Stormwitch (15 page)

Time seems to spin to a stop between my palms, but my muscles tighten from the pressure. I feel like I can barely move.

How can I do this on my own?

The wind howls on, heedless of me and my efforts. I can’t hold the spell. It breaks as my hands drop and my arms fall to my sides.

But I keep chanting.

I chant the names of my foremothers until my jaw locks and I try to lift my hands again, to tame the winds. To stop them, at least in the space where I’m standing, and where my family and friends and Ray-boy huddle between the mattresses and box springs.

Nothing happens. It isn’t working!

My family… my family…

A flash of white catches my eye, and I stare at it as I finally manage to raise my arms over my head. Teeth … a smile.

For a moment, I fall silent.

Gisele. Peering at me from under her mattress. She is smiling.

I smile back and pry open my unwilling mouth, and I
start the chant over again.

“Circe and Ruba Cleo, I call on you, my foremothers. Protect me. Antoinette and Arielle, give me the strength of our people before white men and guns and steel…”

I turn my hands in slow circles again, and a glow flickers in my fingers. A circle. A small bubble. It swells and grows, expanding to cover me, and then most of the room, from the floor to a few feet above my head.

Soon, I stand in light and silence. The bubble spreads a little farther, first left and then right. Up and then down. All around the room it travels, blocking out the storm until the only sound is my voice raising the chant.

“Is it over?” Crazy Sardine mutters.

“No, Daddy,” says Gisele. “Ruba’s sending the wind away.”

“My God, Maizie!” Miss Hattie’s voice trembles. “What’s she doing?”

Grandmother Jones doesn’t answer.

I know she might not forgive this. My conjuring might split us down the middle. The juju. The old magic of Dahomey’s Fon, the proud Amazons. But if she’s alive to throw me from her home, so much the better.

Clay and Ray-boy lie behind me, motionless under their mattress, caught in the web of my spell.

My bubble closes and gains its full strength, and not a moment too soon.

I see the walls of the mansion shake, then watch as the great house starts to move beneath us. The bubble keeps us still, keeps us protected, but my senses feel the shuddering, hear the splinter of wood and crack of stone as the mansion loses its battle with the wind and the wild, angry ocean.

In moments, the big house washes completely off its foundation. It sweeps out from under us, falling into heaps of boards and debris, captured in the waves—but we stay suspended in the air. We float easily in the bubble I made, hovering above the spot where the house once stood. We barely bob at all, despite the water and the wind.

So far, my magic is holding. One slip of concentration, one moment of doubt… I push away such thoughts. Keeping one hand raised toward the stars, I use the other to twist my bag off my neck and open it.

“Help me,” I say to Gisele, and she wriggles from beneath her mattress.

She nods.

With her assistance, I keep my hand raised but manage to strip off my cotton dress, and once more I hear Miss Hattie. “Would you look at that tattoo? I’ve never seen anything like that. Covers half her leg—all the way to her waist! It’s a blue alligator.”

“Crocodile,” says Gisele, and she helps me into my war
tunic. Shells and bones clatter against my skin, Amazon armor like my foremothers wore. “And don’t talk to nobody but Ruba. Nothing, nobody, okay, Miss Hattie?”

I hear Grandmother Jones begin to pray.

“Can Mrs. Jones and Miss Hattie talk to God, Ruba?” Gisele asks as she fastens the tunic. “Would that be okay?”

I nod. “Just don’t talk to anything in the storm. Everyone will have to trust me for that.”

The drums grow louder.

“She’s coming, isn’t she?” Gisele shivers as she loops the last shell-anchored tie. “It’s not a ghost this time, like you’ve fought before. It’s that witch you talked about. The one who wants to kill you.”

“Yes,” I tell her, feeling tightness in my throat, my chest. “I’m afraid Zashar herself is in the storm. Just a few steps away from us.”

17 August 1969

Dearest Ba
,

It seems only right to talk to you now. If I dared to pull out my journal, I’d write this down. Somehow, I think you’ll be able to hear me, though. Even if I’m speaking only in my mind
.

I’m standing before the eye of the storm. It’s almost here
.

I’m wearing my war tunic of bones and shells. My body is drenched with palm oil, and I’m girded with my war belt. My machete hangs at my waist, and my bow and quiver are slung over my shoulder
.

Gisele has placed my white cap on my head
.

As befits a palace guard, an elite protector of Dahomey’s finest king, I now stand fully dressed for battle. The blue crocodile slides up my leg and sits above my brow, as if sewn on my cap, waiting
.

My hands make fists. One raised. One by my side. King Agaja’s necklace lies at my feet, in case I need his memory to keep my courage
.

I’m an Amazon. I’ve come to fight this storm
.

My hands will be steady this time. I won’t wait too long to shoot
.

I’m ready for Zashar—and it’s at this moment that I think of you—and I falter
.

My mind climbs backward in time to our last storm together
.

I see you standing next to me on Haiti’s sand as the little hurricane swirled toward the shore
.

“Il n’est pas Zashar,”
you whisper as the wind twists toward us. “Next time, it might be her, and we could end this forever. We’re the last, child. And the last will have to do what all the rest couldn’t, or things will go bad for this world.”

Even now, I still feel your warm, oiled fingers in mine. I see the crinkle of your eyes when you smile, Ba. And then Agontime’s unexpected turn … the tug… her shouting… your smile … your hand, leaving mine
.

And I remember
.

You were smiling as you started to go under because of what Agontime was saying. About enough, about finishing this fight
.

And you said, “This is right. Believe it’s right. Sometimes you have to let go to hold on
.”

Chapter Fourteen

No time, no Place

We’re all on our feet now, except Crazy Sardine. He’s awake, and he throws off his mattress before pushing himself to one elbow.

“Are we flying in the air?” Miss Hattie asks from behind me.

“Yeah.” Gisele turns to face her as I keep my eyes forward, on the walls of rain that mark the storm. “Looks like a soap bubble, doesn’t it? Ruba sent the wind away and put us in the soap bubble.”

“I don’t think the wind’s gone,” says Grandmother Jones, pointing to bending trees all around our small, bright bubble. We can see only the top halves. “It’s still blowing.”

“We’re sailing,” I whisper. “Sailing on the storm.”

“I’m dreaming,” chants Clay. “I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.…”

The first footfall shakes the universe.

We sway inside the bubble.

“What in God’s name was that?” Miss Hattie shouts.

“That’s got nothing to do with God,” says Grandmother Jones.

“The storm witch is coming,” I tell them. I wheel around and glance into each pair of wide eyes. “No matter what you see, believe. No matter what you hear, don’t respond to it. Don’t speak to anything in the storm. No matter how well or poorly the battle goes, trust me, and you might live.”

All nod—except Grandmother Jones.

Another footfall slams against the coast.

Grandmother Jones sets her mouth in a straight line, and her face holds stark anger. “You brought this on us,” she says in a cold voice.

“This vengeance is far older than me,” I tell her. “Please, just don’t speak to her.”

Grandmother Jones does not believe me. I can see it in the tilt of her chin. “Admit it, Ruba. You put some spirit in this storm.”

“It’s the stormwitch, Grandmother, like I’ve been telling you.”

“Foolishness.”

BOOM!

“What is that?” bleats Clay. “You’re nuts, Ruba!”

Ray-boy kicks the mattress now lying beside the box spring. He’s holding his breath, nearly blue in the face, so
badly does he want to speak.

I glower at him. “This is partly your fault. You stopped me from chanting the storm while it was weaker, still at sea. I could have taken on the witch better then, but now—this is what I have to do.”

Another thundering footstep makes my bones ache. “You just pray to whatever you believe in. Pray I can send Zashar back to the land of the dead.”

“And if you don’t?” Clay asks.

“She’ll kill us.” I shudder. “Then she’ll keep walking, and take this storm inland. She’ll cover the whole world in her hurricane, for as long as she can. She’s evil and angry, and she’ll hurt as many people as possible.”

My eyes return to Grandmother Jones. She says nothing.

“I fight on the side of right,” I whisper.

“Not my right,” she murmurs. “My god is the only right way.”

“Then speak to him!” I yell. “I’m not stopping you. Your god is mine, and mine, yours.”

Miss Hattie touches Grandmother Jones’s arm just as the world grows still and yet another footfall shatters our peace.

“The eye’s here,” I shout, too nervous to keep my voice low.

A laugh drifts forward, high and wild, like the mad
yelp of a starving dog.

A cold light fills the stillness of the bubble I created. The moon and the stars break through drifting clouds. A shadow falls across me.

Gisele screams.

Miss Hattie gasps.

Grandmother Jones lifts her prayers toward heaven, and Ray-boy Frye starts to cry.

From Clay and Crazy Sardine, there is but a stunned silence.

I straighten my shoulders and try to stand tall. “Zashar,” I say.

“A child?” screams a voice straight from the depths. “Agaja sends a child against me? I did not think to have it so easy. Where’s the old one? Where is Ruba Cleo?”

I lower my raised fist, drop my hand behind my head, and withdraw an arrow from my quiver. My bow slides from my shoulder into my palm.

“She’s gone. I’m the only Amazon left for you to kill … if you can.”

I see her then.

Six sharp gasps tell me that the others see her, too.

Zashar towers as large as a mountain, dressed just as I am, wearing a guard cap so white it lights the night. Her crocodile mark winds dark blue and harsh against her ebony skin, and her crusted teeth seem sharp and brutal.

Bones rattle on her tunic. Moonlight flashes on her machete. A rifle as large and long as any cannon hangs in her belt. The stock droops heavy with cowry shells pasted in place with blood, one mollusk for each soul she has killed in battle.

Her right hand is raised, and her left is closed at her side.

Is she holding more shells? One for me, one for each of the people I love?

“Stand aside,” she rumbles.

I shake my head and nock the arrow. “No.”

She laughs and waves a hand. A great gust topples me backward. Beside me, Ray-boy covers his ears, and Clay shakes.

I struggle back to my feet, grateful I didn’t lose my bow or the arrow.

“Who are these?” Zashar snorts. “Old women, weak men—and a white beast? Give him to me. I’ll eat him first. If you give him to me, I’ll spare one of the others. One of the old ones, if you ask it. Give him to me!”

Ray-boy cowers closer to Clay, and Clay actually throws a protective arm across his shoulders. I can tell with one glance that Ray-boy is sure I’ll do this, that I’ll sacrifice him to save my grandmother.

The thought does tempt me, but only for a second.

“You’ll go hungry,” I say. “He’s under my protection,
just like the rest.”

“Your protection?” The witch rattles the bubble and knocks me down again, this time harder. My face scrubs against the edge of a box spring and I feel my cheek bleed. “You make me laugh, girl.”

Once more, I find my feet and resettle my bow and arrow.

Zashar leans her hard black face into the bubble, toward Gisele, who stands silently at my side. “And you, little mouse. Come here. Let me see you.”

Gisele holds her ground. Brighter light swells around her, and Zashar steps back. “What is your name, little mouse?” she booms.

Gisele opens her mouth. My heart stops, but I can’t interfere with the choices of others. If she speaks to the witch, Zashar might confuse her and claim her.

I watch, chewing my own tongue, as Gisele slowly closes her lips. She glances at me, and she turns her back on the witch.

Zashar’s attention strays to Crazy Sardine. “You there, on your backside. Who might you be?”

Crazy Sardine gives me the same glance as his daughter, lowers himself back to the box spring, and closes his eyes.

Clay and Miss Hattie don’t wait to be addressed. They turn from the witch before she calls them out.