The Silver Woman’s Place

There is a house in old Key West, called the Silver Woman’s Place.  It’s been the ruin of many a young man who dared look into her face.

I was not one of those poor unfortunates, fortunately.  But I did come close.  And I did venture down to Key West in my careless way, in pursuit of my muse, in homage to Papa, who wrote many of his best works while living there.

I had long admired those books—A Farewell to Arms, Death In The Afternoon, Green Hills of Africa, To Have and Have Not, For Whom the Bell Tolls.  Hoping as I was to write my own book to join the pantheon, my own Great American Novel, I arranged to set up shop in the very town where the great man had lived.

In a seedy (and therefore desirable) part of town, I found a tiny, damp cottage, one of six at the Bide-a-Wee-By-the-Sea-on-The-Key B&B.  Run by an ancient Irish Prod named Maude, it was cheap enough and romantic enough that it suited my purpose perfectly.  The small, frond-covered verandah facing the ocean allowed just enough room for a small table and chair, where I spent many an hour pounding away on my portable typewriter, braving the heat and frequent torrential downpours.

Of course, I visited Finca Vigia on Whitehead Street—Hemingway’s home, now a museum—as well as a number of his favoured haunts.  But it was Maude who set me on the most memorable of my stops, the Silver Woman’s Place.  Over breakfast one day—as always, boiled oatmeal and sweet tea, the only other option being eat somewhere else—she explained what I had to look forward to.

“Bein’ purely a God-fearin’ woman me-self,” she said, “I place no credence on the stories.  But ‘tis said the woman is possessed of the ju-ju, an’ can bring great good fortune to those she favours.”

“I could use some of that, whatever it is!” I declared.  “Where is this place?  Do you think I should go see her?”

“Aye,” Maude nodded.  “But take care, laddie.  Ye must never look directly at her face, for ‘tis said any who do are cursed unto death.  ‘Tis a shame it would be for that to happen to one so bonnie as you.”

And so, I came one lazy afternoon to the house of the Silver Woman, the only visitor during siesta-time, to be greeted by a wizened, old Black man named Jesús.  I explained how honoured I was to be granted an audience, and how badly I wanted the Lady to bless me and my writing endeavours during my stay on the island. 

Pocketing my money, Jesús said, “De Lady is mos’ happy to do dat, mon.  She put de ju-ju on you, an’ you be famous.  You see, I don’ mess wit’ you.”

The thatch-roofed cottage was more shrine than home, an open-air verandah leading to a large room inside with two closed doors on opposite walls.  All manner of voodoo implements—wanga-dolls of many colours, apothecary jars, masks, curved hatchets, and cupping tools—were displayed on small tables and benches.

Jesús glided silently to one of the doors, tapped three times, then ushered me inside, closing the door behind me.  “Remember dis, mon!  You mus’ not look at de Lady!  Dat is bad ju-ju!”

The small room was dimly-lit through purple-gauze curtains drawn across the one large window, and chock-full of more of the same ju-ju implements.  Dust-motes gleamed in the faint sunlight from the window, and the air was stale, giving a faint aroma of decay and fleshly mortification.  Wind-chimes sounded sonorously in one corner, although no air moved in that space.

I was aware of a shining presence to my right in the near corner of the room, partially illuminated by the sun.  Looking askance from the corner of my eye, I made it out to be a person seated—the Silver Woman, I assumed.  Dressed in a blue gown and multi-coloured shawl, she gleamed like silver in the half-light.  And she said not a word.

The seconds lumbered by like eons as I waited for her to speak to me.  Finally, thinking perhaps it was I who should first address her, I said, “Buena tarde…good afternoon, milady.”  Still no answer.  I shuffled nervously, and then, riven by curiosity, decided to risk looking at her.

At that moment, hearing a noise over my shoulder, I turned in time to hear the shutter click in a camera mounted on a shelf behind me, catching me off-guard with a frozen smile.  And immediately thereafter, the door opened again to reveal Jesús, who beckoned urgently for me to follow him.  My audience was apparently ended.

 As I neared the door, I swear I heard a hollow, raspy whisper from the Silver Woman, commanding me: “Look for de Pelicans.”

Once safely outside, I exclaimed, “Jeez-uss, Jesús! That was powerful!”

Jesús said, “You have done good, mon.  You mus’ have de good ju-ju.  De Lady, she do not speak to every person who come to see her.  She mus’ be very pleased wit’ you.  It be best now, you do what de Lady has tol’ you.”

I left Key West the following day, after a final breakfast of boiled oatmeal and sweet tea shared with Maude.  And I have never gone back.  Nor have I yet written my Great American Novel, though I continue to toil away.

I have, however, found the Pelicans, and that is reward in and of itself.  And I say to them, “Oh, writers, tell your colleagues to do as I did do.  Don’t look at the Silver Woman, or you’ll suffer bad ju-ju.”

I also have in my possession a copy of that fateful picture—the one that interrupted me just as I was turning to look into the face of the Silver Woman. 

I am forever grateful I did not do that.

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2022}