Gracie Abrams is eking out a solitary existence, fighting day-in, day-out against the drain of working customer service and nursing two newborn kittens in her off time. Out on her own ever since her sister moved in with her boyfriend, the burden of...
A/N: The four-letter r--- word is used a plethora of times in this chapter, fair warning. It is not described as a point of individual trauma but of dark history.
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I blinked rapidly, trying to connect this racist idea with what I knew of traditional "witches." I couldn't. There was no connection.
It was just racism, plain and simple.
"Why were you told you were 'thrown in by accident'?"
Talia considered. The rhythm tapping on her knees changed. It slowed, accenting one beat over every three. I didn't know much about music, but if she was playing an invisible piano, I could only imagine the angry noises the poor instrument would make if hit that hard.
"Witches were on this continent before the Europeans and African slaves came," Talia answered. "And just as they existed in Europe, they existed in Africa as well. They may have been called different things—Juju, Mchawi, oracles, witch doctors—but they practiced magic. They read the world and beyond it. They saw the tapestry."
"A tapestry?"
Talia nodded. "A giant tapestry with thousands upon thousands of threads. Everything—everything—is connected. Magic is like that. It is the tapestry that connects the seen from the unseen."
"So no 'Alohomora,' I'm assuming?"
"No," Talia smiled, wide, "no 'Alohomora.' Would be nice, though."
"How can anyone deny your identity as a witch?"
Talia considered me. The wind gusted by, pulling up forgotten leaves and tossing them around in a miniature tornado. I felt a chill pull at my thin jacket, so I wedged my hands between my thighs for warmth. The bench was frigid, so it didn't help.
"When Europeans started coming in droves—after the Revolution—the slave market was especially lucrative."
"Right..."
Talia, uncaring of the wind or the cold on their exposed stomach, lay spread eagle on the ground. She stared up at the dark clouds and hummed a sigh. "They claim that my direct line could be traced to an escaped slave who'd gotten knocked up—raped, more like—by a white guy."
"How could they trace something like that?"
One foot kicked out, capturing a pebble and sending it skittering toward my sneakers. "Magic."
"Okay..." I gathered my thoughts. Once again, I had been pulled into a story. All these deep conversations I'd been a part of lately were beginning to feel like side quests. "That's really sad, but it only confuses me more. Whoever traced your ancestry acts like black women were the only ones to be raped in the 1800s. Surely, a lineage with rape isn't all that uncommon? If we're being honest, I mean."
