Swamp Cabbage (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles Book 6)

by Paisley Ray

  “You believe nature transforms into spirits? Like a pareidolia thing?”

  Her head torqued.

  “I read about it in my psychology class. It’s a phenomenon. People sometimes arrange ordinary shapes into something significant. A lot of times it’s religious items. Like seeing an image of the Virgin Mary in your Cheerios.”

  She didn’t flinch, and I kept rambling. It was my nerves releasing pent-up energy. Since she stayed quiet, I filled in the silence. “Leonardo da Vinci considered the psychological phenomena an artistic device. In his notebooks, he wrote about looking at walls spotted with stains. Before he began his art, he believed that you could see a resemblance in these to, say, landscapes adorned with mountains, rivers, rocks, that sort of thing.”

  “You a thinker. Dat good.”

  My cheeks seared from the inside. “I like hanging out inside my head.”

  A low cloud cover prematurely darkened the sky. She handed me the bowl with the chunky paste. “What’s this?”

  “Rain’s ’bout here. Massage real good before bed.”

  “I don’t understand?”

  She motioned to her own collarbone and then pointed at mine.

  Ever since freshman year, when I’d fallen out of a loft bed, on and off my shoulder jibbed. The pain, I’d noticed, crept in when rain clouds gathered. Had Francine mentioned my mishap?

  I sniffed the paste inside the bowl.

  She watched me. I knew it was a test of sorts. She wanted to know if I believed in her. I rubbed a glob under my shirt collar and asked, “Will you help me get rid of the Gullah Jack ghost?”

  She reached her hand out. “We make a trade.”

  When I placed my hand in hers, she cupped it tight with both of hers encased around it. “What kind of trade?”

  “I’s help you, you help me.”

  “I’m not sure. I mean I’m a struggling student. I don’t have anything to offer you, just some cash.”

  “Not money. You’ll know when I know.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Everything’s all sorted. Rilda is going to take care of the unseen problem at the house, and in return, I’m giving her—I don’t exactly know what, but how bad a trade can that be?

  CHAPTER 10

  Going to See a Man about a Horse

  I could smell rain before the clouds released a drop. As evening took a firm hold, the sky darkened, and a gusty wind scampered between tree limbs, batting the underside of leaves against one another. It was a zany night, not as in ha-ha belly laugh, but as in is this really my life? For not being a believer in mystical shenanigans, I had myself and Rilda fooled. I’d practically begged her to return with me, to free the Larkin house of a spirit I didn’t think existed. I had no choice if I wanted to convince Francine to stay for the rest of the summer. She was a good friend, and despite her unpredictable temperament, I liked her company.

  It wasn’t lost on me that Mom and Betts were away. Good timing on their part. Rilda could light candles, sprinkle her magic, and chant away to clear the Larkin place of whatever lurked, without her concentration being broken or interrupted by other clairvoyant types that I suspected she considered amateur. After she performed her sweep, my conscience would be clear, and I could tell Francine the house was at peace.

  There wasn’t much conversation between Rilda and me on the walk along the shoreline path. It was the magical time when night noises amplified just before the sky took on the subtle luster to signal the day’s end. I watched my feet, my back, the water, and the trees to make sure we didn’t encounter any unexpected nature encounters.

  Rilda’s words were a mix of Gullah and southern, neither of which I was fluent in. She pointed out a kuta on a rippling rock, which I figured was a turtle, and we listened to the toti’s croak escalate, making the moss-dripping trees, grasses, and creek we passed seem still in comparison. Mostly the root doctor hummed in a serenade with the onset of the shadowing evening.

  At the back of the Larkin house, the setting sun cast an elongated image of the roof onto the ground that twisted into a disfigurement among the trees. A dim gleam emitted from somewhere inside the house, and the small yellow glow created a pocket of light out back of the kitchen. I had to concentrate to follow the overgrown footpath that led us away from the marsh bank. Something in the water splashed, and lapping could be heard as the disturbance nudged ashore. Rilda’s shoulder bag swished against her hip, and every so often, containers inside of it rattled as they touched.

  “I really appreciate you coming over on such short notice.”

  “New broom sweeps clean, but an old broom gets corners.”

  That was the thing with Rilda. When she spoke, I had to think. “Wisdom over youth.” Was she onto me?

  My feet stopped as I gathered my bearings, and so did hers. Her dark face, full cheeks, and lips studied me with a curiosity, and I wondered if she had as hard a time understanding me as I did her.

  Around the side of the house I caught a glimpse of my car, and I noticed the lamplight shine in the cracks behind curtains at Hodge’s place. Knowing that he was nearby gave me a sense of safety. Even though I didn’t believe, a part of me worried: If Rilda was the real deal, was there the chance that instead of emptying the house of unwanted negative energy spirits, she’d summon a bunch up? My hand pressed against my car keys in my pant pocket. If that happened, I’d bolt off the island, and Francine would be sharing Campbell’s sofa with me.

  “You have everything you need?” I asked as we stepped onto the dark screened-in porch.

  “Yes, but I be needing some light ta git started.”

  I began flicking switches and twisting lamp knobs on the first floor. There was a clunk on the kitchen counter, which I assumed to be the contents of Rilda’s tote bag. I peeked around the corner, where the mounded pile reminded me of storybook treasures stolen and stored in a mouse hole: yarn, bits from a colorful feather, pink rocks, some hair—the color of mine—and palm-size containers of powder and herbs. She’d brought a handmade ceramic bowl. In a low, rhythmic hum, more intent than the singsong she had chanted near the water, she began arranging herbal ingredients, powders, and what looked like a clump of vacuumed fluff into the bowl. Her speech sounded like nonsense words, but here and there I detected verses I understood—“dash away, Gullah Jack, don’t need to be causin’ no harm.”

  Not wanting to disrupt her concentration, I took my time turning on anything with a switch. When the floor lamp halogen bulb in the dining room flickered and snapped, I jumped. I guess I was more edgy about being alone with Rilda and the spirits than I wanted to admit.

  The wind outside gained momentum. Figuring we were in for another thunderstorm, and knowing the dodgy power was likely to go off, I opened the banquette to search for matches and candles. Filtered light crept in from the adjoining living room and onto the open drawer. Francine had mentioned seeing some long tapers tucked in with the good silverware and special occasion serving spoons. I found a cellophane pack of six ivory candles and a tube of long-stem matchsticks. Using my index finger, I slinked it along the notches in the red velvet liner. Neatly aligned forks, knives, and spoons were stacked like soldiers. The pieces were solid with a curious acorn pattern on the tip of the stem. An art nouveau-looking design, not busy, definitely not flowery, but sleek. I picked up a spoon, and on the back I ran my thumb over a stamp I assumed authenticated the silver as the real deal, but it was too dark to read. I placed it back in the drawer and noticed a dip in the knife pile. I counted eleven. One short of the rest of the utensils.

  Initially Rilda began speaking a stitch above a whisper, but gradually her chant became louder. Something bitter scented the air. An emergency visit from the fire department was the last thing I wanted. Explaining that since they’d been unable to locate the hanged body, I’d enlisted a root doctor probably wouldn’t go down well with the first responders. Curious as to what exactly she was doing, I backtracked en route to the kitchen.

  Her eyes rolled heavenward
before settling at half-mast. Holding the smoking bowl at arm’s length, she inhaled, then moved into the entry, her legs swaying in a drunken stroll toward the staircase. Trotting behind her, I kept quiet, but worried that Gullah Jack had taken over her body. In a deep alto, she sang:

  Papa Legba ouvre baye pou mwen, Ago eh!

  Papa Legba Ouvre baye pou mwen, Ouvre baye pou mwen, Papa Pou mwen passe,

  Le’m tounnen map remesi Lwa yo!

  Wondering if that was some sort of childhood nursery rhyme, I asked, “What are you singing?”

  “I be asking Papa Legba to open the door.”

  Rilda seemed to be inside her body, which was a relief. I noticed that the smoke emitted a green tint and smelled like sparklers on the Fourth of July.

  Stopping on a bottom step, she advised, “Always respect the Lwa.”

  “Lwa?”

  “Spirit entity.”

  I didn’t like the sound of this. “A good entity or a bad one?”

  “Good. The Lord, he have a lot on his plate, so when he can’t be reached, there’s a good chance Lwa can sort out the problem.” Her lips smacked. “If you treat him well, wear his favorite color ’n’ all.”

  “How does this Lwa sort things out?”

  “See now, Lwa provides material blessings, physical well-being, protection, abundance. But the spirit be tricky.”

  “That doesn’t sound encouraging.”

  “This be a double-sided matter. Without us, the Lwa wouldn’t be, and without them…” She shrugged.

  The crash course she shared in conjuring seemed loosey-goosey, and I worried that Rilda had veered off mission, so I asked, “Will Lwa remove Gullah Jack?”

  “We respect him, he respect us.”

  She began to climb the stairs. I reached for the light switch, but she stopped me. “Oona light the candle.”

  Striking a match, I held it to a taper. “You know what you’re doing? Right?”

  “’Course I do,” she said and laughed from deep in her belly.

  After handing her the candle, I struck the scratch pad and concentrated on centering the match tip with the wick of another candle. Steadying a match, I tried to laugh with her, but my ha-ha exited my mouth too abruptly to be jovial.

  “Can you see the light?”

  “You mean the flame?”

  She motioned her hand to the wall that butted the stairs. “Green, gold, some white.”

  This sounded Bettsesque—I suspected the two had more in common than either knew. “I must’ve just missed it.”

  “The spirits, they be all riled up in here.”

  “You can unrile them? Right?”

  Reaching into the large front pocket of her purple shirt, she sprinkled something at her feet.

  “Why are we going upstairs?”

  “We be starting at the top and working our way counterclockwise back down to the porch. Then to the shed.”

  I didn’t like the sound of going to the shed. I’d pay extra for her to cleanse that space without me.

  At the top of the stairs, we turned left, and I followed Rilda into Francine’s room. She had privacy issues, and I never set foot in her room, but I rationalized that she wouldn’t mind this intrusion since we were cleansing, which fell under the umbrella of cleaning. Besides, she was the one who’d brought the root doctor to the house in the first place, so in a sense, they were kindred spirits.

  Methodically, Rilda worked around the corners of the room, using her breath to blow the bowl smoke into the corners and under windows. Next we moved into the guestroom Mom and Betts had occupied. Seeing the queen-size bed dredged up unpleasant thoughts. No one wanted to think of his or her mom and dad, together. Even worse was visualizing Mom and her friend. For mental sanity purposes, I withdrew to the hallway. On the plus side, they’d left some clothes and new age magazines behind, which meant they’d be coming back. I wanted them back?

  In the hallway I stared at the art collection. From this vantage point, the way the portraits were arranged up the stair walls seemed misaligned. A pinging noise from outside struck the windows in the front of the house near the door. The rain had begun. Passing me by, Rilda moved into the hallway bathroom. As she shuffled along the edges of each room, the illumination that flickered from her candle made my shadow long and thin.

  Rilda began to sing, this time in English. Nothing bumped and clunked, and I didn’t see any deformed ghostly images, so I assumed Gullah Jack was being stubborn and that she used her more urgent voice in a different language to sequester the spirit guide for backup.

  Papa Legba, open the gate for me, Ago eh

  Papa Legba, open the gate for me, Open the gate for me, Papa, For me to pass,

  when I return I will thank the Lwa!

  “Did that take care of things?”

  “Shush. Won’t be long now,” she advised, and we stepped into my bedroom.

  The herbal smoke in Rilda’s magical bowl puffed little more than a cough. Drawing a steady breath, she attempted to extend the cleanse, but instead of delivering more smoke, she choked it out. “I be back. You stay here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  There was no answer, only the sound of her feet thumping down the stairs. While still holding the candle, I turned on a bedside lamp. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t realize I’d have company in the house and was glad I’d made my bed. To keep the heat out of the house during the day, Francine and I closed the windows and blinds. Moving across the room, I began to tug the cord that raised the slats with my free hand. The night was pitch black, and apart from a hazy glint in Hodge’s cottage, I stared at bleakness. Settling into the corner chair, I waited. There were bumping noises below, and I heard Rilda talking as she rekindled her spirit-be-gone kindling. Some dirty clothes were strewn in the far corner, and I moved to pick up and stuff them in the laundry basket under my bed, but as my back straightened, my eye grazed the wall behind the chair. Abruptly the bedroom went dark. “Papa Legba don’t like interference from the light.”

  Candlelight flickered in the room. “Surrender, it’s gone!”

  “Amen, child.”

  “The painting that used to hang here, it’s disappeared.”

  Rilda moved toward me and lifted my eyelid. “You walk into light? What you babbling about?”

  My hands balled into fists. “Betts, that swindler.”

  “Now calm down. No sense bein’ in a lather until you know what’s what.”

  There was a tapping noise. Both Rilda and I held our breath.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  Lightly she began chanting those nonsense words to Lwa.

  We waited a beat and heard it again.

  “First floor,” she said.

  Lifting an arm outward, I motioned to the door. “After you.”

  “It’s your house.”

  “You have the spirit smoke.”

  She handed the bowl to me, and with hesitation, I took the lead into the hallway.

  We both heard a high-pitched voice ask, “Anyone there?”

  My shoulders relaxed. “Someone’s at the door.”

  “Go on, answer it.”

  “Do you think it’s safe?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “We’re on a remote island, during a storm. Isn’t there some untold rule about letting strangers in out of the rain?”

  There was a knock again. Between wind gusts the voice sounded, “Hello, hello, anybody home?” Almost childlike, it was very un-Francine sounding, and I didn’t think it was Mom or Betts, but I couldn’t be sure until I looked outside.

  At the bottom of the stairs, from off a hallway table, Rilda grabbed hold of a baseball-size glass paperweight that encased a butterfly. “Go on now. I be waiting here.”

  I thought about ignoring the knocking altogether, but then I began to worry: What if Mom or Francine were in trouble?

  Despite the turmoil of the rain, we still had power, and I turned the porch light on. Peering through the gla
ss that framed the front door, I could see the stranger covered in a hooded bright orange plastic poncho. When I spied the matching rain boots, the fear I’d felt began to diffuse.Like a big orange pumpkin impersonator would take a stab at me. But for just-in-cases, I cracked the door open. “Can I help you?”

  The visitor heaved a big sigh. “Rachael, I am so glad to see you. It wasn’t easy finding this house in the rain. I had to stop at the firehouse and ask directions.”

  “Trudy? What are you doing here?”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Can’t figure out why Francine is being such a wuss about the whole imaginary spirit thing. I’m going to a lot of effort to scour the house of bad energy. I’m expecting that after all the precautionary measures, she’ll stop her fretting about Gullah Jack.

  Dad’s girlfriend on my doorstep!

  CHAPTER 11

  Hoodoo– Bad Luck

  Trudy left a trail of footprint puddles as she followed Rilda into the kitchen. “It’s so dark around here, I could barely see where I was driving. Something big and feathery darted in front of the jeep. I may have hit it.” Her mouth flapped at an accelerated, high-pitched speed.

  “Eh, you ailing? Something knock your noggin’?” Rilda asked.

  Trudy inspected her palms. “No.”

  “Is Dad okay?”

  “Oh, he’s f-fine.”

  I wasn’t convinced. If I hung around Trudy as much as he did, I wouldn’t be fine.

  Patting Trudy’s hand, Rilda said, “You need something for dem nerves.”

  Unwinding paper towels, I began to sop up the water that Trudy’s boots had dragged in. “Oh, she’s not staying.”

  The two stared at me.

  “Listen here now. Take your wet off. Rachael, where the cordial be?”

  Trudy peeled off a soggy layer. “Oh, I don’t drink. I mean I drink water, of course, and alfalfa sprout sardine smoothies, fresh-squeezed juices, but not alcohol.” Her voice lowered. “Harms the kidneys and prematurely ages you.”