The Magnolia League

20





When I wake up, the angle of the sun streaming in the window suggests late morning. I sit up, gasping, and put my hands to my face.

All right, things are looking up: I’m alive and okay and not burned or possessed or in some freaky forest. In fact, I’m very comfy in my four-poster bed, and from what I can see through the window, the sky looks nice and blue.

Man. That was one trippy dream.

I wonder how long I’ve been asleep. Oddly, instead of being groggy, I feel completely energized, as if I’ve just had a massive amount of Italian espresso injected into my veins.

Okay, obviously the MGs drugged me with something. I’m not one to use profanity lightly but… those bitches! Why would they do that? To haze me or something?

I shoot out of bed, looking around the room. I’m wearing the same clothes I had on last night. No weird robes or markings.

My mom used to say dreams were really important to reading your inner self. She’d write them down as soon as she woke up so that she wouldn’t forget them. Maybe if I quickly scrawl down what I remember… I grab a notebook and sit at my desk.

Hayes.

Madison.

Sunglasses?

Sam. Sina. My grandmother…

Jonta.

What a minute. Isn’t that what Madison was chanting that night at the party?

Jon-ta-conku-er.

I scrawl down the syllables and flip open my laptop. A Google search immediately suggests some person called John the Conqueror. As my skin prickles, I click on the first Web page:


John the Conqueror is a central figure from African-American folklore. Sometimes known as High John the Conqueror or John de Conquer, he is associated with the John the Conqueror root, or John the Conqueroo, which is believed to contain magical powers. John the Conqueror root is central to the hoodoo tradition of folk magic.




Hoodoo? What the hell is that?

I scrawl the name and fly down the stairs and outside, then jog across the street to the Georgia Historical Society building, conveniently located kitty-corner to the grandma-mansion. The librarian, a formidable-looking lady with a halo of white hair as wispy as dandelion petals, raises her eyebrows when I burst in, breathless.

“Excuse me,” I say, my face turning red. “I’m looking for information on African folklore. But American. Rituals and stuff. The kind that might be around here. In a field in the country, maybe. With cakes and champagne.”

She blinks at me.

“Sorry. Let me try again. Okay. Is there a person in Georgia history called John the Conqueror?”

“Not a real person,” she says. “That is the name of a folk hero. A hoodoo myth.”

“Hoodoo! Right! What?”

The librarian sighs. “Just a moment.” She disappears into the stacks and then returns with a book. “Here. You could have gone to the library, or E. Shaver’s, for that matter, if you were wise enough to support your independent bookstore. But you may borrow this.”

“Do I need a card?”

“I know where to find you, Miss Lee. Over there, in the ostentatious mansion on the corner. Or at one of your grandmother’s elitist Magnolia League gatherings. I’d make you join the historical society, but the League practically owns us. So.”

Hmm. Obviously this lady is not a huge Mag League fan.

“Okay. Thanks,” I say, smiling meekly. I take the book and hurry to the far end of the park. Taking a quick look around to make sure no one is near my bench, I open the book.

Hoodoo Spells and Conjures, the title page reads. I flip the page and begin to read:


“Hoodoo” is a spiritual and healing practice derived from African folklore. Direct cultural links have been found to several West African countries, including Angola, Congo, and Gambia. Like “Gullah” language and culture, hoodoo is not derived from a single source but is the result of the African diaspora. Mostly, the hoodoo practice can be found in the American South.

Hoodoo should not be confused with voodoo. Voodoo is a religion; hoodoo is the practice of magic—although many who practice hoodoo have altars in their homes. Hoodoo practitioners often practice a religion such as Christianity in conjunction with magic.

The hoodoo tradition places emphasis on magic and personal power. The practice includes rituals, the use of roots and herbs, spells, and chanting. The hoodoo practitioner is often called a “root doctor.” A “root,” or “mojo,” is a powerful charm that, when worn, is said to affect one’s fate. A “root” may also be an evil spell—or a hex.

The goal of hoodoo is to allow people access to supernatural forces to improve their daily lives by gaining power in many areas of life, including money, beauty, love, revenge, health, employment, and communing with the dead. Teachings and rituals are handed down from one practitioner to another.

Although most adherents are black, contrary to popular opinion, hoodoo has always been practiced by both whites and blacks in America. Most practice hoodoo in secret out of fear of persecution, so there is no data on how many people in America study hoodoo or how effective the rituals might be.

Okay, well. A lot of that sounds like my dream last night. So I had a hoodoo dream? All right. Not the weirdest thing in the world, I guess. Maybe the Buzzards practice hoodoo…. That would make sense, given that altar thing in the shed, and the huge root garden. Maybe my subconscious picked that up or something.

I close the book and stand. Well, this visit was educational, at least. Outside, the city has cooled off this afternoon to a nice, balmy temperature. It feels great, actually. So great that I break into a sprint, running along the park’s avenue of oaks.

“Hi!” I yell, bursting in the door of my grandmother’s house.

“Alex,” she says, appearing with—what else—a cocktail. “We must get your phone working. It’s only polite to let someone know whether or not you’ll be home for lunch.”

“Sorry.”

“Well. I suppose that’s all right, then. Josie left you a bacon burger in the warmer.”

“Great!” I go to the kitchen and eat half a burger while standing up at the counter. Then I throw my plate in the sink and head upstairs to hop in the tub. It takes ten minutes of a bath in my mom’s Spiritual Cleansing bath salts and several stanzas of “Sugar Magnolia”—my favorite Grateful Dead tune—for me to realize the truly weird aspect of what’s going on right now.

I haven’t thought about Reggie since I woke up.

Not once.

And now that I am thinking about him, I don’t feel a thing.

“What?” I whisper, stepping out of the bathtub and wrapping myself in a towel. I’m over Reggie, the first guy I ever loved, after one day? What is happening to me?

I find my cell phone under the bed. There are a couple of annoyed messages from Miss Lee, just testing it out to see whether I ever answer. And there are three messages from Reggie:

Pudge, that wasn’t cool, what you said in front of Crystal… but call me.

Pudge—I mean, Alex… Come on. Call me back. Crystal broke up with me. I really need to talk to you.

Alex… call me, okay? Just call me.

At one time, I would have flipped over these messages. But today I really don’t care at all. And that definitely is not normal.

Without pausing to wonder any more about what could be happening, I call Hayes.

“How are you feeling, sleepyhead?”

“I don’t know why I’m calling you at all, with the crap you pulled last night.”

“Oh, Alex. Have a sense of humor.”

“Whatever, you crazy wench. I get it—you and Madison get off on weird joyrides. But I need you to tell the truth about something.”

On the other side of the phone, there is an uneasy pause.

“Okay,” Hayes finally says.

“What was in that Vitaminwater?”

“Just some herbs,” she says.

“Herbs?” I reply. “Hayes, I know all about herbs. I’m practically a licensed herbalist. Those were no herbs that I’ve ever heard of.”

“Roots,” she says.

“What roots? Specifically?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Because whatever you gave me not only knocked me out and gave me crazy-ass dreams, but it altered the way I feel. Like, I don’t care about Reggie even a little anymore. Crush officially crushed.”

“Well, so, that’s great,” she says brightly. “We’ve got lots of guys for you to hang with as soon as we get your hair fixed. Why ask questions?”

“Hayes. You guys—y’all—drugged me. Don’t you think I deserve to know what’s going on?”

“Hang on for a minute.” She holds the phone away, and I can hear the rise and fall of Madison’s voice in the background. “Okay. Tell your grandmother we’re coming over.”

“Why should my grandmother care if you come by?”

“Just tell her,” Hayes says, a little impatiently. “Actually, what you need to tell her is that I said it’s time.”

Within minutes, the MGs are at my grandmother’s house. What follows is a story so crazy, it’s hard to retell it without questioning my sanity. But the craziest part? I’m not surprised at all. Somehow, in my very core, I know that every single word is true.





The four of us—me, Hayes, Madison, and my grandmother—gather around my grandmother’s long, candlelit dining room table. She has forgone the champagne tonight for a decanter of brandy, offering each of us a glass. (My grandmother definitely has no qualms about underage drinking.)

“What did you give her last night?” Miss Lee asks.

“A potion Sam gave me,” Madison says.

“Hmm.” My grandmother opens a large, old book that she has brought down from her suite. It’s the same one Sam had at his house: Lady Brown’s Book of Conjure and Spells.

“Probably gunpowder, wasp nests, blood—”

“What?” I yell.

“Cayenne pepper, sassafras, bluestone… it’s a wonder he had enough bluestone at this time of year. You know, I think I might almost have this one down. Did he instruct you to get drops of the boy’s sweat?”

“Yes. I strained the drink through a piece of his shirt,” Madison says. “Got it from her room.”

Reggie’s shirt? My favorite vintage rock tee! So that’s why the cloth in Madison’s hand looked so familiar.

“You went through my stuff?”

Madison shrugs. “Had to.”

“You cut up my favorite shirt and then fed me pepper and God knows what other crap? Are you insane?”

“She’s not insane, darling,” my grandmother says. “She was following Doc Buzzard’s orders.”

“What orders?”

“On how to properly conduct this spell.”

“Okay.” I stand up from the table, backing away from them. “It’s time for you all to tell me what the hell is going on here.”

“We are about to, Alexandria. Right now, actually.” My grandmother pours me a tiny bit more brandy. “All right, Alex. Tell me what you know about magic.”

“Magic?” I say, trying not to laugh. “What, like wizards and wands?”

Madison, Hayes, and my grandmother all give me unmistakably annoyed looks.

“Wizards? Don’t be ridiculous.” Miss Lee settles into her velvet chair and looks at her diamond rings. “Let me begin again. Did your mother ever talk about spells?”

“No spells.”

“Curses?”

“Definitely not.”

“Conjuring? The evil eye? Shadow magic? Soothsaying?”

“Okay, you’ve seriously lost me. Can you please bring my grandmother back now? The one who was worried about whether I cross my legs in public?”

My grandmother smiles patiently.

“Well, it seems Louisa really did keep you in the dark.” She stands and paces the dining room. “Let me start at the beginning. You’ll have to reach way back. Nineteen fifty-seven. At the time I, like you, was sixteen years old.”

I cock my head, trying to do the math. Nineteen fifty-seven. Would that make her now, like, seventy? But how could that be? She looks forty, tops.

“I was engaged to be married,” she says. “And then I found out he was going with another girl. You see, Alexandria? I know how you must be feeling about this Reggie character. After all, the entire Magnolia League started because a boy double-crossed me.”

My grandmother refills our drinks and walks around turning off certain lights and turning on others, until the luxurious, fragrant room is set exactly to her liking. Then she settles down into the deep cushions of her striped silk couch.

“Things were different then. I know we older ladies always say that to you, and therefore it’s a statement you likely find very boring, but down here it really was different. The debutante balls were just that—for coming out into society. I came out on Christmas Eve, 1957. A week later, Thomas Warren was at my house with a ring.”

I frown, trying to imagine being engaged at this age.

“I was thrilled. Thomas was twenty, and the best-looking boy in Savannah. He was the best dancer in town and an absolutely wonderful tennis player. There was something so deliciously aloof about him. Also, his father was building those big hotels on the coast. All of the other debutantes—your grandmothers included, girls—were seething with jealousy at the news.

“However, I was never convinced that he was in love with me. I never told the other girls this, but whenever we talked, he seemed very distracted. He wanted to marry me, of course, or he wouldn’t have asked. But it was as if he wanted to marry what I was… not who I was.

“I told myself I was imagining things. As you might guess, I’ve never had a self-esteem problem, and frankly I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t be infatuated with me. All of the other boys were. Then one day Hayes’s grandmother Sybil and I were at the beach on Tybee Island. The end of the beach was a deserted stretch back then, so we’d decided to work on our tans… alfresco, if you know what I mean. Well, we looked down the beach and there was Thomas, in an extremely compromising position with another girl. I recognized her too. A waitress, no less.”

“What a jerk,” I said, angrily picturing Reggie with Crystal again.

“Exactly,” my grandmother said. “Sybil, rash as she is, wanted to run up to them and dump a bucket of water over their heads. I said no—we’d think of something better. But then something strange happened. Before I could hatch a truly great plan, Thomas’s father fell horribly ill.

“It was the most frightening illness I’ve ever seen. I went over to be with Thomas—he didn’t know at the time that I knew he was a rat—and heard Mr. Warren screaming in his bed. His eyes were wild and yellow, and foam was coming out of his mouth.

“At one point during the evening, I was alone with the patient. Everyone had left the room, presumably to have a drink or a quick bath. I was sitting near Thomas’s father, horrified but too ashamed to leave him by himself. I’d always liked him. He was inappropriate at times—a grabber, if you know what I mean—but he was charming and loved spending money. I felt bad about his pain. He turned to me, his eyes desperate, his mouth dripping.

“ ‘Dorothy, I’ve been hexed,’ he whispered.

“ ‘What?’ I asked. ‘What did you say?’

“ ‘Doc Buzzard,’ he said. ‘Out on the island. The hotel property… hexed.’

“ ‘We’re taking you to the hospital,’ I said in what I hoped was a kind voice.

“ ‘It won’t work,’ he said desperately. ‘Hexed.’

“Then he fainted.

“The Warrens came in after that and took him to the hospital, but the doctors couldn’t discover what was wrong with him. I didn’t tell anyone what Mr. Warren had said to me. By the next day, he was dead.”

Miss Lee pauses to drain her brandy. Then she looks each of us in the eye.

“Before I go on, I should tell you girls that I never wanted Thomas hurt. That was never my intention, even as I grew more curious about Doc Buzzard, even as I began to gently inquire where such a man might live. I was interested in a hex, however. My motivation—keep in mind, I was young and foolish!—was to afflict Thomas with the same illness his father had, but then I would offer a cure, thereby both scaring him and saving the day. If I managed to save him, I reasoned, he would afford me the respect I deserved and forget about the trashy tramp on the beach.

“It wasn’t easy finding Doc Buzzard. No one in Savannah seemed to know him. I began with indirect inquiries, both of my friends and of Savannah’s stranger types. Finally Josie, who had just begun working for my family, took me aside.”

“Wait,” I say. “Josie worked for you back then?”

“She was twenty.”

I furrow my brow, trying to figure this out. “So Josie was twenty, and you were sixteen… but she looks ancient now. I don’t get it.”

My grandmother shoots me a hard look and goes on with her story. “So Josie took me aside. ‘What’s this about Doc Buzzard?’ she whispered.

“ ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Do you know him?’

“She seemed to turn a few shades paler. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He’s the hoodoo man.’

“ ‘Hoodoo?’ I repeated. I didn’t think she could be serious. I had heard of hoodoo happening on the coast, but those were silly ghost stories. Still, Josie was deadly serious. Serious enough for me to realize that I had to go see this man.

“I went out to his house on a hot afternoon in May. I remember that the sky was white and flat. It was so bright I could barely keep my eyes open. I was scared. My father had just given me this wonderful convertible, so I was as low-profile as a drunk polar bear. I borrowed a pistol from the hunting closet and took two hundred dollars from my father’s safe. The road was full of holes, and I drove slowly so as not to blow a tire.

“When I got to the shack where the locals had told me the Buzzards lived, I almost turned back. It was nothing like the place is now—just a clapboard shack, evil-smelling, with stray dogs lolling about in the yard. I stayed in my car for a few minutes, hoping someone would come out, but nothing happened. Finally I walked to the door and knocked.

“When the door opened, I was surprised to see the man standing before me. His handsomeness seemed out of place with his surroundings. He was tall, with yellow eyes and smooth skin and long fingers. He smiled at me curiously and asked what I wanted.”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “This was Sam?”

“Sam’s father,” my grandmother says, and then goes back to her story.

“ ‘I want to put a hex on my fiancé,’ I said. ‘The same one you used on Mr. Warren.’

“Doc Buzzard looked at me carefully. Then he invited me inside. He motioned for me to sit and then boiled me a cup of what I thought was tea. I wasn’t in the mood for tea. It was ninety-eight degrees outside, after all. But he slid the cup in front of me, almost like a dare. It smelled awful, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I took a sip. My insides cooled instantly, and I could suddenly think much more clearly. It was, of course, my first cup of Swamp Brew.

“ ‘A hex,’ I repeated. ‘I’ll pay you. I’m somewhat wealthy. I can pay whatever you want.’

“Doc Buzzard stared at me, amused. ‘How do you know about hexes?’

“ ‘Mr. Warren told me. He said that you hexed him. Then he died.’

“ ‘Huh,’ Doc said. ‘I was hoping he’d die before he said that.’

“ ‘So you did kill him?’

“ ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ Doc growled.

“ ‘I don’t think the police would see it that way.’

“ ‘No more hexes,’ he said. ‘That was my only one.’

“ ‘But—’

“ ‘Too risky,’ he said. ‘No.’

“As you girls know, I have never taken kindly to being told no. Back then I was even more stubborn. Immediately, I pitched a fit.

“ ‘You need to help me,’ I said in a shaking voice. ‘My fiancé is making a fool of me. I need to get him to forget this other… harlot and be obsessed with me.’

“Doc Buzzard took a deep breath. ‘You mean you want a love potion.’

“ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose so.’

“ ‘Well, sugar,’ he said, ‘you’re in luck. Because that is just the sort of thing I do best.’

“And so we hatched a deal. I was never to mention hexes again. I was to keep Doc’s secret about killing the hotel developer. And I was to pay him a great deal of money.”

“For what?” I ask. I look at Hayes and Madison, who remain silent. Madison’s on her second brandy, and they’re both draped on pillows on the floor.

“Spells,” my grandmother says.

“Can we just stop for a minute?” I ask. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve sort of ventured into crazy land here. First of all, voodoo is practiced in Haiti, right? Well, I don’t see anyone looking remotely Haitian in this picture. Or African, really. We’re in Georgia.”

“You’re right, Alexandria,” my grandmother says patiently. “I’m actually very proud that you’re so knowledgeable about these subjects. This is not voodoo. It’s hoodoo, and it’s a very serious tradition. Primarily, the rituals are healing traditions that involve roots, herbs, plants, magnets, and salt combined with chants and objects of power. Also, hoodoo is not a religion per se—it’s a practice. We don’t put our fate in the hands of a god… we take control of our own fate and power. You can be a Christian and practice hoodoo—which is why it works so well for us Episcopalians and the African Methodists out there at Buzzard’s Roost.”

I look at the other girls again, who, as before, don’t even flinch. If this is some kind of hoax, they’re really playing along well.

“I’m sorry, but it’s just not adding up,” I say. “This is a debutante society. You aren’t African.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t respect and use the power of African rituals,” my grandmother says. “And they are powerful. Every Low Country native knows that. Every old family has a hoodoo story. I was simply wise enough to take it seriously. You see, Doc Buzzard offered to mix me up a spell. A potion, if you will, to win Thomas’s affections.”

“What was in it?”

“If we knew that, genius, we’d make our own,” Madison says.

“I can’t remember the steps directly. When I got to his shack, he was chanting over a red cloth laid out with herbs, what looked like a tooth, and several oils. He had written my name and Thomas’s name at strange angles on a slip of paper. He gathered all of these things and sewed them into a tiny red bag. Then he pinned it to my slip. He said it was a mojo bag—”

I can’t help but crack up. “Come on. Like in Austin Powers?”

“Don’t be insulting, darling. A mojo, or a gris-gris, is a powerful amulet. It’s a tiny bag one sews into clothing to shape one’s fate. We always have one. In fact, I insist that each Magnolia change hers weekly to keep it fresh.” My grandmother opens her blouse and reveals a tiny blue silk bag pinned to her slip. “I have the silk ordered from Turkey for mine. We request the herb combination ourselves.”

I look questioningly at the MGs, who open their shirts and show me identical bags sewn to their bras. Hayes’s is fuchsia; Madison’s, dark gray.

“Anyhow, that mojo bag contained a pair of lodestones, some magnetic sand, and some Love Me Oil—Doc’s secret recipe. It was a fairly simple gris-gris, compared to what Sina cooks up now.”

“And it worked?”

“Not to be too punny… but, yes, like magic. I went back to Savannah and invited Thomas to dinner at my house, and a transformation took place over the next few days. It was wonderful at first; he was as attentive and adoring as a fiancé should be. But then Thomas started to appear at the house at all hours. Last thing at night and first thing in the morning, I’d see him standing on the lawn under the window of my room. He was acting a little desperate, honestly. He wanted to skip the wedding and elope immediately.

“I wouldn’t hear of it, of course. No one was going to deprive me of that party. I reported to Doc that things were going well—very well. So well that I wanted to know what other services he could provide. But when I showed up at his door again, he wasn’t thrilled.

“ ‘I gave you your gris-gris,’ he said impatiently. ‘Now go back to your fancy balls.’

“But as you girls know, Dorothy Lee is not to be dissuaded. I persisted.

“ ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

“ ‘I want to know what else you can do,’ I said. ‘And then I want to hire you to do it.’

“Lucky for me, Doc was in debt. And it turns out that hoodoo spells can be incredibly useful to a young debutante on the rise. There were the love spells, of course. Doc has the ability to make a man or a woman fall in love. And—even more useful—he can make one fall out of love as well.”

“That’s the spell we used on you the other night,” Madison says. “Crush Killer.”

“So, let me get this straight: None of this was a dream?”

“Sorry,” Hayes says.

“Well, what else do you guys use the spells for?”

My grandmother smiles. “Let’s see. Love, beauty… oh! Youth. Each Magnolia is able to conjure herself once at an age that she’ll stay until she dies. So I’ll be thirty-eight right up until my funeral.”

“Oh.” Now, that explains a lot.

“And money spells,” my grandmother continues. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but none of the Magnolia women are in want of funds.”

“I did notice. I thought you were just rich people who happened to hang together.”

“Oh no,” my grandmother says. “We are rich because we—how do you put it—‘hang together.’ Many of the Magnolias’ families were ruined during the Depression. Doc’s spells put an end to that.”

“The Depression?” I say. “Miss Lee, I just can’t believe you’re old enough to remember the Depression.”

“Let’s just say hoodoo keeps me looking much younger than my years,” my grandmother says.

“Well, if the doctor’s so great at spells, why was he living in a shack? Why didn’t he use the magic to make some cash for himself?”

“Hoodoo doctors almost never use spells for their own purposes,” Hayes says. “Their business is to sell the spells to other people. The Buzzards have strict rules about using the magic for themselves.”

“Why?”

“People don’t go looking for magic if they’re happy,” Madison says. “I think the theory is, with all of that power at their disposal, the dark side can take over.”

“The Buzzards have plenty of money now, though,” my grandmother adds. “The Magnolias pay them well to provide us with the spells we need.”

Suddenly, my head starts spinning. Hang on! I want to yell. But it’s all literally just too crazy for words. I get up and walk to the tall window, which is draped with velvet curtains. “I’m sorry,” I say. “This is just a lot to take in.”

“It’s nuts,” Hayes says. “I know. But once you digest a little, I think you’ll realize that it’s also pretty awesome. I mean, Alex, pretty much any problem you have—hoodoo can fix it. We’ll never run out of money. We’ll always be pretty. And we can get any guy we want.”

“What about bigger problems? World peace? The environmental crisis?”

“Those you’ll have to work on yourself, Gandhi,” Madison says. “The Buzzards can’t do everything.”

“I don’t know. It sounds too easy,” I say, looking out the window. “The Magnolias pay the Buzzards money, and they give us spells?”

“That’s the basic arrangement,” my grandmother says.

“Maybe I’ll call Sam tomorrow. I don’t think I’m getting all of this. He’s so cool. He can help explain—”

“Absolutely not,” my grandmother states, her voice slicing through the air. “You are not to fraternize with the Buzzards.”

“Why? You did. Isn’t that how this whole thing started in the first place?”

“All spells purchased go through me,” my grandmother says. “That way things don’t get out of control.”

“Out of control? Meaning…”

“Alex, let’s call it a day, shall we?” my grandmother says. “We don’t want you to break out into unsightly hives.” She rises. “Girls?”

The MGs gather their bags.

“See you tomorrow, Alex,” Hayes says.

“Just wait, Alex,” Madison whispers before she goes. “I know this is all a lot to take in, but you’ll see. Before you know it, everything is going to change.”