And run she did, heading for the back of the house.
Except that she'd forgotten the witch-hunter with the gloves.
He lunged at her, and she dodged, but she was just the tiniest bit too slow. His bulky hand was about to close around her arm when her foot came down on the pile of books on the floor. The top volume slid forward while the other two stayed where they were, and Lyssa all unintentionally dropped below the grasp of the man's hand.
Lyssa grabbed one of the books and, in one fluid motion she'd never have accomplished if she'd stopped to think about it, brought the edge hard against his knee. By luck, she struck just the right spot, and his leg buckled.
And then she was on her feet, still holding the book, and running past her parents' room. The witch-hunter who'd been searching there made a rush for her, but she eluded that one's grasp also and made it into her room. She leapt over her possessions, which had been dumped unceremoniously onto the floor, and scrambled through the open window.
She heard shouting. Witch-hunters were following, some coming the way she had, others—who must have been in the front guarding her father—circling around the outside of the house.
Drawn by the commotion of the witch-hunters, neighbors had gathered. Simple farmers for the most part. People she'd known all her life. Some few might be sympathetic, but there was no being sure if or who. Lyssa headed off into the woods. Branches raked at her hair and arms. She knew she was leaving a trail anyone could follow, but there was no time for cleverness. She had to get some distance ahead of them, then she could try backtracking or crossing the stream or climbing a tree and jumping squirrel-like to another—tricks she'd learned from reading Satanic bibles.
Her dress snagged on a branch, pulling her up short. She tugged, ripping the fabric, and went skittering down a bank, closer to the stream than she had expected. Her books had taught her about walking in the water, so as not to leave telltale impressions of her passing. But now that she was here, she saw that going upstream would bring her rapidly out into the open, and downstream was impassable because of a fallen tree, which would take too long to climb over, or around, or under.
Still clutching the book, unwilling to lose her last tie to her parents, she splashed through the unexpectedly chilly stream and scrambled up the other side, leaving distinctly fresh gashes in the muddy bank where her feet slipped.
Though it was dusk, dark was a long time coming on summer nights, and suddenly, behind her, she heard the baying of the witch-hunters' dogs, trained trackers. There would be no gathering of fallen branches and last year's leaves to hide beneath.
Lyssa pressed her hand to her aching side and zigzagged through the woods. She came to the stream yet again, pursuit still close enough to hear. Upstream was the same felled tree that had blocked her before. Or downstream, which the witch-hunters would know was the only way she could go without running into those on the far bank.
She splashed noisily. The water came up to her knees, dragging at her, making speed impossible. And then the ground was no longer where it should be. She pitched forward, almost dropping the book, as the water closed in over her head. But as soon as she stopped panicking, she found she was able to stand after all, with the water only to her waist. Still sputtering, she waded out on the side where her house was, hoping her pursuers wouldn't look for her this close to home.
If only she could elude them till dark, she thought. Then she could cut across the field unseen, make her way to her aunt's house. Surely her aunt would protect her for family's sake.
But suddenly a bright light flashed out of the dimness, blinding her. A loud voice called out, "Escape is impossible."
Lyssa spun around to retrace her steps. But after that incredible brightness, she could make out nothing but shadows. Hands grabbed her, took hold of her arms, turned her back in the direction of that awful light. Somebody shouted an order, and the light went out. Lyssa was marched in the direction of the voices and the dogs by two sure-footed witch-hunters. The books were full of people using spells to get out of situations just like this, but there was nothing Lyssa could do.
They reached her backyard in minutes. Her escape attempt had been pathetic. Her parents had already been taken away. She might never see them again.
The Witch-Hunter General stepped forward from the brightly lighted front lawn. Shaking her head, she wrenched the sodden book from Lyssa's hand. No gloves for her, Lyssa noted. She wished the book did have some special power. She wished the Witch-Hunter General's hand would fall off.
But of course it didn't.
***
Norah Raybournne, representative of Citizens for a Better Community, watched as the black-and-white police car rounded the curve of the driveway, taking away the evil child. Norah never referred to herself as a witch-hunter, though she rather liked the name. She performed a valuable and sometimes dangerous service, and the fact that the people she pursued called her witch-hunter provided what any straight-thinking person would find an unsettling insight into their psyches.
She dropped the Satanic bible in a plastic bag, not because she was afraid of being contaminated, but because it was dripping. It would have to be dried out before it could be destroyed at one of the public burnings. She had seen this particular version before anyway and didn't need to inspect it. So sad, she thought. How could people do that? Intentionally pervert their own child, exposing her to Satan's influence so that she would never—Norah was sure of it—be fit for anything besides life in a federal penitentiary, where she wouldn't be able to spread her evil influence to others.
The dispenser of hand wipes that she kept under the dashboard was empty, so Norah wiped her hands on her grandson's football jersey, which would be easier to launder than her uniform. Then she opened the case of her computer to catalog the Satanic bible. What was the appeal, she wondered with contempt, of a book whose only purpose was to deceive?
Norah scrolled down the checklist to the section for children. The biggie, of course, was Unauthorized Miracles (a.k.a. Magic), subsection Wishes Refilled by an Agency Other Than God (Implication: SATAN).
She also put checks by:
—Grossly Unlifelike Illustrations, Giving Children a Distorted Sense of Aesthetics So That They Become Dissatisfied with Their Own Appearance.
—Women as Victims.
—Inaccurate Historical Representation That May Confuse.
—Unrealistic Depiction of Animals That May Cause Disappointment and/or Physical Harm to Children Expecting Real Animals to Behave in Like Manner.
—Unfair and Demeaning Stereotypes of Nontraditional Nuclear Family Units.
—Fulfillment of Unreal Expectations, Leading Children to a Life of Disappointment and Self-Recrimination.
Norah Raybournne snapped shut the lid of the computer and started the car. She shuddered at the thought of the book beside her, even though she wasn't a superstitious woman, even though she knew it couldn't harm her unless she let it.
Cinderella.
It was one of the worst, and she wouldn't rest easy till she had destroyed every copy.
Cypress Swamp Granny
MARIETTA SAT ON THE VERANDA fanning herself, because there's nothing hotter and stickier than August in New Orleans, and indoors wouldn't even be bearable till evening. "The trouble is," she complained, "all the best boys went off to that stupid war, and what came back was worse than what stayed."
"Hush!" Mama gave a frantic look to Papa, snoring one chair over; for Papa was one of those who had gone, and he had lost a foot to an artillery barrage at the first battle of Manassas, which the Yankees called Bull Run.
Marietta waved her fan dismissively. It was one thing for Papa to have to walk with a cane. It was quite another matter to have boys Marietta was supposed to dance with come back from the war with arms and legs missing, or with awful scars, or—worst yet—like Billy Renfrew, who looked as fine as ever but now just sat there, his eyes focused on something nobody else could see; and occasionally his mother had to get
out a handkerchief and wipe the drool from his chin.
"It just isn't fair," Marietta insisted.
"I swear"—Mama leaned back in her chair—"sometimes you're the most heartless child I know."
"Seventeen is not a child," said Marietta. "And all I'm saying is, it's a sad day when Louisa Beth Eldridge's family is giving a ball in one week's time, and the most eligible bachelor around is Will Stottle, with his too-narrow shoulders and his too-wide behind."
Mama patted Marietta's arm sympathetically. "Not," Mama pointed out, "of course, that Will Stottle is eligible anymore. He and your cousin Violet have formalized their engagement."
"Oh, Mother!" Marietta cried in exasperation. She shoved back her chair, with a scraping of wood on wood.
—just as young Ceecee, carrying a tray with glasses of tea, eased open the front door.
The chair hit the door, the door hit the tray—and tray, pitcher, and glasses crashed to the floor.
Mama cried out, brushing at the hem of her gown.
Papa snorted in his sleep but didn't wake up.
Ceecee, eight years old and unsure whether to curtsy and apologize first, or cry, or pick up the broken glass, or mop up the spreading puddle of tea, bobbed and wavered, trying to accomplish all at once.
Marietta fought the inclination to kick her, lest some bleeding-heart Yankee reconstructionist complain that they were mistreating the black help who had chosen to remain—at a salary, no less. Would anyone have believed such a thing just a few years back?
"This is unbearable!" Marietta cried, sweeping past Ceecee, who'd crouched to clean up the mess she had made. Ceecee leaned back to avoid the swing of Marietta's hem, lost her balance, and sat down heavily in the wetness.
Marietta ran down the veranda stairs and across the front lawn. At the very first, the breeze of running blew her hair off her face, which felt good. But after a short distance her clothes were clinging to her as though she had taken them damp off the line. She stopped running but didn't turn back.
The war hadn't ruined the DuChamps family, as it had ruined so many others. Their property had more or less survived intact—excepting the loss of the slaves, of course. But time was they could afford to go someplace cool for August, and that was certainly one more change for the worse.
On the hard-worn dirt path that led down to the river road, Marietta heard the light pitter-pat of Ceecee's bare feet.
"Missus says to go with you," Ceecee said. "See you don't get into trouble."
"Trouble?" Marietta shouted, though Mama would have said shouting wasn't refined. "Trouble? There's nothing to do."
"When I don't have nothing special to do," Ceecee said, "or when I'm troubled, I go visit my granny Orilla."
Marietta continued walking, though she had no destination in mind. Paris would have been nice. Natchez acceptable.
Ceecee came skipping after her. "Granny Orilla knows cures and curses—all kinds of spells—and she knows dreams—"
Marietta stopped so quickly that Ceecee almost collided with her. "What are you talking about?" she demanded.
"When my sister was afraid that her man was going to leave her, Granny Orilla gave her a root to put under his pillow, and he hasn't gone wandering since."
"A root?" Marietta repeated scornfully.
"White folk come to her, too, sometime," Ceecee said. "Remember how hard Missus Nattie wanted a baby, and she couldn't have none? Granny made a remedy for her she had to rub on her belly every night for six nights, and the seventh night she drank down what was left, and before the hibiscus bloomed—"
"Quiet," Marietta commanded, for everyone knew Nathalie Nye had had twin boys last year, after years of trying. "Where is this granny of yours?" she asked, for she had nothing better to do.
"Lives down by the cypress swamp," Ceecee said.
"Of course she does." Marietta sighed. "Lead the way."
The closer Marietta and Ceecee got to the swamp, the louder the insects whined and buzzed, sounding fierce enough to carry off small children. Granny Orilla's shack was nestled among moss-draped oaks.
"Granny Orilla!" Ceecee hollered shrilly, startling the chickens out from under the porch. "Granny Orilla!"
The old, skinny woman who came out of the cabin, leaning heavily on a hickory stick cane, was Creole—a mix: Most likely her daddy had been a plantation owner with an eye for the pretty slaves. This woman was not pretty, or at least she hadn't been in ages. Her hair—what she had left—was perfectly white.
"Ceecee, honey!" she crowed.
Ugly old thing, Marietta thought as girl and woman hugged.
"This is Miss Marietta," Ceecee said, "come to see you."
"How kind of you to visit," the woman Orilla said, too polite—sarcastic, even—as though she had read Marietta's thoughts on her face.
Ceecee dragged on her grandmother's arm, bringing her closer. "I was telling her about things you done, like for Missus Nattie," Ceecee said, "and she wanted to meet you."
Quick, before Marietta knew what was happening, Orilla laid her hand on Marietta's belly. "No luck making babies?" she asked.
Marietta slapped the bony hand away. "Uppity old witch," she said. "Time was, I could have had you whipped for your insolence."
Orilla smiled a swamp creature's smile. "Times change," she answered.
Trying to make peace, Ceecee told Orilla, "She don't need help with babies. She don't even have a man."
Orilla continued to smile, as though the fault lay somehow with Marietta rather than with the war taking all the best boys away. "You looking to win one man special," she asked, "or any man?"
Marietta opened her mouth to protest, but then realized that was why she'd come. "Will Stottle," she answered.
She was aware of Ceecee gaping at her. "But that's Miss Violet's beau," the child said.
Orilla's dark eyes shifted from Marietta to Ceecee, back to Marietta.
"Will Stottle," Marietta repeated. "Ceecee says you've got some sort of root, or something?"
The smile widened. Orilla's teeth were yellow from age and looked too big for her shrunken, wrinkled face, giving her a slightly horsey appearance, though Marietta estimated there was more of crocodile than horse in Orilla's smile. "Oh, there's roots and there's herbs," the old woman said, "each with its own purpose. Let me see your hand."
She ran her callused finger along the lines that crossed Marietta's palm. "Mmm-mmm-MMMM," she said, shaking her head disapprovingly.
Marietta snatched her hand away.
Orilla made her eyes go all wide and spooky. "I see you burning bright with the fire of passion," she said. "I see you driving that poor boy mad with the wanting of you."
"But only with your help?" Marietta guessed, smirking.
Orilla let her eyes return to normal. "Girl like you should be satisfied with what you got. You should enjoy the sweet life the Lord give you while you can."
"I don't want your advice," Marietta said. "I want one of your potions. Or a root. Or an herb. " She gave her own crocodile smile. "Or can't you do it?"
"There's a price," Orilla told her. "I'll require a year from your life."
"You expect me to work for you for a year? For Will Stottle?"
"Nothing to do with work, honey," Orilla said. "Not a year of your time. A year of your life. I'll take it off the end, where you're least likely to miss it, to add on to mine."
"Crazy old witch," Marietta said. "How, exactly, do you plan to collect this year?"
"By taking your hand, and you wishing it onto me."
Marietta looked at Ceecee, wondering what the catch was, what the two of them were up to. But she couldn't read anything on Ceecee's face. "Taken a lot of years from people, have you?" Marietta asked, flipping her hand, palm up, practically in Orilla's face. Orilla looked seventy or eighty.
"Oh no." Orilla grinned. "This is something new I just learned." She rubbed a finger along the line that started between Marietta's thumb and forefinger and ran down to the wrist.
 
; Something happened—a pain similar to hitting her elbow in just the wrong place.
Marietta snatched her hand back.
"Sorry," Orilla said. "Thank you." She had her hand clasped, as though to hold on tight to the year she seemed to believe she had taken.
What have I done? Marietta thought, suddenly afraid.
"It's only a year," Ceecee reassured her.
Marietta rubbed her hand, although, really, it had stopped hurting already. "What good's a year?" she taunted. Orilla still looked seventy or eighty.
"I can take this one year of yours"—Orilla held up her fist—"and stretch it out to ten years for me. Come." She gestured for Marietta to follow her into her cabin.
Which was probably as filthy as the slave shacks had ever been, and just as likely to fall down. "I'll wait here," Marietta said.
Orilla gave her awful smile, and she and Ceecee went indoors, leaving Marietta with the chickens.
Crazy old witch, Marietta thought again. Probably Orilla'd scratched her fingernail along Marietta's palm to cause that painful tingle, that old trickster. There was no mark, but Marietta found her cheeks burning at the thought of how frightened she'd momentarily been. A year, indeed!
But then the two of them came out, Ceecee skipping merrily, Orilla carrying a tiny burlap bag. "You sure this Will Stottle is the man you want?" Orilla asked. "Because this is a powerful remedy. And it only works the once."
"It only needs to work once," Marietta said. She didn't like the smile Orilla gave her at that.
"With the lights out and your eyes closed, go to sleep tonight thinking of your man," Orilla instructed. "Hold on to this here bag all night long. In the morning, you take the hand you held on to that bag with, and you make sure the first person you touch is him, skin to skin, without touching nobody in between."
Marietta sniffed the bag. Nothing foul, in any case. "Come along, Ceecee," she said, and headed back home without a thank-you or good-bye.