“Yep. Better add some shears and a whet stone. Unless you already got that,” DeLille suggested.
“No, I don’t have any. Good idea. Do you think I’ll have many people coming out, like you did? To challenge my ghost?”
“Thought you didn’t believe.”
“I don’t, but they might.” Grace’s expression was open, taking in everything the grocer was saying.
Luc still worried about her but knew she was in no immediate danger.
“No, you’ll be fine. Word’s gotten out you’re living there. Still, you might think about getting a dog or two. Isolated like you are, they’d be company and warn you about intruders.”
“I’ll consider that.” She nodded.
“Taddy.” DeLille addressed the lad as he came back in the store. “You help Miz Thibodaux load up her packhorse.”
“Yes, suh, Mista DeLille.”
“Day’s getting late,” the grocer said. “I’ll give you a hand, so’s you can be on your way and get home afore dark. And don’t you worry none about them fencing supplies. I’ll have Taddy drive them out toSweet Dreamstomorrow along with your mattress, the icebox and some ice.”
The three of them made quick work of loading, and Grace approached the tumbled down gates that marked theSweet Dreamsentrance just as the sun sank below the horizon.
Luc trailed behind. The pain of his effort was exhausting. So, he was a bit surprised when he heard her rein Maymie to a halt.
“Whoa.”
Chapter Seven
December 03, 1911, Waxing Gibbous Moon
Sweet Dreams Plantation
Luc watched Maymie dance a sidestep and neigh a protest at the chanting woman occupying the center of the plantation lane. Grace reined to an abrupt halt and, crooning, patted her mount’s neck. He’d been too focused on Grace and hadn’t noticed the old woman. Grace probably hadn’t either.
Age-bent, she faced the gate. All the same Luc knew what she looked like. Tight white curls peeped out from beneath an elaborate tignon of red, purple and gold madras. Gems, feathers, small bones decorated the headgear. A deeply dark brown, her long, angular face wore a lifetime of wrinkles. Eyes of the palest blue stared out over an aquiline nose. A thin-lipped wide mouth moved as her craggy voice chanted. As she spoke large teeth showed, yellowed cracked, and missing one lower incisor. The long-fingered hands that moved to her chanting were oddly smooth and nimble. A red and white gingham dress covered her thin body. Bare, calloused feet peeped from beneath the ruched hem of her gown. Reflected light bounced off toenails buffed to a gleaming shine.
What is Mambo Ayezan doing here?
With the horses calmed, Grace stared in fascinated silence.
Luc had been acquainted with the voodoo priestess for decades. As a young woman, she’d come toSweet Dreamsduring a full moon in search of him. When he’d tried to frighten her she’d laughed in his face and announced that she’d wondered what all the fuss was about in her family over an ancestress cursing a pirate. She was, he supposed, one of the few friendlier relationships he’d made.
Decades passed. Age stole her youthful beauty, but intelligence and wisdom still gleamed in her pale blue eyes. More often than not, a smile lingered amongst the wrinkles and age spots. However, she wasn’t laughing now.
The tiny aged woman facing one of the open gates continued to chant, undisturbed that a ton of horse had nearly trampled her.
“Papa Legba, bless please this that I do in your name and for your greatness. I place your symbol on this gate and make you this offering…” She tied an object onto the gate’s wrought iron. The item resembled a cross inside an octagonal frame. It was made from four long nails bound together with tightly coiled copper wire.
Despite the cursed evidence of his life, Luc did not, himself believe in the Loa or saints of the mambo’s faith. Normally, he had little patience with ritualistic nonsense. He’d met too many charlatans during his existence. This woman, however, was no false priestess.
“…so you will keep safe the woman here who resumes her spirit’s journey.” Mambo Ayezan drew a woven bag from within her loose robe, securing the bag to the emblem with a bright red ribbon. “To thank you, I add my gift. You like these pralines. Made them just for you.”
To get a better look at what she was doing, Luc shifted to the far side of the gates.
Silently, the old woman knelt at the foot of the gate. There she lit three colored candles—white, red, and black. From the flames, she set afire a bundle of twigs. White smoke rose, as the woman stood. She lifted the incense bundle moving in and around the gates. The vapor cloud grew and swirled, filling the twilight like a fog.
The odor of cigar smoke mixed with coconut, vanilla, and—what might be pyrite—assailed Luc’s nose. He held back a sneeze, waiting to learn the priestess’ purpose.
The mambo resumed chanting as she moved. “Guard her from evil, for she is one of yours. Guide her as she travels from this crossroad. I beg the holy spirits, Pierre, Lazar, Anton, lend you aid and strength. An evil tide pursues her, until the time comes to correct a great wrong.”
