Other than them, just the sound of Georgia crickets in the night, telling me the juke joint closed up, except for those who want a room and some alone time. I turn to gaze at Michael George beside me, naked as the day he was born and finer than frog hair. I pull closer to nuzzle his neck, smelling the lingering cigar smoke, a habit he picked up in Havana. Two of us like to sit around after, sharing one and talking. Well, he do most of the talking. Not that he ain’t curious—seems like he got a hundred questions about me. None I’m ready to answer. Beyond bootlegging, not much to tell. He ain’t got the sight. And monster hunting’s hard to explain. He know by the way I go quiet not to ask about my past or my family. Some things not for saying.
Besides, I prefer his stories of far-off places with white beaches and haint-blue waters. He tell me of a place named Tulum. Says at night on the ocean, the stars so plentiful, look like they just falling into the sea. Says he wants to take me there. That the two of us could get a boat, and just sail the whole world round. Sometimes I let myself imagine what that would be like. No more Ku Kluxes or fighting, just me and him and all that water. Think it’d be like freedom.
I squint at a sudden glare, forcing me out my thoughts. I raise up to find my sword propped in a corner, glowing bright. I didn’t call it, so it being here mean I’m wanted. So much for dreaming about freedom. I disentangle from Michael George, who shifts his weight but don’t wake. Grabbing up his shirt, I slip it on and hop out the bed, walking to my sword and grabbing it by the hilt … then stumble as the room falls away. I shake off a bout of dizziness and glance around. I’m standing in a green field under a bright blue sky, only there’s no sun.
This ain’t no dream, though. And I’m not alone.
There’s three women. Two are older, sitting in fancy high-backed chairs at a white table beneath the biggest Southern red oak you ever seen. Both got the knowing looks of aunties, which is what I call them. The third, she on a swing hanging by a rope from the tree and gliding back and forth. Her face young enough to be my sister, but she’s pure auntie, no mistaking. All three got on canary-yellow dresses with lace and embroidery, set off by colorful wide-brimmed hats. One at the table looks up from where she’s stirring a glass pitcher.
“Maryse!” Her plump brown cheeks lift into a smile like I’m her favorite niece, and she stands to pull me into a hug, rubbing my back. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Come sit now!”
“Hello, Auntie Ondine.” I turn to the other one at the table, bowing my head respectful. “Auntie Margaret.”
She glances up from doing stitchwork, a frown wrinkling her narrow face and dipping her bright pink hat. “Took you long enough to get here.” She looks me up and down. “You put on weight?”
I grind my teeth behind my smile. Auntie Margaret is that kind of auntie.
“Oh, Maryse is just as she needs to be,” Auntie Ondine insists, smoothing down the gold feathers crowning her purple hat. “Don’t mind Auntie Margaret; she’s a bit cranky today. Here, have some sweet tea.”
She always a bit cranky, I think, accepting a mason jar. I stir the ice before sipping, a lemon wedge tickling my nose. Best sweet tea I ever tasted. Like somebody mixed up sugar and sunshine and goodness. Thing is, though, it ain’t real. None of this is. Not the grass under my toes, this big shady oak tree, even the blue sky above. That stuff Molly was saying, about other worlds? This someplace like that, I think. Auntie Ondine say it look like this for my sake, to give me something familiar.
These three not people either. Never you mind they looking like aunties up in church on Sunday. They ain’t got shadows, for one. Look just out the corner of your eye, their bodies start to shimmer and blur. One time I looked too long and all three changed. They was still womanlike, but slender and unsightly tall in long bloodred gowns. Their faces was masks stitched from what look like real brown skin. What was beneath … well … reminded me of foxes. With rusty fur, pointed ears, and burnt-orange eyes. I know what it sounds like, Bruh Fox and all that. But I saw what I saw!
I sip the sweet tea (that ain’t really sweet tea) and turn to the woman on the swing. “Hello, Auntie Jadine.” She don’t answer. Just keeps swinging, a far-off look in her eyes.
“Oh, she’s doing … her thing,” Auntie Ondine apologizes.
That explains it, then. Auntie Jadine the strangest of these three, and that’s saying a lot. Time funny with her. She living in the now, the yesterday, and tomorrow all at once. When she like this, mean she’s somewhere—sometime—else.
Nana Jean warns me to watch myself with these three. Say haints is tricksy. But they remind me of my mama in a way. Like they plucked memories of her from my head, and made them into three people. Maybe that’s why I’m fond of them; remind me of what I lost. Besides, was them who gave me the sword.
The broad black leaf-blade sits on the table, keeping a steady hum that draws in spirits—their singing whispering in my ears.
Auntie Ondine told me how the sword came to be. The one who made it, back in Africa he was a big to-do who sold slaves, till he got tricked and sold too. Got made a blacksmith, on account he was good with iron. He made the sword to look like one that used to mark him as a big to-do. Only bigger—not just for ceremony. He pounded it with magic, calling on the dead who got sold away. He bid them sing their songs, seek the spirits of the ones who sent them across the sea, and bind those chiefs and kings, even his own self, up in that iron—make them serve those they done wrong.
When I call the sword I get visions from them angry slaves, their songs pulling at restless chiefs and kings bound to the blade, making them cry out until sleeping gods stir in answer. That’s the sword’s power—a thing of vengeance and repentance. Don’t know how it ended up with these three. But they say it needs a champion. When it first came I wasn’t no champion, though. Just a scared girl, hiding under the floorboards. But I learned how to listen since then—how to move to its rhythm.
“We apologize for calling on you at this late hour,” Auntie Ondine says. “We tried to wait until you completed your physical intimacies with your beau.”
Auntie Margaret humphs. “Lots of carrying on and grunting, you ask me.”
My face goes warm. Not being people and all, these three sometimes say things they shouldn’t. Like about my “physical intimacies.” Or implying they was watching me! Someone laughs. I turn to find Auntie Jadine staring dead at me under her wide pale blue hat, that faraway look replaced by something devilish.
“When my man put it on me, he make my legs shake!” she bursts out.
I almost spit my sweet tea.
Did I mention Auntie Jadine only talks in song? Don’t know where—or when—this one from. But the meaning clear enough. If I didn’t have this wonderful sun-kissed skin, I’d be a perfect shade of scarlet.
Auntie Jadine grins, and I catch a hint of fox teeth. “He got dat good, good, good,” she sings. “Dat good, good, good!” She jumps off the swing and walks over, yellow dress flowing across long black limbs as her bare feet tread grass. All three barefooted. Say shoes too hard to think up. She plants the softest kiss on my forehead before easing into a chair and taking up a jar of tea.
“In any case,” Auntie Ondine continues. “We needed to talk. Ill tidings are afoot.”