The Sorceress (42 page)

Since none of the local physicians could figure out what was wrong with Edith and none wanted to risk catching her strange sickness, it was lucky for Edith that Eris seemed immune. Eris could go in and out of Edith's sickroom and administer to her without so much as a cough or a sneeze.

Arthur was more than grateful to Eris. As master of the plantation, he couldn't afford to come down with the strange illness that had gripped his pitiful wife. Why, he'd lose everything his daddy had left him if he caught whatever was ailing his wife.

It was for the good of the plantation and the future of the Stovall family if Edith stayed far, far away from him as well as any essential slaves whose labor he depended upon. Until her health improved, Edith would have to stay tucked away in that cramped and musty bedroom up in the attic.

But in the meantime, a man had his needs. Manly desires that a sickly wife could not fulfill.

Eris used a sharp-edged rock to grind the mixture that she'd concocted in the moonlight and then carried it up the stairs to
the attic. With the wooden bowl and ladle in hand, Eris used her hip to bump open the door to the quarantined room.

“Missus,” Eris said sharply. “Wake up, Missus. It's time to take your remedy.”

Although Arthur Stovall never came into the room personally, he'd been known to send in slaves whom he considered dispensable to periodically check on his wife and give him a report on her condition.

Eris wasn't willing to risk having unexpected visits from loose lips reporting that she wasn't giving the mistress the best treatment possible, so she set the bowl on the bedside table and used the hem of her apron to blot the perspiration from Edith's forehead. Then, certain that no prying eyes could see her, she roughly wiped the sickly woman's face and mouth, using the lace-edged pocket of the apron. With a hateful grimace, Eris dug the crust out of the corners of her patient's rapidly blinking eyes. The friction of the stiff lace was painful and caused angry red blotches to pop up all over Edith's frail face.

As far as Eris was concerned, the red blotches further proved that the mistress was contagious and required an extended quarantine. And more doses of her special remedy.

Eris gave a low chortle as she recalled the last slave the master had sent to the attic infirmary. Scared to death, old Make-Do had limped into the room holding a rag over his face. The rag covered his mouth, nose, and eyes.

He wasn't going to be able to give the master a detailed report being that he had neither seen nor smelled anything, so out of pure spite, Eris instructed Make-Do to empty the mistress's almost overflowing chamberpot.

Having to walk with a cane made carrying the
contagious
waste material cumbersome. One would have thought Make-Do had
seen a ghost the way he whooped and hollered when bits of loose excrement splattered on his hand.

Imagining he'd been infected by the mistress, Make-Do coughed up blood for a week, but he finally pulled through. Eris found Make-Do's near-death experience extremely humorous and made a mental note to take better advantage of his simplemindedness in the future.

Eris was anxious to report that the Missus's ailment was not better, that she was even more emaciated and pale with a curious eruption of red welts, which were spreading all over her face. The Missus, Eris would sadly state, seemed to be getting worse. Excited, Eris hurriedly left the room, forgetting to administer the poisonous concoction.

Edith was weak and very thirsty. But her heart was filled with relief that the vile black slave had forgotten to force-feed her the twice-daily dosage of poison. Eris's lethal “remedy” was the instrument of the mistress's slow and agonizing demise.

Experiencing an unusually lucid period earlier that day, Edith had kept the poisonous mixture hidden beneath her tongue. She'd spat it out as soon as the slave woman left the room. And now, having skipped the evening dose as well, she was feeling strengthened and hopeful that she might survive this vexation dealt upon her by the hands of a slave. The gall!

Unwilling to risk exposure to his wife's malady, Arthur Stovall insisted that Eris shed the clothing she'd worn while attending to Edith and wash thoroughly before entering his chambers.

The mistress's nights on this earth were numbered. It was just a matter of time before Eris became the Mistress of the House.
Although her name would not be affixed to any official documents, she'd be the mistress no less, and she would inform the slaves to address her as such. She'd already begun training Molly, the cook's assistant, to refer to her as
Mistress
.

Hearing her addressed as such would be a problem with the white people, of course. Therefore, she'd have to prohibit visitations by business associates who'd come snooping around. She'd insist that Arthur—yes, she now called him
Arthur
—conduct his business away from the home. She would not kowtow to lawyers, bookkeepers or such. No, Arthur would have to arrange his life to suit her needs.

Feeling powerful, Eris did not cover herself with even a wisp of fabric. Boldly, she glided naked from her room to the master bedchamber. She did not care if curious eyes peered from corners or slightly cracked doors.
Let them behold my beauty—my full breasts and wide hips. Yes, let them admire me from a distance but cower in my presence.
Intoxicated with power, Eris, dark and statuesque, with refined facial features, strode through the corridors with the regal carriage of a queen. Heavy coils of dark hair fell past her shoulders. She did not carry a lantern; the full moon brightened the path to Arthur's chamber.

“My beloved,” Arthur said when Eris opened the door and crept to his bed. “I've waited for what feels like ages. Hurry! Come!” He patted the bed.

She peered at him in the dark room. “Wait! I must part the curtains.”

“Why, beloved?”

“The moon is full tonight. You've given me many things; but never have you given me the moon.”

“Ah, you're a strange one. But I have no power in your presence. Part the curtains if you wish. Have your moon; have the
stars as well.” Arthur waved his hand extravagantly and laughed.

Eris parted the curtains and for a few moments, stood naked in the window. She threw back her head in ecstasy as she became energized by the light of the moon.

In the cramped slave huts below, candles were quickly snuffed when the slaves saw Eris's naked silhouette. Such a sight seemed unholy and they all wished to escape through sleep as quickly as possible. With prayers on their tongues, they hoped that by morning's light, the chilling image of Eris basking in the moonlight would seem like a bad dream.

Eris walked to the bed. Her breasts were full and tender; a red streak trailed down her inner thigh. Smiling, she pulled back the heavy covers and joined the master whose look of worship assured her that behind closed doors, he'd always be her slave.

Eris awakened at dawn. There was great clattering in the kitchen as the cook and her help prepared the morning meal for Arthur and her.

Molly, an obedient young girl, rapped on the door twice as Eris had instructed her. “Good morning, Mistress,” the young girl greeted Eris. Molly did a double-take and looked quizzically at her master, who still asleep, sucked loudly on the knuckle of Eris's middle finger.

“Will that be all, Mistress?” Molly asked, averting her gaze as she set down the breakfast tray.

“No. Go out to the slave quarters and tell that worthless Make-Do to go tend to the Missus. Tell him to empty her slop…” Suddenly remembering that she hadn't given Arthur's wife her evening dosage, she further instructed, “Tell him to add a little water to her remedy; it's in a bowl on the nightstand. He must give her two spoonfuls. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Molly said. “Two spoonfuls,” she repeated, and whirled around and hurried out of the room. Through the window Eris watched Molly race across the lawn to give Make-Do the distressful news.

Eris was famished and sore. The power she'd derived from the full moon had enhanced her femininity, bringing on her menses
and causing her full breasts to lactate although she'd never given birth to a child.

The moon had allowed her to nurture Arthur—to claim him as her own. Last night, she'd encouraged him to suckle her breasts and her bleeding womanhood until he cried from sheer bliss.

Different from other women, Eris's menstrual cycle lasted for just one evening per month, and though Arthur cried and pleaded for more of her delicious dark red nectar, she had nothing left to give; he'd suckled her dry.

Like a fretful baby, he'd cried and whimpered throughout the night. Not wanting to awaken the slaves, Eris had given him her knuckle to suck. This soothed and kept him quiet, allowing him to sleep like a contented child for the remainder of the night.

Depleted and famished from her nocturnal activities, Eris, propped up by three plump pillows, enjoyed her own breakfast and Arthur's as well.

Praying he did not become afflicted again with the doomed Missus's illness, Make-Do hobbled up the flights of stairs, carrying a pitcher of fresh water. When he reached the attic, although it hadn't entered his mind before, the thought of just upping and running away seemed like a better idea than risking another chance with the sick Missus. All that choking and coughing up blood was bound to kill him this time. But trying to run with his bad leg…well, he wouldn't get very far. Nope! The hounds would have a hold on him before he even got close to the river.

Accepting his fate, Make-Do pushed open the door. The room smelled like a pigsty. The Missus looked all dried-up and half-dead, with her thick and cankered tongue hanging out the side of
her mouth. Momentarily oblivious of his fear of contagion, Make-Do rushed over, lifted her head and tried to give her a drink of water, but the water rolled off her thick, blistered tongue.

In a quandary, he looked around the room. There was a spoon stuck in the dried-up remedy that Eris had instructed him to give to the mistress. Make-Do cleaned the gook off and began spoonfeeding drops of water to Edith. “Here you go, Missus,” he said, carefully aiming the spoon toward her dry lips. His doctoring seemed to work. The Missus began to utter sounds. Incomprehensible noises, but the gibberish was progress nonetheless. Wanting her to get better, Make-Do poured a little water in the remedy and tried to soften it up enough to give to the mistress.

But the mistress started making an awful growling sound in her throat. It scared old Make-Do so bad, he thought she was drowning from taking in too much water. Not wanting to be blamed for killing her, Make-Do slipped out of the room and hobbled as fast as he could down the stairs.

He ran smack into Molly. “Ah give de Missus two spoonfuls of dat remedy jest like you said.” He turned to hobble away.

“Did you empty the slop bucket?”

“No, Lawdy, Ah didn't,” he said sadly. “Ah sho' is gittin' old and fo'getful. Lemme git back up dere and fetch it.”

When Make-Do reentered the infirmed woman's room, she looked surprisingly brighter. Her complexion wasn't as pasty and her tongue didn't look as thick. Encouraged, he picked up the bowl of remedy and started stirring.

Edith Stovall began to moan and Make-Do put down the bowl.

“You don't like dat remedy, do you, Missus?”

She looked at him and grunted.

“Okey-dokey. Ah'm jest up here to fetch yo' slop bucket anyways. So you git yo'self some sleep now, Missus.”

Grateful that he hadn't killed the Missus, Make-Do whistled a happy tune as he took care of emptying the slop bucket.

By nightfall, when Make-Do hadn't started choking and coughing up any blood, the slaves breathed a sigh of relief. They loved Make-Do too much to have to beg his pardon and ask him to kindly stay in his own cabin. Yes, they were mighty obliged that they didn't have to turn old Make-Do away.

“Ah's done beat dat ol' sickness,” Make-Do told the awestruck slaves. “Maybe de Missus will, too.”