Witchy Woman

Swampland squished beneath my bare feet as I followed the frail-looking elderly woman down a wild path. I came seeking guidance, or so I thought. She said I came for revenge. The townsfolk call her the old Voodoo witch, who am I to question her assessment?

Nettles bit my ankles as willow whips whispered along my skin; deeper and deeper into the alligator infested marshes we went. We had seen four already, bigger than I ever imagined, but they bowed gracefully as they backed away from our path. If my guide was not a witch, she was at least a tamer of animals.

At sunset we had left the main road, well after sundown we arrived at a clearing of sorts. A small island sat dead center of the muck with a thatch hut protruding elegantly atop the crown of the tiny hill. Into the water she waded, unperturbed by six hungry jowls snapping mere feet away. I kept close on her heels for the hungry eyes watched me.

Torches lit as we approached; was it magic or illusion? I could not tell. The smoke billowing from each swirled inward to the door of the building. I no longer needed to swat at mosquitoes every two seconds, they disappeared. The muggy heat remained. Inside sprawled an oak table and several shelves. In a pen, chickens clucked, pecking at grain in the mud. A row of knives hung, dangling from the rafters, varying in size from a tiny paring knife to something twice the size of a machete. I cringed at the dried splats of blood along the blades and handles.

Her creaky voice startled me, "Seet down, chile, ye needs ye'r rest befo' te nigh' 'tis troo."

I sat, without thinking, on a chest against one tiny moss-grown wall. I watched, mesmerized, as she began gathering ingredients to boil over a tiny fire, the origins of which I had no knowledge. In a trance I stared as the smoke danced circles around the hut, entering through the door, swirling between us, and escaping through a central hole in the willowy roof. Was it minutes I watched the shadows play, or hours?

Wonderful smells tugged at my nose despite the gruesome looking things in jars that she pulled. Light emanated from nowhere, illuminating everything.

"Heeyahr," she said at last, offering me a bowl of broth, "dreenk dis."

A sweet taste met my tongue, unlike the broth consistency suggested. I drank the entire bowl, tilting it upward to run my tongue along the deepest recesses of the carved wood. She smiled as she retrieved it from my hands.

"Now," she turned back to the table, "te fun begans."

My ears heard chanting, but her lips barely moved. She grasped a rooster from the pen and it went willingly, quietly. It was rather proud in its offering sacrifice, jutting his chest out for her silver blade. Light feathers darkened as the chicken's blood flowed from the score marks drawn along the breastbone. The sweet taste of the broth reignited along my tongue, warmth spreading down my throat, a fire burned in my gut. The chanting continued.

Then, silence. The hut was plunged in darkness as the blade sank between feathers.

A ruby shone brightly, shining light atop a small fork. The witch's frail hand proffered it toward my face.

"Eat. He done you wrong. Make tings right. Swallow down his haht, make heem pay!"

I gulped. The coppery smell tasted of nectar on my tongue. The ruby had a strange sanguine tinge to its edges, almost as if dipped in sugar. My mouth opened wide. The wooden taste of the fork was lost amid the heat of the muscle, swallowed whole like an oyster, for it was an oyster of a sort: it was his heart, dipped in honey, marinated in syrup.



I awoke the next morning, lying naked in the backwoods of Louisiana. My clothes, cell phone, and car keys in a neat pile beside my head. I turned on my phone and immediately received a dozen messages. My recent ex had been found in my best friend's bedroom, dead of a heart attack. His heart was mysteriously missing from his chest.