Water Witch

by Deborah LeBlanc

  I nodded, not having a clue about feux fo lais’ or their job descriptions.

  “And dat’s not all I seen, no. Dere’s stuff goin’ on at de house and even at de Bucket. It’s everywhere, I’m tellin’ you. Just de other day, I got me a glass of water at de house and put it over here . . . “ Poochie mimed placing a glass on a table in front of her. “De next thing I know, de glass of water’s over dere.” She motioned all the way to her right. “And it’s not me dat moved de glass, no. It’s like it move all by itself. Den, sometimes I catch something out de corner of my eye, like somebody movin’ out de room real fas’, but I can’t look fas’ enough to see who it is.”

  “Poochie, let’s give it a rest, okay?” Angelle said, her face growing much paler.

  “What you mean rest? If you tired, you can take a nap when we get to de house.”

  “I mean let’s talk about something else.”

  “Oh . . . ” Poochie shrugged. “Okay, but first I’m gonna finish tellin’ you sister what I was tellin’ her.”

  There was something about the hard set of Angelle’s lips, and the fear that flitted across her face that made me wonder if she knew more about the story than even Poochie was telling.

  “Mais, like I was sayin’ . . .” Poochie waved a hand as if to collect all the words she’d spoken so far into one big pile. “Wit’ all dat crazy stuff going on, I had to wonder me a couple things. I been wonderin’ if some of de people I been prayin’ for in purgatory didn’t come back for deir shoes. Maybe some got mad ‘cause I put dem up de tree in de first place. So I go ask God yesterday, I said, ‘God, what’s going on? I don’t understand all dis crazy stuff. You need to tell me something.’ Then God spoke in my head, clear, like I hear me talkin’ right now. He said, ‘Poochie, all de answers not supposed to come right now, but don’t worry, I’m gonna send somebody to help find de chil’ren.’ So you see, dat’s how I know why you here. God said so.”

  I thought the old woman had not only clicked off the track, she’d jumped onto a different mode of transportation altogether.One that could possibly lead to a mental health unit. “I don’t think I—”

  “I know when de good Lord talks wit’ me like dat, it always comes true. All I got to tell you is be careful. Dis is nothin’ to play wit’. Dey don’t got no water where you come from. Dey don’t got no swamps, and you never been in de bayou before. I think you cuckoo to even go try to find dem babies like you gonna do, but still what you doin’ is a good thing.” She glanced over at Angelle then back at me. “But y’all gonna need some serious prayer. So I’m tellin’ you, first thing when we get to de house, you need to give me a pair of you shoes. I’ll put dem in de tree and pray, so de good Lord’s gonna keep y’all safe and—”

  “Wait, I—“

  “I don’t know if dem babies is still alive out dere. Me, I can’t tell, don’t have dat in me to see. I don’t got me no ESPN, you know, like de people dat can put dey hand on something and tell where you been or where you goin’. All I can do me is pray. And, Boo…” Poochie paused, cocked her head as if trying to discern a strange, distant sound, then tsked loudly. “Poo-yi . . . de good Lord just made Him a little pass in my head right now. He tol’ me, ‘Pooch, you bes’ pray and pray hard ‘cause dat woman’s sure gonna need it.”

  Her last few words seemed to drill a hole into the center of my chest. As crazy as they sounded, they held a ring of truth that scared the shit out of me. What the hell was I getting myself into? I looked over at Angelle, saw a tear slide down her right cheek. God, not a good sign. Thinking it best not to draw attention to her crying in front of Poochie, I turned towards the passenger window and watched as we topped a bridge that crossed the Mississippi River. I was in sensory overload. So much green—too much water—so much talk—too little known. What the hell was I supposed to do with all of this?

  Poochie tapped my shoulder again, and when I looked back at her, she winked, then bellowed, “I-18!”

  Oh, yeah, I was definitely in for one hell of a ride.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It took only one bite of dry cereal for Olm to realize they’d fucked with the Fruit Loops. When he’d grabbed a handful out of the box, they’d looked and smelled fine. But now, biting into the colored loops, he tasted the bitter burn of gasoline instead of sugary fake fruit. Olm quickly spat out the swill and swatted the box of cereal off the kitchen counter. Fruit Loops scattered across the floor like confetti.

  Over the last two days, they had been slowly and methodically contaminating everything he attempted to eat. It started with the chicken salad sandwich on Wednesday. He’d managed to get half of it down before it curved down gasoline alley and made him puke. Then there’d been the burger and fries he’d craved on Thursday. He’d barely gobbled down two bites of each before they turned bitter. Same with the honey bun and milk he tried eating last night. Now the goddamn Fruit Loops. They meant to starve him to death, one food group at a time. Either that or drive him mad enough so he’d eat a bullet.

  Olm walked over to the kitchen sink, loops crunching under foot, and turned on the faucet. He leaned over and with shaky hands, cupped water into his palms, meaning to rinse out his mouth. That’s when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He froze, turned his head ever so slightly and saw a black, translucent figure peeling itself from the wall opposite him, like wallpaper that had lost its adhesive backing. It had no distinct features, only the obscure form of a human—a man. Another figure quickly followed the first, this one oozing from the wall like gray smoke.

  Forgetting his hands were filled with water, Olm threw them up protectively and wound up dousing himself in the process. He swiped at his eyes, whimpering. Until now, the apparitions had only come at night—whispering nonsensical words in his ears, touching him everywhere, constant probing, jabbing fingers he could never see, robbing him of sleep. Of sanity. He didn’t know what they were, who they were. Not one of them ever spoke, no matter how many times he begged for answers. All he knew was they couldn’t possibly be his people, not the Pawnee warriors and priests from his Skidi lineage. They wouldn’t harm their own. Not like this.

  Olm took a step sideways—and the utility drawer beside him suddenly slid open—the drawer to the cabinet that once held the cereal slammed shut. On the floor, Fruit Loops crunched beneath unseen feet. They were heading towards him now, wavering forms that reeked of malice—and gasoline. The temperature in the room abruptly plummeted to freezing.

  “No! Not in the daylight—not in the light!” Olm shouted. “Go away—go! What do you want from me? What the fuck do you want?”

  A burbling sound—a glub, like a pocket of air breaking through the surface of heavy oil—and the apparitions moved closer, their forms growing denser though features no more distinguishable than a moment ago. Thick gray smoke now thicker—black wallpaper darker—nothing translucent now, edges curling in as though charred from a long ago fire. The glubbing, burbling seemed to be the sound of their movement, as purposeful as footfalls on dry leaves, as the whisper of polyester rubbing between a runner’s thighs, as the flap of a jacket as one walked through a brisk wind. It meant movement, movement towards him.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Olm yelled, backing away slowly, slowly. “What do you want?”

  Burbling gray, glubbing black—now with fingers, long reaching fingers. Olm shuddered. Not the touching—he couldn’t bare the touching. Especially not in the light . . . not in the daylight.

  As if preparing for a dunk underwater, Olm sucked in a deep breath, then grabbed his car keys off the counter and ran out of the house through the backdoor. He didn’t look back—couldn’t look back. If they were no longer held to the night, then anything was possible now, anything. What else awaited him? What else would they do? What more could they do?

  By the time Olm reached the blue Impala sitting in the driveway, he was sure he’d pissed himself because his pant legs felt warm and wet. He didn’t bother checking, just jumped in the car, locked the doors,
and within seconds had the engine roaring and the tires peeling through gravel.

  Only after he’d swung a hard left onto Highway 290 did Olm glance down at his pants. He was surprised to find them as dry and wrinkled as when he’d put them on a couple of hours ago.He peered up into the review mirror, raked trembling fingers through his sparse brown hair, relieved to see his house fading quickly in the distance. There was little doubt he was losing his shit. Tomorrow night was his only hope. If what he had planned didn’t work, they’d win. He’d be dead. Olm was sure of it. He would make sure of it. No starving to death. No more jabbing, probing fingers. If he was responsible for bringing this shit here and couldn’t make it leave, then he’d take himself out of the picture, permanently.

  Three weeks ago, when he’d performed his father’s burial ceremony and called upon Tirawa, demanding what was rightfully his, Olm’s life had immediately taken on a new order of business. One of chaos and terror. Somehow, everything had gone terribly wrong. Instead of receiving wisdom and strength from his Pawnee ancestors, he’d grown mentally and physically weaker by the day and so fearful he often jumped at his own shadow. He’d obviously done something wrong during the ceremony, but wasn’t sure what. And even if he did know, there was no way for him to go back in time and correct it. All he knew to do was try and appease whatever he’d pissed off and keep calling to Tirawa.

  Tirawa . . . seemingly insatiable, demanding more, always more. Was there truly any way to get the ear of this great spirit? To get it to manifest itself? Or had his grandfather just been full of bourbon and bullshit when he’d told him the stories? Olm remembered the tales sounding so real, remembered seeing the conviction and passion on the old man’s face as he told them. It was so raw, so real, it literally transformed his appearance, brightened it somehow. Olm had to believe they were true—had to. There was no turning back now anyway. None. He’d already crossed over a threshold that most men would’ve never even approached . . .

  Thinking the nutria he’d first sacrificed hadn’t been sufficient, Olm had returned to the knoll night after night, offering reparation with larger, more intense sacrifices. He’d trapped a fox, beheaded it while it was still alive, then doused himself in its blood. When the fox didn’t work, he’d brought in a calf; ripped its belly open from stem to stern, sliced off its head, then burned its entrails on a small burial shelf. It, too, produced no results.

  In total, Olm had made six offerings over the last three weeks, the last one being a horse, one big enough, strong enough to kill a man with one kick. But nothing happened after he’d sacrificed it. Not one change. All of his efforts, all of that blood, and everything only seemed to be getting worse.

  The apparitions showing up in his kitchen squashed any hope that things might be on the mend. They were revealing themselves in the light now, which could only mean they were getting stronger. He only wished he knew what they were. What they wanted. Other than to destroy his life. Not being able to sleep, to eat, to walk down a hallway without constantly glancing over his shoulder. How much more could a man take? Even the people in town, those he’d once considered friends, were turning their backs on him, skittering off in another direction as soon as they saw him approaching. What was he supposed to do? Just allow himself to fade away as though he’d never existed in the first place? Let them win? Not a chance—not when there was a chance. . .

  Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Olm was ready to measure desperate any way he had to, to force things in a different direction. When the horse offering didn’t work, he’d spent hours peeling through childhood memories, desperate to recall everything his grandfather had told him about Pawnee and Skidi customs and the ways of their people. Searching for something, anything that might turn things around. That’s when he remembered the ceremony dedicated to the invocation of Tirawa. As far as he knew, the ceremony had no name . . . only a purpose.

  As legend had it, the two most prominent star powers in the universe were the Evening Star in the western sky, also known as the goddess of darkness and fertility, and Morning Star in the eastern sky, known as the god of fire and light. The supernatural controlling authority at the zenith of the sky where these forces met was known as Tirawa. And, according to Olm’s grandfather, there was only one way to capture Tirawa’s complete attention, to call upon his absolute power so that it might be infused into the tribe. And that was through a human sacrifice. Not just any human sacrifice. It had to be a young girl.

  According to the story, in the days of old, Skidi men would raid an enemy village and capture a girl, preferably one between the ages of seven and thirteen. At the moment of her capture, the child was dedicated to the Morning and Evening stars, then brought to the camp and ritually cleansed in preparation for a three day ceremony. During those three days, the girl was fed, bathed, the entire village celebrating through song and dance, everyone focused on the girl’s needs. But all that changed in the last hours on the final ceremonial day.

  On that last day, the child was stripped naked and tied to a scaffold that held her upright and spread-eagled. Once secured, two tribal leaders would walk towards her from the east, each carrying flaming brands. When they’d reach the girl, one would burn her armpits with his brand, while the other used his to sear her groin in honor of the Evening Star, the goddess of fertility. While the child screamed and writhed upon the scaffolding, four warriors from the tribe were called upon, and each had to approach the girl and lightly touch her on the head with his war club. Touch her—prepare her for the coup de grace—which normally followed immediately.

  Amidst the girl’s screams and the zealous chanting from the tribal members, the man responsible for the child’s actual capture ran towards her from the west—ran towards her with a bow and sacred arrow—ran towards her and shot her through the heart. The moment the arrow impaled her, the four warriors began beating her on the head with their clubs, and they continued beating her until the officiating priest approached the scaffold.

  With much pomp and circumstance, the priest would make his way to the girl, then circle the scaffold four times, all the while calling upon Tirawa. After his last round, when he faced the girl for the last time, the priest would slice open her breasts with a flint knife and smear his face with her blood. The man who’d captured the child and shot her in the heart was made to collect some of her blood on dried meat, and that meat had to be shared with the rest of the tribe. Once this meal of dried meat and fresh blood was consumed, each male member of the tribe, no matter his age, had to shoot an arrow into the girl’s body. Then the entire tribe circled the scaffold four times before walking away, leaving the girl’s corpse to the elements. Only then was the ritual complete.

  As far as Olm knew, this was the most powerful sacrificial ceremony ever performed by the Skidi. If this didn’t get Tirawa’s attention, nothing would. It was his last hope—his only hope.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Olm knew from the beginning that recreating the ceremony wouldn’t be easy. Not only would he have to perform it alone, he had no sacred arrows or war clubs. That meant he’d have to improvise, again. This time, though, instead of jumping ahead like a zealous idiot, Olm had made certain to think things through carefully. He considered the possible reasons a young girl was chosen back then instead of a boy. Why she was branded and clubbed on the head? If blood was the only sacrifice needed for Tirawa, why not just slaughter her immediately? Why the torture?

  The only answer that made sense to Olm was fear. The whole ceremony, even the part where they fed her, cared for her, was a build up towards the inevitable. Surely the victim had to have known that. Certainly her fear over those three days, particularly during the last, had to be near mania. It had to be more than just about the blood. It had to be—blood and fear. That had to be the answer to it all.

  And if blood and fear were indeed the keys that unlocked the powers of Tirawa, then Olm wanted to do everything possible to amplify their affect. No more pansy-ass nutrias and foxes. Thi
s time there’d be no slipups. He not only wanted to make sure the ceremony worked, he wanted to force it to greater heights, beyond what his ancestors had accomplished. Surely that would please Tirawa, make him banish the shadow people that tormented him, cause the great spirit god to shower him with gifts for years to come.

  All of this made sense to Olm, the reasoning behind the fear and blood, the ceremony, why he should push it to greater heights, why that would please Tirawa . . .

  The problem was figuring out how. How was he supposed to take a ceremony of that magnitude and make it greater?

  The solution came to him a couple days later, while sitting in his truck, waiting behind an off-loading school bus. As he watched a half dozen or more kids scamper from the bus to their respective homes, it dawned on him; if one child’s fear and blood had worked for his ancestors, then the blood and fear of two children should work twice as well—right?And—what if he changed the way they were sacrificed? Maybe slow it down instead of the quick kill to the heart. Wouldn’t that heighten the fear factor significantly? Quadruple it possibly?

  Keeping all of those things in mind, Olm had set up his plan. He carefully calculated the time, date, and work that needed to be done so the climax of the sacrifice would occur at the very moment the moon waxed towards its apex. It was crucial to have all things culminate at this time, for Brother Moon sitting full-faced in the heavens was a major power in and of itself. It would be his failsafe against failure. Olm was convinced of that, and he worked meticulously through every detail, making sure everything was measured down to the minute of that crucial juncture.

  When it was time to gather the children, Olm envisioned himself entering an enemy’s camp, just like his ancestors, and seeking the perfect offerings. He found them easily enough. A boy and girl about the same age, height, and weight. Both had light brown hair and brown eyes. From behind, they could’ve easily passed for brother and sister, only their facial features told different stories. The girl’s face was round, rosy-cheeked, and had a wide forehead. The boy had a narrow face, pointed chin, and a pug nose that tipped up at the end. Both were beautiful in their own right, and Olm had had little trouble luring them away. He’d simply lied to get them into the truck, then kept lying when he transferred them from the truck to the boat. The performance he gave as he drove them out to the knoll and the sacrificial circle deserved an Oscar, in his opinion. Considering the circumstances, all had gone amazingly well. Quiet and orderly—well, until he’d bound their hands and feet anyway. Then the screaming began.