The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  The drums shifted beats; the syncopation was sharper, faster. Allez waved a torch like a banner: “Dance,” he shouted. “Time to dance.”

  On cue, black and brown women, topless, skirts slit up their thighs, darted forward, dipping and swaying suggestively. Some of the men darted forward to stroke the dancers; others joined the dance, reveling like participants in a bacchanal; still others masturbated without shame. The quadroon girls cowered; many cried; guards surrounded them.

  Voodoo—the bestial, the black exotic. Voodoo—the barbaric, exhibitionism without the spiritual.

  Marie cursed in frustration. She didn’t understand everything about voodoo, but she knew it wasn’t this; if she survived, she’d spend her life letting black people, all people, know that voodoo was loving and good, not hurtful and evil.

  A cage of squawking chickens sensed their doom.

  “More rum,” shouted Allez. “More rum.”

  Allez was king. He slapped his palms against his chest. “See me. See me. I am the king. Le roi. King of the Voodoos. King of the Zombies.”

  “Eh, yé, yé, Allez,” the crowd chanted. “Eh, yé, yé.”

  He strutted, accepting his due. Envious, men slapped his back; some bowed low without mockery or shame. Others kissed his ring as if he were a bishop or king.

  Marie struggled to sit upright. Women would be dying soon. That was Allez’s notion of voodoo.

  Madame DeLaCroix remained still, unnaturally composed.

  Marie looked at the altar, the upside-down cross. The snake, wide as a man’s strong arm, was curled about metal.

  Allez chanted:

  Legba, Legba, remove the barrier for me

  So I may pass through

  Legba, remove the barrier

  So I may pass through to the spirit world.

  But there weren’t any spirits. Instead, a drummer, like a pied piper, led two light-skinned women dressed in virginal white out from the mansion and down the porch steps. Their eyes were unnaturally bright. Marie suspected they were drugged. At DuLac’s, spirits had come; here, compliant women descended into a pit.

  The drumming was intricate, louder:

  Legba, remove the barrier

  Remove the barrier

  So I may pass through to the spirit world.

  Allez’s body seemed to tremble. “The gods have come.”

  But that was a lie. Marie didn’t see, feel, or hear any spirits. Allez was playacting.

  Men yelped and screeched. Some pretended possession; some heralded gods they didn’t believe in; most acted licentious just for the pleasure of it.

  Women kept dancing, their skirts twirling, exposing naked buttocks and thighs.

  “I am king. King of the Voodoos. King of the Zombies.” Allez was the perfect showman. “Roi de la Voudon.” He slit a chicken’s throat, wiping blood on his chest.

  He turned toward the altar. “Damballah, enter me. Come.”

  Marie knew no miracle would happen. The ceremony had all the reality of a carny show: cheap thrills and tricks. Any minute now they’d bring out the two-headed man or the midget alien. Except Allez and his followers maimed, killed. Real damage was inflicted by their illusions and parlor tricks.

  The bonfire, the drums, the blasphemous altar, even the humidity thickening the air, lacing flesh with sweat, added to the atmosphere of mystery and power. Fireflies danced like crazed lanterns.

  Eh, yé, yé, Madame Marie

  Marie makes zombies

  Eh, yé, yé, Madame Marie.

  Madame DeLaCroix looked so much like her mother it was eerie. Looked like Marie would look thirty years from now. Still lean, angular; high cheekbones.

  Her mother had worn her hair in a neat twist; DeLaCroix wore her hair long and wild like a mantle.

  If Marie thought hard enough, she might feel sorry for Madame—doing so much harm, so alienated from her family. But tonight, seeing her step forward, seeing her kiss Allez, seeing her swaying her hips, taunting the men as though she was twenty not sixty, Marie felt revulsion.

  The drummers kept pounding, calling the gods.

  Allez raised Madame’s hand high. “Le roi. The king. And this is my queen.”

  Madame began shrieking, flicking a fan as if she were possessed by Goddess Ezili. Ezili, Mary, and Mary Magdalene suggested in one spirit.

  Next, Madame picked up a sword, flashing Ogun’s blade at the roaring crowd. Even Severs seemed transported.

  Allez was before her, on his knees, “See, see, Marie. With you here, we’re touching the divine.”

  Marie spoke slowly, carefully. “This is a lie. All of it.”

  “Madame—”

  “—is pretending. As you are.”

  “Call the gods, Marie. Call them for me.” He stank of sweat, rum, and compelling fear. He desperately needed, wanted to believe.

  Marie looked beyond Allez. Sondra was being dragged down the stairs. Her hair was tangled, half upswept, half dangling with pins. Blood was on the front of her dress, her chenille ripped.

  Kind Dog howled, his howl blending with the young women’s wails. Sound spiraling up to the moon, into the wildness where no one would hear. No attempt at rescue.

  The two young women in the pit clutched themselves as Sondra was thrown in to join them. A valley of hell before the altar.

  “Call the gods.”

  “I’ll have nothing to do with you.”

  “Damn you,” muttered Allez, before leaping into the pit, gathering Sondra in his arms, lifting her high as his sacrificial offering.

  Marie struggled against her ropes.

  Something made her look up toward the window. The jockey man, the one who spoke to her at Breezy’s, was watching her. He expected her to do something.

  What?

  Surely she could do something with all her hatred, her rage. Hatred for the careless disrespect of human life. Rage that a mother could be such a monster. That Allez could make voodoo a farce.

  Her hands were tied, literally. Why couldn’t she say abracadabra? Make the world better?

  Kind Dog, looking up at the window, wagged his tail. Had the jockey man been the insider, the one to leave clues? He raised his hand, almost like a salute, and Marie nearly cried.

  Why did he believe in her?

  She closed her eyes. Have faith. She could hear DuLac’s voice, clear and distinct: “Call the gods.”

  Marie flexed her fingers, trying to increase circulation. Kind Dog licked her hands, tried to unloose the knotted rope.

  Eh, yé, yé, Madame Marie

  Eh, yé, yé, Madame Marie

  Makes spells, makes zombies.

  Allez set Sondra down before the crowd of men. Terrified beyond screaming, she tried to crawl away in the dirt. Men on either side of her reached out to touch her hands, her dress, her shoulders, her hair. Legs formed bars.

  “Call the gods, Marie.”

  A circle had formed about Sondra. Allez was shouting, encouraging the men to “Believe. Miracles happen.” The dancers swayed, the men pushed forward, their hands scrambling, straining to see. DeLaCroix joined the chant:

  Eh, yé, yé, Madame Marie

  Makes spells, makes zombies.

  Eh, yé, yé, Madame Marie.

  Marie was frantic. How could she save anyone? “Call the gods, Marie.” She closed her eyes. “Don’t be emotional.” Call the gods.

  She whispered: “Guédé.”

  And she felt them—coolly moving inside her—soft as silk, cold as ice, darker than the bayou on a moonless night.

  “Guédé, have mercy.”

  These were the spirits she’d dreamed about . . . these were the spirits who’d entered her during her dreams, and when she stopped dreaming of them, they haunted her footsteps, guiding her, encouraging her to discover the undead.

  “Guédé, Guédé, have mercy, don’t let me lose my way.”

  Sondra stood before the altar, two guards holding her reverently, beneath her elbows and palms as befitted an offering. The girl, no l
onger struggling, was resigned to her fate. Severs lasciviously stroked her hair. The other two girls stood behind them like bridesmaids, gun barrels touching the small of their backs.

  Allez was roaring, “Voodoo makes miracles. Voodoo makes spells.”

  Madame was mixing herbs with a mortar and pestle. Making a batch of poison to mimic death.

  Marie looked up again at the house’s windows. Ancestors, spirits, fragile women in ball gowns, female slaves in coarse cotton, some in undergarments, some naked and ashamed—young women, old women, middle-aged women—all who’d been under the brunt of some man’s thumb—peered down into the yard, their mouths puckering like fish out of water.

  Break the bonds.

  She saw Death’s Kingdom, a shadowy world paralleling the living. The mansion was filled with ghosts. Haints. Spirits bridging the world between the living and the dead. Bones rose from the bayou and the mansion was soaked in blood, a setting for misery and murder.

  Break the bonds. She was the link between worlds, between faiths.

  All along the Guédé had been resentful.

  Marie stepped forward, the Guédé strong within her. Kind Dog was barking crazily. Her arms had the strength of ten men. She pushed men aside and kept on her path toward Allez, Madame, and Sondra.

  “Voodoo makes miracles. Voodoo makes spells.” With her fist, she felled Allez. Men rushed forward, and she shouted, “Leave him be. It’s a test of his faith.”

  The crowd fell back, because Marie, herself, seemed ten feet tall. Her voice resonated with three voices—ancient Guédé who sang the sound of a terrible death.

  A guard fired a gun. Marie raised her hand, folding her fingers over metal and gunpowder. The guard stumbled backward, dropping his gun. Several more guards abandoned their posts.

  The crowd was mesmerized, watching a miracle, watching Marie, the Voodoo Queen. All their lives they’d seen brutality, even caused it; never had they witnessed such a rift between good and evil. A glimpse of powers beyond their world.

  Madame held on to Sondra as if she were a shield.

  “It isn’t time for her to die,” said the Guédé/Marie. “Your time is coming soon.”

  Madame blanched.

  Allez struggled to his feet.

  “Look,” said Guédé/Marie, her voice resonant with disaster.

  Everyone looked upward. Fire spontaneously lit the mansion’s curtains. One by one, the windows, the multitude of eyes were alight. The women spirits were at work.

  Drummers stopped drumming; men screamed; dancers and young girls ran into the bayou.

  Allez shouted, “Water.”

  “Stay,” said Guédé/Marie, and Allez couldn’t move, his limbs paralyzed, his body held tight by a Guédé.

  Madame DeLaCroix pleaded, “Mercy.”

  Fury bubbling inside, the Guédé/Marie spoke, “You’ll traverse the world without end. Ever lonely. Ever undead, dead without end.”

  Madame let Sondra go. Prostrate on the ground, she cried, “Mercy.”

  “Run,” said the Guédé/Marie to Sondra. “Hide.”

  The two girls in white, intended as Sondra’s sacrificial companions, wailed, restless, confused.

  The Guédé/Marie blew kisses. “Run. Hide.”

  Marie lifted her arms skyward and wide. She exhaled and the second Guédé flew out of her mouth. He moved with grace, efficiency. He moved, touching a lock of hair, a shoulder, a leg, a hand. He caressed a man’s face. Any and all that he touched fell down dead.

  Men were screaming, scurrying from the demon they couldn’t see. Flames were licking the roof, running down vines, leaping across trellis, slats, and dry moss. The air was acrid, smoke-filled, cackling as sparks wafted high.

  The snake on the cross uncoiled, inching down onto the altar.

  DeLaCroix made the sign of the cross. “Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”

  Marie and Madame; niece and aunt. Family yet enemies.

  The Guédé/Marie clasped Madame’s throat and squeezed. Marie’s hands felt gloved, encased in cotton—she couldn’t feel her aunt’s flesh, the blood pulsing through veins. Madame flailed, a scream trapped in her throat. The Guédé’s hands tightened.

  “No, Marie.” It was Reneaux, his voice like a gust of wind. “Leave it to the police.”

  The Guédé pressed with renewed vigor. Madame would die.

  “No, Marie. Don’t let this happen. You’d never forgive yourself. Choose.”

  Choose. Yes, she could choose.

  “Guédé, go.”

  The Guédé-loas flew out of her mouth. Madame fell, gasping.

  “Reneaux!” Marie searched, but he was gone. Disappeared like the Guédé. Without a trace, without a sound, no breeze echoing her lover’s voice.

  The house was burning out of control. Heat washed over her; black and red smoke reached the clouds. People scurried like rats in a maze, trapped by fire, smoke, and swamp. The Sleeping Beauties were dying. Marie dried her tears.

  The snake was curled on the altar—thick, gray skin with specks of yellow coiled like a never-ending spiral. Marie stroked it. It was cool; its mouth yawned.

  “Damballah, are you there?”

  Allez’s kingdom had fallen. Bodies twisted in the dirt. Grown men beat the ground crying. One man was on his knees, hands clasped in prayer. Women huddled, their dresses bathed in gray flecks of smoke, burning particles of wood. Car engines roared as drivers left their masters; some intrepid souls ran into the swamp, preferring their chances in crocodile-infested waters. Only one man stood his ground—the jockey man, his lips pressed into a grotesque smile.

  Kind Dog barked. Allez was coming toward her.

  “You don’t frighten me.”

  “You frighten me. You, with all your outrageous powers. You, touched by the divine.”

  Marie laughed, hearing the hysteria in her voice.

  Allez was serious. He was no longer the arrogant spoiler. Or the criminal who hurt without forethought or afterthought. His coldness and power had been stripped away. He was a supplicant.

  “Join me,” she said.

  “I will. I do.”

  “I require a test of your faith.”

  “Yes,” he said, unmindful of the fire, the danger, eager like a novitiate to prove his worth. “Yes, Maman Marie.”

  “Maman Marie,” echoed Madame DeLaCroix, rocking, her arms wrapped about her abdomen. “I never meant to hurt my daughter. Allez convinced me. I never knew she was pregnant. Never knew she bore a child with a caul.”

  “It was my seed that made the miracle.” Allez slapped his chest, shouting fiercely. “My seed. Maman Marie, we could reshape the world.”

  Marie was sickened. She picked up the snake. It was beautiful, strong. In the firelight, its skin reflected rainbows. She murmured, “Damballah, are you there?”

  Long, long ago, Marie Laveau set a snake against John.

  She held the snake’s head close to her mouth, whispering, “Damballah, if I’m really yours, really your priestess, then take Allez. Make justice right in this world.”

  She offered the snake to Allez. “Take it, Allez. I won’t force you.”

  “I know this story. Your namesake murdered John this way.”

  “Marie never murdered him.”

  “You’re saying John lacked faith. That’s why he died, isn’t it?”

  She said nothing.

  Skin damp, breathing harsh and uneven, he spoke urgently, “John never believed in the divine.”

  “Do you believe?”

  “I’ve been searching all my life.” He held open his arms.

  Damballah slid from her arms to his.

  What was it Laveau had said? “Because of what you did to me, to Maman, Grandmère.” None of it had changed. Two centuries. The same scene of vengeance was being played out.

  Her soul hurt. Her mother was dead; her grandmother was an old woman who’d cowered before her daughter, afraid to save a grandchild or great-grandchild who needed love and care.<
br />
  Hysteria threatened. “Don’t get emotional.”

  The snake hung like a rope in Allez’s arms, its tail and head dragging in the dirt; then, as if on cue, the snake blinked, lifted its head, and curled up Allez’s arm, traversing his chest.

  “Allez makes miracles. Allez makes spells.” He was spellbound, watching the snake, feeling it slither, curling about his body.

  Madame was moaning, “Have mercy, have mercy. Hail, Mary, full of grace.”

  The snake squeezed . . . and squeezed. Slowly, inexorably, as Allez waited for the divine, waited for the gods to bless him, his flesh tightening, his muscles bruised, his ribcage straining, ready to crack.

  Marie turned her back on him. The jockey man saluted, and Marie understood that he’d been the insider, using the undead girls’ bodies as clues. Should she thank him? Or challenge him for not having enough courage to call the police, to save the girls outright? But what did she know of his motives, the frailties that might’ve hampered him?

  Severs stood over Allez’s body (his legs twisted awkwardly, his eyes popped wide). Far away, almost like a dream, sirens wailed.

  “End of a career,” Severs mumbled. He looked at her. “I could tell you why I did it, how I was seduced, trapped.”

  “I don’t want to hear.”

  Madame crawled forward in the dirt. “He’s dead.”

  “It’s over,” said Severs.

  “He’s dead,” Madame repeated.

  “A test of his faith.”

  “You’ll murder me, too.”

  “No,” Marie answered. She crouched beside her. “You’re not a daughter, not my mother’s sister . . . not my aunt . . . nor grandmother to your grandchild. You’re nothing in this world.”

  The Guédé appeared, nodding, in unison, their hats in their hands.

  “I see them. I see them.”

  “Your miracle at last.”

  “My miracle at last.” She clutched Marie’s hand. “This is what my granddaughter will see?”

  “Most likely more.” There were a host of loas, not just Guédé, black-faced gentlemen guarding death.

  “One of my descendants with sight.”