Page 5 of A Curse On Black Lake
I nod and swallow. Feeling parched, I reach for my tea, but it’s long gone. Snapping my journal closed, I place it on the side table and get to work on breakfast. I open a jar of canned peaches from last year and throw a piece into my mouth. I need a little food in my stomach.
“Will you tell me what this one was about?” she asks as she sits at the table.
“I’m not sure I should,” I say, grabbing a skillet from the old white painted cabinet.
“You know I’m not long for this world, girl, tell me what you saw,” she says.
I get the skillet hot and turn the heat on for the kettle before grabbing the eggs collected yesterday.
“I was running through the woods, parts of the bayou, and someone was chasing me. The Spirits kept telling me to run. Then a man appeared and…” I trail off, suddenly feeling like I shouldn’t tell her the way I felt with him.
“And?” She pushes.
She’s going to drag it out of me anyway. “And he helped me. He killed the one chasing me, but then … I woke up.” I’m still not sure what to make of it.
“What did they tell you?” she asks.
“Grams, please,” I groan.
“You can’t keep it all in, flower. You have to tell someone.”
I groan, checking the eggs as they fry. The kettle whistles, and I make her tea, setting it in front of her. I need coffeenow.I check the cabinet for coffee beans, and of course, we’re out. It’s one of the few things we can’t grow.
“They saidhewants me, and they said another will help you, and you will help him.”
She hums and takes a sip of her tea.
“Do you believe they’re talking about two different people?” she asks.
I flip the stove off and put her eggs on a plate. My stomach is in knots, and I’m not hungry anymore.
“That’s the only thing that makes sense,” I mutter and make myself more tea. Beggars can't be choosers.
“You know they aren’t alwayslogical,” Grams snaps.
“Yes, I’m aware,” I say deadpan, sitting across from her.
“Do you—”
“Grandma, please, I don’t want to keep thinking about it. We need to harvest the lavender today. I need to strip the lemon balm and get it jarred up, and we still need to strain that tonic.”
She purses her lips and goes back to eating her eggs.
I stare off into space, too tired to move, but I’m burning daylight. I need to muck out stalls and clean the chicken coop too. It used to be me and Grams doing this together, but then she got sick from an illness with no name. As are many ailments in Black Lake.
She healed, but never fully recovered. She’s older, and it caught up with her, so most of the chores fall to me. Grams handles making tonics and salves for the apothecary and running the store.
Greer’s Apothecary has been in my family for many generations, going back to the start of this town in the 1800s. We’re healers and midwives. At one point, people thought my family were witches. We never have been. We just know how to work with the land, and listen to how it cares for us.
“I need a gallon of goat milk too, please,” she says.
I take another sip. The Spirits whisper to me, and I can’t make out what they’re saying. Sometimes they turn into a buzz in my ears. I’ve learned to ignore them. I hear them, but I don’tlisten.Almost like white noise, but when they get louder, I have no choice.
“I’m sorry, flower.”
Looking up from my tea, I meet her eyes and reach for her hand. “There’s hardly anything to be sorry for.”
Her eyes glitter and then she blinks away the tears. After she finishes eating, I help her get dressed in her favorite overalls, and I throw jeans and a t-shirt on.
