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July, 1941
You ever seen a Klan march?
You might think you have, but if you’re a young’un you haven’t seen a real one. The ones that turned all of Macon, Atlanta, or even the nation’s Capital into a sea of flowing white hate. They still occasionally band together and parade down small-town streets in the South, pretending that they’re still important, but these days you’re likely to see other white folk either trying to ignore them or even yelling insults, in a way I couldn’t have even dreamed of twenty years ago.
You ask most people, they say the reason for the Klan’s collapse is plain: they got too big for their britches. The whole country spent so long defending the Klan as “upholders of law and order” for attacking black juke joints and burning patrons trapped inside, I guess the Klan started to believe it themselves. They believed it enough to start attacking white drinking establishments. And white Catholic churches. And white couples out on the town too late. Anyone they deemed to be living in sin.
And then their esteemed Grand Wizard Stephenson went to prison for the rape and murder of a white woman. The Klan’s reputation of good old Antebellum dignity and decency was destroyed. Folks finally saw the Klan as a gang of violent fools with infighting leaders who didn’t believe in anything beyond feeling strong.
But did you ever wonder why? Why they was on top of the world, and then a few years later were scattering like flies?
I know why. They lost their Masters.
Not the Grand Wizards. Their real masters. The ones not from this world. The Enemy that cultivates human hate to feed on. Not to toot my own horn, but after I crashed their welcoming party for their Grand Cyclops, the Enemy saw the Klan as a failed investment. They continued to grow for a couple of years through sheer momentum, but left to their own devices, without that terrifying guiding Intelligence, they inevitably ate themselves.
Of course, that doesn’t mean evil or hate has gone from the world. I’m still a black woman trying to be a wife and mother in Georgia, but it’s just evil men, not haints.
Just men.
No haints.
No demons.
This is what I’m trying to convince myself as I sit alone, in the private party room of my husband’s juke joint (now a semi-respected, semi-law abiding establishment, as it’s still hard to believe), praying to whoever was listening that that was still true. But a cryptic letter from an old friend asking for a meeting usually doesn’t signal a good time.
I haven’t heard from Emma much since she moved to Washington to “further the cause.” She paid her respects at the Gullah woman’s funeral, but once there weren’t bootlegging to do or haints to track she had little interest in Macon. It’s clear from the letter she needs help, but maybe there’s hope that she needs me, not my sword.
God, my sword. The familiar songs float up from my memory and I squash them down. Not that it’s likely to make a difference. I haven’t called the sword in….what, fourteen years? I haven’t really used it in nineteen, not since I put the fear of God into that weasley writer in Rhode Isla--
“I swear if this is about more of her Red drivel I’m throwing her in the river.”
I jump like a shocked frog as the door to the dining room swings open, and Chef’s voice cuts through my spiraling.
“Her letter seemed too urgent to just be about general marchin’,” I tell her, “She needs help with something specific. And she knows our first priority is our family now, this must be serious.”
For years I had joked with Chef that my family was really “our family,” because there were times where it felt like she was just as married to Michael George as I was. Chef had never wavered from her disagreement from Emma, that true liberation only comes with money. She had taken all her money from our bootlegging days and practically demanded that Michael George take her as a partner in the new Frenchie’s.
She walks to the small table against the wall with the set of glasses and bottle of nice hooch.
“Whiskey,” she says.
“Not really feeling--”
“That was a statement, not a question,” she cuts me off. “If this is more than just Emma being herself, gonna need this all the more.
We sit down and she downs her glass, then pours herself a second and sips this one with me.
Eventually, I hear Michael George’s voice on the other side of the door. “The ladies here have seen all kindsa things, cherie, no one here will laugh at you.”
Then I hear Emma’s voice speaking in German. She sounds gentle and reassuring in a way I hadn’t known the hard-line Red was capable of.
The door swings open and Michael George gestures to invite the guests inside.
Yes, guests, plural. A woman follows Emma inside who’s so thin and pale that it’s like she’s half crossed over to the spirit world. She looks around nervously with sunken eyes filled with the kind of fear I haven’t ever seen on a white woman in years. Her face makes her look similar to Emma, if Emma passed through Hell for a year without eating. Her hair, while the same shade as Emma’s, was cut short, only a few inches long. She’s clutching a shoulder bag like she thought I was going to snatch it.
Emma speaks German to the woman softly, patting her arm, before turning her attention to Chef and me. “Thank you both for coming. This is my cousin, Helga. She arrived in Washington last week.”
I hold out my hand, “Welcome to America, Helga.” Chef just grunts and nods.
“Hun sier velkommen til Amerika,” Emma tells her, and Helga manages to look me in the eye for a half second, which I take as a thank you.
Emma pulls out a chair for Helga and sits beside her at the dining table. Chef and I take positions across from them. Michael George gives me a reassuring smile and closes the door.
The subsequent silence is only broken by the distant, muffled hum of the music from the main hall.
When Emma finally speaks, she wastes no time with small talk. “Things are much worse in Europe than anyone here knows.”
I clear my throat. “Well…what we know is plenty bad. The Nazis ain’t quiet how much they hate Jews. We’ve heard about the ghettos, and then the work camps.”
“Calling them ‘work camps’ is like calling Chef ‘a bit gruff,’ These places are Hell on Earth. Jews, Gypsies, anyone the Nazis have deemed untermensch, ‘sub-human,’ they are worked to death. Work is not the point.”
“A lesser race being worked to death by white folk? You’re right, who ever heard of a thing so evil?” Chef says dryly.
Emma continues addressing me, like she hasn’t heard. “What people here don’t know, is that these ‘work’ camps have been turned to slaughterhouses. Their final solution to the ‘Jew problem.’”
Her voice breaks. Helga, sitting next to her, starts to wring her hands to try to stop them from trembling.
“People are herded into rooms. Then….the room is filled with gas.”
At that last word, Chef uncrosses her arms and leans forward, her eyes wider than they were before.
“After they die gasping, the Nazis throw bodies into giant graves by the hundreds. If there’s no space in the graves, they burn them in ovens. The smell fills the whole camp.”
“How do you know all this?” I say quickly, feeling like I’m about to be sick.
Emma looks over at Helga and takes her trembling hands in her own. “Helga was in one of these camps, what she had to do to escape….she has asked me not to say.”
“And you’ve brought her here, why?” asks Chef. I kick her leg under the table.
“What? It’s an honest question,” she says, “Look, I’m sorry to hear all this, but what? You escape prison, flee your country, cross an ocean, and then decide to come to Macon of all places?”
“No, that’s not why we’ve come,” admits Emma, “I brought her here because she’s confirmed what I’ve long suspected--”
Chef sighs, “Shit, not this again--”
Emma slams the table with her fist, causing Helga to jump like a startled cat.
“Do you really think it could have been that easy!?” she hisses. “You think They would just give up on a whole world they wish to conquer just because we got lucky once? You think it’s merely a coincidence that the Nazis started their rise right as the Klan lost their power?”
“Yes,” Chef responds, “because there has always been some group like the Klan or Nazis, and there always will be. We can’t go off chasing haints every time white folk go crazy and start killing people, it’s what they do.”
“Monster!” Helga suddenly whimpers. Her lip is trembling. “Sie sin monster!”
Chef shuts up. We don’t need Emma to translate that word. Helga fumbles with her bag and pulls out a folded piece of paper, and shoves it forcefully into my face.
As I take it, I already somehow already know what it will be. My own hands shaking now, I unfold the paper, and I let out a shuddering gasp that I’m not proud of as I feel myself lurched backward in time to a past I’ll never escape.
On the paper is a drawing of a creature. Its legs bend backward and end in three-taloned feet. Its chest extends in a wide V up to the shoulders, where it splits into four arms that extend down to the ground with too many joints. Its face isn’t the long and pointed one I see in my nightmares, instead it resembles a screaming skull, its eyes sockets sunken and empty. Its whole body, rather than white, is varying shades of black.
This is not a Ku Klux. That much is clear. But I can’t find any comfort in that, because I can see the family resemblence. There’s no denying that whatever this thing is, it belongs to the same things that sent the Ku Kluxes.
I hand the drawing to Chef. Her face doesn’t move, she just knocks back the rest of her whiskey and gets up to get a refill.
I don’t have to ask who drew this. “Where did she see this?”
“The first ones she saw were with the soldiers who found her hiding spot,” Emma answers, “The people she was with thought she had gone mad with fear. Once she was taken to the camp, almost all the guards were not human. She was the only one who could see who they really were.”
“She has the Sight,” I breathe, almost to myself.
“The fight is not over,” Emma says, “The enemy has just moved to a new front.”
Chef stands over by the small table with the whiskey bottle, swirling her new drink. “The fight? Our fight has never been over. The Klan may be gone, but Jim Crow ain’t. The white folk are still stomping down my own people, and now you want me to pick up a rifle and go save the Germans from themselves? We’re all too old for this, Emma.”
Ema glares at her. “Was Nana Jean too old? You two are just cowards!”
Chef slams her glass down and moves towards Emma, “You watch your damn mouth!”
I shoot out of my chair and get between them, putting my hand on Chef’s chest.
“Oh sit down!” I grunt, shoving her away. I turn towards Emma, “I believe you, but she’s right. I don’t understand what we can do.”
“The same thing we did to the Ku Kluxes! There are people resisting the Nazis all over Europe, you don’t think they could use the help of someone who has killed as many monsters as us? Maryse, you have cut down more of those things than a whole army anyway!”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Of course that’s why she was here. For the sword. It always came back to that damn sword.
“Those days are behind me, Emma. Even if I wanted to call the sword, its power is drawn from the rage of dead slaves. It’s innately tied to my people. Not to be heartless, but I don’t know if those old ghosts would be bothered to come to the aid of your people.”
This seems to finally deflate some of the fearless anger Emma walked in with. But I know she is nowhere close to giving up.
After a moment, she stands up straight again, with her chin held high, “We can try,” she says simply. “Try to save as many as we can. Roosevelt will not fight them, but many from this country are joining anyway. I’m asking you to try to use your power.”
“You’re asking me to abandon my family,” I say coldly, “Back in those days, I ran headfirst into waves of demons because I had nothing to live for. I have a family now, a child that--”
“I ain’t a---shit!”
“Ruth Boudreaux!” I bark at the voice that came from underneath the table. I cling to the anger to stave off the panic and shame.
I see my daughter’s eyes peek out first, looking as defiant as ever, almost making me believe that I’m the one who is where I shouldn’t be.
I put my hands on my hips, “What do you think you are doing here, young lady?”
“Finding out why you and daddy didn’t want me to know about Emma’s letter,” she says without a hint of guilt. “All these years, you been trying to make me think I was crazy, telling me over and over that those stories you told me when I was little was just stories, and that sword you pulled outta thin air was just a magic trick.”
“You have gotten very big, Miss Ruth,” Emma says with a small smile.
“Shut up!” I hiss, pointing a finger at her, “And you, child, this does not concern you!”
“I’m eighteen now, I ain’t no child!” Ruth says again, “According to the army, anyway. I’m free to get on a boat and kill Germans myself if I so choose, like Chef!”
“Now don’t you go bringing me into this,” Chef sighs, holding her cold drink to her head, “‘Sides, I joined up by pretending to be a man, that’s uh…” she looks Ruth up and down, “that ain’t an option for you. Not to mention, our army ain’t fightin’ the Nazis anyway. Not yet, at least.”
“And you think the souls of all those slaves just don’t care about anyone but black folk?” Ruth continued, “Those aunties gave you the sword to fight the monsters, if that sword don’t work, just ask them for another one!”
“It’s not that simple! You’re talking about things you don’t understand!”
“I understand plenty. It’s the sword’s fault, it’s my and Daddy’s fault, the truth is you’re just a scared, old hag!”
“You will leave this room now,” I say. I’m not yelling now, just stating a fact. After a moment, Ruth silently starts walking out of the room, knowing my patience has run out, but she looks me in the eye the whole time she leaves, never breaking that icy stare. After she closes the door behind her, I let out the breath I had been holding. I close my eyes and steady myself on the table. Helga is frozen in place, her eyes looking around uncomfortably. Behind me, I know that Chef is trying not to laugh.
Emma though, looks like she has shrunk to half her size. She doesn’t look at me with fury, just sadness and disappointment. She had actually believed the whole trip here that I was going to single-handedly defeat the most evil army the world had ever seen with a magic sword, like a costumed hero from a damn comic book.
“We’ll help Helga in any way we can,” I promise, “for now, I’ll go tell the kitchen and tell ‘em to make you both a hot meal. I’m sorry.” I signal to Chef and she follows me out the door.
After I close the door, I close my eyes and lean against it. It’s hard to believe how exhausting a five minute conversation can be.
“You know that wasn’t the end of it with Ruth, right?” Chef says.
“Yes,” I sigh, “I know.”
******
There are some summer nights when the Georgia woods get louder than the streets of downtown Macon in the middle of the day. As I stand out in the warm breeze outside my daddy’s juke joint, none of the parked cars are running, but the bugs and frogs are screaming as loud as I am on the inside.
My whole life, my mother was my hero. She could give me hope even when the whole world was pitted against us. All the evil that white people could bring down on us, it was just the actions of men, and my mama had fought evil more powerful than any men.
All I ever wanted was to be like her. That’s why I had come to hate being stuck here in Georgia so much. What was I hoping to accomplish here? Graduate school, maybe go to college, as if anything they knew in science classes touched on all the things that are lurking just on the other side of the veil of this world. Maybe I could somehow meet a man that wasn’t scared off by either of my parents’ reputations, become a mother myself, which apparently makes you forget what’s right and wrong.
Hearing her not even be tempted to fight for what’s right had me feeling like my whole world had been shown to be a sick joke.
No matter what Mama said, those monsters in Germany would be here soon enough if someone didn’t stop them, but I couldn’t wait that long. I had to be useful.
“You are your mother’s daughter, dearie,” a gentle voice whispers. I spin around, looking for the source, but I’m alone.
“We’ve always had high hopes for you, young one, but now we know you’re ready. You have a fire in you like we’ve never seen.”
I thought I had been afraid under that table, finding myself in one of those bedtime stories that always gave me nightmares, but I would still beg my mama to tell me. But this was something else entirely.
I swallow hard. “...M-Margaret? Ondine?”
“Yes, your mother knew us by those names. Our true names…well, you wouldn’t be able to hear them. Don’t be frightened, just look inside yourself, and feel the rage of the righteous, let your heart go out to those without hope.”
I close my eyes, and clench my fists. I think about everything I heard Emma say. The fear in the German woman’s voice. All those countless people who don’t know if they will live to see another day.
Nothing happens for several moments, then I hear it.
A low, distant chanting. Coming from a far-off distance in all directions. Coming from inside of me. The song grows louder and louder, a cacophony of voices of all ages, in all manner of languages, living and dead.
I start seeing visions. People forced to work as whips dig into their backs. Hungry until they cannot stand. I welcome them in, and through me, the spirits gain understanding of everything I’ve heard. They feel my solidarity with people like Helga, and the knowledge that all peoples will suffer if the monsters aren’t driven back from this world once more.
When the chanting grows so loud it hurts my ears, I feel it in my hand. Heavy, smooth, metal. I look down and see a silver hilt, a cloud of smoke swirling and solidifying until it forms a leaf-shaped blade of iron.
My eyes wide, I hold up my mother’s sword.
No. My sword.
I turn around to see the lights in the juke joint windows, then turn back to the dark, noisy Georgia summer night. I still feel afraid of what’s to come, but I no longer feel trapped. I know what I’m meant to do.