Witches Abroad

basket and produced a couple of roast chicken legs.
    “Just tryin’ a new peanut coating,” she said. “Would value your opinions, boys.”
    They took them gratefully. Everyone liked to see Mrs. Pleasant. She could do things with a chicken that would almost make it glad it had been killed.
    “And now I’m just going out to get some herbs,” she said.
    They watched her as she went like a fat, determined arrow in the direction of the market place, which was right on the edge of the river. Then they ate the chicken legs.
    Mrs. Pleasant bustled among the market stalls; and she took great care to bustle. Even in Genua there were always people ready to tell a tale. Especially in Genua. She was a cook, so she bustled. And made sure she stayed fat and was, fortunately, naturally jolly. She made sure she had floury arms at all times. If she felt under suspicion, she’d say things like “Lawks!” She seemed to be getting away with it so far.
    She looked for the sign. And there it was. Perched up on the roof pole of a stall that was otherwise stacked with cages of hens, gazoots, Wheely cranes and other fowl, was a black cockerel. The voodoo doctor was In.
    Even as her eye found it the cockerel’s head turned to look at her.
    Set a little way back from the rest of the stalls was a small tent, similar to many around the market. A cauldron bubbled in front of it on a charcoal fire. There were bowls beside it, and a ladle, and beside them a plate with coins on it. There were quite a lot of coins; people paid for Mrs. Gogol’s cooking whatever they thought it was worth, and the plate was hardly big enough.
    The thick liquid in the cauldron was an unappetizing brown. Mrs. Pleasant helped herself to a bowlful, and waited. Mrs. Gogol had certain talents.
    After a while a voice from the tent said, “What’s new, Mrs. Pleasant?”
    “She’s shut up the toymaker,” said Mrs. Pleasant, to the air in general. “And yesterday it was old Devereaux the innkeeper for not being fat and not having a big red face. That’s four times this month.”
    “You come in, Mrs. Pleasant.”
    It was dark and hot inside the tent. There was another fire in there, and another pot. Mrs. Gogol was hunched over it, stirring. She motioned the cook to a pair of bellows.
    “Blow up the coals a tad, and we’ll see what’s what,” she said.
    Mrs. Pleasant obeyed. She didn’t use magic herself, other than that necessary to get a roux to turn or bread to rise, but she respected it in others. Especially in the likes of Mrs. Gogol.
    The charcoal blazed white. The thick liquid in the pot began to churn. Mrs. Gogol peered into the steam.
    “What’re you doing, Mrs. Gogol?” said the cook anxiously.
    “Trying to see what’s goin’ to happen,” said the voodoo woman. The voice dropped into the rolling growl of the psychically gifted.
    Mrs. Pleasant squinted into the roiling mass.
    “Someone’s going to be eatin’ shrimp?” she said helpfully.
    “Ye see that bit of okra?” said Mrs. Gogol. “Ye see the way the crab legs keep coming up just there?”
    “You never were one to stint the crab meat,” said Mrs. Pleasant.
    “See the way the bubbles is so thick by the okuh leaves? See the way it all spirals around that purple onion?”
    “I see it! I see it!” said Mrs. Pleasant.
    “And you know what that means?”
    “Means it’s going to taste real fine !”
    “Sure,” said Mrs. Gogol, kindly. “And it means some people’s coming.”
    “Wow! How many?”
    Mrs. Gogol dipped a spoon into the seething mass and tasted it.
    “Three people,” she said. She smacked her lips thoughtfully. “Women.”
    She dipped the spoon again.
    “Have a taste,” she said. “There’s a cat, too. Ye can tell by the sassafras.” She smacked her lips. “Gray. One eye.” She explored the cavity of a tooth with her tongue. “The…left one.”
    Mrs. Pleasant’s jaw dropped.
    “They’ll find you before they find me,” said Mrs. Gogol. “You lead ’em here.”
    Mrs. Pleasant stared at Mrs. Gogol’s grim smile and then back down at the mixture in the pot.
    “They coming all this way for a taste?” she said.
    “Sure.” Mrs. Gogol sat back. “You been to see the girl in the white house?”
    Mrs. Pleasant nodded. “Young Embers,” she said. “Yeah. When I can. When the Sisters are out at the palace. They got her real scared, Mrs. Gogol.”
    She looked down at the pot again, and back up to Mrs. Gogol.
    “Can you really see—?”
    “I