The Magnolia League

14





The sun’s been cooking the town all day, so the ride home from the River School is even more miserable than the trip there. I pedal my way through the thick, hot air, thankful when I finally reach the shaded inner sanctum of the downtown streets of Savannah.

As I coast up Abercorn, I mull over my bizarre day. My first experience with school, at sixteen (is that a record?), actually wasn’t that terrible. Sure, the classes were all boring except Constance’s, and I accidentally gave a girl a black eye during gym class (I thought capture the flag had more or less the same rules as mud ball), but at least I made a friend. That Dex, he’s pretty cool.

I stop my bike and look around Forsyth Park.

“Well, if it isn’t Alexandria Lee,” someone calls from the direction of the fountain. I whip my head around and spot Sam Buzzard, who is leaning against a wrought-iron lamppost and smiling at me.

“Hey,” I say, stopping next to him. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. Just like the other day, Sam’s not perspiring at all.

“How is everything?”

“First day of school,” I reply.

“Oh, man. That can be brutal.”

“It was okay, actually. Weird, but okay.”

“You know, I was thinking about you the other day. Wondering if you wanted to come out to my house. There’s a great dock for swimming, and—you’re into gardening and herbs, right?”

“I try,” I admit. “It’s something I learned from my mother. Just your basic root stuff. I’m kind of scared I’ll get rusty.”

He nods. “Well, why don’t you come out and see what I’ve got? Begonia tess, for starters.”

“Begonia tess? The kind those botanists just found in India?”

“Turns out they could have looked right here in the States.”

I shake my head in disbelief. Begonia tess is a notoriously powerful leaf, but no one has reported seeing it here for more than one hundred years. It can be used for all sorts of things, from clotting blood to getting rid of colds. Some people even say it can be used as an aphrodisiac. Every summer, my mom tried to create a hybrid like it, but she would always end up cursing the shriveled, dead seedlings.

“Want to go check it out now?”

“Okay.”

“Throw your bike in the back.” He points to a gorgeous robin’s-egg blue vintage Chevy truck, perfectly restored.

“Nice ride,” I say, loading my M8 and climbing up to the passenger’s seat. Sam turns on the radio, and we weave through the green downtown streets, quickly reaching the suburbs and the highway dotted with strip malls and tanning parlors. Eventually even those thin out, and we’re in the country, driving along the Savannah River. I look out at the thick, junglelike forest and the miles of marsh grass. The din of crickets drifts through the open window.

“That marsh grass is so pretty,” I say. “The more I stare at it, the less I can tell what color it is. Green? Yellow?”

“It changes every day. That’s what’s so gorgeous about it. See? We’ll make a Georgia girl of you yet.”

I look up at the sky, which is milky white in the shimmering afternoon heat. Every once in a while Sam takes a turn; the roads are getting wilder and thinner. The land is dotted with little houses and trailers. We pass a group of men gathered around some fighting roosters. Many of the men grip liquor bottles in their hands, and there are guns attached to the back of several of the trucks.

It’s at this point that I realize a few things:

1. I might have agreed to this trip a bit too quickly.

2. I really don’t know Sam Buzzard at all.

a. He might be a psycho killer.

b. He might be kidnapping me.

3. If he is kidnapping me, I have no phone and no idea where I am, so I’m seriously screwed.

“We almost there?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“Just about,” he says reassuringly. “I know it seems like a long ride, but you’ll get used to it.”

I will? I wonder. Why?

“Have you lived out here long?”

“Oh, a real long time. My entire life.”

“Seriously?” It doesn’t compute. Sam Buzzard seems too urban and cool to live out here in the boonies.

“I travel, of course,” he says. “But I like it here. My father lives here, and my grandfather before him, and my grandfather’s grandfather before that. My family was given this land after the Civil War.”

My jaw drops. “Your family has lived here on the same land since 1865?”

“Eighteen sixty-eight, actually. Forty acres and a mule, baby. Although Sherman didn’t actually give anyone forty acres, and my family never did get that mule, but we got three parcels on the river. During the war, the federal government seized a lot of the land down here and redistributed it. White folks tried to take it back by any means necessary, but my ancestors were smart—they not only held on to their own but bought more.”

“So, your ancestors were slaves?”

“Of course. When my great-great grandfather was freed, he’d been a slave for three years, and he couldn’t speak a word of English. There was a whole population of Africans here who were exactly like him, just off the boat. A lot of families out here still speak Gullah—a mix of English and West African dialects, a little Krio, a little Vai, a little Mende.”

A huge water oak rises up in the middle of the highway. One of its broken branches is painted like a smiling alligator. Sam follows it to the left. Oak branches form a canopy over the road, and as we drive they droop lower and lower until they’re brushing the top of the truck. Then, after half a mile, we reach a shady stretch of land completely covered by live oaks that rolls gently all the way to the river. The oak trunks rise up like twisted pillars, and their branches burst like fireworks and form a green roof over the entire area.

Close to the river is a cluster of one-story wooden houses. They look like white boxes, with bright turquoise shutters and doors, and the dirt in front of them is carefully swept. To one side is a larger building with a big screened porch and a sign that reads Buzzard Social Club—Members Only, and next to it is an enormous satellite dish.

“Welcome to Buzzard’s Roost,” Sam says.

“I like that turquoise.”

“We call that haint blue. People believe it keeps the devil away from the house.”

“Maybe not such a fan of the satellite dish,” I add.

“Just because we live in the country doesn’t mean we don’t like football,” he says. “This is still Georgia, after all.”

He gets out of the truck. I open the door, letting my feet dangle below me. The air is cool and salty from the marsh and the river. The only sounds are the wind rustling in the trees and the soft call of wind chimes made of stained glass and old forks.

“If you can bear to look past the dish, you might see something of more interest to you,” Sam says.

I look again, and there it is: a greenhouse, long and low, flanked by smaller buildings that look like work sheds. Behind them I see a gate—also painted haint blue—and beyond that there’s a garden. Everything is crafted of naked wood, long gone silvery gray in the sun. Even from here, I can smell cloves, cinnamon, lemongrass, and an intoxicating mix of herbs. It smells almost like home.

“And this is my humble abode,” he says, walking up onto the plank porch of a clapboard cube by the river.

He slides back two huge iron bolts—they’re meant to lock out the weather, I guess. The house is one long, low room, with windows that open out on the river. It looks like a weird archaeological museum—every surface is stacked with artifacts. I recognize a lot of them; the RC was a hotbed of people who were “searching,” running from one religion to another. There are Tibetan prayer wheels, dozens of Sacred Heart milagros made of tin from South America, a set of O-kee-pa hooks, and some Brazilian smudge pots. Just about every kind of folk art is represented somewhere on Sam’s walls, but after that, I’m lost. There are handwoven blankets and rugs draped across his furniture, crystal skulls lining the shelves, crosses covered with icons snipped from tin hanging from the rafters, beadwork dangling from leather headdresses, bottles and vials stoppered with cork and melted wax. And books. There are bookshelves on every wall, bookshelves hiding his bed, bookshelves framing the kitchen, bookshelves attached to the bathroom door, bookshelves in the bathroom.

It’s such a cool place. Why didn’t my grandmother want me to come?

“Man,” I say, looking at Sam. His urban-chic outfit of linen pants and an expensive silk shirt is utterly incongruous with this house. “It’s not exactly what I pictured. I sort of thought you’d live in some slick, modern McMansion.”

“Never judge a man by his clothes,” Sam says. We stand in silence, taking in the chaotic, overwhelming beauty of this place.

“Is all this stuff from when you studied at Yale?”

“Most of it.”

Suddenly, the enchanted air is pierced by the sound of the phone ringing.

“Excuse me, Alex,” he says. “I need to get that.”

He heads for the kitchen, and I walk to one of the bookshelves, which is jammed with all kinds of titles—medical books, Russian novels, cookbooks. A red leather-bound volume is set slightly apart from the rest. I look at the title: Lady Brown’s Book of Conjure and Spells. Copyright, 1943. An overwhelming fragrance drifts up. It’s not the old-book smell I was expecting, but something different. Some sort of exotic herb. I flip through the pages. The margins are filled with handwritten notes.

“What are you doing?” Sam says sharply as he comes back into the room.

“Oh, sorry. I was just—”

He strides briskly toward me and whips the book out of my hand. “You should not be touching that.”

“Sorry,” I say again, backing away. His eyes, usually so kind, are frighteningly cold. But maybe I’m just imagining it. Because when he turns to me after replacing the book on the shelf, his pleasant expression is back. “Let’s go to the garden, shall we?”

“Sure,” I say, following him outside. He leads me down a path lined with a low fence made from driftwood, old bottles, and parts from bicycles and junk cars. The wind is getting stronger, bending the branches above. In front of us there is a high gate with a large, formidable padlock, which Sam opens with a key. When the gate swings open, I can’t help gasping.

The garden is bigger than it looks from the outside—almost a full acre. And it’s exquisite. The ground is crowded with pots that overflow with rich green plants and neon-colored blossoms. Thick flowering vines climb the walls. The garden is like a jungle, but meticulously ordered and maintained. And at the far end stands the most spectacular feature: a screened-in aviary, teeming with brightly colored, unusually plump birds.

I take it in quietly. At the RC, my mom and I built the Sanctuary with our bare hands, planting every herb, every creeper, every shrub and weed and vine ourselves. We weeded and watered it every day, and it was as unique and private as my mother’s soul. And now, at the opposite side of the country, I’ve walked into the other half of the Sanctuary. It’s as if I’d walked into a Barnes & Noble and found her diary for sale on a shelf. For the second time today, I feel an acute, stabbing pang.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks.

“It’s just that my mom… really would have loved this place.”

Sam smiles sadly. “Your mom did love this place,” he says quietly.

“She was here?”

“Of course. Your mother and I were close friends.”

I shake my head.

“It’s so crazy,” I say. “She had this whole… life before me.”

“Most people who have children do,” Sam says, smiling. He picks a few leaves from a plant I don’t recognize. “I’m going to mix you a batch of Swamp Brew. To help chill you out when your day-to-day becomes overwhelming.”

“Swamp Brew?” I ask. “The same as my mom—”

“Who do you think taught her?” he says. “I’ll be back.”

He disappears into the vines. While he’s gone, I continue to wander around, fingering the plants, the flowers, the pots. The ones I recognize, I name aloud: “Lemongrass. Verbena. Clove. Valerian.”

Yet there are so many more: in one pot, a sticky fern that smells like cotton candy; in a flower bed, a vine that looks exactly like a snake. When I lean over to touch the vine, I can swear I hear a hissing sound. I jump back, scuttling down the path, to what looks like the end of the garden wall. But it’s not just a wall. There’s a small door, ajar. Through the opening, I can see a dim green light.

I look back but see no sign of Sam. Slowly, I approach the opening.

“Hello?” I call.

Hearing nothing, I push the door open wider. Inside is a small, windowless room with a stone floor. There’s nothing in it but a table laid carefully with several objects: a black candle, a white candle, a glass of salt, nails, a mortar and pestle, and an old fountain pen and ink. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see something move in the corner. An animal, maybe. Perhaps a large bird.

“Hello?” I whisper.

No one answers. I creep closer to get a better look. Suddenly, the oldest man I’ve ever seen steps forward out of the shadows. His limbs are as gnarled as cypress roots, and his hair is snow-white. He’s wearing the same blue sunglasses Sam wears, despite the serious darkness in the room.

“Oh, hi! Where did you—”

“Doc Buzzard,” he says, extending his hand. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.” His palm is cool and dry. “I’m here with Sam.”

“I know,” he says.

“What is this place?”

“My garden shed. And meditation center. That’s where I pray.” He nods at the altar.

“Cool.” I squint at the candles. “Are you Catholic or something?”

He smiles. “Or something.”

“Alex.” Sam is calling from outside.

“Say hello to your grandmother for me.”

“Okay.” This guy knows my grandmother? “See you later.” I can feel him watching me from behind his sunglasses. I step out into the garden, relieved to be in the sunshine again.

“My dad in there?” Sam asks.

“Yeah. He was praying, I think.”

“He’s a very religious guy,” Sam comments vaguely, clearly unwilling to say more. “Here’s your tea. Remember to flash boil it for ten seconds, tops, and then serve it. Boil it longer than that and it won’t work.”

I put my nose inside. Yes, it’s exactly the same mixture my mother made: dried blueberries, chamomile, and that horsey secret ingredient she would never reveal.

“Will you give me the recipe?” I ask.

“Not likely,” he says, smiling. “All right, it’s getting late. You still want that swim?”

“That’s okay,” I say. Usually I wouldn’t pass up the chance; after all, that’s a beautiful river out there. Plus, I love a good swim, and I’m no wimp, even in the bone-chilling water of the Pacific Ocean. But something feels… not right about being at Sam’s house now.

“Next time.”

He nods. “Okay, then.” We head back to the truck. On the way down the path, I think I see something dart from one tree to another. But when I turn around, only the long early-evening shadows are visible. The lone sound is the wind in the leaves, whispering as if they have a secret.