Punch's Cousin, Chapter 33

Robert and Julian sat uncomfortably in the two small chairs in Julian’s cabin. The wooden spindles pressed against Julian’s back in just the wrong places—their pressure reminding him of something he could not remember, but dreaded nonetheless.


Arthur hovered over both of them, clearing off the writing table so that he could place the two silver trays which he had brought with him on its shining surface. The smell of the food served to only elicit an angry swell of fluids in Julian’s throat. He swallowed hard as his face grew more pale than usual.

Robert winked at Lord Fallbridge as if to say, “The man will soon be gone. Not to worry.”

Julian nodded.

With his typical, overly dramatic flourish, Arthur removed the cloche from Julian’s tray and, then, Robert’s—revealing dishes of cold tongue and tomato. Julian blanched further.

“Will you be wanting anything else?” Arthur asked.

“Some wine, I think.” Robert said.

“Not for me.” Julian shook his head.

“Then, whiskey.” Robert looked to Arthur. “For me.”

“As you wish, Sir.” Arthur cooed before leaving the cabin.

“I don’t like your valet.” Robert sighed. “Have I mentioned that?”

“Yes.” Julian nodded. “Often.” He pushed the tray away from himself.

“You’ll have to eat something.” Robert said sternly.

Julian reached for the filigreed silver basket of hard rolls that Arthur had left between them.

“Something more than bread.”

“Just be thankful I’m eating bread.” Julian responded.

“Let me get Arthur before he gets too far. At least he can bring some cheese for you.” Robert suggested.

“No. Thank you. Bread will be fine.” Julian responded.

“Bread and water,” Robert muttered. “You’re not in prison, you know.”

“Am I not?” Julian asked, reaching into his jacket pocket and removing the small red sack that the ebony man had given him on deck. He placed it gently on the table. The bottom of the bag spread out as if it were filled with ashes and sand.

“Can’t we put that somewhere else?” Robert sniffed. “It’s a little whiffy.”

“Yes. Especially while you’re eating.” Julian took the bag and rose from his chair, looking around the room for a suitable place to store the crimson sack. As if by instinct, he walked to the bed and lifted the pillow, placing the bag underneath.

“Why did you put it there?” Robert asked, a strange sound of alarm creeping into his voice.

“I don’t really know.” Julian smiled. “It seemed to want to be there.” Julian’s smile quickly faded. “That man said it would tell me what it wanted me to do.” He squinted. “Good Lord, I really am mad. Mother was correct.”

“Calling yourself ‘mad’ won’t serve any useful purpose. And, certainly hearing that from your own mother couldn’t have done you any good.” Robert answered, quickly growing disenchanted with his dinner. The red of the tomatoes was peculiarly bright—so much like the felt of the sack.

“Not helpful, but accurate.” Julian joined Robert at the writing table again. “What else would you call a man who is possessed by a puppet and takes commands from other assorted objects?”

“I’d call him ‘unique.’” Robert grinned.

“I can’t decide if I find you charming or patronizing.” Julian couldn’t help but smile.

“You find me charming.” Robert interjected.

“Very well, charming Doctor, tell me, what is that sack? What did the man call it? Gree Gree?”

“Gris-Gris.” Robert nodded, “spelled with an ‘is’ but pronounced as you just did.”

“You’re familiar with this?”

“Only somewhat. I know it’s thought to be some sort of magical dust, sometimes its grave dirt or sand. I think the faint odor it gives off owes to some kind of oil suspension of herbs that holds the whole of it together. It’s conjure. Folk magic. Some call it hoodoo. Where we’re going, however, they call it voodoo.”

“So, it’s a bag of dust, dirt and oil?” Julian asked.

“Hopefully.” Robert nodded. “Could be bits of bone or hair or fingernails…” He pushed his tray away as well.

“Lovely. What is it meant to do?” Julian asked.

“Protect its master from evil spirits for one.” Robert said. “These sorts of voodoo beliefs are not uncommon in New Orleans—especially among the African people who have settled there. And among the Creoles—though the beliefs differ from group to group. I’ve heard of the woman he mentioned—Marie Laveau—she is considered the high priestess of those who believe in the magical arts.”

“How do you know about it?” Julian questioned his friend.

“My brother’s wife, Adrienne. When she…lived…” He paused. “…worked. When she was with that Iolanthe Evangeline woman, they were all forced to take part in this sort of sorcery. Cecil recounted it to me in his letters. Adrienne has stopped the practice, but I suspect she still believes in it. Gris-gris would be worn by the person it’s meant to protect or placed under the pillow on the bed at night.”

“Perhaps it will serve to protect me from Mr. Punch.” Julian said, half-jokingly.

“You don’t need protecting from Mr. Punch. In his own way, Punch serves to protect you.” Robert answered.

“What did that man mean when he said that I am the ‘Great Man of the Rocks?’ He seemed to know of my…uniqueness. How could he? Have I had some interaction with him?”

“Not to my knowledge. I do try to keep my eye on you.” Robert smiled.

“So I’ve noticed.” Julian nodded.

Robert continued. “I have no idea what his meaning was, Julian. It’s probably just nonsense. Most likely, he’ll return to you, asking for payment for the good fortune he brought to you. It’s probably all just part of a scheme to use superstition to bilk money from people.”

“He’ll come back.” Julian sighed. “And, he’ll want payment. But, not for the reasons you say.”

Robert did not answer.

After awhile, Robert grumbled, “Where’s your man with my whiskey?”

“Most assuredly he’s already consumed what he was given for you and is off to find more.” Julian shifted in his seat.

“Probably so.” Robert laughed. He looked to Julian fondly. “Tell me, old chap, what’s the secret that Nanny Rittenhouse is keeping? Punch mentions it often.

Julian shrugged. “Punch is the guardian of secrets. Not I.”

“Not one? You have nothing that you’re guarding that’s yours and yours alone?”

“One thing,” Julian said. “Just the one.”

At that very moment, Arthur was wiping his sweaty hands on the back of his trousers.

“Here now, hurry up!” He hissed.

“Are you giving me orders?” A man growled back at him.

“No, Professor.” Arthur bowed his head. “Only I know the doctor’s up there waitin’ for this what he asked for.”

“He can wait.” The “professor” licked his lips, sending flecks of spittle into his beard. “The longer he waits, the thirstier he’ll be.” With a quick motion, the man forced a cork into a bottle of whiskey.

“You’re sure he won’t taste it?” Arthur asked.

“Right sure.” The “professor” laughed with such gusto that his splotchy cheeks became angry plums. “He’ll never know the difference.”


Did you miss Chapters 1-32?  If so, you can read them here.