Célie’s Game
Written & Told By
Célie Baptiste, “Mama” Mercy Baptiste,
Odette Baptiste, & Clara Baptiste
Visuals & Imagery by
Célie Baptiste, Odette Baptiste,
Clara Baptiste —
we know how the game is played.
Delphine Broussard, Magnolia Landry,
& Hattie Vincent —
who know when to watch and when to speak.
And Scott Bryant,
who listened when he was meant to listen.
Shared by
Scott Bryant, who knew better than to touch the deck.
A Note from Célie Baptiste, “Mama” Mercy Baptiste, Odette Baptiste, & Clara Baptiste
We are Baptiste women—keepers of names, daughters of tricksters, guardians of what is ours. This ain’t just a story about land. It’s about what gets stolen—and who takes it back.
— Célie Baptiste, “Mama” Mercy Baptiste, Odette Baptiste, & Clara Baptiste
“Ain’t about what’s real, baby. It’s about what they believe.”
— Célie Baptiste
Célie Baptiste
Look at ‘em.
Three Baptiste women, standin’ on St. Landry Parish soil — bayou clay packed firm beneath their boots.
Land that don’t belong to nobody but them.
I been watchin’ long enough to know folks forget first, remember later. Where I come from—L’Anse Noire, out by the bend where the cypress roots breathe above the water—you don’t forget what’s yours. The land remembers, even when folks pretend not to.
Down here by Bayou Têche, names last longer than fences.
Mercy—they call her Mama Mercy now. She got a voice like an old hymn and a stare that make a man rethink his whole life. Ain’t much she don’t know, and ain’t nothin’ she won’t say if the moment’s right.
Odette—sharp as a blade, quick as a card cuttin’ the air. She’s the one who left, thought she was done with this place. Went north for a while—New Orleans, then Baton Rouge—the bayou calls louder than traffic ever could. Came back anyway, ‘cause she know a good con when she see one.
Clara—quiet, but she listen too well. She got that look in her eye, the one that say she don’t just hear stories—she believes ‘em. And belief? That’s the most dangerous trick of all.
They don’t know it yet, but this ain’t just a fight over land.
It’s about the name.
And whether they mean to keep it.
The Setup
“Mama” Mercy Baptiste
Baptiste blood been in this soil since cane first grew wild along the river. Folks say our great-grandmama worked the sugar fields near St. Martinville—knew every name of every spirit in the water, and maybe one or two that weren’t.
They been tryin’ to take this land since before I was born. Men with soft hands and hard voices, holdin’ paper like it mean somethin’.
They come drivin’ from Lafayette or Baton Rouge, wearin’ city shoes that sink in our St. Martin Parish mud. They don’t know this dirt’s been claimin’ men longer than they’ve been signin’ contracts. Always the same. They figure if they say “contract” and “legal” enough times, you’ll forget who put their blood in the soil.
I watch this one—Everett Kane—step out of his car, smooth suit, smooth smile, all that money confidence on him like cheap cologne. I don’t gotta hear a word to know what he come for.
“You must be Mrs. Baptiste,” he says, like he already owns the place.
I don’t answer right away. Let him sit in it. Let him wonder if he got the wrong house, the wrong woman, the wrong damn game.
Then, real slow, I say, “It’s Miss Baptiste. Never took to nobody’s name but my own.”
He hesitates—just a second. There it is. That flicker in his eyes. A crack.
“I won’t waste your time,” he says, slipping into that calm businessman voice. “I’m making an offer on this land. A fair one.”
Fair.
Fair like he think a soul got a price.
“This land ain’t for sale,” I say.
His fingers twitch. I know the type. Men like Kane don’t hear ‘no’ often. They hear not yet.
“It’s already been sold,” he says, real patient-like, like I’m slow. He pulls out a folder, all nice and neat, like paper ever stopped a storm. “The previous deed holder defaulted. I’m the legal owner now.”
I tilt my head, tap my cane once against the porch rail. Let him think I’m thinking. Let him think he got me.
“You ever heard of Célie Baptiste?” I ask.
His face don’t change, but I feel the shift.
He don’t like not knowin’.
Another crack.
Odette
He think we play fair. That’s where he went wrong.
I crossed my arms and watched him.
I’ve met a hundred Everetts before. The ones who walk into a room thinking they already won. Thing about men like that? They don’t know what to do when the game changes.
“Célie was our great-great-grandmother,” I say. “She left somethin’ behind in this land. You sure you wanna go diggin’?”
Kane scoffs, but I see the way his jaw tightens. “I don’t believe in ghost stories.”
That’s fine. He don’t gotta believe.
He just gotta run when the ghosts start talkin’.
Clara
I saw her before I ever heard her.
Célie Baptiste.
She was standin’ in the tall grass last night, shuffling cards slow, her hands barely touchin’ them. Mist rolled off Bayou Têche. Her eyes caught the moonlight — dark. Steady.
I ain’t never seen a ghost before. But I knew what she was.
“You got a test coming,” she said, her voice smooth as the river at night. “You gonna pass it?”
I swallowed hard. “What kind of test?”
She smiled—sharp, like the edge of a knife. “The kind that decide if you’re worthy.”
The wind picked up, rustlin’ through the trees, and when I blinked, she was gone.
Now, standin’ here with Mama and Odette, watchin’ Kane smirk like he already got us, I hear Célie’s voice in my head.
Make him play the game, but don’t let him see the rules.
I glance at Mama. She gives the smallest nod.
I glance at Odette. She smirks.
Alright then.
The Game Begins
Odette
If there’s one thing I know, it’s that rich men hate feeling stupid.
Everett Kane walks onto our land acting like he got every card in the deck. What he don’t know is, we already stacked that deck before he even sat at the table.
“You sure you wanna go diggin’?” I ask him.
Kane scoffs, but there’s tension in his jaw now. He’s listening. That’s all we need.
Mama and Clara slip inside the house while I keep him busy, running my mouth the way I always do when I need a man to underestimate me.
“You ever play poker, Mr. Kane?” I ask, real easy, like we’re just chatting.
He adjusts his cufflinks. “I prefer games of skill.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Ain’t no game of skill when the dealer got a stacked hand.”
That gets him. His nostrils flare just a little. He don’t like not knowing what I mean by that. Good. Keep him unsteady.
Behind me, I hear the house shift. Mama and Clara are setting the first trick.
Clara
We don’t need much.
A few small changes, a few whispers in the walls, and a man like Kane will do the rest himself.
Mama lights the first candle. “You remember what I told you?” she asks.
I nod. “Make it feel real before it is.”
She hands me the little pouch she made—dried moss, a pinch of bone dust, and a piece of old iron.
“Put this under his car. Make sure he don’t see you.”
I take it and slip out the back, quiet as the wind through the grass.
“Mama” Mercy Baptiste
Some folks need to see a ghost to believe in one. Others just need to think they did.
By the time I walk back outside, Kane’s got that look in his eye—the one men get when they think they shouldn’t be nervous, but they are.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Kane?” I ask, sweet as honey.
He clears his throat, glancing over his shoulder toward his car. “Thought I heard something back there.”
“Did you now?” I keep my face steady. “Bayou got a way of talkin’ at night. Always has.”
He don’t like that.
He tugs at his collar, muttering something under his breath before shaking his head.
“I’ll be back tomorrow with my surveyor,” he says. “I don’t have time for stories.”
I nod, watching as he heads to his car. And that’s when the first trick takes hold.
Kane stops. Goes still.
His hands clench. He looks at the ground. Looks at his car.
He don’t say a word.
The air’s too thick. The ground too soft. Like something’s watching.
He swallows hard, then gets in his car.
The engine stutters.
Then stalls.
He curses, trying again. The ignition clicks, clicks, but don’t catch.
Clara don’t move from the porch. Just watches. I see the way her fingers twitch, the way her shoulders tighten.
She don’t say nothin’.
The porch boards creak.
Kane finally gets the car started and pulls out so fast the tires kick up dust. I let him go. Let him think he’s in control.
I turn to Clara. “What happened?”
She licks her lips, eyes still locked on the spot where Kane was standing.
“She was there,” Clara says, voice low.
Mama and I share a look.
Something changes.
Odette
I expect Kane to stay gone a little longer. Maybe a week, maybe two. Give himself time to shake off the feeling he left with.
Instead, he come back next day.
That tells me one thing.
Too proud to admit he already doubtin’ himself.
Bad combination.
His car pulls up slow this time, like he don’t trust the road anymore. Good. Let that unease settle in his bones.
Mama Mercy don’t move from her chair on the porch, just watches him like she got all the time in the world. Clara, quiet as ever, stands near the steps, eyes dark, lips pressed tight like she already know what’s comin’.
Me? I step down to meet him, smiling like I got no secrets at all.
“You sure got back quick, Mr. Kane,” I say, arms crossed.
He adjusts his cufflinks. “I don’t scare easy.”
That a lie. I hear it in his voice. Feel it in the way he won’t meet my eye for too long.
Good. Let’s see how much longer that hold up.
Clara
The air feel different today. Heavy.
Kane’s standing in the same place he was yesterday, but the land don’t want him here. I feel it.
And I ain’t the only one.
“She’s close,” I whisper.
Mama hears me but don’t look over. “I know.”
Kane don’t hear nothin’. He too busy talkin’, throwin’ out legal terms and threats like they gonna scare us more than this land scares him.
He don’t feel it yet.
But he will.
“Mama” Mercy Baptiste
I let him talk. Let him list his rights and ownership and all them little words he think mean somethin’.
Then I say, real easy, “Ever dream about drowning, Mr. Kane?”
That get him.
His mouth stops mid-word.
For a second, he just looks at me. “What?”
I nod toward the bayou.
“Ain’t uncommon ‘round here. Water creeps in your bones. In your mind. Folks hear things when they sleep. Wake up swearin’ they were sinkin’, but they bed still dry.” I pause, let my fingers tap against my cane.
“You sleep alright last night?”
The muscle in his jaw jumps. His fingers curl at his sides.
“I don’t believe in that superstitious bullshit.”
Oh, honey. He already halfway gone.
Odette
He doesn’t.
Mama got in his head. It’s in the way he rolls his shoulders, the way he glances toward the water, like it got closer since he got here.
So I help him lose a little more of it.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper, turning real sharp toward the trees behind him. “Did y’all see that?”
That man spins around so fast I almost laugh.
“Ain’t nothin’ there,” Mama says behind me, all calm. “You scarin’ yourself.”
I hear how quick that man breathes now.
Nobody says another word.
Clara
The moment he turns back to us, I see her.
Célie.
She standin’ in the grass behind Kane, just far enough that he don’t notice. She got her arms crossed, head tilted, eyes locked on me.
Watching.
She raises one hand, real slow, and points to the water.
Kane shifts his weight like he uncomfortable, but he don’t move his feet.
I swallow. “Mama.”
Her gaze flicks to me. She knows I see somethin’.
Kane runs a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. “I don’t have time for this.”
Then he turns too fast, like he tryna prove somethin’, and his foot catches the root beneath him.
It happened so quick.
He stumbles.
The earth gives a little.
And for one second, I swear I hear water pullin’ him in.
His hands dig into the dirt. He grunts, pushes himself up, shaking his head like he dizzy. His shoes soaked through.
But the ground? It’s dry.
His face goes pale.
I don’t say nothin’. Just watch him.
So does Célie.
She smiles.
“Mama” Mercy Baptiste
He don’t say much after that.
Don’t look at the water. Don’t look at Clara.
Just wipes his hands, mutters somethin’ about “comin’ back tomorrow” and gets in his car.
We watch him go, wheels kickin’ up dust.
Odette lets out a slow whistle.
“Tomorrow,” Mama says.
Clara don’t say nothin’.
Her eyes still on the bayou.
And when I follow her gaze, I see why.
Célie’s still standin’ there.
Smilin’.
Waitin’.
Odette
I wake up knowing today’s the day we finish this.
It ain’t just a feeling—it’s certainty. Like knowing a storm’s coming before you see the sky turn.
Mama’s already in the kitchen by the time I come in. Not making coffee. Not boiling water. Just standing at the table, rolling that old silver ring of hers between her fingers. A glass of tea, dark as river water, sits beside her, ice half-melted.
“He’ll be here soon,” she says.
I don’t ask how she knows. We all know.
Clara’s outside, sittin’ on the porch rail, eyes on the water. Ain’t touched her breakfast. Ain’t said much since yesterday, either.
She’s still with Célie, even when she ain’t lookin’ at her. I see it in the way her fingers drum against her thigh, slow and steady, like she’s countin’ seconds between lightning and thunder.
Mama slides a second glass toward me, condensation beading on the sides. “You ready?”
I take a breath. Nod.
“Then let’s end this.”
The Final Trick
Mama Mercy
I heard Kane’s car before I saw it.
That engine rattlin’ down the dirt road, wheels kickin’ up dust like the land itself was tryin’ to shake him off. House still standin’ same as always, but somethin’ felt different.
Like the land done been waitin’ on him.
I was already on the porch, rockin’ slow in my chair, glass of sweet tea restin’ easy in my hand. Ice long melted, but I weren’t in no hurry. Odette stood beside me, arms crossed tight, expression smooth as glass. Clara perched on the rail, quiet, watchin’. That child sees things before they happen.
And Kane? He ain’t like the way we lookin’ at him.
He steps out his car, straightens his jacket like that gonna help him. “This ends today,” he says.
I take a slow sip, let the glass clink against my teeth. The lemon’s sharp on my tongue, but my voice stays smooth. “It surely does.”
He squares his shoulders, tryin’ to sound important.
“I’m done with the games. If you don’t clear off this land, I’ll have it leveled by next week.”
Odette exhales, shakin’ her head like he a fool—which he is. She don’t even lift her bourbon, just lets it sit there, sweatin’ in the heat.
“You just don’t know when to quit, huh?”
Kane clenches his jaw.
“I don’t quit,” he says. “I’ve never quit.”
I let out a low chuckle, deep in my chest.
“Boy, you ain’t been winning since the day you set foot on this land.”
He don’t like that. The muscle in his jaw twitches. But instead of talkin’, he takes a step forward.
The ground sinks beneath his heel.
He stops.
Frowns.
Looks down.
That dirt too soft. Too soft. Like it don’t belong to him. Like somethin’ underneath is waitin’.
I swirl what’s left in my glass, watch the amber-colored tea catch the last of the daylight. Take a slow sip.
Then I tilt my head, voice real easy, like I’m talkin’ ‘bout the weather.
“Ever dream ‘bout drownin’, Mr. Kane?”
His mouth goes dry.
The bayou doesn’t move.
Clara
I hear her before I see her.
The shuffle of cards, slow and steady. The hum of a song long forgotten.
Célie’s here. Right behind him.
She flicks a card up between her fingers. The Queen of Spades. Smiles.
“This is it,” she says.
The wind picks up. Nobody says anything.
Kane blinks. Looks down. Looks back up.
Like the ground moved and he don’t wanna admit it.
He sways. Takes a step back. The ground gives a little more.
“Stop,” he mutters. “I’m not falling for this.”
Mama Mercy leans forward. “Baby, you already fell.”
The ground gives — not violent. Just steady.
He stumbles again. There’s nothing there this time either.
He looks at us, and this time his eyes don’t argue.
Odette
His hands shake. Then his shoulders.
He stumbles back like he expect the land to reach for him again.
And maybe it will.
“You—you can’t stop me from taking this land,” he stammers. But there ain’t no confidence in it anymore.
Mama Mercy just sighs. “Ain’t nobody taking nothin’, Mr. Kane. This land? It ain’t yours to have.”
His breath comes short and fast. He wipes a hand across his face, eyes darting between us, the bayou, the ground.
“Fine,” he chokes out. “Fine. Keep the damn land.”
Then he turns and runs.
Don’t look back. Don’t slow down. Just peels out so fast his tires damn near kick the dust into next week.
Mama lets out a slow breath. “There it is.”
I exhale too. “Damn. Thought he’d be harder to break.”
Mama shakes her head. “Baby, that man was never hard. Just loud.”
I laugh. She ain’t wrong.
But Clara? Clara’s still watching. Still listening.
And that’s when I realize—
It ain’t over.
Not yet.
Clara
The wind shifts.
I turn slow.
Célie’s standing in the field, cards flicking between her fingers, but she ain’t smilin’ no more.
She looks at me, only me, and I feel it before she says it.
The test ain’t just about him.
She tilts her head. Raises an eyebrow.
And waits.
My throat tightens.
I swallow. Kane was the easy part.
“Alright then,” I murmur. “What’s next?”
Célie smiles.
And the Queen of Spades vanishes between her fingers.
Clara’s Acceptance
Clara
The land is quiet. Waiting.
Mama and Odette think it’s over. That Kane’s gone, and that’s the end of it.
But I know better.
Célie’s still here.
She stands in the grass, arms crossed, watching. Not smug, not proud. Just waiting.
Because we ain’t done.
I take a slow breath and step off the porch. Mama and Odette don’t stop me, but I feel their eyes on my back.
Célie tilts her head as I approach. Flicks a card between her fingers.
The Queen of Spades.
The trickster’s card.
“What now?” I ask.
Célie smiles. “Now,” she says, “you decide what kind of woman you wanna be.”
“Mama” Mercy Baptiste
This ain’t sitting right.
I don’t like loose ends.
And right now, Célie got my grandbaby standing dead center in one.
I step forward, cane tapping against the dirt.
“Célie.”
She don’t look at me. Just keeps her eyes on Clara.
“You always had a soft spot for the quiet ones,” I say.
That gets a reaction. Célie laughs, real low.
“The quiet ones listen,” she says.
“And I been waitin’ a long time for someone to listen right.”
Odette
This don’t feel like a lesson no more.
Feels like a claim.
Like Célie ain’t just testing Clara. She’s choosing her.
And I don’t like that. Not one bit.
“What’s the trick, Célie?” I ask, crossing my arms. “You don’t do nothin’ without an angle.”
Célie hums. “Ain’t a trick,” she says. “Ain’t a lie. Just a question.”
She flicks the card in the air, and it hangs there longer than it should before landing at Clara’s feet.
“What’s the question?” Clara asks.
Célie smiles.
“The land’s yours,” she says. “But the name? That, you gotta earn.”
Clara
My mouth goes dry.
It ain’t about the land. Not really.
It’s about the name.
Baptiste.
Célie kneels, picking up the card, holding it between her fingers.
“You take this,” she says, “and you ain’t just Clara Baptiste no more.”
She turns the card over.
It’s the same Queen.
But it don’t look the same in her hand.
Célie leans in, voice low.
“You don’t get to walk away.”
I exhale, slow.
You take the name, or you leave it.
“Mama” Mercy Baptiste
I feel my breath catch.
Célie done pulled the last card, and I ain’t sure how it’s gonna fall.
I want to stop it. Want to tell Clara she don’t gotta do nothin’ for no ghost, not even for family.
But that ain’t my call to make.
This? This gotta be her choice.
Odette
Something’s off.
I don’t like how still Clara is. I don’t like the way Célie watches her, like she already knows how this ends.
I don’t like that I ain’t sure I do.
Clara
I reach out.
Brush my fingers over the card.
I could leave it. Could walk away and still own the land, still keep what’s ours.
But I know, deep in my bones, that ain’t the point.
The name ain’t a gift.
I pick up the card.
The moment my fingers close around it, I don’t let go.
I don’t look at anyone when I pick it up.
Célie grins. “That’s my girl.”
And she’s gone.
“Mama” Mercy Baptiste
Clara’s still holdin’ the card when I reach her.
It’s just a card.
I swallow hard. “You alright, baby?”
She nods, but her eyes are distant. Different. Older.
Odette lets out a slow breath. “What now?”
Clara looks out at the land.
“We make sure nobody ever tries this again.”
The wind moves through the cane.
Epilogue – The Next Night
Clara
I hold the card between my fingers, turning it over, feeling its weight.
The edges are smooth. The surface blank.
It’s just a card.
Célie’s gone now. That don’t mean she’s finished.
I walk to the edge of the bayou, toes sinking into the soft earth. This land’s been here longer than any of us. Out here in L’Anse Noire, stories don’t die. They just go quiet.
Mama and Odette stand back.
I lift the card one last time.
Then I drop it.
It sinks.
I exhale.
It ain’t over.
Months Later
Clara
The first time someone tries to take what’s mine after Kane, I don’t move at all.
The man at the bank smiles at me the same way Kane did. The kind of smile that don’t reach his eyes. The kind of smile that say he think I don’t know the game.
“You have a beautiful property, Miss Baptiste,” he says, flipping through his paperwork. “We’d love to help you turn it into something… profitable.”
I tilt my head, let him talk, let him say all the words he thinks will make me lean forward, interested.
Then, when he’s done, I set my hands real gentle on the table between us and say, “You ever heard the name Baptiste?”
His brows pull together. “Should I have?”
I smile.
“You will soon.”
The End
Scott Bryant 
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