The Prophet

by Amanda Stevens

  I knelt beside Shani’s resting place and cleaned away leaves until I uncovered the seashell heart. The antique doll that I’d seen Devlin place on the grave last May had been taken away, probably having been ruined by inclement weather. I slipped the garnet ring from my finger and placed it inside the heart just as I had done before. Then I covered it back over with leaves to wait for Shani.

  It was only three-thirty, too early for her ghost to appear, so I decided to take a walk by Essie’s house. I wouldn’t call on her unannounced, but if she happened to be sitting on her front porch, I could stop by and say hello. Maybe even work the conversation around to Darius. He was her grandson, though, so I’d have to be very careful not to offend her with my questions.

  The sun was still warm on my shoulders as I walked down the gravel road toward the small community of clapboard houses. Birds sang from the treetops, and I could hear the distant laughter of children. It was all very tranquil until my gaze was drawn to one of the houses where several men stood around a hole that had been cut in the siding. As I stopped to watch, a draped stretcher was passed through the opening into their waiting hands. That the sheet covered a body, I was certain. A hearse was parked in the dirt drive, and I could hear weeping from inside the house.

  As I gazed upon the bizarre scene, a girl of about sixteen ambled down the road toward me. She carried a baby in her arms while she shepherded a small child on a tricycle. Like me, she stopped to watch the house, and I turned to nod an acknowledgement. She was tall and gangly with high cheekbones and dark, luminous eyes. I thought her vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

  Resting the baby on her hip, she eyed me with open curiosity. “Did you know old Mr. Fremont?”

  Fremont. My scalp bristled as every instinct warned me to pay close attention. Here was yet another of those meaningful coincidences. “Mr. Fremont?”

  She nodded toward the house. “He died this morning. They’re carrying him down to the funeral home now to get him ready.”

  “I never met him,” I said. “But I did know another Fremont from this area. His name was Robert.”

  “That cop? He was Mr. Fremont’s grandson.” Despite the time of year and cooling weather, she wore flip-flops with her jeans. I could see a flash of hot pink toenail beneath the tattered hems. “How did you know Robert?”

  “We met in Charleston.”

  “He was a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, I guess you could say that. Such a tragedy what happened to him. His death must have been a blow to the community.”

  “Mama said the old man never got over it.”

  We stood watching the strange proceedings in silence for a moment. “Why didn’t they bring the body through the door?” I asked. “What’s the significance of the hole in the wall?”

  “In case he comes back,” she said with a shiver. “Once that hole is closed, his spirit won’t be able to find its way into the house.”

  “I see.”

  She shifted the baby to her other arm. All three stared at me with those dark, shimmering eyes. “You have folks around here?” she asked doubtfully.

  “No. I was just visiting Chedathy Cemetery.” And just like that, it came back to me where I’d seen her before. “I know you,” I said. “Your name is Tay-Tay.”

  She glowered. “No one calls me that anymore. I’m Tamira. These are my brothers.” She bounced the fretting baby to quiet him. “This one here is James and that’s Marcus.”

  I said hello to all of them. “I’m Amelia.”

  “How do you know me?” she demanded.

  “I walked past your house once with Essie and Rhapsody Goodwine. We saw you on the porch.”

  Her eyes widened, and I could have sworn I saw a flicker of fear. She called down the street to another girl chatting with a group of friends. She looked only a year or two younger than Tamira. “Timberly, you get your butt over here right now!”

  The girl rolled her eyes and said something to one of her companions, then sauntered over to Tamira. “What do you want?” she asked sullenly, bending to scratch behind her knee.

  “I need you to carry the baby home and give him a bottle. Take Marcus with you.”

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “Because I can’t,” Tamira snapped imperiously. “Now you do as I say or I’ll tell Mama you been sneaking out at night to meet up with that old Peazant boy.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Oh, yes, I would,” Tamira threatened. “And don’t give me no more lip about it, either.”

  The girl took the baby and plopped him none too gently on her scrawny hip. “I’m never having kids. They ruin everything.”

  She trudged off with Marcus in tow, and Tamira turned back to me. “You come to see Miss Essie?”

  “No, I told you. I’m visiting the cemetery.”

  “You got people buried there?”

  “I’m a cemetery restorer. I take care of graveyards,” I said vaguely. “Chedathy is one of my favorites.”

  “That old place?” She turned to stare down the road toward the cemetery. “I reckon that’s where they’ll plant Mr. Fremont even though they wouldn’t bury his grandson there.”

  “Why not?”

  Despite that earlier flash of fear, she looked to be enjoying herself now. Her eyes gleamed with self-importance. “Because of the wudu.”

  “Wudu? You mean magic?” I asked.

  “Black magic.” She leaned in. “She was very powerful, they say. Powerful enough to come back from the dead. His people were afraid she wouldn’t let him rest in peace and they didn’t want him coming back. So they buried him someplace else.”

  “Who wouldn’t let him rest?”

  “Mariama Goodwine.”

  I felt the chill of a ghostly breath down my collar even though it was hours until twilight. “Did you know her?”

  “I used to see her in the bone-yard sometimes. She went there to meet him.”

  “Robert?”

  She nodded.

  “You saw them together?”

  “Lots of times. You want me to show you something?”

  “I…sure.”

  She led me back to the cemetery, pausing outside the lichgate to make the sign of the cross over her heart. Then we walked deep into Chedathy where the thick canopy all but blocked the sun.

  “See this?” She pointed to a carving in a tree trunk. “This is where they used to meet. They cut these initials in the bark when they was just kids.”

  “What does that symbol mean?”

  “Love everlasting.”

  I thought about Robert and Mariama’s history. They’d been together as teenagers. He’d both loved and hated her, and then he’d moved to Charleston and discovered there was a world beyond her. And yet, he’d allowed her back into his life.

  “When was the last time you saw them here?” I asked.

  “The day he got himself shot. I stood right over there behind that tree and listened to every word they said.”

  I knew I should stop her, but I was spellbound and morbidly fascinated. “What did you hear?”

  Her eyes rounded, and she waved her arms theatrically. It was almost as powerful as having been there. “She kept grabbing his shirt, like this.” Tamira demonstrated with her own T-shirt. “She clung with both fists, begging him to run off with her. She said he was the only man she’d ever loved and she didn’t want to live without him. He just laughed at her, and said she’d never really loved anyone but herself, and the only reason she’d come back to him was to taunt her husband. It had been a mistake to start things up with her again and even if he had been in love with her, his job was too dangerous to take on a family. He had no room in his life for a wife, much less one with a kid.” She finished with a dramatic flourish, shivering a bit as if overcome by the memory of all those emotions.

  “You remember all that?” I asked in awe.

  “I never forget a thing. Just ask Timberly.”

  “I believe you.”


  “You want to know the scary part?” She leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “I think Mariama comes to me in my sleep sometimes and tries to mess with me. I’m the only one that knows the truth about her and she don’t like it.”

  “What truth?”

  Tamira made a production of glancing over her shoulder. “She told Robert he would be sorry if he left her and the very next day I saw his body right here in the exact same spot where they’d stood talking. It was like she put a root on him or something.”

  “You found him?” I asked in surprise.

  She nodded proudly.

  “But Robert was shot. Mariama couldn’t have done it because she was already dead.”

  “If she came back as bakulu, she could have made somebody do it for her. That’s what they do. They make slaves of the living.”

  “Tamira, listen to me. Were you in the cemetery the night Robert was murdered? Did you see what happened?”

  Her eyes bulged suddenly, and her hands flew to her throat. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. I thought at first this was just more of her theatrics, but then I followed her gaze.

  Rhapsody Goodwine stood between two graves, the resemblance to her father, Darius, so uncanny in that eerie setting as to raise goose bumps on my arms. She lifted her hand and pointed to Tamira.

  “Tie your mouth, Tay-Tay!”

  Beside me, the girl began to choke.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Tamira fell back against the tree in a fit of gagging and coughing. I stared at her in alarm. “Are you okay?”

  As quickly as the spell came on, the choking subsided. Gasping for breath, she looked beyond me to Rhapsody. “Stay away! You hear? Stay away from me!”

  I shot a glance at Rhapsody. She stood there between those two graves looking almost angelic in a pale yellow dress and lace-up boots, her wild mane of hair framing her lovely face.

  Tamira backed away, hands still clutching her throat. Once she’d cleared the trees, she whirled and took off running through the cemetery, sandals flapping.

  Rhapsody laughed. “Look at her go!”

  “What did you do to her?” I hadn’t meant to sound so accusing, but I couldn’t help it. I was a little freaked out.

  “Nothing.” Her shrug was completely innocent. “She did it to herself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were here. I never laid a hand on her, did I?”

  Power of suggestion, Temple had said.

  I remembered how intimidated Tamira had seemed that day on her front porch as Essie, Rhapsody and I had walked past. Whether it was mind over matter or something else, the poor girl was obviously scared to death of Rhapsody.

  “Do you remember me?” I asked.

  “You’re Amelia,” she answered promptly. “Granny’s been waiting for you.”

  “How did she know I was here?”

  “She sent for you,” Rhapsody said.

  “Sent for me? How?”

  She didn’t answer but instead took my hand, and we walked back through the graveyard together. Her skin was warm and smooth, and she smelled of line-dried linens and rosemary. She’d inherited her father’s bone structure and numinous smile, but her eyes were green rather than topaz. She was striking, nonetheless, with those flowing dark curls and a kind of airy grace that almost made one wonder if she floated rather than walked. She clutched my hand as if to keep herself grounded, and I found myself unaccountably troubled by the contact. Was I keeping her grounded or was she holding me prisoner?

  A silly thought. She was just a charming girl with a fair dash of drama and mischief.

  She’d blossomed since I’d seen her last, and already she’d had a coquettish quality that, along with her beauty, did not bode well for her great-grandmother’s future peace of mind.

  As we strolled along, she chatted nonstop, the episode with Tamira already a memory. But I hadn’t forgotten. Whether or not the coughing spell had been of the girl’s own doing, it had effectively stopped her from talking about the night Robert Fremont was murdered.

  Out on the road, we passed by the elder Fremont’s house, and I noticed that the hole had already been patched, blocking the old man’s spirit. Rhapsody paused to watch the hearse pull away from the curb.

  “Did you know Mr. Fremont?” I asked carefully.

  “He used to sit out on his front porch smoking a pipe,” she said. “Sometimes I came over and sat with him. I liked the smell of his tobacco. It reminded me of High John the Conqueror.”

  “I’ve heard of that before. It’s a root, isn’t it?”

  She reached in her pocket and pulled out a dark, woody tuber, which she placed in my hand. Tentatively, I lifted it to my nose. It did smell a little like cherry-scented pipe tobacco with a touch of nutmeg and cinnamon. “What’s it for?”

  “It’s very powerful,” she said. “Put it in your pocket and it’ll bring you luck and give you mastery over tricksters.”

  “Thank you. That should come in handy.”

  Speaking of tricksters…

  “The last time I was here, you told me that your father was in Africa,” I said. “Has he come back?”

  She gave me a sidelong look through her thick lashes. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m just curious. You told me how much you missed your home in Atlanta and all your friends.”

  “I have friends here now,” she said. “And I have Granny.”

  I wondered if the girl even had a clue her father was in Charleston.

  The breeze picked up as we neared the cottage. I could hear the flap of sheets on the clothesline and the tinkle of garden bells at the side of the house. Just like before, Essie sat on the front porch hunched over her quilt blocks, a crocheted shawl tossed over her shoulders. She’d propped her feet on a little wooden bench and I could see the toes of her sneakers peeking from beneath the hem of her long skirt.

  “Here she is, Granny,” Rhapsody announced as we moved up the steps. “I brought her to you just like you asked.”

  Essie looked me up and down, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. “Sit, gal, ’fo dat wind snatch you right off dis porch. Lawd, if you ain’t nuthin’ but skin and bones.”

  I dropped down on the top step, remembering my previous visit. I’d fainted on this very porch, my last conscious thought of the haint blue ceiling that had seemed to press down on me. Later when I’d come to, Essie had told me that Devlin would someday have to make a choice between the living and the dead and that Shani wouldn’t be able to rest until he found the strength to let her go.

  “Should I go make some tea?” Rhapsody asked her grandmother. “And bring out some cookies like last time?”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself on my account,” I said quickly. “I can’t stay long.”

  “Then can I go back out and play, Granny? Please? I’ve done all my homework.”

  Essie searched the sky. “You be back yuh ’fo daa’k,” she said sternly. “Don’ mek me come look fo you agin.”

  “I won’t.” Rhapsody gave me a sweet, beaming smile, which I didn’t fully trust. “Maybe you can stay for the Ring Shout.”

  “Shoo!” Essie waved her away and Rhapsody scampered off.

  I turned to Essie. “She said you sent for me. How did you know I was here?”

  “Dat gal say a lot of t’ings,” she grumbled, ignoring my question.

  “Do you know why I drove down here from Charleston?”

  She kept right on sewing.

  “I’m here because of Shani.”

  “She the one sent fo you, I spec.”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “I bin dreamin’ ’bout dat baby muhself,” Essie said. “She git mo’ restless ever night. She can’t stay yuh and she can’t move on. She don’ know weh she b’long. She needs help.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I want to help her, but I don’t know how.”

  Essie looked up, her faded eyes solemn and beseeching. “Tell’um.”

 
I drew a breath. “You mean John.”

  “He can’t hold huh yuh no longer. Time he let huh go.”

  “What if I tell him and he doesn’t believe me?”

  “Din you mek him believe, cuz it has to be now,” she said.

  Her urgency mirrored Robert Fremont’s, and I found myself leaning forward anxiously. “Why now?”

  “Da signs say so, dat’s why.” She picked up her scissors and clipped a thread. I waited for her to continue, but then I realized that as far as Essie was concerned, the conversation was over. I wanted to ask about Darius, but what did I expect her to say? That her grandson was evil? I suspected that like Rhapsody, she was oblivious of his return.

  I sat there watching her stitch, the rhythm and shimmer of her needle and thimble almost entrancing. After a while, I realized that I should probably get back to the cemetery.

  She looked up as I stirred. “You spy dat Rhapsody, you send huh home.”

  “I will.”

  Then she said something very strange to me. “The root be both light and daa’k. Tek care who you trus’. Watch the signs, gal. And mind the time.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Watch the signs, gal. And mind the time.

  I pondered Essie’s cryptic message all the way back to the cemetery. The signs could be interpreted as the synchronicities and meaningful coincidences that had been plaguing me since that first night in Clementine’s garden. But had I missed other signs? And how was I to mind the time?

  The root be both light and daa’k. Tek care who you trus’.

  Maybe she did know that Darius was back. Maybe that vague caution was her way of warning me about him.

  My head swirled, and I could feel the onslaught of a headache. All those obscure warnings and signs and dreams crowded to the forefront of my brain, making me long for a time when I’d had nothing more pressing than the avoidance of ghosts. Those days were gone forever, I feared. Papa’s rules had been shattered and my sanctuary invaded, but I couldn’t afford to dwell on any of that at the moment. If there was any hope for my future peace of mind, it lay in finding Shani’s ghost and helping her move on.