“What should we bring Pawpaw for dinner?” I asked Mama.
Her bronze urn rested in the passenger’s seat, secured by the seat belt. Her ghost sat in the backseat, wearing the green skirt suit I’d buried her in, a thin blue aura haloing her body.
We were driving from Birmingham to Pawpaw’s farm in Sweetcreek. The high-rises and billboards gradually surrendered to fields of soybeans, corn, and cotton. The heat tested the limits of my Corolla’s air conditioning, and its tires were barely a match for the red dirt backroads. Roadside joints selling BBQ and fried fish plates cropped up like mushrooms. Mama narrowed her eyes in the rearview mirror. I could almost hear her suck her teeth, deriding them as country and low class.
“Ribs, I think,” I murmured to myself.
An hour later, I pulled into the farmhouse’s driveway with two rib plates and four suitcases. The single story house was white with green shutters and a black roof, set back from the road and fronted by a yard filled with pink azaleas and blue hydrangeas. In the far distance stood greenhouses and rows of garden boxes bursting with herbs. Pawpaw never had any powers to speak of, but he certainly had a green thumb, which is its own kind of magic if you ask me.
He sat on the porch, wearing a starched white shirt, pressed jeans, and a pristine Stetson. Gold front tooth gleaming, he grinned as I ran up the porch steps and into his waiting arms.
“Hey there, Lil’ Partner.”
“Hey there, Big Partner.”
Pawpaw was thinner than I remembered, and I didn’t miss the way he’d risen stiffly from his chair. But he still smelled the same: tobacco, mint, and Irish Spring.
He wouldn’t let me carry in my luggage, so while he brought my suitcases up to Mama’s childhood bedroom, I took her urn and our dinner into the kitchen. It was clean and bright as always, smelling faintly of lemon. I half-expected Granma to be there, kneading biscuits or frying chicken. But she wasn’t, and neither was her ghost.
“Did you finish Granma’s headstone?” I asked Pawpaw when he came in.
“Finally found that doggone recipe,” Pawpaw chuckled. “Thelma had it stuffed in a shoebox. Raymond finished the engraving last month.” He looked down at the checkerboard tile floor. “Everything still feels strange without her.”
Granma had died the year before, Mama three years before her. You’d think I would’ve been a pro at grief and loss, but no such luck.
“Can I go see her?” I asked. The family cemetery was a short drive away.
“Another time, Monica. You should get some rest.” Pawpaw only used my name when he made gentle “suggestions”. He nodded at Mama’s urn. “We can lay Gertrude to rest later, too.”
Mama had hated her name, insisting on being called Trudy by everyone. “When the cancer came back, she told me she wanted her ashes spread next to Granma’s grave whenever she died.”
I watched him absorb this information. He couldn’t have been more surprised than I’d been by Mama’s request. She and Granma had had a difficult relationship. A difficult relationship with a mother was one of the few things I’d had in common with Trudy.
“Well, I’m gonna respect my baby’s wishes. And I’m gonna do it proper,” Pawpaw said finally. “But today I gotta make some deliveries.”
Mama stood in the corner, thin fingers resting on her collarbone, a pained look on her face.
“And go see the developer,” I added.
“He’s offering twenty million now,” Pawpaw said, rubbing his jaw.
I whistled. “Wow . . . wow.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I set the BBQ plates in the oven for dinner. Neither Pawpaw nor Granma had ever approved of microwaves. Didn’t trust them. “I’m coming with you.”
“Ain’t you tired?”
I kissed his cheek, his skin wrinkled like crepe paper. “Yes, but I like to watch you work. And I want to meet this man for myself.”
Over his shoulder, Mama turned and disappeared. A part of me wanted to tell Pawpaw I’d been seeing her for weeks, but I kept silent. He had enough to worry about.
I helped Pawpaw load his truck with the orders. As a girl, Mama had painted the farm’s name and tagline on the truck’s doors: Sweetcreek Farms. Fine Herbs & Plants. Granma had drawn a picture of the High John the Conqueror root our farm was known for. Seeing it always made me chuckle; it made the farm seem downright ordinary. For over a century, our family had supplied root workers and other magical practitioners across the South and beyond with the herbs and plants they needed for their spells, rituals, and potions.
As we bounced along the dirt backroads, Pawpaw quizzed me about the uses of the plants packaged in the purple sachets Granma had sewn. As I answered each one correctly, a ghost of a smile tugged at Pawpaw’s lips. I’d been studying, so I could be useful to him. There’d been little else to do in the six months since I’d been laid off. He didn’t say so, but I could tell he was pleased with my knowledge. He and Granma had feared it would die with Mama, who’d been determined to put as much physical and emotional distance as possible between herself and the family legacy. Not just growing the plants, but serving the people who used them and those who wanted someone to conjure on their behalf.
“It’s always something with these Negroes,” Mama groused to me once when I was eight. We were at Sweetcreek for a rare Christmas visit, watching Granma give mojo bags, amulets, and teas to people looking for help with all sorts of problems while our dinner cooled. “She got more time for them than for her own family.”
A stern look from Pawpaw had quieted Mama’s complaints but that was the first time I’d noticed the unspoken tension between her and Granma. And it was the last time Mama had bothered to hide her displeasure with our life from me.
The delivery list had forty names. These were some of Pawpaw’s longstanding, most valued customers, women who bought from him in bulk. There were grandmothers with lined, brown faces and wrinkled hands and Millennials with dreadlocks, headwraps, and nose rings. He made a point to chat with each of them, asking after their families and health. Only at the end of these conversations did he deftly inquire about what magic they expected to work in the coming weeks and months, sussing out what they’d need for future orders, which I dutifully recorded in a small notebook.
My heart leapt when we got to Miss Eulalie, Miss Pearl, and Miss Henrietta, three of Granma’s closest friends. I remembered them from childhood summers, when Mama sent me down South so she could work overtime without guilt and fraternize with her boyfriends. They were consummate conjure women, renowned for their skills and potions just as Granma had been. They hadn’t changed a bit: Eulalie, in leopard leggings with long red acrylics, trailed by three cats; Pearl in her pressed usher’s uniform and immaculate steel-gray chignon; and Henrietta in her overalls and sturdy work boots, motor oil and grease under her nails. They exclaimed over me, pressing vials of oils and tinctures into my hands, which they promised would bring me luck, prosperity, and a fertile womb. I didn’t want kids but the mentions of fertility didn’t make me feel nearly as awkward as their questions about my craft. Pawpaw looked at his feet whenever this came up.
“I haven’t had time for spellwork lately,” was my standard reply before changing the subject. They didn’t need to know I could barely summon a candle flame these days, or that Mama’s ghost appeared whenever she wanted rather than from my summons, nor could I banish her when her presence threatened to suffocate me.
But they told us something that made a knot of dread settle in my stomach like a coiled snake—Sweetcreek’s produce was changing. Henrietta had noticed that some of her spells didn’t last as long as they used to. Eulalie was forced to use twice as much black snake root now in her protection charms. Pearl’s last batch of candles had burned with acrid, black smoke that curled in unnatural spirals.
It wasn’t just them. A few of the older women, those who’d been using the farm’s herbs for years, who could observe the changes between then and now, told us similar things.
“How long has this been going on?” I asked Pawpaw back in the truck.
His work-gnarled hands tightened on the steering wheel. “A few years. Was hard to notice at first. Land seems angry.”
I listened as Pawpaw described the upheaval at Sweetcreek and the farms of his friends. Stronger, more destructive hurricanes tore through fields, burning summers scorched tender plants, and pests never seen before chewed through crops before they could flourish.
“Sounds like climate change. It must be impacting the potency of the herbs and plants.” I shook my head, furious and powerless, at the massive forces making his hard job even harder.
“That’s what the news say. I don’t doubt it, though I don’t know too much science myself. But I don’t think that’s all.”
“What else could it be?”
Pawpaw rubbed his jaw. “Something broke when Gertrude left. Thelma’s magic wasn’t the same after that. That wasn’t noticeable at first, either. But spells she used to be able to work with her eyes closed, she could barely do them by the end.”
I kept my eyes on the road. Mama took me away from Sweetcreek when I was five, tired of being judged for having a baby out of wedlock, tired of living under Granma’s roof.
“Mama never used her magic much besides little stuff like healing baths and burning sage to purify our apartment,” I said quietly. “I never thought anything of it till I saw what Granma could do. Maybe Mama couldn’t do more than that.”
Pawpaw nodded. “Maybe not. Magic don’t run in men, you know, so I couldn’t tell you.”
“Well, we both know I’m a failure in that arena, so I couldn’t tell you either.” I laughed ruefully. “A failure in most arenas lately.”
“Don’t ever say that,” Pawpaw snapped. He pulled over and fixed me with a hard look. “Stop listening to the lies the Devil tell.”
Pawpaw was such a calm, easygoing man. I was taken aback by his vehemence, his fierce belief in my worth. I nodded, swallowing hard and weaving my fingers with his. He patted my hand, kissed it.
I rested my head on his shoulder. “I should’ve come home sooner.”
“You’re here now.”
We sat in silence in the truck, Pawpaw slumped against his seat. After a few minutes he spoke again. “Since Thelma died, a lot of the ladies come round and help me bless the soil.” He swiped a hand over his face. “It helps, but the land still seems upset. Agitated. Out of balance.”
I squeezed his knee. He could’ve been talking about me.
The next day, Pawpaw and I headed to Langston, the closest thing to a city near Sweetcreek, to meet the developer. I expected Ryan Cutler to be a standard issue good ol’ boy, but he was actually a standard issue finance bro, like the ones who’d fired just about everybody at my old job. He had a pale, forgettable face, with watery blue eyes and wheat-colored hair.
“Good to see you, Eugene!” Ryan said, extending a hand to Pawpaw.
“Mr. Hayes,” I corrected him, stepping slightly in front of Pawpaw and intercepting the handshake. “And I’m Ms. Monica Hayes, his granddaughter.”
Ryan’s fingers were puffy and his palm was moist. I hid my disgust as I pumped his hand with more force than was necessary. He looked flustered as I held his gaze before sitting in one of the chairs at the gleaming glass table in his office. Pawpaw shot me a look of proud gratitude as he removed his hat and sat beside me. I knew he’d never be comfortable correcting a white man, even if it was to insist on respect.
I’m here now, Pawpaw.
“My grandfather told me about your offer, but I’d like to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
Ryan looked at Pawpaw, who looked back at him without saying a word.
“Ms. Hayes, I’ve made your grandfather a substantial offer for his land. I’m assembling several properties for warehouse development. My goal is to transform Sweetcreek into a logistics hub—it’ll bring jobs and much needed economic growth to the area.”
I’d heard this spiel before. “Why should he sell to you? Our land has been in our family for generations.”
Again, Ryan cut his eye to Pawpaw. Again, Pawpaw remained silent.
Ryan exhaled loudly. “Ma’am, your family has done an incredible job. And you’ve got a nice niche with that woo-woo stuff. You’re not at the mercy of the market in the same way commodity farmers are.”
I bared my teeth at him in an imitation of a smile. “Woo-woo stuff?”
Chuckling, Ryan wiggled his fingers. “Great idea. All you’re missing is crystals. My niece loves crystals, has a shelf full of them.”
Pawpaw let out a frayed huff, thumbing the edge of his Stetson.
Ryan barreled on, oblivious. “But I’m sure you know farming is a hell of a lot of work. Your grandpa takes on a ton of risk to not make a lot of money. The interest on the money I’m offering is more than he’d make in a good year. I’m giving him a very attractive way out.”
Nothing Ryan said was wrong. I was certain a spreadsheet somewhere on his blocky Thinkpad laid it out in black and white, some complex financial model that calculated our land’s value down to the penny, spitting out the number that would make Ryan a tidy profit and make an old man go away quietly.
But none of that accounted for the magic in the soil, the power that produced some of the most coveted and revered magical flora in the world. Or at least, it had.
Ryan twirled his wedding band, looking at the gold ring instead of me. “These warehouses are tens of thousands of square feet. They need a ton of land. I’ve made offers to other farmers around here.”
Pawpaw spoke for the first time. “Twenty of them.”
Surprise flickered across Ryan’s face before he smothered it. “Many of them are keen to sell for all the reasons we’ve discussed, but your holdings are the anchor.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means the development falls apart without your land, because the parcel won’t be big enough for the warehouse complex. If Mr. Hayes doesn’t sell, then the other farmers won’t get their money.”
The Saturday morning after our meeting with Cutler, the other farmers came by to beg, cajole, and threaten Pawpaw into selling his land. He patiently listened to everyone, telling them he was still thinking and praying on his decision. Logically, I knew those farmers were also struggling with ailing land and shrinking bank accounts. But in my heart I resented them for descending on Pawpaw like hungry locusts devouring his peace. I’d had enough; I needed to get out of the house before I punched someone.
The screen door banged behind me as I bounded down the porch steps, my feet carrying me to the fields. The sun bore down hard as I meandered along the packed dirt path winding through the rows and rows of plants nestled in moist black soil in cedar garden boxes Pawpaw had built by hand. A ring of greenhouses protecting the more delicate, heat-sensitive plants like bayberry surrounded the fields, their panes glinting in the sun. The air smelled sharp and medicinal in some areas, then sweet, earthy, and musky in others. All was quiet except for the buzz of bees, the low hum of cicadas, and the dirt crunching under my shoes. My hands grazed the tall, lance-shaped leaves of the Queen Elizabeth root, rubbed the waxy, viridian leaves of rue growing in a lacy pattern, stroked the rough, ropey bundles of angelica root drying on posts.
“Monica!”
I turned to see Miss Henrietta loping toward me, smiling wide under a straw hat and carrying a large paper bag. “Brought you and Eugene some lunch!”
Henrietta was a big woman, tall and powerfully built. She intimidated a lot of people, but I knew her as the dispenser of some of the world’s best hugs. Once she turned me loose, I peered inside the bag, greeted by the heavenly scent of two pork sandwiches wrapped in grease-stained brown paper and a dozen tea cakes.
“You didn’t have to do this!”
“No, but I wanted to,” she replied, patting my cheek with her calloused hand. “Why you out here?”
I ignored her question, letting another that had been simmering leap out instead. “Will you make me a mojo bag?”
Confusion flickered across Henrietta’s face. “What kind?”
I shuffled my feet. “Prosperity. Money. Finding a new job.”
She glanced at Pawpaw on the porch, trying to shake a departing farmer’s hand. The man swatted his palm aside and stormed off. Word of Cutler’s offer had traveled fast, but she didn’t pry.
“Alright. Let’s go to Thelma’s workshop.”
Pawpaw still kept the workshop tidy. Dried bundles of herbs hung from the rafters. Mason jars lined the shelves, filled with roots, powders, and stones, their names written in Sharpie in Granma’s neat hand on masking tape labels. A long wooden table in the center of the room was covered with tools—knives and spoons, a mortar and pestle, scissors, several chipped bowls, a small cauldron, and a brazier. A wicker basket filled with old fabric pouches sat underneath.
Mama had appeared again, frowning at Henrietta as she scanned the shelves for the necessary ingredients. I ignored her, turning on two ceiling fans that pushed the hot air around. Henrietta deposited an armful of jars, herbs, and roots on the table. Her nimble hands moved with precision over the plants and tools.
“Alfalfa,” she said, crumbling a handful of dried leaves in her palm. They released a faint, grassy scent as they rained into a bowl. “It keeps money steady in your house.”
To draw money and prosperity to me, she added powdered sassafras and bayberry bark. Then cinnamon, “to make that money come quick”. High John was next. She held the dark, knobby pods reverently before grinding them up, her brawny forearm working the pestle. As she worked, she whispered prayers for my prosperity over the ingredients. Mama watched from the corner, her arms folded over her chest.
“Mama didn’t like you.”
As soon as the words escaped my lips, I snapped my mouth shut. Henrietta stopped grinding. What the hell possessed me to admit that?
Before I could apologize, Henrietta said, “I didn’t like her either. Biggety self.”
Mama looked at me expectantly; I suppose waiting for me to defend her. Instead I asked, “Why do you say that?”
“She was ashamed of where she come from,” Henrietta answered as she resumed grinding. “Ashamed of the work that kept her fed and helped poor folks around here that didn’t have nothing but prayer and Thelma.”
I thought of all the times I’d heard Mama disparage Sweetcreek. Poverty had been her greatest fear. She saw how hard Pawpaw and Granma worked and yet how precarious things could still be. To her, root work was something poor people used because they didn’t have anything better. It wasn’t power, it was the legacy of slaves and sharecroppers—the weak and abused, in her mind.
“She always pushed me to excel in school. She didn’t want me to end up like her—selling nice things she couldn’t afford to rich people, working long hours but still needing food stamps.”
“Well, maybe it wouldn’t have come to that if she hadn’t run off and took you with her.”
No matter how well I’d done in school and how far I’d risen professionally, it never felt like enough for Mama. And a fat lot of good it had done me in the end, when all my achievement and self-worth had been ripped away in a five minute Zoom with HR. “Maybe,” I said.
Henrietta shook her head. “Gertrude broke Thelma’s heart. She turned her back on who she was. How can you stand if you ain’t rooted?”
Mama’s face was devoid of expression except for the smoldering look in her eyes.
“Go get a bag from the basket, baby. A green one.”
I did as Henrietta asked. When I returned to the table, Mama was gone. I held the small bag open and Henrietta carefully poured in the mojo mixture then tied it shut with gold string. She lit a bit of incense in the brazier, the warm, spicy scent filling the room. Passing the bag through the smoke, Henrietta murmured words too soft for me to catch. Finally, she held the bag to her lips, exhaling a long huff of air into it, before handing it over to me.
“What was that for?”
“I breathed life into it,” she said, her eyes meeting mine. “You gotta feed the bag once a month to keep the energy strong. I hold it in my hand on a full moon and speak my intentions over it again. But your gut will tell you what you need to do.”
I snorted. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
Henrietta cupped my cheek. “What you need is already in you, baby. Me, Pearl, and Eulalie will help you find it.”
“You know how the land got power?”
I turned away from Vanna White on the TV to look at Pawpaw. “Mama told me the land woke up when my great-grandmother killed a man.”
“Verlean. To save her husband Elijah’s life. And it was two men. White men, no less.”
“Lord. How did she get away with that?”
“No body, no problem, I guess.” Pawpaw’s lips formed a smug curve. “And even the white folks back then knew the women in this family were strong root workers, even if they didn’t understand or believe in conjure.”
Now that was new information to me. “Why was Elijah attacked?”
Pawpaw’s face hardened. “A Black family owning any land, even hardscrabble land . . . well, to a lot white folks in Sweetcreek that wasn’t to be borne. Uppity nigger had to be dealt with.”
Bile rose in my throat. “What exactly happened?”
“It’s fuzzy. Verlean and Elijah didn’t like to talk about it, as you might expect. But what’s important is that the land came to Verlean’s defense, came alive. After that, everything grown in this soil made the best magic you could get.” He took my hands in his own, his weathered brown fingers rubbing my much softer ones. “And the hands that grew those plants did too.”
I shifted uncomfortably as a sharp twinge of unease gripped my heart and squeezed. “And it can again. Henrietta said she and the other ladies would teach me—”
Pawpaw cut me off. “I’m selling, Lil’ Partner.”
Without thinking, I shot up, nearly toppling over because my legs had gone to sleep. “You can’t! You can’t let these people bully you into giving all this away! You’ve worked too hard!”
Pawpaw looked up at me, weary. “Ain’t nobody bullying me, baby. I’m tired. And the land is, too. I feel it every time I go to the fields.”
I couldn’t argue with him, with the defeated cast of his shoulders, with the exhaustion carving every line in his face. Because even in the short time I’d been there, I could also feel the energy in the land dimming with each passing day, probably even more keenly than Pawpaw.
“What about me?” I whimpered. “I wanted this to be my home.”
Pawpaw held my hand to his heart. “I was thinking of you when I decided. I’ll have enough money to make sure you’re taken care of. And wherever I am, you got a home.”
I couldn’t get Verlean off my mind or Pawpaw’s words: the land came to her defense. How? And, I thought bitterly, why wasn’t it rising to our defense now?
The day after Pawpaw told me of his decision, the land decided to answer the first question.
I was weeding herb beds when Elijah ran past me. I recognized him from old family photos. He looked over his shoulder at me, eyes wide with terror. For a moment, I thought I’d finally lost my mind. But then the thunder of hooves made the ground shake underneath me. Two men on horseback streaked by, one of them striking Elijah in the head with a baton. Elijah crumpled to the dirt, bleeding from the temple. The other man dismounted and began to beat Elijah. The vision was muffled; the men’s shouts and Elijah’s screams sounded like they were underwater. I was heartily glad. I didn’t need to hear the meaty smacks of fists on flesh. I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath coming in frantic punches.
When I cracked open an eye, hoping desperately for the vision to be gone, Verlean was there. She launched herself at Elijah’s attacker but he flung her aside like a dirty rag and kicked her in the stomach. Elijah crawled over, trying to shield his wife from the blows.
Suddenly, a pulse of magic rocked the earth. Verlean’s eyes clouded over in cataracts. She thrust out her hand and the two men flew backward, one falling off his rearing horse, the other hitting a tree. Verlean staggered to her feet and raised her hands to the sky. Darkness rolled over the land. Then she slammed her palms against the dirt and the pulse flared again. Even outside the vision, I felt it in my body. The trees, the grass, the flowers, and all the other plants grew uncontrollably as the ground opened up and devoured Elijah’s attackers, sucking them down in a maelstrom of dirt and rocks. Another pulse knocked me off my feet. I lay there in the dirt for what seemed like hours, sweating and gulping down air. When I lifted my head, the vision had receded.
“That was horrible,” I croaked out. “Why did you show me that?”
The trilling of the cicadas was the only response I got.
It was a harvest day—and night. The red sun dipped toward the horizon but the heat wasn’t giving up without a fight. Rivulets of sweat streaked down my back and between my breasts, soaking the mojo bag pinned to my sports bra. The waxing moon would soon be visible, time for us to gather the bay laurel, rue, and High John. We’d pick well into the night. Some of Pawpaw’s fellow deacons were stationed at the edge of the fields, frying catfish in vats of oil to slap on white bread with pickles and mustard for dinner.
Pawpaw was waiting for Cutler to draw up the paperwork before telling anyone of his decision. This would be one of the final harvests.
I walked through the rows of garden boxes, checking for leaves nibbled by pests and testing the soil moisture. For the dry plants, of which there were many, I summoned tiny rainclouds to water them. The clouds were a step above pathetic, but they got the job done if I concentrated hard enough. I had just enough magic to keep the phalanx of mosquitoes from biting, but they still swarmed.
A small army of teenagers making a few extra dollars were harvesting other herbs by hand, cutting and tying them into bundles. These would go into the drying houses for inspection, processing, and packaging. The inspection was the important part, testing the energy, potency, and spiritual qualities of the plants before they were sold—this was once Granma’s job. Henrietta, Pearl, and Eulalie were doing it now. Pawpaw paid them in herbs and roots, but I suspected their concern for him and enduring love for Granma were the greater motivators.
As I approached the drying house, I could hear Eulalie through the open door, telling bawdy stories about old lovers that made Henrietta guffaw and Pearl chide her good-naturedly. I’d told no one of my vision, and I yearned for their company to put it behind me. But when I stepped inside, the smile died on my face.
Granma stood in their midst, wearing a red dress dotted with tiny white flowers, smiling beatifically at me.
Eulalie looked up from burning sage. “What’s wrong, baby?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The love shining in Granma’s eyes hit me like an arrow to the chest.
“What do you see?” Henrietta asked knowingly. “Who do you see?”
“Granma,” I whispered.
Pearl gasped. The women looked at each other, then at me.
“Can y’all see her?” I asked them, desperate.
“No,” Henrietta said gently. “But she ain’t here for us.”
They arrayed themselves around me, placing gentle hands on my shoulders and arms.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I said to Granma. “There’s so much I need to talk to you about. Pawpaw and I . . . everything is slipping away . . . . ”
Granma walked toward me. I felt cold, the hairs on my arms lifting. She raised her hand to my face, her fingers hovering near my cheek. Then she moved to the door, motioning for me to come along. She looked out across the fields, her expression worried. I followed her gaze and saw Pawpaw standing near the angelica root. He turned and looked right at us.
“Can he see you too?”
Pawpaw took one step forward, two, three. Then he clutched his chest, his face screwing up tight, and dropped to his knees in the dirt.
“If you don’t go home and get some sleep, you’ll be in here next,” the nurse said.
I sat by Pawpaw’s bedside, watching his chest rise and fall in his sleep. The heart monitor beeped steadily, each ping a reminder of how close I’d come to losing him. The harsh fluorescent lights cast shadows across his face, and his hands rested limply against the crisp white sheets. He wore a mojo bag around his neck filled with healing herbs, made by Miss Eulalie. I trusted it as much as the meds the doctors had given him.
“He’s an old man, isn’t he?” I said.
The nurse squeezed my shoulder and handed me a cup of water. I drank it, more to ease the tightness in my throat than from thirst. My face was tight from the salt of dried tears. I kissed Pawpaw’s forehead and whispered, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
His face looked peaceful. It enraged me that it’d taken a goddamn heart attack for my poor grandfather to finally get some rest.
Restless, I drove around town for a while before an impulse became a conviction. I stopped at the farmhouse and got Mama’s urn then headed to our cemetery. Pale moonlight filtered through the old oaks and pines, illuminating weathered headstones and patches of herbs growing among the graves. Here was where we grew our family stores of magical herbs, close to the bones of our loved ones. I walked to Granma’s grave, an empty space next to it clearly meant for Pawpaw. A shudder traveled through my body.
I stroked Granma’s polished headstone. Underneath her name, life dates, and 1 Corinthians 15:55 was the recipe for her famous caramel cake, the one she’d refused to share in life. At the end it said, “Hope y’all happy now. Love, Thelma.”
Screams erupted around me—wild, guttural, strangled keening. It took my brain a minute to process that they were coming from me.
My throat raw and nose running, I ripped the lid off Mama’s urn. “You don’t deserve this, but maybe this will make you leave me the hell alone.”
I dumped her ashes beside Granma. Guilt over not waiting for Pawpaw pecked me with a sharp beak but I ignored it. When the urn was empty, I flung it away from me. It sailed through the air and hit a tree festooned with Spanish moss with a metallic thunk.
Spent from rage and despair, I sank to the ground. Suddenly, the humid air grew colder by several degrees. Two bare brown feet appeared before me. My gaze traveled up a gray homespun dress before settling on a delicately pretty face topped with a red headscarf.
Verlean.
I reached out to touch her but of course my hand passed through her, as if through mist.
“Can you help me?” I pleaded. “Can you wake the land up again?”
She shook her head no, pointed at me.
I punched the grass. “My magic is dying, just like our land. I can’t do anything!”
Verlean licked her lips, looked over my shoulder. Granma stood behind me. And beside her was Mama.
“What the hell do you want?” I snarled. “You started this in the first place. This is all your fault!”
To my undying shock, Mama nodded. But I’m here now, she mouthed.
Tears sprang to my eyes again, unbidden. “It’s too late. Pawpaw is selling. We’re gonna lose everything.”
Verlean knelt, her hand hovering over the grass covering Granma’s grave and Mama’s ashes. Her eyes bore into mine, and snatches from my vision of her placing her palms on the ground and the land bursting to life flitted through my mind. Verlean nodded, like she could see the memories. Granma and Mama stood on my left and right, their palms raised upward.
Tentatively, I placed my hands on the soil, my fingers sinking into it, dirt collecting under my nails.
And then I felt it—the power.
It surged up through my palms, a crackling force vibrating through my bones. Magic coursed through my veins; I could actually see tributaries of gold, pink, and green light up underneath my skin. The herbs and roots around the graves began to writhe, twisting and spiraling as if alive, pushing through the ground with a ferocious urgency. Leaves unfurled in seconds, stems thickening and blooming at an unnatural speed. The ancient oaks groaned as their roots stirred beneath the earth, intertwining with the growing plants. A variety of scents warred for supremacy—woody, floral, spicy, sweet—with the earthy smell of humus underneath. I spun around, laughing like a madwoman as a veritable Eden emerged in the cemetery. I ran from tree to tree, touching the bark and watching flowers bloom from nowhere under my fingertips. Everywhere I touched, flowers, herbs, and green plants sprang to life. The light in my blood faded but I could still feel the magic thrumming through me. Never in my life had it felt so strong, so present. I was nearly overwhelmed.
Verlean and Granma watched me, smiling wide. Mama stood a little apart, her lips pressed together in a tight line, her expression much more subdued.
“Thank you,” I told her.
She gave me a small nod of encouragement, her arms wrapped around herself.
Four generations rooted in the dirt, three on one side of eternity, one on the other. I gave them one last glance before heading back to my car. A ping on my phone alerted me to an email—the paperwork was done and ready to sign. I almost deleted Cutler’s message, but turning him down in person would be more satisfying.
Back at the farm, the fields bloomed for me as I walked through them, the herbs, plants, and roots doubling, tripling in size. It was yet night, but I lifted my gaze to the fields and farms beyond ours. My palms itched with power.
I had a lot to do.
