The Voice inside My Head (12 page)

“W
hat you boys be doin’ out here?” the spectral figure shouts in a very unzombie-like voice.

I stand up, shaky with relief.

“Don’t answer,” hisses Zach.

“I think she’s already spotted us. If it’s a zombie, we’re dead meat anyway.”

“Don’t say
dead meat
in front of a Z-O-M-B-Y,” Zach whimpers.

“I-E, it’s spelled … never mind. I’m pretty sure it’s not a zombie, Zach. Just wait here.”

I attempt to walk over to the figure, but Zach digs his fingers into my arm with a grip that would put any zombie to shame.

“Ow,” I say, slogging through the muck, with Zach firmly attached.

It’s slow going, but the figure waits patiently.

As we get close, I can see it’s a large woman wearing a flouncy skirt, gum boots, a loose T-shirt and a headscarf. Her black skin gleams in the moonlight. If she is a zombie, she’s very well turned out.

“Excuse me,” I say. “We appear to be lost.”

“You don’t say.”

Just my luck; we get rescued by someone with enough attitude to make me wonder if I should have kept my mouth shut and taken my chances with the crocs.

“We were looking for the home of Martha, the bush doctor.”

“It’s Miss Martha. Didn’t your mama teach you how to speak to a lady?”

“No, mostly she taught me how to hold my liquor.”

“That figures. Who told you I was a bush doctor? I don’t appreciate bein’ called no bush doctor.”

“Lemon,” I say, giving him up without a moment’s hesitation. He’s definitely getting spit in his next remedy. “The thing is,” I rush on, “my friend’s hurt. Something bit him.”

Zach’s breathing fast and leaning on me like he’s having trouble standing up on his own. I put my arm around him. I really hope he doesn’t pass out. I’m not sure how far I could carry him.

Martha steps forward and holds out her hand to him. “Where you hurt, child?” she says in a gentle voice.

He whimpers and puts his hand in hers. She reaches her other hand into her voluminous skirt and pulls out a flashlight. When she switches it on, I get a good look at Zach for the first time this evening. His hand is swollen and red, but it’s his face, streaked with tears, that makes me turn away. I wish Martha would shut off the goddamn light.

“It’s not too serious,” she says reassuringly. “Just a scorpion sting. You got a bad reaction is all. It affects some worse than others. Come on home and I’ll fix you.”

Martha leads the way, and Zach and I trudge behind her. He’s still leaning heavily on me, my arm hooked under his shoulder. He slips in the mud a few times, and we both nearly go down. I just manage to keep us upright. Finally, we’re on drier ground, though the going doesn’t get much easier in the inky shadows cast by the looming trees.

Martha sings as we walk along. Zach’s breathing slows to the rhythm of her music so I’m grateful. The sweat is rolling off me in sheets by the time we reach a clearing with a single thatch-roofed house on stilts. It’s a long way from where we started. I wonder how Martha could possibly have heard me shouting from this far away. Even stranger, how could she have reached us so fast? An icicle of fear invades my thoughts.

We climb up to her veranda and pass through her screened front door. I’m careful not to let my hand disturb the three large spiders that cling to it. A cockroach scuttles out of our path as we enter. There’s a single kerosene lantern sitting on a table in the middle of the room, a cot in one murky corner and a stove and sink along one wall. Despite the large screened windows on all sides, the still air hangs fetid, rank with the smell of fish and overripe fruit.

Geckos chirp from the walls at the edges of the lamp glow, darting forward every few seconds to catch flying insects, the tiny biters that have been feasting on me since I got to this island. I realize I must have sweated off the bug spray as I feel them start to nip. Along two sides of the room are rows of shelves packed with jars of various sizes. It’s too dark to see what’s in them, but they dominate the space like living things lying in wait.

“Sit him down there,” orders Martha. I lead Zach over to one of the chairs next to the table. I have to pry his fingers off before easing him down. His face is gray under his pink, peeling flesh, and he immediately puts his head down on folded arms.

“He needs anti-venom,” I say urgently, forgetting I’m nervous of this woman and not sure I trust her.

“That so?” Martha glances at me from a stool she’s climbed up on to lift down jars. “You an expert on scorpion bites?”

I walk over to her and take the jars she hands down to me, setting them on the counter. “Maybe he’s allergic,” I say in a low voice, looking back at Zach to make sure he hasn’t heard. He doesn’t stir at all, which is even worse. I almost wish he’d start crying again. At least then I’d know he was conscious.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and start the water to boiling,” says Miss Martha, not unkindly. “I need two pots, ’bout a cup in each.” She gestures at the stove.

I look around for matches to light the gas. I’m pleased and surprised when I notice a modern flint lighter hanging on a hook just beside the stove. Of course, by “modern” I mean invented in the past one hundred years. I get the burners going on the first try, fill the two pots and set them on the flames.

Miss Martha’s busy taking out leaves and seeds from the jars. I cast furtive glances at her, both creeped out and fascinated. She dumps the seeds straight into two wooden bowls, but she chops the leaves first, separating them into piles before she adds different combinations to the seeds. Then she takes a small stone pestle and begins grinding. Her large body casts huge shadows on the wall, making her seem even more witchlike. The jars don’t have labels, but she scooped out the ingredients without hesitation. She keeps singing a haunting song. This time I know she’s not singing to us.

“Water’s boiling,” I say.

I wonder how far I could carry Zach if I had to get him to town for proper medical treatment. I’m tired and weak with hunger. Other than the half bag of chips, I haven’t eaten since breakfast, at least twelve hours ago. Zach’s a scrawny guy, though. I might be able to carry him a couple of miles. The problem is, we walked a lot farther than a couple of miles to get here. As usual, my sister is right. Coming out here was a spectacularly dumb-ass idea.

Martha shuffles over, nudges me out of the way and dumps a different concoction into each pot. She reaches up
and takes down two wooden spoons that were hanging from nails above the range.

“Stir,” she orders and hands me the spoons. “And don’t be lettin’ them burn, you hear?”

“Right,” I say, glad to have something to do. I look worriedly over at Zach, who’s still not moving.

She runs a cloth under the tap, walks over to him and cleans the area around the bite. Zach winces and makes a small noise. Martha keeps singing away in a language I’ve never heard before. I really hope it’s not some crazy witch incantation.

The dried foliage in my pots is softening; one has turned soupy green, like pond scum, while the other thickens into a paste that quickly becomes impossible to stir. I lift it off the heat and set it on the counter.

“I think this one’s ready,” I say, expecting another snarky remark, but Martha’s way too busy with her freaky singing, which now sounds more like chanting.

She comes over and looks in the pots, quietly humming now. Taking a mug down from a shelf, she lifts the second pot off the stove and pours the soupy mixture into it.

Holy shit, she’s going to make him drink it. What did she put in there? I should have been paying attention. What if it’s poison? But why would she poison him?

“We need to let them cool a spell,” she says. “You hungry?”

My stomach growls at the mention of food, but I eye the fungus soup.

“No,” I say, “I’m good.”

She snorts. “When you be a guest in my house, you gonna eat,” she insists. “So sit your backside down in that chair and don’t you be forgettin’ to say grace.”

I’ve never said grace in my life, but it seems like a good sign that she wants me to call on the guy up there and not the other one, so I sit down and give it a try.

“Hey, God,” I say, keeping my voice friendly, though He’s never played a big role in my life up to now, and given the way things have been going lately, I don’t think I’m on His Christmas card list either. “I just want You to know that if You had anything to do with getting us lost, I’m cool with that. Even siccing the croc on us was okay, since we got away and all, but my sister disappearing and the scorpion biting Zach were really overkill. If You were trying to make some kind of point …”

“What in all creation are you goin’ on about?” Martha cuts off my dialogue with the Almighty as if it wasn’t her idea in the first place.

I eyeball her. She is one hard witch to please.

She stalks over carrying a steaming pot and wielding a large metal ladle like it’s her weapon of choice.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was just, you know, praying.… ”

“You call that prayin’?” She slams the pot down on the table. “When you address your Lord, you use respect, boy. And you thank Him. You don’t be tellin’ Him what He did wrong, and you sure don’t be blamin’ Him for you gettin’ you’self lost in the swamp. That wasn’t His idea.”

I’m on the point of arguing, but the smell coming out of the pot starts wafting in my direction and my mouth waters so much I’m practically drooling.

“Thanks, God,” I say hurriedly. “Can I eat now?”

Martha snorts again, but she goes back to the kitchen area and fetches bowls. She spoons out two heaping portions and
slides one in front of Zach. He doesn’t move at all, so I lean over to him and listen. His breathing is deep and regular. Would he still be breathing if he’d gone into anaphylactic shock? With a pang of guilt, I dig into the stew and with even more guilt, I actually enjoy it. It may be the best food I’ve ever tasted. I can’t shovel it in fast enough, and my bowl is empty in seconds. I run my finger around the surface, mopping up the dregs.

Martha comes back to the table with the paste and begins rubbing it on Zach’s hand. That gets his attention. His eyes fly open and he sits bolt upright.

“It stings,” he moans.

“Go get him the tea,” she says to me.

I leap to do the witch’s bidding.

She holds the mug to his lips. I’m stunned when he greedily downs the vile brew without a murmur.

“Try your stew, buddy,” I say. “It’s really good.” And might even get rid of the disgusting tea taste. The smell alone is making me gag.

Zach drops his head back on the table and closes his eyes again. Martha bustles around her kitchen, tidying up. I keep one eye on her as I slide Zach’s bowl over and start slurping up his share.

“I see you be likin’ my boil-up,” she says, still with her back to me as she washes pots at the sink.

Definitely a witch. She has eyes in the back of her freaking head. I wonder again how she knew Zach and I were out in the swamp. Was she following us?

“The spirits,” she says, startling me out of my thoughts.

“What?”

“You be wonderin’ how I knew you were in trouble. The spirits be tellin’ me.”

I slurp Zach’s stew and ignore her. If she’s messing with me, I’m not rising to it, and if she isn’t … well, I don’t even want to think about that possibility.

“You ever talk to spirits?” she asks, turning to me. Her features are concealed in the dim light of the kerosene lantern. Only her eyes shine out from the gloom.

“No, never.”

She’s probably crazy. It would explain why she’s living way out here on her own.

“You sure about that?” She steps forward into the light, and I feel like she’s looking right inside of me. I stare down at the empty bowl and wish I hadn’t eaten so much as my stomach twists with anxiety.

“Why’d you come all the way out here to see me?”

“You mean your spirits didn’t tell you?” I quip, before it occurs to me I probably don’t want to get her angry.

“What do
your
spirits tell
you
?” she asks in a voice that echoes in the stillness of the night.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, though of course I do know, but how does she? I stand up and walk to the door. The three spiders are still there, probably her pets. I tap the screen and watch them converge in excitement.

“The spirit doesn’t depart when the body does. It needs time to get used to the idea of bein’ dead. Sometimes it’s got unfinished business. It might hang round for a year or more before it be ready to make the journey across the sea.”

The spiders retreat to their outposts again, a circle of death waiting for the unwary to step among them.

“We gather the family, pray for its journey and bathe its spirit to help it prepare.”

I wonder why the spiders stay together. Are they a family? Siblings, maybe?

“But the ancestors don’t ever leave completely. You can always call ’em back when you need ’em.”

Or are they like sharks, cooperating in the hunt until one of their own shows weakness and becomes the victim?

“Love doesn’t die with the body.”