The Mesmerist(55)

Most of the folks in that picture were dead now, buried over at Shiloh Baptist Church. Mama Frances called them “our people,” and they all used hoodoo, or folk magick, as most people called it. They used foot-track powder that could go up through your foot and make you sick, a black hen’s egg for getting rid of evil spirits, nutmeg seeds for good luck at gambling, and all kinds of other things.

But even though Mama Frances named me Hoodoo, I couldn’t cast a simple spell. I said the words over and over like she told me to, but nothing ever happened. “You got to believe, boy,” she’d say. “That’s the first step. Believing.”

I thought I did believe, but I guess I wasn’t trying hard enough.

Everybody else in my family could conjure, though. Conjuring is using words to cast a spell, if you didn’t know. One way to do it was by using a mojo bag. A mojo bag is a little cloth sack stuffed with roots and herbs and oils and sometimes a picture of somebody’s face or words written on paper. Mama Frances gave me one that was supposed to be for good luck, but that didn’t stop people from picking on me. Jessie McGuire, Otis Ross, and J.D. Barnes called me Hoodoo Doo-doo every time they saw me. They said I must’ve been cursed because of my birthmark. “Somebody put their mark on you,” they’d said. “You got the evil eye.”

But it was summertime, and the schoolhouse was closed, so I didn’t have to worry about being picked on for a while.

Upstairs, I took all the stuff I found and put it in an old steamer trunk that used to be my daddy’s. There was some writing on the side that said 20th Century Limited. I figured that had to be some kind of train. Each corner of the trunk had a brass cap, and if you wanted to open it, you had to unfasten some wide belts and click a bunch of locks. I liked the sound it made when it opened. It’d give a big old groan, and the smell would rise up and greet me. I didn’t know what that smell was, but it always made me think of my dead daddy.

I picked up the bird skull and turned it over in my hand. It was a tiny little thing, bone-white and clean. What could’ve happened to it? Did it fall out of its nest? Did its mama try to save it? I tucked it in a corner of the trunk on top of some old papers and then headed downstairs for some of Mama Frances’s Hoppin’ John.



I dragged the broom across the floor, tidying up in the back room of Miss Carter’s store. Big bags of rice, flour, and sugar were heaped on stacks of wood, and boxes of candy lined the shelves. I didn’t know who Miss Carter was and didn’t think anyone else did either. Most of the time there was a blind man who ran the counter out front. He knew right where everything was, and if you tried to cheat him he’d know it. Somebody said he could tell the difference between a five-dollar bill and a one just by feeling it. I didn’t know about that. I’d never even seen a five-dollar bill before, anyway. To tell you the truth, he gave me the heebie-jeebies.

My cousin Zeke worked at Miss Carter’s once in a while and let me sweep up to earn some pocket change and candy. People came to buy groceries, tobacco, liquor, and medicine, but in the back—if you knew how to ask for it—you could get stuff for conjuring. I was more interested in the Mary Janes and hard candy under the glass counter out front.

Hot air blew in from the open window and sent dust balls floating around the room. I was playing make-believe that they were big twisters when the cowbell on the front door clang-a-langed. I stopped sweeping and peeked my head around the open door.

“Mornin’, sir,” I heard Zeke say. “How can I help you this fine day?”

I crept a little closer and saw a man standing at the counter. He was dressed all in black, like some kind of holy-roller preacher. His wide-brimmed hat shaded his eyes, and his long cloak trailed on the floor. I knew it was called a cloak because I saw one in a book at the schoolhouse. People used to wear them all the time in the olden days. I wondered why somebody would wear a cloak in this hot-ass weather. I wasn’t supposed to say “hot-ass,” but that’s what popped in my head because I heard Mama Frances say it one time when she was fanning herself.

The man leaned forward, and I could’ve sworn I heard a creaking sound, like he was made of something besides flesh and bone. A cold chill crept across the back of my neck. I didn’t like him, whoever he was.

“Mandragore,” he said. His voice was so deep it boomed inside my chest.

Zeke cocked an ear in the stranger’s direction. “What’s that, now?”

The stranger looked up and sniffed, just like an old coon dog. “The One That Did the Deed,” he muttered. “Main de Gloire.”

Zeke backed up a step, like the man had stank breath. That was a sign that something wasn’t right. Zeke shook his head. “Afraid I can’t help you with that, good man. Never heard of it.”

The man took one look around, sniffed again, and shuffled out the store. He had to duck his head so his hat wouldn’t get knocked off on the way out. The door banged shut, and the cowbell rang for what seemed like minutes.

Cousin Zeke laid his hands palm down on the counter and stood real still. Finally, he let out a big breath and took a hankie from his pocket. He wiped his face.

“Who was that?” I asked, coming around the corner.

Zeke jumped like he had ants in his pants. “Hoodoo! Don’t be sneaking up on people like that!”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” I shot back. “I was here the whole time.”