Having to walk with a cane made carrying the contagious waste material cumbersome. One would have thought Make-Do had seen a ghost the way he whooped and hollered when bits of loose excrement splattered on his hand.
Imagining he’d been infected by the mistress, Make-Do coughed up blood for a week, but he finally pulled through. Eris found Make-Do’s near-death experience extremely humorous and made a mental note to take better advantage of his simplemindedness in the future.
Eris was anxious to report that the Missus’s ailment was not better, that she was even more emaciated and pale with a curious eruption of red welts, which were spreading all over her face. The Missus, Eris would sadly state, seemed to be getting worse. Excited, Eris hurriedly left the room, forgetting to administer the poisonous concoction.
Edith was weak and very thirsty. But her heart was filled with relief that the vile black slave had forgotten to force-feed her the twice-daily dosage of poison. Eris’s lethal “remedy” was the instrument of the mistress’s slow and agonizing demise.
Experiencing an unusually lucid period earlier that day, Edith had kept the poisonous mixture hidden beneath her tongue. She’d spat it out as soon as the slave woman left the room. And now, having skipped the evening dose as well, she was feeling strengthened and hopeful that she might survive this vexation dealt upon her by the hands of a slave. The gall!
Unwilling to risk exposure to his wife’s malady, Arthur Stovall insisted that Eris shed the clothing she’d worn while attending to Edith and wash thoroughly before entering his chambers.
The mistress’s nights on this earth were numbered. It was just a matter of time before Eris became the Mistress of the House. Although her name would not be affixed to any official documents, she’d be the mistress no less, and she would inform the slaves to address her as such. She’d already begun training Molly, the cook’s assistant, to refer to her as Mistress.
Hearing her addressed as such would be a problem with the white people, of course. Therefore, she’d have to prohibit visitations by business associates who’d come snooping around. She’d insist that Arthur—yes, she now called him Arthur—conduct his business away from the home. She would not kowtow to lawyers, bookkeepers or such. No, Arthur would have to arrange his life to suit her needs.
Feeling powerful, Eris did not cover herself with even a wisp of fabric. Boldly, she glided naked from her room to the master bedchamber. She did not care if curious eyes peered from corners or slightly cracked doors. Let them behold my beauty—my full breasts and wide hips. Yes, let them admire me from a distance but cower in my presence. Intoxicated with power, Eris, dark and statuesque, with refined facial features, strode through the corridors with the regal carriage of a queen. Heavy coils of dark hair fell past her shoulders. She did not carry a lantern; the full moon brightened the path to Arthur’s chamber.
“My beloved,” Arthur said when Eris opened the door and crept to his bed. “I’ve waited for what feels like ages. Hurry! Come!” He patted the bed.
She peered at him in the dark room. “Wait! I must part the curtains.”
“Why, beloved?”
“The moon is full tonight. You’ve given me many things; but never have you given me the moon.”
“Ah, you’re a strange one. But I have no power in your presence. Part the curtains if you wish. Have your moon; have the stars as well.” Arthur waved his hand extravagantly and laughed.
Eris parted the curtains and for a few moments, stood naked in the window. She threw back her head in ecstasy as she became energized by the light of the moon.
In the cramped slave huts below, candles were quickly snuffed when the slaves saw Eris’s naked silhouette. Such a sight seemed unholy and they all wished to escape through sleep as quickly as possible. With prayers on their tongues, they hoped that by morning’s light, the chilling image of Eris basking in the moonlight would seem like a bad dream.
Eris walked to the bed. Her breasts were full and tender; a red streak trailed down her inner thigh. Smiling, she pulled back the heavy covers and joined the master whose look of worship assured her that behind closed doors, he’d always be her slave.
Chapter 2
Eris awakened at dawn. There was great clattering in the kitchen as the cook and her help prepared the morning meal for Arthur and her.
Molly, an obedient young girl, rapped on the door twice as Eris had instructed her. “Good morning, Mistress,” the young girl greeted Eris. Molly did a double-take and looked quizzically at her master, who still asleep, sucked loudly on the knuckle of Eris’s middle finger.
“Will that be all, Mistress?” Molly asked, averting her gaze as she set down the breakfast tray.
“No. Go out to the slave quarters and tell that worthless Make-Do to go tend to the Missus. Tell him to empty her slop…” Suddenly remembering that she hadn’t given Arthur’s wife her evening dosage, she further instructed, “Tell him to add a little water to her remedy; it’s in a bowl on the nightstand. He must give her two spoonfuls. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Molly said. “Two spoonfuls,” she repeated, and whirled around and hurried out of the room. Through the window Eris watched Molly race across the lawn to give Make-Do the distressful news.
Eris was famished and sore. The power she’d derived from the full moon had enhanced her femininity, bringing on her menses and causing her full breasts to lactate although she’d never given birth to a child.
The moon had allowed her to nurture Arthur—to claim him as her own. Last night, she’d encouraged him to suckle her breasts and her bleeding womanhood until he cried from sheer bliss.
Different from other women, Eris’s menstrual cycle lasted for just one evening per month, and though Arthur cried and pleaded for more of her delicious dark red nectar, she had nothing left to give; he’d suckled her dry.
Like a fretful baby, he’d cried and whimpered throughout the night. Not wanting to awaken the slaves, Eris had given him her knuckle to suck. This soothed and kept him quiet, allowing him to sleep like a contented child for the remainder of the night.
Depleted and famished from her nocturnal activities, Eris, propped up by three plump pillows, enjoyed her own breakfast and Arthur’s as well.
Praying he did not become afflicted again with the doomed Missus’s illness, Make-Do hobbled up the flights of stairs, carrying a pitcher of fresh water. When he reached the attic, although it hadn’t entered his mind before, the thought of just upping and running away seemed like a better idea than risking another chance with the sick Missus. All that choking and coughing up blood was bound to kill him this time. But trying to run with his bad leg…well, he wouldn’t get very far. Nope! The hounds would have a hold on him before he even got close to the river.
Accepting his fate, Make-Do pushed open the door. The room smelled like a pigsty. The Missus looked all dried-up and half-dead, with her thick and cankered tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. Momentarily oblivious of his fear of contagion, Make-Do rushed over, lifted her head and tried to give her a drink of water, but the water rolled off her thick, blistered tongue.
In a quandary, he looked around the room. There was a spoon stuck in the dried-up remedy that Eris had instructed him to give to the mistress. Make-Do cleaned the gook off and began spoonfeeding drops of water to Edith. “Here you go, Missus,” he said, carefully aiming the spoon toward her dry lips. His doctoring seemed to work. The Missus began to utter sounds. Incomprehensible noises, but the gibberish was progress nonetheless. Wanting her to get better, Make-Do poured a little water in the remedy and tried to soften it up enough to give to the mistress.
But the mistress started making an awful growling sound in her throat. It scared old Make-Do so bad, he thought she was drowning from taking in too much water. Not wanting to be blamed for killing her, Make-Do slipped out of the room and hobbled as fast as he could down the stairs.
He ran smack into Molly. “Ah give de Missus two spoonfuls of dat remedy jest like you said.” H
e turned to hobble away.
“Did you empty the slop bucket?”
“No, Lawdy, Ah didn’t,” he said sadly. “Ah sho’ is gittin’ old and fo’getful. Lemme git back up dere and fetch it.”
When Make-Do reentered the infirmed woman’s room, she looked surprisingly brighter. Her complexion wasn’t as pasty and her tongue didn’t look as thick. Encouraged, he picked up the bowl of remedy and started stirring.
Edith Stovall began to moan and Make-Do put down the bowl.
“You don’t like dat remedy, do you, Missus?”
She looked at him and grunted.
“Okey-dokey. Ah’m jest up here to fetch yo’ slop bucket anyways. So you git yo’self some sleep now, Missus.”
Grateful that he hadn’t killed the Missus, Make-Do whistled a happy tune as he took care of emptying the slop bucket.
By nightfall, when Make-Do hadn’t started choking and coughing up any blood, the slaves breathed a sigh of relief. They loved Make-Do too much to have to beg his pardon and ask him to kindly stay in his own cabin. Yes, they were mighty obliged that they didn’t have to turn old Make-Do away.
“Ah’s done beat dat ol’ sickness,” Make-Do told the awestruck slaves. “Maybe de Missus will, too.”
The slaves all smiled hopefully. If the mistress recovered, Eris would be put in her place and things would be back to normal on the Stovall Plantation.
Chapter 3
Arthur Stovall believed his wife was under Eris’s expert care, but Eris, disgusted by the awful stench in the sickroom, preferred the sweet smell of her own quarters, which Molly filled with fresh cut flowers daily.
Expecting Edith to expire at any moment, Eris had stopped providing personal care and now the sickly woman’s pasty-colored skin and wildly tangled hair was a completely unappealing sight. In fact, everything about the sickroom and its occupant was unpleasant and not a suitable place for a woman such as Eris, who was living in the lap of luxury.
But with the mistress’s unwillingness to just go ahead and give up the ghost, Eris had no choice but to make the remedy stronger—more toxic. She’d left the handling of the infirm woman to Make-Do, giving the old slave strict orders to now give the mistress three heaping spoons of the concoction every day.
Eris had custody of every article of clothing Edith Stovall owned. In order to prove his devotion and the sincerity of his love, Arthur had recently given Eris a cameo brooch, and upon his wife’s imminent death, Eris fully expected to inherit the woman’s entire collection of jewels, especially her beautiful wedding ring. Of course, she wouldn’t wear the woman’s wedding ring; she’d keep it along with the treasure of jewelry she’d acquired and hid in the box she kept buried near her vegetable patch.
Then, when it was time to move on, she’d leave the useless garments, hats and other finery—but the box of jewels would accompany her on the journey to the next plantation.
Eris’s plan was to make her way up north. Once settled there as a free woman, she’d cash in her jewelry and live the good life without having to rely on the males that drained her powers with their greedy mouths, depleting her of her womanhood.
Ever so sweetly, Eris persuaded Arthur to take the buggy and meet his banker in town. She considered sending Make-Do along under the pretense of tending to the horse, but she’d instruct him to keep an ear out for any important financial information. However, needing the old man to empty the slop jar and take care of the mistress, she decided Arthur could make the two-day journey alone.
Having not stepped a foot inside the sickroom in weeks, Eris had no idea that Make-Do had stopped administering the lethal potion to the mistress and had been hand-feeding her mashed fruit, soft boiled vegetables, and several glasses of water per day. Thus, Edith Stovall was slowly but surely coming back to good health.
Eris stayed so far away from the attic, she hadn’t heard all the laughter and sounds of merriment that emanated from the sickroom. Nor did she hear the Missus clunking around with Make-Do’s cane as she taught herself how to walk again.
And so it was a tremendous shock when Eris awakened in her beautiful, sweet-smelling, flower-filled room to an oddly familiar odor. She thought she had to be dreaming when she opened her eyes and beheld the mistress, looking like an old crone propped up with Make-Do’s cane, as she observed with increasing rage the splendid surroundings that Eris had become accustomed to.
The wedding ring on the frail hand that gripped the cane caught Eris’s attention. She’d wanted that ring so badly; now it was too late...
The Sorceress Page 30