Evangeline of the Bayou

by Jan Eldredge

  Gran had volunteered for the New Orleans job? And all eleven council members had agreed to this? But Gran disliked cities too. Unless . . . unless Gran knew her time was limited and she wanted to offer one last bit of assistance, as well as provide her apprentice one last training lesson.

  Evangeline slipped the letter back into the envelope. Clutching the chupacabra repellent to her chest, she rushed to her room and closed the door after her.

  Fader remained cowering under the bed. The black grim stood still as stone in the yard, staring toward the house. She slid the window up and streamed a healthy dose of the tangy-scented repellent at the beast, striking it on its black, tangled coat.

  The big dog glanced around at its dampened fur, then, still not budging, turned its yellow gaze back toward the house.

  Murmuring an appropriate chant, Evangeline thrust the sign of the evil eye at the creature. “I command you to leave these premises.” She held her breath, hoping.

  This time the beast turned away. With ears folded down and shoulders hunched, it silently plodded from the yard.

  Exhaling a shaky sigh of relief, Evangeline closed the window. She knew her effort wouldn’t hold, though. The grim would return. But maybe, just maybe, she’d managed to buy enough time for Gran to recover.

  A crash of shattering glass sounded from across the hall. “Gran?” She spun away from the window and rushed to Gran’s room.

  A jar of Acadian fang worm venom lay scattered in shiny shards across the floor, the acidic poison chewing holes through the cypress-wood planks. Tiny tendrils of smoke curled up from the yellow stains. Gran was already kneeling, wiping up the spills with a thick towel beneath her work glove–protected hands and chastising herself for her slippery-fingered clumsiness.

  Evangeline went to help her clean, but Gran waved her away, motioning toward a row of miscellaneous-sized jars lined against the wall. “Run out and fetch more venom.”

  “But . . .” Evangeline searched for an excuse, any reason that would keep her from having to go. There were few chores she hated more than milking a full-grown Acadian fang worm. “You sure you don’t want me to help you clean this?”

  But Gran had finished wiping the mess away and was climbing to her feet. “And don’t dawdle,” she admonished. She limped out with the smoking, sizzling towel to burn it in the backyard fire barrel.

  Furrowing her brow, Evangeline watched her go. It wasn’t like Gran to nervously drop anything, let alone a jar of hard-to-come-by ingredients. Gran wasn’t the nervous type.

  With a prickly fear jabbing her heart, Evangeline seized a small olive jar and dropped it into her satchel, adding it to the supply of vials and tiny jars already there. By the time she’d donned her dirty red hoodie and pulled on her satchel, Gran had returned, resuming her muttering and the packing of her valise.

  Evangeline dipped the boat paddle into the bayou’s tea-colored water, pulling it up and dipping it down again. Her small wooden pirogue slid past floating leaves, parting a trail through duckweed lying thick as a carpet of green confetti.

  Navigating her way through a crowd of cypress tree knees poking up from the murky water like tiny wooden tombstones, she steered toward the bank, then hopped out. As she dragged the pirogue onto the muddy land, she ducked beneath a cottonmouth snake looped around the branch of a tree dripping with Spanish moss.

  The snake stretched its jaws wide, baring the insides of its cottony-white mouth as well as a set of shiny curved fangs, but Evangeline wasn’t fazed. She was far more fearful of encountering a plot of greedy grass than tangling with a cranky water moccasin. The last thing she needed was to veer onto a patch of the cursed greenery and become stricken with a hunger so fierce, she’d resort to gnawing on her own fingers. Keeping her nose focused for the scent of sweet Ponchatoula strawberries would help. That’s what greedy grass smelled like to her. Others might perceive a scent of okra or rice, or even bread pudding. The aroma was truly in the nose of the beholder.

  Evangeline made her way deeper into the swamp, taking in her surroundings, wrapping them around her like a comfortable old shawl. Despite its multitude of lurking and slithering inhabitants, this was home. The thought of leaving this place for New Orleans brought a frowny pucker to her lips.

  Rounding a dense tangle of undergrowth, she came to a toppled oak, victim to a rush of hurricane wind years ago, now rotted and teeming with insects. She paused, fixing her eyes on the downed tree, and listened carefully. Sure enough, a faint, wet slithering sound met her ears.

  She pulled on her thick leather work gloves, knelt, and pushed aside a thorny blackberry bush.

  There, inside the shady shelter, lay a clew of newly hatched Acadian fang worms. A shaft of golden sunlight speared through the swamp’s overhead branches, illuminating the nest and causing the tangle of young to squeal and mewl, their pale pink bodies not yet accustomed to the warmth of light. She grimaced at the squirmy sight, and at the odor—definitely not strawberries, more like soured, clumpy milk.

  “Where are you?” Evangeline murmured. She swept her eyes around the shadowy lair, searching for the parent worm that was both mama and daddy, both male and female. It wouldn’t have wandered far from its brood. She poked a stick into the rich black soil crawling with termites that served as nutritious food for the young, probing for a telltale lump indicating the sleeping adult. An angry hiss sounded behind her. She dropped the stick and whirled around.

  Less than five yards away, a full-grown Acadian fang worm scooted out from beneath the tangle of undergrowth. The sight of the beast made her insides go squicky; the bruised color of their hides gave them the appearance of giant slithering intestines.

  The two-and-a-half-foot-long creature reared up on its sausage-shaped body. Fatter and rounder than a snake, and far dumber, it opened its tiny, fang-lined mouth, aimed for her eyes, and spat.

  Evangeline dove aside, shielding her face with her arm. The worm’s venom splatted against the downed tree, singeing holes through the crumbling bark; a few drops of the corrosive matter flew onto the sleeve of her red hoodie, eating a series of holes through the fabric and causing her to mutter a curse word.

  Keeping a wary eye on the giant worm as it flopped onto its belly and inched closer, she reached into her satchel and withdrew the tall, thin jar, its opening now covered with a rubber film rather than its metal lid. Gripping the container in one gloved hand, she waved her other at the approaching creature, back and forth in front of its beady eyes, hoping to befuddle it. “Come on now,” she crooned. “Just a little bit closer.”

  When it had gotten within two feet of her, the fang worm reared up again, its head swaying to the motion of Evangeline’s waving fingers.

  Quick as a toad’s tongue, she shot out her dancing hand and grasped the creepy crawly by the neck. “Gotcha!” she whispered. Before it could even think about spitting again, she rammed the jar to its wide-open mouth and forced its fangs through the rubber covering.

  The monster thrashed back and forth, but Evangeline had a tight hold; its fury did not intimidate her at all. Wrinkling her nose at the unpleasant odor, she gave its jaw glands a squeeze, and drops of bright yellow venom slowly plopped into the glass.

  After a painstaking length of time had passed, with her arm muscles aching and the jar satisfyingly half full, Evangeline released her grip on the creature’s jaws, confident she’d extracted every last drop of acid it had to offer.

  “Now that’s how you milk an Acadian fang worm!” She grinned and shot a wink at the creature.

  It gave her a sullen hiss in return. Knowing it had been beaten, it plopped onto its belly and crept beneath the log, back to the safety of its lair, back to protecting its young and building up another store of eye-blinding venom.

  When Evangeline reached home an hour or so later, she handed the Acadian fang worm venom to Gran, who was seated at the front room table.

  “Thank you, Evangeline.” Gran took the jar, set it down beside her, and returned to the job of mixi
ng, boiling, and bottling any fresh potions she might need for the New Orleans case.

  Evangeline pulled out a chair across from her and plopped down onto it.

  The tabletop lay cluttered with dried herbs and old tea tins. To Gran’s left sat her mortar and pestle and an assortment of tongs, tweezers, and dented measuring spoons. To her right, a wooden box of cork-stoppered bottles, some filled with crystalized powders, others swirling with dark liquids. She measured out a spoonful of pulverized hookfoot claw and poured it into the brew simmering over an adjustable gas burner before her. After the resulting puff of smoke had cleared, she peered into the tiny cast-iron cauldron, then pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. “Evangeline, fetch my black book.”

  Evangeline climbed to her feet and went to the tall shelf packed tight with books of all widths and heights. Most of them had been passed down through the generations, their covers faded and fraying. To the casual observer the collection might have appeared disorganized, but Gran and Evangeline knew where each and every volume belonged. She tugged on the black one containing all Gran’s original potion recipes, the one that would someday be donated to the Louisiana haunt huntress library when Gran’s days were done.

  The stained and spotted black book was wedged tight between The Apprentice’s Guide to Scrying and the thick red volume of Haunt Huntress History. She gripped the spine with both hands and yanked, wrestling it free and sending the heavy leather volume of HHH shooting out after it. It thumped to the floor, splayed open and facedown.

  Setting Gran’s recipe book aside, she knelt beside the copy of HHH. She’d read through many of its pages over the years. It was the story of her family and of her ancestors. Her own mama’s name was listed in it a number of times in reference to the difficult cases she’d resolved, cases like the Nalusa Falaya. And the Terrebonne Troll. A beam of pride glowed inside her at the thought of being known as Josette Holyfield Clement’s daughter and heir.

  She lifted the book and flipped it over. The face of Celestine Bellefontaine stared back from one of the opened pages. Celestine Bellefontaine, the first and most powerful haunt huntress ever. The page on the opposite side recounted the story of her sixteen daughters, the branches from which all sixty-four Louisiana haunt huntress families had sprung, one for each of Louisiana’s sixty-four parishes.

  Evangeline leafed through more pages, just as she did every time she opened the book, always searching for some fascinating nugget she hadn’t noticed before. She paused at the section regarding the sage, the leader of all haunt huntresses. And even though she’d never met the current sage, it was one of her most returned-to sections. Not only was the sage the keeper of the haunt huntress library, which housed an assortment of dangerous magical artifacts, along with numerous books of wisdom written by haunt huntresses over the years, she also served as adviser and counselor. She was renowned for her wisdom, cleverness, and perceptive abilities. She was the most respected and revered of them all.

  Her mama would have made a great sage.

  “Evangeline?” Gran called. “My book?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She closed the Haunt Huntress History, returned it to its place on the shelf, and delivered the potions book to Gran.

  “Thank you, Evangeline. Now, go finish up the chores.”

  If there was one thing Gran just couldn’t stand, it was going away on a trip and leaving the household chores undone.

  With a sigh of dejection, Evangeline plodded toward the back door.

  If there was one thing she just couldn’t stand, it was having to do the household chores.

  Grumbling to herself, Evangeline watered the herbs. She pulled weeds from the garden and sprayed it with cayenne pepper deer repellant. She made sure Guinevere the goat and the brood of nameless chickens were fed. Then she gathered the eggs from the coop. Inside the house she swept the floors and tidied the front room. She had just finished stirring the lootslang antivenin aging in a covered brass cauldron next to the hearth when her half brother, Percy, let himself in through the front door.

  Percy, who was ten years older than Evangeline, shared the same daddy with her, but they’d been born to different mamas. And although he wasn’t a direct descendant of Gran’s, there was never any question he was her grandson and she was his grandmama. Family was family regardless of any differences in blood lines.

  “Gran. Evangeline. How y’all doing?” Percy removed his camouflage ball cap, as he always did when entering the house. He crossed the room to Evangeline, where he gave her a hug, and she gave him one in return. Then he strode toward Gran, seated at the table. He kissed the top of her head as she pulled him in close.

  “Look here.” From behind his back Percy pulled out and proudly displayed a long-handled fishing net. “I modified this catfish net for y’all. For the next time you need to relocate a mess of them albino channel nixies. It’s like a regular catfish net, see?” He swooped it through the air. “Only I replaced the string netting with aluminum wire. This way those dang nixies can’t chew their way through and bite your fingers. You just dip it into an infested pond, scoop them out, and relocate them back to their home in the marsh.”

  Percy was always devising gadgets to assist Gran and Evangeline in their haunt hunts. Sometimes the gadgets worked. Sometimes they didn’t.

  “Thank you, Percy.” Gran, who was still seated at the table, took the net and handed it to Evangeline, who put it in the chifforobe cabinet along with some of the other items he’d brought them.

  “Hey there, Fader boy.” Fader was rubbing circles around Percy’s camouflage shrimp boots. Percy squatted and scratched him beneath the chin. Then he pulled a bit of gator jerky from the top pocket of his sleeveless flannel shirt and offered it to the grateful cat.

  Gran wedged a cork stopper into a tube filled with an indigo-blue liquid. “We’ll be ready to leave in just a few minutes.”

  As they rolled out of the swamp in Percy’s rusted red pickup truck, Evangeline glanced out the back window, greatly wishing she could have stayed behind.

  But she and Gran had a job to do. And haunt huntresses always helped when they were needed. She settled back, twisting her fingers together atop her lap.

  Had her daddy been in town, maybe he would have been the one to drive them to New Orleans. But he was out in the Gulf on the oil rig where he always seemed to be working. She never held a grudge against him for his frequent absences, though. That was just the nature of his job: two weeks on and two weeks off.

  Still, it would’ve been nice if they could’ve spent more time together. But even if he’d had a different job, she’d have been raised by Gran anyway. The mentor always raised the apprentice, training her in the skills of hunting haunts, homeschooling her in all the standard academic subjects, and teaching her the cures to any local supernatural afflictions.

  There were also the endless incantations and protective patterns the mentor required her apprentice to memorize, as well as the instructing of more practical things, like how to navigate the bayou, how to climb trees, and how to fight.

  Percy’s slow-moving truck creaked and groaned as they rolled along. Percy kept up a steady chatter, always ending his stories with “Now, what do you think of that?” But she and Gran never got the opportunity to reply before he slid the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and launched into a new tale.

  Evangeline shifted uncomfortably in the Sunday dress Gran had made her wear. Gran insisted they create a favorable first impression, but the dress was far from favorable to Evangeline. It made her itchy. At least she’d gotten to wear her boots and keep her bowie knife strapped to her leg, where it lay hidden beneath her skirt. And at least by going to New Orleans, they’d be putting some distance between themselves and the hateful grim, giving Gran a chance to recover from whatever was ailing her.

  Evangeline listened to Percy’s yarn spinning for a while longer, then tuned him out, pondering what her haunt huntress talisman would look like. It would be custom-made and in the form
of a silver circle, as they all were, ringed with a border of oak leaves, the symbol of strength. Cypress branches, representing perseverance through challenges, would fill the background. And at its center would sit a depiction of her animal familiar. Some people believed the talismans were magical, but the truth was, they contained no special powers other than the ability of their silver to ward off evil. They served more as a symbol of authenticity and accomplishment, a seal of the council’s approval.

  She touched her mama’s talisman through the fabric of her dress. Its center bore the image of a hare. Her mama’s familiar had been a jet-black hare with pearly-white eyes. A noble animal, no doubt, but if she could have her pick, hers would be a hawk, fierce and intelligent.

  She peered out the truck’s window, up at the blue-gray sky. Her familiar would show up any day now, presenting itself in the manner all haunt huntress familiars did: by resting its head against its mistress’s feet. After it had done so, it would seldom leave her side, always there to protect and assist her.

  As soon as she got back to the swamp, she would climb some oaks and nose around through the branches. Maybe her hawk familiar would be perched there, just waiting to present itself. She would stretch out her legs along one of the tree’s sturdy limbs, and her familiar would hop down beside her to rest its majestic feathered head against the tips of her boots.

  Evangeline smiled dreamily. And as soon as she secured her familiar, the only thing left was to prove to the council she “had heart,” though she still wasn’t sure how she was supposed to do that, or even what the term meant.

  And with the acquisition of her familiar and her demonstration of heart, her haunt huntress powers would finally ignite inside her, her senses greatly enhanced, her intuition finely tuned. And in addition to those new abilities, she’d acquire her unique talent. It might be the capability to communicate with animals, or increased physical strength, or maybe even the power to heal through touch. Her own mama had been proficient in the art of scrying: She’d possessed a keen ability to divine hidden knowledge and future events by gazing into a reflective surface. Gran was a renowned potions and tonics master. Excitement fluttered inside Evangeline just thinking of all the possible talents her own might turn out to be.