: Jonathan Wesley Bell
: Our Lady of Mojo
: First Edition Design Publishing
: 9781622876617
: 1
: CHF 5.10
:
: Belletristik
: English
: 100
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
The year is 1928. May Skinner Bell has serious problems. She feels deeply the evil of the Alabama plantation where she, her husband and sons have fallen to. The family is very poor although May's enchanted beauty and education keep them separate from the nearby town. May was raised in Indian Territory by French nuns. Her friend and tutor was an old ex-slave and soldier. This gives May two natures. The result is a troubled young woman given to frightening rages and eccentric visions. Surrounding her is the plantation community of black workers, in desperate circumstances, and the Klan. The Klan never forgets that May's grandfather served as a Union soldier. Those whites around never forget that he was murdered by them on his return. From Murder to murder, violence to violence, May must cope with fear, ignorance and hate. Voodoo gives her Mojo, a gift which helps her survive and stay faithful to her family.

1917. June 12. Mission of the Holy Sainte Mary


Atoka, Oklahoma

The Mojo

 

My last morning at the Mission. Black Bob, my magic man, pulls me aside. Heʼs taking off the pouch he always wears around his neck. “It's for you, L'il Pet,” he holds it clenched in his black fist so that no one but me can see it. Wherever I’m going, to whatever Alabama is, I shall never have my names again, ‘La Petite’ for the nuns, ‘L’il Pet’ in Bob’s own rendition.

“I thinks on it, being you leavin.’ Goinʼ for freedom. Like me one time. My mammy give it to me de night I lit out. It old. Maybe it come from de place we comes from. She give it cuz of what bad it be for de runaway slave in ʻBama. I know it for worse then she know. Dey was gonna whip me dead, dats why I run.

“I never tole all dis. Nowʼs the time. I done a load of bad shit in my time, but dat, dat de worse fuckinʼ bad done to me for sho. Da name of dat plantation I wont tell ya, it be the devil’s. I runs from it hidin' in a scary swamp near dat hell fire plantation for days de hounds crying for my balls. Den sneakinʼ down along dat wide cocksuckin' river. It goinʼ faster and faster all night, all day. 'N me on shore goin' no wheres, just sleepin' in de day. Limping down dat hateful river in de night.

“Wet 'n cold. Nutin' to eat but frogs 'n a rat or two I caught me. Ate 'em raw--now don' toss ya damn biscuits, L’il Pet -- I didn't dare make no smoke. Can't cook wit no smoke.

“Took me a lot of damn time creepinʼ down dat river ʻn over to a town dey call Peniscola. The U.S.A. Navy got ships der. I hide down in de water near one, listenin' 'n listenin' to de talk of dem sailors. One, he talk about us slaves. He talk about someone called John Brown who's about to get lynched somewheres because of us slaves. He talk shit ass mad.

“So I waits n' when he come out alone I calls to him soft up from the water. Did it twice, 'n then he gets it. He come over look down at me hiding in de shadow of dat boat. He say 'You must be cold young fella. If I throw ya de rope can you crawl up her for me to get you on?’

“L'il Pet I all dun in. I donʼt knows what to do. Trust a demon white man or die. I goes for trustin, maybe it be de fear n'hurt in me. I think I be no more den 16 or 17. I clambers bout till he got a hand on me n' pulls me up, not so hard for a person to do den. I was one skinny half dead pup.

“Thas how he got me to New Orleans, hidinʼ me on dat navy ship. He were a funny duck young fella