With the Water

[FMJ]

(7)

An ancient wooden pirogue slid silently up to the dock, its gunwales worn dark and slick from hard use. A frightfully thin black man looped a mooring rope over a cleat and lifted a sputtering oil lantern high to cast a circle of pale-yellow light across the little dock. His single passenger stands and he obediently lends a thin arm to help her alight.

“Someone is here,” Claire said standing at the window with frightened eyes.

The old woman raised her head and called out from the dock, “Adrienne, mwen renmen anpil, I know you are here.”

“Priestess Miriam,” Ma-ma Boudreaux answered coming to the porch. “It has been some time since last we spoke. What, pray tell, brings you so far from your black altars this dark night?”

The old Haitian woman leaned heavily on a stockman’s cane for support as she limped to the foot of the stairs and looked up to return Ma-ma Boudreaux’s puzzled gaze for a long moment. “Is it possible you do not know why I have come, Adrienne?”

“No, I don’t know..., why should I?” Ma-ma Boudreaux replied shortly.

“Don’t be rude, Adrienne. You must know! The wind here is so thick with her pain, I can barely stand it. You have a sensitive here and she is suffering. For the good of us all, this must end!”

“Nonsense! There is only one other sensitive here and he is my grandson,” Ma-ma Boudreaux replied.

“The sensitive is male?!” Miriam asks incredulously. “You expect me to believe this?”

“He is Andre’s grandson,” Ma-ma Boudreaux states defensively.

After an astonished pause, Miriam nods, “So He returns, I might have guessed. I must see it.”

“You will not harm him,” Ma-ma Boudreaux warns blocking the old woman’s path.

“As you wish, it is blood,” Miriam concedes.

From a tiny bedroom inside, Claire screams shrilly.

“Quickly,” urges Miriam as they all rush inside.

Claire stands over Jamie who lies sprawled across the narrow bed, her anguished face streaked with tears. Jamie’s face is drawn in the rictus of a seizure; his eyes are open wide showing only white.

Quickly examining the boy, Miriam produces a long thorn and a dark ball of wax compounded with belladonna and elderberry.

“For the spasm,” she explains when Ma-ma Boudreaux again protests.

She touches the sharp point to the waxy ball and just pierces the skin on both of Jamie’s temples leaving tiny purple dots. Instantly, the seizure is halted, his fearful grimace abates and he slowly relaxes as his eyes close.

[Texican]

FMJ,

The plot thickens....

Texican....

[nancy98]

Really, really, really enjoying this story. Thank you so much for sharing it with us.

[ted]

Thank you...I am enjoying this very much.

[Lone_Hawk]

A battle of good and evil is forming......

[Millwright]

I wish ya'll could hear it in the Cajun accent.

As I read, that's how it comes into my head. (if that makes sense)

Probably the closest you will hear is Troy on Swamp People.

There is a distinct difference in the dialect from NOLA to Houma, New Iberia and father west to Lake Charles.

It is slowly being lost.

[Sportsman]

Thank you. Here, we're getting another view of the world as it is. The accents remind me of a bit of my past as well.