Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles – Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
A bewitching spell
I take a deep breath and as I exhale, the world around me fades, giving way to the unmistakable scent of citrus and florals, reminiscent of Florida Water. It’s a gentle yet profound transition, as if the very essence of the air around me is shifting, carrying me away from the tangible to the realm of the unseen. A sensation of falling envelops me, not with fear, but with anticipation.
And then, the psychic visions come...
It starts as blurry images, a murmur of distant times and places that gradually sharpens into clarity. I’m transported to a familiar yet distant place, where the air around me thrums with the energy of the Market, a tapestry woven from the vibrant threads of life. The scents of spices and sweet confections mingle with the sounds of lively chatter and the distant melody of jazz, painting the atmosphere with the unmistakable aura of the city.
Wedged between two vibrant stalls—one bursting with aromatic exotic spices and the other showcasing intricate handcrafted trinkets—I pause to admire a teapot whose design marries traditional elegance with whimsical flair. I know where I am; the familiar hum of these alleyways, the distinctive aroma mingling with the humidity—I’m in New Orleans!
Around me, a tapestry of chocolate skin tones radiates under the relentless sun. From the deepest ebony to the warmest caramel, each complexion gleams, kissed by a sheen induced by the sultry humidity. The diverse array of hairstyles is a visual symphony: tight coils springing with vitality, flowing locks that catch the breeze, neatly styled braids that trace intricate maps on glistening scalps, and soft, wool-like curls that frame faces with natural elegance.
The men and women here move with a grace that is born of a rich cultural tapestry. Women’s dresses, adorn with vibrant patterns, cling and flow like the Mississippi itself, celebrating each curve as they navigate the crowded market. Men, their outfits blending practicality with an undeniable flair, adjust suspenders or roll up their trousers, add to their confident stride.
This market thrums with the vibrant pulse of commerce and community, a dynamic crossroads where the past and present merge seamlessly. It’s a place where each face may conceal a story as intricate and captivating as the city itself. Here, amidst this rich tapestry of human history and emotion, magic feels not just possible but tangibly close, its whispers emanating from the ancient cobblestones and echoing in the air that envelops me like a warm, comforting embrace.
As I wander deeper into the heart of the market, my attention is caught by an artist whose skilled hands carve the year “1941” into the base of a wooden sculpture. He etches each numeral with deliberate care, each stroke a silent testament to the era. With a final flourish, he signs his name beneath the date, handing off the completed piece to an eager customer in an exchange as timeless as the market itself.
Just beyond the reach of the artist’s stand, a figure captures my full attention. She feels safe. A woman moves through the crowd with a grace that seems to command time itself. Her skin, a rich, lustrous shade of almond, glows under the market’s sun, radiating a tranquil strength amidst the hustle. Her hair, a luxurious cascade of 4c curls, flows like a river down her back, each step she takes setting the curls into a dance of natural elegance. She wears a dress that clings and flows with her movements, its vibrant patterns echoing the boldness and uniqueness of her presence. The dress, much like the woman herself, marries elegance with a distinctiveness that sets her unmistakably apart, her every movement a declaration of grace and unspoken stories etched within her demeanor.
She radiates undeniable allure. I’m not the only one captivated; nearby, women nudge their men sharply, breaking the command of her presence. The men turn reluctantly, their faces painted with unmistakable remorse as they look back at their partners. But I don’t need to look away. She embodies feminine strength, simply taking a stroll through the market, yet her inner beauty shines so brightly, it’s impossible not to be drawn in. Captivating. Her smile effortlessly disarms, stealing whatever restraint one might have to not fall completely under her charm. She unlocked, then captured a part of my soul that I never knew existed, and yet, now that it’s awake, I plead for this awakening to return to dormancy if she can’t love me back.
Beside her walks a young boy, around twelve, his warm brown skin and eyes brimming with a world of expressions. He scowls, revealing a blend of youthful defiance and budding curiosity as he adjusts his vest. This must be Dr. Apples, and the striking woman beside him, his mother, Ms. BaRule. The young ‘jackass’ was actually quite adorable back then. Despite his evident reluctance, there is a pronounced pride in his stride, a self-awareness that surpasses his years.
Dressed in a three-piece suit that seems tailor-made for his slight frame, he exudes a mixture of ease and formality. His expressive eyes flicker with a complex array of emotions, hinting at a mind teeming with thoughts. Together, they are the epitome of elegance and mystery, a duo unmistakably bound by more than their shared path through the bustling market.
As they move through the lively market, which buzzes with vibrant energy, the atmosphere becomes charged with a noticeable undercurrent of negativity, as thick as the sweltering air. A group of locals fix their sharp, lingering stares on Ms. BaRule. As they pass by, one man in a distinctive green plaid vest, his voice a mixture of reverence and caution, murmuring, “That voodoo woman... She better be careful, or somebody oughta make her.” His softly spoken words send ripples of whispers through the crowd, as if the river of jealousy had been waiting for someone to break levee.
In stark contrast to this charged atmosphere, Ms. BaRule’s demeanor remains undisturbed. She selects oranges with such elegant poise that even this simple act becomes a display of grace and serenity, her calm slicing through the market’s chaos like a beacon. The vendors observe her with a mix of awe and respect, their voices echoing thanks filled with genuine admiration for her generosity. Her interactions, though routine, leave an indelible mark of respect and reverence, showcasing her dignified presence amidst the whispers and wary glances.
Ms. BaRule instructs Dr. Apples to stand guard by the fruit stand. She walks into the adjacent alley with a purpose that speaks volumes about her familiarity with such encounters. She moves with a calm that sets her apart from the surrounding hustle. Awaiting her, there is a figure in a suit. Within this secluded space, a swift, almost secretive transaction unfolds. Mysterious bottles, carefully extract from her Belber doctor bag, pass hands with a smoothness born of practice, their contents hidden from view, as currency exchanges hands with equal discretion.
Meanwhile, Dr. Apples, left to his own devices, finds solace in the simple task of peeling an orange. His fingers skillfully pinch away pieces, their rhythm a silent echo to the subdued exchange nearby. Amidst his focus, he occasionally adjusts his attire.
A few local children notices his behavior, curiosity piqued. The carefree innocence of play and the rough-and-tumble of the streets marks their youthful features. One dares to speak loud enough to the other, “Hey, isn’t that the kid who-” only to be silenced by a swift, “Shhh! Shut up! You know his daddy might come and get us!” Their laughter, quick and nervous, fades into the distance as they scamper away. Dr. Apples continues his mundane task, unaware or without care.
Ms. BaRule stands close to her son, observing a pout clouding Dr. Apples’ expression as they meander through the market. Silent in their movements but communicative through glances, she navigates the lively aisles, eventually pausing at a stall adorned with the vibrant hues of the season’s fruits. A soft, knowing smile plays on her lips as she carefully selects a radiant red apple, its skin gleaming under the sun-dappled light of the market.
Her exchange with the vendor is deliberate, each action steeped in a graceful understanding of the moment’s significance. Turning to Dr. Apples, she cradles the apple with a tenderness that contrasts the bustling energy around them. With a maternal gentleness, she presses a kiss to its surface—a gesture imbued with warmth—and then, playfully, brushes the apple against Dr. Apples’ cheek, as if to transfer her affection through its smooth skin. Despite her efforts, his pout remains steadfast, unflinching at her loving touch. She meets his gaze, the depth of her affection clear, a silent conversation unfolding in the space between them.
“Awww... Je t’aime (I love you), ma Pomme (my Apple),” she whispers, her voice a soothing melody that cuts through the noise of the bustling market. Her accent blends American intonations with French influences, distinct amidst the southern drawls around them. “Je t’aime,” she repeats, her laughter—a light, carefree sound—bridging the gap between them. Yet, Dr. Apples maintains his seriousness, an island of solemnity in a sea of mirth.
“Es-tu mon vieux en colère? (Are you my angry old man?)” she teases, her voice enveloping him like a soft, comforting shawl, her fingers gently brushing his cheek. “Monsieur Pomme (Mr. Apple),” she chuckles again, her spirit undeterred by his somber demeanor.
Cradling the apple as though it were a precious jewel, she addresses him with gentle persuasion, “Mon cher (my dear), but look how dapper you are in your suit! Surely, you’re the finest lad in all the land!” Her encouragement, brimming with pride, seeks to buoy his spirits. Yet, Dr. Apples, somewhat weary from the attention his attire attracts, meets her eyes, his expression a complex blend of defiance and a touch of weariness. “I’m not an old man, Mama,” he asserts.
His gaze catches their reflection in a nearby shop window. His youthful silhouette sharply contrasts against the mature cut of his suit—an ensemble that feels oddly out of place. For a moment, his resolve wavers, and a reluctant chuckle escapes him like a cough, then grows into laughter. “Alright, I do look sort of old, Ma,” he concedes, studying his reflection with newfound curiosity. “Maybe this suit isn’t all that bad. Though I swear, a different fit might suit me better. I look like I’m supposed to dispense sage advice,” he muses with a hint of amusement.
As they weave through the bustling market, the duo draws lingering looks from passersby and vendors alike. The curious stares briefly interrupt the regular rhythm of the market before the onlookers, somewhat sheepishly, return to their tasks, still tinged with a touch of intrigue. “Well, maybe Mr. Steiner misses me,” Dr. Apples jests, breaking the steady pace of their stroll. Ms. BaRule, ever ready with a witty comeback, counters, “Oh, I doubt that.” “What? Pets can become quite attached,” he insists, a playful stubbornness in his tone. “Attached, perhaps,” she replies with a light-hearted chuckle, “but a prerequisite to being your pet is self-dependency,” effectively dismissing the notion with a twinkle in her eye.
Their path takes a turn as an older gentleman’s gaze lingers on Ms. BaRule, offering a faint nod—an acknowledgment that carries an air of familiarity, reminiscent of a face I’ve seen, but the green plaid vest is telling. That’s that guy. One of those hecklers!
Ms. BaRule catches Dr. Apples’ eye and gives a subtle nod, a silent command clear in her glance: ‘Stay right here.’ His eyes narrow, a protective glint emerging as he watches the stranger, but he obeys, standing his ground firmly. She walks toward the alley, each step deliberate, heading towards a narrow passage where shadows dance on the fringes of life. The alleyway, a mere sliver of darkness against the backdrop of vibrant existence, seems to envelop her presence entirely.