SIXTEEN
December 1940
“When was Jesus born?” Poppy sang in a low, sweet voice as she pumped water into a sink full of dishes. She’d inherited her mama Betty’s talent for singing. May counted it among one of her greatest successes that the girl’s voice was all of her mama she seemed to carry in her. “It was the last month of the year.” Poppy was such a beautiful thing, even in the harsh white of the electric light. For a moment, May missed the soft flicker of her kerosene lamp, but she had to admit she was growing used to these modern conveniences the “Hoodoo” money had brought their way.
Poppy took after her great-grandmother Tuesday, standing barely five feet tall, and with a waist not much thicker than a willow branch. It both pleased and worried May that she’d filled out nicely in those places that men liked to see full.
May had only agreed to let Poppy head up to Charlotte in exchange for the girl’s promise to keep her head screwed on tight and her skirt pulled down over her knees. So far, May believed she’d kept her word, although her guardian, a pastor’s wife, had written to say her husband wearied of the sound of pebbles ricocheting off the upstairs windows every night. Poppy was fifteen, the same age Betty had been when she became May’s daughter-in-law, and with full lips, high cheekbones, and deep brown eyes, she was prettier than most by far. The preacher’s missus informed May that her granddaughter had plenty of suitors, but none of them had managed to capture her heart. Yet. It might be December, but May was no fool. A fresh new spring lay just around the corner.
Poppy sensed her grandmother’s presence and looked back over her shoulder. “Nana, you want me to get Jilo ready for bed when I finish up with these?”
“Naw, girl.” May crossed the room to place a kiss on Poppy’s head. “Jilo’s big enough to handle herself now, and Binah, she’s sleeping—for now, at least.” The baby still hadn’t taken to sleeping the night through, although that mattered less to May than it once might have. She almost looked forward to the sound of Binah’s fretful stirrings. It made the long, sleepless nights less lonely. “You done helped enough around here today. ’Course Jilo might like for you to read her a story from that book you brung her.”
Poppy looked up from the soapy water and smiled at her. “No, little miss is gonna want to show off by reading me one of the stories her own self. That girl is smarter than the rest of us put together.” The tone of her voice and the smile in her eyes told May Poppy couldn’t be prouder of that fact.
“Yeah, you probably right.” May leaned her hip against the sink’s cold porcelain lip. “It’s so good to have you home, even if it is just for a few days.”
“I didn’t want to miss Christmas . . . and”—her smile faded—“I just had to see her with my own eyes.”
May pulled the girl into her arms. She’d mailed a picture of Binah to both Opal and Poppy when she wrote to tell them they had a new sister, but a picture didn’t do much to make a body seem real. “ ’Course you did.”
Poppy relaxed into May’s arms. “I sure wish Opal could be here.”
May slid her hands to her granddaughter’s shoulders and pushed her back a little so they could look at each other. “How about tomorrow we call up the operator and have her put through a call to that sister of yours?”
“All the way in California?”
“All the way in California.”
Poppy threw her wet hands around May’s waist and squeezed tight enough to take the wind out of her. Pulling the girl close, May squeezed right back and leaned her head forward to breathe in Poppy’s scent.
A loud bang on the front door startled Poppy into making a little jump.
“Even on Christmas,” May muttered to herself. As she stepped back, she caught the worried look in Poppy’s eyes. The magic had never set well with Poppy. She never said so outright, but May knew it was a large part of the reason she’d wanted to get away. Hell, it was a large part of the reason May had let her go.
“I’ll get it,” Poppy said, ready to spring toward the door.
“No.” She held up her hand. “Don’t you worry, none, girl. Nana tell ’em to come back another time.”
May shuffled out of the kitchen and down the hall. Her steps fell heavier than they had in years past, and it was taking her more time to get around. May figured there was no escaping time, not even with the magic she had at her command. Another rap, followed by a quick and impatient series of bangs, sounded on the door. May stopped dead in her tracks. “I am coming,” she yelled in the direction of the knocking, “and if you keep banging away like that, you ain’t gonna want to see me when I get there.”
She took her time, more than she needed, really, to make it to the door and brush aside the curtain covering the door’s window. Once there, she flicked on the switch by the door, causing the exterior overhead light she’d installed that summer to burst to life, revealing the snow-dusted visage of Henry Cook. His sweet innocent face, combined with the wispy flakes of miraculous snow, gave the appearance of a Christmas ornament. Her annoyance faded at the sight of him. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since she’d stopped working at the Pinnacle. His face was unchanged, but the rest of him had gone through a growth spurt. The fellow who stood beneath the harsh glare of the porch light was no longer a boy. He was a young man. He wore a woolen flat cap and a threadbare coat way too big even for his newly broadened shoulders.
Healing his poor mama had been her first solo act of magic; she hadn’t been at all sure it would work, but she thanked God that this boy still had his mama. A hot wave of guilt flushed through her, knocking back the cold breeze coming in through the door. Was it God she should be thanking for such a thing? Well, hell, if she was damning herself using magic, she would do what she could to make some good come of it.
May opened the door. “Henry, what on earth brings you out on Christmas night? You should be home with your family.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mother Wills.”
For some reason hearing this young man address her by her working name cut her to the quick. “No, Henry. Don’t you call me that. We’re old friends, you and I. You call me May, or Mrs. Wills, if you must, but I don’t want you calling me Mother, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The words came out wrapped in caution, and he seemed to deliberate before continuing. “Mrs. Wills. You gotta come with me. You gotta help. There’s something real bad goin’ on.”
The screen door gave its usual complaint as she pushed it open enough to signal for Henry to enter. One of these days she’d get around to replacing that damned spring. Henry reached out and took hold of the screen door, pushing it fully open and stepping into the main room, but not far enough for May to close the other door and shut out the cold. He shifted foot to foot, looking like the slightest noise might make him take flight.
“I just passed by Wildwood Church down the road,” he said in a rush. “There’s a group of white men there, and they got Pastor Jones with ’em.” May was taken aback by the name. She hadn’t given the young preacher a single thought since her mama’s funeral. “They done set the church on fire, and I’m afraid the pastor’s gonna get killed if you don’t do something.”
“All right. I’ll be right out.” May closed the door after Henry, and turned away.
Poppy stood at the end of the hall, just outside the kitchen door. She dried her hands on her apron, her nervous eyes focused on May. “Everything okay, Nana? Was that Henry?”
“Everything’s just fine, my sweet, sweet girl.” She paused. “Nana has to go out for a bit. She needs you to watch your sisters for her.”
“Of course, Nana.” Worry returned to Poppy’s eyes, and her smile flattened. “Where you going?”
“Don’t you worry about that.” May reached out for Poppy’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “Nana will be home by morning. You just watch Jilo and Binah, and think about what you want to say to Opal when we call her. And don’t you worry, you hear?”
“Okay,” Poppy said, obedient as always.
“Promise me. No worries.” May released Poppy’s hand and tapped her nose with her index finger, causing her granddaughter’s eyes to light up again with mirth.
“I promise, Nana.”
“That’s my good girl.”
May took a moment to pull her heaviest coat on over the new cardigan Poppy had given her for Christmas, then found her way out to the porch, careful not to let either of the doors slam and wake the babies. Henry’s beat-up Model A truck was running, although the engine spluttered enough to sound as if it might give up the ghost at any moment. After helping May into the passenger side, Henry circled the truck and struggled to open his own door, which would only gape partway. The kid squeezed in through the gap, then pulled just as hard, metal grating metal, to get the door closed.
May noticed only one headlight of Henry’s Model A seemed to be working, and it veered its gaze up toward the trees. Fine if you were out hunting possum, but not so good if you were trying to see which direction you were headed. May had never attended the Wildwood Church, but she knew it lay five miles or so south, down off Buckhalter Road. She wasn’t sure if it was still considered Savannah proper. She also wasn’t sure they’d make it in time to do any good. Henry pressed the clutch and shifted into drive, causing the truck to groan and heave before it began its slothful roll forward.
“What do you think this is about?” May asked him.
“I don’t know ma’am. Is it ever about anything?”
May stared out the side window, watching the familiar territory pass by at an unfamiliar pace. Even lumbering along, it took next to no time for them to reach the bend in the road. They turned south on Ogeechee and kept on for what felt forever, but what was in reality probably no more than a dozen minutes. Henry turned the rattling beast left on to Buckhalter. May didn’t know for sure where the church stood, but she could see the glow of the flames and smell the smoke even before they made it half a mile.
“You stop here,” she said as they neared the far end of the drive that cut between Wildwood Church’s graveyard and the glow in the night sky she could only assume was the burning remains of the church itself. She reached over and patted Henry’s forearm without ever taking her eyes off the devil’s sparks rising into the air. She pointed toward a tall clump of wax myrtles she hoped would help hide the truck . . . and the boy. Henry obeyed, easing the truck to the side of the road and shifting to park.
“This old girl can be tricky to start,” he said. “We should probably leave it running.”
May looked into the boy’s warm amber eyes. “That’s fine. You’re gonna stay here anyhow.”
“Oh no, ma’am. I can’t let you go on your own. Poppy . . .” He stopped talking after the slip of her granddaughter’s name, but the look on his face told her all she needed to know. It explained what this young fellow was doing driving around these parts on Christmas night, and why the little miss hadn’t take interest in her suitors up in Charlotte. Henry was on his way to court her. May hadn’t seen it coming, but if she didn’t get him killed out here tonight, this boy might just be a good match for her Poppy.
She turned on him. “You will do as I damned well say, you hear me, boy?” Henry cringed at her severity. Good. Better to have him scared of her than messing around in things too big for him. She reached for the door handle, only to realize there was none.
Henry’s face was still frozen, his eyes open wide. “I got to open it from the outside,” he said, forcing his own door open a fraction and squeezing out. He came around to her door and tugged it open for her, offering his arm to help her steady herself as she eased her way out of the truck.
She could see how anxious the boy was on her behalf, so she forced a confident smile to her lips. “Don’t worry for old May,” she said. “You stay right here, and be ready to take off when Jones and I get back.” The smile faded as she considered the situation. Truth was, she had no idea what was waiting for her on the far side of the churchyard. “If something should go wrong, though, don’t you try to come riding to the rescue. You scat, and you go get Poppy and the girls someplace safe.” Even as she said the words, she wondered where that might be. Still, she wagged her index finger in his face. “Promise me.”
He hesitated, then blurted out, “I ain’t a coward.”
May reached out and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “I know you aren’t. A coward would never have come for help. A coward would have turned around and driven home. Promise me you’ll see to my girls.” She paused and looked deeply into his eyes. “All of them.”
He nodded. “I promise.”
She turned and started making her way through the graveyard, feeling the full weight of her years. The graveyard hadn’t been active in twenty years, but she had known many of the folk buried here. She was no longer a young woman. Hell, tell the truth and shame the devil—she was an old biddy now by anyone’s standards. The best part of her life lay behind her.
She was a widow. Her husband and her only son were buried in a cemetery not so very different from this one, just a few miles down the road. She wove through the stones that had been erected for those who could afford a record of their presence in this world, and the hand-marked whitewashed wooden crosses of those whose families were too busy struggling to stay alive to afford more for their dead. The scent of smoke grew stronger and stronger, reminding her that this world was no place for a decent soul. This world belonged to the barbarous. It was a world of war. A world of killing.
She wanted to be brave, but in truth, she’d never asked for any of this magic. She was frightened, and not only of what she was about to face. Deep down, she knew that she was still scared to death of the magic. Every time she felt it pulsing through her, she wondered if she were drawing herself closer to damnation. The good book said, “Suffer not a witch to live.” Was that what she was? Something dark and evil? Something the good Lord Himself would turn away from?
Yes, she was frightened and, more than that, she was tired. She would have liked nothing better than to walk away from it all. Leave this here earth to those who were fixing to fight over it. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing if it all did end for her here. Though it shamed her to even think it, Poppy could help raise her sisters.
Of course, this night could come to a peaceful conclusion. Maybe in an hour or so, she’d be back home with her babies. But was that really what she wanted? Didn’t a part of her hope things would go awry tonight? Wasn’t that what had truly pulled her from her home on Christmas night? Certainly she must have considered this confrontation might bring her to her own deliverance.
Even if she survived whatever evil was destroying the church, she could end it herself. Not rely on these fools. Reuben’s old razor. It was still packed away at the house. She could turn around. Go home right now and unpack it. One quick slice across her throat was all it would take.
May stopped dead in her tracks. These were not her thoughts. These thoughts were coming from outside of her, playing on her weaknesses. The voice of the White King. Seducing her with the promise of an easy rest. No, she was not going to let his malfeasance take root in her soul. She shook her head. “Not me, you old devil. Your brother might get me. Hell, he’s waiting for me just around the corner, but you ain’t ever gonna get May.”
She crept out of the graveyard to where she could witness the fire’s devastation. A group of men milled around in the hellish glow of the flames. She could hear them talking, but their voices were muted by the roar of the fire that was destroying the wood-frame church. Then the steeple tilted and fell, eliciting a powerful roar from those who had set the building alight. She approached them, unnoticed, from behind. Their attention was fixed on their handiwork. They stood there, not wearing the white robes she had expected to see, their faces not hidden by the pointed hoods. No. They stood out there in the open for all the world to see. Proud of themselves. Proud to be performing their civic duty. Jones was on his knees, one hand pressed against a wound on his head, staring up at the destruction with horror in his eyes.
The heat of the blaze beat back the cold of the black night. It would’ve felt pleasant had the fire not been the flames of hell.
One of the men looked back and noticed her arrival. “Well, who do we have here?” he called out, causing his fellows to turn.
She stretched herself to her full height and swallowed before speaking, praying her voice would not crack. “I’ve come for the preacher.” She strode up to them, trying to look confident, trying to act like she was in charge of the situation. She held out her hand to Jones.
He looked up at her through his one good eye, the other having swollen shut from the abuse these monsters had dealt to him. He waved her back with a bloodied hand. “Go. Go on. Get out of here.”
“No, sir,” May responded, walking up to him, taking his sticky hand in hers. “I ain’t leaving here without you.”
The reverberation of a gunshot caused May to jump, despite her determination to appear calm. A fat man with a rifle ambled up toward them, the other men parting to let him through. “Just who the hell do you think you are sticking your black nose in where it don’t belong?”
May released the pastor’s hand. She would try to solve this peaceably. Find a way to reason with these people. Yes, the church was lost, but it could be rebuilt. They’d hurt Jones, but he would heal. She would heal him. If she could get these men to let them go willingly, she could prevent any more bloodshed. But before she could respond, another spoke for her.
“Good heavens, Bobby. You mean to tell me you don’t recognize the great Mother Wills?” Sterling Maguire walked around the fat man and pulled the rifle from his grasp, breaking open the barrel and removing the remaining shell. May gaped in amazement. Sterling pushed the shell into this Bobby’s shirt pocket and handed the rifle back to him. “Y’all are done here now. You can go.”
Another man stepped forward and pointed down at Jones. “Come on, Mr. Maguire. You promised us a little fun with that one.” He pushed past Maguire and grabbed the pastor by the collar.
Maguire turned on this one, and the flames of the disintegrating church could not begin to match the fire in his eyes. “I said y’all are done here. Now go.” The man holding Jones seemed to know he’d overstepped. He released Jones without another word of protest.
The other men milled around, grumbling, but they left as they’d been ordered.
As the last of the men made his way beyond the fire’s glow, Sterling drew near May. Her eyes forced her to think of this man as the younger Maguire, though she knew for a fact it was the father walking around in the son’s skin. Same old hate in a different package. “Long time no see, huh, May?” For reasons May could not begin to imagine, Sterling began to undo his tie. He undid the knot, then pulled it out from under his collar and flung it to the ground. Then his fingers went to his shirt and began unbuttoning.
“Whatever the hell you think you’re doin’, you better stop it right now,” May raised her hands, fingers pointed toward each other as a ball of blue lightning, the largest she’d ever mustered, formed there, ready and waiting to be launched. She guessed it’d burn a hole clean through a normal man, but this servant of the Red King, with his monstrous living tattoos, well, she hoped it would at least buy her enough time to get Jones to Henry’s truck and get back to her house.
“My, my, my, how you have grown, my girl,” Maguire said. “You’ve been practicing.” He stopped for a moment, but then resumed what he was doing. “I, too, have seen many changes since we last met.” He shrugged off his shirt, and May prepared herself for the demonical sight of his markings. But they were gone, and his pasty white skin was now a clear canvas. He drew closer, presenting himself for inspection.
“Who did you kill? What child did you offer to your demon for this?”
Maguire leaned back, clasping his hands before him. “Ah, May, can’t you tell the world is changing?” He paused. “No. Not changing. Returning to the normal, rightful order. Sanity is being restored.” He released his clasp and shook his head. “Not a single little one was harmed for this miracle, although I would’ve gladly commissioned a new slaughter of the innocents for it. No, I no longer have any need of the Red King’s crumbs. There is magic out there, the likes of which neither you nor I ever imagined. We, you and I, your mother and I.” His eyes widened. “Your grandmother and I. And hell, even her mother before that. Honestly, girl,” he said with a chuckle, “I’ve done lost track of how far back we go. Over the years, we have been slinging pebbles at each other with home-crafted slingshots. Our magic has been like the power of steam. But there are those out there with the power of lightning. The power of the very void from which existence sprang. The power . . .”
“The power of devils,” Pastor Jones surprised May by speaking.
Maguire stepped forward and used the sole of his foot to push the battered man from his knees, causing him to land on his side. “The power of gods,” he said, then spat on the minister. Maguire looked at the pastor as if he’d like nothing better than to gut him, but his expression smoothed over in the next instant.
“The old order is returning,” he said, turning toward May. “As soon as tomorrow. And when it does, there will be a need for men like me. There are those who recognize that need, and they’re the ones who did this for me.” He waved his hands before himself. “Old lines are being redrawn. Old ways renewed.” He took another step closer, and May prepared to aim her shot, but Maguire reached out and placed one hand above and the other below the ball of energy she’d been cradling. He brought his hands together, and though his face contorted in pain, he squeezed the ball tighter and tighter until it collapsed and went dark. May stumbled back, feeling all her energy fail her. When she raised her arms, it was not in attack, but in surrender.
Pastor Jones pushed himself back up to his knees and made a failed attempt to rise to his feet. “Do what you need to do with me, but this woman is innocent. Just let her go.”
Sterling went to the preacher’s side and squatted down beside him. “Oh, Pastor. Don’t fool yourself. No one who knows that kind of power is innocent. And”—he held a hand out to Jones—“don’t be so quick to assume this is about you.” The pastor slapped away the white man’s hand.
“Fine,” Sterling said, rising, “have it your way.”
A movement some yards away caught May’s eye, and her heart fell at the sight of Henry stepping out of the shadows. The last thing she needed was for him to get mixed up in her struggles with Maguire.
“I told you to stay put,” she said, anger punctuating each word. Henry came forward and helped the pastor up.
“And I told him to come along,” Maguire said. The dance of the wicked flames turned Sterling’s lopsided sneer into a demon’s mask. “You can get on home now, boy,” he said, giving Henry a rough shove. “Your work here’s done.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wills,” Henry called out. “I’m sorry,” he said again, even though he was already leading the pastor away from them. “I didn’t want to do it, but he said he’d kill my little sister if I didn’t get you out here. He said he’d feed her to the devil. He promised he wouldn’t hurt you if I did bring you.”
“Go on, boy.” Sterling said, miming a pistol with his hand and aiming it between Henry’s eyes. “I ain’t gonna tell you again to move.”
“I’m sorry,” Henry dared again before turning. May watched the boy and the pastor disappear into the darkened cemetery.
Maguire let loose a deep laugh. “How the boy exaggerates. Not the devil. Just a devil. My old friend Barron. You remember him, don’t you?” He reached for her, moving too quickly for her to avoid his touch. He caught her arm in his grasp, tightening, tightening, until the pain drove May to her knees. “You know, May, it’s funny how the world can change in an instant. Not so long ago that demon, that old genie in a bottle of mine, was my most prized possession on this earth. Now, he’s completely superfluous to my existence. Just like you and your seed.” He knelt before her without ever relinquishing his grip. “So today is his Emancipation Day.” He nodded, his eyes opening wide in parody of her own horror. “That’s right, May. I just let him go. I let him go right outside your sweet little quarters.”
He released her and stood. “Tell me. Just how fast can you run?”
May forced her way to her feet and began struggling across the gravel drive that separated the glowing remains of the church from its cemetery.
“Call to your Beekeeper, woman,” Maguire shouted after her. With each step May was doing just that. But she felt nothing. No response. “Call to her.” His mania overtook him, and his voice rose in pitch, following her as if he were shouting directly into her ear.
In the dark, in her panic, she tripped over a low stone and landed on the ground, scraping her hands and knees.
Maybe, she wondered for the first time ever, the White King could be right.