Black Magic Woman

Black Magic Woman

The air in the bayou didn't just hang; it weighed. It was thick with the scent of damp earth, over-sweet magnolia, and something ancient and coppery. Locals from the dry-earth towns called this place the "Hissing Heart," a part of the swamp where the water was black as ink and the fireflies danced with unnatural purpose.

They said she lived there.

They said she was born from the mud itself, a woman who charmed the vipers and whispered secrets to the night. They called her a witch, a sorceress, a name to frighten children. But for those who were desperate, who had lost everything to drought or sickness or bad luck, she was a last, dangerous hope.

Tonight, a man named Thomas was that desperate. He poled his skiff through the cypress knees, the only sound the plop of his pole in the brackish water and the rising chorus of unseen reptiles.

He found her in a clearing, not by sight, but by the sudden, absolute silence.

She sat as if on a throne of woven reeds, bathed in the glow of a thousand yellow-green fireflies. She was beautiful, terrifyingly so, with skin that seemed to drink the moonlight and hair like a nebula, a wild tangle of dark purple curls held by cuffs of dull gold. Her dress was the color of a twilight sky, and her smile was slow and knowing.

And then there were the snakes.

They were her court, her armor, her companions. They coiled around her arms like living bracelets, wound through the grass at her feet, and rose from the shadows behind her. They were massive, emerald-green, their heads alert, their tongues flicking. They were a part of her, and she a part of them. One lay its head on her shoulder, and she stroked it idly, her dark eyes never leaving Thomas.

"You are a long way from home, dry-lander," she said. Her voice was like honey and smoke.

Thomas’s throat was tight. "They say... they say you have the... the magic."

"They say many things." She tilted her head, and the snakes around her mirrored the movement, a dozen unblinking eyes fixed on him. "They say I curdle the milk. They say I steal the breath from babies. They say I am a black magic woman."

"My daughter is sick," Thomas blurted, the words tumbling out. "The fever won't break. The doctor has done all he can. I'll give you anything."

The woman, Maliya, laughed. The sound was low, and it seemed to vibrate in the water. The snakes hissed in chorus.

"‘Anything’ is a heavy price," she said, leaning forward. The fireflies swirled, illuminating the tattoos on her collarbone. "Men come here promising 'anything,' but they only mean their gold, their crops. They don't understand the swamp. The swamp does not barter, Thomas. It trades."

"What do you want?" he whispered, his knuckles white on the pole.

Maliya smiled, and it was a radiant, dangerous thing. "What I always want. What the night always wants."

She raised her hand. She didn't chant. She didn't throw powders. She simply willed.

From the darkness, the fireflies swarmed, leaving her to spiral around Thomas’s skiff. They spun faster and faster until they weren't individual lights but a vortex of glowing energy. And from her side, the largest of the serpents slid into the water and moved toward him, its head held high, its eyes like polished jade.

Thomas wanted to scream, to flee, but he was frozen—not by fear, but by an awe so profound it hollowed him out.

The snake reached his boat. It did not strike. It simply rose up, its forked tongue tasting his scent, and then gently touched its snout to a small, wooden doll Thomas kept tied to his belt—a charm his daughter had carved.

The snake hissed, a long, low sound, and the doll glowed with the same pale green light as the fireflies. Then, as one, the lights vanished. The snake slipped back into the water and returned to Maliya’s side.

"Go," she said, settling back onto her reedy throne. "The fever will break before the moon is high."

Thomas stared at the doll, now dark. "What... what did you take?"

Maliya looked up, her expression unreadable. "Just a memory. She will no longer remember the color of her mother's eyes. A small thing, for a life."

Thomas shuddered. He had his miracle, but the cost was exactly as she’d said—not gold, but a piece of something living.

He poled his skiff backward, never turning his back until the clearing was lost to the cypress. As he fled the Hissing Heart, he could hear it, carried on the thick, wet air: the sound of a woman's low laughter, harmonizing with the sibilant hiss of the swamp.