I turn to find a mass of Ku Kluxes. The Klans who didn’t give their bodies to the Grand Cyclops still fixed on what’s left of the movie screen. But these monsters hiding behind men’s faces all looking dead at me in the pouring rain. I remember what Butcher Clyde called them—dogs. Now with no master.
One in front growls, flinging away the torch he’s holding and changing into a full Ku Klux. Behind him follows another. And another. In moments they all changed. A hundred Ku Kluxes, maybe more, snarling and working into a frenzy. When I lift my sword, they go crazy, and all come running, like they plan on burying us under their pale bodies.
But a sudden cry goes up and I look out through the rain to see a hell of a sight.
Charging across the mountaintop is Emma Krauss and her comrades. Molly’s apprentices, Sethe and Sarah, follow at their sides. And behind them come the rest, led by veterans in soldiers’ uniforms, holding rifles with bayonets, a burly colored man at their front. We’d told them to stay put and wait for our signal. Guess they took all that just happened for that. The veterans move in fast strides, splashing water as they holler, passing up Emma and her people. Only Sethe and Sarah match the pace of those men, and together they smash into the Ku Kluxes.
The veterans go about like men at work, bringing down Ku Kluxes and stabbing with bayonets. Sethe and Sarah are right hand and left hand, shooting Ku Kluxes and slashing out with big silver-edged knives. One comes too close and takes a blade across the throat, followed by a bullet through the eyes. Emma out there working the shotgun almost as fierce as Sadie. She blows a hole straight through one Ku Klux, then spins to shoot the leg off another. It crashes, and the soldiers’ silver bayonets on it in a flash. The flames from discarded torches catch light of shredded robes and bits of platform, starting small, unnatural bonfires that make the mountaintop look like a picture out a war. All that fighting finally breaks some Klans from their trance. They stumble about, looking stupefied and backing away from the widening battle.
Me, I got my hands full. Ku Kluxes coming from every side. My sword sings as I swing wide, taking off reaching claws and slashing through flanks. Anything to keep them off me, with Chef and Michael George still unconscious at my feet. These monsters too stupid to coordinate without direction. I drive one or two into each other, and they get to scrapping. All about me bullets fly. Men and women scream. And Ku Kluxes go down.
But they not the only ones.
People fall too. The burly veteran gets dragged down by Ku Kluxes even as he stabs with a bayonet. One of Emma’s comrades wounded bad, screaming as she pulls him to her while reloading the shotgun. Sethe and Sarah back to back now, Ku Kluxes circling like hounds.
Not going too good over by me neither. I’m breathing hard, two days of weariness taking their toll as I try not to slip on rain-slick stone. Every swing turning my arms to jelly, and the monsters keep coming: a pale-white tide of senseless hate. A damn shame, after everything, to have it end like this. A cut on my brow sends blood trickling into my eyes and I blink, opening them again to find the world now quiet.
The Ku Kluxes about me gone still as statues. Not just them, the whole mountaintop. People and monsters in the night, unmoving yet grappling in the heat of battle, making for a mad painting splashed across a black canvas. I look up to find tiny jewels in the air I realize are raindrops, and wonder if I could reach out and pluck one.
“You ever think on what Ku Kluxes do when they ain’t, well, Ku Kluxing?”
The voice sends me stiff. Because it shouldn’t be possible. But when I turn, the impossible standing right there. Sadie, thumbs tucked into her overalls as she studies a pouncing Ku Klux.
“Do they still go to work? Do their husbandly duties with their wives and—”
“Sadie.” I practically breathe her name. “Sweet mercy! How … Am I dead?”
She rolls them big brown eyes. “Don’t be a goose, Maryse, I’m the one dead.”
And now I notice her yella skin, carrying a soft warm glow. Still, I doubt my eyes.
“Is this real?”
“Me standing here the strangest thing you seen tonight?”
She got a point. A deep sadness fills me up at seeing her face again.
“Oh, Sadie, it’s my fault.”
“How you figure?”
I swallow down my guilt. “I hadn’t gone and provoked Butcher Clyde, maybe you wouldn’t—”
“Maryse Boudreaux! Don’t you go ruining my grand death with your moping! I made my own choices! You leave me that!”
I nod slow. “Just wish you wasn’t. Dead, I mean.”
She sighs. “Yeah, wish I wasn’t too. Anyway, heard that Gullah woman calling. Just like when she gather us up. Seem that voice can reach farther than we ever know. Had to be here, though. Molly right, ’bout this place being a doorway. Only, we couldn’t cross over—not till you made the right choice. Told the others you wouldn’t take no offer from that old evil haint!”
I try to make sense of all she’s saying. “Others?”
I follow her gaze to find men and women gathering, all carrying that same warm glow. They step right out the night amid the stillness of the mountaintop, between droplets of rain. I know right off who these people are, because my sword starts humming. These the spirits of folk murdered by Ku Kluxes and the hate they stir up. People who been—
I clutch my chest as one walks toward me. He my height, got dark eyes like mine, and those same rounded lips. His white shirt tucked into plain brown trousers held by suspenders, as he moves with a carefree stroll, face split in a crooked grin.
My voice comes choked. “Martin?”
“How you doing, Bruh Rabbit?” my brother answers, and my legs give way.
I sit staring, before reaching with trembling fingers that slip right through him.
“Tee-hee! Watch it now, that tickles!” His familiar chuckle sends me sobbing and laughing at once, and I turn, searching the ghost people. “Mama? Daddy?”
He shakes his head. “Not everybody crosses over. But they send their love.”
So many words on my lips but what comes out is, “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
He squats down close, eyes shimmering. “What happen to us, only the ones who done it to blame. We proud of you. So proud! You got nothing to be sorry for, you hear?”
I nod slow, then reach fumbling into a back pocket, pulling out a wet, beat-up thing and feeling silly as I offer it forward. “Still got your book. Put new stories in it too.”
He laughs again and I treasure the sound of it. “Bet you do!”
“I miss you so much,” I whisper.
His face softens. “I’m never far. Ain’t you heard me talking, Bruh Rabbit?”
My eyes go wide and he winks.
“You so wrapped up in your grief, no other way you would listen, except through them stories. Time to lay your burdens down. Live your life.”
I nod tearfully, and he stands to look out across the mountaintop at several figures approaching. At first I think they more spirits. Because one in front glowing bright. But then I catch sight of that haint-blue dress, and bushy, crinkly white hair.
“Nana Jean?” That old Gullah woman strolling easy through unmoving Ku Kluxes and people, like she walking to church on Sunday. Uncle Will and the Shouters follow behind. How they even make it up that slippery mountain?
“Never doubt stubborn old folk,” Sadie says to my unspoken question.
My brother smiles. “You done good, Bruh Rabbit. Now let us handle this.”
He leaves a ghostly kiss on my cheek, before leaving to join the gathering spirits. They clustered around Nana Jean and the Shouters, reaching out to touch the old woman with ghostly fingers.
Sadie sits down beside me, grinning. “You gon’ like this!”
Time comes rushing back. The rain, the cries, the battle. The Ku Kluxes all set to close in when a deep moan goes up. Nana Jean. Her voice seem to call to them and they whip about. She moans again and the ghost people around her take
it up: a deep vibrating hum that pushes out through the air, parting the rain before it. Then that Gullah woman lifts her head to the heavens and cries out the song of a Shout.
Nana Jean’s voice like thunder, a sound to shake your soul, moving to the beating heart of the world. The ghost people answer, and the Shouters start clapping, as the Stick Man pounds the mountain like a drum. The ghost people start to circling round the Gullah woman: a backward clock of feet sliding and shuffling, but never crossing. Nana Jean sings a song about the end times and it’s like I can see her words taking shape. Signs etched on leaves as rocks cry out. A fiery horse without a rider burning tracks in a valley. Angels taller than hills perched on a spinning chariot wheel. The Gullah woman keeps crying out, and the ghost people give answer, the Shout moving faster in that ring.
The hairs on the back of my neck raise up as Nana Jean’s Shout sends out more magic than I ever seen. My sword shakes in my hand as the spirits drawn to the blade rush to the circle, joining the Shout. Even those slaving chiefs and kings come, seeking their redemption. Together with the ghost people they whirl faster and faster about Nana Jean, becoming a blinding blur in the night. The Ku Kluxes screech in rage, hurling themselves at the spinning light, trying to reach Nana Jean and the Shouters, but it burns them up straight to ash. That light ain’t nothing they can stop. It ain’t nothing they can endure. This the Truth I know. And no Lie can stand against it.
Some Ku Kluxes got sense enough to realize the danger, and turn to flee. But that light is a cyclone now, spinning out to catch them. From inside that brilliance, I hear the Gullah woman singing, taunting the Ku Kluxes who running, telling them there’s no hiding place. The ghost people give answer, their voices a power to tremble the earth, as Ku Kluxes burn, the light cleansing their evil from the mountain. The Shout keeps going, whirling into the night. Like Judgment Day.
When there’s not a Ku Klux left standing, the Shout vanishes. The ghost people gone with it, my brother too, their magic lingering in the air like lightning. All that’s left is Nana Jean, spent from wielding so much magic, Uncle Will and the Shouters supporting her.
Sadie whoops. “Told you you’d like it!”
I shake my head in wonder. I ain’t ever doubting that old Gullah woman again.
“Well, time for me to go too,” Sadie says, standing.
My mouth opens, not knowing what to say. So I settle for the truth. “I miss you.”
Sadie grins. “You betta. Y’all remember to do something big for me like I asked.” She looks down. “What wrong with Cordy?”
I turn to where Chef still unmoving. “She got hit.”
Sadie leans in. “There’s a trick to this.” And slaps Chef’s face. But her fingers go right through. Frowning, she tries again, this time making a loud smack, and Chef bolts up with a start. Sadie laughs like it’s the funniest joke in the world.
“My grandpappy was right.” She winks. “We do get them back.” Two wings unfurl from her behind her: beautiful gold feathers with streaks of black. She spreads them wide, lifting and shooting into the air like an arrow, gone.
“Guessing I missed a few things?” Chef asks, both of us staring up at the sky.
Someone groans. I look to find Michael George, coming awake. He opens eyes that are bright and brown and beautiful, blinking at me in confusion.
“Maryse?”
I kiss him so strong it leaves him startled. Only answer I got for now.
“It stopped raining,” Chef notes.
I pull away from Michael George, looking around. She right. No more storm. Clouds clearing up so you can even see stars. On the mountaintop, no fires or Ku Kluxes left, but still Klans. Lots milling about, like ducks what got hit on the head. More on hands and knees, retching their guts out. Hope they spit up some of their own hate too.
Chef calls to our people, who locate the kidnapped colored folk amid the wrecked platform. At some point, Emma finds that projector and blows it to bits with her shotgun. The night goes pitch-black but at least we don’t have to see that damned movie no more. When we got everybody, we set out. This time Nana Jean and the Shouters lead, and we follow Uncle Will’s voice calling, “Adam in the Garden!” as the Basers answer, “Picking up leaves!”
Chef can walk some, but Michael George still weak. So I got to support them both. We ain’t gone a ways before I notice a woman. Only Klans not stumbling around or retching. She kneeling in her robes, hugging a little boy close. Her eyes meet mine, bright and feverish. I recognize their faces. From Butcher Clyde’s. Must not have eaten no meat. Seems my interruption that day saved them a bellyache, and worse.
“Monsters!” she stammers to me. “They was monsters! I seen them! I seen them!”
Chef and I look at each other, then answer back, “’Bout damn time!”
We leave her there to her newfound sight, making our way home.
EPILOGUE
I sit sipping the best mint julep I ever tasted. Just enough bourbon and sugar. Not a real mint julep, of course. Nothing here real. Not the antique white table or the wicker chair I’m sitting in, set on a mound of grass in what look like a swamp. The giant red oak still there, now covered in tresses of tan Spanish moss and lavender wisteria. Behind us sits a mansion, with ivy twisting about faded white columns and creeping across stone.
Auntie Ondine across from me, in an old-timey white dress and broad white hat. She’s sipping her own mint julep while holding open a white ruffled parasol. Said they needed a change of scenery. I look up through the moss and wisteria, catching sight of Auntie Jadine perched on a branch. Her bare legs swing under the lace trim of her dress, brown toes wriggling while she hums, twirling her parasol.
Back at the table, Auntie Margaret jabbing her umbrella at me. Had the fool idea of asking why come foxes always up to no good in stories. Lord, if that didn’t set her off.
“And them tales got it backward! Rubbish and rabbit propaganda is all that is!” She slams down her parasol, rattling a vase of snow-white carnations.
“Well!” Auntie Ondine’s plump cheeks dimple kindly. “Before we started down that path, I believe I was asking how things are at home. Your battle with the enemy must have caused quite the stir!”
Yeah, about that. Things have been … strange.
Been four days now, and Georgia papers still carrying stories about “big happenings” on Stone Mountain. That there was a fire at a Klan rally, killing dozens. Others say it was a bad batch of moonshine poisoning. More claim it was a fresh outbreak of Spanish flu, explaining why the government showed up, burning bodies.
Turns out that last one’s not so wrong. Leastways about the government.
Word come from Atlanta that the United States Army all over Stone Mountain. Got the place cordoned off with military trucks and soldiers. Scientists too, wearing gas masks and sweeping about with funny gadgets. All of them supervised by government men in dark suits, smoking and giving orders. Not just Stone Mountain either. They come to Macon.
Not army trucks but wagons. Full of men claiming to be Prohibition agents. They raided Butcher Clyde’s shop, busting up liquor barrels and making a big to-do, charging he was a bootlegger. But me and Chef checked it out from a rooftop. Them government men was there, directing agents to seal up all that butcher meat in glass containers, packing them into wagons and driving off.
“So Sadie’s claims proved correct,” Auntie Ondine says when I finish.
I know. Hardly believe it myself. Might have to start reading those tabloids.
“And your beau? We looked in on you earlier tonight, he seems quite recovered!”
Somewhere above, Auntie Jadine titters. Really need to have them stop that.
“Michael George doing well,” I confirm. Me and him finally have that talk he been wanting. And I answer some of his questions. Not all, but enough. For now. I’m expecting him to call me crazy, but he just nods slow. Says he always thought them Klans was jumbie, what they call haints in St. Lucia. And that his great-auntie was an Obeah
woman, so he not afraid of magic. Says none of that stopping him from taking me sailing one day. I tell him I still don’t make promises. But I’ll think on it.
“We’re delighted things are going well, Maryse,” Auntie Ondine says. She looks hesitant. “Have you made a decision about the sword?”
I set down my glass, right beside the leaf-shaped blade. I ain’t called it since Stone Mountain. After everything, I needed some time to just be Maryse, not nobody’s champion. This sword done right by me. Yet, lie that he was, Butcher Clyde wasn’t fibbing when he said I took pleasure in working out my vengeance. I think to Dr. Bisset. His emptiness. Don’t want that. Nana Jean warned me accepting gifts from haints carried a price. I seen now what it’s like to pay it.
But this war not over.
There’s still Klans. Still Ku Kluxes. Still that damned movie. This sword carries anger paid for in the suffering of a whole people. Butcher Clyde and them couldn’t have it, because it wasn’t theirs to take, to twist and feed on. It been passed on to me. Mine to shape into what’s needed here and now. I ain’t ready to abandon that just yet. Besides, got some vengeance in me still needs working out.
I look up to see everybody quiet, waiting. Even Auntie Jadine stopped humming.
“I’m still your champion. If you’ll have me.”
Auntie Ondine beams and Auntie Margaret gives the barest smile, which is a lot for her. Auntie Jadine winks from above, and I wink back.
“You are indeed our champion!” Auntie Ondine pronounces.
Those words make me happier than I’d realized and I look over the sword. “You know it come to me that it ain’t right this blade only binds the spirits of slave-trading chiefs and kings. What about the white folk who bought them slaves? Who worked them to death. Ain’t they got penance to pay?”
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