“Blow that trumpet!”
“At the Judgment bar.”
“My God call you!”
“At the Judgment.”
“Angels shouting!”
“At the Judgment bar.”
The Shout come from slavery times. Though hear Uncle Will tell it, maybe it older than that. Slaves would Shout when they get some rest on Sundays. Or go off to the woods in secret. They’d come together and carry on like this: the Leader, the Stick Man, and the Basers, singing, clapping, and stamping, while the Shouters move to the song. In the Shout, you got to move the way the spirit tell you and can’t stop until it let you go. And don’t call it no dance! Not unless you want Uncle Will to set you down and learn you proper. See, the Shout ain’t really the song, it’s the movement. He say the Shouts like this one got the most power: about surviving slavery times, praying for freedom, and calling on God to end that wickedness.
I can feel my sword appear faint in my hand like a phantom thing—half in this world, half in another. The chanting in my head starts up, and chiefs and kings wail as those they sold flood to the leaf-shaped blade, and old gods stir awake to sway in time to the Shout. Whole room is flooded with light—rising up from the singers, crackling lightning bursting from the Stick Man’s cane, and leaving dazzling tracks where the Shouter’s feet shuffle without ever crossing. That brightness drowns out all else—even a frightened little girl whispering her fears before vanishing into smoke. My blade drinks in that magic, and the chanting in my head grows. But it don’t just come to me. Most of that light flows to a woman in the center of the room in a haint-blue dress.
Nana Jean.
Magic washes up against her, long arms that look made of packed dark earth soaking up light. It oozes in fat drops from her fingertips into bottles arranged about her—and the liquid inside turns honey gold, lighting up like a lantern. I seen this Gullah woman do this plenty, and my eyes still wide.
When the Shout ends, the light vanishes. The Shouters, Basers, Stick Man, and Uncle Will covered in sweat, like they worked their spirits hard. Nana Jean drops down to plop heavy into a chair, her fleshy body creaking the wood as young boys cork the bottles and pack them into crates.
This here Nana Jean’s secret recipe—parts corn, barley liquor, and Gullah root magic. For some it’s a drink—smooth as gin, strong as whiskey. Others use it to sanctify homes. Or to rub down babies. Folk call it all kinds of things: Mama’s Tears, Pure Water, Mami’s Wata. But each bottle got the name in plain letters: Mama’s Water.
Nana Jean intend it as protection. A bit of magic to ward off evil in our times—Klans, lynching, mobs. And Ku Kluxes. Maybe it do, maybe it don’t. But this concoction one of the biggest moneymakers in the county. When me, Sadie, and Chef ain’t chasing Ku Kluxes, we running Mama’s Water across half of Georgia. Like I said, this monster-hunting business don’t pay for itself.
The scent of food coming from a table makes my mouth water. People already about it, heaping up plates. I’m set to join them when I feel Nana Jean’s gaze calling. I sigh. Look like food gon’ have to wait. I turn, stepping through the crowd toward her.
This old woman the reason I’m in Macon now. Was three years back I heard her call, way up in Memphis, a croon riding the wind like dandelion seeds in that Red Summer. Reached me when I was running through the Tennessee woods: half-mad, blade in hand, exacting what vengeance on Ku Kluxes I could for what they done. Sadie the same way, tearing red death through Alabama with Winnie after Ku Kluxes murdered her grandpappy. Cordy came back from the war to Harlem, then Chicago, running from nightmares, claiming she could see monsters. But Nana Jean bid us stop, to turn our ears to her and come. Recruited us as soldiers in this war.
“Nana Jean,” I greet respectful.
She stay seated in her big chair. Her crinkly white hair hangs to her shoulders, almost as bushy as mine when it ain’t tied down. The scent of tilled country earth fills the space between us as brown-gold eyes look me over. She stops at my right hand, frowning. My sword is gone, but I know them eyes can trace its ghostly residue. She don’t approve of the blade. Or where it come from. Say gifts from haints carry a price. But she got her magic. And I got mine.
“Dem buckrah debbil gii hunnuh trouble?” she asks.
Nana Jean was raised up Gullah though she been in Macon most her life. Say her people bound to them Carolina islands, and being away so long faded her a bit. Though her Gullah talk don’t sound faded none.
I relate what happened and her bushy eyebrows jump like white caterpillars. “Hunnuh jook dat buckrah debbil fuh see if e been dead?”
My turn to frown. “I know a dead Ku Klux from a living one. That silver and iron hit them, and they get right back up.”
She sucks her teeth. “Ki! Buckrah debbil dem ain good fuh nuttin!” Then more sober: “If dat silva ain good fuh nuttin needuh, dat real trouble fuh true. Lawd hep wi.”
“Nothing we can’t handle.” Brave words, but I share her uneasiness.
“Hunnuh ain kill no fool buckrah?”
Buckrah devils what she calls Ku Kluxes. Fool buckrah she reserves for Klans who ain’t turned. She very particular about us not killing them who still human. Say every sinner got a chance to get right. I suppose. Way I see it, one less Klan, one less chance of a Ku Klux. But I bides by her rules and shake my head.
She nods back, eyes wandering to the Shouters. Uncle Will talking to a small woman in a plain dress brown as her tied-up hair—the German widow, Emma Krauss. Her husband owned a store in town but the flu took him in 1918. She still have the store and is mixed up in our bootlegging business. But in Germany she trained to study music and can’t get enough of the Shout. Spends time writing down their songs and asking on how they come about.
“When this lot heading home?”
Nana Jean grumbles. “Say dey da gwine Friday. Fraid dey biggity preacha. E say de root haffa do wit witchcraft.” She snorts. “Biggity down preacha.”
That ain’t good. Shouters needed for brewing Mama’s Water. Only lots say it’s wrong mixing up roots with the Shout. Sure ain’t for the bootlegging. Nana Jean argue better to keep folk alive; worry on their souls later. She convinced Uncle Will, mostly because he sweet on her.
“But mebbe dey stay fah nyam me bittle.” She winks. The mention of food whips up a hunger that must show on my face. “Go git uh plate fore dat po’ gyal nyam up all me bittle!”
Don’t need to look to know she’s talking about Sadie. Girl could eat a whole cow, and God only know where she puts it. I turn to go, but Nana Jean catches my arm. I look to find her face thundering, brown-gold eyes bright like the sun.
“Las’ night, uh yeddy three rooster singing at de moon!” she whispers. “Dis morning uh see uh rat swalluh up uh snake big dey, big dey! Me dream dem full uh blood redhead buckrah man. Dem omen bad. Bad, bad, bad. Yo tittuh dem.” She jerks a wobbly chin at Sadie and Chef. “Mine one’nuddah. Dis time yuh a ebil time. Bad wedduh gwine come.”
When she lets go and falls back, I realize I been holding my breath. What in the blazes was that about? But the Gullah woman already closed her eyes, humming soft. I shake off the cold gripping my bones and head to join the others.