Free Stormwitch by Susan Vaught

mutters.
    People shove through the doorway behind me, but I don’t change my position. With my arms up, I’m ready to act. I’m getting tired fast, though. Only three weeks, and already I’m out of practice.
    In front of me, a sheet-man with a rifle rushes forward. Again I vomit wind on Ray-boy and let it spread as far as it’ll go. The rifle rips from the man’s hands and sails into a tree. It fires, and men in sheets scurry like raccoons in a lightning burst.
    Car doors slam. Pickup doors slam.
    Engines crank.
    Ray-boy and his friends leap from the truck bed and run.
    In moments, it’s just me and Leroy Frye, face to face in the almost-darkness.
    “Ain’t we the big shot.” He spits.
    Hands still in the air, lips puckered, I blow his spit back at him again. This time, it lands on his shirt.
    He brushes the juice away without taking his eyes from me. “Gonna have to teach you a lesson.”
    Clay steps forward and stands next to me. “Teach us both, then.”
    Frye sneers at Clay.
    Crazy Sardine comes next. “And me.”
    Miss Hattie—stern Amazon glare full in place—appears at my shoulder. “And me.”
    And the women come, in hats and dresses, carrying their white gloves in their hands.
    And the men in suits and ties, all shaved and scrubbed.
    And the little boys, with chins out, acting big.
    And the little girls in dyed cotton, tugging bright ribbons that match their socks.
    The whole church, save for Grandmother Jones and Pastor Bickman, presses Leroy Frye toward his truck.
    “You’re just one man,” I say. “One man dressed in a bedsheet. You want me afraid of you?”
    Leroy Frye’s face becomes a dark, puffed scowl. His eyes flash and stab.
    We don’t move.
    He turns his back as if he’s not afraid, but jumps into the cab of his truck in a hurry.
    We hold our ground without a twitch. Without a murmur.
    Leroy Frye cranks his engine. He sits and squeezes his steering wheel for a few seconds, then roars away, spinning dust in our faces.
    Clay lets out a nervous laugh as Frye clears the churchparking lot and careers off down the road. His mother laughs, too, and Crazy Sardine taps one platform heel to the other.
    From the porch, I hear sobbing from Grandmother Jones. “God be with us,” she whispers. “There’ll be a war now, for sure.”

13 August 1969
Dearest Ba ,
For the smallest moment, I thought Grandmother Jones might be proud of me. Three days ago, after I spoke in the church—before the white men came—I felt like we were starting to understand each other and get along. I thought she might come to trust me, or at least respect what I’ve been taught. I would have given my life for her last Sunday night. For her and my cousin, and my new friends .
    But after those men came and I fought with them … well, Grandmother Jones and I got right back to fighting. She refused to look at me on the drive home. Once we got here, she swore if I use my magic again, she will have no more of me. She said my spells are the devil’s work, and I would have to leave her home .
    I was so upset I couldn’t even write you .
    The next day, I told her we serve the same Creator. I told her if she’d only trust me, my magic might save us when the storm witch’s spirit comes ashore .
    The walls rattled when Grandmother Jones slammed my bedroom door .
    I’ve been grounded to my room since then .
    Perhaps the evil in the hurricane will be an easier adversary than Grandmother Jones .
    Clay, Gisele, and Crazy Sardine—they come by and try to make me smile, and lots of times, they do. Gisele has midnight skin, dark as mine, and her hair feels strong like a snake rope. And there is something in her eyes. Even her laugh. I think the wind knows Gisele, Ba .
    I think Gisele is like me. That she could be an Amazon one day .
    But how will I train her? I feel like I know so little. And what if I make a mistake and lose her to the stormwitch like I lost you?
    I still don’t recall all of what happened when you died, my