The Voodoo Queen of Oklahoma

The Voodoo Queen of Oklahoma
Harold made his way down a rough, logging road on Dead Man Mountain and then turned onto Cline Road, a smoother gravel road. His old 1965 Ford pickup wasn’t the most comfortable ride and rough terrain didn’t make it any better. Three coonhounds bounced around in the bed of the truck. It was two o’clock in the morning and a night of coon hunting had produced three, big coons. But Harold was looking for something else now. He was heading toward the little shack on the banks of Little River where Miss Cherie Won-fon-tain lived. Miss Cherie was from South Louisiana and she was a Voodoo Queen.
Harold turned off the gravel road and onto what appeared to be a wagon trail. Driving through the tall pines and huge, hardwood trees made the trail look daunting, and the bright moon made shadows dance in all directions. After about a mile, he came to a sign which read:
“NO MOTORIZED VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT”
Under this was another sign which read:
“IF YOU DONT KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE, TURN AROUND AND LEAVE!”
Harold parked his truck and chained his hounds. He knew why he was here. For another mile, he walked down the wagon road by the light of the moon. He had a pistol on his hip and a flashlight in his hand. The wagon trail ended at a little shack which sat on a high bank, forty feet from Little River. Inside the shack, he could see the glow of a coal oil lamp and Miss Cherie stirring something on the stove while she wrote on a note pad. The yard surrounding the shack looked like the set of a scary movie. By the light of the moon, he could see it was decorated with deer skulls and antlers, cow skulls, and driftwood. Various rocks formed a large, medicine wheel in the center of the yard. To the right, a small barn contained a buggy and to the left, sat a chicken coop.
Harold swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He stepped onto the leaning front porch, and a board creaked his arrival. Before he could knock, the front door opened and there stood Miss Cherie Won-fon-tain. Until tonight, this was the closest Harold had ever ventured to come to this shack. He had only dared to observe it from the river as he paddled his canoe past it while fishing or trapping.
He had lived here all his life and had never spoken to Miss Cherie other than to say, ” Hello” as he walked by her at the store. But Harold had a problem, and he didn’t know anyone who could help him other than possibly, Miss Cherie. Harold was 26 years old, unmarried and childless. By local standards, he was way overdue to settle down. He was in love with a young lady who was twenty-one years old, and who would barely speak to him.
Harold had chosen this witching hour rendezvous with Miss Cherie because most people in these mountains and river valley were good, God-fearing Christians, and consorting with a Voodoo Queen would get you looked down upon in a hurry and may even require a special visit from the preacher.
Harold being a good, God-fearing Baptist figured to combine a coon hunt and a visit with Miss Cherie all in one night. He hoped this would serve as an alibi in case anyone saw his truck tonight, parked down by the river road that led to Miss Cherie’s shack.
Miss Cherie said, “Come in, I’ve been waiting for you.”
“How did you know I was coming to see you?” Harold asked, with a shaky voice.
“I know lots of things,” she replied.
“You want my help to win the love of a young lady,” she told him.
“Yes…yes that’s right,” Harold said slowly and a little steadier.
“How did you know?” he asked again.
“I told you, I know lots of things,” she reaffirmed.
“Come in, sit down at the kitchen table,” she instructed.
Harold pulled up a chair facing the window. He caught a glimpse of a person in the moonlight as they darted behind the chicken house. “Hey, there’s someone outside, behind your chicken pen!” Harold shouted and pointed outside the window.
“Don’t concern yourself with anything around my place,” Miss Cherie told him with a Southern Louisiana drawl mixed with an Okie twang. She stirred the pot on the stove again, then turned to Harold and asked, “How much money are you willing to spend to obtain the love of this young lady?”
Harold nervously replied, “Well…I’ve got forty bucks.”
Miss Cherie arched her eyebrows and queried, “What do you expect to get for forty dollars?”
“I want to marry her,” Harold replied.
Miss Cherie shook her head and told him, “For forty I can get you a date and a cheeseburger dinner with her. If it’s marriage you want, that will cost you five thousand dollars!”
“FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS! If I had 5K, I would drive over the mountains to Broken Bow and buy me a better pickup! Well… give me forty buck’s worth of her affection and maybe nature will do the rest,” Harold conceded.
“As you wish,” Miss Cherie agreed. She sat down across the table from him and placed the steaming kettle between them.
“Is that a love potion?” Harold asked with his backwoods twang.
“Nope, that’s chicken tortilla soup, my supper,” Miss Cherie replied. “Would you like some?”
“Well…it sure does smells good, maybe just a little bowlful. I don’t want to impose.” Harold was a little nervous and unsure of eating anything cooked by a Voodoo Queen. The smell was an intoxicating mixture of garlic, cumin and cilantro. As she removed the lid, the aroma filled the room. Harold almost forgot why he was there as the pungent smells invaded his senses and caused him to go into a state of euphoria.
Finished with the bowl of soup and without conversation, Miss Cherie opened a cigar box, full of sand and sprinkled some on the old, wooden table that had previously held their soup bowls. As she sprinkled the sand, she began to sing a soothing song, which sounded similar to a Scottish melody.
Then she placed some red bay leaves on the sand and continued to sing. As she sang, Harold could discern various shapes and images forming on the old table. They appeared to be carved or burnt into the top of the table. Harold watched Miss Cherie as she sang.
She had come to these mountains and this river valley over fifty years ago, but she didn’t look a day over thirty. She had olive-colored skin, dark brown eyes and dark black hair that was long and hung in ringlet curls. Her clothes were new and styled from the mid-1800s with a plunging neckline which Harold could not help noticing, revealed more cleavage than most folks around these parts thought proper. Her eyebrows were perfect and looked like gull’s wings above each eye; eyes that were big and wide open, eyes that made you feel as if she could steal your soul. She had high cheek bones and her nose was well placed. Her hands were the envy of any model, with long, red fingernails. Gold bangles adorned each wrist and a leather, medicine pouch hung around her neck. Gold rings, some with jewels, were on every finger except her ring fingers, with one on her left thumb. She always wore a skirt and black, high-heeled, pointed-toed boots which laced up the front, (some folks called them ‘witch’s boots’). She was a beautiful woman by anyone’s standards, but her profession and demeanor kept suitors at bay. Any interest or flirtation that she had ever shown was toward a married man and of course, this didn’t set well with the small, mountain community.
As she sang, she reached across the table and held Harold’s hands. She looked into his eyes and he felt the room begin to spin; then the singing stopped. Harold shook his head as Miss Cherie stood up and put away the bay leaves and dusted the sand back into the box.
“That will be forty dollars,” she said as she fed a peanut to her monkey that was caged in one corner of the room. Harold fumbled with his wallet and dug out forty dollars. “Thank you, Miss Cherie. It was a pleasure meeting you and thank you for the soup,” Harold said in a dazed and confused voice. Rubbing his eyes, he stepped out the front door and the porch creaked a farewell. When he stepped into the yard, an owl lit atop the barn and observed his departure. Harold looked back over his shoulder as he headed down the wagon trail. He saw the shadow of someone peeking from behind the barn. He shone his light toward the barn, but – POOF – like a ghost, it was gone. He hurried back to his truck and loaded his dogs that had been chained to the bumper. They had had a long hunt and seemed to too tired to bark.
Harold pulled onto the gravel road and headed home which was only a few miles up the mountain, north of the river. By now, it was four o’clock on Saturday morning. Harold began nodding off as he turned a sharp corner and was jarred awake by a blinding light, a single headlight facing him head-on! He swerved to his right and the headlight went left. Harold slammed on the brakes and the dogs were thrown against the back of the cab. He looked behind and saw the headlight shining straight upward into the trees. He jumped from his truck and ran back to check on the driver. As he peered over the edge of the mountain, he could see a small scooter with a side car, with its rear fender resting against a large, pine tree. The driver and passenger were hanging on for dear life. Harold ran back to his truck and grabbed a frayed, tow strap, made a loop in it and lowered it down until he had it around the handlebars of the scooter like the horns of a steer. He hurriedly made two wraps around his truck’s bumper and slowly pulled the scooter and its passengers to safety.
Once safely back on the road, the driver removed his helmet. It was Shotgun and his sidekick, Ray, both were friends of Harold. Shotgun was three feet tall and always carried a sawed-off, 20-gauge shotgun. His sidekick, Ray was a chimpanzee that stood six inches taller than Shotgun. Ray carried a .22-caliber revolver which hung around his neck on a leather tether. Ray also smoked a pipe. They were known as an odd type of Sherlock Holmes and Watson, but no one was sure which one was the leader.
Shotgun was angry and barked, “What are you doing Harold, trying to kill us? Thank goodness Ray was wearing his OU Sooners football helmet or he could have gotten a concussion!” Ray nodded in agreement as he attempted to light his pipe. Shotgun looked at Ray and then back at Harold. “Look what you’ve done to Ray! He’s so upset that he can barely hold his match steady to light his pipe!”
“I’m sorry guys, I must have nodded off,” Harold apologized.
“What are you doing out this time of the morning?” Shotgun asked.
“I’ve been coon huntin’!” Harold snapped back.
“Oh yeah?” Shotgun questioned.
“Yeah, I got three coons to prove it!” Harold shouted.
“Ok, don’t be so defensive,” Shotgun said calmly.
“How’s the scooter?” Harold asked.
“Looks like a bent rear fender and some busted fiberglass,” Shotgun said as he examined his motorized chariot.
“I’ll pay to have it fixed,” Harold said in an apologetic tone.
“We’ll worry about that later. I got more important things to do,” Shotgun said.
“What are YOU doing out this time of the night or morning, or whatever time it is?” asked Harold with an accusing tone.
“Ray and I been up on K-Trail all night, looking for Bigfoot,” Shotgun replied with a smirk.
“You know there’s more than one Bigfoot, right?” Harold asked.
Ray stopped puffing on his pipe and stared at Harold.
Shotgun slowly replied, “Well, I don’t know if there’s more than one or not. The only one I ever see is the same one.”
“And how do you know that it’s the same one?” asked Harold.
“Because he has a scar on the outside of his right thigh, where I shot him with a broadhead arrow fifteen years ago. An eight-inch scar, or there about, on his thigh where my arrow grazed him. It healed but the hair never grew back,” Shotgun insisted.
“How do you manage to keep seeing the same one all the time?” Harold asked.
“Just good at what I do, I guess,” Shotgun said with a confident tone as Ray nodded in agreement and spun the cylinder on his revolver.
“But you’re a clock and watch repairman, not a Bigfoot hunter,” Harold pointedly commented.
“What do you think I’ve been doing for eighteen years, you idiot?” asked Shotgun.
“But you’re a clock repairman by trade, you’re only a Bigfoot hunter as a hobby,” Harold said.
“Come on Ray, I’m tired of talking to this bonehead.” Shotgun climbed aboard his scooter and fired it up. Ray positioned himself in the sidecar, flipped Harold the bird and they sped away in the moonlight.
“I gotta’ get some new friends,” Harold told his hounds as he checked their chains before heading home.
(Meanwhile back at Miss Cherie’s house.)
“I’m at the back door.” Miss Cherie heard these words in her mind as clearly as if someone had said them aloud in the room. She opened the back door and in the Choctaw language said, “Halito Ikhana,” which being interpreted is “Hello Observer.”
“It’s been three or four days since I’ve heard from you, Claude! Did you have a good journey?” Miss Cherie inquired.
“Yes, good journey to see my cousins on Rich Mountain,” Claude replied in a gravelly voice.
“Did you get what I requested?” Miss Cherie asked.
“Yes, I got what Miss Cherie requested,” replied Claude as he opened his huge, hairy hand to reveal a heart-shaped piece of quartz. Miss Cherie took the quartz in both hands and held it to her chest for a few seconds. She could feel the energy radiating from it. She rubbed Claude under his big, hairy chin and smiled at him. Claude’s eyes glazed over as he turned into putty in her hands. Claude stood eight-foot tall and weighed about six hundred pounds. Claude was one of the many Bigfoot creatures who lived in these mountains. Yes, Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Forest People, whatever you want to call these mythical beings that some people don’t believe exist. The local people believe there are more Bigfoot living in these mountains than people who live here. They may be right.
“What do I owe your cousins for this?” asked Miss Cherie.
“They would like some pastries,” Claude replied in a Squatchy voice.
“Pastries?” Miss Cherie asked.
“Yes, like the ones I got from Mrs. Williams last year,” replied Claude.
“You took those from Mrs. Williams’ picnic table after she set them out for a party,” Miss Cherie reminded Claude.
“Yes, but I left her two squirrels, we trade,” Claude insisted.
“How am I supposed to tell her that I would like some pastries like the ones that were stolen and replaced with two squirrels? ” asked Miss Cherie.
“I don’t know, but I promised my cousins,” said Claude in an innocent tone.
“Don’t worry, Sweety, I’ll figure out something,” she assured Claude. “I made one of my special pies that you like, shall I bring you a piece?” Miss Cherie asked.
“Yes, please!” Claude’s eyes sharpened and his face looked like a child’s on Christmas morning.
Miss Cherie went to the kitchen and cut a piece of pie and placed it on a fine china saucer with a silver fork and linen napkin. She came out the back door and down the rickety steps, handed Claude the pie and napkin and then took a seat on a hickory stump as Claude sat on the ground, Indian style, beside her.
“You never eat pie with me,” Claude’s statement sounded more like a question.
Miss Cherie casually took a drink from her wine glass that appeared to have dark red wine in it and said, “I know how much you like my special pie; I save it all for you.” She smiled at Claude with her ruby red lips and big brown eyes and Claude was mesmerized again.
Claude’s weakness for pie had allowed Miss Cherie to cast a spell on him. The pie that Claude consumed on a regular basis was made from some special berries and ingredients that Miss Cherie would pick and gather once a year when she returned to South Louisiana for a visit.
Claude’s regular pie consumption allowed her to control Claude with just a touch or a smile, unbeknownst to him.
Claude finished his pie, dabbed his huge mouth with the linen napkin and handed his utensils to Miss Cherie. “Very good!” Claude praised her cooking.
“I always take care of you Claude. Remember that time when you got shot with an arrow so many years ago? I doctored and healed you. You almost bled to death! You know you can count on me to get those pastries you promised your cousins. Just give me a few days,” Miss Cherie worked her spell with a little natural assurance.
“Now, run along and tend to that other business that I needed you to do.” Miss Cherie dabbed Claude’s mouth one more time with the napkin before he rose up like an oak tree and disappeared among the brush and woods as the moonlight faded into the morning sun.
. . .
After a few hours of sleep, Shotgun and Ray were back on the road again before noon. They were headed to Miss Cherie’s shack to seek her assistance in capturing a Bigfoot. Shotgun didn’t want to kill a Bigfoot; he merely wanted to capture one for scientific research and not to mention the one-million-dollar bounty that was offered. Of course, there was also the fame and publicity, movie rights, books, new cars, world travel, etc., etc.
Shotgun had shot Claude with his crossbow fifteen years earlier. He wasn’t trying to kill him, only capture him. Shotgun had the arrow attached to a deep-sea fishing reel and the reel was bolted to his tree stand. His intentions were to shoot Claude (although he didn’t know his name was Claude) in the leg and then reel him in like a tarpon or swordfish. He had planned to then shoot him with his tranquilizer gun. Shotgun and Ray have since changed their tactics.
They came to the end of the road where the signs were and contemplated breaking the rules. “I hate walking this last mile. We could drive three quarters of the way and then get out and walk. She will never know the difference,” Shotgun whispered to Ray as if someone was listening to their conversation.
Ray stopped puffing on his pipe and began to shake his head wildly, then jumped out of the sidecar and removed his OU football helmet. “OK, OK!” Shotgun said in a disgusted voice. “I’m not as scared of her as you are.” Shotgun dismounted and began to lead the way down the overgrown wagon road. Ray followed, nervously puffing on his pipe and looking around in every direction. As they came to the front yard, they could see Miss Cherie stirring a large caldron by the front porch. Ray hunkered down to make himself shorter than Shotgun and stepped behind him to hide.
“What’re you boys up to?” Miss Cherie asked.
Shotgun was not afraid of very many things, and he wasn’t really afraid of Miss Cherie. He had sought her help before with numerous problems, from hemorrhoids to the problem of people tying cans to his scooter. She had remedies for everything.
Ray on the other hand was afraid of lots of things. Miss Cherie was at the top of the list.
“I need your help Miss Cherie. You know I’ve been trying to catch a Bigfoot for eighteen years now. I’ve come close a few times, but I think I need to try a new approach. Maybe you have some potion or magic you can sell me to aid in my quest.” Shotgun attempted to sound elegant in the presence of a Voodoo Queen. “Is that some kind of magic potion or remedy you’re mixing up there in that witch’s pot?” Shotgun asked with an inquisitive stare into the pot.
“Why, yes, it is. It’s called doing MY LAUNDRY! My washing machine broke, and they haven’t delivered my new one yet. Even a Voodoo Queen must do laundry. This is how my mother used to do it when I was a child back in New Orleans,” she explained and then went on to address the issue of capturing a Bigfoot. “Down in Louisiana we have the “Rouqarou”, cousin to the Bigfoot or Sasquatch. These are special beings and should be left alone. They are not to be pursued, caught, killed or messed with,” Miss Cherie explained further.
“If I get that one million dollars, I will split it with you, if you help me,” Shotgun argued.
Ray wandered over to the barn and was sniffing the wild honeysuckle vine growing on the corral fence. He slowly walked to the barn and examined a large bear hide that was nailed to the door. Ray noticed an owl watching him from the open loft above the door and decided to rejoin Shotgun and Miss Cherie.
“Let’s go in and see what I have that might help you,” Miss Cherie offered, conceding to Shotgun’s pleas.
With Ray’s help Shotgun climbed up and sat down on a chair at the kitchen table. Ray was lighting his pipe, when Miss Cherie asked, “Does your monkey have to smoke in my house?”
“He’s not a monkey, he’s a chim-pan-zee. That’s a monkey,” Shotgun said as he pointed to the cage in the corner.
“That’s not a monkey, that’s my friend Clarise,” Miss Cherie said.
“Yeah, well, your friend is a monkey; Ray is a chimpanzee,” Shotgun restated.
“No, Clarisse is my friend, she’s not a monkey,” Miss Cherie insisted.
“Welp, she looks like a monkey. You could have fooled me,” Shotgun said sarcastically.
Miss Cherie slowly sauntered over to Clarise’s cage and handed her a peanut, then slowly turned around, looked at Shotgun and said, “Many, many years ago Clarise was my best friend. Then she stole my fiancé and ran away with him. She is still Clarise, it’s just now she has the appearance of a monkey,” Miss Cherie spoke slow and low almost as a whisper.
Shotgun’s confident smile transformed into a blank stare and his mouth gaped open. Ray had extinguished his match and stashed his pipe upon the first suggestion of Miss Cherie’s displeasure.
“What…a…a…what happened to your fiancé?” Shotgun reluctantly asked.
“You really want to know?” she asked.
Shotgun nodded his head “YES”, while Ray shook his head “NO” and stuck his fingers in his ears.
“Well, let’s just say that there are places in Louisiana where you shouldn’t go. If the ‘gators don’t get you, the quicksand will. Either way, you won’t be found and NOW there’s one less man in Louisiana,” she explained calmly and then smiled a smile that caused goose bumps to run up the back of Shotgun’s neck. “OK, now that we have that cleared up, let’s see what I have that will help you,” she said.
Once again, the cigar box of sand came out and she sprinkled some on the table. Then she pulled a green crystal from her pocket and laid it on the table. She placed a turkey feather on top of the crystal and began to speak words over the arrangement while she slowly waved her hands over the feather.
“Kobak, Kobaff, Kobafal,” she repeated these words three times. (Choctaw translation: A rap on a tree, to remove, broken).
As she spoke, the symbols and images which were carved into the table began to glow as they did when Harold was there. Then, the green crystal began to glow and pulse under the turkey feather. Miss Cherie stopped speaking and moving her hands. When all the chanting and crystal glowing started, Ray ran and hunkered down in the corner of the room under Clarise’s cage.
The crystal went dim and the table went back to its rustic appearance. Miss Cherie removed the turkey feather, picked up the green crystal and dropped it in an old tobacco pouch made from a white tail deer scrotum. She pulled the draw string on the pouch and hung it around Shotgun’s neck. “Keep this with you at all times,” she instructed him.
Shotgun’s eyes were big, and his mouth was agape again. Shotgun grasped the pouch with both hands and took several deep breaths. “I’ll keep it with me at all times. I’ll even sleep with it,” Shotgun repeated with a little extra emphasis. He scooted out of his chair while holding his pouch with one hand. He looked up at Miss Cherie and asked, “How much do I owe you?”
“Well, you said you would give me half of the million dollars when you capture a Bigfoot, I will hold you to that promise,” she answered him.
“Thank you, Miss Cherie! You’ve got a deal!” Shotgun exclaimed.
“Come on, Ray! We’ve got work to do,” Shotgun said excitedly as he turned and headed toward the door. Ray beat him to the door and opened it for him. As they headed out, Ray looked back at Miss Cherie and Clarise and then closed the door behind him. As Shotgun and Ray marched down the wagon road toward their scooter, Miss Cherie stepped onto the porch and watched as they left. She felt a smidgen of guilt about what she had just done. Shotgun and Ray were two of only about six people who would come to her house during the daytime. No one wanted to be seen consorting with a Voodoo Queen, so most of her visitors showed up in the dead of night, like Harold did.
Then she thought, “Ray’s not even a person, make that five people.”
She felt guilty because she knew that Claude could feel the frequency of that green crystal from a mile away. Once he knew that Shotgun had it, he could easily avoid him. Claude was a great asset and she could not afford to have something happen to him, even by accident. Shotgun had no idea who Claude was other than the Bigfoot whose path he kept crossing. But Claude knew who Shotgun was, because you don’t forget someone who shoots you in the leg with an arrow!
Miss Cherie stood and listened until she heard Shotgun’s scooter fire up and putter away. Then she strolled out to the chicken coop and scattered some hen scratch for the chickens while she sang an old South Louisiana swamp song, she remembered singing as a child.
She heard a vehicle pull up and stop at the wagon road signs. She recognized the sound of all the vehicles that visited her during the daytime, this was not one of them. She hurried over to the barn and grabbed a 1939 Ithaca double-barreled, .16-gauge shotgun she kept stashed behind a saddle and a bear trap. She waited in the barn and watched the wagon trail until a tall fellow emerged and stopped at the edge of the yard. He was tall and handsome, clean-cut, wearing khaki pants, shirt, and snakeskin boots, with a red bandana around his neck. He surveyed his surroundings, unaware that he was being watched. He strolled right up to the porch as though he knew what he was doing. He stepped onto the porch and it creaked his arrival. He looked left and right, then knocked three times on the door of the shack.
From behind him he heard, “Mister, you’ve got a double-barreled, .16-gauge loaded with buck shot pointed at your back, what do you want?” This was stated with her South Louisiana accent with a touch of Okie twang, nicely adorned with a hint of French.
He had never had his life threatened in such a sexy fashion before. He slowly turned and looked down the barrels of a .16-gauge shotgun and into the eyes of the most intriguing woman he had ever met. That was his first impression anyway.
Miss Cherie was twenty feet away, out of arm’s reach and guaranteed to make a mess on the front door if things went wrong for her visitor.
“Miss Cherie Won-fon-taine I presume?” the stranger asked.
“Who’s asking?” Miss Cherie sternly queried.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the stranger ventured. “I am Timothy McRay, treasure hunter, adventurer, writer and a few other things that don’t amount to a hill of beans.” He smiled at her, exposing a set of perfect, white teeth and dimples in both cheeks.
Miss Cherie pulled the shotgun tight against her shoulder and took a steady bead on Tim’s forehead. “What do you want?” she asked.
Seeing that his charm was not working its usual magic, Tim got right to the point before he became just another person who went missing in the Kiamichi Mountains. “Miss Won-fon-taine, I am seeking your services and have cash money to pay for them,” Tim answered quickly and professionally.
Miss Cherie lowered the shotgun and gave a sideways look at Tim, attempting to get a read on his intentions. “Have a seat,” Miss Cherie ordered him, pointing the shotgun toward a rocking chair on the front porch.
Tim took a seat and Miss Cherie propped against a leaning porch post, shotgun in hand and slung over the bend of her left arm. “And what kind of services would I have to offer someone like you?” she asked.
“I would like for you to tell me if I will find the treasure that I’m looking for,” Tim explained.
“I practice Voodoo. I’m not some Gypsy fortune teller!” she said angrily.
“Can’t you look into your crystal ball or read some tea leaves or something?” Tim insisted.
Miss Cherie raised the shotgun again and said, “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Tim raised his hands and pleaded, “Now wait just a minute, I didn’t mean to insult you, I’m sorry, just hear me out, please!”
“You’d better talk fast stranger, my arms are gettin’ tired and this old shotgun goes off accidently sometimes,” she insisted.
“Ok…Ok, just let me explain. I’ve had a difficult time finding you. Folks around here are very friendly, until I ask about you. I was at the store having an interesting conversation with a couple of local fellows until I asked about you, then they both stood and hurriedly left without saying a word. I was talking about how old the store must be, (at least a hundred years) and how I was interested in history, when the store clerk mentioned that the Choctaw Indians were the first to settle here. Then I asked about you, and the conversation dried up. As I walked around the store drinking my coke and looking at the antiques, I checked out the bulletin board but didn’t figure that I would find you at the Wednesday night ice cream social that was posted for the Baptist church. So, I just went outside and waited for another local to show up. A young man driving an old Ford pickup pulled up, he nodded and said, ‘Howdy,’ and entered the store. When he left, he looked over at me as I sat on the porch and headed toward his truck. Before he reached his truck, he stopped and looked all around and then turned back and approached me. He said, ‘I hear you’re lookin’ for Miss Cherie?’ ‘I believe I am,’ I told him. He told me how to find you and told me not to believe anything bad that I heard about you. Then he left very quickly and here I am,” Tim explained.
“Did you say there’s an ice cream social next Wednesday at the Baptist church?” Miss Cherie asked quickly.
With a very puzzled look Tim said, “Yes, does that interest you?”
“Don’t worry about what interests me,” Miss Cherie said, shouldering the shotgun again.
“I need help locating some lost treasure here in these mountains. I will pay for any information you might have or any help that you can give me, whether it be natural or supernatural,” Tim continued to explain.
“So, you believe in the supernatural?” Miss Cherie asked.
“I do,” Tim affirmed.
“What kind of treasure do you seek and how much money are you willing to spend to find it?” Miss Cherie inquired.
“Can I tell you the rest without the gun being pointed at me?” Tim asked.
About this time Miss Cherie heard the familiar voice in her head say, “I’m here behind the walnut tree. Do you need help?” It was Claude.
“No, everything is Ok, but stay close,” she mentally spoke to Claude without uttering a word.
She lowered the gun and opened the front door, motioned for Tim to enter and then followed, leaving the front door open.
“Have a seat at the kitchen table,” Miss Cherie instructed as she propped the shotgun in the corner by Clarise’s cage. Tim was looking all around as he entered the shack. There were herbs drying in bundles on racks and hanging from the ceiling. Mason jars were everywhere with all sorts of things in them from small bones, bear claws, moss to walnut hulls. Tim was still looking around and examining jars when Miss Cherie cleared her throat and arched her eyebrows.
“Oh, yes,” said Tim. “The treasure! In the late 1800’s, a missionary came to live and work among the Choctaws. After working a long time with them, he gained their trust and they shared with the missionary that they had found a vein of gold above ground in these mountains. They showed it to him, and he told them that they should tell no one or else the U.S. government and other white men would come and take their land again. They swore an oath, back when an oath was taken seriously, and men had more honor. This oath was between ten chiefs and the missionary, swearing they would only take as much gold as needed to take care of the tribe and never for personal gain, and they would not remove large amounts which might draw attention when spent. Over many, many years the vein was mined, until it ran below the surface. They then constructed an open shaft in order to follow the vein. It ran very deep and they were not engineers, and the shaft became dangerous and unsafe. They were forced to close it and fill-in and cover the shaft. They were not greedy and were very thankful for the many years that the gold had helped the tribe. It is supposed to be located somewhere between Broken Bow and Clayton. I have researched, explored and studied everything that I can find about this treasure. I think I’m getting close to locating it. I just need a little extra help.” Tim smiled and held out his arms, as if he had just presented a gift.
“And what makes you think that I can help you?” Miss Cherie asked.
“I have researched you, too,” Tim said. “What little bit of information I can gather from New Orleans or as some Southern folks say, ‘Nawlins’, to these mountains has led me to believe you could help me quite a bit.”
“Mr. McRay, people around here seek my advice and help for a good cutting of hay, for all their heifers to be bred and calve easily, for good prices for their timber, for healing physically and mentally, for a raise at work, for love, for peace of mind with their problems, for their pets which have been hurt or hunting dogs injured by a bear or cougar. But these people, except for a handful, seek my help in the dead of night, because what they think I do and represent is unacceptable to most folks around here. If you seek great wealth and riches, it usually comes with a great price or a great sacrifice. I don’t speak of earthly things. If you are not strong, honest and have a good heart, it will cost you more than you are willing to pay, and by the time you realize this, it will be too late. I do not get involved with treasure or wealth of this magnitude. It is dangerous for everyone involved,” Miss Cherie explained.
“Well, Miss Cherie, I can understand. But I hear tell that several years ago you helped an oil man with his oil fracking operation. I know that he became a billionaire. That’s a treasure, isn’t it? Oil, that’s a valuable treasure, ” Tim argued.
“And how much more do you think you know about that story?” Miss Cherie asked.
“I know that a few years later he was killed…killed by his wife,” Tim answered.
“Before this conversation goes any further, what are you willing to pay for my help?” Miss Cherie asked.
“I will bring you 50k in cash for anything that I feel is good information or supernatural assistance, and another 50k when I find the gold,” Tim said excitedly, thinking he had made some headway.
“NO!” Miss Cherie quickly shouted. “I don’t need your money.”
“You don’t?” Tim asked as he looked around the inside of the shack. He didn’t understand.
“I’ll give you half of what I find, if successful,” He blurted out before she could utter another word.
“Before we make any deal, I am going to tell you a story and you are going to go home and think about it for a few days,” Miss Cherie explained and then went on to tell her story.
“Great wealth and power changes people. Even strong-willed, honest people. The Bible says that the love of money is the root of all evil. NOT the money, the LOVE of money. It affects everyone. There is a price to be paid to be a leader of men, same goes for wealth and power. That oil man you think you know about that you think I helped somehow, he became very wealthy and thought he deserved a mistress. His faithful wife of forty years caught him in bed with his mistress, two days before their forty-first wedding anniversary. She shot him with a gold-plated, 1911, .45-caliber pistol that he had given her as an early anniversary gift. She went to trial after being in jail for six months. The judge found her guilty and released her with time served for reasons of temporary insanity and a crime of passion. This was all based on the length of their marriage and the upcoming anniversary. The Judge decided that it was too much for anyone to bear and still be able to think clearly. About a year later, the Judge and the widow were married. A few years later with his newly found wealth, the Judge ran for Governor and won. He will seek other political offices on the Federal level soon.”
“You never know how long it will take for something to happen. My ‘supernatural help’ as you call it, isn’t always instant and sometimes, most all the time, it depends on what YOU do. People don’t understand, I don’t conjure, I don’t work with dark spirits, I don’t speak to evil spirits or seek the dead. I use my God-given natural abilities and all the things that God created, in order to do what I do and see the things I see. If you don’t understand what I do, sometimes it may look scary or appear to be black magic, but that’s because you don’t know the difference! There are those who practice the dark arts, and I urge you to stay away from THEM! It is real and it is deadly, both physically and spiritually. They will make a deal with you quickly.”
“It may take days, weeks, months or years for a potion or spell as you may call it to work. Once it is cast you must keep working toward your goal, you can’t sit and wait for something to happen.”
“That oilman’s wife came to visit me two months before she shot him. That Judge came to visit me two years before she stood before him in court. His campaign manager came to visit me two years before his client became Governor,” Miss Cherie whispered as she looked into Tim’s eyes so intently that he could feel it deep in his soul. “You see, I don’t know how these things will end. I don’t know the outcome once I help to set things in motion! It strictly depends on the person! I don’t help bad people do bad things! People sometimes change, or money changes them, or power changes them. Be careful how you choose!” she warned of the pitfalls.
Tim’s eyes were big and wide, he was entranced by the story. “Wow, all of those people sought your help with these matters?” Tim continued to stare at Miss Cherie.
“You might be surprised at who enters this secluded, hard-to-reach valley in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night and then quietly leave before dawn,” Miss Cherie said.
“The wife wanted your help to kill her husband?” Tim asked cautiously.
“No, Stupid! She felt like something was wrong and needed to talk with a woman she could trust. She and her husband had visited me a few times after his success in business, and she knew that I may have assisted in that success. I gave her the name and number to a private investigator in New Orleans who specializes in cheating husbands, not to mention he is my cousin,” Miss Cherie continued to explain.
“The Judge came seeking more political power and prowess to help others as well as himself, mostly himself, but he has continued to do good and help people. The campaign manager needed a good paying client and a successful campaign in order to support his family, a wife and four children, one child with a severe handicap that was financially draining them.”
“Now, do you understand what I am telling you? I have no control over how the means finds its end, once it’s set into motion. And when you realize what you wanted, gained or achieved came at the price of a human life or another person’s tragedy, can you live with that? Some people cannot and it destroys them. You don’t know what all I have seen, and why I am reluctant to get involved with things like what you seek.” Miss Cherie was stern and clear about the extreme consequences that could accompany her help. All the time that Miss Cherie was telling this story she was boiling water and pouring two cups of steaming liquid on the gas cook stove. She sat one fine china cup and saucer in front of her guest and one on the other side of the table. As the steam drifted up and hit Tim’s nose, he recognized the aroma.
“Earl Grey?” he asked.
“Very good nose. Sugar and cream?” she asked.
“Sugar, please,” Tim replied.
Miss Cherie sat a sugar bowl with cubes and tongs in front of Tim and took her seat across from him. They sat quietly and sipped their tea, pondering the story that was told. Tim was studying all the twists and turns of events; Miss Cherie reliving the visit of her clients and their desires. She thought about the oilman and how he was polite and thankful and how she wished things could have been different in the end for him and his wife. As Tim finished his tea, he stood up and bowed to Miss Cherie and said, “Miss Cherie, thank you for your hospitality, the tea was wonderful, the conversation was fascinating. I will be back in a few days to let you know my decision on whether I will pursue your assistance in the matter which we discussed.
Miss Cherie stood and walked him to the door. As he stepped off the porch, he looked back, smiled and waved. Miss Cherie leaned against the door opening with her arms crossed and watched his departure. He noticed an owl perched in a hickory tree, watching him leave. He felt watched from all sides but shook it off and tried to think about his next move toward finding the gold.
As she watched him leave, she smiled and thought, “Well it’s back up to six again, for daylight visitors.” She didn’t smile much and there were reasons for that.
. . .
Sunday came, and Harold seized the opportunity to see if Miss Cherie’s charm or spell or whatever it was, was going to work its magic. After morning services at the Baptist Church, Harold and the other parishioners were talking and visiting in the parking lot and on the porch. Harold approached his love interest, Cali Ann Baker. “Hello Cali,” Harold said shyly as he stared at the ground more than he looked at her.
“Hello Harold,” Cali replied.
“Are you going to the ice cream social Wednesday evening?” Harold asked with a slight stutter.
“I am,” Cali answered.
“Well, that’s good,” Harold said as he gawked up into the trees around them.
“Are you going to be there?” Cali asked.
“Yea…Yea…Yea…I’ll be there,” Harold slowly responded.
“Are you going to eat supper before you come?” Cali asked.
“Uh…Yea…Yea…I’m gonna get a cheeseburger at the store before I come,” Harold muttered.
“Well, why don’t I meet you there, and we’ll have a cheeseburger together?” Cali suggested.
Harold looked at Cali as though he had just won a new car…eyes bright, mouth open and a huge smile.
“Kinda’ like a date maybe?” Harold asked.
“I guess you could call it that…maybe,” Cali said.
“Oh WOW! That sounds great!” Harold said, and then he turned and ran to his pickup. Cali Ann stood there watching as Harold drove away waving and almost hit a big pine tree in the church yard. She waved back and just shook her head.
Cali Ann’s father owned a logging company and several trucks. He hadn’t cared for any boy who wanted to date his daughter, no man does. Although she was good at it, Cali refused to get stuck for the rest of her life doing clerical work and bookkeeping. She drove one of her father’s log trucks, hauling logs over the mountains and through the valley to the sawmill located eighty miles away.
Once Harold drove away, Cali joined her family and their conversation. “What were you and Harold talking about?” Cali’s mother, Joy, asked.
“We’re going to meet at the store Wednesday evening before the ice cream social and eat a cheeseburger,” Cali replied.
“Cali’s got a boyfriend, Cali’s got a boyfriend, Cali’s got a boyfriend,” Cali’s little brother, Levi, began to chant.
“Shut up, before I punch you,” Cali sneered at Levi. He shut up.
Cali was blonde and blue-eyed, almost six-feet tall and trim. She was as tough or tougher than any boy her age. Logging and shifting gears had made her stronger and tougher by the day. But she was pleasant and a ray of sunshine to be around unless provoked.
Harold was so excited about his good fortune that he drove straight over to Miss Cherie’s in broad daylight. He ran down the wagon road to the front yard. He thought, “Man, everything looks different today.” And then the fear hit him. He had never been here in the daytime. “What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking! Dear God, please don’t let anyone see my truck coming or going from here!” he was praying as he slowly walked across the front yard. He stopped and examined the medicine wheel located in the middle of the yard. There were things there he hadn’t noticed at night. Miss Cherie was tending to some herbs she had growing at the south end of the porch. “Hello, Miss Cherie,” Harold greeted as he got closer to her.
“Well hello, Harold. I heard your truck pull up and stop, but I thought maybe you were out looking for some of your coon hounds that you lost while you were hunting. I never expected you to stroll up here in the daylight. Guess I don’t know everything.”
Harold wasn’t saying much as his excitement had turned to worry once he realized what he had done. “What brings you here today? And don’t say a 65-ford pickup,” Miss Cherie was almost joking with him. He thought, “Dang this is a strange day.” Miss Cherie was usually always stern and serious.
“I just wanted to thank you for your help. Cali Ann is going to meet me at the store for a cheeseburger Wednesday evening.” Harold’s excitement had returned.
“Well, you never know how fast or slow these things will work,” Miss Cherie affirmed. “Congratulations Harold, I’m happy for you!” Miss Cherie told him. She had known Harold since he was about three years old. She came to his parents’ house one night to treat one of his dad’s hounds that had been mauled by a bear. The dog lived and Harold was so happy. He never forgot what she did and always said “Hello” to her when he saw her at the store or post office. Those were the only two establishments in the Little River Valley.
“Speaking of Wednesday…” Miss Cherie paused and arranged the herbs in her basket. “…speaking of Wednesday night, I suppose you are going to the ice cream social at the church?” she asked innocently.
“Yes, right after we eat a cheeseburger and maybe some fries,” Harold added with a smile.
“Ok, then, well thank you for the invite, I’ll see you there,” said Miss Cherie.
Harold began to stammer. “What…wh…what are you talking about? I…I…I don’t understand,” Harold said with a totally lost tone.
“Well Harold, will Mrs. Williams be there?” Miss Cherie quizzed.
“Mrs. Williams?” He was really confused now.
“Yes, Mrs. Williams, she’s one of the best cooks in this valley or maybe in all of these Kiamichi mountains,” Miss Cherie explained.
“I know, I know,” Harold agreed. “I know who you’re talking about, I don’t understand,” he confessed.
“Harold, I need to talk to Mrs. Williams and get her to do some baking for me. I can’t just arrive at her house in my buggy. You know how she and most other people around here feel about me,” Miss Cherie explained.
“OK,” Harold said slowly, but still confused.
“I can’t show up at the ice cream social uninvited, and I need to show up, so I will have an excuse to talk to Mrs. Williams. You invited me, so now I can show up,” Miss Cherie further explained. “Just tell them that Jesus ate with sinners, they should too,” Miss Cherie said trying to calm Harold’s worried look. She knew what he was thinking.
“OK, well…thank you again, Miss Cherie,” Harold said as he turned around slowly and started walking across the yard. As he walked, he thought, “Why did I come over here today? Now, Cali’s parents will hate me for inviting the local Voodoo lady to the church ice cream social! Dear God, please help me figure this out!” he prayed as he walked. When Harold got in his old truck and fired it up, he decided to tell anyone who inquired about seeing him over here at Miss Cherie’s driveway that he had lost his skinning knife the other night when he followed his dogs over that way running a coon. He was simply looking for his knife. Harold was not a liar or in the habit of making up stories, but hey, this was going to be serious social shunning if he wasn’t careful. “What about the invite to the ice cream social? What will I do about that?” Harold asked aloud. He answered aloud, “I was looking for my knife and met Miss Cherie in the woods. We got to talkin’ and I accidentally invited her.” Harold smiled and decided a little white lie was better than not having anyone speak to him or look at him for the rest of his life.
. . .
Meanwhile, up in the mountains at Shotgun’s house, Shotgun was cleaning and oiling his tranquilizer guns, packing up supplies and food for what looked like a safari. Ray was stocking up on pipe tobacco, matches and .22 bullets. Shotgun had ropes, tent, cooking equipment, sleeping bags and of course his now ever-present charm pouch around his neck. Shotgun and Ray strapped their supplies and cargo onto the scooter. They were heading out for at least a week to ten days up into the mountains on the logging roads and K-Trail and probably some paths and trails untraveled by a white man in two hundred years. Shotgun was more confident than ever that success was at hand.