Ring Shout(24)



It don’t come from his mouth, not the one on his face. It’s those other mouths, the small ones all opening now under his robes, singing in a chorus without harmony or pattern. Like in the dream, it hurts. A sharpness that cuts through me, distorting my rhythm. I stagger off beat, my song fluttering in my grasp like a thread. I try to catch it, but it slips away—gone.

I stumble as Butcher Clyde’s song pours into my ears. My swings go wrong. I can’t even keep my balance, tripping on my own feet, slipping to one knee and bringing my sword up as two cleavers descend in a silver flash. There’s a jolt as they hit, sending pain through my body. As I watch, stunned, my blade seems to warp with this awful singing, turning brittle—before it shatters.

My mind won’t accept what just happened, even as the broken sword pelts me with metal that turns to smoke and my hand goes empty. I call out for the blade, for the songs and the visions. But there’s only Butcher Clyde’s terrible disharmony filling the emptiness. He places the cleaver’s edge right under my chin, forcing me to look into eyes turned to mouths studded with teeth.

“No other way this could end,” those mouths speak at once. “Hate is our domain. Those meddling Aunties never told you why you were chosen to wield that sword? Just filled your head with stories about being their champion? Think what you will of us—at least we tell you true. Said before we wanted to make an offer, Maryse. Give you what you want more than anything—power over life and death.”

“Go to hell!” I spit. “You got nothing I want!”

He shakes his head, pulling off his hood. “Perhaps you need to be made more amenable.” He sticks out a fleshy tongue to pinch off a piece that squirms between his fingers. Behind me a Ku Klux grips my head, prying my jaws apart. I watch that unnatural meat come close, wriggling and reaching for my lips, eager to push its way inside. For some reason, only thing I can think of is my brother telling me ’bout Bruh Rabbit, caught and trying to trick Bruh Fox into letting him go.

Gon’ ahead and roast me or skin me—just don’t throw me in that briar patch!

A shrill whistle goes up. Butcher Clyde turns, and I follow to what he’s looking at. Chef! She holding a stick of dynamite in one hand and her lighter in the other.

“I don’t know what the fuck you are,” she says. “But Imma need you to let her go, or I might have to do something drastic. Got enough blasting powder and silver enough to blow all your ugly asses to kingdom come. Best believe that.”

Butcher Clyde eyes her before giving a signal. The hands holding me let go and I get up, staggering over to Chef, who catches me. Together we back off a ways before she bends down to whisper, “I don’t have any more dynamite! Or silver! Run!”

We do. I turn back once to see if we being chased. But the Klans and Ku Kluxes just standing there. My eyes meet Butcher Clyde’s.

“Come see us, Maryse!” he calls. “You know where! Told you, we got what you want! More than anything!”





SIX

Nana Jean’s farmhouse feels like a tomb. Been an hour since we got back. The Gullah woman took the news hard. She in her chair, a hand covering her face while Molly tries to console her. Chef over at a table holding hands with Emma. The rest of the Shouters are singing some mournful song as the Stick Man beats a slow funeral march.

I walk in de moonlight, I walk in de starlight,

To lay dis body down.

I’ll walk in de graveyard, I’ll walk through the graveyard,

To lay dis body down.

Their voices sound a deep wailing, filling up the place with its strength. But none of it feels real.

Sadie. Dead. How can that be real?

Was just hours ago we was here, listening to her complain and carry on. Now she’s gone—burned up inside a juke joint. My fists clench as I pace about, digging nails into my palms until it hurts. That pain at least feels real.

“What we gon’ do?” I call out, needing to talk. Either that or I’ll scream.

All eyes turn to me. Even the Shouters go quiet.

“Do about what?” Molly finally asks.

I stare like she lost her mind. “Them Ku Kluxes is still meeting to do their conjuring! This Grand Cyclops still coming!”

“Not sure what we can do for it,” Molly answers. “The numbers against us—”

“Then get word to Atlanta to send whoever can come!”

She look skeptical and I think to Michael George.

“What about the people they took?”

“Likely for this ritual,” Emma puts in. “They have spilled blood for such before.”

“We just gon’ let them stay taken?” I ask.

Molly frowns. “We could walk into a trap.”

“Cordelia says you’ve lost your sword?” Emma asks. At this, Molly’s eyebrows rise and Nana Jean looks up sharp. I glare at Chef, but she keeps her head down. “With the terrible loss of Sadie, our forces are stretched thin.”

I shake my head. “We’ll find a way. Chef. You could rig up some bombs, blow them right off that mountain!”

“Fool buckrah dem too?” Nana Jean asks.

“And women and children,” Molly adds. “They invite them to rituals now.”

“All of them! I don’t care if they people or monsters! Blow up every last one! Make them pay for what they done!” I don’t realize I’m shouting till the room goes quiet again, and the whoosh of pounding blood fills my ears.

P. Djèlí Clark's Books