The Ninth Charm

The Ninth Charm

Mamie Jones, a round, short black woman, had set up her small folding tray table on Jackson Square in the heart of the French Quarter. Next to her, on the right side, sat Jackie, a young woman with a thick mane of strawberry blond hair, a big pregnant belly; trying to attract tourists to her Tarot readings. To Mamie’s left was a man from Pennsylvania. Very pale complexion, raven black hair, deep dark circles around his eyes. He was pushing the whole gothic look to the maximum. His trade was drawing cartoons of people.

Mamie sold charms. She had a bundle of cheap gems or even simple bottle glass on leather strings lined up neatly on her small table. To each, she had a story. The stories were mystical.

“Miss, buy a charm! It will keep the spirits away.”

“Ma’am, I don’t believe in spirits.” The blonde laughed with a Texan twang tough enough to whip a horse into gallop with.

Mamie stood up and held one up to her. “Green, like your eyes. This charm fits your wild nature. You love the outdoors. This will keep the fairies out of your hair on your fan boat ride through the bayous tomorrow.”

The woman had almost walked on without really trying to conceal how much she thought Mamie’s pitch was bogus, but she stopped in her tracks. “How did you know I was going to take a fan boat ride tomorrow?”

Mamie leaned forward and whispered just loud enough for the woman to hear, “I can sense your aura.” She pulled a charm from under her shirt and held it up. It wasn’t the same type of charm. It had a real gemstone which captured the sunrays and made it glisten mysteriously. “See, how it swirls?”

Jaw slack, the young woman reached for her wallet. “OK, give me that damn charm.”

Once she was out of earshot, Jackie asked, “How did you know she was going on a boat ride?”

“She had the flier for it sticking out of her back jeans pocket.” Mamie laughed.

“You are cold blooded, Mamie.” Jackie winked at her. Reading the tarot cards was just a game to her too. A game she got paid for.

The square started filling up with people. The three vendors did their best to beat the other shops around the tiny park that framed the statue of General Jackson on his horse. The long, hot, muggy day of New Orleans was upon them. By the time a mild breeze blew in from the Mighty Mississippi around five pm, Mamie was covered in sweat. Jackie had given up around two pm, when the heat gave her a headache. Gothic boy held on tight, but his hands were shaking and if it was possible, he was even paler than in the morning. And that after a day in the sun!

Mamie had to sell a few more. She hadn’t hit her quota for the day. Her motto: “Nine charms is the charm”.

“I should get me one of them credit card machines,” she mumbled.

“Why you say that?”

“Boy! Don’t start talking like that now. You from the north! I want a machine because they all chicken out from buying with the excuse ‘it’s a credit card day’.”

“Yeah, I heard that more than enough times today.” Gothic sighed and wiped his face with a black sleeve. “How many more do you have to sell?”

“Just three. Three’s the charm to nine.” Mamie grimaced at her own silly pun.

“I’ll buy one. I want that one from around your neck. It’s prettier than all of those you have on the table.”

“I can’t give you that one. My mother gave it to me. Her mother gave it to her before. It was made in Africa. My ancestor smuggled it in on a slave ship, hid it in her hair.”

“So you’re going to give it to your daughter?”

Mamie shook her head slowly. “I don’t have children. The legend goes that something will happen when it gets passed on for the ninth time. I am the eighth to carry it and I will take it to my grave.”

“What will happen? Some Voodoo type shit?” Gothic boy was interested now. He even missed the customer who took a closer look at his art. He could have made another sale, but the charm was more interesting. He was transfixed with the shimmering vortex on the inside of it.

Mamie slipped the brilliant rock back into her shirt. She concentrated on the customers. By nearly nine pm, the ninth charm had been sold. Satisfied with her day’s labor, Mamie dropped her remaining merchandise into a brown leather bag with a draw string. She didn’t pay any attention to her surroundings. It was dark on Jackson Square, the crowd had thinned out.

Leaning forward to pick up all her belongings, she felt the charm fall out from between her bosoms. It swung back and forth like a pendulum until a pale hand grabbed it and yanked the strap over her head. Mamie stood up and smiled as she saw him run off into a side street. Her ancestors would be proud of her.
Gothic ran until his lungs burned. As he crossed the green strip between the French Quarter and the Bywater, he slipped the string over his head. As the charm touched his skin, he disappeared.

Anno 1609, a man appeared in the middle of a small African village made up of round huts. Gothic boy looked around. He felt sand beneath his feet, his black feet. He looked at his hands, arms. His skin was dark as ebony, his hair curly as Spanish Moss. From the forest he heard the small sounds of slave hunters as they approached to capture all villagers. In a language he never spoke before, Gothic called all warriors for help. The hunters were defeated, their ship burned. Slave trade was killed in its infancy.

999 words