Residue (20 page)

If only my family could see him now…

On one delivery in particular the bag opened and spilled some of its contents across the wooden planks. As I rushed to help Jameson collect them before the items fell in the water, I was surprised at what I found. Canned food, fishing hooks, bait, candles, a knife and sharpener.

Evidently, they didn’t have the freedom or the money to acquire the basic necessities themselves. This understanding made me pause and wonder what kind of establishment imposed a punishment like this one. Then I froze.

It was the kind where my mother worked.

This realization settled over me like an uncomfortable blanket so I was partly glad when we didn’t see anyone outside for the first few shacks. It gave me time to allow this fact to sink in.

If any of the recipients knew we were there, they didn’t acknowledge it by coming out to greet us. They were there though. The laughter and music coming through the walls confirmed it. We moved from shack to shack making me feel as if I were standing outside a party I hadn’t been invited to. Which was a fairly accurate depiction of the situation Jameson and I were currently in.

Then we came across the fifth shack and he tied us to a post, signaling that we would be visiting this one. It was quieter than the others, playing soft blues music on what sounded like a scratchy, dated record player.

Hauling a bag to his side as he stepped up to the dock, Jameson explained, “You should know that healing will be harder here.”

“
Why?” This was no less disconcerting from when he’d mentioned it the first time.

Jameson stood over me, hands on his hips, looking out over the water. “When someone is sent here two things happen. First, they suffer the worst punishment our world can invoke. They are bound, unable to use their abilities. This is to make certain they cannot protect themselves by revoking their punishment or exercise their powers to improve their situation. Second, the closer you get to them, the greater
your
energy will dissipate. That cast is to prevent anyone
else
from helping them. It’s the reason why I suggested we take a break yesterday in order for you to rest. Because you’ll need it.”

“
Can I get around it?” I asked, uncertain.

“
We’re going to find out.”

I scoffed in return. “Great. Sounds easy.”

He had offered his hand to me by this point and I had taken it to step up to the dock. “It won’t be,” he assured once my feet were firmly under me. “But I know the level of frequency where your energy vibrates. When you healed our whole class, Jocelyn, that just doesn’t happen. No one has that ability. No one but you.” He caught my gaze and held it, his hands still holding mine. “You can do this,” he stated with unwavering conviction.

I knew what he’d been doing, taking another look inside me, assessing me. It would have been natural to feel my privacy was violated but I didn’t have this reaction. Instead, I appreciated the vote of confidence because I wasn’t so sure myself.

We were on our way to the door when I asked in a whisper, so those inside couldn’t overhear, “How do they do all of that? Bind these people and those who visit them?” Then I realized I already knew the answer. “Channeling.”

“
Yes, that’s right,” he said, impressed. “It’s the only way to cast from one source to another, the only way to displace something.” He grinned and pointed out, “You’re getting to know us.”

I scoffed, not having nearly as much confidence in that statement as he did and wishing once again that I’d given this world its due credence earlier.

We reached the door and Jameson knocked lightly, then he did something completely unexpected. He slipped his hand into mine and squeezed. It was comforting and thrilling at the same time.

The door opened to a woman well in to her nineties. She was frail and hunched with wiry arms and a pile of gray hair wound into a bun. Stones of all kinds hung around her neck and in bracelets on both arms. Her skin, which fit loosely around her bones, was tawny, indicating that she was Creole. But it was her eyes that struck me. Although they were framed with creases demonstrating her age, they were, above everything else, gentle.

She didn’t appear to be a convict and definitely not one that posed a threat.

“
Isadora,” said Jameson kindly.

She smiled at him, her eyes lighting up, and she moved aside to allow us in.

The room, I found, was sparse. In the far corner stood a metal-framed bed with a bumpy mattress and thin blanket. In the center was a wooden table with four chairs around it. A wood-burning stove stood in the corner to our left alongside a built-in hutch where food was stored.

Jameson set the bag on the table and immediately began putting the items away, knowing where each item was supposed to be stored without having to be told. He’d done this before, and often.

“
This is Jocelyn,” he said while stooping down to place canned food in the bottom drawer, but Isadora was already greeting me, in her own unique way.

She’d shifted to stand directly in front of me, her back arched enough so that her eyes could meet mine. I stared down at her, a smile hovering lightly.

“
Jocelyn,” I said, extending my hand.

She didn’t move, no breathes, no blinks, and I let my hand fall. Her steady focus remained on me, speculating, wondering, gazing into me.

“
She’s the healer,” Jameson said over his shoulder while unloading more supplies onto the table, having already determined that she was attempting to distinguish my ability. Clearly, Isadora had channeled at one point because she was applying those same techniques to me now. While her ability had been removed, she still remained observant, critical.

But she shook her head, apparently disagreeing. Then, almost imperceptibly, her eyebrows rose as if she’d seen something that stood out to her.

“
Residue…” she breathed and then exhaled in a rush. Whatever that meant, it was shocking to her.

Then she dropped her gaze to my left arm, where my mother’s bracelet lay. Her fingers, rough to the touch but gentle, came around my wrist and lifted it for a better view of the stone embedded in the metal.

I hadn’t noticed that Jameson was now beside us, motionless, concentrating on our exchange, and then he spoke tenuously. “Yes…She’s a Weatherford.”

Isadora remained quietly staring at my family stone for the next several seconds and then she released my arm.

“
We will need to hide that fact,” said Isadora evenly as she turned from me to hobble toward the hutch. It was the first time she’d spoken at length and I picked up the hint of an accent, one of French origins.

“
You’re right,” Jameson concluded. Then he saw my confusion and he explained, “Weatherford’s aren’t welcome here. They know your mother had a hand in…” he stopped himself. “They know she works for the ministry.”

I nodded. “So we don’t have the best reputation?” I joked sarcastically.

He smiled, and then reinforced the significance of our subject. “That would be putting it lightly.”

Conceding, I said, “All right. How do we do it?” While I wasn’t concerned about the backlash, I didn’t want to make my patients feel worse than they already did.

Isadora approached holding out a red bandana, which she wrapped around my wrist, effectively concealing my bracelet. In spite of her age and weakened condition, she did it deftly as if she were a surgeon at the operating table, and I wondered if she really was as feeble as she made herself appear.

“
That works,” I muttered, twisting my arm to ensure it was entirely covered.

“
Perfect,” said Jameson. Then his following statements made me realize that he and Isadora had already discussed my involvement prior to my arrival here, probably before Jameson even asked me. “Isadora will bring us to the homes of those who are sick. She’ll introduce you by first name only and then we can work on healing them.”

“
Good plan,” I replied realizing that he’d done everything he could to make sure this night would go smoothly.

So, with this in the back of my mind, as we headed for Jameson’s boat, I reminded myself to take extra special care not to mention my last name or members of my family.

Isadora directed us to a shack across the waterway from hers and Jameson glided us there. It appeared dark from a distance but as we grew closer there were faint shadows moving inside.

We tied the boat and Jameson and I helped Isadora to the dock and then we headed for the door. It opened before we reached it.

A man, balding but with a bit of facial hair, popped his head outside, looking for those he knew had stopped at his dock. When he recognized Jameson and Isadora, a smile stretched across his tanned, seasoned skin.

“
Come in,” he said affably.

“
These are the Duparts,” Jameson whispered quickly.

“
An entire family?” I replied hastily, keeping my voice low. “The ministry penalizes children, too?”

Jameson gave me a silent response, the look of someone conveying they, too, entirely disapproved.

When I’d first heard of the village I had wondered if the people I was going to help were victims or criminals.

Now I knew they were both.

The Duparts lived in a shack just as meager as Isadora but there was an additional bed, where a little girl lay. She was pale and curled into a ball but her eyes were open and consciously watching everything around her.

Someone, who I assumed to be Mrs. Dupart, rushed to Isadora as we entered. “The healer? Did you bring him?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“
Her,” Jameson corrected gently. “Jocelyn?”

I stepped forward, getting the impression that the Duparts had been forewarned of our arrival but certain details had been excluded.

I introduced myself and then they brought me to their daughter’s bedside. It turned out that she wasn’t just pale but a faint shade of greenish-gray.

“
It’s La Terreur,” said Mrs. Dupart, gently brushing strands of hair from her daughter’s damp forehead.

I knew that word. It meant terror in French. But the illness, I’d never heard before.

“
What is La Terreur?” I asked.

“
That’s what they’re calling whatever it is working its way through the swamp,” explained Jameson. “It started a few weeks ago, just before you moved to Louisiana. Symptoms include weakness, labored breathing, and a change in your skin color. But the first sign of it comes as a scream that wakes you from your sleep.”

A scream of terror, I thought, which is where it got its name.

My eyes turned toward the little girl. She looked so frail, so vulnerable, undeserving of this thing that had infiltrated her body. I knelt down so that we were eye-level. “What’s your name?”

“
Marie,” she said and then a shudder hit her. Lips pinched, eyes clamped shut. It was evident that she was in pain.

Unable to let it pass without doing something, I took hold of her hand and stated in a rush, “Incantatio sana.” I spoke the words before even feeling the force rise. For good measure, I said it again. “Incantatio sana.”

Marie’s shudder did lessen but it didn’t end. Jameson had been right. It was harder to heal here.

Instinctually, I reached my free hand back and found his. Clutching it, I repeated my incantation. When it didn’t work, I repeated it again, my teeth grinding against each other, my breathing strained, my own forehead beginning to perspire as the force overwhelmed me.

I was on the verge of insisting they call a doctor when Marie opened her eyes. And they were lucid, alert, alive.

“
Momma.” She chocked back a sob, pushing herself to a sitting position.

Then the Duparts rushed forward to embrace their little girl.

Between tears, darting glances at me and hurried thanks, we said our goodbyes to the Duparts and started for the next home in which my healing was needed.

We visited fifteen more shacks and each of them had at least one person stricken with La Terreur. In some lived only a single person, too weak or unaware to answer their door. We entered anyway. By the time we left, they were revived, weak still but healed of the condition La Terreur left them in.

Then we visited the last shack…

Similar to the other ones, it had a dock, fishing equipment piled against the shack’s wall, and a chair propped against the wall with a fishing pole set across the arms. There were no lights and no music in this particular residence making it seem lonely, forgotten.

Isadora, already sensing something was amiss, didn’t bother to knock. Even in the other dwellings where only one person lived there was some sign of life. There was none here.

We entered a darkened room, only a light from across the waterway and through the trees left a shadow on the wall. It was just enough to see the body curled beneath the covers. A candle set on the ground below the person’s head had extinguished. In Isadora’s haste to light it, she rushed through an incantation and blew on the wick only to be reminded that her abilities didn’t work here. Releasing a quick sigh, she dug in her pocket for matches, lighting the candle quickly.

Jameson and I were at the bed throughout her efforts to illuminate the room, but we were having difficulty wakening my next patient.