Cynthia Bond: Ruby

Ephram hadn’t heard anyone behind him until he felt her hand on his shoulder. He spun around quickly and there she was. That little girl Ruby. She was completely soaked and she was talking. But he missed it. Only seen the movement of her lips and the smell of Dove soap. That and the scent of Dixie Peach and something else he couldn’t quite place in the rain. There, he had missed it again. He tried to catch her words in midthought—

“—just ain’t called for. See?” She had finished. She was looking up at him and he had no idea where to start or end. Was she chiding or comforting?

She stood for another moment then said, “Well, I gotta go.”

He had to say something before she turned. All he could come up with was, “I was thinking …”

She stayed, her face screwed up a bit. “What?”

“Nothing.” He looked down into the mud to hide the lie. “Just thinking about what you said.”

“What about it?”

Scrambling: “About things not being called for.”

She eyed him a moment then seemed to relax. “Thanks. But it ain’t just me who says it. Papa Bell says it too, all the time.”

He was lost again, but nodded his head anyway.

Margaret called from the rise, fenced by post trees and grass. “Ruby we got to be going!”

Ruby called back, “Said I’d be along!”

“Ain’t leavin’ you in all this rain. ’Sides she gonna be waitin’ on us.”

Ruby screamed and her voice lifted like the wind, “I said go on!”

Maggie stood there quiet against the bark of a long-needle pine. Walls of water between them, her head bent down just a bit. She moved away, like a puppy who’d been scolded, until only the top of her head showed above the rise. It did not budge.

“She get jealous a’ everybody. It ain’t just you.”

“Why she act like that?”

“Why you act like you act? Why do your mama?”

“I didn’t mean no harm.”

“Don’t be talkin’ ’bout her. Or askin’ after her. You ain’t nobody to be questioning her.”

Ephram was silent and he was starting to get cold. He wanted to find some shelter but he didn’t want to leave. Instead, he felt himself leaning into her — this girl — and before the idea could gel, he knew that he wanted to kiss her.

Suddenly Maggie appeared beside them. Her eyes sliced into Ephram as if she could read his thoughts, then she took both of their hands.

“Come on, y’all gone catch your death.” They were walking, then running through the wet forest.

“Where we goin’? I’m cold,” Ruby whined.

Ephram and Maggie began speaking at the same time.

Ephram: “They’s a cave on yonder side—”

Maggie: “Ma Tante expecting us Ruby.”

Ephram: “—of Marion, by that clearing.”

Ephram watched Ruby savor their attention. The way her head tilted up in something akin to pride. The way she let them wait for just a beat longer, weighing more than their suggestions in the rain. Finally Ruby looked at them and said, “I hate that old clearing. ’Sides, Ma Tante’s just around that bend.”

Ephram stated, “My daddy say he don’t want me goin’ over there.”

Maggie jumped in, “Well, then, you ain’t got to go, do you, Preacher son?”

Ephram said simply, “I’m going.”

They all walked, then ran, to Ma Tante’s door.

A row of dead trees, chopped and dragged from the forest, fenced Ma Tante’s hut. Twigs, moss, mud, cloth and bits of hair had been stirred together and smoothed between each post. The fence door was made of wood and clay. The sky grumbled low as Maggie hauled back her fist and hit the heavy door. It croaked open.

Inside the yard Ruby and Ephram stopped in spite of the torrent. There were mirrors everywhere, glinting and winking, next to open jars collecting wet sky. The entire yard smelled of myrrh. Ephram’s heart tightened as he saw small mounds of earth covered with soaked crimson flags. Smoke churned out of the hut’s stovepipe as what looked like badger and fox skulls clattered on a clothesline. Spades were jammed into the soft earth and the severed dried wing of a red-tailed hawk stretched across the porch awning. Strange herbs crept up twine and sticks, next to tomato plants with their fuzzy, acrid scent. At the edge of the yard a Gall Oak stood tall, its branches ripe with bottles of colored water, swinging like plump figs. Purple. Green. Red. Black. Blue. Yellow. Tapping against one another.

Maggie pointed to the tree and whispered, “That there’s a soul tree. They’s souls in them bottles.”

“Nuh-uh,” Ephram managed.

“Break one and find out.”

Ephram hurried on. They were soaked through when they reached the porch. Maggie knocked. The sound was dull and flat in the rain. She knocked again, waited, and then pushed the door open and slipped into the hut.

Maggie spoke from inside of the dark, “Come in. She ain’t here.”

Ruby shook her head no. “Uh-uh.”

Maggie urged, “She won’t care none. You just being scared.”

“I ain’t going in there.”

From the black Maggie said, “I won’t let nothing happen to you girl.”

Ruby shook her head no.

The rain picked up speed and strength. It whipped against Ruby’s calves and patent leather shoes. Her white lace socks were soaked through. Ephram’s trousers clung to his skin as he slipped his hand over Ruby’s. He held her hand as she looked up at him. Before she could smile, Maggie grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her inside. Ephram followed.

They were swallowed in the inky gloom. Maggie patted her inside pocket and swiftly lit a candle. “I can keep a match dry in a hurricane.”

In the sudden light, Ruby gasped and Ephram’s mouth fell open like a fish. There were knives everywhere, on every surface and wall. A dagger hung over the fireplace. A leather strapped machete hung against the wall. There were bolo knives and jack-knives, hunting and butcher knives, broadswords and tomahawks, and blades they had never seen before or since. Some shining and clean, others orange with rust, all cramming the insides of Ma Tante’s hut.

Ruby spun about to go and almost slipped on the puddle they had made.

Maggie grabbed her arm hard. “Ruby she just keep them blades, she ain’t got much cause to use ’em.”

At that moment a strong breeze pushed open the front door. It swallowed the flame and knocked the dead candle to the floor. Maggie scrambled for the taper as the wind spun about, lifting the black curtains, letting in peeks of gray only to smother them again. Papers were lifting, rustling, flapping like wings. Then the door banged shut and the room settled against itself. Maggie felt the candle in the darkness, struck a match against a dry floorboard and lit the wick.

All three children screamed as they saw Ma Tante standing above them. She was burnt cork black with yellow eyes, rake thin and tall as God. She glared down at them.

She asked in a thick Creole accent, “Ever heah of méchant stew?”

Ephram, Maggie and Ruby remained deathly silent.

“Answer.” Her eyes cut into Maggie.

“N-no Ma’am. Maggie answered.

“It is good. Start with onions and salt pork. Twelve carrot. Some potato … then you slice three naughty children into quarters and throw them in a pot.”

The candle began shaking in Maggie’s hand, causing shadows to wriggle along the wall of knives. All three children held their breath as Ma Tante, all sharp dark angles stared down upon them. Six watery eyes looked back.

Finally, Ma Tante griped, “Too bad you all too skinny. Be a waste of good potatoes.”

“I–I’m sorry Ma Tante—”

“Yes, you one sorry-ass rude child. Gaiwn make that fire so I can have my tea.” Maggie went to the kettle as if she lived there and stoked the wood in the stove. Ruby and Ephram stood, their shoes and clothes drunk with the storm, tributaries widening the pool around them. Ma Tante sneered at Maggie, “Dry up and quick. My plancher not no basin.” Maggie ran and grabbed well-used flannel towels, tossed them to Ruby and Ephram, then sopped up the water on the floor. They all fearfully patted and blotted as best they could.