by Allison Stein

Jeb's weary head nodded with the bouncing of his cart and the plodding of his mule. He hadn't slept in days, and the gentle rocking of the cart lulled him to the brink of sleep.

He held the reins loosely in his bony black hands, letting the mule pick its own way through the ruts in the sandy Low Country road. Twilight cast deep shadows as the last rays of the day filtered through the moss-hung oaks directly into his eyes. A chilly autumn breeze stirred his white hair.

The fish hadn't been biting in the salt creek, not even on the good tide, and only two small ones lay in the cart next to Jeb's cane pole. It was no feast, but it was meal enough to keep his stomach from rumbling during the night.

Yawning, Jeb stretched, then lightly slapped the reins against the mule's back. The reins and the harness were made of twine rather than leather, and the slap was more of a nudge than a whipping. After glancing over its shoulder, the mule plodded along just a fraction faster than before.

Squinting, Jeb looked a little ways down the road and saw an old woman. The bulging cloth sack she carried over her shoulder gave her the silhouette of a hunchback against the setting sun.

"Hold up, mule," Jeb said, tugging at the reins. He brought the cart to a stop beside her.

The old woman gave Jeb and his mule a quick look, but she kept walking.

"Who you be calling `mule?'" she demanded, not bothering to stop.

"I be calling the mule `mule,'" he replied, urging the mule forward with a gentle slap of the reins. "Where're you going, old woman?"

"Who's asking?" she said, stopping.

"Jeb." He brought the mule to a stop once again.

"Evening, Jeb." She surveyed him more closely than she had before. "I'm heading to the crossroads, 'though it ain't your business."

"Well, I'm headed there too, then a short ways further," he said, stopping the cart. "Rest your bones a bit and let that mule do your walking."

"Don't mind if I do," the woman said. She climbed up on the seat next to Jeb, holding her sack firmly against her bosom. The bulging burlap filled her generous lap.

With a slap of the reins, the mule continued down the road. Jeb hunched over with fatigue and again his head began nodding with the rhythm of the cart.

"Your bones look like they ain't seen no rest in a long while," the woman said.

Jeb shook himself, as if trying to shake the weariness from his body. "Lordy, you know they ain't."

"You been ailing?" she asked, watching a rash of goose bumps rise on his flesh.

"No'm. I ain't been ailing."

"Been a drinking?"

"No'm. I ain't been drinking."

"I knowed it!" she exclaimed, and patted her knee. "You've been messing with the women!"

"No'm. I ain't been messing with the women."

"Then you got no cause to be looking so low," she decided.

Jeb shook his head slowly. "Oh, I've got my cause."

"And what might that be?" she asked.

Jeb paused, then shuddered.

"De hag," he whispered.

The woman's eyes widened. "The hag?" she asked.

"Yes'm. That hag, she been riding me hard," he sighed, looking at the old woman as if for the first time. His brown eyes told of his sleepless nights. "While I'm sleeping, the hag slips in through the keyhole. Then she rides me all night long!"

"Lordy!" the woman exclaimed, then smiled.

Jeb continued. "And the terrors she give me! I can't wake up, and I can't get my rest. It be like I'm lost in the middle." He let out another tired, fearful sigh.

"De hag!" the old woman whispered again. "They say she draw the blood out through the nose, and then spreads it on her bread like jam and molasses." She clutched her sack closer to her bosom.

"Woman, what you got in that sack that make you hold it so tight?" he asked.

She cackled lightly and relaxed her grip. Her knuckles suddenly flushed from bloodless white to their natural dusty gray-brown. "Be roots and herbs and conjuring things," she replied.

Jeb didn't laugh. "You be fooling with me, old woman. You ain't no conjure woman... are you?" he said, looking at her closely. He brought the mule to a halt. "I wouldn't pick up no conjure woman if I knowed she was one," he declared.

The woman laughed quietly.

"Sure. I be fooling with you, Jeb," she said, climbing down from the cart. She slung her sack over her shoulder and walked away into the approaching night.

The mule hauled the drowsy Jeb home, where he cleaned, cooked, and ate his fish. Night fell and the whippoorwills ceased their calls. The woods around his one-room house grew quiet.

His belly full and the night dark, fatigue settled over Jeb like a heavy fog. His bones ached more from lack of sleep than from the October chill. The hag had ridden him night after night for weeks on end while he tried to sleep, her supernatural weight smothering him, crushing him, giving him terrible nightmares.

"Old hag ain't gonna mess with me tonight. This will keep her busy and away from me," he muttered. He fastened a dented, rusting sieve -- the only one he could find -- over the keyhole as the old wives' tale instructed. Then he lay down to his bed and covered himself with a blanket too thin to ward off much of the night's chill.

Bone-weary, Jeb fell into a light sleep, only to be awakened by the hag's scream. She had, as in previous nights, slipped in through the keyhole again, intent on riding Jeb through the night. But the sieve had caught her, as the old wives' tale had predicted. The sieve's holes were too small for the hag to slip through, and her curiosity forced her to count its tiny holes before leaving. But she lost count in the maze of holes, and screamed with frustration.

"Git off from my door, old hag!" Jeb hollered, the coarseness of sleep thickening his voice. "Git off and don't bother me no more!" His plea interrupted her count, and she screamed again.

"Wicked. Jeb, wicked! Putting the sieve over the keyhole!"

"Go away, you hateful thing-of-the-devil!" Jeb hollered back.

"Wicked, Jeb!" she teased. "You'll be the devil's own before this night is through. Ah fooled with you earlier this evening, but ah ain't fooling with you this time, I ain't."

Then Jeb recognized the words and the voice as that of the old woman on the road. I knowed it! She be the hag! he thought wildly. Aloud, he shouted, "Hateful old woman! Hateful hag! You can't ride me tonight. You can't even get in my house! I'll find you tomorrow and beat the hag out of you!"

He pulled his blanket closer to his grizzled chin. The night air was cold, but the skeletal fingers of fear were even colder.

"I can't get in, that 'tis so, Jeb. But Old Buckra Death will have your body and the Devil will have your soul a'fore morning. De hoot owl say 'tis so!" she warned. Her grating voice scratched Jeb's soul.

"Go on, old hag. Let me be!" he pleaded. "The Lord be by my side through thick and thin, and I ain't by bothered by you no more!"

The hag didn't answer. She had made her prophecy, stated her repayment for Jeb's double-cross, and left like a jilted lover. The night had grown still colder.

This is very cold for October, but now I can rest at last, Jeb thought. Huddled beneath his blanket with the cold biting clear to his bones, Jeb finally slept. The arthritis curled his fingers around the edge of the blanket, and as night crept toward dawn, rigor mortis held them there. An owl, perched in the bare-limbed tree near Jeb's window, screeched a death song, announcing the man's passing.