Lost Gods

  “When I say part of me has always been with you, I mean that in its true sense. My blood, our blood, it’s rare and special. It binds us. It’s our connection.”

  He wasn’t sure what she was saying. “That’s kinda strange, isn’t it?”

  She smiled at him. “Some might think it a gift. What do you think?”

  “I think there were times, bad times, that if you hadn’t been there, y’know, in your way. I’m not sure if I would’ve made it.”

  She smiled. “It does my heart such good to hear that.” Then her smile faltered. “I only wish I could’ve reached your mother. Poor Cynthia. She needed me too. But they took her away from me. Chet, I want you to know I reached out for her relentlessly, but she never seemed to hear me . . . or maybe didn’t want to. All I know is this gift we have, sometimes, it can let in other voices—dark voices. I think your mother heard them. I think they drove her to madness . . . to take her own life.” Her voice dropped. “I felt helpless.”

  He saw tears sparkling in her silver eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Chet . . . sorry that I couldn’t do more.”

  Chet wanted to say something to comfort her, but couldn’t find the right words.

  Trish came out of the bathroom looking relieved. Saw their faces. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Maybe I should step outside for a bit?”

  “Nonsense,” Lamia said, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m just being a sentimental old woman. Tell me, Trish. Would you be up for a bite to eat?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.” Trish answered.

  They followed Lamia into the kitchen; it smelled of fresh baked bread. She led them to a small table set in a nook, the marsh visible from the tall bay window. The table was set for three: plates, glasses, silverware. In the center, several plump red tomatoes sat on a board next to a pitcher of lemonade and a basket covered with a cotton towel.

  “You were expecting us?” Trish asked.

  “I was.”

  Trish gave Chet a look.

  Lamia folded back the towel, revealing a home-cooked loaf of bread. She gestured for them to sit. She picked up the pitcher of lemonade. “Try this, let me know what you think.” She poured them each a glass.

  Chet took a deep swig. “Wow, that’s really good.” He drained the glass.

  Lamia refilled his glass, beaming. “Those lemons were grown in my atrium. Finest lemons you’ll find on this coast.” She sliced the bread, then the tomatoes, making them each a sandwich. “Now, try this.”

  They both took a bite. “Oh, yum!” Trish said and Chet’s face lit up. The tomatoes were so tender they melted in his mouth, the juice running down his chin.

  Lamia laughed, pulled a napkin from a holder, and handed it to Chet. “Now, tell me, have you ever tasted tomatoes so sweet?”

  “No, ma’am,” Chet said, wiping his face. He finished the sandwich and asked for another. Lamia talked while they ate, told them all about her garden.

  When Chet finished eating, Lamia placed a hand on top of each of theirs. “It’s so very nice to have someone to share a meal with.” She paused. “So maybe you two will stay awhile. Yes? Make a lonely old woman happy.”

  Chet glanced at Trish, took a deep breath. “We were hoping you’d feel that way, because we really need a place to stay. Just for a while. Until I can get a job and get going. But I have to tell you something up front . . .”

  “You’re in trouble. This I already know.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But . . .”

  “How bad?”

  “I’m not sure.” He told her about them running away from the Judge, didn’t plan to tell her everything, but once he started it all spilled out: about Trish and him, about some of the bad things he’d done, about his jail time, finally about the two of them deciding to elope. He lowered his eyes. “I stole that car. Well, I’d like to think I traded my Pinto for it—left them my keys and a nice note. But I don’t think the law’s gonna see it that way. But that’s not the worst of it . . . when we were trying to get away this morning—” He wasn’t sure how to say it. “I think I might of hit a man.”

  Lamia nodded. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Over the years,” Chet said, “I’ve dreamed of Moran Island. You, this place, it’s in my bones somehow. Aunt Abigail made a point of burying my past, burying any connection to South Carolina. She only spoke of Moran Island in hushed whispers, so I’m pretty sure no one back in Alabama has a clue about you, about this place. That’s why coming here seemed a good idea. But, me hitting that guy . . . I think that changes things. Trish’s daddy, he’s a judge, a real bigwig around Jasper with plenty of connections. I can’t see him just letting this thing go. What I’m trying to say is if he finds us here, it might spell trouble for you too. So, I, we, understand if . . . I mean—”

  Lamia squeezed his hand. “Chet, do you remember what I said to you all those years ago?”

  Chet started to shake his head, then it came to him as clear as if it had happened yesterday. He’d snuck off from his aunt at his mother’s funeral, hid behind the pump house, crying. Lamia found him and wiped away his tears. She led him down to the pond and they’d both gotten muddy catching frogs—and how they’d laughed about it, like a couple of imps. And something more—blood, yes, there was blood. He’d forgotten that part. “Our blood is the same,” she’d said, taking a thorn, pricking her finger. She dabbed the blood on the back of his hand, made two spots. And what had she said? “Come home to me. Come home to your blood.” He realized he was speaking out loud.

  “There’s your answer,” Lamia said. “We’re blood. This is your home and I’m not afraid of a little trouble. And . . . it would make an old woman very happy to have some family around.”

  Chet felt a wave of relief, glanced at Trish, could see she did too.

  “Okay?” Lamia asked.

  “Okay,” Chet agreed.

  “Good, then. It’s settled,” Lamia stated with finality. She smiled. “Now, anyone for more lemonade?”

  “I got it,” Trish said, starting to pick up the pitcher. She winced and let go.

  Lamia narrowed her eyes. “Is it the baby?”

  “Oh, no,” Trish said. “It’s just my hand.” She showed Lamia the cut. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I just need to clean it. You don’t happen to have some iodine, do you?”

  Lamia let out a huff. “You don’t want to use that poison. Chet, go there, in the kitchen, the black box atop the icebox. Bring it to me.”

  Chet hopped up, found the box: it was about the size of a shoe box and made of charred wood. He brought it back and placed it on the table in front of them.

  Lamia opened the chest, revealing an array of glass bottles, small tins, herbs, and roots rolled in leaves. A small bronze knife with a serpent inlaid on the handle sat strapped inside the lid. The blade looked ancient, the metal pitted and tarnished. She plucked out a bottle and held it up to the light, squinting through the murky green contents. She grunted, put it back, plucked out another, and held it up. “Ah, here.” She pulled out the cork with her teeth and dabbed a drop of syrupy black goo onto the tip of her finger.

  The smell filled the room and Trish wrinkled her nose.

  “That’s how you can tell it’s working,” Lamia proclaimed proudly and went to dab it on the cut.

  Trish pulled back. “Wait. What is that?”

  Lamia glanced at the goo on her finger. “What, this? Why it’s blood honey, child. Well, it’s a lot like blood honey. Only I couldn’t find wild boar semen, so I used domesticated stock instead. It still seems to work. Actually, I think it works better.” She looked at Trish’s horrified face. “Ah, you haven’t used blood honey before, have you?”

  Trish shook her head.

  “So much of the old ways are lost. Well, you’ll see. It’s a powerful potion. It doesn’t taint the blood like those poisons they sell in the medicine stores.” Before Trish could protest further, Lamia dabbed the foul-smelling ointment onto her wound.

  Trish winced and gav
e Chet a helpless look.

  Lamia placed one of the dried leaves over the ointment, then made a mark on the leaf, a half circle with a line through it. She closed her eyes and spoke several words that Chet thought might be in her old tongue, repeated them several times, almost a chant. She kissed her fingers and made a half-circle symbol in the air above the wound, eliciting yet another uncertain look from Trish. “There,” she said, opening her eyes.

  Trish stared at her palm. “What was it you said? A spell?”

  “Yes. A spell to keep the dark ones away. They can enter the body through open wounds.”

  “So you really do practice . . . um . . .” Trish stopped.

  “Witchcraft?” Lamia suggested.

  Trish blushed, nodded.

  “Just what has Chet been telling you?” Lamia set accusing eyes on Chet.

  Chet put up his hands, smirking. “Oh no, don’t look at me that way. Blame Aunt Abigail. She was the one always going on and on about what a wicked witch you are.”

  Lamia laughed. “And Aunt Abigail, she should know. Yes?”

  Trish looked abash. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “Stop, girl. You don’t insult me. I am proud to be a healer. Witchery, sorcery, whatever you wish to call it. It is an art, a craft. And one that’s quickly becoming lost. But don’t let my quirkiness scare you. I’m not a wicked witch, not like that green lady from Oz.”

  Trish grinned. “Okay, I asked for that.” She glanced at her palm. “Hey, that stuff, it tingles.” Her brow lightened. “Feels better though.”

  “Trish, tell me, if you don’t mind. How has your pregnancy been?”

  “Mostly okay . . . I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  Trish’s lips tightened. “Well . . . there’s been some light bleeding off and on lately. The doctor didn’t seem overly concerned. But he did tell me to let him know if it got any worse.”

  “Has it?”

  “No.”

  “Bleeding, even late in a pregnancy, is not uncommon,” Lamia said. “It could mean many things. Trish, in the old country, my mother, her mother, and her mother before, they were healers, midwives. They’ve passed down their ways to me. Ways to see your health, the health of the baby. If you’re willing, I’d like to try a small spell . . . to check on you and your child.”

  “A spell?” Trish replied cautiously.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t make you drink any bubbling potions. Just need a drop of your blood. Much less than these hospitals take to do their silly tests.”

  “Well . . . maybe,” Trish said, sounding less than sure.

  Lamia smiled. “Good.” She unwrapped a roll of dried leaves, laid one on her plate, then opened a small tin, sprinkled a bit of gray powder atop the leaf. She picked up the knife. “Your hand.”

  Trish glanced at Chet.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said.

  She let out a sigh and laid her hand in Lamia’s.

  Lamia touched the tip of the blade to Trish’s finger, the slightest jab. A drop of blood pooled and Lamia squeezed it onto the powder, watching intently as the blood soaked in. Nothing much happened that Chet could tell, other than the powder taking on a greenish hue.

  Trish glanced up at Lamia. “That’s it?”

  Lamia held up a finger, studied the powder, she seemed tense. “There.”

  “What?” Trish asked, peering at the stain. The powder slowly melted away, evaporated, leaving squiggly marks on the leaves. They seemed random at first glance, but on closer inspection, Chet could see that there was a symmetry to the marks, almost like letters—strange foreign letters.

  “Wow,” Trish said. “What’s it mean?” When Lamia’s face turned stern, Trish voice became anxious. “Is it something bad?”

  Lamia leaned closer, her lips moving as though reading to herself. Then a profound look of relief lit up her face. “Oh, bless the Wyrd. Bless the maiden, mother, and crone. The baby is healthy!”

  Chet was struck by Lamia’s absolute conviction. Whether any of this was real or not, there was no denying that Lamia believed it heart and soul. Her convictions were contagious; Trish beamed. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.”

  “Yes, yes. A very healthy soul grows in your womb. And there’s more,” Lamia teased. “If you wish, I can tell you if it’s a little boy or little girl hiding in there.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  Trish looked at Chet. “Chet?”

  Chet shrugged. “Up to you.”

  Trish bit her lip and nodded.

  “It’s a little girl.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m certain. In all my years I’ve never been wrong.”

  Trish let out a squeal. “Oh, my gosh. Oh . . . my . . . good gosh. A little girl!” Chet noticed that Trish was no longer looking at his grandmother like she was some sort of kook, but instead with outright admiration.

  “Did you hear that, Chet? We’re gonna have a little girl.”

  “Yeah, I caught that part.” And Chet had no problem believing it either. Lamia seemed to be gifted in many ways. He wouldn’t be surprised if somehow she was already connected with this child.

  Lamia wiped her eyes; she was crying.

  “Grandma? You okay?”

  She nodded, smiled. “I’m just so happy. I’ve been here . . . alone . . . for so long. And now, to have my family again . . . and soon a little girl to share this joy with. So many blessings, it’s a bit overwhelming, that is all.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Chet knew he was in a dream, yet it did nothing to lessen the horror. He was outside on Lamia’s porch in the moonlight—blood upon the planks leading into the house. He could hear Trish crying—a sound of deepest anguish. He followed the trail of blood inside, up the stairs, to a room at the very end of the hall. There came the wail of a child within, as though in great pain. It was his child, his daughter, he knew with certainty. The door was locked. He pounded upon it, demanded it be open, slamming his shoulder against it, again and again. Finally the door burst open and he fell in, fell into darkness, fell and fell, the sound of his wailing child echoing all around him.

  Chet awoke gasping. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. He’d been plagued by nightmares ever since his mother had died, but this one had felt so real.

  He reached for Trish; she was gone. He sat up, surprised to find the day all but over. He’d only meant to rest for a few minutes. A gentle breeze swept through the room. He climbed out of bed, went to the window, letting the air cool him. The tide was in and the last remnants of sun glistened off the marsh. Movement caught his eye. Someone—looked to be a boy—stood in the cemetery, a shadow among the shadows. Then he disappeared. Chet kept watching, hoping to see him again, thought he heard a voice, that of a young boy, so very faint. What did he say? Chet wondered. His skin prickled. Run, he thought. He’d said, run.

  Chet caught Lamia’s hearty laugh coming from below, the sound of it chasing away his unease. He headed downstairs.

  Chet found them in the front room sharing a long sofa, the crimson fabric worn and faded. Trish held a glass of lemonade, Lamia a glass of wine. “What’ve you gals been carrying on about?”

  “Your grandma’s been telling me stories about her days as a midwife.”

  “Babies,” Chet said. “I should’ve known.” And as they continued discussing the finer points of childbearing, he made himself busy studying the paintings on the wall—most were dark and stained. The one before him was of the house, standing tall atop the hill, the lawn and garden well manicured, tiny figures working the rice fields in the background. Chet noticed an old wooden TV cabinet near the window. He saw it was plugged in, so he pulled the knob. The tiny screen fizzled on—nothing but static. “You watch a lot of TV, Grandma?”

  “No, my set doesn’t work.”

  “Yeah, noticed that.” It dawned on him he hadn’t seen a phone, or car. “Do you have a phone?”

 
“Yes. But it doesn’t work either.”

  Chet shook his head. “How about a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it work?”

  “No.”

  “Grandma, jeez. How do you get groceries? You’re not gonna tell me you walk five miles back up the road.”

  “Wyrd, no. Why would I do that?”

  “How do you get groceries? How do you get anything?”

  “Chet, do you not remember my vegetable gardens? You should see all the canned vegetables I’ve stored. Sometimes I think I must be part squirrel the way I hoard such things. And anything else, I just have Jerome bring out. I pay him to take care of the yard. He’s a good worker, just not worth a pinch of salt when it comes to conversation.”

  Chet peered out the side window, down the hill through the oaks. The moon was coming up full and bright and he could make out the tops of the cemetery stones. Chet searched for the shadowy boy he’d seen earlier. “Grandma, tell me about the ghosts.”

  She studied him for a moment. “So Chet, you feel them too?”

  “I think so.”

  “He thought he saw one today,” Trish put in. “Down by the cemetery when we drove in.”

  “And you, girl, did you see anything?”

  Trish shook her head.

  “And you wish to hear about them then as well?”

  “I think so.”

  “There are a few spirits here,” Lamia said. “I’ve seen them, heard them, but more importantly I’ve felt them. And I’m not alone. The local Gullah folk, they feel them too. Were there totems on the bridge when you arrived?”

  “Totems?” Chet asked.

  “She means them freaky dolls, Chet. The ones made of straw and bones.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Chet said. “What’re those all about?”

  “Doesn’t seem to matter how many times I have Jerome take those down, the locals just put them right back up.”

  “Why?”

  “They believe the island is full of restless spirits . . . because of the bad deaths that happened here. They believe spirits can’t cross running water, so they put up the totems and splash the bridge with blessed oil to keep them trapped on the island.”