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"Magic. According to his hodgepodge theology, the fourth finger of the dominant hand is the power finger. It's the only finger in African cult lore that has no name. So long as she had that piece of him, there was the possibility she could raise him again. Fortunately—at least for the members of the holy order that hanged her husband—she came down with smallpox and died before she could wreak too much havoc. "
I didn't really want to know, but I couldn't stop myself from asking. "And the hand?"
"Disappeared. She wasn't really strong enough to do anything with it anyway; Juanita was more of a hanger-on than a priestess. But for a long time there were serious fears that someone else might make a go of it. Eventually, John Gray and his crew were pretty much forgotten. "
I shifted uncomfortably. "That's not surprising. It's been an awfully long time. "
"No, not surprising, but possibly dangerous. The time's not quite up yet. Soon, though. "
"How do you mean?"
Brian turned another page. "It's not yet been one hundred and sixty-five years. That's the longest his soul can stay tied to earth close enough to come back—before passing all the way over to the other side, that is. Once that anniversary has passed, he's gone for good. "
"So it's this year?" My math was never the best, but I knew I had to be close.
Brian returned to the book and went to a page we'd already passed, dragging his finger down the page until it stopped on the date John Gray had died. Apparently he wasn't much good with numbers either, because he then reached for a calculator in a drawer beside the cash register to confirm my calculations. "Yes. This year. September twenty-ninth. "
"That soon?"
"Yep. About a week and a half from now and the world will be quite safe. "
"That's . . . reassuring. " Only a week and a half away. "Quite safe" was just around the corner.
"You don't look too reassured. "
"I'm sorry," I said, but then I felt stupid for apologizing. "I'm not sure why it makes me feel so uneasy. "
"Probably because it's not past yet. You're just showing good sense. "
I grinned, trying to make it look real. "Thanks. "
He patted me on the back. For a minute I thought he was going to call me "little sister" or "little lady" again, and I might st
art laughing despite my unease. "Don't worry about it so much. John Gray's dead, and so are all his children. There's nothing more to fear from the likes of him. "
"You're right. I'm sure you are," I lied, for he was too kind to argue with.
As thanks for the information, I went ahead and bought the book and some incense that smelled sweetly of vanilla and jasmine. "Take this too, on the house," he said, handing me a tiny velveteen bag about the size of a strawberry. It was soft and blue, and inside it was tied a mixture of herbs and powders that might have been cinnamon and sage. "It's a gris-gris. "
My confusion turned to mild skepticism, but I accepted the gift. I didn't have any lucky charms, and perhaps this one would do me good. I took it with the same apathetic optimism with which I swallow the occasional vitamin—it can't hurt, and it might help. "Thank you so much for your time. "
"No, thank you—for your company. And take care of yourself, miss. Tell your uncle I said hello. Tell him too that he should make his own way out here before long. I haven't seen him in ages. "
"I sure will tell him," I promised, "and thanks again. "
I left the shop clutching the brown paper sack with the book, incense, and gris-gris. My car was parked outside, so I opened the passenger's side and set my purchases on the seat before venturing into the street.
Though it was well past lunchtime, I couldn't detect much in the way of hunger pangs. I was too distracted by the wealth of new information to worry about food. I paused before a newspaper rack and read the date on the right-hand corner. September 18. Eleven days until John Gray was thoroughly sent to rest, even by his own religion.
No one remembers him anyway, I told myself. This is ancient history. There's no one left alive to try to raise him—as if it could even be done. I'd seen plenty of ghosts, but nothing of the resurrected. And I'd certainly not seen anything like a man dead for a century and a half brought back. It was more than I could imagine. There would be nothing left of him to raise.
A street or two down I saw a sign for an International House of Pancakes, and promptly changed my mind about whether or not I needed to eat. I retrieved my new book from the car and started walking, certain I could find something fruity, syrupy, hash-browny, or milky to ingest. IHOP had never failed me yet.
Amidst the clinking silverware, clattering plates, and bustling of waitresses, I read on in the glossy, hard-backed book while I waited for my blueberry cheese blintzes. September 29, 1840. John Gray was dragged from a ceremony by a group of Spanish monks who wrapped him in chains and hung him from a tree outside the Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine, Florida.
September 29.
A week and a half. But why should it worry me? The nearness of the date was a good thing—I was so close to being beyond fear. Why did this affect me so much? Because I'd dreamed of his hand? I shook my head, knowing I could not clear it. My connection to John Gray was more distant than I could imagine. It was distant enough for me to live without fear, and for me to ignore the superstitions of the long, long dead.
