My Little Black Star
Chapter 1: Louisiana Snake Charmer
Her mama was a stern, no-nonsense woman, tireless and hard working. Misty could close her eyes and feel the roughness of the woman's hands as they rubbed dirt from her face, with little success. Through the black depths of memory, she could pull visions of her mother's furrowed brow, creasing and folding in exasperation, but never around the eyes. There had not been enough laughter in the woman's life to warrant a crinkling around the eyes.
This is not to say her mama wasn't kind. Though she was a rough-hewn woman, her mama was unquestionably good and occasionally warm. There were times when Misty could wrap her arms tightly around herself and feel the whisper of remembered warmth, the safety of being held in those strong arms, the color of burnished leather. Her mama's skin was warm to the touch and worked over by the sun til it adopted a permanent copper tone that refused to fade, even in the dark winter months. Misty would often pull her sleeves up and compare her pale porcelain arms to her mama's wondering if she'd ever earn such a richness of pigment.
She never did, despite her days working in the glare and the heat; the fleeting kiss of the sun left her just like everything else. Her skin would brown and then the toasted hue would fade almost instantly, the only proof of her toiling would be the callouses and cake of mud clinging to the hem of her skirts. Her body's refusal to bronze was just one more way she'd never be like her mama. Her body's refusal to die was another.
Her daddy was a preacher and he raised Misty on a healthy diet of fear and wrath of the Almighty. He was all hellfire and brimstone and she wanted little to do with such aggressive ministrations. Misty was a daughter of the earth, like her mama, and she had little care or desire for the fire of her father's words. She refused to believe that a God who made things like soft Spanish moss and the cicadas that sang her to sleep could ever punish someone for things like saying or wearing the wrong thing or loving the wrong person.
But each Sunday, her daddy railed against the threats and ills of modern life and spat verse at his congregation who whooped and hollered their approval. It made Misty's skin crawl and instilled in her a constant undercurrent of fear for not only the Almighty, but her father as well. He would loom larger than life in his pulpit, the sweltering heat of his tent making the air thin and Misty's head would spin. His face would redden until it matched his ginger beard and he would point to the sky then draw God's judgment down to his congregation in great sweeping gestures. It terrified Misty in ways she couldn't name and though she loved her daddy, her fear of his proselytizing and, by extension, him, grew a little each day.
She hadn't known it at the time, but her mama felt the same and when Misty was 12, the woman up and left their family home in the dead of night, leaving no word. It had been mercilessly derisive and traumatic. Misty felt as if she were suddenly missing a limb, like a part of her had been cut away. The hole in her heart was gaping and refused to heal. She would cry herself to sleep at night over the loss of the person who was supposed to love her unconditionally, only stifling her sobs when the door to her room creaked open and she could see the shadowy face of her daddy in the dwindling light. Her fear over incurring his wrath superseded her need to mourn the absence of her mama. She spent months sleeping on a tear soaked pillow before she could settle without wringing herself out.
Things were tense with just the two of them, her silent smoldering father and Misty, a wisp of a girl, perpetually dirt stained and full of wonder. They had so little in common, and the thread that had once connected them had vanished, quite literally overnight. They moved around each other in tentative circles, sometimes going days without uttering a word. This uncomfortable dance continued on a pace until Misty unwittingly proved herself useful, a vessel for the Lord's power here on earth.
The day had been unseasonably hot and the cloying discomfort of her daddy's silent pacing round the house had forced Misty to take to the outdoors. They lived on a modest piece of land slightly southeast of New Orleans proper, bordered by the outskirts of the city on one side and the sweet humidity of swamplands on the other. Misty opted for the swamps and set out, determined to find a bit of freedom. This day was like most others: expelling herself from the oppressive house had become expected at this point. The one thing setting this particular day apart was that it happened to mark the beginning of her 13th year. Her father had remained resolute in his stoicism, praying over their morning meal for, what Misty felt, hours. No mention of her birthday, certainly no mention of her mother.
How Misty longed to see her mama, to know where she'd gone. It wasn't as if the severity of her childhood had been relieved by her mother's presence, but it had seemed less stifling to have her there. If nothing else, it helped to drink up some of her daddy's intensity. She also understood the few fleeting moments of tenderness she had clung to, so desperately, were gone and she never felt more alone.
Every once in a while Misty would meet another child from her daddy's parish and she hoped it would relieve the ache of isolation, but they all seemed so stone-faced, their parents often clicking their tongues at Misty's less than puritanical presentation and decided lack of propriety. They were all drab colored clothing from some depression-era bargain bin and slicked dark hair, limp with pomade whereas Misty was all light and layers of warm color. The children often gawked with narrowed eyes and the parents pulled at their shoulders, clucking as she passed by. They were sympathetic to the challenge this wide-eyed, waif of a daughter must present to their preacher, but he had the Almighty on his side and she would soon come to heed the call.
For all her father's fire and her mother's stern passivity, neither had ever truly attempted to stifle or quell Misty's sense of wonder. She had been permitted to run wild, as long as she sat quietly for sermons and prayer and did what she was asked with no complaint. Wild, but not willful, she was always the first to lend a hand, to put her shoulder to the wheel and take up the task at hand. She was defiantly cheerful, full of life in the face of straight-laced cynicism, and was blissfully unaware of the gift of freedom she enjoyed. It flew in the face of everything her parents stood for, but they could not see fit to cage her.
Her mama, in her own way, fostered Misty's love of the earth, the joys of dipping her hands in fresh earth and coaxing new life from the most stubborn of seeds. She took silent, straight-faced pleasure in the flicker of her daughter's eyes and squeals of delight when a bud flowered or bulb took root. She saw her child grow like wheat, golden and willowing and it inspired a mix of joy and fear, but through it all she could not bring herself to thresh the stalk and disappeared before she may have had the chance.
Misty's daddy, for his part, saw in her one of the Lords untouched wonders – a pure soul unburdened by sin and full of light. In spite of his pedagogical grounding in doctrine, he could still recognize the light of the divine when it was presented to him and he could not bring himself to hide that light under a bushel, so to speak. In fact, it was his eventual belief that God's will for him to share that light with the world
On this day, mid-morning on her 13th year, Misty picked through the tall grasses and slipped carefully through barbed wire into the swamp at the edge of their property line. She could still see the tent-top of their makeshift church and was seeking out something a bit more organic. She found the worn trail she had carved out for herself over the years and wound through the trees, heavy with Spanish moss and teaming with life. Misty reached her destination and settled in at the base of a large tree. She traced its roots idly, humming to herself as she allowed herself this moment of solace. She loved to follow each root, eyeing it as it spread like a giant web, weaving in and out of the ground, twining with those of other trees and dipping into the murky depths. She could almost feel the hum of life when she placed her palms flat to the base of the cypress tree and had the sneaking suspicion that her tree might be just one spindle of the many-spoked swamp.
A slight breeze pushed the moss and Misty looked up from her fingers, breathing a tentative sigh before something caught her eye. She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. She couldn't be sure, but she could swear there was a girl, crouched low at the far edge of the swamp, her swamp. There'd never been anyone else out here in all the time she spent curled at the base of her cypress tree, but she could definitely make out the form of a young girl, swathed in black, dipping her fingers into the dark swamp waters.
Misty braced herself and pushed up from her seated position and side-stepped an errant root, inching around the water, straining to get closer to the girl. She knew how to move quietly through the trees, inching along without rousing the gators or rustling the leaves. She knew this sacred place did not belong to her and took care not to disturb its residents. She managed to pick her way across the swamp until she was no more than 20 feet from the other girl. Misty didn't recognize her from their parish and decided to watch for a moment, rather than barreling in and startling the intruder.
The girl had long white-blonde hair, plaited into a loose braid that snake over her left shoulder as she bent over the water's edge. She wore a prim black high-necked blouse with no sleeves and a neat velour, A-line skirt. Her single-strap shoes were polished and Misty wondered why on earth someone like this would be traipsing through a swamp. The girl lifted herself gently from the water's edge and Misty almost gasped before clapping a hand over her mouth. The girl, who couldn't be much older than Misty, herself, was lovely, like a picture in a magazine one of the boys had shown her before her father confiscated it and the boy's parents threatened him with the lash.
Her features were soft and warm, rosy pink and slightly flushed from the effort of reaching down to the water's level. The girl reached into the pocket of her skirt and drew out something Misty couldn't see, she stepped forward for a better look and heard the tell-tale snap of a twig underfoot. The girl's head shot up and Misty found herself suddenly pinned by the coffee black eyes of a stranger. A sharp intake of breath and the girl twitched involuntarily. Misty took another step forward and the girl leaned back slightly, a rabbit about to run.
"Wait!" Misty called, extending a hand forward, her mother's bracelets tinkling lightly, catching the sun through the branches. "Please."
The girl stood still, wary, and Misty took another step forward. Suddenly the girls seemed to ripple and snap! She was gone. A flash of black in Misty's peripheral vision caused her to turn her head in time to catch the image of the girl once more. Misty turned toward her and started running in her direction when the girl shimmered and disappeared once more. Misty stopped and took a shallow, silent breath. She heard a slight rustle over her right shoulder and turned her head slightly to catch the girl out of the corner of her eye. She was dipping something into the swamp before fading out of view once more. Misty whipped around and broke into a run.
She didn't know why it was so important for her to pursue this girl, but she couldn't seem to help herself. She felt her blood pump as she ran toward where the girl had just been, she could feel her face go flush and her heart started to race as she caught sight of the girl far ahead of her.
Then suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her calf and she faltered and tripped. Fire suddenly spread through her left leg and she crumpled, tangled in roots and earth as the searing pain crept up her leg and branched out to her limbs. She released a wretched sound, a choked sob, and stared blankly up at the endless lattice of green above her. She wanted to fold in half and claw at her leg, to see what had happened, but she couldn't move. The pain was coming in waves now and spreading fast. She new it could be only one thing: venom. Through all her careful treading she must have neglected her step and threatened some creature or another and now she could practically feel the thickening of tainted blood in her veins.
She was vaguely aware of the tears pooling, spilling from her eyes and prayed, actually prayed, that she'd pass out soon if only to end this unbearable pain. The corners of her vision started to darken and close in on her, her world collapsing in on itself. Before her vision completely failed, she saw a flash of gold and deep brown and black that wasn't of her own making. She felt her body shift and move, and felt the low hum of vibration against her shoulder as someone spoke soft and low. Maybe her daddy was right and the Lord Jesus had come to lift her to heaven, to save her from the pain of this fire in her veins. She sighed and gave herself over to the divine, collapsing into the arms of her savior and finally letting go.
She awoke with a start, sitting shock straight up, sucking in as much oxygen as her lungs would allow. She was in a dark room and as her eyes adjusted, she recognized it as her own room in her family home. How had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered was the fire, and her savior carrying her to her end of days. She balled her fingers into a fist, giving them a cursory squeeze, rotating her wrists. No fire, no poison. She pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of her bed, running her hand down her calf, over two small puckered scars ghosting over where she had felt the initial pinch. She had been bitten and fallen in the swamp but – she was home and alive? How long had she been asleep? She ran her fingers over the scars, now only slightly raised. Time was the only thing that would heal a wound like that, so how much had she lost?
She suddenly remembered the girl in the swamp. The pursuit of whom had brought about Misty's own mis-step and potential end. Had she been a ghost? The girl moved so fast and so strangely. Had Misty imagined the whole thing in some venom-induced fever-dream?
Misty pushed herself, gingerly, up from the bed and was surprised to find that she felt relatively little stiffness in her muscles, nothing more than what may be brought about by a solid night's rest. She crossed to the mirror a few paces away and raised the hem of her night gown to inspect the scarred flesh of the bite-mark and gasped to see not one, but seven separate pairs of fang marks across her calves. How was she still standing? Seeing the bite marks, she instinctively knew they were made by a Water Moccasin, one of the most dangerous venomous snakes native to her swamp. A single bite could kill a full-grown man, if untreated, and could occasionally leave him without the use of the affected limb, but here she stood, with multiple fang marks. A mere girl of 13, now, and no worse for wear. She raised herself up on her toes and felt the pull of her calf muscles lift her without pain. Strange.
She crossed the threshold of her door and pulled it open. Her father was sitting at the table, holding his forehead in one hand, his crumpled hat in the other. He looked exhausted and older than Misty had ever seen him. She approached him tentatively and felt him jump and stagger as she placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You-," He stumbled up from his chair and caught himself. "How? I thought—," she watched as her daddy choked on each sentence before it could be completed. Then he fell silent and fell to his knees, grasping her hands in his. "The doctor came and went, he said you were lost to us."
Misty crinkled her nose as her father clutched desperately at her hands.
"That girl brought you back here… you'd already left us, though. It was all we could do to lay you out. Then the doc came and said you'd gone up to the Almighty."
"I did, Daddy! I felt him take me up, he had me in his arms and took my pain."
"But how are you here?"
Misty could only shrug and stroke the side of his face as he sobbed and held her hand in his.
"It's a miracle." He blubbered into her palm.
"A miracle! Heed now the Lord's will, here on earth you sinners!" Misty watched as her father bellowed at his congregation.
That was her cue.
She peered over the bucket of writhing, twisting black bodies and fished out a particularly feisty looking Cottonmouth. She held it for a moment, staring into the pin-yellow eyes as they both swayed a bit, snake and girl. She slackened her grip and the viper wound its way up from Misty's wrist to curl around the warmth at the nape of her neck. It settled for a moment and Misty closed her eyes tight as her father delivered a quick shock to the beast and it instinctively bit into the soft flesh at Misty's pulse point. This happened several more times and the fire tore through her veins, like it had so many times now.
She tried to push the pain from her body, tried to lift her spirit from its earthly vessel as the blackness swallowed her up. She knew that her father would set the timer for six minutes, at which point the doctor would come and declare her dead and her father would invite an onlooker or two to check Misty's pulse, once the snake had been safely confined, of course. After the crowd was satisfied that they had indeed watched a young girl succumb to a several fatal snakebites, her father would place the foul smelling salts under her nose and her body would lurch back to life. The poison: somehow gone, her muscles: still strong, her blood: pumping, healthy and untainted. Her father would help her to her feet, raising her arms up to the Almighty and watch as each revival member gawked and gaped at the wild little snake charmer who had cheated death more than a dozen times now before breaking out into a never-ending praise chorus that overwhelmed her senses and set her reeling.
Misty Day would die many more times before she could manage to take them all with her.
