Little Gale Gumbo by Erika Marks Page B

thing we do is offer the smoke to the spirits, Josephine. We ask them to empty the space of all negative energy.” Josie trailed her mother across the room. Camille continued. “You must always visualize your desire, baby girl. No matter what it is you are wishing for, see it in your mind. Use the candle flames to help you find and keep your focus. Your spell is only as strong as your desire. Understand?”
    Josie nodded quickly, urgently, fixing her gaze on the pair of candles that burned on the table. Camille turned the bundle to Josie, just enough so that her daughter would move through the smoke. “This is called smudging,” she said. “It seals your wish. And you must always draw your circles clockwise, toward the future.”
    Josie nodded again, her lips moving as she repeated her mother’s instructions to herself. Clockwise. Always clockwise.
    When the bundle had ceased to smoke, Camille set it in a saucer, picked up the bottle of Florida water, and sprinkled it liberally throughout the room. Josie followed her mother from one corner to another, inhaling deeply, remembering when she’d first asked why they called it Florida water. Camille had explained that it was once a popular cologne before becoming the Voodoo holy water, and that the original bottles had a picture of the Fountain of Youth on their label, which was believed to be in Florida. Josie had always loved the water’s sweet, citrusy smell, even before she’d known what it was. It was her mother’s scent: lemon and clove, a touch of cinnamon, and a hint of rose. Josie had sworn she could recall the smell of it even before she could walk, but Dahlia had told her that was impossible.
    â€œAlmost done.” Camille set the bottle of Florida water back on the table and lit incense; then she took Josie’s hands in hers and looked out at the room. The room seemed different somehow, Josie thought. Bigger. Brighter. Warmer.
    Camille smiled. “Now there’s only one thing left to say, Josephine. Do you know what that is?”
    Josie knew. She had heard her mother utter the words so many times, sometimes under her breath, other times, when their father wasn’t around, shockingly clear.
    Josie smiled proudly and lifted her face to the ceiling.
    â€œBlessed be,” she said, then again, louder, “Blessed be.”

Nine

    Little Gale Island
    Fall 1977
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    Ben was behind the house splitting wood when Camille found him the next morning. She waited until he was at the end of his swing before she called out into the chilled air, waving with her free hand, the other hand growing numb as she clenched the collar of her coat around her throat.
    â€œGood morning!”
    Startled, Ben lowered his ax, wondering how long she had been standing there.
    He nodded. “Morning.”
    â€œI was hoping you could tell me where the market is,” she said.
    Ben laid his ax over the flat top of his chopping log, flexing his stiff fingers inside his thick gloves. He couldn’t imagine she planned to go into town dressed that way, but then, she and the girls had only just come from New Orleans. He thought at once of the swollen boxes of Matthew’s old coats and sweaters collecting dust in the attic.
    â€œIt’s not too far,” he said, pointing her to the front of the house. “Just follow this street to Pine. Take a left and you’ll hit Main. Larson’s Grocery is just a few blocks down.”
    â€œWonderful,” she said, then laughed. “If I go too long without cooking, I get the most awful headaches!”
    Ben had to wonder how she could be so bright and cheery when she must have been freezing, her breath swirling into thin ribbons around her face, his own pouring out like chimney smoke.
    â€œCan I get you anything while I’m there, Mr. Haskell?” she asked.
    â€œNo. Thank you.”
    Ben reached down