Jilo

by J. D. Horn

  “Some folk are saying she sold her soul to have it. That she’s down with the devil now,” he said, regretting his words the second he uttered them. Not only did he not want to bring his mama further pain, he knew she’d know “those folk” were none other than his own wife.

  “Then I feel mighty sorry for Old Mr. Scratch,” she said, surprising him with a laugh, “ ’cause if she is, he’s dancing to her tune now.” She ran her hand down the back of his head, like she used to do to comfort him when he was still just a boy. Her smile flattened. “The good Lord,” she said, her voice dropping lower, growing softer. “He sees into our hearts. I don’t know. Maybe Mama did sell her soul for her magic, but if she did, she did it for good reason. I got every faith He’s gonna redeem my mama in the end.”

  She reached over to his plate to retrieve the fork, which she handed to him. “Eat. I ain’t leaving till that plate is clean, and I’m going to blame you for any foolishness your aunties get up to in there while I’m gone.” She winked at him, a smile spreading across her face, and he took the fork from her calloused fingers and dug in.

  “Good boy.”

  The front door banged open. “May,” Miriam called out over the plaintive cry of the screen door’s hinges, “we calling all the children in out of the trees.” She was trembling as she came to a stop in front of them.

  “Why, what’s wrong?” Jesse’s mama asked, pushing up from the swing.

  “The older ones,” Miriam said. “They wandered too far out back, all the way to the clearing.”

  “They shouldn’t be going back there.” Mama shook her head, reaching down and bracing her lower back. “My land ends just beyond the tree line. I done told you all a thousand and one times not to wander too far back. That’s buckra land beyond the trees. Those young ones are gonna get themselves shot for trespassing.”

  “We done called them in,” said Jesse’s cousin Charles, joining the conversation as he came around the side of the house, steering his two boys along with him, one hand on the shoulder of each. He maneuvered them toward the porch steps, but stopped short. The younger boy seemed scared half to death, his eyes wide and moist, his wiry frame shaking. “This one,” Charles said, giving Toby, the taller of the two, a shake, “he’s the one who found him, then the dummy called his little brother over to see him, too.”

  “Found who?” Jesse asked, standing and resting his plate on the swing.

  “The dead boy,” Charles said, seeming surprised that word hadn’t yet reached the front porch. A swarm of relatives started to circle around the house. Those with cars began to pile their children inside; those without toted their baskets and dragged their little ones along with them, only pausing to give a quick wave of farewell.

  “You found a dead boy?” Mama asked the boys.

  “Yeah,” Charles answered for his sons. “I done seen the body, too. Lying there buck naked.” His forehead wrinkled. “Them who did it slit him clean open from his throat all the way down to his privates.” Charles’s lips puckered, then he turned and spat.

  “It’s Rosie’s boy,” Toby said, tugging against his daddy’s grasp. Rosie was a white woman who lived out on the edge of the colored area. She made her living selling corn liquor and the spot between her legs.

  Boys and girls had been disappearing around this part of town for as long as Jesse could remember. People didn’t talk about it. Not out in the open, at least. Most were deemed runaways by the law, but twice before within the span of his memory, boys had turned up butchered in the exact manner Charles was describing. Both of them colored. Rosie’s boy was white. The killings of the colored boys never got much official attention. The murder of a white child would, even if the dead boy’s mama was the town whore.

  Although several years had passed between the murders and disappearances, Jesse didn’t doubt that the killer was the same man. Nana Tuesday, she may or may not have known who it was, but she sure knew the reason for the killings, and she had taken precautions to make sure Jesse would never end up like Rosie’s boy.

  “Boy never was quite right,” Aunt Miriam muttered. It was true. Some folk blamed syphilis, others Rosie’s heavy drinking, but it was undeniable the boy had been left dull witted and deformed.

  “Yeah, but he was still white,” Charles said, giving voice to what they were all likely thinking. Either the killer had grown more brazen or more desperate. “He wasn’t killed there. Not enough blood for that. Just dumped there.”

  Jesse’s mama took a few steps toward the porch stairs. “Tell me,” her voice was low, “did they leave any kind of marks on him?”

  Charles nodded. “Lines and squiggles.” The school board had just approved yet another school for the white children, but Savannah only had a couple of schools for the colored. These buildings were dilapidated—one of them had even been condemned—and they lacked light and sufficient seats. Even though both schools offered two shifts of classes per day, half of the black children in town never got the chance to attend, and out of those who did, most never got to go further than the second or third grade. Charles had enrolled his boys, but Jesse wasn’t sure Charles himself had received the same opportunity. He wasn’t even sure this cousin from his father’s side of the family could read.

  His mama must have had a similar thought because she turned to Toby. “You saw the boy twice. What did they look like?”

  “Nothing really, just scribbles,” Toby said. “Not like words or anything. Just circles and lines and stars, like this . . .” He squatted down and began to draw the shapes he remembered.

  “Don’t you do that,” Jesse’s mama snapped before the youngster could get two lines linked together. “Don’t you ever draw those markings out. You forget ’em now.” The terror in her voice caused Jesse’s skin to prickle. Her eyes were round and full of fear, even though Jesse felt sure she had no clearer idea of what the aborted symbol might signify than he did. She was afraid of magic—Nana Tuesday had seen to it that she would be.

  His mama had been unfazed by the heat of the day, let alone the even greater heat of the kitchen, but now heavy beads of sweat formed and trickled down her face. She braced herself against a post and looked up at Jesse and Charles. “You make sure everybody knows to shut up about this. Ain’t nobody found nothing. Nobody ever went back to that clearing.” Her voice rose. “You hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Charles responded. “Ain’t nobody gonna say anything. You know that.” Jesse reckoned his cousin was right. A murdered white child meant somebody was gonna be facing the noose, and there were plenty of black men in the area, himself included, handy enough for the law to lay the blame on.

  “You tell them all anyway,” she said, the tone of her voice a stern warning.

  “Yes ma’am,” Charles repeated. Just then, Charles’s wife, basket in hand, came around the side of the house and caught up to him. He nodded to her and began pushing his boys across the yard and down the drive.

  “Ain’t just the law we gotta worry about,” his mama said, her gaze shifting between Miriam and Jesse. “Someone’s sacrificing to the Red King. There’s still a collector in these parts.”

  The Red King. Jesse had grown up sitting at his nana’s feet, hearing stories about the four demon kings, Red and his brothers. She had never spoken of such things outside the family, but the story had grown legs and run around the community as member after member shared it, despite having promised Nana they never would. Maybe that had been her plan all along. If she’d asked them to spread a warning, folk would’ve laughed the story off as the rantings of an eccentric old woman. But forbid it to be told, and it gets whispered far and wide.

  According to Nana, the three elder kings had been around pretty much forever. This very world had spun into being around them, but the youngest had only come to exist after man rose on this earth. All four took their nourishment from whatever spirit essence was left in a person’s body after death, but each brother could only feed from a certain type of death.

  T
he Red King gorged himself on the leftover energy of those who died by mishap or were struck down by others, whether the killing was personal or an act of war. The Yellow King took those who fell from disease or famine. The Black King, also called the “Kind King,” only took from those who had seen the fullness of life. Seeing as how he fed on folk who were mostly used up, the Black King’s pickings were always the slimmest, earning him a third name—the “Beggar King.” He was a wispy shade that lingered among the shadows, coming most often while a body slept. The youngest brother, the White King, was also known as the “Mirror King.” He always appeared as a warped reflection of those he targeted: faults, mistakes, and problems magnified to such a degree they’d destroy even the most stubborn sliver of hope. The White King held dominion over those who died by their own hand. He was the only one of his brethren who feasted solely on the human spirit.

  Three of the demons were greedy, keeping all the spoils to themselves, but when a servant of the Red King honored him through killing, Red would share with the collector, converting a bit of the victim’s forfeited life force into black magic for the collector’s own use.

  Nana Tuesday used to swear that while the brothers had never existed in the normal sense of the word, they were real all the same. This made little sense to Jesse, but Nana had seemed so sure.

  His mama swallowed hard, and her eyes flashed, like a burst of lucidity had just helped her make a connection. “Your nana said she was gonna put an end to this, or die trying.”

  “Looks like she might’ve done just that,” Miriam said. She held both hands up. “Dear sweet Jesus, I don’t want to hear no more of this.” With that, she turned and fled into the house.

  A chill ran down Jesse’s spine. He knew now his nana hadn’t died from causes that came anywhere near natural. Jesse realized his daughters were nowhere in sight. He knew Jilo would be safe inside, but given the exodus that had just occurred, he wasn’t sure anyone would be out back looking after the other two. “I need to find Opal and Poppy,” Jesse said, and his mama nodded.

  Jesse took the first three steps leading from the porch to the yard, then turned back to face his mama. “You don’t believe any of this, do you? About the kings?”

  The corners of her mouth pulled down as she considered his question. “I reckon it don’t matter whether I believe it or not. Looks like someone does.”

  FOUR

  In the closet of Jesse’s boyhood room, on the shelf, pushed all the way back against the wall, sat an old cigar box. Somehow Jesse knew it would still be there even though he hadn’t laid a hand on it—had made a point not to touch it—in twenty years. The box was decorated with a drawing of a man wearing a black top hat, a red kerchief, and matching red pants. His shirt, a long-sleeved white tunic of some kind, exposed a crescent of the man’s chest.

  In his mind’s eye, Jesse could picture the box as clearly as he had the day he’d stowed it up there. In a place where it would be safe, and where it would in turn keep him safe.

  Jesse’s mama hadn’t been entirely right in thinking Nana Tuesday hadn’t passed down any of her magic. Jesse had received this box, and its mystery contents, from his grandmother’s own hands. When he was a boy—just turned twelve, as he recalled—she’d called to him softly through his bedroom window one night, coaxing him out into the approaching twilight. Once he was outside, she held her finger up to his lips to signal that he shouldn’t talk, then led him away from the house and into the grove of oaks that separated the house from the very field where the dead child now lay.

  “He may call himself John,” Nana Tuesday had said, pointing to the name inscribed above the picture, “but this is him all right. This here’s the Red King. He changes how folk see him, so ain’t no two folk ever agree on the shape of his face or the color of his skin, but you can always tell it’s him from his tall hat and the fancy way he dress himself. From his shine for tobacco and rum, and from his foul language. These are the ways he shows himself to us.” She placed the box in his hands. “I put somethin’ in here, somethin’ that will protect you from those who serve him, who worship”—she stressed the word—“him. You got to take this inside the house yourself. Nana can’t do it, else he’ll know she workin’ against him. And you can’t take it through the front door, either. That’ll undo the magic. You take it back with you the same way you came out, you understand?”

  Though he didn’t rightly understand what that meant, he nodded and said, “Yes’m.”

  “Okay, then,” she said. “Now you get back inside, ’fore your mama realize you out here.” He turned and took a few quick steps away. “Jesse,” his nana called out, causing him to turn back. “Don’t you tell your mama about this. You keep it to yo’self.”

  “Yes’m,” he repeated.

  She called out to him once more as he was turning away. “And don’t you ever try to open it. Nana sealed it for a reason. You keep that box shut and it’ll keep you safe. You open it, and it gonna let out somethin’ worse than what she trying to protect you from.” She paused and gave him a good hard look. “You gonna try to open it?”

  “No ma’am,” he said.

  “Good, then, you get on back inside.”

  He had no sooner shimmied back through his window than he held the box to his ear and shook it. Though it sounded empty, the heft of it told him there was something inside. He tugged on the lid, but the edge wouldn’t even bend up. He set the box on his bed and fetched his prized pocketknife from his nightstand, intent on sticking the blade into the seam his nana had sealed with some kind of glue or wax. But as soon as he set the blade against the seal and pressed, he felt a whack against his fingers like he’d been caught in a mousetrap. A sharp pop sounded in his ears, and he was nearly blinded by a flash of light. He dropped the knife and shook his agonized hand, wanting to cry. He might have done so, too, but he heard the sound of his nana’s laughter drifting in through his window.

  He rushed to the opening. “Yo’ nana knows you better than you know yourself,” he heard her say, though she was nowhere in sight. “Now you put that thing away where it won’t be a temptation.”

  That was all the scolding he’d needed to swipe it up from the bed and push it to the back of the closet shelf.

  Until today, he’d done a pretty good job of forgetting about the box, but the thought of that simple child lying dead not a quarter mile away pushed it to the forefront of his thoughts. So did his mama’s words about the Red King.

  He no longer needed to stand on tiptoe to reach the box. He opened the closet door and reached back to where he felt the cool cardboard. He pulled it out into the light, shocked to see how closely the smiling face beneath its elegant top hat matched his memory. Turning the box, he placed the sharp edge of the knife he’d borrowed from the kitchen against the seal. As soon as he pressed the blade down, a sharp pain shot through him, so strong that he dropped the box to the floor. The Red King’s smiling face looked up at him, mocking him.

  Seemed that the magic still worked, and as soon as the feeling of having his fingers roasted left him, Jesse decided he was mighty glad of that fact.

  There had been enough magic in it to protect him as a child. Now he hoped there would be enough to protect all three of his baby girls. The pain eased enough for him to reach down to grab the cigar box, but he pulled back at the last moment, his body remembering all too well the shock it had just experienced. Damn, he thought to himself, and made another swipe, this time forcing his hand to pick it up. “Not gonna try to open you,” he said out loud. “Just want to take you home.” As if the magic protecting the box understood him—a thought that sent a quiver through him—he felt a cooling sensation spread across his injured fingers and hand.

  He turned and closed the closet door, then cast a glance around his old room—same bed, same curtains, same battered nightstand, and the drawer that would stick should he try to open it, full of cat’s-eye marbles and sundry other boyhood treasures. Everything was still very much in its place—the
only thing missing was him. He left the room, heading out to the front porch where he knew his mama was waiting with his daughters.

  His mama had returned to the porch swing, Jilo now crying up a storm in her arms. Before going to his room, he’d also sent the squalling child’s sisters to join their nana. Poppy sat next to them, and Opal was a few feet away in the yard, running around and kicking a ball one of her cousins must have forgotten. Everyone else had left.

  “Little one’s hungry,” his mama said, jostling the baby in an attempt to calm her. “Cousin Rose, she took from her own child to nurse Jilo this afternoon, but Jilo’s hungry again.” Her expression hardened, her eyes narrowing and her nose scrunching up toward her brow in disgust. “That woman has no right just to run off and leave her baby. I could forgive her for the older . . .”

  “I know, Mama,” he said. “She needs her mother. I’ll take her home . . .”

  “What the child needs is a wet nurse. That woman can’t handle being a mother. Do you think she can manage to pull her tit out for someone other than her—”

  “Mama,” his voice came out raised. “My girls are here. They can hear you.”

  As if in her anger she’d forgotten they were even there, she gave a dazed look to first Poppy and then Opal, who had just begun to climb the steps to the porch. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. A long damn day.”

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry I raised my voice to you, Mama.”

  “No,” she said. “You were right to.”

  Jesse turned and held the cigar box out to Opal. “Here, girl. You take this for me.” She scooted closer and he pulled it up and out of her reach. “Do not,” he stressed the second word, “try to open it.” He lowered it into her waiting hands. Luckily for them all, his girls weren’t disobedient like he’d been as a boy.

  “What is that?” his mama asked, though Jilo let out an ear-piercing scream that nearly drowned her out. He reached out for his daughter, more than a little relieved when his mama surrendered her to him without a fuss. He’d almost thought she might refuse to send the girl home.