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“Rebel”—ShallowSide
Some people say that what I practice is more hoodoo than voodoo. It’s a blend of many beliefs. After all, voodoo isn’t a uniform worship. It’s a combination of multifaceted influences that each individual or group perceives in their own special way.
Because death is a regeneration of society as a whole in the voodoo culture, my grandmother’s family has held heavy belief that those souls that are truly evil need to be prevented from passing on into the next life. That’s the only way to keep them from returning to the earth again to rain terror and evil on society again. Therefore, it’s my job to ensure that the proper rituals have been performed to allow for either safe passage or none at all.
As I knelt at the table that served as my altar in the shed that served as my temple behind the hog farm our chapter owned, I carefully laid the tarot cards out on the table one by one. Studying them carefully, I continued to softly sing one of the songs I’d been taught at a young age by my mother and waited for the answers I sought.
The candles flickered softly, and I knew I was likely not alone. Without fear, I chanted the words that were like breathing to me.
It was different for each of us in my family with the gift. For me, if I was actively seeking answers, I needed to enter a near trancelike state. My eyes remained fixed on the story the cards told as the lines and colors blurred.
It was then that theloasspoke and I knew what my course of action would be. Breathing deeply of the burning herbs, I returned mygris-gristo their proper places, painted my face, closed the ceremony, and rose to my feet. Before I stepped outside, I remembered to grab my phone.
It vibrated in my pocket for the twentieth time, and I cursed. It had been ringing when I went into my sanctuary, but I’d silenced it and set it to the side, knowing I’d call whoever it was back.
Ordinarily, I would’ve let the call go to voicemail again, because I had a job to do. Except something told me to check it, and I never ignored my instincts. When I saw who it was, I smiled.
“Granmé,” I said warmly as I paused with my hand on the doorknob.
“Ogun. You are safe?” Her tone was hurried and fearful.
“Of course,” I replied as if it was crazy for me to be anything but.
“Your father’s people were here,” she whispered. She never referred to Hawk as my father. He was my dad or my papa. My father was the man whose evil blood unfortunately tainted my heart.
“Are you okay?” My first concern was her safety. She’d been an important part of my life until I was six years old. Then she’d come to visit us as often as she could as I was growing up, but I’d talked to her on the phone almost every day.
“I’m fine. Your papa and Jameson were here, thankfully. But you must listen to me. Your father is alive. They said he’s going after you.” Her hurried, gasping breaths worried me.
“What the hell? Granmé? What’s wrong?”
“Just a flesh wound. Thanks to my boys,” she said, and I heard my mother’s voice in the background.
“Let me talk to my mother,” I demanded. There was a whisking and rustling sound, and my mother came on the line.
“Ogun. She’s telling the truth. She’s okay. Hurt—but okay. We had gone into town, and Jameson offered to escort us back because Mother had her vision again of being attacked. She tried to play it off as nothing—”
“It was nothing! I’m alive, as you can see! I told you it wasn’t my time!” I heard Granmé grumble in the background.
“Mother! Enough! Ogun, listen. She not only saw herself being attacked, she also saw your father kill you. Now today, she was attacked, and the men said….” My mother sounded worried and confused. Then again, so was I.
“My father is dead,” I insisted.
“That’s what we thought. But what if he isn’t? Ogun—promise me you will be careful. We’re coming home early. Hawk wants to be there to help protect you.” The last was said quietly and tearfully.
“No. Granmé needs you there. I’ll be careful, and I’ll tell the brothers. We’ll stay vigilant, but it’s unlikely that he’s alive, and if he is, it’s doubtful he knows where I am. It’s been over twenty-two years with no word from him,” I rationalized.
“I don’t know, Ogun. I think she might be right. After all, you didn’t hear from your father initially because the club made him believe we had died. Then we thought he was dead. Please, baby, be careful.” My mother only called mebabywhen she was emotional. Which was exactly what I chalked it up to then—high emotions related to her mother’s injuries.
“Is Papa nearby?” I asked, because I needed other answers.
“Yes. Hold on. I love you, Ogun,” she said, then handed the phone off to Hawk.
“Son, everything okay up there?” His gruff voice carried over the line.
“Yes. I’m in the middle of something though. The men that attacked Granmé—did you see them?”
He snorted. “Sure did.”
