When I was little, my mom use to tell us stories about the times when she was growing up in the South. I called her up a couple of nights ago to ask her again about this story before I began to write it. My granddaddy was a worker of roots and herbs and had taught a lot of this knowledge to my moms oldest brother. One year, grandma let them all work for a man who owned various kinds of harvest fields, particularly cotton. The man was tough and wanted every piece of cotton picked and no white left in the fields. My uncle developed issues with the man and more or less, decided to take matters into his own hands. I'm sure granddaddy knew of this but grandma didn't. He had learned the dividing of the roots well and went home that night in the woods and worked up a spell. The next day, he went behind the man, any words said is unsure, and took some sand and dirt out of his footprint.

He then took it home and put it in a jar with a frog. He sealed the jar and slit a very tiny hole in the top so the spell could take time to work and the frog wouldn't die over night but gradual through time as the spell connected the spirit of the frog with the spirit of the man. As mama and them all knew it, the man started to become sick over a couple of days and finding it hard to catch his breathe. Words were said. As the frog slowly began to die, so did the man.

Somehow or another, my grandmother found out and made my uncle bring her the jar. Maybe it was revealed to her spiritually, who knows but she did get the jar, chastised my uncle for dabbling in the conjure, said a prayer, and released the frog. I have no doubt my granddaddy knew what my uncle was doing. He wanted them to believe in the practice and the power within it. Not to take it for granted but serious. Hearing the stories, you pick up on this.

They finished the cotton and life moved on. As for the man, he was none the wiser about his short lived walk with Death.

Posted by Christopher Haadi

http://www.christopherhaadi-dreamer.com