BREAKING CURSED BONDS

by Elisabeth Zguta

  The house, designed in the old Craftsman style with handcrafted woodwork embellishments, was the only original home left standing on this street, as though something had protected it all these years. Maybe the occupants inside do have some old magic working in their favor.

  She climbed a few steps up to an open porch, following Father Eddie’s lead. Stepping up, the boards squeaked under his weight. Emilie felt the floor dip beneath her own feet. Why would a priest go to these lengths to help a friend, she wondered? Didn’t he worry about his soul? Sweat dripped down Eddie’s face. He loosened his collar a bit, took out a handkerchief, and dabbed his face dry. Emilie wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, and then pulled her hair away from her face, tying it back in a knot. Eddie pulled the knocker in the center of the door and let it drop. He looked down at Emilie.

  “Have courage,” he said.

  Emilie sighed. The door opened and a pretty, petite brown girl, just a child in braids, wearing a flowered summer dress, stood there. Without saying a word, she opened the screen door and motioned for them to enter.

  The house was a shotgun layout with a hallway that ran from the front of the house to the back. It was furnished with old-style furniture that made everything seem as though time had gone backwards.

  “This place could have been my grandmother’s,” Father Eddie mumbled to Emilie.

  They followed the little girl to a large bedroom in the back of the bungalow, where an old woman rested in a large antique bed. The metal headboard and footboard were painted white, stamped with floral designs. A homemade quilt covered the bed, the type frugal people created years ago from recycled coats.

  The old woman sat awake and smiling, her skin dark and wrinkled. She motioned for them to enter and sit near the edge of her bed. Father Eddie lifted the crucifix that lay around his neck and kissed it, then crossed himself. He prayed with the old woman. Compassion flowed from him, and Emilie felt his sincerity; her confidence in him grew.

  The woman mimicked his motions, making the sign of the cross too. Her gray hair glistened as if wet, combed back in a bun away from her thin face. Emilie tried to feel the old woman’s emotions, but got nothing. That had never happened before. Emilie couldn’t remember anyone ever blocking her gift. The woman looked up at Emilie, nodded, and smiled, as if she understood the young woman’s thoughts.

  “Thank you for coming, Father Eddie.” Her voice was clear, soft and heavily accented in French Creole resonance. “I was expecting you. I saw in a dream that you would be here seeking an answer. You hope I have one. Am I right, Father?”

  Father Eddie nodded, but his eyes were wide with wonder and the color drained from his face. “Yes, I do need some information.” His voice was faint. “You see, I have a good friend, an old friend, who is afraid he has a curse on his family, on his lineage.”

  Eddie stopped. The old woman showed no reaction to his words, and after a moment’s pause, she spoke, her voice low.

  “I can’t help with the curse. What you need is a gris-gris bag. We’ll make a special one for him,” she said.

  A creaking sounded in the room and they turned to see the young girl, entering from the door behind them. The girl went to the old woman’s other bedside, took her hands, and they rambled on in a language Emilie had never heard before. They chanted something together, swinging their heads back and forth in rhythm, but it wasn’t a prayer she recalled ever hearing. The chant turned into song that sounded like an old Negro spiritual, but in a strange language.

  “Gematria notarikon duppie Loa come. Gematria notarikon Loa come.”

  They repeated the words over and over again. As it grew, the room swerved and shook. The chandelier on the ceiling swayed, and the pictures on the walls rattled. The noise thundered; Emilie buckled over as her gift kicked in and she experienced Eddie’s emotions. He was sick with fear.

  A chill ran through Emilie and her skin prickled. She looked over and saw Eddie’s face go pale. Looking queasy, he held his stomach.

  The daylight that had shined through the window disappeared. The room was plunged into darkness, the nearby white candles the only visible light in the room. The candles flickered, stationed on a table near the bed.

  White linen covered the tabletop, which resembled a small altar. Statues of Christ and the Madonna and various pictures of saints were arranged between them. An incense burner placed in front smoked with a frankincense sillage. To the right sat a bowl of water, Emilie presumed holy water, vital for any blessings. Other items lay on the tabletop: a black feather, some sprigs of weeds or herbs that looked like lemongrass and bay leaves, a piece of torn material stained with what appeared to be someone’s blood, and a lock of dark curled hair. The hair reminded Emilie of her brother Robert. Right in the center of it all, impossible to miss, lay a claw from a dead blackbird. The sight of it sent shivers up Emilie’s spine.

  She looked up at Eddie, seeking his strength, but he just stared into the dark emptiness, deathly afraid. She sensed something eerie around him. Some unknown force of nature that she had never experienced before materialized in the room. Her fear spiked with his.

  The woman’s face appeared to age in front of them, the glow from the candles emphasizing every line and wrinkle. It was as though her face shriveled before their eyes. Father Eddie moved his thick lips in a mumbled prayer. Emilie closed her eyes, listening. Something moved. When she opened her eyes, the young girl held the old woman’s trembling hands. They kept singing the chant, the words louder, more erratic now.

  “Gematria notarikon, duppie Loa come.”

  Eddie covered his ears with his hands; the sound pierced Emilie’s soul. The temperature soared, and the darkness became a vacuum as the severe sound of the chant rose until she feared her eardrums would burst. Emilie followed Eddie’s example, and covered her own ears. The room quaked with more rigor, and they swayed off balance. Still, the chant did not cease.

  An overwhelming grief took hold of Emilie, so profound she wanted to die. Just when she could not bear it a moment longer, it was gone.

  Everything stopped.

  The spinning sensation ceased, and the rattling of the chandelier quieted.

  The chant was done.

  Eddie reached out to steady himself with his hand on the wall, until he regained his equilibrium. He looked at Emilie, and she knew just how he felt. After a few seconds her ears stopped ringing. The darkness slipped back into sunshine and streamed through the window. Eddie raised his arm to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness.

  “I have what you need,” the old woman said.

  Emilie turned her attention back to the old woman, who was smiling as though nothing had happened.

  “My grandchild will give it to you. Just take this to your father. I know who you’re here for, I saw him in a dream. Mr. de Gourgues needs the spell to protect him.”

  Emilie swallowed back the lump in her throat. People shouldn’t need protection spells, it just wasn’t normal. The old Voodoo woman looked at Emilie with an intensity that seemed to burn right through her.

  “There are forces around your father that are trying to destroy him. He needs the protection more than you know. Take what my little sweetheart gives you. Have him place it in his home near something he treasures… This is the only way I know how to help.”

  Then, as quickly as everything else had happened in the room, she closed her eyes and was sound asleep. Emilie and Eddie looked across at the young girl.

  The girl opened up a small cloth sack. She took the bird’s claw, spit on it, and dipped it in holy water, then sprinkled some kind of oil. Then, she sifted red brick dust on it, making it look bloody, before she placed it in the bag. She waved the piece of cloth over the incense smoke and then added it to the bag. Last, she placed the hair and some twigs of herbs into the bag. She turned and held out her hands to Father Eddie, revealing the small twill bag. Father Eddie took it from her.

  “Thank you. Can I give you anything for this gift?”

&n
bsp; The little girl shook her head no, and then pointed to the door. Eddie shifted his weight from one foot to another, apprehensive.

  “Can’t we give you something in return for your help? We have money.” Emilie said.

  The girl pointed to the door again, frowning. Emilie and Eddie left and walked back to the car without another word.

  The return trip to Memphis seemed long. Father Eddie returned his rental car and flew back with Emilie on the Cessna. Exhaustion helped her drift in and out of sleep as she rested in the seat. On the occasional bump from turbulence, she opened her eyes and saw Father Eddie praying, mumbling words for his friend. Maybe he’s praying for his own soul as well. She knew he was conflicted by the episode they’d just experienced; she felt that way, too.

  They landed in Memphis and returned to the house after a quiet ride home from the airport. Emilie followed Father Eddie across the wide porch. He stopped before opening the door, turning to search her face. Emilie knew he was confused.

  “Will God forgive me for believing in this supernatural direction I took today?”

  He sought some kind of reassurance from her, but she didn’t know the answer herself. “We will all find out someday. Father Eddie, just remember God gave you your intellect to make the choices you deem correct. Keep goodness in your heart and everything will be all right. A great priest told me that when I was a little girl.”

  She smiled. “Now, go give that thing to my father. I know exactly where he’ll put it, he’ll place it on his bookshelf next to the volume of poetry by Robert Frost. My mother’s favorite poem was ‘North of Boston.’ She used to sit near the window in his library and read that book over and over.”

  “Your mother was a wonderful person. She had a loving soul,” Father Eddie said with a smile, seeming more relaxed at Emilie’s reassurance.

  They walked into the house. The familiar scent of the oil soap that was used to wash the wood floors filled her nostrils. God, it was good to be home. Eddie went to her father’s library. Emilie intended to go upstairs, she needed some rest. The trip to New Orleans revealed much, but there had been a cost; the strange experience had tipped her over the edge mentally, and she just wanted to retreat for a while.

  Before she reached the stairs, her brother hailed her. “Emilie, hold up! I want to hear about your trip.”

  Recalling her conversation with her sister in New Orleans, Emilie had no idea what to tell him. How much, if any, of the truth should she share?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Emilie turned around and saw her brother walk out from the shadows of the other room. She met him in the middle of the foyer.

  “So, how was the trip?” Robert smiled down at her. She forced herself to relax her shoulders, and smiled back.

  “It was great, Robert. You should have come with us, we had the best time. We heard great music, ate good food, and laughed our heads off. We had fun. Life is much easier with Michelle around.”

  Robert shuffled his feet, uneasy. “Sounds like I missed a great time. Things here are okay… Father isn’t crazy yet.”

  “I am sorry you have to be his watcher,” she said.

  “No problem. It comes with the job, I suppose.” Negativity emanated from him. “You stayed away from investigations, right? Like I asked?” His expression hardened with the question. She felt like a scolded child, flashing back to Sister Antoinette’s fourth-grade class.

  “Robert, I’m going to be honest with you,” she said, deciding on the spot that she had no choice. She wouldn’t be bullied by her brother and his mysterious moods. “We did go to Miss Boniverre’s home in the Garden District, and asked about the curse. She had stories to tell that her family passed on, but I’m not so sure—”

  “I told you to stay away from this. What do you think you’re doing, Emilie?” he demanded, his voice rising. “You have no understanding of what you’re getting involved with. Can’t you just listen to me, just once? You are such an instigator. You need to mind your own business.”

  Emilie wilted. Until recently, she’d never been afraid of Robert. Now, with his fists clenched and his jaw tight, she wasn’t sure what he was capable of. The sudden change confused her. More than that, it frightened her. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

  She swallowed hard and stood her ground, planting her feet.

  Before he could respond, there was a noise behind them as someone stepped into the room. Robert and Emilie both turned and looked at the man now standing in the doorway. He was a stranger, yet he looked and felt familiar to Emilie.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ve just spoken with Mr. Evans and he suggested it was easier to leave through the back entrance. Can you point the way?”

  Robert lowered his head, his face red. “Emilie, I’m confident you can help this man find his way out. I have places to be.” He straightened out his shirtsleeves as if he had done physical work, not willing to show defeat.

  The man sauntered across the room and stood between brother and sister. Robert didn’t say another word. He turned and walked away, clearly not happy with how their argument had ended.

  Not even home five minutes and the family is falling apart. Emilie wasn’t sure if it was the curse she was afraid of at this point, or her own family.

  She realized the man still stood by her side, and sensed goodness flowing from him. She recognized his soul somehow, almost as if a glow surrounded him. She looked up and met his stare. Time stopped as they gazed into each other’s eyes. There was softness there, something that spoke to her. Suddenly, she remembered why he was familiar: he was the handsome man she’d noticed watching her in New Orleans.

  Her face flushed, her entire body reacting to his closeness. Embarrassed by her thoughts, she looked away. “Thank you. You have just saved me from what could have been a bad situation. I don’t like arguing with my brother. I am in your debt, sir.”

  She bowed her head. He smiled at her, showing off his deep dimples, and gazed at her with sparkling hazel eyes.

  “You’re welcome. I argue with my siblings from time to time, too.”

  He nodded to signal good night and turned around, moving toward the front door. His British accent just added to Emilie’s attraction to him. Not fair, she thought.

  Question after question arose: Who was he? What was he doing here? She sensed good in him, knew intuitively that he was no danger, but she couldn’t dismiss such a wild coincidence as first seeing him in New Orleans and now, less than twenty-four hours later, in her own home. She forced herself to set the questions aside for the moment. All in due time, Emilie, she told herself.

  “Please don’t go yet,” she called after him. “I could use some company. Would you like some coffee?” She didn’t wait for his reply, but just turned and walked toward the kitchen, expecting him to follow. “Do you like Columbian? Or would you rather have tea? ”

  She opened the kitchen cabinet door and pulled out two cups. He sat down and introduced himself.

  “My name is Jeremy Laughton. Hello.” He held out his hand to shake, and she placed her hand in his. When she touched him, her intense yearning was heightened, his positive energy pushing her toward euphoria.

  “Emilie de Gourgues,” she stumbled, barely getting her own name out.

  “I’m here working on a local environmental project as a contractor,” he said. “I’m documenting the recent storm damages. I spoke with your house manager, Mr. Evans, about the project, and was leaving when I heard you… I’m glad I was able to help.”

  He smiled, showing his dimples again. Emilie, lost somewhere in the clouds, didn’t comprehend what he’d said. Her mind wandered to his inviting lips, sensual smile, and firm body. Her face burned with embarrassment, knowing she looked a smitten fool.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Emilie cleared her throat, and snapped herself back to the moment. “Yes, fine. So what’s the project you’re working on?”

  “I’m assisting with an ongoing project along the Wolf Riv
er. A tributary backs up to your land here on the estate, and I will be accessing your property to document noticeable changes from the spring storms, erosion damage, the wildlife eco-cycle, migrations, and any impacts on the aquifer in the area, that kind of thing. I’m working for a commissioned environmental group assigned to work alongside the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.” He explained all of this with a smile, his natural ease making him that much more attractive. “And tea will be fine, thanks.”

  “Wow, that’s an important undertaking. It sounds fascinating.”

  He laughed at her response.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re the first woman who ever thought my work could be fascinating. Even my own mother makes fun of my job. She calls me a glorified muck walker.” The smile they exchanged this time was warmer. For a moment, even the seemingly cool and collected Mr. Laughton seemed disarmed. “I am sorry for sounding so forward, but you seem so familiar to me.”

  “I know what you mean. Were you, by any chance, in New Orleans recently, yesterday, perhaps?” she asked.

  It was his turn to blush. He did notice me, Emilie thought, gratified.

  “I was there, yes. I didn’t think you’d noticed me. This is such an odd coincidence. I didn’t follow you here, honestly. When I got this assignment, I decided to take the opportunity for a quick trip to New Orleans, I’ve always wanted to see it. I took the train down on a whim, and just returned late this morning.”

  She could feel his sincerity and knew his intentions were honorable, thanks to her empathic gift. Once in a while it came in handy. The tension evaporated and the awkward moment passed.

  Emilie handed him his herbal tea, and sat in a chair at the kitchen table, across from him. She sipped hers as she studied his face. His deep smile lines made it seem as if happiness had been permanently stamped there. She could use a bit of that these days.

  “So what do you do?” he asked. His eyes were intense, and seemed to look deep into her soul. No one had ever been that interested in her, unless they were after money. That had been an issue years ago when she’d attempted to date. But that wasn’t this man’s story. A compassion for life flowed from him like a breath of fresh air.