The Prophet

Chapter Thirty-Six

Tamira fell back against the tree in a fit of gagging and coughing. I stared at her in alarm. “Are you okay?”

As quickly as the spell came on, the choking subsided. Gasping for breath, she looked beyond me to Rhapsody. “Stay away! You hear? Stay away from me!”

I shot a glance at Rhapsody. She stood there between those two graves looking almost angelic in a pale yellow dress and lace-up boots, her wild mane of hair framing her lovely face.

Tamira backed away, hands still clutching her throat. Once she’d cleared the trees, she whirled and took off running through the cemetery, sandals flapping.

Rhapsody laughed. “Look at her go!”

“What did you do to her?” I hadn’t meant to sound so accusing, but I couldn’t help it. I was a little freaked out.

“Nothing.” Her shrug was completely innocent. “She did it to herself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were here. I never laid a hand on her, did I?”

Power of suggestion, Temple had said.

I remembered how intimidated Tamira had seemed that day on her front porch as Essie, Rhapsody and I had walked past. Whether it was mind over matter or something else, the poor girl was obviously scared to death of Rhapsody.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

“You’re Amelia,” she answered promptly. “Granny’s been waiting for you.”

“How did she know I was here?”

“She sent for you,” Rhapsody said.

“Sent for me? How?”

She didn’t answer but instead took my hand, and we walked back through the graveyard together. Her skin was warm and smooth, and she smelled of line-dried linens and rosemary. She’d inherited her father’s bone structure and numinous smile, but her eyes were green rather than topaz. She was striking, nonetheless, with those flowing dark curls and a kind of airy grace that almost made one wonder if she floated rather than walked. She clutched my hand as if to keep herself grounded, and I found myself unaccountably troubled by the contact. Was I keeping her grounded or was she holding me prisoner?

A silly thought. She was just a charming girl with a fair dash of drama and mischief.

She’d blossomed since I’d seen her last, and already she’d had a coquettish quality that, along with her beauty, did not bode well for her great-grandmother’s future peace of mind.

As we strolled along, she chatted nonstop, the episode with Tamira already a memory. But I hadn’t forgotten. Whether or not the coughing spell had been of the girl’s own doing, it had effectively stopped her from talking about the night Robert Fremont was murdered.

Out on the road, we passed by the elder Fremont’s house, and I noticed that the hole had already been patched, blocking the old man’s spirit. Rhapsody paused to watch the hearse pull away from the curb.

“Did you know Mr. Fremont?” I asked carefully.

“He used to sit out on his front porch smoking a pipe,” she said. “Sometimes I came over and sat with him. I liked the smell of his tobacco. It reminded me of High John the Conqueror.”

“I’ve heard of that before. It’s a root, isn’t it?”

She reached in her pocket and pulled out a dark, woody tuber, which she placed in my hand. Tentatively, I lifted it to my nose. It did smell a little like cherry-scented pipe tobacco with a touch of nutmeg and cinnamon. “What’s it for?”

“It’s very powerful,” she said. “Put it in your pocket and it’ll bring you luck and give you mastery over tricksters.”

“Thank you. That should come in handy.”

Speaking of tricksters…

“The last time I was here, you told me that your father was in Africa,” I said. “Has he come back?”

She gave me a sidelong look through her thick lashes. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m just curious. You told me how much you missed your home in Atlanta and all your friends.”

“I have friends here now,” she said. “And I have Granny.”

I wondered if the girl even had a clue her father was in Charleston.

The breeze picked up as we neared the cottage. I could hear the flap of sheets on the clothesline and the tinkle of garden bells at the side of the house. Just like before, Essie sat on the front porch hunched over her quilt blocks, a crocheted shawl tossed over her shoulders. She’d propped her feet on a little wooden bench and I could see the toes of her sneakers peeking from beneath the hem of her long skirt.

“Here she is, Granny,” Rhapsody announced as we moved up the steps. “I brought her to you just like you asked.”

Essie looked me up and down, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. “Sit, gal, ’fo dat wind snatch you right off dis porch. Lawd, if you ain’t nuthin’ but skin and bones.”

I dropped down on the top step, remembering my previous visit. I’d fainted on this very porch, my last conscious thought of the haint blue ceiling that had seemed to press down on me. Later when I’d come to, Essie had told me that Devlin would someday have to make a choice between the living and the dead and that Shani wouldn’t be able to rest until he found the strength to let her go.

“Should I go make some tea?” Rhapsody asked her grandmother. “And bring out some cookies like last time?”

“Please don’t trouble yourself on my account,” I said quickly. “I can’t stay long.”

“Then can I go back out and play, Granny? Please? I’ve done all my homework.”

Essie searched the sky. “You be back yuh ’fo daa’k,” she said sternly. “Don’ mek me come look fo you agin.”

“I won’t.” Rhapsody gave me a sweet, beaming smile, which I didn’t fully trust. “Maybe you can stay for the Ring Shout.”

“Shoo!” Essie waved her away and Rhapsody scampered off.

I turned to Essie. “She said you sent for me. How did you know I was here?”

“Dat gal say a lot of t’ings,” she grumbled, ignoring my question.

“Do you know why I drove down here from Charleston?”

She kept right on sewing.

“I’m here because of Shani.”

“She the one sent fo you, I spec.”

“In a way, yes.”

“I bin dreamin’ ’bout dat baby muhself,” Essie said. “She git mo’ restless ever night. She can’t stay yuh and she can’t move on. She don’ know weh she b’long. She needs help.”

“That’s why I’m here. I want to help her, but I don’t know how.”

Essie looked up, her faded eyes solemn and beseeching. “Tell’um.”

I drew a breath. “You mean John.”

“He can’t hold huh yuh no longer. Time he let huh go.”

“What if I tell him and he doesn’t believe me?”

“Din you mek him believe, cuz it has to be now,” she said.

Her urgency mirrored Robert Fremont’s, and I found myself leaning forward anxiously. “Why now?”

“Da signs say so, dat’s why.” She picked up her scissors and clipped a thread. I waited for her to continue, but then I realized that as far as Essie was concerned, the conversation was over. I wanted to ask about Darius, but what did I expect her to say? That her grandson was evil? I suspected that like Rhapsody, she was oblivious of his return.

I sat there watching her stitch, the rhythm and shimmer of her needle and thimble almost entrancing. After a while, I realized that I should probably get back to the cemetery.

She looked up as I stirred. “You spy dat Rhapsody, you send huh home.”

“I will.”

Then she said something very strange to me. “The root be both light and daa’k. Tek care who you trus’. Watch the signs, gal. And mind the time.”