The Magnolia League - By Katie Crouch Page 0,23

and the smells of wood smoke, cloves, and bacon. On the table, the edge of the newspaper lifts and falls to the rhythm of the ceiling fan. A bee, trapped between the window screen and the shade, ricochets feverishly back and forth.

Sina opens the doors of her floor-to-ceiling apothecary’s cabinet. She taps the side of her face as she thinks a moment; finally, she extracts a large cloth and several jars. She lays a heavy green cape on the ironing board and plugs in the iron. Bloo, the Buzzards’ dog, whimpers at the hiss as Sina runs it over the cloth. He was bitten by a snake the previous year, and though Sam got to him in time to treat the bite, the dog has never forgotten it. The Buzzards all know, of course, that the incident was a hex put out by their rivals on St. Catherines Island. Sina had wanted to take revenge on their two cats, but her brother, Sam—ever the peace seeker—wouldn’t allow it.

While Sam is the most knowledgeable of Doc’s children about the history and intricacies of hoodoo, Sina is the practitioner with the most natural talent. No one can mix a mojo bag like she can. She takes great pleasure in preparing for a ritual, loves the meditative feel of it. Yet she is aware of voices invading her peaceful bubble this afternoon. Her little cousins are fighting in the courtyard. For hours, they’ve been playing on an old twin-size mattress that Sam has rigged up with ropes to hang from the branch of a large oak tree. It’s the only spot of shade in the common garden, so everyone in the family spends hours there reading, gossiping, or sneaking naps. The swing is in high demand in the summer, but out of fear that the old branch may snap, Sam has limited the weight load to two hundred pounds. Presently there are three boys and four girls jumping on and off it, trying to negotiate swing time.

“You’ve been on it for an hour!”

“No I haven’t!”

“You have!”

“Haven’t!”

“Ow!” screams Little Callie, the next-to-youngest and the brattiest by far.

Sina sighs, puts down the iron, and walks to the window to investigate.

“Ahh!” Little Callie cries. “Plat-eye! Plat-eye!” She begins to convulse uncontrollably.

Sina shakes her head. When she was growing up, Buzzard kids were kept from practicing hoodoo until they were at least fifteen. Lately, Doc’s been starting them a lot earlier. Sina’s not sure why this is, but it’s definitely a bad idea in her book.

“L.S.! You know Doc didn’t ordain that. Fix her! Now!”

She doesn’t have to wonder who pulled the plat-eye root. Little Snake, Doc Buzzard’s single direct grandson, is the only one with the brains and finesse to conjure it so quickly. She looks at the poor girl, who is shaking uncontrollably at the vision only she can see—most likely a large gray shapeless form hovering five feet above the ground, snarling and reeking of the dead.

“But I—”

Sina thrusts a flask through the window. “Get that plat-eye some whiskey and dispel it. Then give her a turn on that swing. Now.”

After throwing a pebble defiantly at Sina’s cottage, Little Snake reluctantly turns to his cousin.

“Powers, powers, powers,

let her be.

Oh John the Conqueror,

the trouble was only me.”

He pours the whiskey on the ground near where Little Callie is lying. Immediately, the girl stops twitching. She hops up and scuttles to the mattress. L.S. cuts an evil look at his aunt and slips down the path to the woods.

“Off to do no good,” Sina says aloud. Humming to herself, she meticulously measures out exact portions from the glass jars of frankincense, clove powder, archangel herb, bayberry root chips, goofer dirt, cinnamon powder, and a special white powder in a bottle-green jar.

The goofer dirt—gathered from new graves—is especially precious. The fresher it is, the more effective. Often she asks the Magnolias to pay for their side spells in goofer. They’re often at funerals of the most influential people in town, so it’s close to no effort for the ladies to slip a bit of cemetery dirt into their fancy little purses.

Sina takes three cones of incense from a plastic container labeled Money Draw and lights it. Then she blends her ingredients in a coffee grinder and puts half the mixture in a green flannel bag. She sews the bag shut and then carefully sprinkles it with nine drops from a vial labeled Prosperity.

“Hey,” Sam says, coming in the door. Sina nods but doesn’t answer. She puts some