Ring Shout(26)

“But you done accepted it more than once already,” Auntie Margaret finishes.

I don’t even have the words to ask at what she means.

“You know that Auntie Jadine can perceive the now, yesterday, and tomorrow,” Auntie Ondine says. “But it’s more than that. She can perceive many tomorrows.”

Now they really talking crazy. “How can there be more than one tomorrow?”

Auntie Margaret sighs. “Girl, every choice we make is a new tomorrow. Whole worlds waiting to be born.”

“In some, you accept the enemy’s offer, and all is darkness,” Auntie Ondine says. “Always at this point—the tip of the sword on which your world balances.”

I look at Auntie Jadine. What could those things living under Butcher Clyde’s skin offer me to make me betray all I care about?

Power over life and death.

“And if I don’t accept this offer, then we win? No more Ku Kluxes?”

“If you don’t accept,” Auntie Ondine answers, “there is the chance to continue the struggle. The hope at one day seeing victory. No more.”

That don’t seem fair.

I got a hundred questions but there’s more pressing things at hand. “We need to stop this Grand Cyclops. Not enough of us, though. We need help. Your help. With you all there, we could—”

But Auntie Ondine already shaking her head, a face full of sorry. “We made a choice long ago, to be bound to this place. Should we leave it, our powers would be lost. We may not even survive the crossing. You will have to face this on your own.”

“But we just people!” I shoot back. “They’re monsters! We need—”

“You need monsters,” Auntie Margaret murmurs, eyes squinting up in thought.

Auntie Ondine turns to her. “What are you saying?”

“That there are others who might yet intervene.”

“What others? Most don’t visit their world and take no interest in them.”

“I can think of some who do.”

“Doctor, Doctor,” Auntie Jadine sings. “Can you heal my loving pain…”

Auntie Ondine’s head whips around. Her lips peel back, and I catch glimpses of sharp fox teeth. “No! Not them. There is no love in them. Leeches! Dead things, unfeeling with cold, desiccated hearts—seeking sustenance in misery!”

Auntie Jadine shrugs. “Can’t blame a monster for doing what he do.”

“They are amoral, chaotic!” Auntie Ondine insists. “With no care for our war!”

“Maybe.” Auntie Margaret nods. “But they might find the enemy to their … taste?”

Auntie Jadine grins wide. Oh yes, definitely fox teeth.

Auntie Ondine’s face goes thoughtful. Finally she looks to me. “My sisters believe there are others who might ally with you against the enemy. You would have to convince them. But be warned. They will exact a price.”

What’s one more debt on top of all I got? “Who are they?”

“Their true names are lost,” Auntie Ondine says. “But they have been to your world before.” She lifts a hand, wriggling her fingers like she writing in the air. “There. You will find what you need in your book.”

My book? I put a hand to my back pocket. Sure enough, my book is there. I take it out and flip through pages, wondering if they mean me to find stories of the breath stealer Boo Hag or poor Big Liz, the headless slave girl. But then I stop. There’s a story that wasn’t here before.

I frown at the title. “What are Night Doctors?”

“New players on the board perhaps,” Auntie Ondine murmurs, tapping her chin.

“Playa, playa,” Auntie Jadine hums devilishly, a bit of tongue peeking between foxy teeth.



* * *



Nana Jean’s face frowns deep as I recount my meeting with the Aunties. She stay quiet, just sits in her chair staring at nothing. It’s Chef who speaks.

Night Doctors, Night Doctors

Sneak in under your door.

Thief a nigger tongue and eyes

Then come back for more.

Night Doctors, Night Doctors,

Take you live or dead,

Snip off a nigger’s hands and feet,

And even take his head.

Night Doctors, Night Doctors,

Snatch you to they white hall.

Cut a poor nigger child wide open,

Show him his liver and his gall

Night Doctors, Night Doctors

You can cry and carry on.

But when they done dissectin’

Every bit of you is gone.

When she finishes, the farmhouse is still. Outside the wind whistles through the bottle trees, the trapped haints either laughing wicked or wailing with fright. The Shouters take to staring at me like I’m John the Conqueror run off with the devil’s daughter.

“Who are these Night Doctors?” Emma asks, looking around for answers.

Across the table Chef leans back, a joker between her fingers. “Stories. Heard it from a fella in my unit, whose people was from Virginia. Told us about his great-grandpappy’s talk from slavery times. Night Doctors was supposed to be haints—tall and dressed in white—who stole away slaves and experimented on them. But none of its real. Was just old masters going around at night scaring slaves. Hear it came about, on account they sold the bodies of dead slaves to medical schools to cut up.”