Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,171
my face in her hands and kisses my forehead. “You will learn soon, my mighty Zél. And through it all, I will never leave your side. No matter what you feel, what you face when you think you’re alone—”
“Tzain…,” I realize. First Mama, then Baba, now me? “We can’t leave him,” I gasp. “How do we bring him here?”
“Mama, Òrìsà Mama, Òrìsà Mama—”
Mama’s grip on me tightens as the voices grow louder, almost deafening now. Creases wrinkle across her smooth forehead.
“He doesn’t belong here, my love. Not yet.”
“But Mama—”
“Neither do you.”
The singing voices blare so loudly I can’t tell if they’re praises or screams. My insides twist as Mama’s words hit.
“Mama, no … please!”
“Zél—”
I cling to her again, fear choking my throat. “I want this. I want to stay here with you and Baba!”
I can’t go back to that world. I won’t survive that pain.
“Zél, Orïsha still needs you.”
“I don’t care. I need you!”
Her words grow hurried as her light begins to fade with the chorus of heavenly voices. All around us the blackness brightens, drowning in a wave of light.
“Mama, don’t leave me—Please, Mama! Not again!”
Her dark eyes sparkle as tears fall, their warmth landing on my face.
“It’s not over, little Zél. It’s only just begun.”
EPILOGUE
WHEN I OPEN my eyes, I want them to close. I want to see my mother. I want to be wrapped in the warm blackness of death, not gazing at the purple hues staining the open sky.
The air above me seems to sway back and forth, gently rocking my form. It’s a glide I’d know anywhere. The ebb and flow of the sea.
As realization takes hold, burns and aches sear into every cell of my body. The pain is stark. The pain that accompanies life.
A moan escapes my lips and footsteps pound.
“She’s alive!”
In an instant, faces crowd my sight: Amari’s hope, Tzain’s relief. When they pull away, Roën and his smirk remain.
“Kenyon?” I manage to speak. “Käto? Rehema—”
“They’re alive,” Roën assures me. “They’re waiting on the ship.”
With his help, I sit up against the cold wood of the rowboat we used to dock on the sacred island. The sun dips below the horizon, masking us in the shadow of night.
A flash of the sacred temple surges through my mind, and I brace myself for the question I’m too terrified to ask. I lock onto Tzain’s dark brown eyes; failure will sting the least from his lips.
“Did we do it? Is magic back?”
He stills. His silence sinks my heart in my chest. After all that. After Inan. After Baba.
“It didn’t work?” I force out, but Amari shakes her head. She holds up a bleeding hand, and in the darkness it swirls with vibrant blue light. A white streak crackles like lightning in her black hair.
For a moment, I don’t know what to make of the sight.
Then my blood chills to ice.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I SHED MANY TEARS before I wrote this book. Many tears as I revised it. And even as it sits in your hands now, I know that I will shed tears again.
Although riding giant lionaires and performing sacred rituals might be in the realm of fantasy, all the pain, fear, sorrow, and loss in this book is real.
Children of Blood and Bone was written during a time where I kept turning on the news and seeing stories of unarmed black men, women, and children being shot by the police. I felt afraid and angry and helpless, but this book was the one thing that made me feel like I could do something about it.
I told myself that if just one person could read it and have their hearts or minds changed, then I would’ve done something meaningful against a problem that often feels so much bigger than myself.
Now this book exists and you are reading it.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
But if this story affected you in any way, all I ask is that you don’t let it stop within the pages of this text.
If you cried for Zulaikha and Salim, cry for innocent children like Jordan Edwards, Tamir Rice, and Aiyana Stanley-Jones. They were fifteen, twelve, and seven when they were shot and killed by police.1
If your heart broke for Zélie’s grief over the death of her mother, then let it break for all the survivors of police brutality who’ve had to witness their loved ones taken firsthand. Survivors like Diamond Reynolds and her four-year-old daughter, who were in the car when Philando Castile was pulled over, shot, and killed.2