came in boats and then white medical trucks? Is it surprising that they told each other about people who stole blood from their veins and tossed them back, always back, so they could linger in the cold water never quite recovering?
Above them, the house floated, its inhabitants asleep inside. Vimbai was the first to wake up and come downstairs, where the ghost grandmother was entertaining the baby with some songs and hand-clapping. Peb clapped along, with all eleven of its hands, most of which were far too large for its tiny psychic body.
Vimbai glanced at the window and grabbed the kitchen counter for support—instead of the familiar landscape of dunes and sea, there was just a tapestry of green and pale blue and gray. The dunes had vanished, or so she thought until she looked out of the window and saw nothing but the ocean and the sky stretching as far as she could see, and felt a faint spongy rhythm of the floor below her feet.
“Where are we, grandmother?” she asked.
The ghost stopped singing. “We sail across the sea,” she said.
“Where to? Why?”
“Perhaps it’s a curse some witch, some muroyi , put on you,” the ghost said. “Or perhaps it is you who started the journey to get where you need to be.”
Vimbai groaned with frustration. Grandmother was just like Vimbai’s mother (or the other way around)—both expected her to somehow comprehend her heritage, to become a Zimbabwean like her parents. They wanted her to have a clear purpose in life, even though Vimbai herself rarely thought past applying to graduate schools. And no matter how much they loved Vimbai, she could feel that they lamented the fact that she came out American, as if it were a sad accident, a birth defect of some sort. They wanted her to be like them, to care about the same things they cared about.
“I’m not going on any journeys,” Vimbai said. “I have classes, and Maya has work. Where is she?”
“Sleeping,” Peb said. “She is sleeping and dreaming of tall spires and the sad creatures on the porch.”
“You mean, under the porch,” Vimbai said.
“There’re only horseshoe crabs under the porch,” Peb corrected. “And even they are yards and yards below.”
Vimbai faltered then, torn between the conflicting impulses to go check on her housemates, and to stare out of the window, and to see if Peb was lying about the creatures on the porch.
The latter won, and she tiptoed to the front entrance and peeked outside through the transparent window on top of the door. She could only see the edge of the steps, already crusted over with barnacles and wreathed in seaweed, and the tiny waves lapping at the porch. She opened the door and looked out through the screen.
There were three creatures, the size of smallish dogs or largish cats, covered in reddish-brown fur streaked through with yellow highlights. Pointy muzzles and pointy ears swiveled toward the creaking on the door, and the shiny black eyes stared at Vimbai with savage hope instantly supplanted by disappointment. They had narrow tails, bald save for the spiky tufts on their ends, and their needle teeth gleamed like icicles. They were like no animal Vimbai had ever seen, half-foxes, half-possums.
“What are they?” Vimbai whispered, looking at her grandmother’s ghost out of the corner of her eye. Funny, at this moment of fear she looked to the ghost as her family, the only kin Vimbai had nearby. Blood always called to blood, no matter how distant.
“They are spirits,” grandmother said. “ Mashave , alien spirits that are following your friend.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” the ghost answered, and picked up Peb to give herself something to do. “Everyone has one spirit or another following them, and who knows why?”
“What about Felix?” Vimbai wanted to know. “Is his hair—”
“ Ngozi ,” the vadzimu interrupted. “It’s the maw of an angry spirit that wants to devour him. He must’ve committed a truly abominable
Above them, the house floated, its inhabitants asleep inside. Vimbai was the first to wake up and come downstairs, where the ghost grandmother was entertaining the baby with some songs and hand-clapping. Peb clapped along, with all eleven of its hands, most of which were far too large for its tiny psychic body.
Vimbai glanced at the window and grabbed the kitchen counter for support—instead of the familiar landscape of dunes and sea, there was just a tapestry of green and pale blue and gray. The dunes had vanished, or so she thought until she looked out of the window and saw nothing but the ocean and the sky stretching as far as she could see, and felt a faint spongy rhythm of the floor below her feet.
“Where are we, grandmother?” she asked.
The ghost stopped singing. “We sail across the sea,” she said.
“Where to? Why?”
“Perhaps it’s a curse some witch, some muroyi , put on you,” the ghost said. “Or perhaps it is you who started the journey to get where you need to be.”
Vimbai groaned with frustration. Grandmother was just like Vimbai’s mother (or the other way around)—both expected her to somehow comprehend her heritage, to become a Zimbabwean like her parents. They wanted her to have a clear purpose in life, even though Vimbai herself rarely thought past applying to graduate schools. And no matter how much they loved Vimbai, she could feel that they lamented the fact that she came out American, as if it were a sad accident, a birth defect of some sort. They wanted her to be like them, to care about the same things they cared about.
“I’m not going on any journeys,” Vimbai said. “I have classes, and Maya has work. Where is she?”
“Sleeping,” Peb said. “She is sleeping and dreaming of tall spires and the sad creatures on the porch.”
“You mean, under the porch,” Vimbai said.
“There’re only horseshoe crabs under the porch,” Peb corrected. “And even they are yards and yards below.”
Vimbai faltered then, torn between the conflicting impulses to go check on her housemates, and to stare out of the window, and to see if Peb was lying about the creatures on the porch.
The latter won, and she tiptoed to the front entrance and peeked outside through the transparent window on top of the door. She could only see the edge of the steps, already crusted over with barnacles and wreathed in seaweed, and the tiny waves lapping at the porch. She opened the door and looked out through the screen.
There were three creatures, the size of smallish dogs or largish cats, covered in reddish-brown fur streaked through with yellow highlights. Pointy muzzles and pointy ears swiveled toward the creaking on the door, and the shiny black eyes stared at Vimbai with savage hope instantly supplanted by disappointment. They had narrow tails, bald save for the spiky tufts on their ends, and their needle teeth gleamed like icicles. They were like no animal Vimbai had ever seen, half-foxes, half-possums.
“What are they?” Vimbai whispered, looking at her grandmother’s ghost out of the corner of her eye. Funny, at this moment of fear she looked to the ghost as her family, the only kin Vimbai had nearby. Blood always called to blood, no matter how distant.
“They are spirits,” grandmother said. “ Mashave , alien spirits that are following your friend.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” the ghost answered, and picked up Peb to give herself something to do. “Everyone has one spirit or another following them, and who knows why?”
“What about Felix?” Vimbai wanted to know. “Is his hair—”
“ Ngozi ,” the vadzimu interrupted. “It’s the maw of an angry spirit that wants to devour him. He must’ve committed a truly abominable
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