The witchs apprentice, p.4
The Witch's Apprentice, page 4
“Hard to say,” Nate replies. “He’s got other priorities right now, but it’s still a risky proposition. Newborns are a lot of work—look at all the trouble those baby dragons caused! You’re playing with fire, kid. Literally.”
“I wish Trub was here,” I say dejectedly.
Nate puts his tiny paw on my knee. “If there’s one thing I know about you, Jax, it’s that you’re good at finding allies. You found them here in Brooklyn, and you’ll find them in Chi-Town. Me? I trust my nose. It never lets me down. You ain’t a rat like me, so you gotta trust your gut. Deep down you’ll know when you’ve found a true friend.”
I jump when I hear Quayesha shouting into her phone.
“Dutch! It’s Quay. Can you hear me? Dutch?”
Nate pats my knee and says, “Time to go. Think about what I said, kid. Trub’ll join you as soon as he can. Till then, just lay low and try to act natural. If you keep your hand in your pocket all day, folks are gonna know you got something valuable in there. Good luck!”
“Thanks, Nate.”
He scampers into the shadows, and I rejoin the others.
Ma looks annoyed. “So much for technology. We may have to make other plans, ladies. Dutch should’ve been here by now.”
Quayesha slips her phone into the snakeskin purse that matches her boots. She doesn’t seem as worried as the older witches. “Maybe she’s having technical trouble. The UR hasn’t been used since last year.”
Mrs. Benjamin frowns. “It’s her job to keep everything in working order. We were supposed to leave half an hour ago.”
“Hush!” Ma says suddenly. “I think I hear the UR coming now.”
We fall silent and strain to hear the sound of an approaching vehicle. I’m not sure if I should be listening for a train. There aren’t any tracks on the ground. The walls of the cavern are made of packed dirt. Worms and moles can move through dirt, but what kind of magical contraption could carry five people hundreds of miles underground?
“There she is!” Quayesha cries excitedly.
We all turn to look in the direction she’s pointing. In the distance, a bright light shines in the darkness, but whatever it’s attached to seems to be moving slowly. Then we hear a strange burping sound, and the light hurtles toward us. Ma lowers her cane in front of me, and the large glowing tube stutters to a stop just inches away.
It looks sort of like those long bubbles you can make if you have a wand to dip in a tray of soapy water. We made our own wands in science class last year—all we needed was two straws and two strings. The bubbles we made were superlong, but they didn’t stay afloat and popped easily.
I want to ask how we’re going to travel underground in that but figure it’s probably a good idea not to ask any more questions for a while.
“Let’s get on board,” Ma says.
I stand back and watch as Quayesha grabs her suitcase and walks straight into the UR—right through the shimmering wall, or skin, or whatever it is. Mrs. Benjamin does the same, and I wait for Ma to go next, but she nods for me to go instead. I take a deep breath and walk through what feels like a spiderweb. Something slight and sticky tugs at my face and body, but before I can react, I’m inside the UR. Ma pushes me forward with her cane and points to a rack at one end of the glassy tube.
“Leave the suitcase over there and take a seat, Jax.”
“Sorry for the delay, y’all,” says a big woman with freckles and a gap between her front teeth. She’s seated at the front of the tube, so this must be our conductor, Dutch.
She looks puzzled. “Never had any trouble with the UR before.”
Dutch is dressed in grease-stained denim coveralls and dusty work boots. Her bronze cornrows are partly covered by an engineer’s cap that’s pulled down low over her green eyes. “Let’s just get this show on the road,” she says impatiently.
“Good idea,” Ma says, settling beside me on one of two cushioned benches. There’s a table in the middle that separates us from the other two witches. Dutch is up front on an elevated chair that swivels.
“And for the record,” Ma continues, “nobody’s blaming you, Dutch. The guardhouse misfired last time I used it to cross over. That fool Blue’s upset the natural order of things. I’m not one bit surprised that the UR’s acting up, too.”
I decide I’d better tell Ma what Nate revealed. “Nate stopped by with a message. Trub isn’t coming, and…Blue has already left Brooklyn.”
“To spread his mischief, no doubt,” Mrs. Benjamin says.
“Nothing we can do about it down here,” Ma says. “Let’s get going, Dutch.”
Dutch turns to face the darkness that lies ahead of the tube. “I think we’re in for a bumpy ride, so buckle up,” she advises us.
I put on my own seat belt and then help Ma stretch hers over her puffy coat. Dutch grips a lever next to her seat and strains to push it forward. The tube begins burrowing into the earth around us. Over her shoulder, Dutch explains, “The UR is meant to operate like a pneumatic tube, so it should feel like being launched out of a slingshot or sucked into the hose of a vacuum cleaner. Fast and smooth.”
The UR stalls and then lurches ahead. Dutch curses under her breath and says, “Wish I knew why it keeps hiccuping like that.”
Hiccups are annoying but harmless. What’s happening to the UR feels more like a heart attack! I’m grateful we’re strapped into our seats. I’d rather not think about it but have to consider the possibility that I am the problem—or rather, the phoenix egg in my pocket is. If the UR always ran smoothly before, then maybe the others also suspect that I’m to blame.
We’re sitting so close together that it feels like all eyes are on me. Even though the UR is transparent from the outside, from within there’s no view out the window, just a reflection of the train’s interior. I glance at Ma, Mrs. Benjamin, and Quayesha, but they’re busy talking to each other. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
Mrs. Benjamin pulls a cardboard box out of her bag. It’s got grease stains on it, and the smell that fills the UR tells me there’s food inside.
Ma turns to me and asks, “Ready for lunch?”
I feel like I ate breakfast not too long ago, so I shake my head and say, “No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” Ma replies before digging in her own purse to pull out a clear plastic container. Inside is what looks like potato salad.
Ma likes to eat, but I’ve never seen her cook, so I’m not sure where the potato salad came from. I didn’t know I was supposed to bring something to share and wish I’d brought along a couple of bottles of root beer from Ma’s fridge.
Quayesha digs in her purse until she finds a bottle of hot sauce. She sets it on the table and then looks from Ma to Mrs. Benjamin. “What?”
“That’s all you brought?” Mrs. Benjamin asks indignantly.
Quayesha folds her arms across her chest and says, “Now, you know no road trip would be complete without my world-famous pound cake. I was just saving space on the table for your fried chicken and side dishes, Mrs. B. Come on, y’all, let’s eat! I’m starving.”
Mrs. Benjamin takes a folded square of red-checkered fabric out of her bag along with some real cutlery. Ma spreads the cloth over the table, and Quayesha lays out the knives and forks. Mrs. Benjamin adds some kind of greens to the menu along with rice and peas and glistening chunks of sweet fried plantains. Before long, Dutch swivels around in her chair and accepts the plate Ma has fixed for her.
The food must taste as good as it smells, because for a while there’s no talking inside the UR. I don’t know how they can even think about eating when the elastic tube we’re in keeps lurching forward, then stopping and starting again, like a Slinky going down a flight of stairs. I feel my heavy breakfast churning in my belly, and hope I don’t heave it up onto Mrs. Benjamin’s nice tablecloth. It’s clear she doesn’t like me, and I’ve already seen her eyes lingering on my travel clothes. Does she have X-ray vision? I think about what Nate said and try to keep my hand away from my pocket.
When the UR comes to a stop and doesn’t start again, Dutch turns back around and tries shifting gears in an attempt to solve the problem. Finally, she gets us moving again and settles in to finish eating her meal. The look on Dutch’s face tells me that she’s still puzzling over the UR.
“Think there’s a gremlin in the engine?” Ma asks before biting into a thick wedge of golden pound cake.
At first, I think Ma’s joking, but then I realize she’s not. I can’t even see an engine anywhere in the UR and hope I don’t see a gremlin, either!
Dutch bites into a chicken leg and chews on her food and her thoughts for a while. “Can’t say. Had no trouble at all till I got near the park.”
“Could be excess weight,” Quayesha suggests, using one of her long nails to free something stuck in her teeth. “Not that Jax weighs all that much,” she adds with a wink.
I smile nervously and go back to staring at the red and white squares on the tablecloth.
Mrs. Benjamin dabs at her own mouth with a paper napkin before remarking, “We’ve all ridden the UR before without incident. Except for the boy, of course.”
I glance up and find her dark, piercing eyes on me. It’s a relief when Quayesha breaks Mrs. Benjamin’s gaze by holding out the grease-stained box so everyone can deposit their chicken bones and other trash.
Ma burps loudly and declares, “We should arrive in about twenty minutes, by my calculations. Thank you, ladies, for a lovely meal. I know we’re here on business, but it’s always a pleasure to travel with you.”
“It is indeed,” Mrs. Benjamin replies.
“Think I’ll take a quick nap, if you don’t mind,” Ma says.
“Excellent idea,” says Mrs. Benjamin.
“Think I’ll join you, too,” Dutch says with a loud yawn.
I hope the UR is on autopilot because before long Dutch starts to snore. Quayesha pokes my leg with the pointy toe of her boot and asks, “Know why the UR was created?”
I shake my head, and she leans across the table so I can hear her over the low rumble of the snoring witches.
“There are a couple of theories. Number one.” Quayesha pauses to hold up one of her magnificently manicured nails. “Some folks think we call it the UR because it was the original mode of transportation for Black witches—dating back at least to the time of Tituba, and probably even earlier. With all that hysteria going on in Salem, weren’t no way you’d catch one of us flying up in the sky on a broom!”
I’ve heard about the Salem witch trials, but I’ve never heard of Tituba. I doubt my phone will work underground, so I make a mental note to look that name up once we reach Chicago.
Quayesha holds up another finger and says, “Number two. Other folks think we call it the UR because segregation forced us underground. Back in the day, the Supreme Council started getting complaints from witches who weren’t permitted to travel first class because of their race. Some chose to drive to the annual convention but that could be dangerous, too, even after the Green Book came out in the 1930s. You know about that, right?”
I do, but this time I’m careful not to show off. “It told Black people where they could eat and find a place to stay when they were driving across the country.”
“That’s right. Well, this one witch, Henrietta Worley, decided she’d had enough of mean ol’ Jim Crow. So Hetty designed—or revived—a vehicle that could operate underground. It was fast, clean, and comfortable—a way for witches like us to travel in style. Finally, we had a place of our own where we could be ourselves and be safe.”
“I know things were bad during the witch trials in Salem, but a lot has changed since the 1600s. Is it still dangerous to be a witch?” I ask.
Quayesha looks fondly at the women dozing around us and sighs. “Women like us always pay a price for having too much power. But when we’re together like this—here in the UR and at the annual convention—I don’t just feel accepted and protected. I feel free.”
She pauses and shifts her gaze from the other witches back to me. “Is it dangerous to be a witch? Sometimes. We can’t control everything that happens in the world around us, but we’ve all taken a vow to use the skills we have to help others. People need us, Jax, and that’s what makes the risk worthwhile.”
This is the first time I’ve heard anything about a vow. Ma’s only taught me two rules, and I doubt I could help anybody with the little I’ve learned so far. “I want to learn how to help people, but…” I glance over at Ma and lower my voice, even though she’s asleep. “Ma keeps saying I’m not ready.”
“She would know, right? Ma’s been a witch longer than anyone else I know,” Quayesha says with obvious admiration. “She talks about you all the time, Jax.”
“Really?”
“Really. We were all surprised when Ma said she was taking on a new apprentice. At her age, Ma could have just eased into retirement without the bother of training someone new. But she didn’t, which tells me she sees something special in you, Jax. Ma won’t give you any more or less than you can handle. I know it’s hard to wait when you feel ready to learn, but try to be patient with her. Think you can do that?”
I nod at Quayesha and make a silent apprentice’s vow of my own.
5
“Welcome to the South Side of Chicago,” Ma says with a smile.
This time there are no paving stones that form a staircase. Instead, we take turns squeezing into a narrow elevator that opens in the base of a monument at the corner of a busy intersection. Ma hustles me out of the tight box and onto the street so the elevator can go back underground to pick up the other witches. I turn around, look up, and see a statue of George Washington on a horse with his sword raised above his head. Someone has tagged the granite base with red spray paint. Someone else has tried to scrub the words away.
Quayesha and Mrs. Benjamin come up next, followed by Dutch. The sun is shining in a cloudless blue sky, but the leaves on the trees have already started to change colors. It feels like autumn has arrived here, too, and I can see why they call it the Windy City. Gusts send crisp leaves scraping along the sidewalk, and I shiver despite my warm hoodie. The bright sunlight makes me squint, but I still see a few white flakes floating by.
Before I can ask if it’s snowing in Chicago, Ma sees them, too, and says, “Looks like Blue’s been busy.”
Mrs. Benjamin sucks her teeth in disgust, but Quayesha doesn’t seem fazed. She shakes a few flakes out of her locks and says, “It’s just one more thing he’ll have to answer for.”
“True,” Ma says grudgingly. Then she points up a wide boulevard that’s named after Martin Luther King Jr. “We’re heading this way.”
We follow Ma up the tree-lined street until we reach a huge house behind a tall cast-iron fence. Ma says, “This is where we’re staying. Let’s drop off our bags and clean up before we head to the convention.”
Dutch clears her throat and nods her head in my direction, though she’s looking at Ma. “You sure Missy won’t have a problem with Junior?”
Dutch keeps calling me that for some reason, but I decide not to bother correcting her.
Ma says, “Don’t you worry ’bout the boy. He’s my responsibility, not yours.”
Dutch shrugs and gives me a sad sort of half grin, which makes me wonder what this Missy has against kids like me. We follow Ma across the street. There are no brownstones like back home in Brooklyn. Instead, the block is filled with big gray stone houses that look a bit like castles. The one we’ll be staying in even has two turrets! There’s a stone balcony on the third floor. Beneath it a bunch of strange symbols are carved into the stone panels that frame a beautiful stained glass window. The midday sun picks up the rich blues and greens of a peacock’s fanned feathers.
Quayesha leans in and whispers, “Nice, right? You should see it from the inside. That room’s right under the ballroom.”
Ballroom? When Ma said we’d be staying in a rooming house, I thought it would be shabby compared to a hotel, but I was totally wrong. At the side of the building there’s a long pond with lily pads and purple lotuses floating on the surface of the water. I don’t see a fountain, but I can hear the soft murmur of falling water, and the scales of golden carp flash in the sunlight as they swim around the pond.
Ma opens the cast-iron gate, and that’s when I see the sign on the lawn: miss ellabelle’s home for working women and girls. Dutch glances at me again, and I figure maybe I should be the one to speak up this time.
“Um…are boys allowed to stay here, too?” I ask Ma.
She just shushes me as a tiny woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses opens one of the wide wooden doors and steps out onto the porch. The pearls around her brown neck gleam in the flickering light cast by the large lantern hanging above her head. Our host looks even more unpleasant than the two sneering gargoyles that cling to the grapevines carved into the stone columns.
“Ma,” she says with a slight nod but no smile.
It’s not the warmest welcome, but Ma grins just the same and offers her own hand in greeting. The woman barely touches the tips of Ma’s fingers before folding her arms across her pearl-buttoned pink cardigan.
“Afternoon, Miss Ellabelle. You sure are a sight for sore eyes. We’ve had quite a journey—the UR was acting up, so we’re a little worse for wear.” Ma chuckles and pats her Afro, which isn’t messy at all but still looks a bit wild next to our host’s tight silver bun.
Miss Ellabelle glares at me over the top of her glasses. I’m tempted to shift so that I’m hidden by Ma’s puffy coat, but I haven’t done anything wrong, so why should I hide? Plus, it’s the twenty-first century! I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to deny someone a place to stay just because they’re not a girl. Also, Ma’s a witch. Surely this unpleasant little woman won’t try to tell my boss what she can and can’t do.
