“Sattu?” Martha remembered the graffiti. Hadn’t she seen that word, spray-painted around town?
“Oh, Sattu, he was eye-friendly, he was something clever. Folks out here still talk about him. What he was able to do, some folks can hardly believe even today—not what really happened—but we keep telling that story to each other.
“Now, you won’t find this in no history book. It weren’t never written down. There’s things what happened that a lot of folks think have done been forgot about. But they ain’t. My grandmother told that story to my mother, and my mother told it to me. This place ain’t never going to know real rest, not until folks get it right, till they accept how things came to be the way they is.”
Martha leaned forward. “Will you tell the story to me? If I come back? I want to bring a tape recorder, or my notebook.”
“The time ain’t ripe for tellin’, least not yet. First, we got to get them spirits to quit ridin’ you so hard. You got a talent, child. You got to learn to use it, but you ain’t never going to get a chance less’n you get them things off your back.”
“Do you think you can help me?”
“I can’t change what’s comin’, child. I can’t change what part you got to have in it, neither. But I’ll tell you what I can do. I can give you something to help throw a rein on them haints.”
Albertha put down her pipe and stood slowly. Martha noticed a flash of metal. A tarnished brass key hung from a piece of twine around her wrist. It was the first time Martha had seen the woman stand up, and she was surprised, both by her agility and her compact stature. Albertha made her way to the counter and went behind it. She swung the brass key into her hand and used it to unlock and open a drawer in a wooden cabinet mounted to the wall. She took out a small paper bag and placed it on the counter.
“I knowed you was coming, so I fixed up a few things.”
Albertha poured the contents of the sack onto the counter. Her fingers played across an assortment of small objects. She picked up a dark, ring-shaped thing with interwoven tendrils, no bigger than a silver dollar.
“Serpent root. Take this and carry it with you, everywhere you go. Some folks like to hang it from a string around their neck. Or pin it to their shirt. Don’t matter, so long as you can touch it. Then, next time you start hearin’ them voices, just touch that root, and see if they don’t quiet down.”
Martha took the coil of root from Albertha, examined its peculiar whorls.
“But once it’s yourn, don’t ever lose it. Burn it or bury it, jes don’t let it fall into your enemy’s hand, or they mos’ able to use it against you.”
Albertha slid a pale, brown thing across the counter.
“This one here, we call it the Devil’s shoelace. Hang this over your door, and won’t nothin’ come through that door that can bother you, human nor other.” Albertha reached under the counter and brought up a Mason jar filled with a dark substance. “And listen careful, ’cause this is important. Graveyard dirt, collected at middlenight. Go out right after sunset and sprinkle it all around the outside of that place. You’ve got to make it in a complete circle, now. And all the while just keep repeatin’, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.’ You gotta say it out loud, like you mean it. Them spirits has got to hear you. You do that, and you’ll have yourself a sacred circle. Them spirits won’t cross that line, they won’t bother that house no more.”
She placed all the items back in the paper bag. “All that together comes to twenty-four fifty.”
Martha reached for her billfold, feeling foolish, and more than a little desperate. What would Vince say about this? But her hands were already moving, opening her billfold and counting out cash from her meager reserves. Albertha swung the keys into her hand and used a different one to open a wooden drawer in the cabinet next to her. She put the money inside of it.
“What about other voices? What about when I’m not at the Pritchett House?” Martha asked.
Albertha smiled and picked up her pipe.
“Well, that’s up to you. They gets to carrying on too much, just touch that serpent root. But then again, sometime you might want to listen, like I do. You never know, they might tell you something you need to hear.”
Albertha crumpled down the top of the bag and slid it toward Martha. She touched Martha’s wrist, her fingertips gentle and sensitive.
“I’ll see you again, child.”
—
As dusk approached, Martha waited on a rusted metal bouncer chair in the backyard of the Pritchett House. She pretended to read her Joan Didion, too nervous to concentrate. The graveyard dirt sat on the chair at her hip, concealed inside the paper sack. After last night, she wanted to keep it that way, at least until Monday.
The smell of fried chicken wafted from the Pritchett House. Eileen preparing dinner. The burnt-orange sun had dropped below the tree line and the frogs were beginning to trill in the marsh. It was time. She swatted a mosquito, took one last look around to make sure no one was watching, and unscrewed the metal lid. It made a grating sound.
She hurried to the corner of the house, the least visible place she could find, close to the redbrick underpinning. She tapped a little of the dark soil into her palm. It felt cool and dry, nothing unusual about it. She sprinkled the dirt into the grass along the edge of the masonry.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” she whispered softly. She remembered Lady Albertha’s admonition—Say it out loud, like you mean it. Them spirits has got to hear you. She repeated the incantation, this time at a conversational level, scattering another palm full of dirt. She glanced around the corner and made her way along the back of the house, stomach fluttering. She sprinkled along the edge of the back porch, then to the west side, dusting the base of the shrubs that hugged the foundation.
Martha stood below the kitchen window, which was open a couple of inches. She could hear the sizzle of the frying chicken. She tossed a palmful of dirt—“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost”—and hurried on. Then, a squeak of wood against wood. The window jerked open.
Martha clamped the lid on the jar and held it behind her back.
“Can I help you with anything?” Eileen asked. She glared down from behind the window screen.
“No. I was just admiring the garden,” Martha said. She felt blood rushing to her head.
“I thought I heard you say something.”
“Just talking to myself, I guess,” Martha said.
“Whatcha got there?” Eileen asked. Martha could see the woman’s neck craning.
It was clear that nothing that happened on the premises would escape her landlady’s watchful eye. Martha brought the jar from behind her back. “This? It’s a jar.”
“Whatcha got in it?”
“Inside? It’s just dirt.”
“Well, what you gonna do with that dirt?”
Martha felt a mosquito sink its needle into her neck. She swatted it with her empty hand.
“I’m sprinkling it around the house.”
“What on Earth for?”
“Um…it’s just…it’s just for good luck.”
Eileen fell silent for a beat. Martha returned to her task, scattering more dirt.
“You ain’t going to get any of that on my zinnias now, are you?”
“No, just in the yard,” Martha replied. Then she poured another handful of dirt into her palm and tossed it, working her away around to the front of the house. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…”
Martha heard the kitchen window squeak shut. She worked quickly, expecting Eileen to appear outside and demand that she stop, or perhaps call the police. Once she had completed her circuit of the house, Martha scattered the remaining dirt, sealed the jar, dusted off her palms, and rushed upstairs.
She locked the door to her room and attached the Devil’s shoelace to the lintel with a thumbtack, then washed her hands and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner. Aft
er she finished eating, she popped open the chamber marked “Sunday,” swallowed her day’s quota of pastel pills, and got ready for bed.
At eight o’clock, the alarm set, Martha curled up under the quilt, knees close to her chin, clutching the serpent root in her fist. Please, please, let me rest. I can do this. I’ll be all right if I can just get some sleep.
Her eyes scanned the moonlit shadows of the room, and her last thought before tumbling into dark oblivion was an image. A great blue heron, walking on stilt legs along the edge of a wide river.
Chapter 9
“Hand me another red wiggler,” Martha’s father said.
She leaned forward in the boat, opened the plastic tackle box, pulled out one of the soft, rubbery lures, and handed it to him.
The boat and the water around it were as still as glass. Martha watched her father thread the rubber worm onto a large hook. Then he held his handiwork forward, letting it dangle from the fishing line. The worm assumed the shape of the hook, concealing it except for a small, sharp barb.
“How’s that for perfect rigging?” he asked.
Martha smiled. He dangled the lure over the surface of the water and slung it. The whir of the reel broke the eerie silence. There was no splash as the rig entered the water.
Her father was handsome and absorbed, and his presence suffused Martha with a sense of protection. She would be happy to watch him bait hooks for eternity.
“See the fish down there?” he said. “They don’t see the hook. Even when it’s this clear, they just don’t notice the barb. Except for the very smartest ones.”
Martha leaned over the edge of the boat and looked down. The water underneath them was breathtakingly clear. She could see the dark shapes of the carp, hovering like miniature dirigibles. The bait passed among them, slowly sinking. The sunlight reached the bottom of the lake, dozens of feet below.
They were drifting on nothing, and Martha could see the landscape at the bottom. There were rocks and trees and roads. There were also submerged buildings, a church, a barn, a street lined with miniature houses.
Martha looked at her father, who was focused on the fish, gently tugging at his line to attract them.
“Daddy, there’s a whole town down there.”
“Mmmhmm.”
They drifted, and the houses gave way to buildings, lampposts, a tiny main street.
“What town is this, Daddy?”
“Amberleen.”
Martha saw that this was true. She recognized the view from the aerial photograph, the one that hung in the lobby of the Historical Society. The rectangular buildings, like Legos…the silver swath of river…and beyond, the maze of grass.
A cloud drifted underneath them, and Martha realized they weren’t on a lake at all. They were floating in the air.
Wonderful, Daddy. Magical.
“What’s holding the boat up?”
She looked at her father, who was now facing the stern, slowly turning the crank on his reel. Quiet clicks. He didn’t answer. Martha asked the question again, her sense of wonder edging toward fear.
“What’s holding the boat up?”
The answer came from inside her head, spoken in the familiar, rasping voice of Lenny. Nothing, Lovie. The boat is going to fall.
Martha opened her eyes and sat up in her bed, heart leaping. She glanced around her room, disoriented. Wallpaper…armoire. Deep-tea glow of morning.
She looked down at her pillow and saw the curl of serpent root, perched next to her morning drool spot. What time was it? She looked over at the clock, and then sank back down with relief. Only seven-thirty. She had plenty of time.
She relaxed and stretched, the memory of the dream fragmenting and dispersing like wisps of cloud. She sank down and enjoyed the cool embrace of the bed, savoring a sensation she hadn’t experienced in over a week. A feeling of refreshment. No voices.
Martha threw her legs over the side of the bed, stood, and steadied herself. Wooziness from the medication caught her off guard. Just another annoying side effect, like the drool on her pillow. Things she would have to live with forever. Who would ever want to marry such a mess? Why not just get a St. Bernard?
She grinned at the thought and started getting ready for work.
—
The walk down Pearl Street in the cool morning air felt exhilarating. The memory of her father from the dream lingered, warming her from within. Martha inhaled the vaguely sulfurous tang from the nearby marsh and touched the little coil of serpent root, which she had pinned to the front of her blouse, like a brooch. She promised herself that if she passed anyone, she would smile and say good morning.
Passing through the archive room in the Historical Society office, she encountered the white-haired volunteer, Charles, rummaging through the wooden file drawers and lining up documents on the counter. She smiled, waved, then hurried into her office and turned on the computer. A hum of creative energy tingled inside her and she didn’t want to waste it. She double-clicked a folder labeled Sister Patience Peace.
The interview transcript was complete—just a little more editing and cleanup. Now Martha wanted to add introductory material, to provide context to the interview by weaving in descriptive details of the village where the old woman lived—the school bus that was made into a house, the chickens strutting in the roadway, the sense of isolation and self-sufficiency.
An hour later, she was so absorbed in the work that she almost didn’t notice a peculiar sound coming from the adjoining area, a musical tinkle. The sound was repeated. She saved the file to the hard drive and stepped out to see what was going on.
The volunteers were gathered near the center of the archive room and Lydia stood at the front, ringing an enameled porcelain bell. Next to her was a folding table with cupcakes, plastic goblets, and what looked like a champagne bottle.
“What’s going on?” Martha asked Nick, who was perched next to a bank of filing cabinets.
“Announcement bell,” Nick said. “Lydia rings it when she has something important to tell the troops.”
Lydia put the bell down on the table and addressed the room. “Staff, this is a great day—perhaps even a historic day—for Amberleen and for the Historical Society.” She put on her reading glasses and picked up a sheet of paper. “I have here in my hand an email I received last night from Senator Joseph Crumbley. I want to read you a portion of what it says: ‘Dear Lydia. Thank you for the enlightening tour of Shell Heap Island. I was astonished by the island’s natural beauty and charmed by the grace and individuality of its residents. I was also struck by the extraordinary uniqueness of the Geechee culture.’ ” Lydia lowered the paper. “To cut to the chase: Crumbley says he and Senator Phyllis Leach of Warner Robins have agreed to co-sponsor a bill that would establish the island as a Cultural Heritage Site, to be protected from further development or encroachment—in perpetuity.”
The room burst into applause and cheers.
Lydia held up the palm of her hand. “Hold on, people. He goes on to say, ‘I am also sending a letter to the County Commission of Amberleen, recommending to them that any effort to condemn the Shell Heap land await further assessment of the community’s cultural and historical significance.’ ”
The applause resumed, and Lydia raised her hand again. “While this is good news, people, I want to tell you that we aren’t out of the woods yet. Not by any stretch. In fact, our real battle is just starting. For this bill to get the support it needs to pass, Senator Crumbley needs our help. Lots of it. We’ve got more work to do than ever.”
“What kind of work?” one of the volunteers asked.
“They need concrete evidence of historical and cultural significance, and lots of it. Aside from our collection of photographs and documents, he wants us to get the book published. Joseph thinks the book will strengthen our case for staving off the development of Shell Heap, so he’s going to help us get a grant through the Cultural Affairs Committee. Now we’ve got a deadline—they need a draft by the ti
me they reconvene in the fall.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
“That’s right, we’re going to publish our book, people. Isn’t it exciting? Now, let’s take a few moments to celebrate. Enjoy a cup of sparkling cider and a cupcake on me…then get back to work.”
By the time lunch hour arrived, Martha had completed the draft of the interview and given it one final proofread. She clipped the pages together, tucked them into a folder, and went to Lydia’s office. The door was closed, with a yellow sticky note attached: Out rest of afternoon. Business in Savannah. Martha slid the manila folder under the door and headed off to the county administration building.
She had a promise to keep—a promise to herself.
—
Standing outside the frosted glass window, Martha hesitated, looking at the gold-leaf lettering: AMBERLEEN COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. She held the satchel at her side, her grip tightening and untightening. Nerves.
Don’t back out now. He probably won’t even be in.
Martha touched the serpent root pinned to her blouse. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and entered.
“May I help you?” The secretary, a woman in her forties with a pixie haircut, looked up from a computer screen. A police radio squawked from behind a paneled riser.
Martha scanned the small reception area—a few plastic chairs, magazines, a corridor leading to offices.
“I wonder if I could see Sheriff Morris today. He said—”
“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked, scanning a list.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Are you here to report a crime?”
“No.” Martha paused. “Well, maybe. I’m not sure.”
“If you have a crime to report, you’ll need to fill out an incident form.” The woman rotated a clipboard full of forms toward Martha.
“No, no…I just wanted to speak with the sheriff. He said I could stop by…he said anytime.”
The woman wrinkled her mouth, eyes smiling slightly. “I wish he wouldn’t do that. He always tells people to just stop by, anytime. Problem is, half the time, he ain’t here. He needs to tell people to call ahead.”
The Girl in the Maze Page 9
