regarded him.
"I've come to -- " Quentin began.
"Beg for my mercy?" she asked. "If that be
so, you'd best get on back home to your suffering. The curse I've
cast upon the house of Deveroux stands... and always shall
stand."
The old woman's proclamation enraged Quentin.
He started forward, his hands balled into angry fists. "Now, see
here, witch! Can we not bargain for a resolution to this damnable
grudge of yours?"
Mojo Mama laughed and smiled, revealing
toothless gums as blue as a skink's tail. "Bargain? Did your
hot-headed fool of a father give my poor Jonathan such a choice
when he found him with your whore of a mother? Did he show
compassion before he swung that broad-axe and cleaved my son's head
from his shoulders?" She pointed toward the side of the yard with a
gnarled finger. A wooden headstone stood in the weeds beneath a
weeping willow tree. "All that he left for me to commend to earth
lies there, severed and burnt, in the soil."
Quentin attempted to calm down and reason
with her. "I promise, I will help you locate the rest of your son's
remains, if only you will --"
Mojo Mama grinned and idly fingered a dried
chicken foot that hung from a lanyard of gator teeth around her
scrawny neck. "Oh, the remains of my beloved Jonathan are around
here somewheres... lurking, hiding.... watching. "
The young man's anger flared once again.
"You'd best not play games with me, bitch, or I'll -- "
Eyes gleaming, Mojo Mama raised her left
hand, her dark fingers curled toward the night sky. "Or you'll what , young Deveroux?"
Without warning, a horrible pain shot
throughout Quentin. It was an agony unlike any he had ever felt
before. Something long and sinuous began to travel up from the
depths of his stomach, filling his throat and forcing itself into
his mouth. Quentin fell to his knees and retched. In horror, he
watched as the head of a snake pushed past his lips. It contorted
within him as it struggled for escape. Soon, the last of it left
him and dropped on the ground. It was a copperhead, perhaps two
feet in length. It hissed at him with venomous fangs, then
slithered off into the darkness of the swamp.
"Do you wish for me to conjure another?" she
asked cruelly. "A rattler or a cottonmouth perhaps? You hold more
than you could ever imagine."
Quentin staggered to his feet, his throat raw
and bloody with the serpent's passage. "Why do you torment us so?
We had nothing to do with our parents' sins. Why do you not leave
us be?"
"Because you are Deveroux," she said firmly.
"And, as long as I hold breath in my lungs, you shall know the
horrors of Satan's lot within your own treacherous bodies."
"Then your lungs and yourself be damned!"
declared Quentin. Angrily, he drew the Navy revolver from beneath
his coat and thumbed back the hammer.
The witch simply stood there as he emptied
the contents of the .36 pistol into her chest. She wavered on her
feet for a long second, smiling at him as she belched blood and
bullet-shredded tissue. Then she dropped to the boards of the
porch, never to move again.
That should be it then, he told himself with
satisfaction. With the witch dead, then the curse shall be no
more.
Quentin Deveroux stepped into a stirrup of
the gelding's saddle and swung astride. He looked at the crumpled
form of Mojo Mama one last time, then with a scowl, headed back
toward the bayou trail.
An hour passed. Two. Quentin began to realize
that he had somehow taken a wrong turn. He was lost in the
dangerous darkness of the swamp with no idea of where he was. The
Deveroux plantation was to the north, but he could no longer
discern which direction was which. The pale orb of a full moon hung
overhead, visible through the Spanish moss and the gnarled limbs of
the cypress trees, but somehow it seemed to shift at random,
providing no aid to his bearings.
As he rode through a tall stand of wild
canebrake, he suddenly heard the sound of something behind him. It
was the noise of bare feet in the brush, moving stealthily
"I've come to -- " Quentin began.
"Beg for my mercy?" she asked. "If that be
so, you'd best get on back home to your suffering. The curse I've
cast upon the house of Deveroux stands... and always shall
stand."
The old woman's proclamation enraged Quentin.
He started forward, his hands balled into angry fists. "Now, see
here, witch! Can we not bargain for a resolution to this damnable
grudge of yours?"
Mojo Mama laughed and smiled, revealing
toothless gums as blue as a skink's tail. "Bargain? Did your
hot-headed fool of a father give my poor Jonathan such a choice
when he found him with your whore of a mother? Did he show
compassion before he swung that broad-axe and cleaved my son's head
from his shoulders?" She pointed toward the side of the yard with a
gnarled finger. A wooden headstone stood in the weeds beneath a
weeping willow tree. "All that he left for me to commend to earth
lies there, severed and burnt, in the soil."
Quentin attempted to calm down and reason
with her. "I promise, I will help you locate the rest of your son's
remains, if only you will --"
Mojo Mama grinned and idly fingered a dried
chicken foot that hung from a lanyard of gator teeth around her
scrawny neck. "Oh, the remains of my beloved Jonathan are around
here somewheres... lurking, hiding.... watching. "
The young man's anger flared once again.
"You'd best not play games with me, bitch, or I'll -- "
Eyes gleaming, Mojo Mama raised her left
hand, her dark fingers curled toward the night sky. "Or you'll what , young Deveroux?"
Without warning, a horrible pain shot
throughout Quentin. It was an agony unlike any he had ever felt
before. Something long and sinuous began to travel up from the
depths of his stomach, filling his throat and forcing itself into
his mouth. Quentin fell to his knees and retched. In horror, he
watched as the head of a snake pushed past his lips. It contorted
within him as it struggled for escape. Soon, the last of it left
him and dropped on the ground. It was a copperhead, perhaps two
feet in length. It hissed at him with venomous fangs, then
slithered off into the darkness of the swamp.
"Do you wish for me to conjure another?" she
asked cruelly. "A rattler or a cottonmouth perhaps? You hold more
than you could ever imagine."
Quentin staggered to his feet, his throat raw
and bloody with the serpent's passage. "Why do you torment us so?
We had nothing to do with our parents' sins. Why do you not leave
us be?"
"Because you are Deveroux," she said firmly.
"And, as long as I hold breath in my lungs, you shall know the
horrors of Satan's lot within your own treacherous bodies."
"Then your lungs and yourself be damned!"
declared Quentin. Angrily, he drew the Navy revolver from beneath
his coat and thumbed back the hammer.
The witch simply stood there as he emptied
the contents of the .36 pistol into her chest. She wavered on her
feet for a long second, smiling at him as she belched blood and
bullet-shredded tissue. Then she dropped to the boards of the
porch, never to move again.
That should be it then, he told himself with
satisfaction. With the witch dead, then the curse shall be no
more.
Quentin Deveroux stepped into a stirrup of
the gelding's saddle and swung astride. He looked at the crumpled
form of Mojo Mama one last time, then with a scowl, headed back
toward the bayou trail.
An hour passed. Two. Quentin began to realize
that he had somehow taken a wrong turn. He was lost in the
dangerous darkness of the swamp with no idea of where he was. The
Deveroux plantation was to the north, but he could no longer
discern which direction was which. The pale orb of a full moon hung
overhead, visible through the Spanish moss and the gnarled limbs of
the cypress trees, but somehow it seemed to shift at random,
providing no aid to his bearings.
As he rode through a tall stand of wild
canebrake, he suddenly heard the sound of something behind him. It
was the noise of bare feet in the brush, moving stealthily
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