Read Black Treacle Magazine (Issue 4) Online

Authors: Black Treacle Publications

Tags: #horror, #short stories, #short story, #canada, #speculative fiction, #dark fantasy, #canadian, #magazine, #mike rimar, #bimonthly, #christian riley, #christopher keelty

Black Treacle Magazine (Issue 4) (4 page)

BOOK: Black Treacle Magazine (Issue 4)
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But then the
traveling circus came, and the painted man--when Nell mentioned
him, Nainaine Laveau spit on the floor and made the sign of the
cross--said he could bring her back so she could show them the
treasure.

“He said he
would make her a zombie,” Nanaine said.

Nell nodded.
“The Ya Ya agreed it was a terrible thing to do, but that
Grand-mere would have wanted it. It would just be long enough to
find the treasure, they said. To save New Avondale.”

Nell told how
the painted man used coloured powders and candles, and how his face
looked like a skull in the dancing firelight. When she told the
story, she could see it in her mind, the stick-thin man stripped
almost naked, the pictures in his skin blue and green and yellow
like the brightest birds and bugs Nell ever saw. The way he danced,
his arms flailing like the legs of a frog squeezed too tight. He
wore shoes, she remembered, brown leather loafers. Old Nat said
they were the nicest shoes he’d seen in years.

She told about
the painted man’s voice, that low burpy voice, and the strange
words he sang, and how outside the tent the ladies of the Ya Ya
were arguing with the mayor and with each other. She said how she
held Grandmother’s hand, and how it suddenly twitched and held her
hand back, and how the painted man looked scared when Grandmother
sat up, and how he ran out and she could see the ladies outside the
tent make the sign of the cross, all at once.

Nell told how
the circus pulled up stakes and left that night, and how
Grandmother didn’t want to talk to anybody. At first she just stood
in one spot, for hours, and looked around like she was confused
about where she was. Then she wanted to kill everybody. Everybody
except Nell.

“Did she bite
people?” Nainaine asked.

Nell nodded.
“She bites everybody. Bites them to death, if she can. Some she
eats after. She’s so hungry.”

“She bite
you?”

This question
seemed very important. Nell shook her head. “She’s angry with me,”
she said. “But she doesn’t hurt me. That’s how come they sent me
with her.”

Nainaine
Laveau looked down at her hands. “They sent you alone? A small
girl?”

“No,” Nell
said. “Nicolas and Antoine came too, but...” She trailed off.

“But your
Grand-mere ate them.”

Nell
nodded.

Nainaine went
to the altar and leaned on it, hanging her head so her long hair
hid her face. She spoke in a low voice, in Creole. Nainaine seemed
to be conversing with someone Nell couldn’t hear.

When she
turned, the old woman’s face was hard. In one hand was a leather
bag on a cord. She swung it like an incense censer as she
spoke.

“The painted
man told lies. He was a hoodoo man, a liar and trickster. Your
Grand-mere is not a zombie. A zombie is a loyal servant brought
back from the dead. Your Grand-mere is not dead, but un-dead. The
painted man put a wanga on her. A curse. She has an angry spirit in
her that makes her hate the living. Your Grand-mere is a
ghoul.”

Nell gasped.
“Help her, Nanaine!”

“Part of her
is still alive, inside, and that part remembers her love for you.
But that part is rotting, like her body. Soon she will forget and
then she will kill you.”

“But,” Nell
said. “That part is there. Can’t you bring it out?”

“I cannot,”
Nainaine said. “No one can. The best thing for your Grand-mere now
is to send her with the Baron, before it is too late for her
soul.”

“But Ferrand
said you were magic! He saw you raise up the dead, when he was
young. You’re the voodoo witch, Nainaine Laveau!”

“I am she,”
Nainaine said. “I have spoken with the Guédé. I’m sorry, girl. This
is the way of it.”

“But, no!”
Nell shouted. “Grand-mere taught me dice, and how to catch a
channel cat with just my hand! Grand-mere tells stories about New
York City, and once she went to see the Saints at the Superdome!
She knows the best songs to sing when I can’t sleep, and rubs my
hands when I feel scared!”

Nanaine said
nothing. Her mojo bag swung slowly in one hand. From outside,
Grandmother stared. Nell met her eyes, but there was no softness
there, no memory.

“What about
the treasure?” Nell asked softly. “Can she at least tell us about
the treasure? She would want to save the village!”

Nainaine took
a breath. Her face was intense, like the face of the painted man in
the fire, the hoodoo man who spoke lies.

“Your
Grand-mere bit people?”

“Yes,” Nell
said.

“Others stayed
back to care for the bitten?”

“Yes.”

“Then your
village is gone,” Nainaine said. “You can never go back. They are
all dead. Dead or ghouls themselves. They will haunt the village
until they rot, or until the gators eat them up.”

“But--
Mama?”

“I’m sorry,
girl,” Nainaine said. “You’ve seen too much hoodoo for a girl your
age. But this is the way of it.”

Nell could not
stop herself from crying. This was not like the stories she
realized. Nainaine couldn’t send her home and make things like they
were. This wasn’t a dream. This was real life, and in real life
there was only death. Nainaine let her cry, as her Mama did
sometimes, until she was finished. Then she asked, “What do you
want to do now, girl?”

“I want to do
right for Grand-mere,” Nell said.

“And after
that?”

“I want
revenge.”

Mama would
have scolded Nell for wanting revenge. Nainaine Laveau didn’t
flinch. It was as if she expected it. Maybe the Loas told her.

“A hoodoo man
is a powerful enemy,” she said. “He is a snake in tall grass, a
rabbit in the briar patch. A little girl has no chance for revenge
against him.”

“But a voodoo
witch does,” said Nell. She held Nainaine’s gaze. “Can you teach
me?”

“Teach you to
speak with the Loas?” Nainaine asked. “To open the gate and write
the sacred names of the dead? I can do this.”

Nell swallowed
hard.

“It will take
years, child. You will see terrible things you never dreamed. And
when we are through, your body will be withered like mine, and
children will sing songs about you. You will be a Nainaine of the
Bayou.”

“But I can
have revenge.”

Nainaine
Laveau nodded.

“Then it’s
what I want.”

A grin pushed
up wrinkles on the brown witch face.

“You will be
my apprentice,” she said. “From this day, a piece of the painted
man’s soul belongs to you. He will never sleep well again, and he
will not know why until the day you meet.”

As her first
task, Nainaine Laveau told Nell she had to go into the Quarter, to
ask for a man named Lafitte. He would have supplies for Nainaine,
supplies she would need to take on an apprentice. But first, she
had to say goodbye to Grandmother.

Nainaine told
her to tie a rope around Grandmother’s neck. Only then would she
allow poor Grandmother into her home. Nell took the raspy woven
hemp in one hand, and stepped out into the bayou where Grandmother
still waited.

She stood
before Grandmother, holding the raspy woven hemp in one hand. It
was full dark, the light from the stars and the near-full moon
sparkled on the water. The frogs and crickets filled the air with
song. The old woman glared, sharp and unrelenting. Nell told her
she was sorry to have failed her, and their village. She failed
Mama and the Ya Ya and Nat Dufraine, and...well, just everyone, she
said. She thought about Grand-pere, waiting for his bride in his
lonely grave, and the empty plot beside it where Grandmother would
never be buried. There was one thing she would not fail at, she
said. She would make that painted man sorry.

Flies buzzed
around Nell’s head. She raised the rope to put it over
Grandmother’s head, but something held her arms. Grandmother’s
hands, gnarled and gray and filthy, had taken hold of her, and were
drawing her forward. The flesh was split and peeled away on one
finger, exposing a knuckle of bone. Nell struggled, but those hands
held tight.

Grandmother
opened her mouth slowly, exposing cracked yellow teeth and an oily
black tongue. Her eyes were hot and intense.

Nell knew she
deserved this fate, but her fear was strong. She fought back,
kicking her legs in the water and twisting in Grandmother’s grip.
“No, Grandmother,” she screamed. She wondered if Nainaine Laveau,
who was in her house and gave no sign that she was watching, would
be of any help.

Then
Grandmother stopped. Her hands still gripped Nell’s arms, but she
closed her mouth, and something in her eyes seemed to change,
introducing a touch of softness into her fixed and skull-like
expression.

“Yes,” Nell
said. “We are saying goodbye.”

She remembered
again of the story of Dorothy, of the end when she has to say
goodbye to the new friends who helped her on her way. Nell always
thought that was the saddest part. I’ll miss you most of all, she
thought.

Nell wrapped
her arms around Grandmother, even though her body was soft and
swollen like a rotten melon, and she smelled like the swamp when it
ran low. She cried once more into Grandmother’s shoulder and she
told her that she loved her and that she was sorry and that she
would miss her and remember her. Then Nell drew the hemp rope
around Grandmother’s neck and led her back into Nainaine Laveau’s
house.

They tied the
other end of the rope to an iron ring set into the wall.
Grandmother watched her with those intense, hateful eyes, but she
did not attack. Once her gaze moved to Nainaine Laveau, but mostly
she seemed not to notice the witch.

“When you
return,” Nainaine said. “Your Grand-mere will be in a better place.
You don’t want to watch what I have to do.”

A night breeze
swept away the heat of the day as Nell stepped outside. She felt a
surge of fear, but she told herself the night was now her home. She
was apprentice to a witch. The night might hide horrors, she
thought, but it would also hide her. She decided it would be night
when she killed the painted man, and she would slip up on him like
a swamp dragon from under the bayou.

 

***

 

Nainaine
watched the little girl sweep out the door. The Loas liked Nell.
For one so young, she had spent much time in the company of death.
The bayou was a dangerous place, but Nainaine knew Nell would
return, and with exactly the supplies she was sent to fetch. She
was a bright girl, and she would make a wonderful student. Someday,
she would be Nainaine.

Nainaine
Laveau went back into the church, where the old ghoul rotted. Her
eyes were ferocious, but her posture was passive, arms limp at her
sides. She teetered as if she might fall over. Flies buzzed around
her head.

Nainaine
stopped just out of reach of the gangrenous arms. Those eyes
followed her every step.

“Now,” she
said. “Before your granddaughter returns, let’s see if we can find
out about that treasure.”

END

 

 

Christopher Keelty
enjoys ice hockey, craft beer, and a good argument,
especially about politics. He lives in Harlem with his girlfriend
and triumvirate of cats, and is presently searching for good
poutine in New York City. His short fiction has also appeared
in
Collective Fallout
and
Jersey Devil
Press
. Chris blogs at
ChristopherKeelty.com
and
on
YouTube
. Find him on
twitter
@keeltyc
.

 

Corn-fed Baby and Gravy

Christian
Riley

 

The McClemen's
residence looked like an abscessed tooth jutting out of the earth,
three stories high, flaccid and diseased. It was surrounded by a
sea of cornfields of green presently bending lightly to a
south-westerly wind. There was an aged sycamore at the end of the
driveway, chained to it, a dog and a goat, and Lawrence Shoemaker
at last rolled his Cadillac to a stop in the tree's accompanying
shade.

The stink of
shit and animal parlayed with a cloud of dust, rising up and
through the opened windows of the Cadillac. Lawrence cursed,
reached for a handkerchief and covered his nose. When the dust
settled, he grabbed his clipboard and stepped outside, shielding
his eyes against the rays of a setting sun.

Crossing the
driveway to the front porch, Lawrence deftly navigated through
piles of dog crap, and more curiously, dozens of cornhusks lying
about. Adding to this oddity, he noticed a particular husk hanging
cockeyed from an above windowsill. Hillbillies, he thought.

The porch
groaned like a bitch in heat as Lawrence pressed his weight onto
it. One more step forward, and he swore he'd break through. No need
to knock with all this ruckus, but he rapped his knuckles on the
door anyhow. He absently flipped pages on his clipboard while he
waited. He didn't read anything, didn't even recognize what he was
staring at for that matter, his mind deep in thought over Happy
Hour at the topless bar in town. Last stop, not long now. Lawrence
licked his lips, adjusted his crotch; someone was opening the
door.

He was greeted
with the sweet smell of cornbread, and the fox-like eyes of Delaroy
McClemens.

"Yes,
sir...what can I do you for?" asked Delaroy, his voice deep as a
well.

"Delaroy
McClemens?"

"That's
me."

"My name is
Lawrence Shoemaker. I'm an investigator for the Office of Fraud and
Accountability. Do you have about ten minutes? I need to ask you
some questions about your family."

Delaroy
scrunched his eyebrows. "Questions about my family?"

"Yes, sir—if
you don't mind."

BOOK: Black Treacle Magazine (Issue 4)
13.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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