Tre`s Gris-Gris

Was it only yesterday he wondered? Could it be happening this soon?  She hadn’t been specific, and he in his moments of discomfort and fidgeting in her presence had certainly not wanted to push or ask too many questions,  this was serious business, redemption and vengence.

And now he was left to his own thoughts and devices in search of answers.  He heard the wind as it blew the sand against the clapboard siding, like small rocks the sand pelted the siding and windows. He debated closing the shutters, but he wanted to watch it from this vantage point. The crows nest was a feature he admired in the old house; from here he could see the beach clearly.

He watched as the sea roared in to the shore. Tonight it came with a force or a purpose. When the lightning illuminated the sky he caught sight of eerie shadows cast by the sea oats and grasses on the berm of sand that separated the house and the beach. The long foliage thrust by the wind gusts seemed to be dancing. The pieces with seed heads made it appear to be a tribal head-dress and the longer plants led the ritual. Light flickered.

He heard the sound of the neighbors trash cans as they banged like drums under the car port, as though acting as the musical score for the tribal sea oats.

The Neighbors plastic deck furniture took flight as did anything not tied down now. Oddly the wind blew south. How would the asshole meteorologists explain this one on the morning news he wondered. How would it all be received?

An anomaly he reasoned, certainly can’t blame it on a typical Nor’ easter. It was neither the season, nor the same. This was different. The Lightening cracked the sky, thunder rolled afterward. The sea roared as if singing background vocals. The sea oats danced in the wind. As if mocking the sandbur.

It was fierce now, glass broke in the distance, lightning flashed as the power flickered in the hotels and high rises on the strand. He watched it unfold from the crow’s nest. a strange sense of fearful satisfaction swept over him. He rose to fix a scotch and water, (Hoodoo drink) and to find his Gris -Gris bag as Ms. Devereux instructed him to. He returned to watch hells fury unleashed upon those who had wronged him.

Let it be fucking Biblical in proportion now.

He held the 2 by 3 cloth bag tightly in his hand for protection. And the other Gris- Gris, the black bag, the one with 12 items mixed by Ms. Devereux, he added a strand of her hair, “the devils hair” to make 13, exactly as she instructed.

His visit to New Orleans and her Congo square shop yesterday seemed a lifetime ago, and a world away.

As he suspected the local news reported a weather anomaly. Charts, graphs & historical data were exhibited and explained by the talking heads on TV 12.Ironically the only death from the storm, a local woman struck by lightning while in a tanning bed. Her body fried to the bronze she aspired to.

He rubbed the Gris- Gris, for safe travel and headed to the airport. Ms. Devereaux’s words clear in his mind now. Like the Talismans verbal invocation. “Remember man, where you believe there is magic, you will find it. “

 © J K Dark


~ by onthedarkside on August 21, 2010.

One Response to “Tre`s Gris-Gris”

  1. Love it! Great ending line too. A well written piece of work Kev.

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