“Who’s the funeral for?” Little Agatha asks me as I arrange some swamp blossoms on Eugene’s coffin. They’re mostly blue this year. Last year they were yellow. The child helped me pick them.
“It’s for the Lady’s child,” I say, pointing to the small box.
“How’d he die?”
“Don’t know. Taken before his time. Never got to see this world,” I say. There’s no point in speaking of the devil’s intent for the lady or other such dark things. She’s but a child. No need to worry her about the ills of the old, the dying.
“I had a dream about a little boy,” she says. “Last night. He was burning on a stick. There were witches, with boiled skin all around him. They were laughing at him.”
“That sounds more like a nightmare,” I tell her. She simply nods and stares off into the swamp. The voodoo pits are lighting up one by one beyond the trees. Her head tilts from one to another as they appear.
“Funeral’s gotta wait for tomorrow, it seems.” I stab my shovel into the ground. “Boss won’t want to have it with the pits goin’.” I pat little Agatha on the shoulder and guide her towards the house. “Best, be getting inside.”
“Yes,” She says. “We should go inside.”
Id10t Savant 