Nomvula

62. Epilogue

"They've been gone half a morning. Send the Walkers."

He looked up at her with shock that was in perfect harmony with the anger his spirit shot at her. "In the middle of the night – two nights ago."

Something inside Asanda tore a little, and some inflection came into her voice. "Two nights, why did you wait so long?"

Khaya pointed at himself, incredulous. "Am I a Walker? Ndoda was always in charge of them!"

"And you are the next son."

"And you are the next ruler!" He slapped the table with both hands and shook the mesh before his shoulders slumped. His spirit had flared then retreated back into him, but it left a bitter residue on the inside of Asanda's mouth. He sank onto the bench. "I don't know if you've noticed, Asi, but Ma is dead and Ndoda is dead. Third Hill is yours now."

"Don't be stupid." She winced again as his nostrils flared but pushed through. "I abdicated. Years ago. Third Hill is yours."

"A boy cannot govern."

"Then go become a man."

"I intend to, but in that time, you're meant to take the mantle."

Asanda clenched her jaw, so tightly she thought her teeth would knit together.

"Please, Asi. I know you're hurting as much as I, but—"

"You know nothing."

She said it quietly, and saw the chasm rip between them as she did. As little brother do, his hurt gave way to a moment of hesitation, that instinct that tells siblings to give each other a brief window in which to throw in their most desperate apology, but the moment passed and she offered none. She had been too scared to save her brother, and then she had murdered her mother. Her guilt was spent.

His spirit stopped reaching out. It retreated from his skin to his bones to his marrow and liver. It was like watching a mural fade off a wall. Suddenly he was just flesh that breathed and made expressions, his innermost self guarded with walls only a youth could make so thick. He opened his mouth, and Asanda hoped for a biting word from him. An eye for an eye to mend the balance.

"You need to mourn, Asi. Properly."

It was a forgiveness, of sorts, though not really. It was a scab to stop the bleeding, and she suspected it would only lock the rot inside.

"I visit Ndoda's grave every morning and evening," she said. "I cry over the stones we laid over his ashes and sit in silence with him to aid his passing."

"And Ma?"

That little tear snagged on his words and that inner veil fell in rags inside her.

Asanda's fist tightened around the hammer, and the tiny flame floating inside its glass head fluttered.

"Her body's been on that pyre for two days and two nights, Khaya. We've burned twelve crates of wood to keep the blaze high and hot in that time and we've barely managed to singe the lashes."

"You said it yourself, the Sunspear was soaked deep into her flesh. It'll take days for it to burn out. That doesn't mean we shouldn't..." Khaya shuddered, grew silent, then openly wept as he dug his palms into his eyes.

Days. She had said that in hope, without any care of examining the vessel before the elders of Third Hill had taken it. In those final moments, that body had been Lang'engatshoni's, not her mother's. It would take weeks to burn. It could have taken years for all she cared. Those hands, that face that glowed red in the pyre... her mother was nowhere to be found on that pyre. There was nothing to mourn there.