dashed and darted a good mile in the woods, until we came to a small shack of a house, which, strangely enough, had a likeness to the house in the cemetery. It was like déjà vu—same small wooden porch, same rigid tin roof, even the same yellow light emanated from its dirty glass windows.
I tentatively stepped onto the porch and noticed small pieces of fish dangling from strings attached to the rafter of the roof. Maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea. I had heard the rumors about the Cajun healers, just like everyone else. Traiteurs were faith healers—they used their faith, strong prayer, and remedies passed down from generation to generation to heal, but over time, many of the faith healers in Louisiana had gone bad, turning to the ways of voodoo and white magic. Alice had warned me against those ways. She had me promise to stay away from magic practices, Ouija boards, witchcraft, and anything of the sort. I could hear her warning in the back of my head, It’s the fastest way to lose yourself. Promise that you will stay far away from those practices, Clara. At the time, it had seemed to be an easy promise to make.
Maytide must have noticed my expression. “Don’t you worry, nightingale. Dis things are nuttin’ but food for de cats. De strings keep de ants from comin’ to de porch.”
The screen door squeaked open and then slammed behind me. The first room, which I assumed was Maytide’s living room, was crammed with everything you would expect from a traiteuse. Dozens of built-in shelves held rows of glass jars and saltshakers. They almost seemed like decoration to the house—each filled with colorful substances. Powders. Liquids. Solids. One might think she was a mad scientist.
A small area to the right of the room was packed high with boxes of all sizes. All of the boxes were marked with dates and descriptions of the contents—some were marked p.m. , while others were marked a.m.. I could only make out a few words on the labels— Alligator Tail, Strawberry Roots, Dry Potato Skins, Dried Pumpkin —but it was enough to know that she collected things that were much stranger than anyone I had ever known.
She shook as she trampled through the narrow living room to the kitchen. I took a deep breath before following.
In the middle of the kitchen, hanging from the hooks of a weathered potholder, were long strands of shriveled herbs, black feathers, and purple roots. The countertops were similar, storing jars—dozens of jars. I ran my fingers over the labels: Molasses. Pickled Pig. Honey. Red Wine. Figs. Seaweed. Grape Jam. Holy Water. Again, everything was labeled and dated.
“Why did you bring me here, Maytide?”
Maytide stayed silent as she lifted a pitcher from the countertop and then emptied its golden contents into two short glasses.
“Drink,” she said.
I responded with a polite, “Thanks, but no thanks,” but she insisted again.
“Drink. De hot tea is good for de body.”
The warmth of the tea slid down my throat with ease and left the faint taste of ginger. It had a calming effect. I took a second sip before deciding to continue with my questions.
“Why am I here?”
Maytide looped her two spotted hands around her glass cup before speaking. “Because you need to know de truth before dey come for you.”
“Who’s coming for me? Am I in trouble?”
“Oh, child, don’t be askin’ me all de questions. Look—look.”
She pointed to an old mirror that was propped against the wall behind me. The mirror appeared weathered, just like everything in the shack, and had a long jagged crack down the center. Its frame looked like it had once been thick and heavy, but now, as it leaned against the wall, it merely seemed brittle.
“Get closer—look at yourself.” She walked around the table to guide my body forward. She backed away as soon as I was face-to-face with the broken mirror, staring straight into my reflection.
“I know what I look like—why…”
“Shhhh, stop with de
I tentatively stepped onto the porch and noticed small pieces of fish dangling from strings attached to the rafter of the roof. Maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea. I had heard the rumors about the Cajun healers, just like everyone else. Traiteurs were faith healers—they used their faith, strong prayer, and remedies passed down from generation to generation to heal, but over time, many of the faith healers in Louisiana had gone bad, turning to the ways of voodoo and white magic. Alice had warned me against those ways. She had me promise to stay away from magic practices, Ouija boards, witchcraft, and anything of the sort. I could hear her warning in the back of my head, It’s the fastest way to lose yourself. Promise that you will stay far away from those practices, Clara. At the time, it had seemed to be an easy promise to make.
Maytide must have noticed my expression. “Don’t you worry, nightingale. Dis things are nuttin’ but food for de cats. De strings keep de ants from comin’ to de porch.”
The screen door squeaked open and then slammed behind me. The first room, which I assumed was Maytide’s living room, was crammed with everything you would expect from a traiteuse. Dozens of built-in shelves held rows of glass jars and saltshakers. They almost seemed like decoration to the house—each filled with colorful substances. Powders. Liquids. Solids. One might think she was a mad scientist.
A small area to the right of the room was packed high with boxes of all sizes. All of the boxes were marked with dates and descriptions of the contents—some were marked p.m. , while others were marked a.m.. I could only make out a few words on the labels— Alligator Tail, Strawberry Roots, Dry Potato Skins, Dried Pumpkin —but it was enough to know that she collected things that were much stranger than anyone I had ever known.
She shook as she trampled through the narrow living room to the kitchen. I took a deep breath before following.
In the middle of the kitchen, hanging from the hooks of a weathered potholder, were long strands of shriveled herbs, black feathers, and purple roots. The countertops were similar, storing jars—dozens of jars. I ran my fingers over the labels: Molasses. Pickled Pig. Honey. Red Wine. Figs. Seaweed. Grape Jam. Holy Water. Again, everything was labeled and dated.
“Why did you bring me here, Maytide?”
Maytide stayed silent as she lifted a pitcher from the countertop and then emptied its golden contents into two short glasses.
“Drink,” she said.
I responded with a polite, “Thanks, but no thanks,” but she insisted again.
“Drink. De hot tea is good for de body.”
The warmth of the tea slid down my throat with ease and left the faint taste of ginger. It had a calming effect. I took a second sip before deciding to continue with my questions.
“Why am I here?”
Maytide looped her two spotted hands around her glass cup before speaking. “Because you need to know de truth before dey come for you.”
“Who’s coming for me? Am I in trouble?”
“Oh, child, don’t be askin’ me all de questions. Look—look.”
She pointed to an old mirror that was propped against the wall behind me. The mirror appeared weathered, just like everything in the shack, and had a long jagged crack down the center. Its frame looked like it had once been thick and heavy, but now, as it leaned against the wall, it merely seemed brittle.
“Get closer—look at yourself.” She walked around the table to guide my body forward. She backed away as soon as I was face-to-face with the broken mirror, staring straight into my reflection.
“I know what I look like—why…”
“Shhhh, stop with de
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