by Eden Royce
He laughed. “You put cinnamon on your face!” He held on to his belly while he doubled over with laughter. “Like you a grown-up lady?”
“Shut up,” I said, going back to my oil making. “You got the rest of the stuff? And leave me alone if you can’t stop laughing.”
Jay held out a bag of Devil’s Shoestrings, his face still in a wide grin. When I took it from him, he giggled again before leaving me alone in the kitchen and heading outside. I had just finished crushing up and mixing in the last of the cinnamon and had screwed on the top to the final bottle of oil when I heard Jay call for me.
I went outside, about to tell him off for teasing me, when I saw all the funny was gone out of his face. He rubbed at a cluster of mosquito bites on his arm.
“Help me, Jezzie,” he said.
“You should be helping me. I got to get labels on these—”
“Later,” he said. “Go down to the marsh.” His voice was trembling and his skinny body was shaking like he was standing in a strong wind. “I’ll get Mama.”
“For what? What’s down there?” It had to be something terrible if he wanted to involve Mama. Usually we decided together what we could and couldn’t get out of without asking the adults for help.
“Please, Jezebel, just go. Under the big live oak. Maybe you can do something before I can get Mama.” His eyes begged me to stop asking questions. We both knew he would have to tell Mama the whole story before she would bring herself down to see anything.
“Okay,” I said. I turned tail as he made for our house.
A pitchfork and shovel lay against the cabin; I took the pitchfork, just in case there was danger, and sped down the path. The sun was high in the clear sky, and I had to squint my eyes tight against the brightness. But I knew this part of our farm by memory; I could likely run from home to the marsh with my eyes closed.
Once the grass surrounding the marsh was in sight, I slowed down. I approached the old oak cautiously, my heart pumping in my chest.
I looked around, but I didn’t see anything or anyone. I leaned the pitchfork against the tree. Was Jay playing a joke on me?
That’s when I heard it. A muffled whimper. A whine, really. Something in pain.
I moved toward the sound slowly and carefully, still not sure what I would find out here. The noises were hushed and only came every so often. I had to stay still until I heard them again, then move in the direction of what I’d heard.
Grasses were tall near the marsh, even around tree trunks, and they grazed my knees. As I got closer, I heard a low woof.
Finally, I parted the grass near the foot of the tree. I saw the animal, lying on its side with its back against the tree. It wasn’t moving.
It was a coyote. And it was hurt.
“It’s okay,” I said gently. I stepped closer, being careful where I put my feet. Daddy used to tell us to always have caution with animals. This was the same kind of animal we had to hide our chickens from, but it was still hurting.
It tried to sit up and move to see where I was, but it couldn’t. It gave a pitiful cry, then lay back down. My heart broke. I wanted to run to Mama or out in the woods to find Doc, but I couldn’t. My feet stayed where they were.
“Poor baby,” I said. “I won’t hurt you.”
I knew what Mama and Doc would do. If there was an animal she thought would kill our chickens, Mama would kill that animal first. She wouldn’t let a wild animal take food out of our mouths. And I knew Doc wouldn’t hesitate to kill an injured animal from the marsh either.
But what would I do?
I spun my bracelet around and around on my wrist, thinking. Rootwork was about helping. No one had ever said anything about only helping people. Becoming the rootworker Gran said I could be meant making a choice, here and now.
I looked over the animal, and it was beautiful. Its fur was a mix of light and dark brown, thick and bristly, and it had a bushy tail. It gave another woof, but this one was more tired sounding than the first. I looked closer, and that’s when I saw the trap. It was made of metal, with rusty teeth that sank into the coyote’s back leg like monster jaws. Blood coated the metal and darkened the animal’s fur.
I didn’t know who’d set the trap, but I knew it was there to catch things like coyotes. Even though the coyotes tried to steal our chickens, I knew it was because they were hungry. It wasn’t right for them to be trapped like this.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I whispered again. I wasn’t sure it would be, though.
I looked back up the path to the house. No sign of Jay coming with Mama. I was on my own. I crouched down near the animal’s head. Its ears tipped forward and its eyes followed me. I hummed to it in a low voice and held out my hand. At first, the coyote seemed unsure, but it sniffed me weakly. The scent of the oils and the roots stuck to my hands, so I smelled like the earth. I pulled my hand out of the bracelet Doc gave me for my birthday. Carefully I unbraided each of the Devil’s Shoestrings he had woven together. Then I lay out them around the coyote in a big circle.
“This is to protect you, okay? I want to help. Will you let me?”
The coyote tried again to move, but yelped and gave up. It pressed itself into the ground like it wanted to die.
“Not yet, all right? At least let me try and get you out.”
It snuffed and licked my hand. I took that to mean, You can try.
I grabbed the pitchfork and shuffled over to the rusted metal trap. Still humming softly, I placed the tines of the pitchfork into the narrow opening between the jaws of the animal trap. Careful not to touch the injured leg, I pushed the fork in until it touched the ground.
“Okay, little one.” I breathed out a long stream of air. “Here we go.”
My hands wrapped around the handle of the pitchfork, and I wiggled it back and forth. But the trap didn’t move. It was shut tight. The poor thing whimpered.
“I’m sorry. That didn’t work.” I wiped my hands on my dress to get the sweat off. I had no idea how to open the trap. Think, Jezebel, think!
This time last year, we shucked oysters. Their shells were tightly closed, even after Mama steamed them. She let us try and get them open on our own. Then she showed us how to slide a knife in the side of the shell, then twist. If we got it right, the shell would pop open and we could pull out the soft, jiggly meat inside.
“Think I got it this time,” I told the coyote, who was panting by now.
Again I gripped the handle of the pitchfork. With all my might, I twisted. The trap groaned, but didn’t move. I wrapped both hands around the handle and ground my feet deep into the soft, black dirt. I gritted my teeth and twisted hard, harder than I ever turned anything in my life.
Heat built up under my hands as I turned the handle. In science lessons, Miss Watson called it friction. Force between two things trying to slide across each other. My palms were slipping, but I didn’t stop. I groaned. My hands burned, and a splinter worked its way into my palm.
“Please,” I begged. “Please open.”
The trap groaned. The rusty metal jaws creaked, then started to separate. The coyote whined as the terrible teeth came out of its leg. Once the teeth were out, it drew its leg out of the trap altogether.
By this time, I could hear Mama coming down the path, telling Jay’s head a mess about what she was gonna do if this was some kinda joke. When she got over the last rise, she started running, hurried over to where I was, and pulled me back from the trap, and the teeth snapped shut with a loud clang over the pitchfork.
“Jezebel, what in blazes are you doing? That’s an animal trap!” Mama grabbed my hands and looked at them. My palms were red and sore. A few splinters peeked out of my skin. “Why were you messing with that horrible thing?”
“I was trying to get it open.”
“Jay said something about a dog.” Mama looked around. I did too, but there was no sign of the animal. It must have limped off when Mama and Jay came.
“It was a coyote, not a dog,” I said. “It had its l
eg caught in the trap, but I got it out.”
“Good Lord,” Mama said. “You could have really been hurt. That animal could have bitten you!”
“It’s my fault,” Jay said. “I told Jez I needed help. I begged her to come down here.”
“I couldn’t let it die, Mama.” The pain in my hands I’d ignored earlier was worse now. Burning. I looked at my hands, and some of the skin was torn, rubbed away.
Mama pressed her lips together. I knew she wanted to yell at me, but she didn’t. “I don’t see any coyote, you two.”
I looked around. She was right; the coyote was gone. “It was here a second ago, I promise!”
I didn’t want to get in trouble again, but I was glad I had at least saved a life. If I got more punishment or a whipping, I’d hold on to that fact.
“Stay back, both of you.” Mama picked up a rock from under a nearby tree and pushed down on the side of the trap. The jaws sprang apart and we all jumped. Mama pulled the pitchfork out of the ground, then lightly tapped the open trap with the side of the fork. It snapped closed, empty this time.
“How did you know how to do that?” Jay asked.
“It’s our trap,” she said. “But how did it get out here? Doc usually keeps it in his cabin. We’d never set it out here where you kids could step on it.”
The trap was mean looking, crusted with rust and edged with bloodied teeth. I shuddered. “Why do you even have something like that, Mama?”
“It belonged to my grandmama. Plantation owners used to set these same traps for our people—she had helped to take it off a man who was running away to escape slavery. She tried to give it back to him, but he told her to keep it. He didn’t want a reminder.” Mama picked up the trap by its short chain. “Limped for the rest of his life, my grandmama said.”
We were quiet until a long yip and howl echoed through the marsh. Wow-oo-wow, wow-oo-wow.
“There it is!” I pointed. “Over there.”
The coyote was at the edge of the forest surrounding the marshland. It was with another, smaller coyote that looked the same.
Mama’s gaze followed my finger. “That isn’t a coyote, Jezebel. That’s a red wolf.”
I gasped. A red wolf?
The wolf leaned its head way back and let out a howl. The smaller one followed. Their song filled the forest and drifted over the quiet marsh. Then they both edged away, deeper into the woods.
“I think that was a thank-you,” Mama said.
I smiled, proud I had helped. That I had done what rootworkers were supposed to do—respect the earth and its creatures.
And I had done it on my own.
That night, I lay in bed with Dinah on my chest. I stroked her hair as I whispered to her.
“Why was the trap out there?” Dinah’s mouth was turned down, and her little cloth body shook. “Mama said the trap was usually in Doc’s cabin, but I know he wouldn’t have set it out there near the house.”
She didn’t have any answers. Me and Jay were really lucky we didn’t get caught in that trap. If the wolf got caught, that meant it was set out in the open and dangerous position. Likely for the exact purpose of catching something. Or someone.
Then I remembered.
On the day of Gran’s funeral, Deputy Collins had been at our house when we got home. There was no way to know how long he’d been there, but he had pried off the lock on Doc’s cabin and gone inside. Could he have taken that animal trap and set it in the woods, for Mama or Doc or even me or Jay to step on?
There was no way I could know for sure. This time, I was the one shaking. The night was pleasantly warm, but I suddenly felt cold all over. I sat Dinah on the windowsill and turned her to face outside. Knowing she was keeping a lookout, I was finally able to get a little sleep.
12
Though I’d been falling asleep to pounding thunderstorms for three nights straight, when I woke up on the fourth day, the sky was clear. The land was flooded, leaving the scent of rainwater in the air. When I lifted the window, the whole world around me smelled clean and fresh as clothes from the washing line.
Still, it was terrible walking to school when it was wet. The mud got on my shoes and splashed up my legs, making my skin itchy and uncomfortable. Then I had to sit in class all day, unable to do anything about it.
There were a few whispers and smothered laughter when I walked down the hall. Some kids started cackling like witches, waggling their fingers to be scary. I pretended to grab at them and they ran off, screaming, which satisfied me. At lunch, I sat by myself and ate my rice, because Susie had been called into the principal’s office. I didn’t know why, but she said she’d tell me when she got back.
After I ate, I took out my root notebook to study what I had written. I was so deep in what I was reading that I didn’t hear Lettie sneak up. I didn’t even know she was there when she dumped an entire thermos full of water on my head.
I gasped at the sting of the icy-cold water. It soaked me from head to chest, then rolled down my arms to puddle on the floor. I sat there, dripping, wiping water out of my face, while she and the others laughed. Shame and anger burned at me, making my skin feel fever hot under the cold water.
“Why didn’t you melt?” she asked. “Isn’t that happens to witches?”
At that moment, it wasn’t even Lettie’s bullying that was bothering me, not on its own. After what had happened a few days ago, I couldn’t stop thinking about Deputy Collins. He might be watching the house at night. Setting traps to hurt or kill us. Why was everyone out to get me and my family? We hadn’t done anything to anyone. We were trying to survive and to live the best way we knew how. Fiery tears burned the back of my eyes, and I was glad water fell from my face so those girls couldn’t see my hurt and anger.
“You’re the witch, Lettie Anderson!” I yelled, jumping to my feet. Some of the water dribbling off my face got into my mouth and I coughed. “You’re mean and cruel for no good reason at all!”
“Enough!” One of the teachers on cafeteria duty broke into the crowd of kids that suddenly surrounded us once the commotion started. She stood between us for a few seconds, sizing us both up. “Jezebel, go see if Miss Corrie has a towel. Lettie, you mop this spill up right now.”
I sneezed, then grabbed my book and the rest of my things and ran out of the lunchroom.
Maybe I didn’t melt on the outside, but inside I felt like I was melting. Did that make me a witch? Was I a witch because the only time I felt good about myself now, like a real, whole person, was when I was learning magic? I had a doll that ran around at night. An uncle who brewed potions. And I knew that black peppercorns could be used to protect you or to put a jinx on someone. Maybe those girls at school were right, and I was a witch. Maybe when I got older, I’d grow a huge nose with warts on it.
My footsteps echoed in the halls as I made my way to Miss Corrie’s office for the second time this year. Even the small bag of graveyard dirt and powdered brick I carried in the pocket of my dress was soaked with water. Heavy and thick, it weighed me down as I squished along the hallway. From this moment on, I wasn’t going to try and make friends anymore. I would go to school, do my lessons, and come home to learn root. I had bigger problems to think about than some stupid girls.
I knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
I pushed open the door and Miss Corrie looked up. When she saw me, a little sound of surprise escaped her mouth. She got up and opened her ceiling-high cabinet. “Come to my desk,” she said as she sat back down. When I did, she patted my face and neck with a white towel. It was scratchy and smelled like bleach, but it was clean. The gentle concern on her face and the careful movements of her hands almost made me cry again.
“Want to tell me what happened?” she asked, tenderly squeezing the towel around one of my pigtails, then the other.
Swallowing my sobs, I told her everything that had happened with Lettie. Once I was done, I sneezed twice.
“You feel cold. Here are some tissues.”
She opened a drawer in her desk, and I saw a bottle of Doc’s Boss Fix potion sitting inside.
Before I could stop myself, I said, “I wrote that label!”
Miss Corrie looked down in her drawer, then back at me. Her face softened and she pushed back from her desk. The chair moved smoothly and without sound. “Is your uncle teaching you rootwork, dear heart?”
I hesitated, but only for a moment. I wouldn’t share my family’s secrets, but something told me I could trust Miss Corrie. I nodded.
“Would you like to share anything with me, Jezebel? Are you scared of something? Nervous?”
I shook my head. “I’m not scared,” I said. “Not exactly.”
“Tell me, then,” she said. I could see my reflection in her glasses. “Exactly.”
She already knew about the other kids teasing me. So I told her what I had kept inside. I told her about Gran dying and how much I missed her. I told her about how the police pulled rootworkers out of their homes, beat them, and put them in jail. Then I told her I was trying to learn enough rootwork so that when Deputy Collins came back, I could help Doc protect our family. I told her there were nights I was so tired, but I couldn’t sleep. Tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t cry. My throat got tight and I had to swallow hard to keep talking.
Finally, I said, “I’m not sure I can protect our family. Leastways not the way Gran did when she was alive.”
When I was done speaking, Miss Corrie patted my hand.
“Do you know what stress is?”
My heart was pounding, and my stomach was fluttering like it was full of startled butterflies. I shook my head.
“It’s when you have so much responsibility and so many things to do that you get . . .” Miss Corrie stopped while she thought about what to say. “You get frustrated and worried that you can’t do all those things the way you want to.”
I tugged at one of my damp pigtails and nodded. That was exactly how I felt.
“Stress can make you feel sick. Even make you lose sleep or get headaches. Do you know what this means for you?”