Conjure (6 page)

I jog back to the kitchen and place the book on the counter. Flipping through the pages, I search for one of the sketches I did on Hunting Island. “Here, this is what you’re talking about, right?” I turn the book around for Miss Delia to see.

She bends down and peers over the sketch with her good eye. “That’s it.” She grins. “Find one and tote back some leaves.”

I bolt out of the kitchen, passing Cooper and Jack again, and out the front door into the thick woods that surround her house. A few hundred yards in, past some scattered tupelo, mimosa, and wisteria trees, I find the bush. Miss Delia’s right, the berries are a dead giveaway. I strip a handful of serrated leaves from the branches.

My scalp tingles. Someone’s watching me.

I whip around, but no one’s there.

Silence, deep and penetrating, fills the woods. Even the birds have stopped chirping. I don’t see anyone, but I swear, someone’s eyes are on me.

My eyes skitter from tree to bush, making sure no one has slipped behind one of them. An eternal minute passes. Still nothing.

I sigh, sure I’m losing my mind. First I freaked out about a deer last night, and now, for all I know, I’m doing it again over a chipmunk. Feeling dumb, I turn back to the elderberry and strip another branch of its leaves.

A foul odor wafts through the air. Chemical and squalid, it’s like rotten eggs and burnt plastic mixed with decay.

I’ve smelled this before—at the ruins after Jack opened the box and got burned.

My spine stiffens. Maybe it’s not a chipmunk, after all. Gulping hard, I try not to inhale while shifting my gaze from side to side, peering for its source.

A loud crack, like the snap of a dead tree limb, booms behind me. That was definitely
not
a chipmunk. Adrenaline surges. Without bothering to look back, I spin on my heels and race through the woods, careening around shrubs and trees and leaping over roots, shooting toward Miss Delia’s.

My chest heaves as I charge up her porch steps. Nothing followed me back. I’m safe.

Then, as I’m congratulating myself for evading the unseen evil, it suddenly dawns on me that a much more likely explanation exists: I was in the forest, where lots of wildlife lives and dies, and that smell probably emanated off the rotting corpse of some unfortunate beast. And the thing that sounded like a dead tree limb was probably just that—a branch that broke off a tree and crashed to the ground.

I’ve got to stop doing this to myself. I’m going to have a stroke.

Shaking off my wacky paranoia, I calm my breath and head back in. Miss Delia’s bark chips have boiled down to a soft, mushy lump, and the kitchen smells way more earthy than it did before. She’s got the rest of the ingredients lined up, ready for me to crush in the mortar before she tosses them into the gently boiling water. While the buds and leaves cook down, she asks me to grab a crock of lard from the old refrigerator and place it on the counter.

I gag a little as she digs a butter knife deep into the congealed white substance and plops a thick glob onto the cotton strip.

Her hand quivers as she drags the knife across the grease, trying to smooth it out. But her hand and the knife refuse to cooperate. Shaking her head, she slips the smooth metal handle into my fingers and steps aside so I can spread the lard across the cloth.

A chill hangs in the air as we wait for the mush to cook down and cool, which is weird because Miss Delia doesn’t have air conditioning. But maybe it’s a natural consequence of the huge live oak that dwarfs her house. Miss Delia doesn’t seem to notice the change in temperature as she busies herself flipping through my sketchbook. She practically knows everything about each of the plants I’ve drawn—their names, where they grow, when they bloom, what parts are poisonous, and what can be used for medicine.

“I can’t believe you know all this stuff.” I jot notes next to each plant.

She laughs. “Child, I’ve had ninety-seven years to learn.”

“Yeah, but who taught you? You couldn’t have learned it on your own.”

“My
maamy
taught me. And she learned from my gran, who learned from my great-gran. This is old medicine passed on from mother to daughter.” She looks off, out the kitchen window onto the enormous herb garden.

“Did you teach it to anyone?”

She turns back to me and smiles, but it seems sad and empty. “Oh, I taught my daughter and even my own granddaughter, but they moved off Sa’leenuh a long time ago to work in the north. They don’t use hoodoo anymore, ever since my granddaughter became a doctor in Chicago and decided it’s bad medicine.” She shakes her head and eases herself off the stool.

I frown as I watch her check the temperature of the mush. Her regret is almost another scent in the room.

When the mixture is cool enough, we spoon it on the lard. I help her spread it over the cloth, and she calls Jack into the kitchen. “Lay your hand here.”

Jack gulps. “What is that stuff?” He grimaces at the mushy brown layer of cooked bark, leaves, and balm of Gilead buds.

She raises one eyebrow. “It’s what you came for, boy. Now put your hand on the poultice.” For once, Jack does as he’s told. She wraps the strip snug around his hand.

His shoulders release, and the creases in his forehead smooth. “Wow, that feels good.”

She laughs. “Of course it does.”

He stares at his re-wrapped hand. “No, really, this stuff is so cool and mushy, the burning’s completely gone. I guess I didn’t realize how hot my hand has been.”

She shrugs her thin shoulders. “It’s the strangest burn I’ve ever seen, but I gave you an extra strong mixture just in case.” She puts some lard and what’s left of the mush in a small glass jar and hands it to me, along with another cotton strip. “Change his dressing tonight. It should be a whole mess better in the morning.”

We walk her to the front door, where Jack and Cooper each slip her a twenty-dollar bill.

“Thanks, Miss Delia.” Jack’s happier than I’ve seen him in days. Now maybe his attitude will improve, too. He stares at his hand with amazement. “Maggie was right. You’re a lifesaver.”

She pats his shoulder with a liver-spotted hand. “I wouldn’t go that far, but you’re welcome.” She watches as we make our way down the porch and through her herb garden. “Take care of yourselves, and don’t get into any more trouble!”

Chapter Eight

“Emma, wake up!” Jack looms over my bed and shakes my arm.

“Huh?” My eyes are fuzzy, and my brain is clouded from sleep.

“Emma, I need your help. You’ve got to get up.” Jack’s face comes into sharper focus. His skin is drawn, and his brow is etched with deep lines.

I rub the sleep from the corners of my eyes, relieved to see that at least the sun is up, and he didn’t wake me in the middle of the night. “What’s going on? Is it Dad?”

“No, he’s fine. He already left for Charleston looking for Missy’s stupid weather vane part. My hand. It’s gotten worse.”

I yawn. “How’s that possible? Miss Delia said it would be better.”

“I don’t know what that quack did to me, but see for yourself.” He thrusts his palm into my face.

“Ah!” I wince and scramble to sit up, totally awake now. His fingers are red and swollen like uncooked Italian sausages, too engorged to bend. And the blisters have grown, stretched into huge, pus-filled boils that literally throb with his pulse. But the rest of his hand is normal—toned and muscular—and strangely unaffected by his engorged fingers.

“That’s totally gross. Does it hurt?” I gingerly tap his index finger. Suddenly I get a whiff of something I can’t quite place, but it reminds me of vinegar, or maybe something I’ve smelled in Dad’s workshop.

He shakes his head. His eyes betray the panic he must have suppressed until now. “That’s the weird thing—it doesn’t. And it’s freaking me out because I think it should.” With his lips turned down, he stares at his fingers, and it looks like he might throw up. “Dang.”

I run my hand through my ratty strawberry-blonde hair, dragging it up off my forehead and behind my shoulder. “We’ve got to get you to a hospital. I know you didn’t want to tell Dad, but we don’t have a choice now.”

Jack pushes himself off my bed and paces across my bedroom floor, massaging his temples with both his healthy and swollen fingers. “Okay, but first we’ve got to stop by that crazy lady’s house to find out what she did to me. Maybe she poisoned me. We need to know what she used to tell the doctors.”

I shake my head. “No, I helped her do everything.” I toss off the covers and jump out of bed. “I know what plants she used so I can tell them.” I grab some clothes from the dresser and head to the bathroom to get ready.

He follows me down the hall. “But Em, you weren’t there the whole time. Remember? You left in the middle of it.” My trip to the elderberry bush suddenly flashes across my mind. “How do you know she didn’t slip something into that concoction she cooked up?”

I can’t help but think of Miss Delia’s kind face and gentle demeanor. There was something so, I don’t know,
good
about her that makes me doubt Jack’s right. We only met yesterday, but I can’t imagine her deliberately hurting him.

“Jack, I don’t think she did anything to you on purpose. Maybe you’re having an allergic reaction?”

His shoulders ease a little. “Yeah, I guess so.” Closing his eyes, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “But we still need to find out what she used.” He rests his head against the bathroom door. “I’m scared, Em.” His voice breaks.

I grasp his forearm and muster the most reassuring smile I can. “I know. But we’ll take care of it. I promise. Now go call Cooper while I get ready.” I shut the bathroom door and let the smile slip from my face as a wave of dread washes over me.

…

Within an hour, we’re standing on Miss Delia’s porch. I knock on her door and wonder how to get her help without accusing her of hurting Jack.

The door opens, revealing Miss Delia in a pale orange housedress. Her brow crinkles with confusion. “Emma? I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

Before I have a chance to answer, Jack steps forward and thrusts his hand at her. “Look what happened.” The boils are even larger now, stretched taut over the fluid encapsulated inside, and throbbing.

She recoils. “What did you do, boy?” Her voice is suddenly at least an octave lower, deep and gravelly, and frankly, kind of scary.

“I used the stuff you gave us, just like you said,” he says.

She narrows her cloudy eye and sets her jaw. “That didn’t come from what I gave you. You best be on your way. Now.”

Cooper pulls Jack back and tries to smooth things over. “Miss Delia, we don’t want to bother you. But we’re taking Jack to see a doctor, and we hoped you’d give us a list of the poultice ingredients, in case he’s got an allergy.”

She huffs. “No doctor can cure what he’s got. I know bad magic when I see it.”

Jack’s lip curls. “What?”

She sets her hands on her hips and glares into his eyes. She’s a foot-and-a-half shorter than he is but seems twice as powerful. “You messed with something you shouldn’t have. Something dark and evil. Probably something belonging to Beau Beaumont.”

Jack’s head jolts back as if she’s punched him across the jaw. “No, you’re wrong.” He shakes his head and sounds dazed. “There was a treasure…and a booby trap.”

I jump in, eager to explain. “There was an explosion. That’s how he got burned.”

“I don’t care how it happened. I don’t want any part of what you got, boy.” She flicks her wrist, shooing us off her porch. “Get on now, before it’s too late.”

Jack’s gasp draws all of our gazes—to his hand. The boils pulse now, enlarging with each beat. The skin thins under the mounting pressure like a balloon filled with too much air. After one final, massive pulse, there’s a sickening ripping sound, and all four boils erupt.

Jack screams as a fluorescent yellow liquid seeps across his fingers, bubbling against the skin. The scent of battery acid, tart and bitter, hangs in the air as Jack’s flesh disintegrates, starting at the center of the boils, then spreading to cover the length of his fingers. The top layer of skin fizzles away, revealing several thin, clear layers below, which, along with his fingernails, quickly give way, exposing the ivory-colored fat and crimson muscles beneath. It only takes a few moments for the tissues to dissolve, exposing milky white bones connected only by a few remaining ligaments.

The sizzling suddenly stops, and the remaining liquid drips onto the porch, scorching the wood and leaving Jack with skeletal fingers.

My stomach seizes, and I blink, trying to make sense of what I’ve just seen. But it’s impossible. Jack is shaking, gawking at the bony fingers cradled in his good hand. He flexes them, and the bones curl inward toward his perfectly normal thumb and palm, forming a tight ball.

Cooper leans over the porch railing and hurls his breakfast into a giant purple salvia bush.

The low moan I’m hearing is coming from my own mouth. What the heck is going on? I turn to Miss Delia for an explanation.

She purses her lips and glares at Jack. “You are cursed, boy.”

The pieces click into place. I gasp and turn to Jack. “It’s The Creep.”

Miss Delia’s milky eye whips around to stare at me. “How do you know about The Creep?” Her gaze bores into me, singeing my skin.

I struggle to answer in a complete sentence. “It was…in a letter…the one about the treasure…I tried to warn him, but Jack didn’t believe in it.”

She peers at Jack, who’s whimpering now, and points toward the yard. “Go sit under the bottle tree. Maybe it’ll soak up some of the bad spirits.” Then she turns to Cooper and motions toward his puke. “And you better clean up that mess.”

Jack stands there, his mouth hanging wide enough to catch a swarm of flies. I don’t think he heard a word Miss Delia just said.

She pokes his chest with a crooked finger. “Move. I don’t want that curse seeping into my house.”

Cooper gently takes him by the shoulder and guides him off the porch. “Come on, bro, we’re going to move over to the bench under that tree.”

Forget about the hospital and Dad. This is way beyond them. There’s only one person who can fix this.

“Can you help him, Miss Delia?” I pray she’s got some amazing secret magic up her sleeve that’ll
poof
this all away.

She crosses her arms. “I don’t want to fiddle with what he’s got.”

“Please?” My voice sounds as desperate as I feel.

She turns toward me. Despite how young and vigorous she seemed yesterday, she suddenly appears to have lived every one of those long ninety-seven years. Her shoulders slump, and she grips the doorjamb for support. “I don’t know, child.” She sucks her teeth, then turns around and shuffles into her house.

I’m not sure if I’m invited to follow, but I do, anyway. “Isn’t there something we can do?”

Leaning hard against her cane, Miss Delia heads into the kitchen and pulls out a metal spoon before settling on one of the stools at the island. “I need to know what we’re dealing with. Scrape up some of the pus that dripped on my porch. Mind yourself now, and don’t touch it. Just put it on the spoon.”

I bolt to the porch and grimace at the already thickening bright yellow goo, then scrape some up and race back to the kitchen. Miss Delia tells me to get her mortar and pestle and a large earthenware jar that’s tucked away at the back of one of her cabinets. Next she asks for a scoop of dirt dug from the yard under the bottle tree and a small glass of water.

Once I’ve collected everything, she empties the dirt into the mortar, along with an equal amount of water, and mixes the substance into a dense, muddy paste. Then she rests the spoon in the bowl and reaches into the jar, retrieving a pinch of a fine gray powder. She chants a few words in a language I don’t understand—probably Gullah—and tosses in some powder as she blows a puff of air on the spoon.

The wind whips up in her backyard, shaking the trees and rustling their leaves.

A flash of fire erupts in the mortar, sizzling the gooey substance clinging to the metal surface. First the yellow fluid hardens, darkening until it looks like a shiny nugget of onyx. But then the burning intensifies, condensing and dulling the black blob until it fades to a dull gray and implodes on itself, crumbling to dust. It looks like an old charcoal briquette after a barbecue.

The wind dies down as suddenly as it arrived, leaving an eerie calm.

Miss Delia shakes her head. “This is a very ancient and powerful curse. It must be The Creep.”

“Is that a good thing? I mean, since you know what it is, you can reverse it, right?”

She leans on the butcher-block counter top. “Until this moment, I didn’t know if it was real or a story my great-gran told me.”

I bite my lip. “What’d she say about it?” I’m almost afraid to find out.

She rests her head in her hand. “As far back as anyone can remember, folks said a powerful doctress used the elements to work a revenge curse.” She points to the mortar. “This is an elemental curse.”

My forehead crinkles. “What does that mean?”

“It can only be broken with wind, fire, water, and earth. It’s almost impossible.”

“But if it isn’t, what will happen to Jack?” My voice cracks because I’m pretty sure I already know.

Her face softens to deliver the bad news. “It will spread, little by little, until he is consumed.”

A surge of fear, anger, and power shoots through me. I pound my fists on the counter. “We can’t let that happen. You have to do something.”

She reaches her withered hands to grasp my own. “Child, I’m an old woman, and this is an evil curse. I don’t have the strength to fight it.”

An idea pops into my mind. “Could I do it?” My voice rises with hope. “You could teach me what to do, and I could do it for you.”

She stares at me like I just announced I’m running for president. Her face fills with pity. “Child, I know you mean well, but I’ve never seen a
comeyah
or
buckrah
who could work hoodoo, at least not as well as you must to break this curse.”

Tears well in my eyes. She can’t say no, at least not that easily. Jack might be a total jerk, but he’s my jerk, and I can’t let him go without trying. “But I can learn, especially if you teach me. He’s my only brother. He’s my
twin
. I can’t lose him.”

She pulls back and assesses me for a long moment, chewing on the side of her lip. “You said your father grew up on Sa’leenuh?”

I sniff away my tears and nod. “Yes. So did his father and grandfather. And I’ve been here every summer for the last eight years.”

She purses her lips. “Then I suppose you’re not really a
comeyah
. And you do know your plants.” She strokes her chin with her crooked fingers, and I clasp my hands in prayer, sensing she might be willing to go along. “There’s no official rule against
buckrah
working hoodoo. I could pass the mantle to you and take you on as an apprentice.”

I exhale as relief pours over me. “Thank you, Miss Delia. I won’t let you down.”

“It’s not me you should be worried about. Your brother is the one who needs you.” The lines around her eyes seem deeper now, chiseled into her frail brown skin. Her good eye looks cloudier than before.

“I’ll do whatever it takes. Just tell me where to start.”

She reaches a liver-spotted hand across the counter once again. It lies heavy against mine, as if she doesn’t have the strength to pull it back. “For now, you best get him home and be sweet to him. I need some rest after all this so I can figure out how to break the curse. You, too, while you’re at it. We’re going to need all the energy we can get.”