Free Conjure by Lea Nolan Page A

old refrigerator and place it on the counter.
    I gag a little as she digs a butter knife deep into the congealed white substance and plops a thick glob onto the cotton strip.
    Her hand quivers as she drags the knife across the grease, trying to smooth it out. But her hand and the knife refuse to cooperate. Shaking her head, she slips the smooth metal handle into my fingers and steps aside so I can spread the lard across the cloth.
    A chill hangs in the air as we wait for the mush to cook down and cool, which is weird because Miss Delia doesn’t have air conditioning. But maybe it’s a natural consequence of the huge live oak that dwarfs her house. Miss Delia doesn’t seem to notice the change in temperature as she busies herself flipping through my sketchbook. She practically knows everything about each of the plants I’ve drawn—their names, where they grow, when they bloom, what parts are poisonous, and what can be used for medicine.
    “I can’t believe you know all this stuff.” I jot notes next to each plant.
    She laughs. “Child, I’ve had ninety-seven years to learn.”
    “Yeah, but who taught you? You couldn’t have learned it on your own.”
    “My maamy taught me. And she learned from my gran, who learned from my great-gran. This is old medicine passed on from mother to daughter.” She looks off, out the kitchen window onto the enormous herb garden.
    “Did you teach it to anyone?”
    She turns back to me and smiles, but it seems sad and empty. “Oh, I taught my daughter and even my own granddaughter, but they moved off Sa’leenuh a long time ago to work in the north. They don’t use hoodoo anymore, ever since my granddaughter became a doctor in Chicago and decided it’s bad medicine.” She shakes her head and eases herself off the stool.
    I frown as I watch her check the temperature of the mush. Her regret is almost another scent in the room.
    When the mixture is cool enough, we spoon it on the lard. I help her spread it over the cloth, and she calls Jack into the kitchen. “Lay your hand here.”
    Jack gulps. “What is that stuff?” He grimaces at the mushy brown layer of cooked bark, leaves, and balm of Gilead buds.
    She raises one eyebrow. “It’s what you came for, boy. Now put your hand on the poultice.” For once, Jack does as he’s told. She wraps the strip snug around his hand.
    His shoulders release, and the creases in his forehead smooth. “Wow, that feels good.”
    She laughs. “Of course it does.”
    He stares at his re-wrapped hand. “No, really, this stuff is so cool and mushy, the burning’s completely gone. I guess I didn’t realize how hot my hand has been.”
    She shrugs her thin shoulders. “It’s the strangest burn I’ve ever seen, but I gave you an extra strong mixture just in case.” She puts some lard and what’s left of the mush in a small glass jar and hands it to me, along with another cotton strip. “Change his dressing tonight. It should be a whole mess better in the morning.”
    We walk her to the front door, where Jack and Cooper each slip her a twenty-dollar bill.
    “Thanks, Miss Delia.” Jack’s happier than I’ve seen him in days. Now maybe his attitude will improve, too. He stares at his hand with amazement. “Maggie was right. You’re a lifesaver.”
    She pats his shoulder with a liver-spotted hand. “I wouldn’t go that far, but you’re welcome.” She watches as we make our way down the porch and through her herb garden. “Take care of yourselves, and don’t get into any more trouble!”

Chapter Eight
    “Emma, wake up!” Jack looms over my bed and shakes my arm.
    “Huh?” My eyes are fuzzy, and my brain is clouded from sleep.
    “Emma, I need your help. You’ve got to get up.” Jack’s face comes into sharper focus. His skin is drawn, and his brow is etched with deep lines.
    I rub the sleep from the corners of my eyes, relieved to see that at least the sun is up, and he didn’t wake me in the middle of the night. “What’s