The Bishop's Daughter

Original Image Created by Skyla Barilaro Using Adobe Illustrator

They found her body on the banks of the Fourche Creek. The Freedmen’s settlement of College Station, Arkansas, normally silent, had been stirred into a frenzy over the disappearance of the Bishop’s daughter, Jonnie Mae.

She was last seen a fortnight ago, leaving the church after Sunday’s sermon. It was her duty to sweep the sanctuary, draw the curtains, and lock up. Afterward, she would walk down to the creek to sit and fellowship with the Lord, but not before stopping at the general store for a penny chew.

That Sunday, she didn’t come in. The shopkeeper thought it peculiar but paid it no mind until later that evening, when the Bishop stopped by to ask if she had been seen, because Jonnie Mae had not come home.

Something was wrong. Jonnie Mae wasn’t a rebellious teenager. She obeyed her parents, served the Lord, and always kept to her routines.

“Get the Marshall!” her father’s voice boomed with tension.

The shopkeeper hurried seven doors down to the jail to inform the law and assemble the watchmen to sweep the town for Jonnie Mae. There was only one place she could have been, and that was the dock on the creek. For hours they searched, her name echoing between the trees and across the water. Hours turned into days, days into weeks, and still she was nowhere to be found.

Jonnie Mae wasn’t seen again until Sunday, the fourteenth day since she vanished. The congregation, led by the Bishop, was in procession to the creek for a baptism. Their chorus of praise was cut short by a bloodcurdling scream from one of the parishioners. When the crowd turned toward the source of the chaos, there she was. There lay Jonnie Mae. Her once radiant eyes were glassed over, frozen in her final moment of terror and betrayal, her arm reaching for rescue. It was a grotesque display.

For a long moment, no one moved. The Bishop fell to his knees, his cry breaking through the hymn still hanging in the air. Mothers hurried their children away. The men of the congregation bowed their heads in silent intercession, their faith trembling in their throats. The water that once promised salvation now felt cursed, and every eye drifted toward the church as if its very walls had betrayed them.

A cold wind came off the creek, though the sun still burned overhead. The water rippled against her dress as if whispering something only the dead could hear. The Marshall pushed through the crowd, his boots sinking into the mud. He stared down at Jonnie Mae’s body, then at the Bishop, who stood frozen, lips moving in silent prayer.

“There ain’t no sign of struggle,” the Marshall said softly, “but she didn’t walk in on her own.”

He motioned for the watchmen to fetch a sheet to cover her, yet no one dared step into the water. It wasn’t until one of the deacons pointed out that there was something in her hand that anyone dared to look closer.

As sure as the sun will rise, there was a mangled purple hair ribbon curled around her fingers. The Bishop stared down at his daughter’s hand and, with a twisted expression, exclaimed, “That belongs to one of the Williams girls!”

And with that proclamation, the witch hunt began.

Long before the Bishop’s cry shook the churchyard, the Williams girls had gone down to the water. Mary carried a candle she’d taken from the altar in the church; Elizabeth brought a chipped jar of honey and Irma clutched the book their uncle brought from New Orleans, its pages soft with age, its letters red like rust.

They whispered as they walked, their bare feet sinking into the mud. The creek breathed beside the trees, thick and slow. Before Irma could open the book and read what she thought was a prayer, the girls stumbled upon Jonnie Mae, reading her sermon notes.

“Look, there’s Jonnie ‘Holy Roller’,” crooned Mary.

“Good evening to y’all and God bless” Jonnie Mae responded, gathering herself and her things, preparing to make her journey home. “What are y’all doin’ down at the water?”

Irma, waving the tattered book responded, “We callin’ on a angel”.

“Yeah, ya call her wit sweet water and honey,” it said, “and she will come smiling.” Mary laughed, nervous, and crossed herself.“Ya know we may have betta luck wit you sayin’ the words” Mary pointed at Jonnie Mae. “Stand in the wata Jonnie Mae, because you the Bishop’s daughter and the Lord listens closer to holy tongues.”

Jonnie Mae stepped in, the water reached her knees, warm as blood. Irma began to chant, the words strange and broken, and the other girls followed. Jonnie Mae’s voice wavered when she repeated them, as if the syllables scraped her throat raw. The air grew heavy.  The candle flames bent toward the water. Something moved beneath the surface, just a shadow at first, wide and slow, like the body of a woman turning in her sleep. A sweet smell rose from the creek, sharp with salt and honey.

Jonnie Mae gasped.

Her eyes went wide, fixed on the black water that began to shimmer like glass. Then she screamed, not loud, but deep, the kind that doesn’t need air. The sound made the candles burst and the moon blink out. When the light returned, she was being dragged deeper into the water. The three girls tried their hardest to pull her back but gave up, fearing they would be taken in as well. The Williams sisters ran all the way home, mud up to their knees, too scared to look back, swearing to each other they’d never speak of it again. But in their dreams that night, the creek kept whispering, You called me. You called me.

The Bishop’s cry had barely faded before whispers began to rise, soft at first, then gathering like a storm. Eyes turned toward the Williams who stood silently behind the crowd,  Mary, Elizabeth, and Irma stood frozen, their faces hidden beneath their Sunday hats. The purple ribbon trembled in the Bishop’s hand like proof of sin.

“Tell me why my child held this,” he demanded, voice breaking like thunder.

No one spoke. The air grew heavy, pressing down until even the birds seemed to fall silent. The Marshall looked from one girl to the next, suspicion flickering like heat lightning in his eyes. Then old Sister Ruth spoke up from the back.

“Those girls been playin’ at things they don’t understand,” she said. “Been down by that creek at night, singin’ them strange songs, burnin’ candles that don’t smell like church, I seent it!”

Gasps rippled through the congregation. The Bishop’s wife covered her mouth.

Mary tried to speak, her voice shaking. “We ain’t mean no harm, Bishop. It was just a game, just somethin’ Irma read outta that old book our uncle brought from N’Orleans.”

The Bishop stepped forward. “A game?” His eyes burned. “You call the devil’s work a game?”

Elizabeth began to cry. “We only wanted to see her! The angel in the wata! Irma said she was a goddess, that if we call on her right, she’d bless us. We ain’t mean for Jonnie Mae to—”

The crowd erupted. Prayers tangled with curses. The Marshall shouted for order, but the wind rose again, cold and angry, carrying the smell of brine up from the creek. Sister Ruth’s voice cut through the noise. “Mami Wata don’t bless fools. She bargains. She take what’s owed.”

The Bishop fell silent, staring toward the water where his daughter’s body still lay. Then he spoke, low and hoarse. “But what debt did my Jonnie Mae owe?”

Mary could barely stand. “She said the words, Bishop. She stood in the water when we called her. We ain’t think—Lord, we ain’t think she’d have to pay a price.”

The wind stilled. The surface of the creek rippled once, then went flat as glass. Someone swore they heard a woman laugh beneath the water. And though her body was cold, Jonnie Mae’s lips parted one last time. A breath slipped from her mouth, soft as a sigh but strong enough to make the hearts stutter.

“For the life you tricked away, may the water turn to poison on your land,” the voice whispered. “Yours and your children’s, and their children after. A debt owed and settled”

Then the wind roared again, and the sun set beyond the creek.