Free A Choir of Ill Children by Tom Piccirilli Page A

into the brush. “How far would you go?”
    “What?”
    “For what has to be done.”
    She catches on quick and freezes in her tracks. “I—”
    “What would you do, Lottie Mae? To get my vinegar.”
    “Listen here, this ain’t a—”
    I reach for the ends of the lace and unwrap her face. She’s beautiful with a dark tangle of short black hair and defiant eyes. I draw my hand across her throat and watch the red deepen there as she quickly slips away. “Go home, ladies.”
    Velma Coots stomps toward me about to get into it again. The Crone hovers at her shoulder. “Thomas, you can’t hide from this burden. It’s a commitment that’s come for you.”
    “That’s enough, Velma Coots.” The sound of her name brushes her back some. “I’m tired of this. Go home. The storm will end tomorrow.”
    “The swamp demons don’t give up that easy, son. This commotion won’t ever stop until you—”
    “It’s already stopping. Can’t you feel it?”
    The rain abates and Velma Coots seems a little stunned, her fingers and pink nub waving slightly as if testing the air. It’s got her curious but she’s still wary.
    The other conjure women withdraw from around me now, the Crone drawing signs and wards in the wind. I do have pride, and ego, and I’m not certain if they’ve just fed it or sucked it clean like the marrow from a cracked chicken leg.
    Lottie Mae cocks her chin and looks up at the window. A plethora of hands and arms are moving, in spasms, and wave down to her.

C HAPTER F IVE

    I ONCE MET A DEAD BOY IN THE SWAMP.
    I was seven or eight years old and had somehow gotten away from the yard. I heard my mother calling after me, high-pitched but not quite wailing. It was as if she were singing a slow ballad. As I listened I thought I was following the sound of her voice back to the house.
    Instead I’d become turned around and continued heading deeper into the broad channels of slough, steering toward the swamp. I wandered for hours over muddy embankments, past cabbage palms and shagbark hickory, hearing her the entire time—or only thinking I heard her—unafraid as I walked on.
    Eventually I began climbing through tangles of mangrove and chickasaw plum at the bank of the river. Tendrils of fog eased over the stagnant morass and pulsed beyond the cypress and fallen ironwood. I wasn’t tired. The world had opened up for me in a way it never had before.
    I studied the lesson being taught. The voice of my mother had stopped but still I pursued it. That song remained behind in the air like the scent of jasmine. It carried into trees and sparkleberries. I climbed through the shallows and stood hip deep in the bayou, knowing my place. One of my places, at least.
    The boy had been half-buried in mire.
    A shovel lay nearby but someone hadn’t finished covering him over. His left arm hung at an angle outside the grave—fist clenched—and his right foot lay bent in such a way I knew the bones had been shattered. The sneaker remained neatly laced up, double-knotted with a looping bow, just like my own.
    Most of his face could still be seen. His eyes were open. They were gray and drying.
    He was about my age, maybe a year or two younger. I knelt and confronted the body, wanting to touch it but unwilling to put my hand on his skin. Part of his neck was dirty but the rest was pale and clean as if it had been scrubbed. I could clearly see the dark bruises under his Adam’s apple the size and shape of fingerprints.
    “Hey, young’n.”
    For an instant I thought the boy was talking to me. I peered closer. I ran my fingers through his short, blond hair. His mouth was filled with skimmer dragonflies and mosquitoes.
    “Young’n, you there, kid!”
    I spun and stared farther into the slough until I saw a thread of white smoke rising. A man sat in the morass puffing on a cigarette. He waved amiably and asked, “You wearing a belt, son? Yeah, you are, I can see it from here. I need a belt and a nice strong piece of