Grandma’s Mask | A Hoodoo Ancestral Mystery Set in 1921

An original short story by Chuck King, shared ahead of THE VEIL, our free virtual Hoodoo Heritage Month event. RSVP to receive a complimentary ebook collection of Hoodoo-centered short stories. www.thebloodline743.com/theveil

Historic Mary Jenkins Community Praise House on St. Helena Island.

1921

Sunday mornings were chore days. Papa and my brothers were outside gathering eggs from the coop and cleaning the outhouse, a task that, thank God, did not belong to me. My older sister Zola gathered the linens for the long wash week ahead while I helped Momma in the kitchen, preparing the large feast before Sunday service. I often thought that this was her way of enticing everyone to finish their duties in time to be at the table with enough time to get ready for church. There was no alarm clock, just the smell of cured bacon sizzling in a black cast iron skillet and fresh bread golden in the wood oven. This was our sacred time. Rarely did the whole family come together, even if it was only for chores and breakfast.

I laid out my dress and pulled out my black shoes from under the bed, searching for any needles left from Momma’s sewing. They would surely remind you of their presence if you didn’t notice them. All was clear, but one long thread was hanging where it would be noticeable. I went to get some scissors to cut it. Me and my sister were always rough on our clothes, leaving holes and tears, so Momma placed the kit in our room for good on the top shelf of the closet. Actually, that top shelf had become a store room of random trinkets for her numerous hobbies and daily activities.

Blindly looking for the sewing box, I closed my eyes and searched for the ridges of the small wooden chest with the tip of my fingers. But my hands ran across something that sounded like a basket of mason jar tops being shaken. Still no luck for the sewing box. Afraid the long thread would tear my dress, I got on my tippy toes for more leverage, fumbling the tip of my fingers with a distant reach until I felt something and began to edge it closer to me. Little did I know how heavy this box was until an arrangement of curios came raining down on the floor, spilling everywhere.

Whenever Momma cleaned up, she was often in a hurry, stuffing things in a box, and this time I was no better than her. The family was already heading to the wagon. I stuffed everything back in the box and pushed it under my bed for now. The jingling noise returned loudly, piquing my curiosity. I waved my hand under the bed to see. There it was, a foreign mask, nothing Momma could have ever sewn but a work of art in its own right. A white lace crown at the top with strands of pearl colored seashells coming down like hair. It was heavy, as if each shell had been hand picked with intention. What was this? I had no thought in my head until the stark memory of an old photo of Granny that Momma kept in the family room. Her hands folded and something just like covering her face. Momma had only told me that was Granny. I had never seen her face myself to ever know what she looks like. Momma says I look like her, but I would never know. Few can even attest what Granny looked like because she always had something like this on.

“Y’all coming, or we’re leaving you!” Papa yelled.

I used the ridge of the shell to pop the loose thread, grabbed my handkerchief and gently wrapped it, ensuring all shells would be intact, put it in my bag, ran, and climbed in the back between my brothers. Momma sat beside Papa in her Sunday hat. Every few bumps, the jingle would be noticeable. Momma would turn around to check on us, and I would look away fast, as she couldn’t see the bag in my lap. Every bump in the road made the shells whisper against each other.

Our church sat at the end of a dirt road, white boards and a tin roof with oak trees leaning over it so close the moss brushed the windows. Behind it, the woods began and went on farther than anyone has ever bothered to measure. I had tried when I was younger, just out of pure curiosity, but before I made a few steps in, Papa came running, grabbing me and giving me a whooping that made it hard to even look towards those woods now.

We filed in and took our usual bench, third row on the left. Papa and Momma sat in the front on their assigned sign with the other deacons and deaconesses, often trading awkward stares, communicating to each other during service. The choir stood and began praise and worship. The whole church leaned into a song everybody knew by heart. The boards under my feet began to hum with it.

Then all I heard was barking.

It came from outside behind the church. One sharp bark, then a pause, then another followed by a howl. Almost like the sounds were signal calling; at least it felt that way. Through the window beside our bench, I saw a dog standing at the edge of the tree line. He was husky with rough cuts peeking out of his dark black fur, but for some reason not appearing fearful to me. For a moment we locked eyes until a crow flew to the windowsill, breaking our contact. The crow locked eyes with me before flying towards the woods with the dog following behind. I told myself to sit still, remembering that my parents would whoop me bad if I left church. But when the pastor asked everyone to lower their heads for prayer, it seemed like my calling to go see what the animals wanted.

Outside, the singing dropped to a murmur. After my first step, the dog trotted in the woods as he could read my confidence beforehand. I made my way to the line that reminded me of Papa’s whoopings, stepping over the woods to swallow the sunlight each step. The dog stayed just ahead, never too far. Following the glimpse of him caused me to wonder if this was a dream. Moss hung from the trees like the long gray hair of the church mothers. The ground smelled like old leaves, wet earth, and somewhere underneath, smoke.

Then I heard something.

Kum by here, my Lord

Kum by here

Kum by here, my Lord

Kum by here

At first I thought it was the church, that the song had followed me. The song sounded the same as praise and worship during service, but I could not recognize the voices. The words were built differently, rounder and slower, with sounds I did not know pressed among the old ones. An elder woman’s voice would call a line, and the crowd would answer her. Someone was patting a rhythm against their thighs. Someone was clapping; as I got closer, feet were shuffling in a circle.

I was not fearful, timid, or anything that would make me turn away. Somehow, I felt that I had been here before, though I was in unknown land in the woods surrounded by “strangers,” at least I think.

I stopped. I could see the dog towards the outer edge of the praise circle, lying down. I reached down in my bag and pulled out the handkerchief and untied it. Loose shells fell into my hand, cold and smooth. The singing swelled. It was not loud, but pressed on me gently from every side.

I lifted the crown of the mask with both hands and set it on my head. The laces settled on my hair like it had been measured for me. I could still see, but only in pieces through the gaps, the way you see through rain.

The circle had elders with age standing tall and upright. Most would think they could only stay this way for a short amount of time, but their energy showed differently. The lady on the left with a tambourine scooted to the right as if she was making room. She didn’t look at me, did not stop singing, just moved. The singing suddenly changed into a gentle hum from everyone, but you could still hear the words in your spirit.

Step by step, I could feel myself getting closer until I noticed I was just a few steps away from the entry point the elder woman had made. The only gap in the tight circle. Across the circle stood a woman in a small, frail frame, short height like my mother, with a similar veil on her head. Her hands were folded in front of her, and one wrist she wore an ivory band. She was not clapping or singing. She only stood still.

As I got closer to her, I felt the need to stop. I was in the middle of the circle while the humming and praising continued.

Vocal tones came out of my mouth like the feeling before you vomit, not voluntarily, but submitting halfway through to be intentional.

Kum by yah, my Lord

Like a reflex, the circle joined.

Kum by yah

“Come out this woods this minute.”

The circle shuddered like a flickering light. It was Momma’s voice, sharp, cracked, and real.

I snatched the veil off my head and rushed through woods being cut by the trees down the way. Before I reached the edge, I wrapped the shells in the handkerchief and placed it in the bottom of my bag. Momma was already standing on the other side of the road, one hand holding up her skirt, the other leaning on the bell tower. I could see her eyes, and that was the worst part because Momma’s eyes have never once let me get away with anything.

“Where have you been?” she said, quiet now, which was worse than loud. I had lied before, small lies about chores and cookies. I had never lied to Momma’s eyes. “A dog, Momma, a stray dog came to the window and kept barking, and I thought somebody ought to run.”

Before I could finish, she interrupted me by snatching my bag. She dug her hand down deep as if she already knew what was there. She pulled out a handful of shells and brought it closer to her eyes, taking a look at the woods before looking back at me with a death stare.

Momma didn’t say a word the whole ride back. My fingers rubbing the edges of the shells in my bag that she returned to me. Humming the song I heard in the woods in my head.

Grandma’s Mask is one of the stories in The Veil, a free collection of hoodoo centered short stories for Hoodoo Heritage Month.

Join us Sunday, Oct 25 at 7 PM ET on Zoom. The Veil is a free virtual spoken word night. Everyone who RSVPs gets the ebook free.RSVP here: www.thebloodline743.com/theveil

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