The Juju Girl

By Nikki Marsh

2022 Award for Best Self-Published eBook by an African-American Author from the Black Caucus of the American Library Association

 

Gabbie isn't like other 15-year-olds. She sees things others can't see. She hears things others can't hear. She pierces the veil that separates the living from the dead.

When the Great Storm of 1893 rips her from her humble home on the banks of the Mississippi, it thrusts her into the dazzling world of New Orleans' Creoles of Color High Society. It's a world of debutantes, balls, and handsome young men in uniforms.

Superstition, mystery, magic, and conjure make of the very fabric of daily life. It counts both holy men of God and practitioners of the Dark Arts among its most honored denizens. It's here Gabbie learns her supernatural powers are part of something greater.

But, she wants nothing to do with it.

Will that change when a malevolent ghost threatens the lives of those she loves or will it take an ill-fated romance? What will she learn on her journey of self-discovery? Will she find the courage to finally become the person she was born to be?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nikki Marsh
• Release date: Mar 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9798218019549

Book preview

THE JUJU GIRL

Nikki Marsh

Copyright © 2021 Nikki Marsh

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews

Nikki Marsh

6237 13th Ave., South

Gulfport, FL 33707

[e-mail]

ISBN: 9798718041026

Contents

Chapter One The Great Storm

Chapter Two My First Visit to New Orleans

Chapter Three My New Life Begins

Chapter Four The Gift

Chapter Five Making Friends

Chapter Six Julian

Chapter Seven Miss Marie

Chapter Eight A Little Knowledge

Chapter Nine Pisatuntema

Chapter Ten The Sweetheart Ball

Chapter Eleven A Turn for the Worse

Chapter Twelve The Secret

Chapter Thirteen Repentance

Chapter Fourteen Forgiveness

Chapter Fifteen The Kiss

Chapter Sixteen A Change is Comin'

Chapter Seventeen Practice Makes Perfect

Chapter Eighteen Another Secret

Chapter Nineteen Treading Lightly

Chapter Twenty Fidelity

Chapter Twenty-One The Other Side

Chapter Twenty-Two Betrayal

Chapter Twenty-Three Journey's End

Chapter Twenty-Four The Juju Girl

Chapter One

The Great Storm

O

n a balmy day in October 1893, when I was fifteen, my life as I knew it ended, and my new life began. In my old life, I had a mother and father who loved and protected me. In my new life, I didn't. In my old life, I knew nothing of fear or courage. In my new life, they were the bedrocks of my existence. In my old life, I thought power lived outside of me. In my new life, I learned that real power lies within.

We lived in a small house, a shanty really, near the banks of the Mississippi in Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana. Plaquemines is a French Creole word that comes from the Native word for persimmon. It got its name because of the beautiful persimmon trees that flourished there.

Popá took pride in our Creole blood - a mix of African, French and Native American, but Creole is more than having mixed blood. It's mixed everything - food, language, beliefs and religion. Being Creole means that, even though you go to Mass on Sunday, you believe in juju, magic, conjures, and spells. It means you believe in a mysterious power to either keep the bad things away from those you love or bring them down on those you hate. Creoles know pointing a broom at someone brings them bad luck and, if you have a choice, you never leave a house by the same door you used to enter it. They know, if you drop a fork, you'll have a lady visitor, but if you drop a knife, expect a man. They know a howling dog signals death. Some people say these are silly superstitions. In my old life, I thought so, too.

Popá and Uncle Phonse set out to fish and dredge for oysters early that morning. Uncle and Popá grew up together in Buras, but he moved to New Orleans after he married Aunt Lucinda, Maman's sister. Although he visited us every year to fish with Popá, he always came alone. When I asked Maman why, she told me she no longer considered Auntie her sister. I couldn't understand how a sister could stop being a sister.

Sometimes things happen that never should have. Maman followed this with one of her gazes that meant I should stop asking about this. I did.

We planned Popá’s birthday celebration for later that afternoon. He loved seafood, especially oysters, so Maman arranged a seafood feast with some of his favorite dishes - fried oysters, gumbo, red beans and rice, Crawfish Etouffee and banana bread pudding for dessert. I was as excited about his birthday party as I had been for my own a month earlier.

The rain started quietly after Popá and Uncle set out for the river, but they returned a short time later.

There's a fierce storm brewin' up, Aimee, my father pronounced as he came in the door.

Ain't gonna be no fishin' today with those winds and undercurrents. They looked like they had been swimming in the river.

Well then, Gus, we'll have to postpone our seafood feast, but not our party, Maman announced. I'll fry up some chicken.

Her disappointment showed in her eyes, but it disappeared when Popá grabbed her by the waist, laughed, and planted a kiss on her cheek. He loved fried chicken almost as much as fried oysters.

You stop that, Gus. You're soaking wet! she protested, pretending to be annoyed.

You and Phonse go on out to the chicken coop and get two chickens before you change out of those wet clothes, she ordered as she pushed them out the door. When they returned, they changed clothes, then played cards while I helped Maman with the cooking.

By late afternoon, we sat down to eat, and the storm picked up strength. By early evening, the wind and rain exploded into a raging storm, the likes of which we had never seen. By late evening, water began to seep under the door, and we fought a losing battle to keep it out. Within an hour, it surged into the house, breaking our shanty apart.

My heart raced. I panicked and cried as Popá tried to reassure me everything would be all right. But his happy eyes stopped laughing. Within minutes, the storm plunged us into the darkness of night and into the violent waters that swept us towards the river. Popá threw me on his back, piggy-back style, like he did when I was younger. I clenched my arms around his neck so tightly, it was a wonder he could breathe. Popá and Uncle Phonse shouted to hold on to each other as we struggled against the swelling waters. In the distance, a lit warehouse sat on higher ground, beckoning those caught in the torrent to come in for safety. Uncle Phonse held onto Maman, and Popá held onto me. The strong current pulled us under a few times. The last time, I came up, it was without Popá. I struggled to stay afloat, frantically calling out for him.

Where's Popá? I can't see Popá! I shouted.

Uncle Phonse reached for me and pulled me towards him. Maman gripped my hand.

Hold on to each other. Don't let go 'till you get to the warehouse over there. I'll find Gus, and we'll meet up there. The raging waters almost muted his voice, but he pointed us in the right direction.

By the time we reached the warehouse, the wreckage in the water cut up Maman’s arms and legs and blood spurted from a deep gash in her forehead. I thought she might bleed to death. A member of our church, whose shanty also collapsed in the storm, showed up minutes later and showed me how to keep pressure on Maman's head wound to stop the bleeding. It worked.

The warehouse filled up with frightened women and children, as well as men who tried to hide their fear. I scanned the warehouse all night for Popá and Uncle. They never came.

Gabrielle, I might be hurt pretty bad, Maman said as she fingered her wounds and saw her bloodied clothes.

Thank God, you only have a few scrapes. She said this as her hands moved up and down my arms and legs surveying the damage.

Popá did a good job keeping you safe. I'm praying he and Phonse will walk in here any minute now and take care of us. But, you're fifteen now and old enough to understand God doesn't always answer our prayers the way we want. Some things are His will. We don't know why.

Don't say that, Maman! I shouted as I sobbed. How could she think this was God's Will?

I clenched my jaw to stop crying. Maman pulled me closer to her, held me in her bloody arms, and rocked me like she did when I hurt myself as a child. Her tears scared me more than the storm. I had only witnessed her crying on one other occasion.

After a while, her tears washed away some of the bloodstains on her face, and she regained her composure.

In case something happens to me, Gabrielle...

Nothing will happen to you, Maman. You'll be all right. Popá will be all right! I shouted as I pulled away from her, denying any suggestion she might not survive.

Shush, Gabrielle! Prepare yourself for whatever comes. Wait here at the warehouse for Popá and Uncle Phonse. If neither returns by the time the rescuers arrive, tell them to take you to New Orleans, to Aunt Lucinda.

Just hearing New Orleans petrified me. I pleaded with her to send me any other place. She ignored my pleas, insisting Popá would know to look for me there, if he survived. She made me repeat Auntie's address several times before she drifted into a deep sleep. My fear that she might not wake up and the possibility I would never see Popá again sabotaged my attempts to doze off.

All night I waited for Popá. Popá, who dreamed of farming his own land one day but ended up an orange picker instead. Popá, who convinced himself that he enjoyed traveling up and down the Mississippi working on large groves even though it meant weeks away from us. Popá, who smelled like one big sweet orange when he returned from picking. Popá, who always threw me up on his broad shoulders and gave me a rowdy piggy-back ride to celebrate his homecoming.

I kept a vigil as Maman slept fretfully through the night, fighting a losing battle to stay awake for Popá. Her long, silky dark hair, usually pinned back in a bun and harnessed with a net, escaped its cage and fell in matted, bloody tangles. She was nothing like Popá, a large man with curly hair and skin the color of brown sugar. She could pass for white, if she wanted to. Her light gray eyes, though beautiful and powerful, always had a sad, far-away look. They didn’t laugh like Popá 's. When she set them on me, she saw me both inside and out.

As the winds changed from a howl to a whimper during the night, it called out to me. Gabbie, don't be afraid. I recognized the voice. It wasn't the wind, but his voice, the voice of a man who should have loved me but never did, a voice from the grave. Goose bumps sprouted on my arms.

By daybreak, the storm subsided, Maman fell into a deep sleep, and I lost hope Popá and Uncle Phonse would show up. The warehouse was eerily quiet. When some men flung open the warehouse doors, the carnage from the night before horrified me. Trees, limbs, dead animals and dead bodies floated in the muddy waters. The storm had quieted, but my fears only grew overnight. For the first time in my life, I felt alone.

It seemed like an eternity before the rescuers arrived and took us to the make-shift hospital nearby. In a few days, Uncle Phonse, who had been desperately searching for Popá, showed up exhausted and without him. He searched everywhere and hadn’t come to the hospital until he knew for sure what had happened to him. What he told us broke our hearts. He had found Popá’s body laid out on a street with dozens of other unclaimed bodies waiting to be burned. Uncle Phonse claimed his body and buried him in his family’s graveyard. They were like brothers, and he wanted him there with his own Maman, his Popá, and his first wife, Suzanne. Before we left for New Orleans, he took me to the graveyard, and I left some wildflowers on his grave. Maman wasn’t well enough to come with us. But, before we left, we all attended a Mass for the Dead, and we lit a candle for him and all the other souls that perished in the storm.

After a few weeks in emergency quarters, Uncle Phonse took Maman and me to New Orleans. We had no other place to go, but I dreaded it. My only other visit there had occurred five years earlier to attend the funeral of a grandfather I had never met and who had never wanted to meet me. It etched fear in the fiber of my being. It convinced me I should never, ever visit New Orleans again...ever.

Chapter Two

My First Visit to New Orleans

C

herie! Cherie!" Neni called out as she opened the front door and trapped Maman in her arms. Neni, a short brown-skinned woman, raised Maman and Auntie Lucinda when their mother died shortly after giving birth to Auntie. The Martial family counted her as one of their own. In her black dress and purple scarf covering her hair, she wore the colors of mourning. They cried as they spoke in a mix of English and Creole. I didn't understand everything they said, but I understood enough to know Granpopá had died between the time Maman got the letter about his illness and our arrival.

In the foyer, Neni pulled me closer and pushed back my unruly mop of curls. She squeezed my shoulders hard. I grimaced and held back a nearly uncontrollable urge to shout, Stop! When she released me, she pronounced me a bèl ti fi, adding that I had my mother's eyes and my father's hair.

That's when it struck me. I was in the biggest house I'd ever seen. The foyer was larger than our house. A sparkling chandelier hung over a table with a large vase of flowers in the center. A fancy carpet covered most of the floor. Mirrors and pictures hung on the walls. I didn't belong here in this mansion. Maman didn't either.

Within a few minutes, Auntie Lucinda descended a winding staircase. Tears trickled down her face, leaving visible tracks in the heavy rouge painted on her cheeks. Draped in black ruffles, she joined Maman and Neni in their crying and hugging.

Auntie looked nothing like Maman. Although younger, she was taller and much heavier. Her complexion, the color of a brown egg, left no doubt about her lineage. She piled her dark curly hair elaborately on her head, leaving a few curls hanging loose to frame her fat face. Her low, husky voice grated on my ears.

"Oh, my dear sister, it's so good that you've come home after all these years. Mwen te rate ou sa . I prayed you would arrive in time. Popá's illness struck without a warning, and his death took us by surprise. He so wanted to see you."

Auntie didn't seem so bad, and it sounded like she missed Maman a lot. I wondered if Maman liked her better now. I got my answer when she pulled away from her and clutched my hand.

Too much was left unsaid between Popá and me, and now it's too late. Maman wiped more tears from her eyes.

We will talk later, Auntie whispered, turning her attention to me.

I am so glad to meet you, Gabrielle, but sorry you will never know your wonderful Granpopá. At least you'll meet your cousins, Brigitte and Stefan. I predict you will become fast friends. She planted a kiss on my forehead. I hoped her lip color didn't rub off on me.

Based on the bad blood between Maman and Auntie, I decided the prospect of becoming friends with my cousins wasn't promising. If Maman disliked her own sister so much, she must have a good reason. My cousins likely shared the same view of Auntie. But my main reason for doubting a friendship was that Auntie's delight at meeting me matched their indifference.

Auntie led Maman and me to a small parlor and introduced me to my cousins, although Stefan wasn't a blood cousin. His older sister, Suzanne, was Uncle's first wife, and they took him in when their parents died in a yellow fever outbreak. Neither took an interest in meeting me, and Auntie and Maman left the room suddenly when a letter arrived, leaving me alone with them.

I took in the room. Paper with vines and birds painted on it decorated the walls. In the ceiling corners, carved grotesque little creatures stared down. I wondered why anyone would want such scary creatures in their house. I sank into an over-stuffed velvet chair across from Brigitte, a miniature version of Auntie. She was twelve and reading a book and determined to ignore me. Stefan, two years older, entertained himself at the card table. After a few minutes, I broke the silence.

Are you going to a party? I directed my question to Brigitte somewhat timidly.

What makes you ask that? She barked as her eyes darted from the book to me.

Well, you're all dressed up.

I'm not going to a party. Does this look like a party dress to you? She scowled.

To me, it does. It's pretty, and I'd wear it if I were going to a party.

I often resorted to harmless lies when I found myself in a bad situation. The truth was, I wouldn't be caught dead in that dress, but I wanted to make a compliment so she would like me.

Well, that's you. You're from Buras. I don't expect you to know much about party clothes. She returned her eyes to the book.

I regretted trying to be nice to her.

I have a party dress, too. This was only a small lie. I didn't actually own a party dress, but I had my special Sunday dress.

A party dress? One party dress? My Lord! She giggled.

Anyway, why would I go to a party when Granpopá just died? With that, she rolled her eyes, shut her book, and disappeared to some other part of the house.

Brigitte made me feel stupid, and I didn't like it. I didn’t like her. I should have known she wouldn't go to a party when her Granpopá just died. I didn't think about that before I asked the stupid question. I was mad at Brigitte and at myself. My