Conjure (5 page)

Chapter Six

“It’s too far to walk.” Maggie points at Cooper. “Go get a car, and I’ll meet you on the main road.” Although she says it with a smile, it’s not a request. She walks to the wall and grabs her hat, then turns toward the forest, away from the Big House.

Jack’s brow crinkles. “Wait, we can’t leave the treasure here. Let’s grab it, and then we’ll go.”

She stops and walks back to him, cupping his cheek in the palm of her hand. “The treasure is unimportant now. You must see the Grannie.”

“But—”

“There is nothing more important than your health, Jack Guthrie.” She clasps his free hand and stares into his eyes for a long moment. “Now, go fetch a car. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

His shoulders relax, and he smiles. “Okay.”

Wow. That was impressive. I wish I could make him do things that easily.

We head back through the woods to the Big House to climb into the only car Beau will let Cooper drive—a safe, boring beige station wagon. Cooper’s had his conditional license for two months now, so he’s finally allowed to drive us legally. Not that we let the legal aspect stop us last summer.

Cooper punches in the key code to open one of the doors on the five-car garage. “Who do you think this Grannie is, anyway? Seems kind of strange.”

When the lock clicks open, I step into the freestanding building, which, with its glossy polymer floors and shiny sport cars, is more like a new-car showroom than a private garage. “I have no idea, but if Jack’s hand is really that bad, maybe we should find a doctor.”

“No.” Jack’s voice is firm. “Maggie knows what I need, so let’s do what she says.”

I glare at him and feel the space between my eyes pinch. I barely even know her, but I’m sick of Maggie. The words burst from my mouth unchecked. “You know what? I’ve had about enough of what Maggie wants. She wasn’t the one who had to deal with you yesterday or drag your sorry butt home. We did that. Cooper and me. For you. It’s about time you start actually listening to us.”

Jack steps close, into my personal space, and leans down to stare into my eyes. “It’s my hand, and we’ll go where I say we go.” He sets his jaw, and his eyes narrow into tiny slits.

I rise up on my tiptoes to meet his gaze. “You mean where
Maggie
says.”

He clenches his good hand into a fist, and his olive skin turns a shade of magenta I’ve never seen. His nostrils flare, and he snorts like a bull, shooting air on my face. Then he starts to quake. What the heck does he think he’s doing? I should back down, or at least step away, maybe even apologize—anything to make peace, but I can’t.

Cooper whistles and steps between us, shoving us apart. “Easy, Guthries. Calm down.” He walks Jack back several feet, so I’m out of arm’s reach.

Jack stares at him, his lips mashed in a crooked line. “Will you take me to meet Maggie? Or are you siding with her?” He nods his head in my direction.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to get that hand looked at.”

“Fine. Let’s go.” Jack steps toward the car and grabs the handle of the front passenger seat. “Shotgun.” He plops onto the front seat and slams the door.

I shove my hands on my hips and glare at Cooper. “You do realize how stupid this is, right?” Am I the only sane person in this garage?

He leans toward me and whispers. “We’ll take him to this Grannie. If she can’t help, we can always take him to my family doctor. We’ve just got to get him in the car and into town.” He smells as clean and fresh as a sea breeze, and his royal-blue eyes are so calming, I can’t resist. I drop my arms and cave. But I’m still mad at Jack.

Jack opens the door and calls out to us. “I’m waiting. And so is Maggie.”

“Come on, Emmaline, what do you say?” Cooper smiles and nudges me in the ribs, completing my defeat. The only thing left to do is climb into the car.

But I don’t have to be happy about it. I sigh. “Okay. But if this gets any weirder, I’m out of there.” I toss my bag onto the car floor and slip into the backseat behind Cooper, then cross my arms and lean against the window.

We travel the mile-long, oak-lined driveway and find Maggie waiting at the end. When we pull up, she flashes Jack a triumphant smile before opening the back door and taking her place next to me. Her enormous hat hogs the empty seat space between us, and the rim scratches my leg. Plus the overwhelming scent of her flowery perfume burns my throat. Smoothing her bright red skirt over her lap, she bats her super long eyelashes at me. As if that’ll win me over. I nod, pull my lips into a phony half-smile, and turn to stare out the widow.

“So where to, Maggie?” Cooper asks.

She pops her head between the two front seats. “Go straight down this road. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

We pull out onto Coffin Point Road. Jack switches on the radio, spinning the knob from Beau’s favorite country station, and stops on a hip-hop song. He turns his baseball cap backwards and sings along, pumping his head and jabbing the air with his bandaged hand. I guess he’s trying to impress Maggie with his killer MC skills, but he’s only humiliating himself. Cooper laughs and joins in, slamming his hand against the steering wheel, and punctuating Jack’s lyrics with an occasional, “Yeah, boy.” I cringe, embarrassed for them both, but especially for Cooper, who, despite his general all-around perfection, is not hard-core enough to rock the mike.

Instead, I focus on the view outside the car as we pass a thick forest of towering willow oaks, longleaf pines, and the dwarf palmettos that grow between their tall, skinny trunks. The sunlight hits the trees at just the right angle, illuminating the bright green canopy in dappled sunlight that streams down to the forest floor. It’s a watercolor begging to be painted. One I can’t do because I’m wasting all my time with my idiot brother. I take a mental photograph, memorizing each detail in case I ever get a chance to get back to my artwork.

Maggie’s cheery voice interrupts my concentration. “Aren’t you excited, Emma?”

Annoyed by the unwelcome distraction and her cloying flower smell, I sigh and turn to her. “About what?” I almost have to yell to hear myself over the pulsing bass.

“The Grannie. She will help Jack.” Her smile is radiant. “Of this I’m certain.”

“I hope so.” I pull out my iPod from my messenger bag, select my favorite emo playlist in a silent protest against Jack, then turn back to the window.

Maggie guides Cooper onto Sea Island Parkway, which is more of a sleepy two-lane road than a highway.

Several miles later, she sticks her long, elegant arm between the two front seats and points to something up ahead. I yank out my earbuds to hear what she says. “You will need to slow down,” she directs Cooper. “A dirt road lies beyond that house. That is where you’ll need to go.”

He hangs a left at the dingy gray tract house and starts down the dusty dirt road. Maggie shuts off the radio. “Please stop the car.” Cooper pulls over and cuts the ignition. He looks at her in the rearview mirror, waiting for further instructions.

She grabs her hat off the seat. “Her house is located at the end of this road. You will need to walk the rest of the way.” She steps out of the car and places her gigantic hat on her head.

“Why can’t we drive?” Cooper asks.

She smiles. “Because the road is not fit for your car.”

Jack leans out his open window. “Aren’t you coming?” His voice breaks, full of longing.

Maggie reaches in and strokes the side of his face with her graceful fingers. “Not today. I have something else I must do.”

“Dang.” His shoulders slump.

Cooper flashes me a look in the mirror. His hitched eyebrow tells me he’s just as confused as I am. What the heck is she trying to pull? Before I can stop them, words lurch from my mouth. “Let me guess, your grandmother’s calling you.”

Maggie whips her hand away from Jack and turns to me, tilting her head. “My grandmother is none of your concern, Emma Guthrie.” For a second, her eyes flash with something dark and angry, but she recovers, fixing a sugary smile to her lips. She turns to Jack and squeezes his forearm.

My face burns as she gazes down in total admiration and paws at him. If she likes him so much, why doesn’t she want to come? “Really? Then what else could possibly be so important? You’re the one who wanted to come here.” My voice is strained because I’m resisting the deep need to go medieval on her.

“My business is just that. I don’t have to explain it to you.” Somehow she manages to say that without dropping the ridiculous grin from her face. Maybe I should remove it for her.

Jack twists around. “Relax, Emma. She never actually said she’d come with us. Only that she’d take us to the Grannie.”

Cooper shakes his head. “Uh, I’m not sure that’s entirely true, bro. It did seem like she’d come with.”

Jack brushes him off with his good hand. “Look, she brought us here, that’s what’s important. We don’t need her to walk us down the road like babies. We’ll find it on our own.”

I realize Maggie’s a local, but I can’t help but be suspicious of her “help,” especially when it seems so obvious we should be headed toward the hospital instead of an unpaved road. Maybe I can convince Jack and Cooper this is a bad idea. I lean toward the front seat. “We don’t even know this Grannie lady. What are we supposed to say when we get to her door?”

Maggie sinks her hand on her hip and flits her lashes. “Introduce yourselves and ask for her help. It is really that simple.”

“But—”

“See? No problem.” Jack winks at her. “Come on, Coop, the Grannie’s waiting, and my hand’s not getting better on its own.”

Cooper sighs. “All right. I suppose it doesn’t matter who comes with us. We just need to get you better.” He peers at Maggie. “Do you want us to meet you somewhere after we’re done? I don’t want to leave you stranded.”

“No. I can make my own way home, but thank you for asking.” She strokes Jack’s cheek once again. “Be well. I’ll see you soon.” Then she walks back toward the main road.

We climb out of the car and head down the lane that narrows as it curves toward the right. It’s covered in pocked holes, stones, and overgrown vegetation. No wonder Maggie didn’t want us driving the station wagon down here. In fact, I doubt anyone’s driven here recently. Enormous live oaks draped with long gray-green plumes of Spanish moss line the lane and block out most of the sunlight. But there’s one definite plus: all this shade provides a pretty decent refuge from the sweltering sun. The air is cool and damp, infused with the scents of honeysuckle and wildflowers.

How could we be so stupid to let her dump us here? I’m not sure who’s most to blame—her for telling us to come, or us for listening to her. We should forget this and go to Cooper’s family doctor. With each step, my mind tries to convince my feet to halt, to turn around and run to the car, but a quick glance at Jack and Cooper makes me wonder if I’m just being a baby. They’re totally unfazed, laughing as they trudge through the overgrown weeds and kick at loose stones.

A breeze blows through the forest, billowing the moss as it passes and carrying a low, moaning sound. My stomach twists, and I freeze, scared to take another step.

“What’s wrong, Emma?” Cooper asks.

“Did you hear that?” I eye the bend in the road up ahead.

“It’s just the wind,” Jack says. “Stop being so dramatic.”

“No, really, Jack. This place is weird.” The breeze blows again, but this time it brings a high-pitched, hollow wail. “What about that?”

Jack grins. “There’s only one way to find out.” He sprints down the road, rounding the corner in less than thirty seconds and disappears from sight.

Cooper and I bolt after him, running as fast as we can in flip-flops and trying not to trip or fall into a hole.

When we catch up, a gasp leaps from my throat.

Chapter Seven

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. A hulking live oak, decorated with thousands of glass bottles, each dangling off a cord suspended from its branches. Most of the bottles are blue, but there are red ones, too, and some green, yellow, and brown as well, scattered throughout to add dazzling flashes of color. It’s like an enormous southern Christmas tree, glistening in the dappled sunlight that filters through the canopy. The breeze blows again, releasing a low moan as it passes over each bottle’s opening. The colored glass gently sways in the wind, but somehow none of the bottles crash into each other. I burn every detail into my memory so I can paint it later.

Beyond the tree, nestled in a clearing, sits a tiny ramshackle clapboard house with peeling indigo trim and a cockeyed front porch. Judging by the style and degree of deterioration, the place has to be at least a couple hundred years old. I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen down by now.

My brow furrows. This is definitely a mistake. There is no way anyone lives here.

Just as I’m about to plead that we leave, I notice the lush garden of wildflowers and herbs that surrounds the house. It’s gorgeous and abounds with life. My forehead smoothes as I inhale its fragrance. Although the building may have been neglected for a century, the garden sure hasn’t. Whoever tends these plants has more than a giant green thumb. They have a nurturing spirit.

Against my better judgment, I sense this is where we belong. I want to stay. And I want to meet the gardener.

The faded blue front door opens, and a little old woman peeks out. Her brown skin is smooth and thin, and her hair is snowy white. “Can I help you folk?” Her voice is high-pitched and scratchy with age, and her accent is pure Lowcountry, peppered with dropped consonants and abbreviations.

Cooper clears his throat. “Yes, ma’am. We’re here to see the Grannie.”

She cocks her head. “Grannie? You
buckruh
ought to recognize I can’t be your kin. Run along now and find your own relations.”

Jack’s brow furrows. “What’d she call us?”

I huff. “It’s the Gullah word for white people. God, haven’t you learned anything after eight summers down here?” I whisper.

Cooper flashes his warm and honest smile. “Yes, ma’am, we know you’re not our grandmother, but our friend sent us here to get some help.”

The old woman gingerly steps out onto the porch in a floral housedress and thick orthopedic shoes. “Who sent you here?”

Jack steps forward and lifts his bandaged hand. “Maggie. She said you could fix my hand.”

The woman crosses her withered arms in front of her chest. “I don’t know no Maggie. You best get a move on, and don’t mess with my bottle tree. Don’t think I don’t know about you
comeyah
, trying to steal my bottles for a vacation keepsake. Though I should let you and watch what happens.” She cackles and turns back toward her door.

No! She can’t leave. For some reason I can’t explain, I need her to stay. Lurching forward, I stand next to Jack. “But ma’am, we’re not
comeyah
.” I call, repeating the Gullah word for a newcomer. As much as I doubted Maggie for dragging us here, now that I’ve seen this lady’s kind face, I’m sure she’s the one to help us. Now I’ve just got to convince her.

She stops and turns, hitching a gray brow.

“Cooper’s family has lived on St. Helena’s forever, so they’re as close to
binyah
as you get,” I say, thumbing my hand in his direction. Her face softens, so I continue. “Our dad’s family is from here, too. We visit him every summer. My brother Jack’s hurt, and we really need your help.” I lift his bandaged hand again.

The woman grips the doorjamb to stabilize herself and calls across the yard, “What’s wrong with him?”

“I’ve got a burn, and it seems to be getting worse,” Jack answers.

She narrows her gaze. “Worse?”

He nods. “Yes, ma’am. It’s blistered and pretty painful.”

She sighs and waves us up to the rickety porch. “Well, come on up here and show it to me. And be quick about it. I’m ninety-seven years old. I can’t stand here all day.”

I’m shocked. I mean, it’s obvious she’s old, but I’d never guess
that
old. She seems way too full of spunk to have lived for almost a century. But then again, maybe it takes a lot of spunk to get that old.

We follow the path to the house and bound onto the porch, which is probably a dumb move, seeing as the floorboards are likely to crumble under our feet. The woman settles into one of the old wooden rocking chairs and points her crooked finger toward the one next to her, directing Jack to sit.

“Thanks so much for your help, ma’am.” He sits on the cracked seat and holds out his hand. Grateful that Jack knows how to be polite and drop his attitude when it’s important, I place my messenger bag on the porch and sit in the third chipped chair, while Cooper sits on the splintered floor next to me.

She takes his hand in hers and slowly unwraps the bandage with her gnarled fingers. “So you’re Jack?” She squints up at him through a cloudy blue cataract in her right eye. Her veiny hand shakes as she unwinds the gauze, but it’s clear she’s done this a million times.

“Yes, ma’am. Jack Guthrie. And this is my twin sister, Emma.”

“Twins, eh? You don’t look alike. My name’s Cordelia Whittaker, but you can call me Miss Delia.”

Cooper leans toward her, extending his hand. “And I’m Cooper Beaumont.”

Ignoring Cooper’s gesture, she tenses and grips Jack’s hand instead. “Beaumont?” she asks, staring at Cooper. Jack whimpers, but she doesn’t seem to notice, focusing only on Cooper. “Beau is your
farruh
, your pa?”

Cooper’s lips turn down. “Yes, ma’am. But we’re not very close.”

She shakes her head and sucks her yellow front teeth. “No, I expect you’re not. At least not now. How old are you, son?”

Cooper shoots me a quick sideways look, and I know he’s just as perplexed as I am about why the locals seem so interested in his age. “Fifteen. But only until the end of July.”

Her mouth pulls down in a sorrowful frown, and she shakes her head. “So soon.”

Cooper and I shrug in confusion.

Miss Delia unfurls the last of the bandage. Maybe my eyes are playing a trick, but I swear the blisters are bigger than they were a half hour ago. “You say this is a burn?” She holds his fingers in the palm of her hand and gently spreads them apart.

Jack winces. “Yes, ma’am. And it hurts a lot.”

She traces a blister with the tip of her crooked index finger. “This isn’t like any burn I’ve ever seen.” She purses her lips. “This will need powerful medicine. You sure you don’t want to see a doctor in town? Most
buckruh
don’t like to mess with hoodoo medicine.”

Cooper’s eyes expand. “You’re a root doctor?”

She cackles. “Of course, boy, what did you think I was? You came to see a Grannie, didn’t you?”

Cooper scratches his temple. “Ugh, I guess I didn’t give it much thought.”

Jack snaps his head around to us. “What the heck is hoodoo medicine? Is it like voodoo?”

Miss Delia drops his hand in her lap, making him yelp. “They are not the same. Hoodoo is for healing. It’s not my religion.”

“But do you use spells and stuff?” He pulls his hand back and cradles it to his chest.

She laughs and rocks in her chair. “When I need to. But that burn of yours doesn’t need any more magic than a few roots and plants. It’s up to you. Take what I’ve got, or get on out of here and find yourselves a doctor.”

“No doctors.” Jack’s voice is firm. Miss Delia raises her brow at his insistence, but he smiles and turns on the charm. “Because then, you know, our dads will find out about the burn, and they’ll worry about me.”

She smirks. “And you’ll have to tell them what you were doing when you got hurt in the first place.”

Jack actually blushes and nods. “Plus my friend Maggie said you were the best, so I don’t want to go anywhere else.”

She throws her head back and laughs. “Be careful, Jack. Sweetmouth me like that, and you don’t know where it could end up. I haven’t had a gentleman suitor in a long time.” She winks her milky eye at me and tries to push herself up out of the seat, but the strain is too much. “Give me a hand now, boys, and we’ll go inside and see what I can fix up for that hand of yours.”

Cooper and Jack gently pull her out of the chair while I push open the front door. We follow her inside to the front room, a neat but sparsely furnished combination dining and living area. An old television with a big, fat dial runs in the background next to a slipcovered couch. The walls are tilted and cracked, but they seem sound.

I drop my messenger bag next to the door and am hit by one of the most heavenly scents on earth—fatback and collard greens must be simmering somewhere on a stove. My mouth waters as I take a deep breath. I can almost taste that salty, vinegary goodness. I love southern food. It’s one of the best perks of visiting my dad in the summer. Aside from seeing Cooper, of course.

Miss Delia reaches for a cane tucked next to the front door and slowly crosses the spring-green area rug on the way to a swinging door that leads to the kitchen at the back of the house. “Emma, could you give me a hand?”

“Sure.” I follow her toward the collard greens while Cooper and Jack make themselves comfortable on the couch.

My eyes pop. It’s a kitchen, all right. There’s an antique white porcelain stove, refrigerator, and sink, but there’s so much more. It’s got a wraparound butcher-block countertop, marred with at least a century’s worth of stains, gashes, and cuts, and a huge prep island in the middle that is just as worn. The walls are lined with shelves filled with earthen apothecary jars that look ancient, their glazes aged and cracked, each etched and painted with the name of an herb or spice. There are hundreds of them, some as common as salt and cinnamon, and others with weird labels like boneset, galax, kidney weed, and sassafras. But my favorite has to be sticklewort. What could you possibly do with something like that?

“Normally I’d treat a burn with cow dung and spittle, but I doubt your brother would like that.” Miss Delia cackles as she washes her hands at the sink.

“Too bad, because I’d love to see his face when you put those on him.” Although considering his recent behavior, maybe that’s exactly what she should use. But she seems too nice to go through with it.

She dries her hand on a dishcloth. “Not to worry, I’ve got plenty of other remedies. We’re going to make us a poultice for those ugly blisters. Fetch me that pot from under the counter and put it on the stove.” She points her warped finger at a cast iron saucepan.

I reach for the long, textured handle, but it’s so heavy, it takes two hands to lift, and crashes against the gas burner with a thud. She squints up at the jars with her good eye. “I’ll need the American senna, elderberry, and sweet gum bark. And don’t forget the balm of Gilead buds, either.” On tiptoe, I search the labels, then reach for each of the items she asked for and carefully place them on the center island. Meanwhile, she drags a small marble mortar and pestle across the counter.

“I’ll need your help crushing these since I don’t have the strength.” She pulls a thick wad of wound cloth from a drawer. Humming to herself, she draws some water from the tap, pours it into the pot, and turns on the flame. Then she opens each jar and places some of their contents on the counter. Pursing her lips, she stares into the elderberry jar.

“What’s wrong?”

She sucks her front teeth. “It’s empty.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s not good.” She shakes her head. “It’s the best medicine for boils.”

“Do you want us to run to the store for some?”

She laughs and replaces the lid. “Child, you can’t go to the store to pick up elderberry leaves. You got to pick them in the wild. I suppose I could do without them, but he said that burn was getting worse. I wanted to brew the strongest medicine I could.”

“What do they look like? I’m sure I can find some.”

She pats my arm. “Bless your heart, but you’d probably get confused by the wild cherry. Their leaves are pretty similar.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Wild cherry’s a tree, and the other’s a shrub, right?”

She cocks her head. “How do you know that?”

I stare at the counter and mentally trace the shape of a deep brown scorch mark. “Um, well. I don’t have a ton of friends back home, so I spend a lot of time in the woods sketching.”

I’m not sure why I feel so comfortable telling her the pathetic truth about my life, but I can’t hold back. At home, I’m generally recognized as the art freak with a bag of art supplies. With Jack busy playing soccer or baseball or working on the school paper, and Mom at work or with one of her boyfriends, most of my free time is spent at the Arboretum or the National Zoo, reconstructing their gardens in my sketchpad.

Summer is my saving grace. When I’m with Cooper and Jack, I feel like I belong, like I’m part of a team. And even though we usually spend our time sailing Beau’s boat or fishing and swimming in the Sound, there’s plenty of time for drawing or painting—that is, when we’re not obsessing over an exploding treasure.

But all that time in nature has its upside, too. Like being able to recognize the difference between a wild cherry tree and a shrub. I meet Miss Delia’s cloudy eye. “It’s amazing how much you notice if you take the time to look around.”

A small smile bends her lips. “That’s true, child, that’s true. Well, go hunt down some elderberry leaves. They’ll be shaped like feathers with jagged edges, like a bread knife. It’s done flowering by now, so you might see the beginnings of some small, dark berries.”

I’m pretty sure I know exactly what she’s talking about. “Hang on a sec.” I bolt from the kitchen and run to the door to grab my bag.

Cooper and Jack turn from the grainy TV screen. “Everything okay?” Cooper asks, his brow furrowed. His eyes are so sweet and full of concern that I stare for a second and get lost in their bright blue beauty.

Jack’s voice breaks through my Cooper-induced fog. “Aren’t you supposed to be in there helping?”

Ignoring the impulse to smack him, I reach into the bag for a small sketchpad. “Everything’s fine.” I try not to blush and turn to Jack. “You can thank me later after I help fix your stupid hand.”