Page 1 of Witch
CHAPTER ONE
New Orleans - 1795
“Have you heard the news?” asked the riverboat captain. He turned to the man with a curious grin, knowing what he was going to say.
“I hear a great deal of news,” smiled the gentleman, leaning back in the deck chair to see New Orleans getting closer by the minute.
“Witches. They fear there are witches in New Orleans,” said the man with a terrified expression. The gentleman could only laugh, shaking his head. The things people believed astounded him day after day.
“My good man, there have been no witches found here or anywhere. It’s a bunch of hullabaloo. I would highly recommend that you don’t spread rumors.”
“But, sir, it’s a woman that’s lived well past her prime, looks very young, and strange things happen when she’s around,” he said, defending himself.
“My good man, strange things happen around women because they are women,” he chuckled. “They are mysterious creatures who charm men to get their way. That’s not witchcraft, it’s female wiles. I have yet to have one turn me into a toad, in spite of giving them good reason. Nor have I met one that can bring a man or woman back to life or make them wake from the dead if even for a moment. It’s all nonsense.”
“If you say so, sir. But I’m not sure how you would explain this woman’s appearance.”
Gajon Robicheaux already knew the answer to those questions. It was his own relation that the man was speaking about. She did look younger than her years, but that had nothing to do with witchcraft. All the women in his family looked younger than they were. Hell, the men looked younger than their years.
Yes, mysterious things happened around her. Yes, she seemed able to manipulate the world around her, bend it to her whims. But he didn’t believe that was witchcraft.
In Louisiana, there were dozens of women who possessed strange abilities. Voodoo. Witches. Fairies. Sprites. Whatever you wanted to call them, they were everywhere.
He’d just returned from visiting with one north of New Orleans. Arabella Hebert was a delightful, beauty of a woman, nearly ninety years old. She didn’t look a day over thirty. He’d been sent up there by his grandmother to retrieve some medicinal herbs and plants that they would replant and use at Belle Fleur.
Gajon knew that the boat captain was speaking about his grandmother. He’d heard the news that she was being accused of witchcraft. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.
During the Revolutionary War, he’d fought against the British, making a name for himself and those at Belle Fleur. Of course, New Orleans was just a French city founded in 1718. It had yet to become a part of the new united colonies, but Gajon knew it was coming.
When the boat arrived, he gathered his own bags and stepped off the ship, happy to be home. Searching for the waiting carriage, he was shocked to see something he didn’t expect.
Standing near the levy, his sweet, elderly grandmother was being cursed at, food thrown at her, and men threatening to hang her. Gajon dropped his bags, his valet instantly picking them up, as he ran to her defense.
“What are you doing? How dare you!” he yelled at the crowd. His booming bass voice made others step back. Gajon was a mountain of a man for his time. Towering above others, his muscular, well-honed body made everyone take notice.
They knew the reputation of the Robicheaux and his fighting ability, and they did not want to anger him. But his grandmother was another story.
“What is this foolishness?” he asked. No one said anything, and he pulled his pistol, pointing it at the man. “Speak or I will cut your tongue from your foul mouth.”
“Sh-she’s a witch, sir. Look at her. No one looks like that at her age.”
“Clearly someone does,” growled Gajon. “The fact that my grandmother has been able to keep her youthful look is not witchcraft, nor is it anything other than good living and a hearty diet.” He turned to the older woman and smiled.
“Are you alright,Grand-mére?”
“I’m fine, Gajon. I’m glad you arrived when you did.” His valet stood next to the carriage, placing the bags in the back, then retrieved a cup of water from the nearby well for the woman.
“Thank you, Marshall,” she smiled.
“Apologize,” said Gajon to the men and women. “Apologize now, or so help me, I will come back and do worse than bruise your ego.”
“My apologies, ma’am,” said the man. “But you have to understand our wives are askin’ questions and, well, it don’t seem natural.”
“Tell your wives that I can supply the cream that I make for my skin, should they wish to purchase it. It’s nothing more than herbs and flowers that help to stop the sagging of my skin,” she said with a smile.
The men and women nodded, slowly leaving the side of the carriage. They weren’t sure whether they believed the old woman or not, but they wouldn’t fight Gajon Robicheaux.
“That was too close, Grand-mére. You shouldn’t have come alone.”
