Color Blind Read Online Free Page B

thick, heavy with humidity. The hot wind blowing through the trees stirred eerie shadows around the porch as wind chimes danced on a hook beneath the rafters. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I reached for the doorknob. I looked around, then up, startled to see a baby alligator head hanging over the doorway, its mouth gaping in eternal surprise. Smoky incense drifted out the door, swirling past me and into the night like a ghost. Rhythmic drumming and low moaning could be heard coming from somewhere in the night.
    Nothing to be afraid of, right?
I entered the dimly lit space. The front room was empty; my group had disappeared. The apothecary and emporium wasn’t much more than an ancient two-story house converted into a tourist attraction. Mind you, it was a totally creepy tourist attraction. The tiny space was a black magic flea market crammed with items for sale. A clothesline full of blue, green, and yellow headscarves hung beneath the ceiling over display racks filled with stuff I’d never seen or even imagined.
    Large apothecary jars, labeled with names I didn’t recognize, contained dried herbs: Five Finger Grass, Black Snake Root, Dragon’s Blood Reed, Devil’s Bit.
Where do they come up with these names? What is this stuff?
Everything was organized into neat categories: Healing, Good Fortune, Love, Protection, and Psychic Development.
No doubt, I could use some good fortune in my life!
    Candles of all shapes, sizes, and colors filled an antique hutch, their uses described in graceful script on ivory note cards: white for spiritual strength, light blue for protection, red for love, and black for evil or mourning.
Should I buy some black ones? Couldn’t hurt.
    Spell books, books of chants, hexes, white magic, black magic, reference books on women of color, and a number of how-to Voodoo books filled the shelves of a corner bookcase. No copy of
Voodoo for Dummies
, however.
    A discreet sign indicated
Custom made gris-gris bags are available, inquire at the front register.
On the walls, tribal masks with empty eyes watched my every move. The overly warm, incense-laden gift shop was claustrophobic, suffocating. Feeling lightheaded, I stumbled through a gauzy curtain into the next room and, following the music, went out the back door.
    My group sat circled around two dreadlocked men chanting and beating African drums near a flaming fire pit.
Is this the beginning of a Voodoo ceremony? Probably not, just a show for us tourists.
The small courtyard, enclosed by brick, was unkempt, weed-filled. The untended courtyard was the antithesis of Kate’s perfect serenity garden. In the far corner was a cage full of chickens; opposite that, a pen with a young goat.
Chickens? Goat? In the city? What kind of place is this?
    I’d had enough. It was time to get back to the van. Heading through the back of the shop, I spotted a door barely hidden behind a large African wall hanging. I tried to open it, found it was locked.
I wonder what’s inside.
I heard movement in the other room. I moved the curtain aside, spotted the source. A tall, elegant black woman stood behind a glass display cabinet filled with elaborate Voodoo dolls. She closed the cash register drawer, straightened a countertop arrangement of oils, CDs, and DVDs, and turned towards me.
    “Welcome! How might I help you tonight?”
    Haitian? Jamaican? South African? I couldn’t peg her accent.
    “Dunno.”
    “What is it you seek, my lady? Love or money?” She smiled, her pale gold eyes locked on mine. I couldn’t move.
    “Hmmmm. No, neither love, nor money. I see a great sadness in you, a great loss. You are suffering, are you not?” she asked, no longer smiling.
    I looked away.
    “Fate has brought you here to me tonight, Miss. I can help you, you know.” Her silky smooth voice was hypnotic. “Would you like some tea?” she asked.
    “No! I mean I can’t. Thank you. I’m sorry. I have to get back on the bus.”
    “What is your hurry, my dear? The