BREAKING CURSED BONDS

by Elisabeth Zguta

  “I’m glad to have your company, I’m alone most days.”

  She served them jasmine green tea and ginger cookies that a young girl, who seemed to be her helper, brought in from the kitchen.

  Miss Boniverre’s skin was paper thin, her hands fragile. They wobbled as she carefully handed each of them a precious bone-china teacup, embellished with dainty painted red roses. The old woman managed not to spill a drop. She settled into her blue velvet wingback. Small as a child nestled between the arms of the chair, she began to tell her stories. Miss Boniverre recalled with clarity some of her family history, and confirmed that her ancestors claimed knowledge of magic spells from long ago.

  “Lots of people thought the secret was a Voodoo spell. They didn’t understand Voodoo doesn’t use curses or spells, only blessings. They were afraid to get on my family’s bad side and they always stayed clear of causing us any trouble, fearing the power of the old magic. That was fine by us.”

  The old woman chuckled as she recalled her memories.

  “My grandma told me about the old magic when I was just a child, many years ago, too many to count. You see, my ancestors were part of the Choctaw tribe. They were what the tribe called colored folks back then, Choctaw freedmen, all of us descended from slaves emancipated after the Civil War. The Choctaw had lots of land down here, and all the way up, pretty much covering the entire Mississippi Valley. Those Choctaws were smart people, and spiritual too.

  “Legend says the Choctaw came to this area following their medicine man, who was guided by the Great Spirit, pointing the shaman’s red pole in the right direction. It was a long journey and many folks died along the way, but they kept the bones of the loved ones with them. When a tribe member died along the trail, the bone picker scraped them dry, so they could carry the bones as they traveled.

  “When they arrived in Mississippi, they buried all the bones of their loved ones at Nanih Waiya, and performed a big ceremony. Then they settled, and as time passed, they planted and took in workers and slaves too, to harvest the crops, just like the white folks did. They wanted to be equal with the whites.”

  Miss Boniverre chuckled in a soft tone, shaking her head, enjoying her own private joke. Michelle raised her eyebrow, and Emilie knew she had no desire to be there, but Emilie had no intention of leaving yet.

  “Well, a few hundred years ago, some other people appeared at the special ceremonial place called Nanih Waiya, too. They walked out from the ground caves. Since everyone believed that place had magical powers, they figured these people were special. Turns out they were from the Timucua tribe. Their chief had been Saturiwa, but he’d already died.”

  Emile raised her head, alerted by her last words as she recalled the research she’d read earlier. A hopeful spark of curiosity welled. “Excuse me, Miss Boniverre, did you say Chief Saturiwa?”

  The old woman smiled. “Yes. These people were a few stragglers left of his tribe, and they asked the Choctaw to let them live and work with them, to escape the persecution of Spanish soldiers, who’d taken over Timucuan lands… Where we call Florida today.”

  Miss Boniverre sipped her tea, picking the cup up slowly. Emilie tried to remember the facts she’d read about her ancestors, back in the days of Captain Dominic and Chief Saturiwa, to determine if this piece of the puzzle fit, and if so, how.

  “They had different ways about them, but the Choctaw gave them refuge, and in return for safety the Timucua shared their special spells. Many years later, after the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek, most of the Choctaw tribe were forced off the land, and moved to the Indian territory that’s now the big reservation in Oklahoma. The Choctaw were the first tribe to begin the migration called the Trail of Tears. Many died from exposure and starvation, even though the government promised ample supplies and safety. Afterward other tribes, also forced to the reservations, suffered with people dying along the way. After years of being loyal citizens, and fighting and defending their country in the Independence War, the Choctaws had been betrayed by the government.”

  The old woman shook her head as if in pain, and tears rimmed her eyes. Emilie felt her deep sorrow and started to tear, too.

  “Sorry, children, it makes me sad. The government took most of the Choctaw lands, and let only a few people remain, but those who stayed in Mississippi were abused and tormented, their fences torn down and houses burned. They struggled. It was genocide dreamed up by the government.”

  A slicing pain split in Emilie’s head as the old woman’s feelings wedged into her space. Miss Boniverre wiped the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief, and maintained her decorum. She seemed to want to finish the story. Emilie massaged her temples, determined to listen to it all.

  “When the emancipation happened after the Civil War, the Boniverre clan, my family, stayed working at the plantation, as Choctaw freedmen for a long time. The legend of the old magic spell was handed down through my family for generations, serving as a reminder of the old way, and the last Timucuan memory. Now there’s no Timucuan people left, only the legends.”

  Michelle squirmed in her chair. This conversation was clearly unsettling for her, but Emilie wanted to hear more. She craved more details about the curse.

  “Miss Boniverre, what was the old magic, a spell or a curse?”

  The old woman beamed. “Finally, someone wants to hear the story. For years I’ve tried to get the younger folks to listen, but they have no time for my stories. They’re too busy living their modern life.” She cleared her throat and continued her tale.

  Emilie noticed Michelle rolling her eyes, her patience wearing bone thin.

  “The Timucuan people used magic spells and made offerings to the Great Spirits to keep them healthy and safe. They made a potion called White Drink, used in ceremonies just before a battle or hunt to cleanse their bodies and purify the soul.”

  Miss Boniverre chuckled. Emilie had no clue what seemed funny.

  “They were spiritual even though they weren’t religious yet, that came later, with the missionaries. There were lots of superstitions, and one special drink they feared called oooooold maaagic.”

  The old woman stretched out her last words, and said them in a low, menacing voice. Michelle’s eyes widened, and Emilie suppressed the urge to giggle.

  “That old magic spell had been used only once according to legend, by Chief Saturiwa himself, centuries ago when a sea captain came to help his tribe. The chief had learned the secret potion from a Caribbean traveler from the Arawak tribe. This potion makes a person one with the spirit world, and is supposed to help the soul travel into other dimensions.”

  The theme from The Twilight Zone stuck in her head. Emilie tried to focus on the old woman’s words.

  “When they swallowed the Yopo, the chief and the captain traveled to Coyaba, which was their version of heaven. Their spirits connected to both sides, the earth world and the heaven world, at the same time.”

  Miss Boniverre sat back and stared straight ahead. She looked peaceful as she spoke, as if she read from a ghostly text only she could see. Her voice sounded eerie, like a younger version of herself, as she told the legend.

  “In the spiritual world anything is possible. This drink joined Saturiwa’s fate with the fate of the mighty sea warrior. They formed an allegiance, fought together, and won a battle against the Spanish soldiers.”

  A teacup clattered. Emilie turned and watched as Michelle placed it on the table in front of her. Emilie had no intentions of stopping. “Miss Boniverre, please tell us more.”

  The old woman nodded yes. She held her old-fashioned handkerchief tight, her knuckles taut. Emilie noticed the detailed lace edging and wondered how old it was, as well as the age of the woman. She considered that Miss Boniverre may suffer from Alzheimer’s and was having an issue remembering, but after a few moments, the old woman continued her recollections in a calm voice, proving her wits better than many.

  “The legend tells us that the chief’s tribe fought side by side with the warri
ors from the sea. Together they won a battle against the Spanish invaders. The night before the battle, the tribesmen dressed disguised as animals, wearing the skins of wolves and panthers over their heads. They became skin walkers, a frightful sight, able to scare the devil himself. By wearing the animal skins they gained the instincts of that animal. The chief and the bravest of the warriors wore panther skins, using its masterful hunting skills to track. They traveled by night through the swamps, fighting off the mosquitoes, pests, and gators that lived there in the wetlands. In the early morning, they crept out of the swamp and ambushed the Spanish soldiers. By high noon they’d won the battle.”

  “So were these warriors Frenchmen?” Emilie asked. “Was the person who practiced the old magic with Saturiwa named Captain de Gourgues?”

  The old woman looked confused.

  “I don’t know names, child, other than the chief. The men from the sea left and went back to their homeland, and then more invaders came. The tribe tried to defend their people, but they had no chance in hell against the Spanish soldiers all by themselves. Then they got sick with disease. Others became slaves and were tortured. Some left the tribe and fled to the Franciscan missionaries who set up settlements nearby. They taught them religion and then they lost their traditions and spiritual beliefs, replaced with Catholic ideas. A few strayed, escaping to join up with other tribes, like those who lived here with the Choctaw in the Mississippi Valley.”

  Emilie believed the sea warriors had been the French sailors who came with Captain de Gourgues; history had documented his allegiance to the tribe and the chief himself by name. The truth about the curse is wrapped inside this ancient legend, and somehow generated by this old magic spell, Emilie thought.

  Miss Boniverre started speaking again. “They trusted my family with the secrets because we had great respect for the spirit world, too. We cannot forget these strong, brave people.” She stopped and smiled.

  “Well, since my family’s newest generation isn’t so keen on their responsibility to keep the story alive, maybe telling you girls this legend is part of our fate. Here is what I remember, told to me about that frightful night of the spirit bond.

  “Remember, the spirit world controls all in our lives. The chief and the captain drank a secret potion and cleansed their souls. Then their spirits leaped through the veil, and into the shadows of the other world, joined together in the journey. The entire tribe had witnessed the dark night sky change and light up with bolts of spectral energy, flashing from the heavens. They saw the mystic power of the other world shine down on both men. They merged that night in the boundless world, and forged a spiritual bond. Their fates on earth also intertwined, but somehow the arcane bond became cursed. Maybe it happened when the sea warriors left the tribe on their own. After that, the tribe died away into the ghostly hereafter. Because their fates were connected, the sea warriors’ tribe was also doomed to a shadowy existence. The lineage was cursed in the abstruse realm.”

  Emilie glanced at her sister in concern. Michelle was rattled. She knew her sister hated this kind of thing, so Emilie tried to soak up her anxiety to protect her from the intensity of the story. The edge softened, and Michelle smiled again.

  “My ancestors had a hard life too,” Miss Boniverre continued. “We struggled but worked hard over the years. We faced bigotry and cruelty at times, but we never faced trials like the Timucua tribes’. Their entire culture died. Years later, the Choctaw saw their children die, too. They were helpless walking the Trail of Tears, a literal death sentence. This was a crime of genocide, and yet few people today even remember because it’s not taught, or they prefer to be ignorant. The Choctaw survive today and have a great community on the reservation; many are dedicated to keeping their heritage. But tribes like the Timucua are gone, completely wiped off the face of this earth.”

  The old woman wiped her eyes, and blew her nose into her hankie.

  “We still haven’t learned the lessons. We hear in the news about horrible things happening, killing women and children. In this past century, our supposed intelligent society is blinded to the truth. We allow too much killing.”

  Miss Boniverre’s mind was in another place, filled with doom. It seeped into Emilie’s head; the old woman’s emotions rang strong but Emilie held back her tears, swallowing hard.

  Suddenly, something thumped across the room from behind them. Emilie’s heart jumped, her pulse racing. She turned her head to the other side of the room and saw a cat sitting on a tabletop; it had knocked a candlestick to the floor. Emilie realized she had been holding her breath, while feeling the horror the woman emitted. She snapped her head back, took in some air, and exhaled.

  “I can’t give anything more than legends, but I’m glad that someone else knows the story,” Miss Boniverre continued. “The Timucua tribe is extinct and we should remember what others’ greed and arrogance did to them. We need to be tolerant if we are to survive as a race.”

  The old woman looked tired as she dried her tears. Emilie needed an answer to one more question before she wore the old woman out completely.

  “Thank you for the information about the tribe but, Miss Boniverre, is there any other part of the story that talks about a cure or reversal of the magic spell, to break the spiritual bond between the lineages?”

  “Girls, you both look like you’re educated, I wouldn’t think you’d believe in curses.” She smiled. Her voice sounded hoarse when she continued. “Yes, there was a concoction made from the poisonous leaves and roots, using holly and cassava, and most definitely a ceremony was part of it all. I’m sure of that, but no spell could ever truly cross souls to the other side and curse two bloodlines. And even if there was something like that, how would it concern such pretty young women?”

  Miss Boniverre slipped a grin. The old woman had humored them, and Emilie wondered how much she really knew. It was time to leave, Emilie’s mind overloaded with the old woman’s emotions. Smiling at her sister, knowing Michelle was probably scared to death, she stood. Michelle stood too and, as if on cue, crossed the room, bent, and gave the old woman a hug. Emilie followed her lead.

  “Goodbye and thank you, Miss Boniverre, for the afternoon tea. God bless.”

  They walked back to the trolley stop. Emilie was drained and thankful Michelle remained quiet, but she still looked worried. Emilie wondered what her sister was thinking about, and, more than that, what Father Eddie had planned after Michelle left. Emilie sensed more metaphysical experiences yet to come, here in New Orleans. She had no intention of sharing that information with Michelle, or the next step planned with Father Eddie to help their father. Her sister was better off not knowing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Emilie imagined they both needed to unwind after that heavy session of storytelling by Miss Boniverre.

  “Let’s go down to the French Quarter, find a nice spot with good music and lots of people. We’ll have some fun. I need to get that legend out of my head,” Michelle said.

  Exactly what I need, Emilie thought.

  “Yes, let’s enjoy the rest of this weekend together. I vowed to myself that I’d open up to new people and experiences, and get out of my cocoon.”

  “It’s about time! I’m going to hold you to that promise, starting right now. I know a great place just down the street.”

  Michelle grabbed Emilie’s hand and led the way. They wandered into the Bombay Club, enticed by the aroma of nouveau Creole cuisine and the slow piano music that flowed into the street. Michelle picked the best table for viewing the entire room, and they settled in as the server brought the menus. They both ordered, deciding on martinis to drink.

  “Now for the people watching. Let the fun begin. Who looks like trouble?”

  “That would be you, Michelle.”

  Her sister waved her hand, dismissing Emilie’s remark, moving her head back and forth as she scouted the room.

  Emilie smiled, happy with her little jibe. She watched the young performer playing a subdued piano tu
ne. The crowd was still thin, and consisted mostly of young lovers sitting cozily, secluded in booths. Their drinks arrived, and Michelle chatted away as Emilie gazed around the room. A man caught her attention. He stood out from the others as he leaned his body against the back of a chair. He smiled, showing off deep-set dimples and white, even teeth from clear across the room.

  A rush of excitement shot through her, and a tingling sensation traveled all the way from her head to toes. Emilie raised her hand to her neck; her throat tightened with excitement. She drew in a deep breath. He was the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on. He returned her gaze and she dropped her eyes, her face burning with embarrassment. Michelle was in the middle of a story about her exploits in Boston. Emilie interrupted, tugging at her sleeve.

  “Hey, Michelle, that guy is checking you out.” She pointed her finger toward the other side of the room, but kept her hand low. He stood alone, tall, fit, and handsome, against the wood-paneled wall.

  “What guy?” Michelle swung her head from side to side, searching the room.

  “It’s the man standing against the wall near the leather wingback chair.”

  Emilie hung her head lower still, blushing with humiliation, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible, most difficult with Michelle’s obvious gawking.

  “I hate to tell you this, but he’s checking you out, Sis,” Michelle said.

  “I don’t think so. You’re the one men check out, not me.”

  “Emilie, Emilie, Emilie, you’re so naïve! You still don’t get that you’re a damned knockout. Men love to look at you and your gorgeous curves. And let’s not forget that sweet face. You can protest all you want, but I know better!”

  “Thanks, Michelle,” Emilie said, still blushing deeply.

  The handsome man with ash brown hair, hazel eyes, and that dazzling dimpled smile still looked their way. Emilie secretly hoped he had noticed her, unable to deny her intense attraction.