Read Online Gathering Deep by Lisa Maxwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Maxwell
Tags: YA), supernatural, Young Adult Fiction, Young Adult, Voodoo, teen, teen fiction, ya fiction, ya novel, young adult novel, New Orleans, teen novel, teen lit, ya book, young adult book, sweet unrest
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Iâd come this far. I wasnât going to turn back now.
As I stepped a little closer, into the copse of trees, I kept expecting something to stop me, like it had at my own house. I waited, holding myself steady against the crushing defeat of being pushed away and held back from understanding once again. But as I took tentative steps toward the cabin, nothing seemed to be blocking my way.
Near about everyone in the area had heard tell of the lonely cabin just beyond Le Ciel Doux. Most people heard stories about the ghosts that supposedly haunted the woods and swamps around it and stayed away. Iâd never been out to the cabin myself, not even after the university managed to buy the property. At least, I didnât remember going out there, which in my case doesnât really amount to the same thing.
But standing a few steps from the front door, I wasnât in no hurry to face whatever it was Iâd come to face. So I waited in the lacey shade and tried to imagine what the place must have looked like way back when an ex-slave named Thisbe lived there. I tried to see the ramshackle structure through her eyesâwhat had that rusted-out roof been made of back then? What would that wide front porch have meant to a woman in her position? And why had she decided to stay once her ownerâand fatherâhad freed her, when she could have left that life behind?
I stepped toward the house and ran my finger along the uneven boards of the porch, closing my eyes as an image of the past rose up softly in my mind, the colors burned-out and faded like an old photograph. The cabin with its walls washed white in the heat of a summer day with its doors open and welcoming .
She must have been powerful even then to rise so far for someone in her position. I could almost see her, a little older than I remembered my mother ever being, but not quite old, sitting in the shade of that porch and never alone. Always surrounded by people who believed in her power and feared her because of it, but who knew sheâd care for their needs just the same. As I imagined it, a warmth that felt like fingers began stroking down the tense cords of my neck. Easing out the knots that stress and sleepless nights had put there.
When I opened my eyes, the fingers disappeared. The cabin was gray and worn, the doors shuttered now instead of open.
Stupid . I was imagining what I wanted to feel. After the rooster and the curse on my house, I shouldnât have had any illusions that my momma wanted anything to do with me, or at least nothing good. Giving myself a mental shake, I mounted the steps before I could change my mind. It took a bit of time to wrench open one of the French doors at the front of the house, but once I did, it was easy enough to step into the closed-up warmth of the interior.
Inside was dim and smelled strongly of new plaster and something damp and old beneath it. I detected another scent, tooâsomething earthy and heavyâan almost oily smell that reminded me of the jars sitting on Mama Legbaâs shelves. Maybe some herb I wasnât familiar with? But I couldnât tell if it was the ghost of a scent from years past or something more recent.
The interior of the cabin was mostly empty. The floors were worn in certain places where furniture might have once stood, and everything was covered with a layer of dust from the restoration the university was doing. But small as it was, it was a comfortable space, and the way the rooms flowed one into the next reminded me of my own house.
I took my time walking around, wondering what it would have been like to live there a hundred years ago. Imagining the furniture that must have stood against the walls.
The walls would have been washed white, I knew, to protect against the diseases that ran so rampant in the slave quarters. Like a little whitewash could stop cholera. And there would have been some furniture, maybe even a picture or two on the walls.
I ran my
As I stepped a little closer, into the copse of trees, I kept expecting something to stop me, like it had at my own house. I waited, holding myself steady against the crushing defeat of being pushed away and held back from understanding once again. But as I took tentative steps toward the cabin, nothing seemed to be blocking my way.
Near about everyone in the area had heard tell of the lonely cabin just beyond Le Ciel Doux. Most people heard stories about the ghosts that supposedly haunted the woods and swamps around it and stayed away. Iâd never been out to the cabin myself, not even after the university managed to buy the property. At least, I didnât remember going out there, which in my case doesnât really amount to the same thing.
But standing a few steps from the front door, I wasnât in no hurry to face whatever it was Iâd come to face. So I waited in the lacey shade and tried to imagine what the place must have looked like way back when an ex-slave named Thisbe lived there. I tried to see the ramshackle structure through her eyesâwhat had that rusted-out roof been made of back then? What would that wide front porch have meant to a woman in her position? And why had she decided to stay once her ownerâand fatherâhad freed her, when she could have left that life behind?
I stepped toward the house and ran my finger along the uneven boards of the porch, closing my eyes as an image of the past rose up softly in my mind, the colors burned-out and faded like an old photograph. The cabin with its walls washed white in the heat of a summer day with its doors open and welcoming .
She must have been powerful even then to rise so far for someone in her position. I could almost see her, a little older than I remembered my mother ever being, but not quite old, sitting in the shade of that porch and never alone. Always surrounded by people who believed in her power and feared her because of it, but who knew sheâd care for their needs just the same. As I imagined it, a warmth that felt like fingers began stroking down the tense cords of my neck. Easing out the knots that stress and sleepless nights had put there.
When I opened my eyes, the fingers disappeared. The cabin was gray and worn, the doors shuttered now instead of open.
Stupid . I was imagining what I wanted to feel. After the rooster and the curse on my house, I shouldnât have had any illusions that my momma wanted anything to do with me, or at least nothing good. Giving myself a mental shake, I mounted the steps before I could change my mind. It took a bit of time to wrench open one of the French doors at the front of the house, but once I did, it was easy enough to step into the closed-up warmth of the interior.
Inside was dim and smelled strongly of new plaster and something damp and old beneath it. I detected another scent, tooâsomething earthy and heavyâan almost oily smell that reminded me of the jars sitting on Mama Legbaâs shelves. Maybe some herb I wasnât familiar with? But I couldnât tell if it was the ghost of a scent from years past or something more recent.
The interior of the cabin was mostly empty. The floors were worn in certain places where furniture might have once stood, and everything was covered with a layer of dust from the restoration the university was doing. But small as it was, it was a comfortable space, and the way the rooms flowed one into the next reminded me of my own house.
I took my time walking around, wondering what it would have been like to live there a hundred years ago. Imagining the furniture that must have stood against the walls.
The walls would have been washed white, I knew, to protect against the diseases that ran so rampant in the slave quarters. Like a little whitewash could stop cholera. And there would have been some furniture, maybe even a picture or two on the walls.
I ran my
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