{"id":4853,"date":"2017-11-28T22:05:34","date_gmt":"2017-11-28T22:05:34","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/?p=4853"},"modified":"2017-11-28T22:05:34","modified_gmt":"2017-11-28T22:05:34","slug":"mr-aloysius-clay","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/mr-aloysius-clay\/","title":{"rendered":"Mr Aloysius Clay"},"content":{"rendered":"

A short tale of the conjure-woman Mamma Lucy<\/strong><\/span> and the passing of a man, for no other reason than that it happened…<\/p>\n

\n

Mr Aloysius Clay<\/h1>\n

Once, when Mamma Lucy seemed young and the days seemed mellow, a man whipped his two-horse carriage through the streets of a small Georgia town. It may have been in Barrow County, though some say it was Gwinnett. Only the dead would remember the details.<\/p>\n

The horses, two grey mares of good parentage, were none too happy at this haste or the whip on their flanks. They threw their heads back, whickering when they were struck, and as the carriage turned too fast onto the road out of town, they baulked. In the middle of the road stood a tall black woman in a print dress, one eye white as curds and gold as honey.<\/p>\n

The man cursed mightily as the carriage skidded across the road, close to overturning. He drew the horses to a halt next to a broken hitching rail, and leaping from his seat he advanced on the woman, whip in hand. He was a fine man whose rich, embroidered weskit barely buttoned over his paunch, a fine man with silk in his weave and folding money in his pockets. The black woman was a stranger, and a poorly dressed one at that, patched and shoeless.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou could have killed me,\u201d he said, his brow dug deep like a plough furrow. “You ignorant–”<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe you shouldn\u2019t a\u2019been whippin\u2019 them on so hard,\u201d The woman spoke without respect or insolence. \u201cEvery beast knows kindness.\u201d<\/p>\n

Red cheeks above burnside whiskers, he swore and laid his whip on her instead, cutting cheap cotton and raising a weal across her belly. She stumbled back, and though she made no cry, she dropped her battered carpet bag at the blow.<\/p>\n

He raised his hand a second time, then saw he had an audience. The two brick-shouldered men on the corner were giving him a sour look, even though she was a coloured, and a gaggle of bonneted ladies were coming up the street. He scowled and turned away to yell at the horses.<\/p>\n

\"by<\/a>
by yves tourigny<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

When dust and carriage were gone, one of the onlookers shuffled closer. He glanced at her torn dress, paused, and then tried some words out to no one in particular.<\/p>\n

\u201cGot me a few taters in the house. Boiled up a mite too many.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mamma Lucy smiled, showing more teeth than one of the grey mares. Following him no great distance to the edge of town, she set herself down behind his shack and began to take a needle to her dress. He went inside, and when he re-appeared, he had a bowl of potatoes and greens which he put beside her.<\/p>\n

\u201cName\u2019s Samuel Ellis,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cMamma Lucy.\u201d<\/p>\n

He was clearly trying to weigh up her age and her place, but he couldn\u2019t get there. After eating, she washed up in a tin bowl and watched the man chaw.<\/p>\n

\u201cAin\u2019t many like you round here,\u201d she said. \u201cBein\u2019 so easy on coloured folk.\u201d<\/p>\n

He looked away, awkward at her directness. \u201cSome is, some ain\u2019t. Most are in the hand of that Mister Aloysius Clay you jes’ met, even the preacher. He lays on white folk too, when he has a mind. Owns the lumber yards, the ferry and the fields. And the Banner-Herald, so as it says durn much what he thinks.\u201d<\/p>\n

The woman nodded. \u201cMet a few like that. Cain\u2019t say you sound fond o\u2019the man.\u201d<\/p>\n

Samuel winced. \u201cBest not talk thataway, specially on account of…\u201d He looked at her dark arm, not that far from his. \u201cHe rides out some nights, they say. Iffen you know what I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

She did. Even so, it wasn\u2019t her path to be an angry woman, only a watchful one, so she said nothing to that. Her belly hurt where the whip had landed, and her feet were moving her north, on account of an itch between her shoulder-blades. Georgia would be a long time healing, she reckoned.<\/p>\n

There was nothing between the two of them, sat there behind a one-room shack, save a Samaritan\u2019s instinct. Whether that came from the Good Book or a good heart, made no difference to her. After an easy enough silence, he bade her fortune, and went off to the fields, back to his work as an overseer for Clay.<\/p>\n

Seeing the sun had a mind to move low, Mamma Lucy wove roots and a few fingers of dust into a flannel bag. She slipped that under his porch, and headed out of town.<\/p>\n

Samuel, a man who never used the stick whilst doing his job, married well a few months later, much to his surprise.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Must have been thirty years later when Aloysius Clay was set to meet his Maker \u2013 or someone from a warmer place. He lay on goose-down and cotton, cotton better than any print dress, with his two fine sons at his side and a gaggle of servants waiting in the bedchamber or the hallway outside. Most of them prayed, but few of those prayers held anything good for their master. There was a white hood and robe in his study, and the only cross he really liked had a way of burning in the night.<\/p>\n

Clay breathed slow and hard, a walrus in his dying. James, his eldest, had a head full of debts and what might be in his father\u2019s safe; Eli wanted off and away, as soon as he could throw his handful on the old man\u2019s grave. To be swimming in rare waters like Boston or New York, that was his hope. Neither was half as tainted as their father, though both had a way to go from the old man’s shadow.<\/p>\n

Not long after ten that evening, James lifted his head. He heard talk at the door downstairs, and he had no argument with a break from the vigil, so he went down. By the fancy-carved front door stood a maid, hopping from one foot to the other, and a gangling black woman in a faded dress.<\/p>\n

\u201cCame to see Mr Clay,\u201d she said, husky tones on the Georgia night. \u201cWe go way back.\u201d<\/p>\n

He thought of effrontery and nonsense, but there was a strange eye on him, and a wisp of something else in the air, like sage burning on a cold hearth.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s fine, Sara.\u201d Puzzled at himself, he led the woman up the grand stair, and into his father\u2019s place of dying. The black butler, who had pressed close to the wall, took a look at the newcomer, after which he crossed himself and left the room; others slid back, unsure.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou \u2018member me, Mr Clay.\u201d It didn\u2019t sound like a question. \u201cMamma Lucy, they call me these days. Did back then, thinkin\u2019 on it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Aloysius Clay opened mean eyes, crusted round with a man\u2019s last hours.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t owe anything, especially to you damn coloureds.\u201d His words were laboured but clear.<\/p>\n

\u201cAin\u2019t here to collect, son. There\u2019s another on his way for that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Eli sucked in his cheeks, hearing the way the woman spoke. He looked at his brother James, who shrugged. The old woman sat down on the edge of the bed, a fluid movement before the brothers could do anything. She stroked the counterpane.<\/p>\n

\u201cMighty fine quilt for a fine man. Well now, last time I saw you, you was madder\u2019n a wet hen, using the Lord\u2019s name for this an\u2019 that, ready to be skinnin\u2019 me and those two fancy grey mares. Black or grey, didn\u2019t matter to you what colour a soul was wearin\u2019.\u201d Her big teeth shone around the room, yellow as candle-light. \u201cBut that was a while ago. Came to tell you a word or two, afore you pass.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou surely don\u2019t, Mr Clay.\u201d And she spoke that word or two, plain for any to hear.<\/p>\n

Though she didn\u2019t hold much with looking too far forward, there were times when it was needed. She spoke of trees that wanted to die of shame at what they carried, of war in Europe again, and black men bleeding out next to white men in the snow. She spoke of new days, and folk who sat and drank where they needed to, not where they were told, days when the colour of lips didn\u2019t change a kiss. Of men and women who no longer needed to carry the hates that Clay had grown in his fields…<\/p>\n

There was a fair amount more, and no one managed a movement or murmur until she\u2019d finished. James and Eli thought of their father\u2019s white robes, and of how it was time to be shot of them – James maybe with guilt, Eli with relief. Cousin Amy, who\u2019d been to more than one fortune-teller at the fair, knew she\u2019d heard truths you didn\u2019t get though turning cards, and swore off those gaudy stalls for life.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt won\u2019t be right,\u201d said Mamma Lucy, stroking her worn carpet bag. \u201cThere\u2019ll be loss, and murder, and mistakes. But the plain fact is, Mr Clay, if it ain\u2019t quite right, sure as the Lord you\u2019ll still be wrong. Dead, and dead wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n

He lifted himself on one elbow, then fell back, unable to speak. She smiled, and it was a gentle smile.<\/p>\n

\u201cBeen to the crossroads, Mr Clay, and had me a talk or two. Ain\u2019t got no bad feelin\u2019 left for you, but every soul serves a purpose. When you go down, and you surely are going down, you\u2019ll be carryin\u2019 those words with you. There\u2019s folk long passed who need to hear this. Cain\u2019t do no harm, may do some good for once.\u201d<\/p>\n

His eyes widened, and he drew in one long breath. His family and servants waited, but it was clear he wouldn\u2019t be taking another. Mamma Lucy nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cSaid my piece, and now it’s yours.\u201d She closed the dead man\u2019s eyes with her big thumbs, and straightened up, looking the others over. She spotted Clay\u2019s lawyer by the papers he carried, and the perspiration that struggled down his temples.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou won\u2019t be needin\u2019 to lay him deep,\u201d the old woman to the lawyer. \u201cHe ain\u2019t no doubt as to where he\u2019s a-headin\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n

The lawyer swallowed, and sweat made the ink run on his papers. He knew far too much of Clay\u2019s business, and wanted shot of it all. There was a girl he\u2019d met in Atlanta…<\/p>\n

Mamma Lucy\u2019s clouded left eye turned on the two sons. \u201cSome here\u2019ll listen; some won\u2019t. But do or don\u2019t, ain\u2019t no call for any o\u2019you to be Mister Aloysius Clay.\u201d<\/p>\n

And that was the third time that the conjure-woman walked through Georgia.<\/p>\n

\"mamma<\/a><\/p>\n

John Linwood Grant 11\/17<\/em><\/p>\n

\n
\n

Thanks for visiting. Before you go, don’t forget to check out the Kickstarter campaign for <\/em>Occult Detective Quarterly Presents<\/strong>, an exciting anthology of longer supernatural\u00a0 fiction. A free novelette for every backer, and lots of good rewards…<\/em><\/p>\n

https:\/\/www.kickstarter.com\/projects\/280674519\/occult-detective-quarterly-presents?ref=card<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A short tale of the conjure-woman Mamma Lucy and the passing of a man, for no other reason than that it happened… Mr Aloysius Clay Once, when Mamma Lucy seemed young and the days seemed mellow, a man whipped his two-horse carriage through the streets of a small Georgia town. It may have been in … Continue reading Mr Aloysius Clay<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"iawp_total_views":7,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4853","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\nMr Aloysius Clay - greydogtales<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/mr-aloysius-clay\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Mr Aloysius Clay - greydogtales\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"A short tale of the conjure-woman Mamma Lucy and the passing of a man, for no other reason than that it happened… Mr Aloysius Clay Once, when Mamma Lucy seemed young and the days seemed mellow, a man whipped his two-horse carriage through the streets of a small Georgia town. 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What else is there left for mere man?\u201d Today we get lost in Scotland and its folklore with Shiela Crerar, follow a plucky young woman's psychic endeavours,\u2026","rel":"","context":"In \"classic horror\"","block_context":{"text":"classic horror","link":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/tag\/classic-horror\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"shiela crerar","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/07\/doll-626790_960_720-300x200.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]},{"id":7318,"url":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/scotland-the-strange-the-eyes-of-doom\/","url_meta":{"origin":4853,"position":1},"title":"SCOTLAND THE STRANGE: THE EYES OF DOOM","author":"greydogtales","date":"January 24, 2024","format":false,"excerpt":"This week, in honour of Burns Night, which celebrates Scottish poet Robert Burns (25 January 1759 \u2013 21 July 1796), our greydogtales site begins a ramble through the subject of Scottish supernatural\/horror and related cultural stuff. We\u2019ll have some classic tales, new material, guest reviews of some really bad films\u2026","rel":"","context":"Similar post","block_context":{"text":"Similar post","link":""},"img":{"alt_text":"SCOTLAND THE STRANGE","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/01\/Ben_Lomond_from_Beinn_Narnain-300x163.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]},{"id":4071,"url":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/fables-disappearances-untethered-tales-gwendolyn-kiste\/","url_meta":{"origin":4853,"position":2},"title":"Fables and Disappearances: The Untethered Tales of Gwendolyn Kiste","author":"greydogtales","date":"May 29, 2017","format":false,"excerpt":"Today, dear listener, we have loss and identity; clarity and hope; the core of writing, style, Angela Carter and some dark, magical stories. When we thought about interviewing author Gwendolyn Kiste, we realised we wanted to burrow behind her work a bit, so we went there.\u00a0 Though we centre on\u2026","rel":"","context":"In \"interviews\"","block_context":{"text":"interviews","link":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/tag\/interviews\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"SONY DSC","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/05\/And-Her-Smile-Will-Untether-the-Universe-Gwendolyn-300x201.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]},{"id":7509,"url":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/clarks-world-the-willvent-bin\/","url_meta":{"origin":4853,"position":3},"title":"CLARK\u2019S WORLD: THE WILL\u2019VEN\u2019T BIN","author":"greydogtales","date":"November 5, 2025","format":false,"excerpt":"We\u2019re always pleased to see a new book from Alan M Clark, not only a talented author but also, as it happens, an award-winning artist. The Will\u2019ven\u2019t Bin, just out from IFD Publishing (15th October), joins his other intriguing historically-set works, this time with a Young Adult focus and science\u2026","rel":"","context":"Similar post","block_context":{"text":"Similar post","link":""},"img":{"alt_text":"alan m clark","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/11\/EbookCover_TheWillventBin_small-200x300.jpeg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]}],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4853","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4853"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4853\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4859,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4853\/revisions\/4859"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4853"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4853"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4853"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}