leisure-time reading. He looks up, aware that whenever his daughter seeks him out she is after something.
âYes, my dear, what is it?â
âI know your birthday is in June and your wedding to Mama was December, so why is the seventh of January special to you?â
âJanuary seventh?â he says, scratching his head. Then something clicks in his mind. He shuffles through the pile of papers nearest to him and pulls out a memo he received a week or so ago. He scans it, raises an eyebrow and then places it at the bottom of the pile.
âNothing comes to mind, why do you ask?â
Angelica thinks a minute then hands him the letter from the twins. As he takes it from her and reads its contents, a solemn expression spreads over his face.
âAlright,â he says, folding and passing the letter back to her, âlet me probe this further. By the way, Angelica, what had you agreed with the twins about the future? They write that you agreed to something. About the future.â
Angelica gives the little-girl-lost, little-girl-fey twirl that always worked wonders when she was a young child. But seeing this same pirouette in his overweight teenager, her father can only but wonder what kind of young woman his daughter is becoming.
âThat we will be sisters ⦠always,â she says, pulling at her curls and batting her eyelashes.
It is much later the same night. Her father has gone to the West Wing, as Angelica knows (though he thinks she does not), to canoodle with the merry widow. She opens the study door, the candle she carries lighting the room. She is in luck: the papers on the desk have not been filed away. Going straight to the pile sheâd committed to memory, she pulls up the bottom paper. Holding it to the flickering light of the candle she reads aloud.
January 7th is the 100th anniversary of our Provinceâs Proclamation of Judicial Rights for all citizens. In recognition of this auspicious occasion, each of our towns may nominate two prisoners, those who have exhibited remorse and exemplary behaviour while in custody, for early release into the care of guardians in the community .
The dictate is signed with a flourish by the Provincial Supreme General and stamped with the red wax seal of the Judicial Commission. Angelica reads it one more time, places it back under the pile of papers and climbs the grand staircase to her bedroom. Snuggling under the covers, she smiles to herself, imagining the day when she can share her life with her new sisters.
Once initiated, Zakora committed wholeheartedly to his vocation as a sangoma . It was the height of summer and he had been to the harbour town of Benoit to visit his aunt, who was feverish and had called for him. He had prepared special herbs and a broth for her to take before she lay down to sleep. They prayed together, then he smeared the blood from a sacrificed chicken on her brow and bade the ancestors to look over her. Presently, she fell into a restful sleep. The night was cool after a long dry day and Zakora decided to take a walk by the waterâs edge. Unbeknownst to him a group of sailors were on the prowl, under instruction not to return to their ship empty-handed. He heard a scuttle of footsteps behind him, turned to see a smiling toothless face, then felt the full force of a cudgel on the side of his head. Next thing he knew (slowly awakening through the sickening pain) was the sound of the huge ship sailing out of the harbour. He looked around in the half-light to see other men, shackled like him, lost in their own fear and grief, hunger and thirst. The ship headed out for the open seas, leaving behind the coastline and its small port of adobe brick houses and the land that Zakora feared he would never see again.
This morning, on this island so far away from his homeland, Zakora is sitting among the rocks by the waterâs edge, chanting his prayers, asking the ancestors of this land to reveal themselves to him. He
âYes, my dear, what is it?â
âI know your birthday is in June and your wedding to Mama was December, so why is the seventh of January special to you?â
âJanuary seventh?â he says, scratching his head. Then something clicks in his mind. He shuffles through the pile of papers nearest to him and pulls out a memo he received a week or so ago. He scans it, raises an eyebrow and then places it at the bottom of the pile.
âNothing comes to mind, why do you ask?â
Angelica thinks a minute then hands him the letter from the twins. As he takes it from her and reads its contents, a solemn expression spreads over his face.
âAlright,â he says, folding and passing the letter back to her, âlet me probe this further. By the way, Angelica, what had you agreed with the twins about the future? They write that you agreed to something. About the future.â
Angelica gives the little-girl-lost, little-girl-fey twirl that always worked wonders when she was a young child. But seeing this same pirouette in his overweight teenager, her father can only but wonder what kind of young woman his daughter is becoming.
âThat we will be sisters ⦠always,â she says, pulling at her curls and batting her eyelashes.
It is much later the same night. Her father has gone to the West Wing, as Angelica knows (though he thinks she does not), to canoodle with the merry widow. She opens the study door, the candle she carries lighting the room. She is in luck: the papers on the desk have not been filed away. Going straight to the pile sheâd committed to memory, she pulls up the bottom paper. Holding it to the flickering light of the candle she reads aloud.
January 7th is the 100th anniversary of our Provinceâs Proclamation of Judicial Rights for all citizens. In recognition of this auspicious occasion, each of our towns may nominate two prisoners, those who have exhibited remorse and exemplary behaviour while in custody, for early release into the care of guardians in the community .
The dictate is signed with a flourish by the Provincial Supreme General and stamped with the red wax seal of the Judicial Commission. Angelica reads it one more time, places it back under the pile of papers and climbs the grand staircase to her bedroom. Snuggling under the covers, she smiles to herself, imagining the day when she can share her life with her new sisters.
Once initiated, Zakora committed wholeheartedly to his vocation as a sangoma . It was the height of summer and he had been to the harbour town of Benoit to visit his aunt, who was feverish and had called for him. He had prepared special herbs and a broth for her to take before she lay down to sleep. They prayed together, then he smeared the blood from a sacrificed chicken on her brow and bade the ancestors to look over her. Presently, she fell into a restful sleep. The night was cool after a long dry day and Zakora decided to take a walk by the waterâs edge. Unbeknownst to him a group of sailors were on the prowl, under instruction not to return to their ship empty-handed. He heard a scuttle of footsteps behind him, turned to see a smiling toothless face, then felt the full force of a cudgel on the side of his head. Next thing he knew (slowly awakening through the sickening pain) was the sound of the huge ship sailing out of the harbour. He looked around in the half-light to see other men, shackled like him, lost in their own fear and grief, hunger and thirst. The ship headed out for the open seas, leaving behind the coastline and its small port of adobe brick houses and the land that Zakora feared he would never see again.
This morning, on this island so far away from his homeland, Zakora is sitting among the rocks by the waterâs edge, chanting his prayers, asking the ancestors of this land to reveal themselves to him. He
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