stained-glass doves and light from heaven, I can see someone out there on the wraparound porch. The height, the arrogant way he stands—I’m sure it’s Leroy Frye in a sheet marked by a red and white cross on the breast. He pushes his hood back, showing me what I already knew.
Frye spits on the porch, slams his hand against the window frame, and laughs as the rest of the jagged glass tumbles ceiling to floor.
He’s made his own door now , my mind gibbers.
“We got a quarrel with you, boy,” Frye shouts back. “You and yours.”
The choir, still together, rises to its feet. Eyes closed, they join hands.
“Oh, no,” I hear Grandmother Jones whisper from behind me. “Please, God, no.” Her hands hold my ankles. Squeeze my ankles. Tighter. Tighter.
“We went and got soft on local big-mouths like that Potts boy,” Frye shouts. “Guess we should have paid more attention. He’s been up to no good, and it’s a damn shame. Forgot all his manners.”
I hear engines. Motors. Cars or trucks. And many of them. Torches bob into view behind Leroy Frye. Hooded heads, and hooded eyes. Empty holes in the hot evening.
Miss Hattie shifts on the floor. She and Clay must have ducked down in the row behind ours. I can see their arms under the bench as Miss Hattie starts a wheezing chant. “Not my boy. You won’t take my boy. Kill you first, God forgive me, but I’ll kill you first. Not my boy. You won’t take my boy.…”
“But really,” Frye continues, “we got a bigger problem. And she’s right in there. I can see her, crawling on the floor like a big fat ant. Her.”
Leroy Frye leans through the broken window-door and points a dirty finger straight at me.
“We come about her. The juju gal. Send her out so we can have a look at a real A-freek-an witch.”
Terror nearly melts me, but I have to try. Thesepeople—my grandmother, my friends—they could get hurt because of me. I start to stand.
Grandmother Jones slams me to the floor. Covers me head to toe with her own body, breathing hard. I smell fear like sour onions on her breath. On her hand as it covers my mouth.
“Send her out or we’ll burn her out,” Frye says.
Even from the floorboards, I can see the torch in his hand, coming closer to the hole in the glass. And closer.
Grandmother Jones won’t let me go. Won’t let me move. I squirm and make like I can’t breathe, and at least she frees my mouth. Turns loose some of my power.
“Do I need to start counting?” Frye asks.
Pastor Bickman mutters to the visitors.
“Let her up, Mrs. Jones,” Clay says. “Ruba, she can take care of herself.”
Let me up. Yes! Please, let me up.
“Ruba,” Gisele says. “Rain on ’em, Ruba.”
“One,” says Leroy Frye. “Two.”
And he throws his torch through the window.
I fill my lungs and chant as fast as I can, closing my eyes, rocking beneath my grandmother’s weight.
She tries to keep me still.
I rock harder, moving her like a cork on water, chanting and chanting, once more calling on Circe, on Ba, and back, and back. Asking for guidance. Asking for help.
A breeze begins, rising behind the choir. I can see them through the pew’s wooden floor braces still, and a few singers open their eyes. Others hum. Robes billow as the breeze swirls. The breeze shoots forward and snuffs the torch as it rolls across the floor, from dangerous fire to charred rags and a stick.
I keep chanting. The choir keeps humming. From the back of the church I hear Gisele giggle, and I think I hear her clap.
The breeze I called roars in a circle. Like a dust devil in the field. Like a swirl in fall leaves. It moves before me, dancing as I chant. On my command, it heads for Pastor Bickman.
His eyes widen, and he holds up his Bible.
The breeze knocks a wing from the broken stained-glass dove as it leaves the church through the gaping window—still obeying my will.
Leroy Frye steps toward the churning wind, bringing him square into my line of sight. He reaches
Frye spits on the porch, slams his hand against the window frame, and laughs as the rest of the jagged glass tumbles ceiling to floor.
He’s made his own door now , my mind gibbers.
“We got a quarrel with you, boy,” Frye shouts back. “You and yours.”
The choir, still together, rises to its feet. Eyes closed, they join hands.
“Oh, no,” I hear Grandmother Jones whisper from behind me. “Please, God, no.” Her hands hold my ankles. Squeeze my ankles. Tighter. Tighter.
“We went and got soft on local big-mouths like that Potts boy,” Frye shouts. “Guess we should have paid more attention. He’s been up to no good, and it’s a damn shame. Forgot all his manners.”
I hear engines. Motors. Cars or trucks. And many of them. Torches bob into view behind Leroy Frye. Hooded heads, and hooded eyes. Empty holes in the hot evening.
Miss Hattie shifts on the floor. She and Clay must have ducked down in the row behind ours. I can see their arms under the bench as Miss Hattie starts a wheezing chant. “Not my boy. You won’t take my boy. Kill you first, God forgive me, but I’ll kill you first. Not my boy. You won’t take my boy.…”
“But really,” Frye continues, “we got a bigger problem. And she’s right in there. I can see her, crawling on the floor like a big fat ant. Her.”
Leroy Frye leans through the broken window-door and points a dirty finger straight at me.
“We come about her. The juju gal. Send her out so we can have a look at a real A-freek-an witch.”
Terror nearly melts me, but I have to try. Thesepeople—my grandmother, my friends—they could get hurt because of me. I start to stand.
Grandmother Jones slams me to the floor. Covers me head to toe with her own body, breathing hard. I smell fear like sour onions on her breath. On her hand as it covers my mouth.
“Send her out or we’ll burn her out,” Frye says.
Even from the floorboards, I can see the torch in his hand, coming closer to the hole in the glass. And closer.
Grandmother Jones won’t let me go. Won’t let me move. I squirm and make like I can’t breathe, and at least she frees my mouth. Turns loose some of my power.
“Do I need to start counting?” Frye asks.
Pastor Bickman mutters to the visitors.
“Let her up, Mrs. Jones,” Clay says. “Ruba, she can take care of herself.”
Let me up. Yes! Please, let me up.
“Ruba,” Gisele says. “Rain on ’em, Ruba.”
“One,” says Leroy Frye. “Two.”
And he throws his torch through the window.
I fill my lungs and chant as fast as I can, closing my eyes, rocking beneath my grandmother’s weight.
She tries to keep me still.
I rock harder, moving her like a cork on water, chanting and chanting, once more calling on Circe, on Ba, and back, and back. Asking for guidance. Asking for help.
A breeze begins, rising behind the choir. I can see them through the pew’s wooden floor braces still, and a few singers open their eyes. Others hum. Robes billow as the breeze swirls. The breeze shoots forward and snuffs the torch as it rolls across the floor, from dangerous fire to charred rags and a stick.
I keep chanting. The choir keeps humming. From the back of the church I hear Gisele giggle, and I think I hear her clap.
The breeze I called roars in a circle. Like a dust devil in the field. Like a swirl in fall leaves. It moves before me, dancing as I chant. On my command, it heads for Pastor Bickman.
His eyes widen, and he holds up his Bible.
The breeze knocks a wing from the broken stained-glass dove as it leaves the church through the gaping window—still obeying my will.
Leroy Frye steps toward the churning wind, bringing him square into my line of sight. He reaches
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