him. Our boys can be rather temperamental. Perhaps our wives could take a look instead and save any distress.”
They called in their wives dressed in floor length silk wrap dresses and braided buns to denote their status as women. The number of strands that made up their braids was a medal of honour testifying to how many souls they made. Pink for a girl and blue for a boy signified the gender of the flesh around the soul of their children.
The look into her soul wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, merely a look into her eyes, but they proclaimed her a perfect candidate for the course. Ayele’s rage when she got home with her acceptance letter in hand, was another matter.
The memory of that day intruded in to her life whenever someone grazed her hip or grasped her wrist. Her sister’s told her they hadn’t heard a thing, but found her crying in her room the next morning. Ever since that night she couldn’t bring herself to let someone see her eyes again, but the graduate quickly realised she would never be able to practice her chosen trade because her obscured eyes breed distrust. So, she added literacy to her studies and graduated with a triple majour in social, literary and spirit studies. Spiritual health was fun for fiction, but representation was important. Or at least that was the tagline to her little business venture.
The Timber Café, was where she chose to conduct business. Ash was the wood of choice for this establishment. The smell of coffee and chocolate gave the café a welcoming warmth and the strings of spherical lights hung from the rafters of the ceiling like static fireflies gave it a mythical look. The many booths shielded groups of patrons from each other allowing the men to talk strategy without being watched. Constant piano music emanating from a large redwood radio kept their patrons from being overheard. Waitresses were trained not to bother patrons unless called by a raised hand or the switching on of a red light above each booth. Freshly prepared breads and cakes were protected from dust by glass casing and ready for the waitresses dressed in uniform black dresses to grab and give to the patrons before congregating behind the counter again. So, Chantria could sit in her little station and concentrate on her charts of deadlines, goals, spreadsheets of finances and geometrically organised stationary while she worked on editing her latest novel or manuscript. The lockers outside the Timber, could be rented by the month. The editor suspected these lockers were usually used to pass information from one faction of the military to another with minimal interaction and risk of being overheard. It was essential not to scare the masses with the reality of fighting at the borders.
Touching the tinted glasses Chantria’s uncle forced her to wear, she looked up from her notes on a work of fiction she was being paid by the word to consult on and edit for the first time in hours. Rubbing her tired neck Chantria stared at the pile of paper meticulously organised by deadline. Her mind travelling back from the dream of her work she sighed out her exhaustion. Removing her glasses, she rubbed the dryness from her sapphire eyes and her heart jumped to her throat. The wood lined shop was filled with thick armed exuberant soldiers shouting in celebration after the end of another long battle for space at the border. Each soldier, dressed in a clean white shirt and khaki trousers, was gifted a cup of spiced coffee by the owner for their bravery and sat laughing in the booths on the other side of the room. The women around the statuesque soldiers gifted their time and the men their warmth in exchange, each person focused on the group.
Assured that the other patrons were focused on themselves Chantria replaced the glasses and tied her wavy waist length black hair in to a neat French braid to the nape. A glance at the sky through the glass ceiling revealed her curfew almost upon her. Using the justification of having skipped lunch she debated exchanging some coin for a sandwich and tea. It won’t be more than 5 Ekwele.
Chantria’s light fingers counted coins from her purse on to the dark oak table she hadn’t left since the store opened. Praise be the chaos that gave birth to life because she was withering where she sat. Uncle Ayele would beat her senseless if she came back late. He didn’t know about her business; she was careful when setting up her account and venture under a false name. She done everything via messenger on her secret aether scroll and rented a locker near the shop. Her uncle considered her worthless and useless, but her hell was a small price to pay for her wages to go toward a new home away from her uncle. Her other two sisters kept the house and that vile man happy in the meantime.
Chantria replaced her glasses and was about to stand when she caught movement in front of her. Looking up she found a lightly tanned man thickly muscled with a soldier's posture in the previously empty bench. He stared at her through narrowed grey eyes, his wire short brown hair as harsh as is features.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
‘I see you’ had a very specific meaning in the divine city and Chantria nearly swore allowed. He’d caught a glimpse of her eyes and thus a glimpse at her soul. You stupid girl. She heard the voice of her uncle in her mind like a hammer to her flesh. You stupid worthless girl. “I was about to leave, sir. The shop is closing in an hour and I need to get home.”
“Hmm, looked to me like you were going to get something at the desk.” The soldier raised a hand and summoned a youthful waitress from the other side of the room.
“What can I get you, sir?”
“Another spiced coffee and for the lady?”
“Mint tea and a spiced lamb wrap, please.” Chantria said pushing her coin toward the waitress, but the soldier waved it away.
“It’s on me.”
Chantria closed her eyes in resignation. He intended to not give her an easy excuse to leave the table so social niceties would force her to remain and he had succeeded. The editor swallowed her curses and stiffened against the waitress's suspicious gaze.
“That’s all.” the soldier said and the waitress scurried off to the kitchen taking her hint with wordless professionalism.
Resigning herself to the inevitable strained conversation the editor packed away her scroll and papers in precise order and let the silence stretch until the soldier broke it.
“Name’s Kijani, and you are?”
“Chantria.”
“What’s up with the glasses?”
“I have sensitive eyes.”
The soldier stared at her, waiting for more of an explanation she was unprepared to give least she be pulled in to a conversation she couldn’t disentangle herself from.
Kijani smirked. “Like pulling teeth. I caught a glimpse, was hoping for another look. I felt quite at home in your eyes Chantria.”
Her heart jumped in to her throat at his words. Ayele would go on a rampage if he found out she allowed a soldier a glimpse of her soul. Years ago, he told the girls the meld would take away their consciousness and make a new soul. The thought of dying in that way terrified her even though she knew better now. Ayele, thought of her sisters and she as his own personal harem. He used them as servants and toys to placate his temper, but he used their bond as chains and kept the girls tied to him to do with as he pleased. Chantria and her sisters had never been to the required gatherings in which the men found their women. Her Uncle Ayele would hardly give his sources of income and toys away to another man.
“I’m sorry, sir, the light pains me too much.”
“Sun’s setting in 30 minutes. I can walk you home and get a decent look.”
“I’m sorry, Sir. I—”
“It’s my right.” Kijani snapped
The soldier was correct. Her denial was illegal. It was unheard of for any person to refuse a gaze in to their soul. To refuse such a simple request invited enough suspicion for an arrest. The soldiers fought parasitic invaders that threatened the safety of the city on a regular basis. Their touch corrupted a soul to the point of madness. Letting even one through could spell disaster for their little world nestled in chaos. If she refused he would reasonably suspect her flesh the vessel of the corrupt. The soldier would get his look whether she wanted him to or not.
“Do you not have a wife, sir? She will be expecting you home.” Chantria knew the answer even as the words left her pretty pink lips and felt foolish for asking.
“No.” the soldier growled.
Their drink’s arrived and Kijani held her gaze until the waitress hurried off back to the kitchen.
“Well?” he prompted.
He wants his woman. The thought nearly jolted her from the bench and out the door. If she weren’t so sure he would catch her before she got to the door she would have ran already. Chantria guessed he was about 30 years to her 27. Far too old to still be considered a boy and a likely source of frustration for the soldier. The only reason he hadn’t pinned her down to gaze on her soul was basic decorum: he didn’t want to terrify his potential wife. Only full souls can form children together and the notion of family was so ingrained in their society it was a rite of passage to go from children to adults.
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“If it pleases you, sir.”
“It does.” Kijani said lifting a hand and making three quick hand signals for his watching brothers in arms. Two men with similar features sauntered up to their booth.
“What’s the matter brother?” the brown-haired man said with a playful smile in his chocolate brown eyes.
“This colt’s ready to bolt and I need to piss. Keep eyes on her.”
“What did you do, brother?” the other man said, hazel eyes narrowing.
“I sat down and got her tea, Iniko. Don’t know why she wants to bolt so bad.”
“Why the glasses?” the other brother said, his smile hardening on his face even as his hand reached for the knife strapped to his thigh.
“Lady said she got eye problems. Figure it’s worth a check. She might have sisters, Adjo.”
Chantria sighed and resigned herself to hell from her uncle. She just hoped Ayele would be in a drunken stupor and she could claim to have slipped in the back door on time. Ayele wanted her to ‘earn her keep’ or he would find her work. She was pretty enough for any man desperate for a good time and if she couldn’t find work with her fancy degree, why not sell herself? There’s nothing wrong with honest work. They were his girls and he would see them taking care of themselves... and him. The aim of his manipulations was clearly to steal their wages and keep them captive until his dying day. A terrifying fate to Chantria.
The graduate had nothing against the sex workers by the docks. Honest work was honest work and that is something she begrudgingly agreed with, provided it was all consensual. Chantria, couldn’t deal with such a job. A wayward touch could send her spiralling in to terrifying memories she avoided at all costs. Ayele, made sure she knew who owned her. She was his and he would do with her what he wanted, when he wanted. She had no idea how much longer she could keep him at arm's length before he forced his friends on her. Just a little longer and she would have enough to get away with her sisters.
She stopped the thought before her pounding heart forced her back to the past.
“What’s the matter, ma’am?” Iniko said, trying to look past her glasses.
“I’m fine, sir. I’ve just been in this café too long.”
Adjo’s hand moved away from his knife. “Restless then. I get that, I hate being on watch duty. Can't even move to take a leak. What have you been doing here all day?”
Chantria smoothed the azure linen dress she specifically wore to blend in to the plush velvet lining of her chosen booth with shaking hands. “Working.” Keep answers to one word and people soon gave up thought of a conversation. A tactic familiar to both military and psychology alike: make yourself as boring and grey as a river rock and you will be left alone. It kept difficult people at bay, but was a challenge to the stubborn.
Her guard’s face’s hardened and Adjo made a point of taking his brother’s seat. Apparently accepting her challenge. “What were you working on?”
“I edit books. I didn’t notice the Café get so busy. Did something happen at the border?”
“There was a scuffle while the sorcerers expanded the realm. No one died, but it got tense for a while.”
Iniko spread himself out beside her, caging her in the corner of the booth. “What were you working on? Kijani might not seem it, but he likes a good book. He follow’s a particular editor, weird, I know, but he insists... She goes by Tambika Nnena I think. She makes sure characters are psychologically accurate in the books she edits, but the woman’s got one or two of her own books. I read one about a woman transported to another world. She didn’t sugar coat reality though and it was a mind fuck. Heard of her?”
Chantria bit her tongue. Tambika Nnena, was the name she worked under. She started off relatively obscure, most authour’s didn’t know what to do with an editor who promised psychological input. Authour’s thought they knew their characters and were shocked to find the opposite when she got a hold of the book. It was eye-opening how little people understood about their own mental inclinations, but her input made for more satisfying books and she was getting busy. The authour might write the book, but the editor sets the standard.
Which was why she really stayed out of the house from dawn till dusk and not, as Ayele thought, because she was desperate to find work before he made her a whore... Well, there was a triadic dynamic there.
Chantria took a sip of her tea. I have to get back before Ayele decides my sisters are just as good a target as I. “I’ve heard of her.” what else could she say?
The men didn’t reply and she followed their gaze to her thin fingers that grasped the cup of mint tea so tight her knuckles were the same colour as the porcelain.
Iniko decided to give her more room to breathe. “Kijani isn’t going to hurt you, ma’am. He might seem a little rough, but he’ll just take his look and leave you alone if you ain’t a match. We’ll get you home and you can get on with your night.”
As if cued by the stage manager Kijani came back and gestured for Adjo to move over and looked at Iniko.
“The Lady told us she was an editor. You like reading, don’t you Kijani?”
“Yeah, I read a bit of everything. You any good, Chantria? I dabble in writing between shifts.”
Chantria finished her tea and forced herself to attend to her wrap. She missed dinner at home and she wasn’t sure when she would have the opportunity to eat again. Ayele, would be guarding the kitchen by the time she gets back.
No food after sundown, girls. We want to keep you pretty. Ayele liked his girls to look impeccable and Chantria expected an inspection when she got back, but that was her future self’s problem and she had to reply in the present. “I get by.”
Kijani slipped a notebook out from one of the deep pockets sown in to his trousers. “Mind taking a look?”
The sigh escaped before she could stop it and Adjo chuckled. “How long have you been sat here for?”
“Since the cafe opened.” Chantria said.
Iniko whistled. “That’s a long shift. I make that what? 12 hours? No wonder you want to get going. You should have said. We could've sat outside.”
If only it were that simple. Suppressing a groan Chantria flipped through the notebook. Making herself as boring as possible to get rid of these soldiers hadn’t worked. So, she moved on to the next stage: deflection. If she could distract the men long enough by a different topic entirely, then it was possible they would forget why they were keeping her here and they had given her the perfect excuse. “It’s not too bad. I’m having some difficulty following your main character’s logic. He seems to be turning his empathy on and off like we do a light.”
“Ain’t that what a psycho does?”
“No, people with APD have a brain abnormality that means they can’t interpret another person’s pain. They see people as dolls without emotion. Since they can’t interpret another person’s pain, they see themselves as the only being with emotions. So, everyone with APD also has NPD.”
“What the fuck is APD and NPD?”
“APD is short for anti-social personality disorder, colloquially known as psychopathy; NPD is short for narcissistic personality disorder. You'll need to tweak your character’s reactions.” she said handing him back his notebook.
“Thought you were just an editor?” Adjo said.
“Spirit theory forms a small part of the literary course.”
“Huh, didn’t know that.” Kijani said slipping his notebook back into his pocket.
It wasn’t clear what Kijani was referring to, but Chantria chose to make an assumption. “Spiritual studies is common sense when it comes down to it, as much as the Masters like to make it complicated. If a person can’t process someone else has feelings, how could they see them as anything else but a doll?”
The graduate let the men think on that and finished her wrap in three bites, but she was still hungry. “I’m sorry, sir’s, I have to get back home.”
Iniko moved to stand, but Kijani held up a hand. “I’ll still have my look, ma’am.”
Chantria nearly swore. “Of course, sir. I’ll need to be on my way straight after however.”
Kijani smiled. “We’re escorting you home. As payment for the advice.” the last he added as an afterthought, but Chantria knew he wanted her address. If she felt like home at a glance and she didn’t quite fit, she ‘might have sisters’. The editor had no idea how she was going to get rid of them.
They left the ‘Timber Café', Kijani took up position on her right while Iniko fell in to step to her left. Adjo, slunk along behind them. I can’t let these men take me back. Ayele will...
Proclaim her the whore he always ‘knew’ she was and sell her to his friends for entertainment if he found her coming back with three military men. Whatever it was wouldn’t be worse than any rage she experienced growing up as a wilful teen until she learned to keep herself and her sisters away from the man who stole their home upon her parent’s death.
“Where to ma’am?” Iniko asked staring over her head at his brother who was trying to find the eyes behind her glasses.
“You should get those eye issues checked, Chantria. It’s beyond suspicious.” Kijani said, jaw locked in frustration.
“I don’t want to bother a physician for something that’s more than likely self-inflicted. Let me just put my scroll in my locker.” Chantria said.
“You keep your scroll in the café lockers?” Adjo exclaimed.
“Yes, I do my work in the café. I don’t want to carry all these papers everywhere I go.” the editor replied. Ayele didn’t know about the scroll. She saved up the money she earned while doing her apprenticeship placements during her spirit studies course. She’d stolen her birth record to get the account set up at the treasury specifically for it otherwise Ayele would have taken the money. The graduates two sisters were already working at the time and because she had to declare the household income, she explained she wouldn’t be receiving compensation for her work from the university. Chantria thanked the tree of souls he didn’t read the fine print. As she was over the age of 24 by this time, she was able to claim the compensation as a non-dependent person and bought herself a miniature copier and scroll.
They rounded a corner to the left of the café and Chantria placed the evidence of her work in the reinforced wooden locker and locked the box with the complicated looking key she kept disguised as a keychain in a secret compartment inside her satchel. Tripple checking the lining the editor made sure the key was invisible and forgot the men watching her for a moment. Satisfied, she let the weight of the bag rest on her shoulder.
“Hmm. Bit darker round this side of the café.” Kijani said.
Chantria froze, grip tightening around the strap of her bag. What is really the harm? Still, adrenaline rushed through her veins and set her heart in to a punishing drum beat. Ayele will kill me if he finds out. He won’t know. How can he? There won’t be any harm. She couldn’t be a match for anyone.
Thoughts streaming round her mind in an endless circle Chantria forced herself to calm.
“It’s just a look ma’am. Then we’ll take you home.” Kijani said.
Let’s just get this over with. Chantria ripped off her glasses and her deep blue eyes met the soldiers grey.
The world flashed white and knitted together in a slow deliberate spiral one section at a time like pockets of oil forming one solid mass above water. One section at a time her picture of the surroundings returned in sharper focus. The cobbles’ dips, edges and subtle shifts in colour resolved themselves and formed layers. The damp wall in front of her gained colour and form with the moss that grew along the running water from the broken gutter and pooled in to a puddle at its base. Kijani’s face formed even slower than the background. His muscular shape went from pure white and built itself up from light tan. Lines of criss crossing scars from his time on the battlefield formed rivets on his skin. Finally, Kijani’s face shifted in to being and Chantria found his smile shackling her to the ground. Frozen with her back to the lockers she felt the fountain of magic unlocked by her other half pour through her veins. The prize of the connected was the ability to transmute chaos to order and, for the women, to bring a soul in to being in her womb.
Taking advantage of the graduates' shackled gaze the soldier grasped her hand and laid a kiss on her lips. “I got my other half.” Kijani said.
“May she give you beautiful souls.” Iniko said.
“May she give you beautiful souls.” Adjo said, though his words bit back a jealous undertone.
Kijani’s smile widened. “You got sisters, Chantria?”
“Two.” that one word was all that would form in her throat.
The brothers' eyes widened with excitement. “That’s usually how it goes... Brothers connect with the sisters.” Iniko said, staring at Adjo.
“You boy’s might be made men today.” Kijani said with a cheeky grin.
Only when you connect with your other half can a boy be considered a man and a girl be considered a woman in the eyes of the Governance of Chaos. Girls and boys remained in the home under the protection of family until that time. That was the importance of the gatherings she and her sisters were never allowed to attend. If a match wasn’t found by the age of 19, the boys and girls went to work anyway, but moving up the ranks of any field without the aid of the power unlocked by the meld was impossible. Women, then joined the male’s family, yet another reason why Ayele never allowed the girls attendance at the gatherings. He filled their heads with lies until Chantria learned the truth, but by then the thought of going to the mandatory gathering filled the sisters with anxiety. Ayele didn’t want to lose his toys and income.
Iniko took a breath. “Let’s not get our hopes up...”
“But we have to take her home. We can take a look and be on our way. The Misal doesn’t open until tomorrow anyway.” Adjo replied.
The Misal was a domed building demonised by Ayele as a building for mass suicide. In reality, it was a place of worship connected to the University of the Wise as a venue for officiating melds and gatherings. She’d wandered in by accident once....
Attracted by the peaceful atmosphere of the gold topped building she snuck in for a taste of tranquillity which lasted 5 minutes. Chantria was so tired she hadn’t noticed the old priest walk toward her until he was beside her. His kind brown eyes gaze turned from incredulous, to thunderous black when he found her wondering around the perimeter of the Misal staring at the stained-glass windows depicting the beginnings of the soul tree.
Heart pounding and panic stricken Chantria backed away from the white robed priest.
Chantria barely avoided the priest's grasp and ran.
“Why would you deny yourself and another the meld. It’s blasphemy! Blasphemy.”
Her trip to the library the next day was eye opening and disconcerting. She was still unravelling lies from truth.
Shaking, Chantria tried to find her voice, but Kijani beat her to it. “It’s getting late, Chantria. I’ll see you home and at the Misal tomorrow.” Kijani said and took a closer look at her eyes. “Your eyes don’t look too bad, but we can have the doc check them out tomorrow.”
She couldn’t refuse. Chantria didn’t want to refuse, but Ayele would kill his girls rather than let another take them. She couldn’t leave, not without her sisters. If her uncle discovered she found her half they would all be dead before morning... Or worse. “I—”
Chantria didn’t have to attempt to finish the sentence, the spherical lights that lined the streets turned from a subdued yellow, to a sundown red. A call to arms for the unconnected boys and men of the militia. The soldiers had to run.
Kijani gritted his teeth. “You’ll be here tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
The men ran for the wall and she in the opposite direction down the narrow-cobbled streets of the city.