Author's Note: Although Robert Johnson is a genuine historical person, his words and actions come purely from my own imagination. All other characters in this story are fictitious. This text contains violence and the depiction of a loving relationship between two adult women. These women loving each other, Fiddling with the recorder, Susan glanced at the owner of the house, sitting across from her in a battered rocking chair. The old woman resembled an African idol fallen to ruin, but some of the sharp bone structure of her face still showed, blades pushing against the soft wrinkles and deeply scored lines that covered her dusky skin. Before Susan could say anything, Mrs. Hawkins raised a pink-palmed hand. "I done told ya on the phone, Miz Finch. I ain't got nothin' to say 'bout Comfort McCall. That's over and done with, and best forgotten." Her voice was faintly slurred but deeply resonant, a molasses drawl that was pure Deep South. Susan squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, pushing a strand of shining blonde hair off her face. "Please, Mrs. Hawkins. I don't..." She stopped and leaned forward, her tone almost pleading. "I came across a reference to Comfort McCall when I was researching for my thesis, and I couldn't get it out of my head. There's so little known about her, few recordings of her songs, just some maddening hints here and there." "Just the way it ought to be," Emmeline replied stubbornly. "Some things ain't meant to be dragged up into sunlight. Best if ya leave 'em in the grave, like the good Lord intended." Susan toyed with the recorder, clicking it on and off unconsciously. She had been traveling for a long time, following one vague clue after another in her pursuit of a phantom. She was obsessed with uncovering the truth about Comfort McCall. Her existence had become an endless quest - she was Don Quixote, forever tilting against the shrouded past of an enigmatic blues player. As a scholar interested in pure history, she was also offended by the veil of superstition that surrounded McCall. Her hand would be the one that pulled aside the lies and half-truths, and exposed the pure heart of the matter once and for all. Susan was ambitious, and not above manipulation if it served her cause. "I've just got to know," Susan said as earnestly as she could. "It haunts me day and night. That woman got under my skin somehow, and I can't rest until the whole story's told. I've been chasing rumors and trying to make some kind of sense out of the senseless. You're my last hope, the last living witness to McCall's final performance. Took me almost six months of searching, but you're the end of the road. If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay. I understand." She gave Emmeline a crooked grin. "But I sure do hope you'll change your mind, if only to let me get some sleep at night." Emmeline studied the young girl for a long moment, obviously considering. Finally, with a sigh of surrender, she gestured to a sweating glass pitcher on the table between them. "Pour us out a glass of tea, Miz Finch. Lord, but story tellin' sure is thirsty work, and I got a feelin' we gonna be here for a while." Susan's smile, which had begun to fade while she waited for Mrs. Hawkins' answer, now blazed across her face. She reached for the pitcher, hands shaking with excitement. "Thank you so much, ma'am..." she began, but Emmeline waved her to silence. "Don't thank me so quick. Ya gonna hear some things that ya ain't gonna believe, ain't gonna want to believe, but my hand to God, every word is gospel truth." Emmeline pulled a handkerchief from the vast recesses of her bosom, using it to wipe a thin sheen of sweat from her forehead and throat. It was July and the ancient air conditioner was broken. A window had been wedged open but very little breeze circulated inside the room. Still, despite the stifling heat, Susan felt a chill in her bones that had nothing to do with the weather. She had a feeling that this was the place where all her questions would be answered. "I'm a Christian woman, Miz Finch," Emmeline continued, taking the glass of tea that Susan offered."Even so, I seen things in my life that ain't of God, and ain't of the Devil, neither. They just is. Comfort McCall was one of them things. Now turn on that fancy machine and settle down. I reckon ya 'bout as impatient as peanuts on a hot griddle, so let's get started." Susan quickly pressed the record button, checked to see that the miniature tape was spooling properly, and set it down on the wooden table near Emmeline. "Please go ahead, Mrs. Hawkins. And thank you, ma'am, for helping me. I mean that with all my heart." "Like I said, ain't no cause for thanks just yet." Emmeline settled deeper into the rocking chair. Her rheumy eyes fluttered shut, and her bottom lip pushed in and out as she concentrated. "I reckon the whole mess started in 1938," the old lady said after a long pause, "down in Roosterfoot, which was smack dab in the middle of no-place, nowhere. T'weren't Georgia, t'weren't Alabama, but near enough to both as to make no nevermind. Some railroad men - my daddy was one, a porter on the Southern Crescent - used to have families in Roosterfoot. There was a Methodist church, a Baptist Church, a grocery store, school, doctor, soda fountain, beauty parlor and a post office in the drugstore. We weren't rich, but every family had a radio, a house, meat most times a week, and at least one man bringin' money home." Susan leaned back in the sagging sofa, keeping her gaze locked on Emmeline. She was wearing shorts, and beneath her thighs, the pink nylon throw had gathered little pools of wetness. Outside, just underneath the window, a wild tangle of roses swayed in a breath of wind. The drowsy humming of bumblebees complimented the black woman's drawl. "Thing was," Emmeline continued, "when a man wasn't workin', he wanted somethin' more excitin' than momma and a passle of young'uns hangin' on his shirt tails. All that time on the train in them days, the men was shufflin' like good boys, Uncle Tommin' and sayin', 'yessir, nossir' to the white captains and their ladies. Had to, ya know, else they might finish up on the wrong end of a rope. There was powerful resentments and bad feelin's just cookin' under the skin, so when they got to home, the men went lookin' for some trouble. Child, there weren't no bigger trouble in Roosterfoot than Big Daddy Bone. "Big Daddy Bone was big - taller, fatter and stronger than any three men put together. He had a white Cadillac convertible that got washed every day. He always wore white, three-piece suits and a big hat with a crow feather in it. He had two gold teeth and his shoes was spit-shined 'till you could see yo' face in 'em. Most imporant of all, Big Daddy had more poison in him than a full barrel of rattlesnakes. "He had a barrelhouse down by the depot, on the side of them railroad tracks. Every Friday and Saturday night, the joint was jumpin'. He brought in jazz and blues, dice and cards, cheap whiskey and cheaper women. For a dollar you could take your pick of Big Daddy's gals - and there was mattresses out back, or so I heard tell. And ain't nobody said nothin' to Big Daddy 'bout all this sinnin'. Nobody dared. "Big Daddy Bone, he ruled Roosterfoot like a king. "He had the Devil written all over him, and black conjure power of such strong evil, none could oppose. Anybody what tried to cross him in word or deed came to a bad end. Like my daddy's friend, poor old Willis Hatchett..."
"Man, you crazy as a shithouse rat!" Big Daddy Bone spat, his little piggy eyes blazing with ire. One of his boys shaved his head every morning with a cutthroat razor. The tightly stretched, blue-black skin of his skull, glossy with sweat, looked like a bowling ball. He held his signature hat in his left hand, and a long malacca cane in the right. "What you mean, comin' in here and talkin' to me like I was trash?" Inside the barrelhouse, a handful of women in loose wrappers drank coffee and kept to themselves, clustered together at a corner table like a clutch of hens. Lafayette Bone, Big Daddy's nephew, stood behind a counter made of two by fours and empty whiskey barrels, counting money out of a cigar box. A lone wasp made lazy circles around a plate of congealed pork ribs near his elbow. Every now and then, Lafayette took a swig from a lukewarm bottle of beer. No one paid attention to the confrontation between Big Daddy and Willis Hatchett. The man who was the focus of Big Daddy's fury did not flinch, but continued to stare up at the man with an air of apprehensive defiance. Willis Hatchett was short, squat and thick all over, with overdeveloped shoulders, a bow-legged stance, and a jaw that jutted stubbornly forward. He licked his lips and repeated, "I said, ain't gonna pay no tab. I hadda go down to Doc Ready's 'cause one of yo' whores done gimme a dose. My old lady gonna kill me, she finds out I been sneakin' honey outside the pot, so I didn't have no choice. Way I figures it, we 'bout even." "Ain't nobody gets away wit' cheatin' me outta what's owed," Big Daddy said, his fury diminished not one whit. "From where I'm sittin', you owes me twelve dollars, an' most of dat's on the dice. No cure costs twelve dollars, Willis." "That's rightly so. Doc Ready's cure cost me three dollars cash money." Willis used the sleeve of his denim shirt to wipe his streaming face. It was hot inside the barrelhouse and he felt like he was broiling alive inside his own skin. "But the way I figure it, you owes me somethin' for my trouble. B'sides, you don't want me goin' around, tellin' everybody yo' girls got bad cootchie." Big Daddy's lips curled, showing the glint of gold on his two front teeth. "I'm a respectable business man," he growled. "My black berries got the sweetest juice around. Everybody know dat." Willis glanced at the seated women in disdain. "Ha! You peddlin' low down, dirty jellyroll and passin' it off for fresh. You a cheatin' scoundrel, Mistuh Bone, dat's what you are. Now, are you gonna give me back my IOU or do I hafta start warnin' my friends? And mebbe you better throw in a beer, 'cause all this talkin's made me mighty damn thirsty." He was getting cocky, facing off with the most feared man in Roosterfoot. Half a bottle of Red Dog whiskey had bolstered his courage. He thought he had Big Daddy by the short hairs. Never had a man been more wrong. "You know what, Willis Hatchett?" Big Daddy's voice had gone silky and cold. From behind the counter, Lafayette kept counting bills with dogged determination. "You ain't nothin' but a little ol' yellow jacket, a-buzzin' 'round a bull. All talk - buzz, buzz, buzz! - but you ain't got no sting worth mentionin'." His malacca cane shot out, thin and whippy, quick as a lick of lightning, and slapped the counter near Lafayette's elbow. In the confines of the barrelhouse, the sound was like a gunshot. Willis jumped, his dark face suddenly gone murky gray. Lafayette did not move. He knew that he had nothing to fear. Beneath the ivory-capped end of the cane, a wasp convulsed and struggled, humming its distress, bobbing its head up and down in a blind dance of agony. Slowly, Big Daddy increased the pressure, all the while watching Willis closely. There was a series of sharp cracks, the hum took on a painfully shrill note, and finally there was a loud crunching noise, as if a brittle stick had been twisted in two. The yellow jacket stopped twitching altogether. Its legs froze into position, then relaxed and curled inward to rest on the ruptured carapace. Big Daddy flicked the dead wasp off the counter towards Willis, who took a nervous step backwards. The crushed insect landed near his foot. "So what's it gonna be, Mistuh Wasp-man? Huh?" Big Daddy smiled. The expression was terrifying, a predator's grin of anticipation. He poked Willis in the stomach with his cane. "C'mon, Wasp-man. You be buzzin' all dis time 'round my bull's head. Buzz, buzz, buzz! Ain't you got nothin' more to say?" Willis stepped backwards again. His bravado drained away and absolute terror took its place. The menace in Big Daddy's piggy eyes, always bubbling just under the surface, had emerged and was focused on him. Shadows in the barrelhouse seemed to gather together in blustering clumps, growing blacker and more substantial by the second. His bladder tightened against a hot flood. Willis Hatchett was looking his mortality dead in the face, and now he knew it in his bones. Big Daddy leaned closer. "Don't come buzzin' 'round my black berries no more, Mistuh Wasp-man. Don't be buzzin' yo' nasty lies in town, tryin' to take my business away. Don't be messin' wit' dis bull, understand? Now git yo' sorry, fat-mouth self on back home, Wasp-man, before I swat you like the bug you are." The cane poked again, hard enough to make Willis suck in his breath with a whoop. Big Daddy's lips stretched wide. "Git!" As Willis turned and ran out of the door, the cane caught him a stinging blow on the back of his thigh. The impetus drove him forward, bare feet thudding in the dirt, and he kept running until he was out of sight. Lafayette finished counting, wrapped a dirty rubber band around a wad of bills, and put them back into the cigar box. Reaching behind his ear, he pulled out an unlit cigarette and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Unlike his flamboyant uncle, Lafayette's eyes were dead and soulless as a shark's. The only thing Lafayette Bone cared about was money. Big Daddy, on the other hand, cared mostly about prestige. "Dat boy's momma sure didn't raise him right," the huge black man said, shaking his head in mock sadness. "Imagine, comin' in here and talkin' such trash 'bout my sweet berry girls. Well, can't have dat shit goin' around." He sighed and made a 'come along' gesture at his nephew. "'Fayette, I reckon we gonna have to give Mistuh Hatchett a lesson in manners." Lafayette nodded and looked bored. The women, who had stayed at their secluded table, kept their gaze carefully averted from Big Daddy Bone. Whenever he got that 'cat stole the cream' look, somebody was sure to die. Unlike Willis, these women weren't wrong about how far Big Daddy Bone would go. Later that same day, Willis Hatchett was found dead on the front porch of his house, his body grotesquely swollen by hundreds of wasp stings. There was a mojo bag found on the floor, rattling with stones and bones and powdered herbs. A crushed wasp was mingled with the rest. Someone discovered a bowl of blackberries next to the overturned chair. Dew still glistened on the soft, succulent fruit. There were bloody welts on Willis' belly, like he had clawed at himself in a desperate attempt to set free an agony from within. Curls of dried skin were found beneath his fingernails. He had also scratched his face and throat so many times, it looked as if he had been attacked by an enraged housecat. A discreet investigation by the mortician at the Shady Fields Funeral Home revealed that the victim's esophagus, stomach, mouth and especially tongue all bore a high concentration of stings. Fear kept the mortician quiet, but not quiet enough. The awful news spread rapidly. Big Daddy's terrifying reputation gained another notch. The mojo bag was quietly burned at a nearby crossroads. The porch was washed down and the bowl of berries thrown out. Willis' hysterical widow was given a tranquilizer shot by Doc Ready. She kept insisting that she'd seen yellow jackets boiling in a cloud out of her husband's mouth... not into it. Within hours after the discovery, the local feed n' seed store sold out of Red Devil lye. Residents of Roosterfoot could be observed digging holes at the four corners of their homes, planting their cans in the dirt to ward off evil. Willis Hatchett's death was officially recorded as an accident. And Big Daddy Bone, a law unto himself - judge, jury and executioner - just smiled and smiled.
Susan quickly changed the tape, stuffing the completed mini-cassette into her purse. "Shall we take a little break?" she asked, unpeeling herself from the sofa. Emmeline snorted, levered herself up from the rocking chair and padded out of the room. "C'mon back to the kitchen and get somethin' to eat. I reckon yo' stomach thinks yo' throat's been cut. I know mine does." Susan snatched up her recorder, followed Emmeline, and settled at a scarred oak table in the kitchen. One of the table legs, shorter than the rest, had been propped up with a faded matchbook. The old black lady bustled between refrigerator and counter, and very shortly plunked a chipped china plate in front of her guest. She sat herself opposite Susan and gestured to the plate. "Go on and eat. Ain't nothin' important gonna happen in the next ten minutes." There was a sandwich of avocado, tomato and sweet red onion on wheat bread, liberally slathered with mayonnaise, plus a cold chicken leg and a scoop of potato salad. Susan took one bite and her eyes rolled in ecstasy. She hadn't tasted food so good since the last time she had visited her own grandmother. Cholesterol, be damned. They ate in companionable silence, stopping only for Emmeline to fetch a jug of lemonade, ice cubes and two mason jars for glasses. Gnawing on the drumstick, Susan asked, "Did the people in Roosterfoot really think Big Daddy Bone killed Willis Hatchett, that it wasn't an accident? I remember you said something about him having some kind of power..." Emmeline's lip curled and she put down her sandwich. "Uh-huh. Big Daddy had the conjure power, all right. I seen other root doctors in my time - some doin' only good, others workin' both for good and bad - but he didn't do nothin' but the darkest kind of work. He was a black hoodoo man, usin' the Devil's magic to put the hot foot on ya, or cross ya up unto death, or hex ya to misery. Big Daddy didn't need no guns. He had goofer dust and graveyard dirt, crossin' powder, jinx makers, war water and rattlesnake powders. God help ya if Big Daddy decided to lay down a trick; that man could steal the breath outta yo' body in a finger-snap, just like he did to poor Willis Hatchett." Susan stopped eating. "You don't really believe in all that, um, stuff, do you?" "You was 'bout to say 'nonsense,' huh?" Emmeline gave the young woman a pitying smile. "Yo' sittin' there thinkin', this here's one old woman who done lost her mind! But hoodoo' ain't nothin' but the truth. I seen it work. I seen the way folks'd step off the curb so Big Daddy could pass, bowin' and scrapin' like he was God Almighty Himself. I seen healin' and cursin' come to pass. What he did was real. Don't matter if it was natural or unnatural. Folks thought it was true, and so it was." Susan nodded. The tattered remnants of Comfort McCall's legend were steeped in the occult traditions of the Deep South. Some of the men she had talked to in her travels were conjure doctors, dispensing flannel bags of roots and magical herbs that they called mojo hands. People wanted to believe in their power to cure or curse - and she knew that unquestioning belief could be a powerful weapon in the arsenal of an unscrupulous man. Most myths have supernatural elements, Susan thought. I'll just have to sort through all this dross later and hope I can find some nuggets of truth. Dammit, the things I'm going through to get a lousy degree! She ducked her head and apologized sweetly to Emmeline, who accepted with great dignity. "It ain't all that important." She went to the counter, cut off two slices of strawberry cake, and sat back down again. "Ya better put that box back on, 'cause I'd better get on with this story or we gonna be here all night. Now, where was I?" Susan turned the recorder on. "Willis Hatchett had died, and people thought Big Daddy Bone did it with conjure power," she prompted. Despite her misgivings, she was determined to hear the rest of the tale. Emmeline nodded. "Just so, just so. Well, the same night Willis Hatchett was stung to death, Comfort McCall stepped off the 10:15 train and into Big Daddy's barrelhouse down by the railroad tracks, just outside of Roosterfoot. "Just so's ya know, Comfort weren't too womanly lookin', if ya get my meanin'. Flat as an ironin' board all over, but built hard in her body like a field mule. And she was what we called back then a 'high yeller.' Mulatto, kinda sallow, like somebody done rubbed her skin with saffron spice. Some of them mulattos got real light eyes, ya know? But Comfort, she had one eye brown like normal, and t'other blue as a peacock's behind. Right witchy, that was. Most everybody thought she was some kinda feller at first, 'cause she wore a raggedy man's suit, and a skinny tie, and an old bowler hat jammed on top of her head. "That guitar she carried was old. Real old, dark wood, with bitty silver stars. And the strings was silver, too. She had a black cat bone on a thong around her neck, and she reeked to high heaven of Hoyt's Cologne and Double Fast Luck soap. That woman was charmin' as a snake-oil salesman when she was of a mind, but mostly she meant serious business. "Lord, but it sure lit a hateful fire in Big Daddy's heart when Comfort McCall rode into town..."
Comfort McCall glanced casually around the barrelhouse. The thin pine walls still oozed a sticky sap, which had discolored the tattered calendar pages and advertising signs that someone had stuck up haphazardly. Bent nails on support posts held kerosene lanterns. A crude counter with an assortment of bottles and jelly jar glasses stood to the right; the rest of the room was filled with tables and chairs knocked together from orange crates. Outside, a barbeque made from a halved oil drum was being tended by a scrawny old man and two small boys. They dipped short-handled mops into a bucket of strong-smelling red sauce, then slapped it onto chunks of meat and butterflied chickens, sending vinegar/cayenne scented smoke straight through the door. Comfort shifted her guitar so that the carrying strap wasn't biting into her shoulder. "Hey, ya'll," she said huskily to the six women and two men inside the barrelhouse. "I hear tell ya been lookin' for singers and players." "Uh-huh." Big Daddy assessed the scarecrow figure with quick flick of his piggy eyes. "What's yo' name?" "Comfort McCall." The brim of her hat cast a shadow over her face, but her peacock-blue eye gleamed in a stray beam of sunlight. Big Daddy snorted. "Hmph. And wit' dat and a dime, I can buy me a soda pop. Ain't never heard of no yeller music man by dat name." "I prefer to keep my light under a bushel." Comfort's lips quirked. "Ya want me to play or not? 'Cause if ya don't, I gotta train to catch." There was something in the slender person's attitude that Big Daddy didn't like, an indifference to his high status that rubbed him the wrong way. "Do I want to hear dis uppity sass-mouth, come into my own place and disrespect me?" he asked the room in general. "Hey, 'Fayette, you want to hear a no-good ramblin' man play?" Lafayette lit a cigarette and tapped his fingers on the counter. "Not particularly." Big Daddy laughed. The chair he sat on creaked beneath his bulk. "Well, listen to the man, Mistuh Sass-Mouth. I reckon you best be on yo' way, before I kick dat yeller ass so hard, yo' teeth gonna land in next week." "I wanna hear her." This came from a young woman sitting by herself at a table, nursing a bottle of orange Nehi. "C'mon, Daddy Bone. Let's hear her play." "Hush yo' mouth, girl." Big Daddy's tone was oddly gentle, but he took a new look at the stranger with the silver stringed guitar. He had assumed that McCall was a man. Comfort removed her bowler hat, revealing a shock of rusty red, nappy hair that stood straight up, untouched by grease. "I'll gladly play for ya, honey, if that's all right with Mistuh Bone here." The young woman giggled. Her name was Maybell Pearl, but everybody called her Pretty. She was the only daughter of the late Reverend Pearl, who had died in a car crash last year. Nineteen years old and lush bodied, her kittenish good looks might have attracted the attention of Roosterfoot's boys, except that Big Daddy had his covetous eye on the young beauty. He had unofficially adopted her after Reverend Pearl's death, and acted like a generous, loving uncle. But everyone except Pretty could see that this benevolence was a sham, thinly veiling violent lust and terrifying intentions that the mind shuddered away from. Nevertheless, Pretty was allowed the run of the barrelhouse, and no one dared to lay a finger on her. To the women of the town, this state of affairs was a hissing scandal, but nobody voiced their disapproval out loud. When it came to Big Daddy Bone, discretion was the better part of valor. Pretty Pearl had no idea why Big Daddy spoiled her. She simply accepted all that happened with the unquestioning joy of a child - completely, blindly innocent. She had also forgotten her father, or so it seemed, and abandoned her Christian upbringing to consort with blatant sinners. In fact, Pretty hardly remembered her father at all. She knew, in a vague sort of way, that her real daddy had been a church man. And he was dead, which did not upset her as it should, but she never wondered about it, nor did it worry her unduly. She was content to remain muffled in Big Daddy's protection and that was all that mattered. "Please," Pretty begged in a sweet, little girl's voice. "Please, let's hear her play." Despite his instant dislike of McCall, Big Daddy decided to let Pretty have her way. "All right, sugar. Whatever you want," he said to the girl, then turned to Comfort and shrugged his massive shoulders. "What can I say? Go ahead and play yo' heart out, Miz McCall. Ain't payin' nothin' for the privilege, mind. Do yo' best and den we see what's what." Comfort nodded, unslung her guitar, propped her foot up on a nearby chair. She spent a few moments tuning. Every now and then she cast a discreet look at Pretty Pearl, assessing something that only she could see. When she was ready, she strummed her callused thumb along the silver strings and began to play. Pretty's sloe eyes were filled with excitement. The young woman's skin was the shade known as teasin' brown, and no make-up marred the perfection of her cafe au lait complexion, not even a dash of lipstick. Big Daddy had been very firm on that score, and Pretty had an overwhelming need to please her Daddy Bone. The other women in the barrelhouse were chattering softly together, ignoring Pretty - whom they hated with a jealous passion - and Lafayette, whom they feared almost as much as Big Daddy. They also paid no heed to the strange man-lady with her guitar, until Comfort began to play in earnest. Then they fell silent and stared, gossip forgotten. A glittering series of notes fell into the quiet like a shower of crystalline stars. Clear and cool, the melody swept through the room, driving the oppressive atmosphere away and leaving a spring-like freshness in its place. Pretty frowned and shook her head as the music drove away the cobwebs that had filled her skull since her father's death. She couldn't even recall attending his funeral. Something had taken those memories away and wrapped them tightly in cotton wool, leaving a hazy place inside her mind that she'd never questioned, never even thought to question. Now, Pretty began to remember... Big Daddy opened his mouth, about to protest. He could feel his hold on Maybell Pearl beginning to slip. The binding ritual he had worked on the girl after the Reverend's death was supposed to last forever, blinding her to all others, keeping her solely fixed on him. He had kept her innocent because it suited him to do so, and her wide-eyed, childlike ways amused him. Someday he had planned on removing her virginity himself, breaking her, making Pretty his slave. That would be amusing, too, and it was a moment to be savored, which is why he had put if off as long as he had. But somehow, his spell was beginning to unravel. He suspected this stranger had a lot to do with it. When she began to sing, his suspicions were confirmed. Comfort's voice was husky, like honey and bourbon and smoke, and her mismatched eyes gleamed at the ill-concealed look of baffled rage on Big Daddy's face. "I see me a woman, she's teasin', pleasin' brown," Comfort sang, turning
to face Pretty: The tune abruptly changed, swooping down into a minor key, notes dripping like tears from silver strings. The prostitutes could sense the change, and the lachrymose melody touched their shriveled hearts. For Pretty, it was devastating. Suddenly, memories flooded back of her father - their life at home, church socials and gospel songs, fishing in the river, long Saturday afternoons on the porch, the smell of his bay rum aftershave. She began to weep, aching for her father's strong arms. All thoughts of Big Daddy were exorcised in a glorious sweep of music that removed the taint she'd been living under for over a year. Big Daddy glanced from Pretty to Comfort, obviously furious. He reached into the pocket of his blinding white jacket and brought out a small, amber glass bottle. As if she had eyes in the back of her head, Comfort turned around to confront him before he could open the bottle and throw his unholy Crossing Powder in her direction to confuse her efforts. To his surprise, Big Daddy found himself paralyzed and pinned into place by the malevolent, witchy flash in the woman's peacock blue eye. She sang in a powerful, ringing voice: "Keep yo' Crossin' Powder, keep yo' jinxing water, too, The sensation of fine, strong hairs wrapping themselves tightly around Big Daddy's face made him want to scream in frustration. The hairs dug down into the skin, down into the flesh, right down into the bone and cut so deep, he was surprised not to see droplets of blood staining his jacket. They weren't real, of course. It was binding magic, a spell to control and contain him, and it was surprisingly strong. He cursed himself for allowing this woman into his establishment. A moment's weakness, that's what had blinded him to her true nature. Weakness for a fool girl who wasn't worth a plugged nickel. Damn Pretty Pearl for cajoling him into this rash act, and damn Lafayette, too, for not helping his uncle! Comfort saw the magic take hold and was satisfied for the moment. The binding might not last long, especially on a man like Big Daddy Bone, but for now it was enough. She stopped playing and walked over to Pretty, who was still crying. "C'mon, honey," she said, holding out her hand to the young woman. "I reckon there's a boardin' house 'round here. Why don't ya show me how to get there?" Pretty snuffled miserably. "Uh-huh." She took the offered hand and slowly exited the barrelhouse, Comfort in tow. Neither woman so much as glanced in Big Daddy's direction. Big Daddy Bone raged silently, struggling against the enchanted bonds that held him powerless. Nobody stopped the two women as they made their way out of the door and into the healing sunlight.
"My Lord, but time sure flies in the summertime," Emmeline said, shifting around in the wooden kitchen chair and taking a sip of lemonade. She held a paper fan, advertising the local Baptist church. She applied it languorously, just a twitch of the wrist to create a bit of breeze. Across the table, Susan eyed the fan with envy and wished for rain to break the intolerable heat of the day. The young blonde woman pushed strands of hair off her sweaty face and dabbed her forehead with a paper napkin. "So Comfort McCall also had magical powers." Her tone was flat with a slight edge of irritation. All this supernatural talk was getting on her nerves. "Maybe so," Emmeline replied with a shrug of her heavy shoulders. "Or maybe she just shook Big Daddy up real bad and made him think he lost a fight in his own mind. She was a mighty clever woman, ya know. What's the truth? I don't rightly know my own self. I'm just tellin' ya what happened a long time ago." "That's all right, Mrs. Hawkins. I didn't mean to sound skeptical, and I apologize if you thought I doubted you. Please, go ahead." Susan was a rational, logical woman, who came from a world in which magic and hoodoo were deemed the superstitious beliefs of ignorant, uneducated and gullible people. Nevertheless, sitting here in this humid kitchen, with shadows lengthening on the yellow painted wall, and Emmeline's syrupy drawl soaking into her brain, she felt a creeping coldness running through her veins. The small hairs on her arms and the back of her neck struggled to rise. Her grandmother would have said that a goose was walking over her grave. The reaction annoyed her, even though she understood it. An atavistic response to cultural preprogramming, she thought. The lizard brain senses danger and the body responds accordingly. It's the reason why we humans love to get the bejesus scared out of us on roller coasters, bungee jumping and parachuting. The adrenaline rush makes us feel alive. Well, I want to stay objective and focused, dammit. I'm not going to get sucked into the fantasy, no matter how attractive it is. I want the truth and nothing but the truth. Emmeline blinked and pursed her lips. After a long pause, punctuated by the swishing of her fan, she continued, "Well now, McCall and Pretty Pearl got real close. Comfort hung 'round Roosterfoot a while, playin' on Main Street for dimes, and doin' a little root doctorin' here and there on the sly - mostly love charms and uncrossings, ya know. Pretty never did go back to church. I reckon she was mightily shamed of the way she acted after her daddy's passin', tho' that weren't really her fault. Still, she felt it deep enough to keep her head down and avoid most folks, exceptin' Comfort. "Anyhow, Comfort got a room over Euphemia Duvall's grocery store, and Pretty stayed with her. Fact is, them two women was pert near joined at the hip after a while. Always seen 'em holdin' hands, whisperin' in each other's ear, huggin' and kissin', little sister pecks on the cheek, sweet as rock candy from dawn to dusk, and all times in-between." Susan cleared her throat. "Were they lovers?" she asked, half-afraid of offending the old lady. To her surprise, Emmeline let out a sound somewhere between a cough and a throaty laugh. "Oh, child! I weren't nothin' but a pig-tailed girl back then. And times was different, too - more innocent, not so quick to judge. Us country folks didn't much use words like 'bulldyke' or 'lesbian' or whatever ya call such things today. But Comfort sure did woo that Pretty Pearl just like any beau. Used to pick her wildflowers down by the river, buy penny chocolates and ice cream malts, sing her love songs. Did that make them lovers? I don't rightly know. What them gals did in private weren't nobody's business but their own. "What I do know is when Comfort and Pretty looked at each other, ya got the feelin' that there weren't nobody else in the world but them. Like they was two stars that fell outta heaven, and by great good grace, found themselves together, ya know? It ain't easy to explain, but I do believe that Comfort and Pretty was just plain meant to be. If they did sin in the Lord's eyes, that was between them and God." Susan flicked a drop of sweat off the end of her nose. "I suppose Big Daddy Bone wasn't too happy about that." "Would a snake be happy if somebody come along and stole his dinner?" Emmeline whipped the fan more vigorously. "Ha! He tried everythin' he could to curse that high yeller woman. Poundin' graveyard nails and sprinklin' goofer dust into Comfort's footprints. Makin' poppets with rusty pins in their eyes. Buryin' hex bottles in her path. Ain't nothin' worked. And the more he tried and his hoodoo didn't work, the crazier Big Daddy got." Susan thought she had a good idea of why Big Daddy's so-called hoodoo did not work against Comfort McCall, but kept it to herself. Two witch doctors canceling each other out in psychological warfare. "What did he do? Did he resort to physical violence?" Emmeline shifted again and sighed. "Any fool can use a gun, if he's got brains enough to figure out where to point it. No, Big Daddy was too proud. He was a hoodoo master, not some cheap hood. If he'd-a shot her, he would've lost all his standin' in Roosterfoot. It had to be the Devil's work that undid Comfort, not man's. Understand?" Susan did, and nodded. Emmeline continued, "So when his magic weren't powerful enough to cross Comfort McCall, he called in a friend what owed him a favor, figurin' a stranger might succeed." "A friend?" Susan leaned closer, elbows propped on the table. "Who was that, Mrs. Hawkins?" "Man named Robert Johnson." The name was familiar to her. It took a few moments for Susan to make the necessary connections in her mind. "You don't mean the Robert Johnson, do you? The blues player who did Stones in My Passageway, Sweet Home Chicago, and Cross Road Blues?" Emmeline nodded. "I mean the very same. Maybe ya heard 'bout how Johnson was s'posed to have sold his soul to Satan?" "I always thought that was just a legend." "Legends have a way of bein' true," Emmeline said darkly, her rheumy eyes boring into Susan's. The younger woman shivered, and briefly wondered if Mrs. Hawkins had read her mind.
Robert Johnson was a small man, slightly built, with overlarge hands and long fingers that could tease impossible chords out of his guitar. A childhood disease had given him a "sleepy" eye - the left eyelid drooped slightly, lending his features a slightly sinister look. His skin was the color of dark chocolate, and he was rarely seen without a cigarette smoldering in the corner of his mouth. There was a certain wounded charm about him that was very attractive to women, but they quickly found out that this was just a facade. In reality, Johnson was cool all the way through, from the cold gleam of his gaze to the icebound heart that pumped beneath his ribs. The only thing that thawed this chill was music. When he played, it was like the shock of watching a dormant volcano suddenly begin to spew flames. Although not yet thirty, Johnson already had an eerie reputation. A few years ago, he had been a third-rate musician who had mysteriously disappeared without a trace, only to turn up months later with amazing guitar skills and a knack for writing songs that left his audience stunned. Most people believed he had met the Devil at the crossroads, exchanging his soul for musical genius. The fact was that Robert Johnson had not really met the Prince of Darkness - he had instead hooked up with Big Daddy Bone. There wasn't much difference between the two. Johnson owed Big Daddy, and now it was time to pay. "What ya want with me, Mistuh Bone?" Johnson asked, cigarette ashes falling unheeded onto the lapels of his brown coat. "Ya ain't said how come I had to be here, only that I s'posed to beat feet, so here I am." "We gonna fight fire with fire," Big Daddy replied cryptically, smacking his lips. A big plate of barbequed chicken was in front of him, red sauce dripping from his fingers and the folds of his double chin. Johnson sat his guitar case down by his feet, obviously impatient. "Hey, Mistuh Bone... I been flaggin' the train since Monday mornin', all the way from Dallas, 'cause ya said it was important. Just cut me a record and man, it was so damn hot in there, we was sittin' 'round in our drawers. Ain't had no chance to cool off or nothin'. I'd appreciate it if ya'd get to the point." "Ain't dat grand!" Big Daddy exclaimed with false heartiness, tossing a well-gnawed chicken bone over his shoulder. "It does my heart good to see a no-talent darkie gettin' on in the world, makin' records and such. My, my, ain't dat a humdinger." He fixed the waiting man with his glittering piggy eyes. "I got considerable interest in yo' career, baby boy," Big Daddy continued. "There was talk of payment down by dem crossroads, and I'm callin' it in right dis minute. Don't even think about squelchin' on yo' debt, 'cause I can flat-out promise ya dat what Big Daddy gives, Big Daddy can take away like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "Now sit down and be respectful-like when yo' betters is talkin', else there ain't gonna be no more records. And dat's an eighteen karat fact, boy." Johnson knew that whatever this man wanted, he would have no choice but to give. Before he'd met Big Daddy Bone, he had nearly given up music, almost given up on life itself. The blues meant his ticket out of a piss-poor sharecropper's life. Although he had taught himself to play the harmonica fairly well, the guitar had eluded him. He had been at a crossroads in Mississippi, near Hazelhurst where he'd been born, full of misery and wishing he could die. Big Daddy had driven along in his white Cadillac, full of promises and hope, and at first Johnson had deemed the man an angel. Now he knew better. Black magic had been done that day. Oaths had been sworn, blood had been shed. There was no getting out of it now. Johnson sat down on a chair, plucked the cigarette end out of his mouth just before the coal could burn his lip, and tossed it carelessly away. "I hear ya, Mistuh Bone. Ain't gotta make no threats, nossuh. I hear ya loud and clear." "Dat's mighty kind of ya, Bobbie." Big Daddy pushed his plate away and signaled Lafayette to bring over some bottles of beer. "Now listen... I got me a monkey on my back, name of Comfort McCall. Ever heard of her?" Johnson pulled a fresh cigarette out of a crumpled pack and lit it with a match, considering. "Seems like dat name is familiar... ain't she related to dem Seven Sisters outta N'awlins?" "Is she?" Big Daddy was surprised but hid it well. The Seven Sisters of New Orleans were famous conjure women known throughout the Mississippi Delta. "Hmph. Maybe so, maybe no, but it don't make no nevermind. Now, dis woman done disrespected me to my face, stole my gal, and I don't hold with dat. She got the hoodoo power, Bobbie. Does it through her guitar. I figured yo' mojo is good enough to handle her all right, 'cause ya'll got the same kinda instruments and such." "How come ya ain't handled her yo'self?" Johnson drawled. Lafayette slapped a cold beer down on the table in front of him. The blues players wrapped his long-fingered hand around the bottle. Big Daddy's tiny eyes, sunk into folds of fat, narrowed even further until they nearly disappeared. "I thought a boy like yo'self would be thankin' me for all the help I done give him," he growled. "How come ya ain't grateful for the chance to put yo'self square, huh? Be a free man with no more obligations. I don't want no sass. I don't want no questions. I just want a yes or no." Ask no questions, get no lies, Johnson thought. He knew Bone well enough to realize that the big man would never admit to being defeated by anyone. Still, it seemed like a cheap and easy way of working off his debt, a small price to pay for the fame that he craved. There were things he had learned that night at the crossroads. The melodies Johnson wrote were tinged with a whiff of brimstone, his battered guitar made a conduit for demonic forces. He was sure that he was more than a match for a lone woman. Aloud, he said, "Yessuh. What ya got in mind, boss?" Big Daddy explained his plan. Johnson listened. When Big Daddy Bone finished, he grinned openly. The cigarette stayed in the corner of his mouth as if glued there, and more ashes spilled down onto the front of his suit. "If I does this for ya, Mistuh Bone, ya says we be finished, right?" "Right." "Ya got yo'self a deal." Both men smiled, a mirthless shark's grin. Outside the barrelhouse, the sun began to sink behind the pines.
Susan called, "Can we stop just a minute? I need to change the tape." "Sure, Miz Finch," Emmeline replied. She got up and flipped on the lightswitch in the kitchen. A low wattage bulb came to life, and only then did Susan realize how dark it had gotten. "Oh! How late is it?" Susan asked, automatically checking her wrist and discovering she'd left her watch in the hotel room. I hope the cleaning lady doesn't steal it. Then again, I doubt a Timex knockoff is any great prize. If she touches my laptop, though, I'll kill her. "I reckon it's gettin' nigh onto seven of the o'clock." Emmeline put down her fan. "It'll be cooler now." "I'm sorry this is taking so long, Mrs. Hawkins. Maybe I could come back tomorrow..." "I'd rather get this over with tonight, if ya don't mind. But if ya has another appointment or somethin', I understand." "No, no, not at all, ma'am!" Susan hastened to reassure the old woman. The last thing she needed was to go away with only half the story. Emmeline might just change her mind, or drop dead of a heart attack. "I just thought you might be getting tired. I've been taking up an awful lot of your time." "A woman my age ain't got nothin' but time, Miz Finch." Emmeline gave her a placid smile. "Well, I still got half a chicken in the icebox. If ya gets hungry, just sing out. I purely hate to see a hungry person at my table." "I'm fine, really, but thanks for the offer." Susan checked the recorder. It was running, shiny black tape spooling from one tiny reel to the other. "Now, I guess you were about to tell me what Big Daddy Bone and Robert Johnson had planned. This is absolutely fascinating stuff, by the way. Why haven't you ever told anyone else?" "I was waitin' for the right listener. Anyhow, you 'bout ready to go on?" "Yes, ma'am." Susan was really engrossed in the story, despite her dislike of all the occult references. "Well, then... Big Daddy knew that Comfort was a gambler 'cause she'd buy Hoyt's Cologne and Fast Luck Soap, and kept a black cat bone 'round her neck for luck. Back then, lots of folks was into dicin', cards, horses, cockfights, playin' the policy numbers - even tho' it was against the laws of God and man. Big Daddy reckoned that if he spun the right web, Comfort would fall right into it, 'cause it weren't in her nature to ignore a challenge. "He started advertisin' a blues contest at his barrelhouse, and put the word out all over town. The winner got five hundred dollars, cash money. That was a lot in them days, Miz Finch. A powerful piece of bait that few could resist, includin' Comfort." "Surely she realized it was a trap? Nobody could be that reckless or naive." "Of course she knew!" Emmeline slapped the top of the kitchen table with her palm, making Susan jump. The old woman fixed the younger one with a fierce glare. "She weren't stupid, Miz Finch. But puttin' a challenge before Comfort McCall was akin to wavin' a red flag in front of a bull's nose. She just couldn't back down. Stubborn as a mule and proud as a peacock, that one. Pretty Pearl didn't much like the idea, but Comfort reckoned Big Daddy's was callin' her out, and she weren't gonna say no. Runnin' from long odds ain't her style a-tall." "It was like a duel, then." Susan slowly relaxed again in her chair. An evening breeze, scented with roses and lilacs, drifted through the kitchen window above the sink. "Did she know about Robert Johnson?" Emmeline pursed her lips together and thought a moment before answering, "I don't rightly know. Could be, but it don't really matter." "The people of Roosterfoot must have been excited." "Scared silly, more like. It weren't nothin' like Big Daddy to go throwin' good money away. Anybody what was dumb enough to try and enter that contest got short shrift from Lafayette Bone. In the end, it was Comfort McCall and Robert Johnson at the barrelhouse to play, with Big Daddy, Lafayette and Pretty Pearl, plus bunches of other folks. Big Daddy wanted plenty of witnesses to carry back the tale, 'cause he figured this was gonna be Comfort's downfall." "Mrs. Hawkins..." Susan knew she had to phrase this question carefully if she didn't want the old woman to get her back up. "You said before that you were a 'pig-tailed girl' when all this was going on, but you know so much, including the details of McCall's last public performance in Roosterfoot. With your Christian upbringing, I don't suppose your parents would have allowed you to go to a place like Big Daddy's barrelhouse..." She paused to decide how she was going to continue, but Emmeline interrupted. "Miz Finch, my momma would've whaled the tar outta me if she'd caught me hangin' round that Sodom and Gomorra. My daddy would've skinned me alive, too." Emmeline let out a short, breathless chuckle. "I was the youngest child of a big family. Didn't get much attention, considerin' how my brothers was always raisin' cain, and I ran wild. So long as I was home for supper and they thought I was in bed after dark, ain't nobody raised a question. "Now, I used to sneak down to the barrelhouse and peek through a knothole in a board in the side. I liked the music, ya see, and all them pretty dresses the ladies wore. Liked the dancin', too. Ain't nobody noticed me, which I reckon is a mighty good thing. That's how come I seen the big fight between Robert Johnson and Comfort McCall all them years ago." Susan smiled. "I see. Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins. I admit that I was wondering." "I don't blame ya. Now, ya 'bout ready for me to go on?" "Yes, ma'am. Please do." "Well, then... when Big Daddy held that contest, his joint was packed tighter'n mackerel in a tin can. Most of the men in Roosterfoot, 'cept them what was still workin' the trains, made it their business to come down. I seen my own daddy there, too, wearin' his Sunday suit and whoopin' it up with the boys. A lot of 'em come 'cause Big Daddy was offerin' a free beer on a hot night, but that didn't make no nevermind. "Pretty Pearl was there, sweet as always, and couldn't hardly keep her eyes off that yeller woman. She knew that Comfort wasn't just battlin' over five hundred dollars. No, child. Comfort was fightin' to preserve Pretty's body and soul from the grasp of a man who was probably Satan himself in disguise..."
Robert Johnson gave Comfort an appraising glance. Her guitar emanated with magic; to his uncanny sight, an aura of blue-white light, like lightning bolts, hovered around the instrument. His own ebony-painted Kalamazoo guitar had a brick red supernatural 'skin', shot through with streaks of pulsating black. Although this brief assessment showed that Comfort was a woman of power, he was confident that she could not match him. The barrelhouse was full. All the tables were full occupied and latecomers were squeezed against the walls or sitting on the floor. The crowd consisted primarily of men. Those few women among them were Big Daddy's employees, perched on laps or draped around the shoulders of those who could afford their company. The fat man himself, lord of his domain, was dressed in his usual white three-piece suit. He had dispensed with his trademark hat and malacca cane, and was seated right up front, close to the tiny, hastily constructed stage. Lafayette was behind the bar, busily opening bottles of beer and pouring shots of whiskey or locally produced corn liquor. Although the door was open, the room was stifling hot, the press of bodies almost unbearable. A stinking fog of cigarette and cigar smoke hung close by the ceiling, and the place reeked of cheap cologne, sweat and spilled beer. Big Daddy stood up, his huge shadow falling across the stage. "Everybody, hush up!" he shouted. He didn't have to speak twice. Immediately, the raucous chatter and laughter ceased, and the room fell silent. "I want to thank ya'll for comin' out tonight," he continued with a wide smile. "Dis here's what ya might call an historic occasion." Big Daddy reached into a pocket and drew out a wad of money, secured by a rubber band. "I got five hundred dollars here, and every penny is gonna go to the best blues player in Roosterfoot." There was some scattered applause, which Big Daddy acknowledged with a slight bow. In the kerosene lantern light, his bald, blue-black skull gleamed as if oiled. "We got two dat's gonna be fightin' 'gainst each other - Mistuh Robert Johnson, and Miz Comfort McCall. I reckon Mistuh Johnson oughta go first, 'cause he just cut himself a record in Dallas, Texas, and I reckon he deserves the honor. The rules is dead simple - ya'll keep playin' till ya can't play no more. Last man standin' is the winner." He sat back down again and put the bundle of bills on the table in front of him. All eyes glittered with greed at the sight of so much money. A few men might have considered a quick snatch-and-run, but no one really had the courage to steal from Big Daddy, no matter how desperate or reckless they were. Big Daddy Bone's vengeance was like the Lord's - swift, sure and utterly without mercy. Robert Johnson splayed his unnaturally big hand over the strings of his Kalamazoo, and after a dramatic pause began to play. A walking bass line, with choral movements that would have been impossible for someone with normal-sized fingers to reach. The melody was insistent as a drum beat, with a boogie-woogie edge that made the audience shift in their seats. Comfort immediately began playing harmony, fingers shifting with liquid ease across the silver strings of her guitar. She wove in and out of Johnson's song, sparkling notes that quickly took the lead, forcing Johnson to follow her instead of the other way around. Without visible effort, Comfort had switched from harmony to melody, and Johnson gave a growl at this display of skill. He broke off, slapping the guitar strings with the flat of his hand to produce a jangled discord. Comfort picked a jaunty 'shave-and-a-haircut, two bits' that earned a guffaw from the audience. Big Daddy scowled. Pretty Pearl, who was standing as close to the stage as she could get, clapped her hands together in pride. Johnson was shorter than Comfort by a head. In a rumpled black suit, with his sleepy eye and hunched shoulders, he resembled a vulture waiting to pounce. In contrast, Comfort stood tall and easy, the freckles on her saffron-hued nose looking like flecks of ink in the uncertain lamplight, an explosion of russet hair standing straight up from her head. He began the opening bars of a song, this time calling upon the powers that dwelled in his innermost darkness. "Knife and razor gonna cut ya to the bone, Because she was standing closest to her lover, Pretty was the only one who noticed a long cut opening up across Comfort's cheek. She let out a cry of dismay and gave Johnson a hate-filled glare. A crimson trickle immediately ran over Comfort's face and dripped off the side of her jaw. She was startled, both by the pain and because Johnson had begun using such offensive tactics so early in their magical duel. Even as she countered with a bright flurry of music, blood welled from another cut in her upper arm. She did a quick healing chant, and the deep gashes healed over, leaving pink scars in their places that rapidly turned to silver. Her peacock-blue eye glinted ominously as Comfort turned to Johnson. He opened his mouth, about to sing another charm, but she took a deep breath and got in first. "Fire below ya, burnin' hot and flamin' quick, The cigarette that dangled perpetually in the corner of Jonhson's mouth suddenly fell out, bounced off his shoulder, and in an improbable disregard for the laws of physics, came to rest in the gap between his waistband and shirt. The cheap cotton garment burst into flame. He yelled and smacked the tiny fire, but only succeeded in causing the blazing cigarette to fall down inside his pants. Gyrating like mad, he began slapping his crotch and shaking his legs. The audience, who had no idea of what was really going on, thought Johnson was dancing. "Do the Georgia Crawl!" someone cried in a drunken slur. "Naw, the shimmy!" another suggested. Finally, Johnson managed to put the fire out. The spent cigarette rolled out of the bottom of his pant's leg. He was sure he had at least one blister on his scrotum, and a painful burn on his belly. The audience did not notice that this was anything other than a contest between two musicians. They chatted, cheered and paid only nominal attention as long as the drinks kept flowing. Big Daddy and Pretty Pearl were the only ones in the room who saw and understood the potent forces that were being unleashed. Johnson was really furious - not so much because he had been wounded, but because he had been humiliated. Comfort strummed her guitar with a callused thumb and played a complicated jazz line, obviously preparing to hit him again before he could get his defenses up. The best defense was a good offense, and Johnson knew that better than most. Rather than shielding himself from next attack, or sparing time to heal his wounds, his fingers skittered across his guitar, plucking a counterpoint that sliced through her song like a red-hot blade. Icy needles spun out of thin air and leaped across the space that separated him from Comfort, burrowing into her flesh. She gasped and nearly dropped her guitar. The silver stars inlaid into the ebony wood began to flare. Creeping cold spread outwards beneath the skin, congealing her blood. Her teeth began to chatter. Her heartbeat stuttered. Pretty saw that her lover was in trouble and quickly hopped up on stage. Johnson was too busy enforcing his spell to notice the young woman. From beneath her skirt, Pretty produced a flannel bag that had been fastened with string to the top of her garter belt. It was a Nation Sack, the female version of a mojo hand. Tearing the drawstring top open, Pretty pulled out a folded paper tube, ripped it open and flung the contents into Johnson's face. This was Hot Foot Powder, a concoction used mainly in footprint magic. Besides its jinxing qualities, the powder was a potent combination of sulfur, salt, dried chili peppers and other ingredients that made Johnson's eyes immediately swell and burn as if touched by a branding iron. Johnson ignored the agony and blindness. With a roar like a maddened bull, he clawed at the Kalamazoo, producing notes that he bent until they wailed. The torturous sound was a hammer blow, knocking Pretty to her knees. Despite her own pain, Comfort played a series of meandering chords that were smooth as silk. The music twined around and through Johnson's cacophony, dominating the pattern. His attack was not so much blown apart as it was drained of malice. He stopped, tears streaming down his cheeks. Pretty gave Comfort a reassuring smile and crawled off the stage. The duel continued. Hot licks created invisible lines of force that whipped out to catch and strangle. Johnson countered with a saw-edged whirlwind that succeeded in slicing the woman's knee before she could stop it. The combatants were injured and healed in rapid succession. Magical point and counterpoint echoed the music that came from the depths of their souls. Big Daddy watched the battle with a furrowed brow. It seemed that Johnson had met his match, and he could not predict the winner. He did not like unpredictability. Comfort was more powerful than he'd bargained for, but Daddy Bone preferred to hedge his bets. He made a 'come-along' gesture to Lafayette, who walked over from the bar. It took only a moment to whisper instructions, and Lafayette returned to his busy station, putting off thirsty customers with a shrug. Big Daddy Bone stood up and held out his hands. Johnson and Comfort broke off, each panting and sweaty. "Dat's some mighty fine playin'," he said expansively to the clapping crowd. His gold front teeth gleamed in the lantern light. "I reckon we oughta give these two a break, let 'em wet their whistle. What ya'll say?" The audience greeted this idea with enthusiasm. Lafayette emerged carrying two bottles of beer, already opened. They were ice cold; water droplets drizzled down the amber glass sides. Big Daddy smiled, nodded and sat down. Pretty Pearl grimaced in suspicion. She knew what the fat man's satisfied smirk meant - big trouble for somebody else. Lafayette started to hand one to Johnson, but Comfort grabbed the bottle first. "Thank ya kindly," she rasped. "I was feelin' a mite parched." Johnson raised an eyebrow and glanced at Daddy Bone. The quick wink he received in return was subtle enough to escape everyone's attention. Satisfied that foul play was being done to his benefit, Johnson snatched the other bottle and began to drink. His throat worked as the level of beer dropped rapidly. In no time, he had finished and was wiping foam from his lips. The empty bottle was tossed back to Lafayette, who caught it adroitly. Lighting another cigarette, Johnson was surprised to see that Comfort was not drinking. Instead, she gazing at the bottle in her hand with an amused expression. Immediately, an alarm began to sound in Johnson's mind. Something was wrong. He shot a startled look at Big Daddy, who started to rise from his table again. Comfort let the glass container fall. It shattered at her feet, wetting the toes of her shoes with hops-scented suds. There was another smell, too - the distinct odor of bitter almonds. Daddy Bone subsided, and Lafayette scowled. Their crude poisoning attempt had been detected. The woman's peacock blue eye had a nasty glimmer in it. Before Johnson had a chance to swing his Kalamazoo back into position, she played a thumping, low-down and dirty beat that fastened him so securely in place, it was as though his heels had been nailed to the floor. "Cheatin' ain't beatin'," Comfort sang, Johnson rolled his head from side to side, willing his body to obey. Comfort's spell sank down into his skin, igniting a fire in his stomach that he knew would never die until he was cold in the grave. Muscles twitched in uncontrollable spasms. He appeared to be having a fit. Big Daddy had a sheet of yellow paper in front of him, covered with writing that resembled chicken scratchings. The big man was sweating heavily, white suit gone limp and stained. His fat fingers danced over the paper, sprinkling a fine black powder, and he muttered without pause. Those nearest to his table drew back, suddenly afraid. The members of the audience, though drunk, were beginning to realize that this was no lighthearted party. A current of fear swept through the room, and they all fell silent. Lafayette had gone back to the bar. From behind the counter, he withdrew a shotgun. Daddy Bone's nephew, tired of his uncle's preoccupation with his hoodoo reputation, had decided to settle matters the old-fashioned way. "Stupid old man should'a done this before, goddammit," he muttered, bringing the gun to his shoulder and aiming at the stage. "Simplest way's the best. One shot, and there ain't no problem no more." Pretty Pearl screamed. The sound cut through the tension-rich atmosphere like a cutthroat razor. Suddenly galvanized and in complete panic, the men of Roosterfoot stampeded towards the door. Lafayette pulled the trigger and the shotgun went off with a deafening roar, cutting down two people who had blundered into his path. The whores began to scream, too, several of them liberally splashed with blood. Rich crimson splattered the wall, the floor, the nearby tables. A crush of bodies tore the doorframe out of the pine wall, and a howling mob swept into the night. Lafayette cursed and started to reload. Robert Johnson collapsed and curled into a ball, his fingers stiffened into claws. Static sparks snapped from his hair with loud crackles. Streaks of electric blue lightning snaked in and out of his eyes. Big Daddy Bone was unfazed. He continued to chant while the barrelhouse emptied. An untouchable aura had surrounded the fat man, which had left him undisturbed by the mob. Pretty Pearl jumped onto the stage and grabbed Comfort's arm. "Ain't we better get outta here?" she asked. Comfort stood her ground. "I ain't done yet," she replied firmly, "and neither is he." She strummed her silver-stringed guitar while staying focused on Big Daddy. If she had noticed Lafayette, she didn't show it. "One of us has got to go, honey - me or him. Ya'd better scoot on home where it's safe." Pretty was not going to hide in a corner while her lover got shot. Realizing that there was no time to warn Comfort about the danger or convince her to leave, she leaped off the stage and made for the bar. Lafayette was fumbling another shell into the chamber of the gun. Pretty snatched up a chair that had remained miraculously unbroken, and smashed it into the man's face. It was made of cheap orange crates, and flew apart without doing much damage. Lafayette blinked at her in astonishment, then pure rage made his lips skin back from his teeth in a snarl. "Ya little bitch!" he spat, drawing back the shotgun stock. He sent it slamming down with all his strength behind it. Pretty had no chance to duck. The solid maple stock hit her face dead on, crushing her nose into bloody pulp. With a gurgling cry, she fell backwards. Distracted by her lover's distress, Comfort wrenched her attention away from Big Daddy. The music she was crafting ended in a jangled chord. "Pretty!" she yelled. Comfort made a movement towards the young woman, who lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Lafayette had reloaded the shotgun, and was aiming both barrels at the tall, stocky figure on the makeshift stage. His finger tightened on the trigger. Comfort's mouth went wide open in a shout of incoherent rage. She grabbed the neck of her guitar, holding it like a sword, and a surge of blue-white lightning lashed out of the instrument. Silver stars pulsated, glowing like tiny suns. The flashing power caught Lafayette around the throat. His eyes bulged out of their sockets, and his hair began to smoke. Impossibly, the shotgun stock melted, hot liquid wood flowing over his hands and searing them to the bone. Lafayette tried to scream, but all he could get past the constriction in his throat was a hoarse whisper. Johnson, finding himself free of the worst of his opponent's binding, dug into his pocket and drew out a switchblade. The drooping lid over his sleepy eye twitched. Violence smoldered in his glare. He hauled himself up silently, a hunch-shouldered and menacing form. The poison in his stomach, transferred there by Comfort's spell, made him nauseous with pain, but it would not kill him yet. According to the charm she had sung, he had time before it was fully activated. Poison was insignificant next to revenge. Johnson wanted to slice out her heart and eat the dripping slices before her dying gaze. Comfort hopped off the stage, still holding Lafayette in a supernatural grip. In the unnaturally brilliant light that limned her body, her saffron skin was more golden, her hair a crown of blood-dipped wire. One eye was copper, the other iridescent blue. Her profile was hawk-like, every angle thrown into sharp relief. Comfort's fierce expression promised death to the one who had harmed her lover. Lafayette's feet scuffled in a tragic hanged man's dance. His tongue lolled out, and a vessel burst in his forehead with a fine spray of crimson. Urine drizzled into the sawdust behind the bar. Comfort twisted the guitar in her hands, causing the energy noose to corkscrew. The pressure wave of sizzling lightning flew past its tether point and across the room, to swell behind the man's ear. After a moment, Layette's neck snapped with an audible crack and he went limp. She let his corpse drop. The magical wave subsided, reeled expertly back into her guitar. Light faded until the room was in semi-gloom once more. The killing of Lafayette Bone had taken less than a minute to accomplish. In the newly created hush, Comfort knelt down beside Pretty, who stirred and moaned. "Ya gonna be alright, honey," the musician murmured. "I'm here, and ya gonna be alright." She helped Pretty get to her feet, and steadied the young woman's swaying body. Pretty gave her a weak smile, wincing as Comfort gently touched her broken nose. A look of profound love was shared between them. They appeared to have forgotten the world existed. Without Comfort touching the silver strings, her guitar began to play a sweet melody in a minor key. Pretty caressed her lover's cheek. The pain of her injury was soothed away by the musical strains. Big Daddy Bone chose that moment to strike his own blow. He was aware of his nephew's fate, but decided not to intervene. Lafayette's fate was unimportant. What mattered to the fat man now was the total destruction of his enemy, and he did not care to count the cost. He saw Johnson looming behind the couple, a switchblade in his oversized hand. He pointed a thick black finger at the two women. On the table, the yellow paper caught fire. "I curse ya, Comfort McCall!" Big Daddy screamed. "I puts my curse on ya, Maybell Pearl!" In his free hand, a ball of murky light started to form. He continued, "Hungry for yo' blood, Pretty's sloe eyes went wide, and a startled expression crossed her face. She let out a sigh and slumped. Alarmed, Comfort snatched at her lover before she could fall. A stain of blood was spreading across the back of Pretty's dress. The musician looked around in agony and disbelief. Pretty had been stabbed, and her life was pumping out of the wound. As Comfort turned, Johnson raised the switchblade with a triumphant grin. The knife swept down and buried itself in the tall woman's chest. At the same moment, Big Daddy Bone released his curse. Tendrils of orange-tinged fog immediately wrapped around the two women. Thunder boomed. The melody that had been playing took on a harder edge, notes tumbling together and increasing intensity until the shack quivered. Tin signs popped off the walls. Beer bottles shattered. Furniture began to slide around the floor. The concussion knocked Johnson off his feet and sent him sprawling back on the stage. Comfort cradled Pretty in her arms. The young woman had a froth of bloody foam at the corners of her mouth. Comfort bent her head and whispered something to her dying lover. Pretty nodded. The handle of the switchblade in Comfort's chest throbbed up in time to the beating of her damaged heart. She did not seem to feel it. Their flesh took on a translucency as Big Daddy's magic consumed skin, muscle and bone. Orange fog swirled and crawled around them like a nest of vipers, the misty coils finally enveloping the two entirely from head to toe. The only evidence left of their existence was the faint twanging of a guitar. A long, sly grin spread across Big Daddy's round face. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and took his time lighting it with a match, keeping his balance easily against tremors that continued to shake the barrelhouse. It was clear that he thought he'd won. The fat man laughed - a deep, mocking, nasty chuckle that had echoes of hellfire in it. On the stage, Robert Johnson sat up slowly, rubbing his head. "Look-a here, Bobbie," Big Daddy called, gesturing grandly with his cigar. "Ain't dat just about the sweetest thing ya ever did see?" Johnson gave him a feral grin. "Yassuh," he agreed, picking up his Kalamazoo guitar and checking for damage. "I reckon we done fixed them bitches but good." "We?" Big Daddy Bone regarded him with exaggerated surprise. "Did I hear ya right, boy? I ain't seen yo' sorry self doin' nothin' tonight 'cept causin' me trouble. Dat hoodoo witch was gonna cook yo' hash. If I ain't jumped in, Mistuh Bobbie be layin' there with poor 'Fayette, stone dead." Johnson opened his mouth to protest, but whatever he was going to say was swallowed up by a crashing chord. Both men stared at the cloud of vapor that had eaten the women alive. A thread of real gutbucket blues drifted into the air, growing stronger by the second. Unrestrained and earthy, the rhythm carried hints of Memphis and Mississippi, Harlem and heartbreaks. There were hot tears on a humid Delta night, salty sweat, muddy smell of fields beneath the sun, cigarette smoke and bourbon. Miles of highway ribbon unspooling in sun-blurred vision as a bus rumbled along. Fading scent of magnolias. Black and white photographs smeared with lipstick kisses. A darker, minor key wove in and around the melody: insinuating visions of red murder, screams in the dark, gunshots, passionate grappling overshadowed by jealous rage. Sorrow and joy, love and lust, life and death - all were mingled in a singular explosion of music that blasted the fog away. An entire constellation of silver stars wheeled across the ceiling, illuminating a pair of ghostly figures who were not entirely human. Comfort McCall and Pretty Pearl were not dead, nor were they living. Instead, the women had been transformed, their very flesh becoming the stuff of magic. This was the true crossroads - not an intersection of country lanes, but a threshold between two worlds. Here was the place of power. The fat man's curse had deprived the lovers of one existence, but gained them another. Big Daddy was about to reap what he had sown. He found himself paralyzed, unable to move at all. Johnson whimpered and clutched his guitar as if it was a shield. Comfort's peacock-bright eye shone with sappharine fire. Pretty's gaze was equally confident and implacable. Their injuries were gone, and the bar counter could be glimpsed behind their opaque bodies. Thin filaments of blue-white light slithered through the women's unearthly skins. The splintered remains of Comfort McCall's guitar were scattered around the room, broken strings tarnished and black. She no longer needed a focus to summon occult forces and tame them to her bidding. Big Daddy started to bleed. Scarlet droplets oozed from every pore, trickled from every orifice, blossomed with exotic brightness on his white suit. As the song reached its crescendo, the women began to sing in harmony, Pretty's glassy soprano blending perfectly with Comfort's huskier tones. "Yo' so hungry, boy, can't satisfy ya none, Big Daddy's piggy eyes were wide open in terror. Near his polished shoes, a small patch of dull orange fog appeared. He could hear sharp teeth grinding and gnashing, a demonic voice slobbering in anticipation, the wail of an insatiable hunger that would never be satisfied. He squealed, windmilling his arms in a fruitless effort to get away. His legs would not obey, but remained solid and immovable as oak stumps planted into the floor. Johnson watched from the safety of his vantage point, heart stuttering in fear. Great serpent coils of smoke wound around Big Daddy's legs, crept up his torso, wreathed him to his wobbling chins. His mouth was engulfed, cutting off his screams. Only the man's horrified gaze and gleaming skull were visible. Horrible crunching noises and muffled grunts made Johnson cover his ears. Blood drizzled onto the pine boards. Steaming viscera slid into view, loops of pink and gray-tinged intestine plopping haphazardly to the floor, slipping and sliding together until they, too, were consumed by the fog. In a few heartbeats, the dirty mist began to contract, growing smaller and thinner until only a few tattered remnants floated in the air. They, too, dissipated quickly. What was left of Big Daddy's skull rocked to and fro on the ground - the untouched eyes were milky, the upper row of teeth still glinted with gold, and beneath the polished dome of blue-black skin was an empty cavity. Nothing else remained of the fat hoodoo man who had ruled Roosterfoot like a king. Johnson turned his head and vomited. The music ceased. Outside the barrelhouse could be heard the chirping of frogs, an owl's triumphant shriek, and the soft pattering of raindrops. One by one, the lanterns were smashed, as though struck by an invisible hammer. Johnson was left in the dark with only nightmares for company. Comfort McCall and Maybell Pearl kissed while the world held its breath, then vanished in a blink of light. Susan shook her head. She could not believe that she'd come all this way, taken so much trouble, just to be fobbed off with an imaginative but gory fairy tale. "And you were a witness to all this?" she asked Emmeline, not bothering to hide the disappointment in her voice. "Yes, Miz Finch," Emmeline bridled. "I told ya the story weren't so easy to believe. I ain't no liar. That's 'xactly what happened, so help me God." "You did warn me. I'll give you that." With an irritated twitch of her finger, Susan shut off the tape recorder. "And I'm sure you told me precisely what you think you saw. I do appreciate the time you've taken to help me." Even if it was another goddamned wild goose chase, she added silently. Not much new here at all but some exaggerated details. "Like I said, old lady like me ain't got nothin' but time." Emmeline glanced at a clock on the wall. "Gracious me! Look at that! Lord, here I been natterin' on, and I'm sure ya just been itchin' to get back to yo' hotel." Susan gave her a sickly smile. It was hard to be gracious. She had hoped that this witness would at least have a little substantiated meat, a few facts that would point her in a productive direction. Instead, it was the same old legend, dressed up in the worst excesses of a slasher film. Her pet theory was that Comfort McCall had, for reasons of her own, changed her identity, living anonymously until her death. She would find no confirmation here. An idea suddenly struck her. Maybe the woman's story was not so crazy after all. "Robert Johnson did die of poisoning," she said, thinking aloud. "In Greenwood, Mississippi, in 1938. Supposedly, his married lover gave him strychnine-laced whiskey. I suppose the investigators could have been wrong, and the death caused by cyanide." Emmeline snorted. "Ha! Comfort's curse finally caught up with him," she replied. "T'weren't no more or less than he deserved." Susan was getting excited again. Perhaps there were golden nuggets buried deep in Mrs. Hawkins' narrative. Her explanation of Johnson's death was a flourish tacked on to the myth, but a portion of truth lay behind it. What if Comfort had murdered Big Daddy Bone and his nephew? Not by magic - a ludicrous suggestion - but by knife or gun. Wouldn't that provide sufficient impetus for her subsequent disappearance? She had never heard of Roosterfoot before today. Susan's sources had given McCall's last performance as being in either Georgia or Alabama, usually in small towns on the border between the states. It would take some time, but if she could find Roosterfoot and examine the county records... Of course, this is just speculation, but my God! Everything I know about McCall suggests that she would not have shrunk from violence. Why she did it is unimportant right now. A quarrel, a lover's spat, a drunken brawl, who knows? I have to get back to the college as soon as possible. This is the breakthrough I've been waiting for. Roosterfoot, here I come! Emmeline cleared her throat and stared pointedly at the clock. "I reckon ya be wantin' to get back on the road." "Oh! Yes, yes, absolutely." Susan jumped up, scraping limp tendrils of hair back behind her ears. She felt galvanized by new energy, and no longer resented the old lady's embellished story. "Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins. Thank you so much!" "Yo' surely welcome, Miz Finch." Emmeline smiled and chuckled. "Come back anytime and visit, hear?" "Yes, ma'am. I'll definitely keep that in mind." Susan shook the old lady's hand. The flesh was loose and felt powdery soft, but there was still strength in the gnarled fingers. "Thank you again for your hospitality." "Been my pleasure. Have yo'self a good night, now, and safe journey, Miz Finch." Susan grabbed her bag, waved, and went out onto the porch. The screen door banged shut behind her. She breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of roses on the night air. Her car was parked in the yard - a bright red Honda that seemed black in the faint moonlight. Susan dug into the shoulder bag and pulled out her keys. The rose perfume changed, turning sour with a hint of mildew and ash. She frowned and shrugged. Starting down the steps, the blonde paused with a curse. She had left her precious tape recorder in the house. Susan turned around, and her heart leaped into her throat with shock. It was not the same place she had entered all those hours ago. That had been a neat, clapboard house painted silvery gray, with a wide verandah attached to the front. A bit shabby and old-fashioned, but scrupulously clean. This was a ruin. It had been gutted by fire, and recently, too, judging from the crumbling beams and joists that had once held the structure's walls upright. The exposed earth was scorched, heaped with cold embers and ash-coated debris. In the center of the destruction was a table and two chairs, oddly untouched. Her tape recorder was there. Susan stood there, completely dumbfounded, her mind chasing itself in little circles. Her first coherent thought was that she had been drugged. She picked her way to the table, rewound the recorder, and switched it to 'play.' Her own voice sounded tinny and high, but where the old lady's replies should have been, there was nothing but hissing static. A light touch on her shoulder made her jump and turn around with a scream. The recorder dropped, forgotten in her fright. A young man was there, holding a flashlight. His skin was so dark, all that could be seen of his face was a pair of shining eyes. When he swung the light up, making Susan blink, she could see a resemblance to Mrs. Hawkins in his high cheekbones and proud demeanor. "What ya want here?" he rumbled. "Ain't nothin' to steal, and yo' trespassin' on private property." "Who... who are you?" Susan looked from him to the burnt-out shell. Her pulse was pounding, her mouth dry as dust. It was hard to get the words out. His brow furrowed. "George Hawkins," he replied. "This here was my grandma's place. We lives 'crost the way." George pointed to the other side of the dirt road. There was a house there, brightness blazing from every window. Susan had not noticed it before. "Now what ya doin' here, miss?" "My name's Susan Finch," she said, desperately trying to make sense of this crazy situation. "I was interviewing Mrs. Hawkins..." "Mee-maw?" George was surprised. "Hey, yo' the lady she been waitin' for! The lady from up north! Damn, Mee-maw been fussin' all day 'cause you ain't showed up. Where ya been all dis time? Did ya get lost?" Susan rubbed her aching temples. "Look. I was here, right here, talking to Mrs. Hawkins all day. Who the hell is Mee-maw?" George's tone was kindly, as if he realized that the young woman was in some kind of distress. "Mee-maw is my grandma, Emmeline Hawkins. I ain't rightly sure what ya talkin' about, ma'am. There ain't nobody been here a'tall. I only come over 'cause when I was outside havin' a smoke, I seen ya in the yard." "I don't understand!" Susan nearly yelled in frustration. "I swear, there was a house here. I was in it. I ate food here, for Christ's sake! I was with Mrs. Hawkins all damned day! Where did she go? Where did the house go?" "Ma'am, there ain't no way ya been talkin' to my Mee-maw. She been over to my place for a week, 'cause dis place got hit by lightnin' and burned up." The whites of his eyes gleamed. "Come on and see for yo'self." He led the way and Susan followed, her knees weak. As they approached George's house, Susan gasped, snatching the flashlight from his hand. The back wall of the porch was covered with old signs and advertising posters in cracked frames. George Hawkins stopped as well. "Mee-maw made those firemen save all dis junk," he said in explanation. "She calls 'em her 'recollections,' from back when she used to sing wit' one of them jazz bands. Old Mee-maw went everywhere in them days, and got pretty famous." Susan played the beam back and forth. Disbelief warred with madness in her brain. See Big Daddy's Dixieland Band! screamed one poster. Hot! Hot! Hot! in Lafayette this Saturday night. A tin sign proclaimed, Brown Beauty's Cosmetics Will Make You Pretty as a Pearl! Just ask Mrs. Emmeline "The Negro Nightingale" Hawkins. Works like Magic! Maybell and Doc Willis Hatchett - Comfort McCall - Robert Johnson - Euphemia Duvall and her All-Girl Orchestra - together for one week only at the Delta Hoodoo Barrelhouse. Reverend Bone and his Gospel Quartet, featuring Emmeline Hawkins! Famous throughout Georgia and Alabama. Shine-O-Bright, Makes Suits White! Drink Crowfeather Whiskey. Cadillac Mills presents Gold-Tooth Ready's Boogie-Woogie Band. A dried chicken's claw was nailed to one of the porch's support columns. George nodded at it. "Bein' a Christian woman, Mee-maw don't hold no truck wit' dat stuff, but my daddy always had a rooster foot hangin' on the porch for good luck." Susan's mouth opened and closed. Here it was - almost every name in the story had been plucked from the ephemera of long-dead advertisements. It took an effort of will before she could speak coherently. "When Mrs. Hawkins was a child, did her family live in a place called Roosterfoot? It would have been a railroad community." "Naw," George replied, puzzled by the question. "Mee-maw was born and raised right here, in dat old place on t'other side of the street. Dere's railroad tracks right behind here, but dey ain't much used...." He broke off when Susan started running. She stumbled once going around the side of the house, but picked herself up and went on. In the distance, she could hear a train whistle, shrill and plaintive. She was obeying a frantic impulse that came from somewhere deep inside, an instinctive command that she could not ignore. When she got to the tracks, Susan halted. The train seemed to move slowly, piercing the darkness with a brilliant beam that grew bigger and bigger as it approached. Susan's teeth chattered. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The ground beneath her feet shuddered. A hot, muggy wind began to blow, rustling nearby kudzu vines until the sound became a whispering voice, repeating over and over... Comfort and Pretty... Comfort and Pretty... Susan swallowed past a gritty obstruction in her throat. The fine hairs on her arms started to rise. She squinted into the brightness, feeling faint and weak. Roaring past her, the train was a juggernaut of iron and steel that threatened to snatch her into its wake. Susan fought to stay erect against that unstoppable force. Another whistle nearly deafened her. Car after car jolted by at breakneck speed, clattering in a dizzying rhythm that mimicked the beating of a heart. The last boxcar door was open, and as it swept along, she had enough presence of mind to point her flashlight into its depths. The split-second view was burned into her brain. She would never forget that sight as long as she lived. Two women stared back at her. One of them was very pretty, brown-skinned with a Josephine Baker hairstyle. Black sloe eyes glittered in her kittenish face. The other was a solidly built mulatto, whose shock of russet red hair stood straight up on her head. They were holding hands. Together, together, forever, forever, whispered the vines. What Susan could make out most clearly was the mulatto woman's eyes. One was the color of chocolate, while the other... blue as a peacock's behind, she thought crazily. The eyelid closed, hiding that disconcertingly sapphire orb, then sprang open again, completing the wink. That was all Susan saw. Clacking wheels rolled the boxcar out of sight. In its wake came a riff of soulful blues, poignant and triumphant at the same time. With a final whistling wail, the train disappeared, and the kudzu vines fell silent. Susan swayed. The flashlight fell from her nerveless hand. Neither dead nor alive, her mind recalled. Transformed into the stuff of magic. Together forever. Who had she been speaking with from morning to evening? An illusion? A ghost? A legend that was neither flesh nor spirit, but something greater than both? Some mysteries were not meant to be solved. "Leave 'em in the grave like the Good Lord intended," the false Mrs. Hawkins had advised. She wished to God that she had. George Hawkins arrived barely in time to catch Susan Finch as she fainted dead away. THE END |
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