An excerpt from The Memory Cartographer – Book V – Part II The Agbar Chronicles

Somewhere between Mali and Benin, between an astral lake and a private jet, Elena Delange makes a decision. Not about the men — about the work. This is the chapter where the anthropologist and the myth stop pretending they’re separate things.

A soft knock breaks through the rush of water. I shut the shower off, wring out my hair once, then step into one of the thick towels folded nearby. When I open the cabin door, I find what’s been set out for me on the bed: a fresh dress, new undergarments, and — of all things — genuine breast pads, wrapped up neatly, like medical offerings at an altar.

I smirk, shaking my head at the thoughtfulness laced with surveillance. But before I can reach for the garments, a sudden dizziness overcomes me. The edges of the room dissolve, tilting inward, folding in — until I collapse onto the floor, consciousness spiralling elsewhere.

When I open my eyes, I’m barefoot on soft earth. Before me, a lake shimmers — moonlight rippling across its surface. I know this place: Lake Fundizi. And there, standing motionless on the shore, is Asdar.

His expression flickers into surprise as his gaze sweeps me.

Of course — I’m naked.

“Well,” I grumble, crossing my arms instinctively over myself. “Couldn’t you choose a more appropriate moment?”

Asdar’s lips curve in an apologetic smile, his voice low and resonant. “I am deeply sorry, my love. But you are a heavenly sight for my eyes.”

For a moment, his deep amber eyes shift, brightening into liquid gold — feral and wolfish. But then, with visible effort, he reins it back, features softening into priestly composure.

“I understand you’re still in Mali?” he asks.

“Yes,” I sigh, my shoulders lowering. “But not for long. Tarmo has come.”

At that, Asdar inclines his head, unshaken. “Ah. That is good.”

I snap my gaze up, sharp, searching. I study him — the young Dacian priest with that lingering gold in his eyes — and feel myself torn, resentment warring with longing. His voice gentles, every word rich with sincerity.

“I have missed you in the shadows, Elena. And I know I have left you in Karim’s care. His soul is still young, yes, yet his love for you is immense. I am glad he walks by your side.”

I swallow, heart snagging on the unexpected kindness. “You are lucky to have him,” he continues, urgency rumbling through his tone. “But luck isn’t enough. It is time, Elena. Time to move this way.”

Asdar reaches for me slowly, his fingertips skimming my shoulders. I hesitate — half-cross, half-melting — but as his deep amber eyes flare with that golden animal light, the pull feels inevitable.

Before I can reply, his lips find mine. The kiss is deep — shockingly real. Heat surges through me like fire kindling in water, a torrent of memory, desire, and belonging flooding my body at once.

Then —

The lake, the moonlight, the gleaming wolf’s gaze — everything is ripped away, sucked out like breath.

My eyes fly open.

The cabin ceiling arches overhead. Cool silk sheets twist around my skin. I blink, reeling. For a moment, I just lie still. Then the thought hits me — half amused, half horrified:

Great. They must have heard me fall. Who exactly got to see me naked this time?

I let out a little sigh and roll my eyes at my own fate.

Bloody perfect. If it’s Mikhail, he’s probably memorised every damn inch for his report. And Tarmo? That would be just like him — stand there, eyes blank as stone, drinking in every ounce without offering me the charity of a word.

I stir under the sheet, my limbs heavy, lips still tingling from the ghost of Asdar’s kiss. When I open my eyes, I blink at the blurred figure hovering in the doorway until it resolves — Tarmo, tall, motionless, framed by the cabin’s shadows, his presence thick even without a word.

For once, his usual implacable mask slips; concern softens his features.

“Elena…” His voice is low but steady. “Are you alright?”

I clutch the sheet tighter and blow a mischievous sigh past my lips. “Oh, just peachy. As alright as a woman can be, waking up stark naked for an audience that might as well sell tickets.”

The corner of his mouth twitches — just once, then smooths itself flat. He doesn’t step inside, holding the threshold like it’s his stage. “Mikhail has seen your skin before. He has seen more than his tasks should ever require.” His gaze flicks briefly to my face, unreadable. “But still — I ask.”

“More important,” he says, his tone slicing clean into duty. “Have you decided where to fly?”

The silence hangs between us, engines humming in the walls. Then his tone shifts — clipped, formal, impatient: “You must decide quickly. The tower’s getting desperate. They want a destination or we’ll sit trapped on the tarmac all day.”

I exhale, throwing my head back against the pillow. “So even the sky has paperwork. Good to know.”

Finally, I speak, calm but determined.

“Benin. Abomey. I want to stand where Dahomey kings were crowned before modernity finishes the erasure. I want to hear the griots recite origin tales unbroken by translation. Let me see Vodun rites at their root, not diluted for tourists in coastal cities. I need the red earth under my bare feet — I need to listen, ask questions, collect the fragments. The stories of women surviving the Atlantic, Diaspora connections woven from Benin to Bahia. There’s so much stitched through blood and silence: queens, slaves, priestesses, griots, daughters of Vodun. My work isn’t finished with these tales, not while there’s still earth beneath my feet and questions to ask.”

Tarmo regards me, searching my face for signs of uncertainty, but finds none. “Benin,” he repeats, then nods sharply. “Very well.”

He turns away, already issuing instructions toward the cockpit, his silhouette both commanding and protective. I catch Karim’s discreet, fast glance through the crack in the doorway — relief and pride mingling in his expression. I flash him a sly grin.

My compass is set: southeast, straight into the myth-rich heart of Benin.

Field Note: The Astral Vodun doesn’t distinguish cleanly between the living and the elsewhere. Neither does Elena. Asdar crosses because the threshold is genuinely thin. Lake Fundizi is real. So is the pull.

Field Note: Power Tarmo can reroute ships and bend trade corridors with a phone call. What he can’t do is hold a destination hostage.

Field Note: The Work Abomey. Dahomey kings, Vodun rites, griots, daughters of the Atlantic diaspora. Elena doesn’t go where the story is comfortable. She goes where the questions are still open.

Abomey is next. The red earth, the griots, the Vodun rites that don’t perform themselves for outsiders. If you want to follow Elena there — the full chapter, the full series — it’s waiting on Kobo.

© 2026 I.Ph. de Lange. All rights reserved. Published by CYcrds OÜ.