scalped so much of my head away, I must be crazy as a fool. That’s why I’m in such a hurry to get down yonder with the other crazy folks. I want to be right in the middle of ’em when they really start raising hell.”
“Oh, you’ll be there, Chief Baldhead,” I said.
He looked at me blankly. “What you think ole Doc done with our scalps?”
“Made him a tripe stew, man.”
“You nuts,” Buster said. “He probably used ’em for fish bait.”
“He did, I’m going to sue him for one trillion, zillion dollars, cash,” I said.
“Maybe he gave ’em to ole Aunt Mackie, man. I bet with them she could work up some out
rageous
spells!”
“Man,” I said, suddenly shivering, “don’t talk about that old woman, she’s evil.”
“Hell, everybody’s so scared of her. I just wish she’d mess with me or my daddy, I’d fix her.”
I said nothing—I was afraid. For though I had seen the old woman about town all my life, she remained to me like the moon, mysterious in her very familiarity; and in the sound of her name there was terror:
Ho’ Aunt Mackie, talker-with-spirits, prophetess-of-disaster, odd-dweller-alone in a riverside shack surrounded by sunflowers, morning-glories, and strange magical weeds
(Yao, as Buster, during our Indian phase, would have put it, Yao!);
Old Aunt Mackie, wizen-faced walker-with-a-stick, shrill-voiced ranter in the night, round-eyed malicious one, given to dramatic trances and fiery flights of rage; Aunt Mackie, preacher of wild sermons on the busy streets of the town, hot-voiced chaser of children, snuff-dipper, visionary; wearer of greasy headrags, wrinkled gingham aprons, and old men’s shoes; Aunt Mackie, nobody’s sister but still Aunt Mackie to us all
(Ho, Yao!);
teller of fortunes, concocter of powerful, body-rending spells
(Yah, Yao!);
Aunt Mackie, the remote one though always seen about us; night-consulted adviser to farmers on crops and cattle
(Yao!);
herb-healer, root-doctor, and town-confounding oracle to wildcat drillers seeking oil in the earth
—(Yaaaah-Ho!). It was all there in her name and before her name I shivered. Once uttered, for me the palaver was finished; I resigned it to Buster, the tough one.
Even some of the grown folks, both black and white, were afraid of Aunt Mackie, and all the kids except Buster. Busterlived on the outskirts of the town and was as unimpressed by Aunt Mackie as by the truant officer and others whom the rest of us regarded with awe. And because I was his buddy I was ashamed of my fear.
Usually I had extra courage when I was with him. Like the time two years before when we had gone into the woods with only our slingshots, a piece of fatback, and a skillet and had lived three days on the rabbits we killed and the wild berries we picked and the ears of corn we raided from farmers’ fields. We slept each rolled in his quilt, and in the night Buster had told bright stories of the world we’d find when we were grown-up and gone from hometown and family. I had no family, only Miss Janey, who took me after my mother died (I didn’t know my father), so that getting away always appealed to me, and the coming time of which Buster liked to talk loomed in the darkness around me, rich with pastel promise. And although we heard a bear go lumbering through the woods nearby and the eerie howling of a coyote in the dark, yes, and had been swept by the soft swift flight of an owl, Buster was unafraid and I had grown brave in the grace of his courage.
But to me Aunt Mackie was a threat of a different order, and I paid her the respect of fear.
“Listen to those horns,” Buster said. And now the sound came through the trees like colored marbles glinting in the summer sun.
We ran again. And now keeping pace with Buster I felt good; for I meant to be there too, at the carnival; right in the middle of all that confusion and sweating and laughing and all the strange sights to see.
“Listen to ’em, now, man,” Buster said. “Those
“Oh, you’ll be there, Chief Baldhead,” I said.
He looked at me blankly. “What you think ole Doc done with our scalps?”
“Made him a tripe stew, man.”
“You nuts,” Buster said. “He probably used ’em for fish bait.”
“He did, I’m going to sue him for one trillion, zillion dollars, cash,” I said.
“Maybe he gave ’em to ole Aunt Mackie, man. I bet with them she could work up some out
rageous
spells!”
“Man,” I said, suddenly shivering, “don’t talk about that old woman, she’s evil.”
“Hell, everybody’s so scared of her. I just wish she’d mess with me or my daddy, I’d fix her.”
I said nothing—I was afraid. For though I had seen the old woman about town all my life, she remained to me like the moon, mysterious in her very familiarity; and in the sound of her name there was terror:
Ho’ Aunt Mackie, talker-with-spirits, prophetess-of-disaster, odd-dweller-alone in a riverside shack surrounded by sunflowers, morning-glories, and strange magical weeds
(Yao, as Buster, during our Indian phase, would have put it, Yao!);
Old Aunt Mackie, wizen-faced walker-with-a-stick, shrill-voiced ranter in the night, round-eyed malicious one, given to dramatic trances and fiery flights of rage; Aunt Mackie, preacher of wild sermons on the busy streets of the town, hot-voiced chaser of children, snuff-dipper, visionary; wearer of greasy headrags, wrinkled gingham aprons, and old men’s shoes; Aunt Mackie, nobody’s sister but still Aunt Mackie to us all
(Ho, Yao!);
teller of fortunes, concocter of powerful, body-rending spells
(Yah, Yao!);
Aunt Mackie, the remote one though always seen about us; night-consulted adviser to farmers on crops and cattle
(Yao!);
herb-healer, root-doctor, and town-confounding oracle to wildcat drillers seeking oil in the earth
—(Yaaaah-Ho!). It was all there in her name and before her name I shivered. Once uttered, for me the palaver was finished; I resigned it to Buster, the tough one.
Even some of the grown folks, both black and white, were afraid of Aunt Mackie, and all the kids except Buster. Busterlived on the outskirts of the town and was as unimpressed by Aunt Mackie as by the truant officer and others whom the rest of us regarded with awe. And because I was his buddy I was ashamed of my fear.
Usually I had extra courage when I was with him. Like the time two years before when we had gone into the woods with only our slingshots, a piece of fatback, and a skillet and had lived three days on the rabbits we killed and the wild berries we picked and the ears of corn we raided from farmers’ fields. We slept each rolled in his quilt, and in the night Buster had told bright stories of the world we’d find when we were grown-up and gone from hometown and family. I had no family, only Miss Janey, who took me after my mother died (I didn’t know my father), so that getting away always appealed to me, and the coming time of which Buster liked to talk loomed in the darkness around me, rich with pastel promise. And although we heard a bear go lumbering through the woods nearby and the eerie howling of a coyote in the dark, yes, and had been swept by the soft swift flight of an owl, Buster was unafraid and I had grown brave in the grace of his courage.
But to me Aunt Mackie was a threat of a different order, and I paid her the respect of fear.
“Listen to those horns,” Buster said. And now the sound came through the trees like colored marbles glinting in the summer sun.
We ran again. And now keeping pace with Buster I felt good; for I meant to be there too, at the carnival; right in the middle of all that confusion and sweating and laughing and all the strange sights to see.
“Listen to ’em, now, man,” Buster said. “Those
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