Read Online Admit One by Lisa Clark O'Neill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Clark O'Neill
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history.”
“Now Al, that’s just not true. I may have resented having the exploits of every Hawbaker relative for the past two hundred years shoved down my throat as a kid, but I’ve got no problem with history. It’s a shame humans, as a species, don’t learn from it, but that’s another conversation. Now,” he tapped the book again. “Tell me what you’ve discovered about Cousin Eugene.”
“Not much,” she admitted, glancing down at the open book. “I fell asleep before I could get very far. I know that he was only twenty-one when he died at the Raid at Combahee Ferry in 1863. So young.” She ran her finger over the page. “That particular raid was orchestrated, to a large degree, by Harriet Tubman, and over seven hundred and fifty slaves were freed. I have to applaud the historical significance – not to mention the eventual outcome – though I find it terribly unfortunate that Eugene, and so many others, had to lose their lives because of it.”
She glanced up at Will. “Given your feelings about family lore, I’m assuming your interest isn’t merely personal.”
“Well, no.” He considered the best way to make cohesive the speculations muddling around in his head. “There are lots of graves in that cemetery, many of them more easily accessible from the front gate, a number of them with fancy monuments that are likelier attractants for vandals. Yet this was the grave disturbed.”
“So you think it wasn’t random? That they picked that grave specifically.”
“Maybe. At this point, I’m just gathering information. So let me ask you something else. About graveyard dirt.”
“What about it?”
“I know that some rootworkers use graveyard dirt in certain rituals.”
“Wait.” Allie closed the book, and sat up straighter, the leather squeaking with her movement. “You think that someone was digging up Eugene Hawbaker’s grave to use the dirt in some kind of spirit work?”
“Well, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
Allie frowned. “You should probably talk to Josie about this. She knows more than I do.”
“I plan to, but Josie isn’t available right now, and you are.”
“Huh,” she said, almost to herself. “Eugene was a soldier, so I guess that makes sense.”
“Care to clue me in?”
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head as if to clear the final remnants of sleep. “Rootworkers collect graveyard dirt so that the spirit of the deceased can aid them in whatever their particular client is looking to achieve – love spells, money spells, protection, vengeance. The type of spell dictates the type of spirit they would seek to employ.”
“Employ.”
Allie waved a hand. “Hoodoo practitioners look at it as contract work. If you’re asking a spirit to do something for you, you need to offer a token payment.”
“Right.” Will had lived with Lowcountry folklore too long to turn a hair at the idea of employing the dead. And hell, given some of the soulless stiffs he’d met in public service, maybe the idea wasn’t so far-fetched. “Just for kicks and giggles, why don’t you tell me what the going rate is these days, and to hell with the fact that grave tampering is a class B felony.”
“That depends on relationship to the spirit. Coins and alcohol are common, as I’m sure you know, but if it’s an ancestor you’re seeking aid from, the payment can be more personal – candy, flowers, food.”
“How about a hair ribbon?”
“Hair ribbon?” Allie frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe. If the spirit is that of a woman who was known to have a streak of vanity? Why – oh. You found a ribbon at the scene. You mentioned that the other night. But considering that Eugene was a man, and a soldier –”
“The ribbon doesn’t make sense. You said that Eugene being a soldier did make sense, though. How?”
“Well, most practitioners try to work with a spirit that’s both strong and – more importantly – willing to take orders.”
Will mulled
“Now Al, that’s just not true. I may have resented having the exploits of every Hawbaker relative for the past two hundred years shoved down my throat as a kid, but I’ve got no problem with history. It’s a shame humans, as a species, don’t learn from it, but that’s another conversation. Now,” he tapped the book again. “Tell me what you’ve discovered about Cousin Eugene.”
“Not much,” she admitted, glancing down at the open book. “I fell asleep before I could get very far. I know that he was only twenty-one when he died at the Raid at Combahee Ferry in 1863. So young.” She ran her finger over the page. “That particular raid was orchestrated, to a large degree, by Harriet Tubman, and over seven hundred and fifty slaves were freed. I have to applaud the historical significance – not to mention the eventual outcome – though I find it terribly unfortunate that Eugene, and so many others, had to lose their lives because of it.”
She glanced up at Will. “Given your feelings about family lore, I’m assuming your interest isn’t merely personal.”
“Well, no.” He considered the best way to make cohesive the speculations muddling around in his head. “There are lots of graves in that cemetery, many of them more easily accessible from the front gate, a number of them with fancy monuments that are likelier attractants for vandals. Yet this was the grave disturbed.”
“So you think it wasn’t random? That they picked that grave specifically.”
“Maybe. At this point, I’m just gathering information. So let me ask you something else. About graveyard dirt.”
“What about it?”
“I know that some rootworkers use graveyard dirt in certain rituals.”
“Wait.” Allie closed the book, and sat up straighter, the leather squeaking with her movement. “You think that someone was digging up Eugene Hawbaker’s grave to use the dirt in some kind of spirit work?”
“Well, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
Allie frowned. “You should probably talk to Josie about this. She knows more than I do.”
“I plan to, but Josie isn’t available right now, and you are.”
“Huh,” she said, almost to herself. “Eugene was a soldier, so I guess that makes sense.”
“Care to clue me in?”
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head as if to clear the final remnants of sleep. “Rootworkers collect graveyard dirt so that the spirit of the deceased can aid them in whatever their particular client is looking to achieve – love spells, money spells, protection, vengeance. The type of spell dictates the type of spirit they would seek to employ.”
“Employ.”
Allie waved a hand. “Hoodoo practitioners look at it as contract work. If you’re asking a spirit to do something for you, you need to offer a token payment.”
“Right.” Will had lived with Lowcountry folklore too long to turn a hair at the idea of employing the dead. And hell, given some of the soulless stiffs he’d met in public service, maybe the idea wasn’t so far-fetched. “Just for kicks and giggles, why don’t you tell me what the going rate is these days, and to hell with the fact that grave tampering is a class B felony.”
“That depends on relationship to the spirit. Coins and alcohol are common, as I’m sure you know, but if it’s an ancestor you’re seeking aid from, the payment can be more personal – candy, flowers, food.”
“How about a hair ribbon?”
“Hair ribbon?” Allie frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe. If the spirit is that of a woman who was known to have a streak of vanity? Why – oh. You found a ribbon at the scene. You mentioned that the other night. But considering that Eugene was a man, and a soldier –”
“The ribbon doesn’t make sense. You said that Eugene being a soldier did make sense, though. How?”
“Well, most practitioners try to work with a spirit that’s both strong and – more importantly – willing to take orders.”
Will mulled
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