Within These Wicked Walls(26)

The soothing rhythm of chanting grew with every step, opening up into an echo as I removed my sandals and stepped inside out of the sun. The colorful paintings of saints on the walls and pillars of the entryway greeted me with kindness and scrutiny in turns. Incense nipped and tickled my nostrils. A large white curtain blocked my view of the sanctuary, simultaneously blocking me from being instantly noticed. Everything was just as I’d left it.

It wasn’t my home anymore, in the physical sense, but my mind felt more peaceful than it had in weeks.

The main sanctuary took up most of the first floor. Painted pillars surrounded it, creating a small walkway around the perimeter with a few rooms along the walls, their doorways blocked by heavy white curtains. In between each pillar was a large vase, all full of either water or various herbs, and I alternated between hiding behind those and the pillars. There were a handful of people standing in prayer in the direction of the altar, where Jember sat on the stairs constructing an amulet.

He wore his official debtera attire: a white turban—made slightly larger by containing the dreadlocks he refused to cut—and white robe striped with red, green, and yellow along the hem. And his official Jember attire: red leather gloves, a tall black boot on his left leg, and a peg leg made of dull metal on the right. His beard was unkempt, but his clothes were neat.

Mixed feelings rose up in me, watching him work. The first was that I’d missed him. But if I hadn’t been witnessing him cutting intricate patterns with expert speed, that feeling might’ve been the last. It was the only admirable thing about him, really. His work.

Which was why not too far behind it was anger, an emotion I’d need to quell if I was going to stomach asking him for help.

I tried not to move, not only to respect the ritual, but to keep Jember from seeing me before I wanted him to. It was only a few minutes before he began a chant, the signal for the praying people to drink the small cup of holy water on the floor in front of each of them. I leaned a bit farther around the pillar to see what sort of Manifestations the amulets were for—a mistake. Jember glanced in my direction, not missing a note of the chant he was singing.

Maybe he didn’t see me.

Right, Andi. Maybe the desert isn’t hot.

That meant there was no surprising him. I had to be ready to approach him as soon as the ritual was over. No greeting, no small talk—Jember didn’t have the patience for that. I would have to be clear and quick.

Finally, the prayer was finished, and each worshipper made the sign of the cross on themselves, touching forehead to chest, shoulder to shoulder. Jember wrapped each amulet in a simple cloth before handing it to each person in need, which they accepted with a bowed head and nothing but the sound of their footsteps as they left.

I slipped out from behind the pillar to prepare, and because I was curious about what sort of amulets he had made. For house hauntings, debtera had to go directly to the source. But if someone was having sudden bad luck, or sickly livestock, or their crops weren’t doing well, a basic amulet for that purpose would usually deter the influence of the Evil Eye.

Those were the first types of amulet designs I learned to construct, even before Jember actually had a mind to teach me. It was the ritual that made them take a long time, not the construction itself.

I waited until the last person was leaving before stepping up to the altar. “Jember, I need your help.”

He didn’t bother to look at me as he gathered his things. “Just give me the name.” His voice sounded strained.

I bit my lip. I’d had specific instructions—extremely specific, with equally graphic consequences if I were to disobey—from Jember while he was throwing me out: Don’t bother him unless I was in danger. Couldn’t find food? Figure it out. Nowhere to sleep? Not his problem. But if anyone threatened or tried to hurt me? That was the one and only issue I was allowed to bring to him.

I was pretty good at staying out of danger, partly because I’m small and know my physical limit and so try to stay out of people’s way. But mostly, because I never wanted to have to go to him for help. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing him on his terms.

But I didn’t have a name, and it didn’t feel right giving one just to make him stop and listen to me, especially since whomever I named might end up dead by the afternoon.

“It’s about a job,” I said quickly. “This Manifes—”

He walked away without a glance. His legs were far longer than mine, so even with his limp I rushed to catch up.

“I just need to know if I cleansed it correctly,” I said.

He still didn’t stop. He was almost to the room at the back of the hall where—as an unlicensed debtera—I wasn’t allowed. It was where the priests changed from their street clothes into their holy robes before services.

I ran in front of him to block the entryway. “Jember—”

“Don’t bother me, girl.”

Instead of allowing me to move of my own free will, he shoved me with the spine of the book he was holding against the side of my face. I stumbled to the side, grateful he hadn’t full-on hit me, but angry at myself for not grounding myself better.

And then he disappeared behind the curtain of the room and I stood there for a moment in shock. A shock that was quickly turning to silent rage, like my head might burst like a pressed tomato. I wanted to call his name, but I felt ridiculous standing in the hall, begging for him to listen.