The Prophets(10)

Toubab children, however, would be what their parents made them. She could do nothing to intervene. No matter what kindly tricks she employed, they would be the same dreary, covetous creatures they were destined to be, a blight their humorless god encouraged. For them, Maggie could only muster pity, and pity only served to magnify her disgust.

It had occurred to her early on to rub nightshade petals on her nipples just before being forced to suckle. Against her skin, purple was disguised. It worked. Adeline died for what appeared to be inexplicable reasons. She foamed at the mouth. But this created no suspicion because Ruth had miscarried once and had a stillborn child just prior.

The fourth child, Timothy, however, had a will to survive nearly as strong as Maggie’s. Grown now. Handsome, for one of them. Kinder than she would have imagined he could be given what he was. What is he doing now? she wondered. Painting, probably. He had a talent for such things. Ruth had made Maggie scrub the house down in anticipation of his return, which wouldn’t be for weeks still. Scrubbed or not, everything looked the same to Maggie and would probably look the same to Timothy too.

She didn’t spare the adults. She knew her attempts would be puny, insignificant rootwork that was more dangerous to her than to her targets. But minuscule power was still power. Therefore, when she was able, when not under surveillance, which was rare but not unknown, after she believed she had gained a modicum of their trust, she would seek all manner of things to add to her recipes. Slowly, patiently, a few drops of snake venom in the sweet tea. A tiny bit of heel-ground glass dust in the hominy grits. Never feces or urine because that was too personal. Not even a hair from her head, which is why the head wrap was so important. She wouldn’t allow them the pleasure, the privilege of having any part of her freely given. And beyond that, it was simply insulting; it would only grant them even greater mastery over her. As with any good magic, she topped it off with a gentle humming that listeners often mistook for an ode to some far-off trickster in the sky. At the very least, if she couldn’t kill them, she could make them uncomfortable. Cantankerous bellies and the rare bloody stool were pleasant, reassuring results.

But she remembered that she mustn’t raise suspicion. She didn’t put anything in the biscuits this time. She recently received a warning in her dreams. Typically, she dreamed only of darkness. Sleep of the dead, they called it, and she suffered at Paul’s hands for it more than once. So when her mother came to her whispering, dressed in white with a veil over her face, Maggie recognized all the signs for danger and knew that she would have to be particularly cautious. Just bread for now.

The dogs were back, fussing and whimpering at the back door, aroused by the scent of the pork she started frying in the pan. She stepped out onto the back porch and into the dark morning. The sky had just begun to get pallid at the edges, but the sun was nowhere to be found. She kissed the air out loud in the hopes of getting the dogs’ attention, get the pack of them to hush. For a moment, they quieted. Then they started up again. She stepped down into the field and picked up a stick. She shook it at them and then threw it as far as she could into the brush. They gave chase.

“Thank goodness,” she said.

She gazed into the darkness, the same direction toward which the dogs ran. Whatever was in those woods, and beyond, was sure to be better than here, she thought, certainly couldn’t be no worse. When she was younger, she let herself think about what could be behind the clusters of trees. Another river, surely. Maybe a town with people who almost looked like her. Perhaps a giant hole where creatures lived. Or a mass grave where people were thrown when they were no longer useful.

Or maybe the toubab were right and there wasn’t a single thing beyond the woods but the edge of the world and those who ventured there were doomed to be swallowed up by nothingness. Nothingness seemed as good a choice as any, though. She stared and stared but didn’t move. She didn’t admit it, not even to herself, but she was broken. Her years on Empty had succeeded in hollowing her like its name promised. From friend to rag doll to cattle to cook, and not a single one with her permission. Wouldn’t that bust anyone up? So yes, she was broken. But she wasn’t shattered. She could keep passing her misery back onto its source. Maybe that could be a mending.

Essie, who helped Maggie in the house sometimes, would be up by now. Surely tending to that crying burden of hers, the one that nearly killed her coming into the world.

“Mag, I don’t know what I gon’ do. He look at me with those glassy eyes and scare me so,” Essie said to her once. Maggie looked at her: Essie’s hair was disheveled, her dress crooked, her face ashy with tearstains. She had only seen Essie like this once before. Both times, it annoyed her.

“Woman, ain’t nothing you can do now. What’s done is done. That baby your’n. If it’s the eyes that scare you so bad, close yours. Or hand him off to Be Auntie, who love that color more than her own.” Maggie replied with more sharpness than she had intended. She paused and rubbed Essie’s shoulder.

“Maybe,” Maggie then said softly, “maybe I could come by every now and again to help.” She forced a smile. “And we can get Amos to pitch in; I don’t care what he say ’bout it—’specially now that y’all done took the broom leap.”

Maggie didn’t really care what Amos said about most things. She remembered when, some time back, he walked into the study with Paul Halifax and emerged transformed into something unrecognizable; more beautiful to some, but to Maggie, every glint in his eye and click of his tongue was deception. Yet he was so proud. People liked pride. Mistook it for purpose.