One man stood before the others, the leader, soot and blood in the crease of his palms. The others were waiting in the waving heat. The Dyboù lifted high above them, higher, then blasted down like a grenade upon the circle. They all stumbled and fell back. He lifted again and chose the horse he would ride. They all wanted him, their mouths open, teeth bared and wet, saying the old words until their lips grew white in the corners. He chose the strongest man among them and fell like an anchor upon him.
The Dyboù looked out of the eyes of the man. His man. His horse. He felt the strength of his muscles, the heat of his crotch. He had chosen well. The man was shaking violently on the earth, nose bleeding, drool down his neck, trying to fit the Dyboù into the acorn hull of his human body. The man’s spirit folded smaller and smaller to make way.
The Dyboù waited. Like fucking a virgin, the Dyboù took his time until the man became accustomed to his size. Then he plunged in deeper. He felt the man’s likes, his dislikes, his penchant for menthol tobacco, his favorite tie and suit. He did not smother the man’s soul — he welded to it.
Soon he lifted the man to his feet. He looked at all of the living men, their dumb faces glowing yellow. He smelled the pines. Then he drew back and bit into the skin of the man he was wearing. The man bucked, so the Dyboù sunk his teeth through the muscled arm until he had the faint taste of blood, until it ran down his forearm and his hand. He had been branded.
The circle of men gave him the red bag and a black bottle. It was the reason they had called him. They thought. But it had been his idea all along, planted like brackle in their minds while they slept between white cotton sheets.
Now he felt the soles of his feet on the forest floor. The hush of owls, the quiet of the crickets. The living thicket watched.
The red bag in his palm was heavy with magic, made more powerful by the wet blood that had streamed into it.
Before the powder had found its way into his hand, it had been a mandrake root, baking and drying in the West Texas sun. It had then been gathered when the moon was void, by a left-handed man, and had never since seen the light of day. Then made its trek across Texas earth to its new home in the east, where it had been soaked in gator urine and cooked over a fire. It had been shaved into an open pot then boiled with things such as graveyard dust, red pepper, stagnant water, RIT red dye and things so secret they had only been thrown in during the pitch of night and not looked upon by the thrower. But the strongest ingredient was intention. The ill-will of man whittled to a sharp point, then stirred for forty days in a mash, laid out for one week to dry, and then pulverized to a fine powder. The Dyboù was pleased.
Soon he saw the girl’s land. When he reached it he stepped back. The honey of the earth filled him. So sweet, the land shifted under him. The grass flattened before each footfall, and a dog somewhere began to moan. It smelled like persimmon and apricots stirred with cane syrup. Hundreds of little beings beating, throbbing. The Dyboù bent down and clutched a lump of soil and stuffed it into the man’s mouth. It was like a sugar teat, cotton soaked in the white granules and milk, then given to a baby to suckle. He calmed himself. He knew patience. Whatever small shield the girl had mustered would be washed away come morning.
The house was cracked, soul splinters where it had been blasted apart by sorrow. The Dyboù looked through the window, through the torn curtains, and saw to his surprise that the girl was not alone. The man was asleep, his body draped like a rag against the side of the bed, knees on the floor, his acorn head resting on the pillow. The girl was spread like a starfish on the mattress, hair like frothing black water all around them. He scooted to get a better view and saw it was the fool he had been following for years, who had dropped the gris-gris and his manhood like a harlot drops her drawers.
He fingered the veined glass and zigzag lines spread beneath his hand. He felt his member swelling, his hand on the weave of the pants rubbing. Fast. Faster. His hand inside of his boxers now, until he grew thick and hard against the thigh. Pleasure rising … saliva pouring down his chin. Almost bursting. The house began to shake. The table bounced and the girl shifted and almost lifted her head.
The Dyboù stopped moments before release. Eyes bulging. The chinaberry shook in the distance. The girl curled onto her side. An old crow cawed.
He walked to the door, creaked it open, then dropped to the floor, knees cutting into a splinter, the Dyboù grinding it deeper. Bleeding. The left hand, spilling the contents of the black bottle upon the threshold of the house, molasses and ox blood. The length of him straining against his zipper. He heard something whispering, calling to stop. To stop what he was doing. To stop. Stop. STOP—and he looked, it was only the old crow — good for nothing, not even boiling. The Dyboù rumbled low. Then he spilled the contents of the red bag over the sticky dark. He bent to smell the mix and a thick surge of power shot through the body. Yes. It was good and strong. It would weaken the soul of anyone who stepped upon it. Cause their courage to drain from their feet. Cramp their guts and twist their resolve.
The Dyboù pushed open the door and walked into the house. He stood in the doorway. He stepped onto her bedroom floor and grinned. This boy, this mule, was meant to protect the whore? Like two pill bugs facing a praying mantis, there was no chance they would survive.
He walked away, out the door, down the steps and towards the pines. The man’s nose started bleeding again, his heart pounding too fast. He would not last long, so the Dyboù walked him back to his home, slipped him into his bed, and oozed out of his body. The man would remember only a little, but he would awaken stronger, with a bit more spite and fire in his veins. The Dyboù liked the size and cut of the man. He would ride him again soon.
Chapter 15
Ephram woke to tapping. The sun was only peeking over the horizon when he saw Gubber Samuels standing outside Ruby’s door, shifting one foot to the next, and when he caught Ephram’s eye he motioned for him to join him. Ephram slipped his head from the bed and tipped outside.
“Why you clean that whore’s house?” was what he said when Ephram greeted him.
“Gubber go home,” Ephram managed. The day was soft blue and coral pink, too pretty and new for the likes of Gubber. So he repeated, “Go home.”
“Man I know she got good pussy.” Off Ephram’s look he added, “Least that’s what I hear.”
Ephram grabbed Gubber by the shirt sleeve and pulled him away from Ruby’s door. But before Ephram could open his mouth Gubber cut in, “Look Ephram, we been friends too long for me to keep quiet. Folks ’bout to run y’all out of town after what Celia say at church yesterday. Ain’t no joke.”
Ephram looked at Gubber Samuels, his boyhood friend and ally. He was tipped to one side to balance his considerable weight. His creamed corn skin wet with the strain of walking so early. His right hazel eye steady, his left floating, traveling right then left on its own volition. Walled.
“I don’t want to hear you say nothing like that again.”
“What?” Ephram looked at him sideways so Gubber said simply, “All right man.”
Ephram knew Gubber Samuels had never talked around things. He’d always spoken like rocks falling. When Ephram thought about it, Gubber hadn’t been up before 10:00 A.M. on a weekday since he could remember. So Ephram pointed to a stump across the road and the two men walked over and sat down.
“So what did Celia say?”
“You know how Celia be when she testify. Talk a fly off a fresh pile a’ shit.”