No Mercy (8 page)

“Why would I go for old blood when I can have new?” Esmeralda licks the tip of her silver sword.

“You’ve been after us for decade
s and you’ll never get to her, not unless you get past me first, which will never happen.” Mama swings her blade at Esmeralda’s head, nearly slicing it off.

“Never say never, Queen Jayd.” Esmeralda blocks the attack and counters with one of her own.

Feeling helpless I bend down and grab a fistful of dirt, flinging it into Esmeralda’s cold blue eyes.

“You stupid little witch!” Esmeralda screams, attempting to brush the dirt from her face.

“Mama, we’ve got to get out of here!” I run over toward my
grandmother, pull her arm and attempt to shake her out of it.

“No, Jayd. Esmeralda’s using voodoo dolls to manipulate
her followers, and she’s coming after you next.”

“Voodoo dolls?” I ask, remembering Mama telling me about them a while b
ack but we don’t work with them—ever. “I thought you said they didn’t work unless you believed in them?”

“I never said that exactly,” Mama says, watching Esmeralda swing in vain. With
out her sight she’s helpless. “If the right person makes the right doll anything is possible.”

             
“Jayd, snap out of it,” Netta says, shaking me by my shoulders.

             
“What the hell was that?” I ask, coming to. I notice Mama’s also waking up.

             
“That was Esmeralda’s handiwork,” Netta says, tending to her best friend. “That evil wench is forcing her victims into a walking sleep and switching then their souls with her loyal pets. She’s making living zombies out of them, manipulating others to do her dirty work and she’s getting away with it. That’s what happened to your friend’s boyfriend.”

             
“And happening to dozens of other victims,” Dr. Whitmore says, placing several acupuncture pins in a brown, female cloth doll with green crystals for eyes.

             
Mama rubs the spots where the pins puncture the doll, eventually laying down on the massage table in the center of the room. “I feel like I haven’t slept in days,” Mama says, groggily.

             
“That’s because you haven’t, Lynn Mae,” Dr, Whitmore says, placing the doll down at the top of my grandmother’s head. He begins prepping Mama for an acupuncture treatment of her own. “What’s the last dream you remember having?”

             
“I was riding an alligator, and Jayd was there,” Mama says, dozing off. “It was exhilarating.”

             
“That was days ago,” I say, holding her hand. “And it was also my dream.”

Mama looks at me confused, almost as if she doesn’t recognize me. We dream every night without fail and always remember our dreams. Some are just simple REM episodes while others are spiritual messages. When we don’t dream it’s tantamount to insomnia.

“You’re going to be okay,” I say, kissing Mama’s forehead. I look up at Dr. Whitmore and read the concern all over his usually stoic face. He looks more frightened than I’ve ever seen.

             
Once Mama’s needles are in place she fades off into a restful sleep. Netta and Dr. Whitmore close the curtain dividing the space in half and pull me into the adjacent room.

             
“Your grandmother’s under Esmeralda’s web,” Dr. Whitmore says, solemnly. “The only way to keep her safe and healthy is to keep her in a deep sleep, only waking her once a day just long enough for her to check in.”

             
“No offense, doc but that sounds a little off to me,” Netta says, reading my mind. “How will she eat and do all of the other things we need to do to survive?”

             
“She’ll be fine, trust me,” Dr. Whitmore says, taking a large book similar to our spirit book off of one of the dozens of shelves lining the walls. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been through this.” Dr. Whitmore turns the yellowing pages and stops on one entry in particular.

             
“This is the largest journal I’ve ever seen,” I say, eyeing the neat handwriting. Every letter and number is precisely written making for a completely legible text, unlike our spirit book. The women in my family have notoriously indecipherable handwriting.

“I already called Ogunlabi to come and help,” Dr. Whitmore says, referring to Mr. Adewale by his spiritual name. “He’ll be outside momentarily to keep an eye out for any of Esmeralda’s watch dogs that may come sniffing around, including Rousseau.”

Just the mention of the evil shape shifter’s name makes my stomach turn. I wish Lexi could take a bite out of his ass, but I have a feeling that would be the end of Lexi.

“How can I help?” Netta asks, checking out the page for herself. “How to wake a living zombie,” she reads aloud.

Dr. Whitmore puts his hand over the page, indicating to Netta that it’s not for her to read.

“Netta, you can be the best friend you always are. And Jayd, you have to do what you were born to do, young queen,” Dr. Whitmore says, sounding a lot like Shakir. “You have to invade Lynn Mae’s dreams and beat Esmeralda at her own game.”

“Oh, is that all?” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. I can’t jump into my grandmother’s thoughts at will. She has the illest powers I’ve ever seen; able to borrow anyone’s site and use it however she desires. She can also catch other people’s thoughts. I can work my way into other people’s dreams but I never thought to try it on Mama.

We reenter the space where Mama’s soundly resting, a welcomed reprieve from her active sleepwalking.

“Make sure she understands what’s going on,” Dr. Whitmore continues, ignoring my sarcasm. “Otherwise she can get lost in that world and leave this reality forever.”

“You make it sound like she’ll go crazy if she stays asleep too long,” I say, scared for my grandmother. I knew there was more to Esmeralda’s favorite pet pecking Mama’s head than I could see at the time. If I get my hands on another one of her damned birds I’ll be eating crow for dinner.

“She will loose her mind and all sense of time and space right along with it. Most people call it dementia or schizophrenia,” Netta says, taking a hairbrush out of her bag. “Or she’ll appear high on something, but it’s all because Esmeralda’s birds have woven Lynn Mae’s hair into their nest, making her vulnerable to their master’s influence.”

I can hear Mama talking about Pam now, saying she was never really crazy like people assumed her to be. It was the drugs that forced Pam into a nightmare that she couldn’t escape from, also Esmeralda’s doing come to find out.

“Mama said something about voodoo dolls in our vision a moment ago,” I say, curious about the miniature Raggedy Anne looking toy Dr. Whitmore placed on the bed with Mama.

“Yes, I know,” Dr. Whitmore says, taking out a silver tray lined with needles of various shapes and sizes.

Netta brushes Mama’s hair, removes several strands with the roots still attached and hands them to Dr. Whitmore.

“I didn’t think you got down like this, Dr. Whitmore,” I say, surprised at his skills. I knew he was the man to see about herbs and other concoctions, but I never took him for a full-fledged working priest in the religion. 

“Why? Because I’m an old man?” Dr. Whitmore says with a little sarcasm of his own.

             
“I didn’t say that,” I say, watching as he takes a sewing needle and weaves Mama’s hair into the doll resting at the crown of her head.

             
“It’s okay, Jayd. I’m used to it. Sexism goes both ways in this line of work.” Dr. Whitmore looks at his book and turns the page, explicitly following the directions. “The Religion gives more power to women and rightfully so. But we’re equal souls in this work, Jayd.”

“Men are the ones good with hunting, be it with voodoo dolls or other methods of trapping folks. It takes the Mothers to cast the nets and real it all in,” Netta says, brushing Mama’s hair back into a bun at the nape of her neck. “Right now your grandmother needs to rest. We’ll take care of Esmeralda for her.”

“How did Esmeralda even get to Mama like this?” I ask, baffled that Mama’s fallen at the hand of her enemy. Like a naïve child I always believed that my grandmother was untouchable. Seeing her lying here looking completely defeated shows me just how wrong I’ve been. I should’ve kicked Esmeralda’s ass a long time ago.

"I
taught Esmeralda how to dress voodoo dolls decades ago in Nawlins," Dr. Whitmore says, a southern drawl escaping his usually proper tongue. He looks like he now regrets that tutelage. “Esmeralda forgets that I hold the same power that she does when it comes to the art of making crows sing."

“Can we make a doll for Esmeralda?”

Netta looks at me and beams with pride. “Now you’re thinking like a queen, iyawo.”

             
“We will work on that later,” Dr. Whitmore says, carefully choosing his next instrument. “When I make my dolls I like to use sewing needles in addition to acupuncture needles for two reasons: Number one, because they come in various lengths, widths and shapes, allowing me to weave in every single thought I want at the exact angle and position that I want it in. Number two, because the art of sewing up a doll is very similar to the art of stitching skin back together. Both require needle, thread, and blood.”

             
Netta takes a small needle from the tray and pricks my grandmother’s left middle finger. A small, round drop of blood forms on her fingertip. Netta brings the doll to Mama’s skin and wipes it clean on the doll’s head. I’m still in awe that we’re making a voodoo doll for Mama.

             
“She’s all dressed and ready to go,” Netta says, admiring their handiwork.

             
"You will have your grandmother’s doll, Jayd so that you can easily access her dreams once you get the hang of it,” Dr. Whitmore says, directing Netta to hand it to me. “Whatever you do don't let her out of your sight."

             
“How will I get the hang of jumping into my grandmother’s thoughts when I can’t even keep her and my mom out of my head?” I ask, eyeing the strange muneca. I managed to keep my mom from jumping in my head a few times but that was only temporary.

             
“Ask your ancestors, Jayd,” Netta says, touching the five jade bracelets on my wrist, reminding me of our lineage. “You’ve got everything you need to beat Esmeralda at her own game, once and for all.”

             
“Your grandmother can also help you, Jayd. She’s awake on the other side, and more powerful than you can imagine,” Dr. Whitmore says, brushing a loose strand from Mama’s cheek. “Get her to realize that it’s just a dream induced by Esmeralda. It will appear as if she’s returned to her young days as the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. From what I can tell that’s where Esmeralda took her with the doll she dressed.”

             
“I guess that’s why she was so powerful, and they fought like they were on Game of Thrones,” I say, again seeing Mama and Esmeralda battle in the ring. “She and Esmeralda were going hard with their swords.” It reminds me of the dream I had of Mama losing her head in the mirror: All of it is beginning to make sense.

             
“And Esmeralda wants it to stay like that so she can beat Lynn Mae and change the events of the past, making herself the Queen,” Dr. Whitmore says, manipulating the needles in Mama’s feet. “You can imagine the danger in that, I know.”

             
“Dr. Whitmore, are you saying that Esmeralda can change the past with a little doll?” I look at the toy in my hand and realize that it’s nothing to play with.

             
“I’m saying that she can change the present with a small yet very powerful charm, which is even more dangerous. Your grandmother’s actions in the past are what can change it, especially if she’s in a dream state.”

“Dr. Whitmore made a doll to reach Mama’s spirit while Esmeralda made one to control her physically,” Netta says, making a list of all of the things Mama will need from the house since she’s going to posted up here indefinitely. “We need the other doll to balance Lynn Mae’s whole being and bring her back.” 

“I’ll get the other doll, don’t worry,” I say, holding on tightly to the one in my hand. Esmeralda will never claim victory over any woman in my lineage, not as long as I’m breathing.

“I have every confidence that you will, young queen,” Dr. Whitmore says. “Just remember that Esmeralda’s the master, and Rousseau tracks down the people she wants to control. Whatever you do don’t let Rousseau get to you. Otherwise, you’ll be the next voodoo doll she makes.”

“It's always the ones who want to help that get killed off first in those movies."

-Mickey

Drama High, volume 4: Frenemies

~6~

Voodoo DOLLS

Like a good godchild, Mr. Adewale kept watch outside without disturbing our work inside. I didn’t know that Mr. Adewale was a full-fledged student of Dr. Whitmore, acupuncture needles and all. How many secrets can one man have?