The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “Not you?”

  DuLac shook his head. “Always the drum. The drummer calls the spirits. And when they come, they ride.”

  “Ride?”

  “Possess.”

  She was scared again. Reneaux squeezed her hand.

  The drum resounded. One hard beat. Then two. A call to attention. The followers’ spines straightened, weary women became enlivened, men stepped in time, like martinets. The rhythm changed, cajoling in three-quarter time. Marie responded to the wooing, the rhythmic caress as the boy’s hand swept across calfskins draped on wood.

  The women and men, following DuLac’s lead, swayed and chanted:

  Legba, remove the barrier for me

  So I may pass through

  Legba, remove the barrier for me

  So I may pass through to the spirit world.

  The sound was like a round—voices overlapping, the drumming incessant and strong:

  Legba, remove the barrier for me

  So I may pass through to the spirit world.

  The elderly men and women danced like youths, their faces aglow with pleasure. Aglow with an energy that seemed to wipe all cares, complaints, and life’s losses away.

  DuLac was majestic, awash with glory. He, too, looked younger.

  If Marie didn’t know better, she would’ve suspected them of being drugged. Or maybe this was a mass hallucination? Dispossessed people believing in something beyond themselves because they needed to believe. The disenfranchised trying to erase mortality and experience ecstatic joy.

  DuLac opened the cage and held the chicken high. It was limp, resigned to its fate.

  The drums grew louder; the dancers, more frenzied.

  DuLac snapped the chicken’s neck. Marie nearly screamed. DuLac used a surgical knife to cut the chicken’s throat. Blood welled and dripped into a pan.

  Marie felt nauseous. She wanted to run. But her legs felt leaden; she couldn’t move.

  Reneaux wasn’t himself; he was staring at empty space, rocking forward and back, his arms criss-crossed about his abdomen.

  Marie looked toward the boy. He was watching her. Watching the followers. Then her again. His drumbeats slowed, grew quieter, then still. The silence was loud. The followers stopped dancing, loose-limbed like rag dolls. DuLac seemed hungover.

  Marie was sorry no miracle had occurred. Sorry she wasn’t the one—Marie, the descendant of a Voodoo Queen.

  The drummer said, “Je regrette.” He left first, then the others, their heads and shoulders bowed with grief. Single file, the disappointed followers shuffled their way to the door. Reneaux collapsed onto his knees. Chicken’s blood overflowed the pan.

  DuLac patted her back. “Tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Connected to DuLac’s guest room was a courtyard patio overflowing with tangled vines, flowers, and potted plants. Marie kept the French doors open. She wanted to feel the languid heat, see robins, pigeons bobbing their heads into the gurgling fountain, and hear the whirr of hummingbirds and bees.

  Reneaux held her hand. “I’ve a meeting tomorrow with FBI poison specialists.”

  “You think the women were poisoned?”

  “Not sure. But I want to get to forensics. Make sure tissue samples are left.”

  “That’s more practical than what I’m doing.”

  “No. You’ve got to believe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because DuLac believes in you.”

  “And you?”

  “I believe, too. So does El.”

  She laughed harshly. “I’m a failure but everyone believes in me. Why?”

  “Maybe because we all want miracles. A belief in the spiritual.”

  “We should all attend Mass.”

  “Maybe so. The Catholic Church was divinely inspired, I do believe that. But I remember a host of Sundays where I was taught that God, Christ, the Virgin, were white. That only a priest could absolve my sins. The same priest who likely abused the altar boys. I’d rather believe in you. Believe there’s more unknown than known. Mysteries. Miracles.

  “You’re special, Marie. I can tell by the way you love.” Reneaux lifted her in his arms, carried her, and laid her gently on the bed. “Sleep,” he said. “Fais dodo. Dream.”

  * * *

  She dreamed Eden was just beyond the glass doors. Reneaux was scribbling music; baby Marie was crawling in the garden, and she was on the bed, her belly round.

  * * *

  She woke to drums. Moonlight filtered through leaves. Marie could see fireflies, mosquitoes seesawing the air.

  The door opened, a sliver of light highlighted DuLac, rendering him gigantic in the doorway.

  “You didn’t wake me.”

  “You needed the rest. ’Sides I was hoping the loas would wake you.”

  She sat; the sheet fell around her waist. She was in a white shift. The supplicants must’ve dressed her—washed, dried, and rubbed cocoa oil on her limbs for the ceremony. She didn’t remember the women’s hands, didn’t remember their sweet care.

  “Reneaux?”

  “He’s back. Waiting for you.”

  She stood. She heard the flourish of a drum. Though she didn’t step in time to the beat, she felt it in her heart.

  Legba, remove the barrier for me.

  Legba, remove the barrier so I may pass through.

  They walked down the hall and paused before the red door.

  DuLac nodded. “Eh, yé, yé, Maman Marie.”

  “Eh, yé, yé,” the spirits in the room responded.

  Marie stepped inside.

  * * *

  The drummer boy grinned at Marie. His fingers and palms flew over the drums. Sweat cascaded down his arms.

  Petey sucked on a pipe, pounding a walking stick. His beat counterpointed the drums. An old woman sashayed her hips and coquettishly waved a fan. Another man with a blade sliced and jabbed the air. El dipped her hips and swayed. Her feet stepping delicately; her fingers shooing invisible demons.

  “The spirits have been waiting,” said DuLac. “That’s Legba. He came first, opening the gate. That’s Ezili. The Goddess of Love. Most like the Virgin. A brown-eyed beauty. And Agwé, the sea god. Madame Thornton is touched by Ogun, the warrior god. He fights his enemies without mercy.”

  Marie inhaled, exhaled. The drum grew louder, more intense. Sound echoed off the walls.

  Reneaux was sitting cross-legged in the corner, his head bent. Kind Dog’s head rested on his lap.

  “Kind Dog has been to ceremonies before,” said DuLac. “How else to explain his calm?”

  Kind Dog tilted his head upward. Marie couldn’t help feeling that he was telling her not to fear. The drumming tonight, unlike the bayou drums, didn’t scare him.

  She bent before Reneaux. The dancers whirled behind her. Kind Dog nuzzled her hand.

  She felt a rush of goodwill toward Reneaux. He was a sweet, loving man. She caressed his face. Reneaux looked up; he wasn’t there. Someone else was locked behind his irises.

  “Who killed your Maman?”

  She tried to escape, but the spirit inside Reneaux held her. Gripped both her arms.

  “Who murdered her?”

  Murdered? The word burrowed into Marie’s soul, unleashing raw feelings, releasing her unconscious to follow a trail, a yellow brick road of awareness and pain.

  “There were signs.”

  “No.”

  “Think back.” DuLac squatted, whispering in her ear. “You’ve always been able to see.”

  What did she see? Truly?

  “Think back.”

  Bits of salt tossed in the corner. Feathers on the windowsill. Markings on the stoop; her mother washing the steps with herbs and lye.

  Ogun was drawing Marie into the room’s center, the circle’s heart. Dancers swayed around her; the drum sounded like a hundred.

  “Remember, Marie,” DuLac shouted.

  Reneaux, as Ogun, screamed, “Murderer. Murder.”

  Kind Dog chased his tail.

>   “Remember.”

  She remembered: Mother, fretful, days before her death. She’d kept the shades drawn, made the sign of the cross a hundred times a day. She drew markings of the crucifix on the wall, the door, and floors. She prayed constantly to the Virgin. Rattled her rosary beads between her thumbs.

  “Remember.”

  Mother fell, her hands still wet. Water still flowing from the tap. But there’d been a pot on the stove. An empty cup on the table.

  Something in the tea . . .

  Eh, yé, yé, Maman Marie.

  Eh, yé, yé, Maman Marie.

  She weaves spells, she makes gris-gris.

  She has the power, Maman Marie.

  DuLac chanted; the followers echoed him. Staccato drumming filled the space between heartbeats, between breaths.

  Marie screamed.

  “Call the gods, Marie.” It was DuLac. “Call the gods.”

  “Mother, please.” She was a child again, needing her mother. “Mother. Help me, please.”

  She was in a whirlwind. Spirals of mist lined the ceiling. Arms upraised, she shouted, “Come.”

  Her mother dove inside her and, for a moment, she felt intense love. Then confusion, sorrow, more pain than a heart could stand.

  “You are me,” her mother murmured. And she was—feeling her mother’s fear, the years, months, days, hours, and minutes of hiding from herself. Hiding from a stalker who’d discovered who and where she was, who’d taunted her for days before her death.

  Reneaux held Kind Dog as if his life depended upon it. DuLac slit a chicken’s throat. A balding man, a water spirit, was rowing ashore. The other loas were dancing. Legba shook his stick at Ezili. Ogun slew invisible warriors.

  How silly to think that the dead could become undead. Silly to think that love for her mother could revive, resurrect her. She was dreaming. Nothing more than vivid memories. Vivid dreams.

  “Damballah is Father to all the gods,” DuLac heralded:

  Damballah is a snake.

  If you see Marie Laveau, you see a snake.

  You see Damballah-wedo.

  Everyone, including Reneaux, was chanting:

  Damballah-wedo. Marie Laveau is a snake.

  Marie turned slightly, staring at the canvas. Colors were moving, shifting shape again. Oil figures mirrored the dancers in the room. Legba was inside the landscape; so, too, DuLac, El, and Reneaux. Kind Dog was sitting, his back against the cathedral wall.

  Where was she?

  Marie entered from offstage, a snake curled about her arm.

  Marie felt the snake, slithering against flesh. She closed her eyes. It wasn’t real. None of it was real.

  The snake slid across her chest, its head lifting toward her neck, its body trailing the valley between her breasts, its tail draped down about her waist.

  It wasn’t there.

  The snake touched her neck—curling, tightening about her throat.

  She couldn’t breathe. Her life was draining out of her.

  “Damballah,” she screamed; for a flickering moment, she saw the snake, its yellow eyes aligned with hers.

  “I believe.”

  She felt the snake’s body uncurl, then felt its weight lift, disappear from her throat.

  “Call the gods, Marie.”

  Mother was in the painting again, cradling the snake.

  “Damballah-wedo. Marie Laveau is a snake.” Followers chanted, the rhythm and volume increasing.

  The woman in the painting smiled. Mother’s face. Then hers. Then someone else.

  Ride her? Isn’t that what DuLac had said?

  She felt two women, touching her heart, soul, and mind. Two women loving her down through the generations, across time and space. Of the two, her mother was weaker. It was the third Marie that made her strong.

  “Give in to the ride, Marie. Give in.”

  She slid to the floor. Dancers encircled her.

  Outside the circle, she saw Reneaux, on his hands and knees, shouting. Kind Dog barked excitedly. She saw snatches of Reneaux and Dog between the flowing skirts, the stomping feet, the click of the cane, and the sword slicing air.

  DuLac was encouraging, “Go, let yourself go.”

  She slid like a snake, saw the Guédé, standing in the corner, tipping their hats; one clapped his gloved hands.

  She exhaled and two spirits—one Mother’s?—flew out of her mouth.

  El began shrieking, tossing her hands into the air, spinning then slowing like a childhood top.

  The drumming was thunderous.

  Bright sun. Bright moon. Day became night then day then night again. Marie could feel the breeze kicked up by the dancers’ skirts. Feel the floor tremble. Smell the musk. Hear the slowing, softening of the drum.

  “Mon piti bébé. Mon piti bébé.” It was Mother’s voice.

  El, but not El, crawled into the room’s heart, its center. The dancers, subdued, watchful, encircled her and Marie.

  “Mother?”

  “Don’t touch her,” shouted DuLac.

  “I love you. Always have. Always will.”

  “I miss you.”

  Guédé, hats off, heads bowed, wailed silently, wept bitter tears.

  “Dead, undead. Should’ve told you.” Eyes closed, El’s chin rested on her chest.

  “Mother, stay. Please.”

  “Sorry,” she sighed. “I wasn’t dead.”

  El fell slowly sideways, almost as if someone were laying her down to sleep.

  The drumming stopped. “Mother!” Spirits flew. Bodies arched and ached; followers were tired and old again.

  Honeysuckle lingered in the air.

  “Don’t touch,” shouted DuLac. “Let El recover. She’ll be fine.”

  Marie held on to Reneaux; he stroked her hair.

  The room was hushed, except for panting. Winded souls recovering.

  “What did she mean? Dead, undead?”

  “In voodoo, all things alive. Always there are spirits. Ancestors. Your mother crossed over, spoke to you. That’s all. Vite. Ceremony ended.”

  “All things alive.” Her mother’s words, written in script. “Snakes are stirring in your blood.”

  El rubbed her eyes, like a child awakening from sleep.

  Followers stepped forward, ignoring El, yet touching, bowing to Marie. One kissed her hand. Another, her skirt’s hem. Still another touched his lips to the floor.

  The drummer boy bowed, swept his drum over his shoulder. “We did good.”

  “Go home, go home.” DuLac was shooing his guests. “The spirits are gone.”

  “Not quite,” Marie told DuLac. She felt some shift in the air, a current between this world and another. An insistent whisper: “The blood is alive. Always.”

  “No more will happen tonight. When the ceremony is over, it’s over.” DuLac was pacing the room, as though by squaring all the corners he could somehow contain the room’s experiences.

  Marie grabbed his hand; she felt him trembling. Was he scared? Shaken because not once had a spirit visited him? Upset because a woman had surpassed him?

  DuLac’s expression was clear, without guile. Without jealousy. Envy.

  “Let’s get a drink.”

  “No. You’re not telling me something.”

  “I’ve told you enough.”

  She released his hand; he stood, watching over her, staring down from afar.

  Sitting on the floor, seeing the ceremony’s debris, Marie wondered if she’d made a mistake. Had anything really happened? Except for DuLac, they were all sprawled on the floor like children. Candles still flickered; the painting was muted, dull. The chicken was stiffening; blood drained over the shallow tray. Trays of seeds, cornmeal, and water lay on the altar. The saints were cheap plaster; the rosary beads, plastic. As if left by messy children playing dress-up, Legba’s cane was propped in the corner. Ezili’s fan spread like a broken accordion on the floor. Ogun’s sword stuck outside a straw basket. The Guédé were gone.

  El, disoriented, le
aned against Reneaux. “You should rest,” Reneaux said, helping her to rise.

  Marie studied her dusty hands, nails cracked from clutching and crawling across the floor. Her dress and feet were dirty, too. She’d been a snake, been touched by a spirit. She’d heard a voice she hadn’t heard in eighteen years. Smelled honeysuckle. Smelled it still. Heard a faint whispering. An answer in the beating of her own heart. DuLac was wrong; spirits still lingered; spirits existed outside the boundaries of a ceremony.

  Fiercely, she clutched DuLac’s hands, pulling him down until his knees touched hers.

  “Dead, undead. What does it mean?”

  “It means buried alive.”

  She knew she was screaming but she couldn’t hear herself. She was in the fun house again, the room upended, sinister.

  She slipped unconscious, swallowed by a nightmare, the other spirit, the third Marie, whispered, “All will be made right.”

  * * *

  She woke, feeling the others—El, Reneaux, DuLac—moving through the house like ghosts. She was on the couch. A blanket tucked about her.

  How long had she been unconscious?

  Above the fireplace was the painting of the ceremony in Cathedral Square. Except, she now knew, this wasn’t the real one—the magical canvas, the one that knew all the secrets.

  Still, the woman in this painting was neither her nor her mother. It was the ancestor. The third Marie. The one who’d swept inside her with Maman.

  Dead, undead.

  Her teeth digging into her lip, Marie tasted blood. What would it have felt like?

  In medical terms, she knew the steps. There’d be panic. Pulse, metabolic rate would race. Oxygen would be used up faster. Maybe there’d be five minutes of air in the coffin. As oxygen decreased, there’d be more carbon dioxide. The victim would hyperventilate. After ten minutes, not enough air to feed energy reactions in the body—neurons firing, the heart pumping, there’d be flailing attempts to open the coffin. Blood oxygen levels drop. Blood circulates but has nothing to feed the cells.

  So, cells die.

  First, brain cells. The victim would fall unconscious. Only autonomic responses active—the body still trying to breathe, pump blood. More brain cells lost. Brain death. Autonomic responses begin to fail. The heart stops pumping, the lungs stop struggling for air.

  Death.

  She couldn’t imagine the horror, the pain. Ten minutes that would seem like ten hours, fighting for one’s life.