The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “Thanks for the shirt.”

  “You look good in it. I didn’t peek, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I am.”

  “Cajun honor.” He raised his hand in a Boy Scout salute. He set a plate of scrambled eggs on the table. The tomatoes had been sliced and looked like lazy, blood-red eyes.

  She believed him. “I could’ve cooked eggs,” she said, sitting at the table.

  “Really?” he asked, grinning. He pulled two beers from the fridge, opened both, then handed her one and sat across from her.

  “Isn’t it too early for alcohol?”

  “Beer is mother’s milk in the bayou. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. It’ll keep you strong.”

  “Is that the medical doctor speaking?”

  “Country boy.”

  “It really is different here.”

  “Didn’t you know beer is one of folk medicine’s greatest inventions?”

  She smiled wanly. She couldn’t bring herself to cut into the tomatoes and see red juice draining on the plate. The eggs reminded her of brain matter.

  K-Paul lifted the plate and put it in the kitchen sink.

  “You’re different here.”

  “You bet. But it isn’t paradise. When I was a boy, I used to think that.” He straddled the kitchen chair. “But humanity always ruins paradise. It’s our nature.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You first,” he smiled. Then, he leaned forward, elbows on the wooden table. “Who killed Huan?”

  “Walker murdered Huan thinking she was me. I’m sure of it.”

  “And who’s Walker?”

  “An albino, white-haired rat. Some kind of detective, I think. Or private agent, a hired assassin. NOPD’s police captain was frightened of him, or else of the power he represented. Whatever, he had Beauregard wrapped around his finger.”

  Marie told him all the concrete, literal things. Everything she knew—about the murdered family, Nana and her grandsons, about Aaron’s lying, Beauregard’s stalling, and especially about Walker, threatening her.

  “Why threaten you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not supposed to care about a murdered family? None of it makes sense.”

  K-Paul pulled another set of beers from the fridge. Freckles and downy hair, more gold than red, dusted his back.

  “Tell me about it,” he said again, his voice quieter. “What’ve you left unsaid?”

  Through the front window, she could see the blue-green landscape. Paradise. Yet given the right circumstances, it could also be a rural dreamscape every bit as frightful as city terrors.

  “I’ve seen visions, ghosts. Seen the murdered father trying to protect his family. Seen slick black threads shadowing, taunting me. Trails of viscous black spreading across earth, burying any green.” Her breath quickened.

  “Marie-Claire drew a trinity of waves. She’s never done that before. Never made a painting of symbols, signs, before.” She shook her head in wonderment.

  “Afterward I saw a mermaid in the Mississippi. And just before the shooting, some kind of shape-shifter—male and female . . .”

  “You mean a transvestite? Or someone transsexual, transgender?”

  “No, a spirit, more like a mythic being. Prehistoric. It healed its own wound—” her voice pitched high; hysteria was creeping in. She was frustrated because of her inability to make sense of the spirit world.

  “At the hospital, didn’t you see me with a patient? It would’ve been just before Huan’s death.”

  “I saw you with Will.”

  She swallowed a cry. “Will saw me with Will even before it was me. I know, I’m not making any sense.”

  Think, Marie, she told herself. Think. Breathe. She dug her nails into her palms.

  “Prehistory. Nana had two clay statues—one was a mermaid. Except, nothing like western sirens, its body was teal; its face, brown. The other statue was dual gendered, with breasts and a penis. One side of its face, short haired and like a man’s; the other, long haired and like a woman’s.”

  “These were Nana’s gods?”

  “Yes, I think so. Neither is worshipped in modern ceremonies. Or at least not as far as I know. Not here in Louisiana.” She swallowed hard. “Both appeared to me. I’m not sure why. I’ve had visitations from both.”

  “When did you see them?”

  “The mermaid loa appeared just before Deet told me of Nana’s death. The other appeared just before Huan’s murder. It also knew about Nana, knew about her final words to me.

  “In the hospital, it said: ‘Watch for the waters,’ a direct echo of Nana’s ‘Mind’—not ‘mine’?—the waters’?”

  “I’m confused.”

  “No more than me.”

  K-Paul reached for her hands. “Puzzle it out, Marie. DuLac had faith in you.”

  She closed her eyes, blocking out light so she could better see the interconnections, remember what she might have forgotten.

  She spoke slowly. “Mythic systems, both western and eastern, posit that in the beginning, gods made humanity androgynous. Plato imagined the first humans as circular beings embodied with both sexes. He would’ve interpreted Genesis—‘Male and female, He created them’—as meaning humanity was complete, dual gendered within itself.

  “To be perfect, godlike, is to reconcile both sides of one’s being—the feminine as well as the masculine.”

  “So the gods were dual gendered? Early humanity was made in God’s image?”

  “Yes. Historically and cross-culturally, androgyny resonates. Hindus, Aztecs . . . native cultures throughout the Americas embodied concepts of dual-gendered beings/spirits. One interpretation of the Judeo-Christian expulsion from Eden is that humanity, as punishment for its hubris, was split into two beings, creating the division of the sexes. Punishing humanity forever to search for his/her other half. For completeness.”

  “That’s why sex, right? To fit your other half, to become a four-armed, four-legged creature again.”

  “Yes.”

  “I like sex.”

  “So do I.” Companionably, she smiled and felt as if gloom had lifted, the sun had broken through clouds.

  “What if this spirit Nana worshipped,” she continued, “is primeval, from a time before humanity, a time when only gods, spirit-loas, existed?”

  “A pre-western kind of spiritual shaman?”

  “Yes. If humanity began in Africa, it follows that faith did, too, and I believe this shaman figure was/is ancient. Older than disaporic manifestations of African faith, older than known African and African-American spiritual traditions . . . older than the traditions normally practiced by slaves.”

  “So maybe it’s an aspect of a legacy brought by a particular tribe—”

  “Or a particular slave.”

  “A religious man—”

  “Or woman. A spirit that’s faded from cultural memory, except for DeLaire.

  “DeLaire’s an isolated community not quite in sync with modern times, more in sync with enslaved central and western Africans. Like the Geechee, the Gullah community off the sea islands. American slavery began in the 1500s; its estimated twelve million survived the middle passage. Of those millions, who knows exactly what religious variant they practiced? Or what obscure gods they believed in?”

  “Such as double-gendered beings capable of shifting between genders?”

  “Yes. Kin to shape-shifters, maybe. But legends suggest shape-shifters, with each transformation, find it more difficult to change form. They risk being stuck in one shape forever. The creature I saw was fluid. Transforming, changing features as easy as—”

  “What?”

  “Water.” Arrested, she inhaled, trying to make sense. Her head ached.

  The mermaid was dual natured—fish and human. But it hadn’t transformed.

  How were the spirits connected? What were they called? Why did Nana worship both?

  She tilted forward, asking earnestly, “Didn’t you see him/her at the hospital?”<
br />
  K-Paul shook his head.

  “He—it—had a wound on his arm. It healed.”

  “What else?”

  “Then she—it—healed Will.”

  Elbows on the table, Marie rested her head in her hands. “Funny, I always see El. Never DuLac. I expect I’ll see Huan.” She looked up at K-Paul. “Did you know Huan believed in animism? As in voodoo, for her the world was brimming with spirits. She also believed in ancestor worship.”

  “The living should make provisions for the dead?”

  “Yes. Especially for those who died violently. Otherwise, out of bitterness, the dead might harm the living.”

  “That’s not Huan.”

  “No. But after her killer is arrested, I’ll make provisions for her. I know her family will, too. Mine will just be extra love.”

  In her mind, she could see it. On her home altar, she’d add ponytail bands and ribbons for Huan’s hair, bits of rice, a picture of Vietnam, and even a tiny pink umbrella, the kind used to garnish drinks. Even dead, she thought Huan would get the joke, bob her head, and smile.

  Marie watched K-Paul. He’d gotten up, placed his untouched plate in the sink with hers, and grabbed two more bottles of beer.

  “I’m freaking you out, aren’t I?” She was still drinking her first beer; K-Paul opened his third and drank it down.

  K-Paul never said anything, either positive or negative, about her spiritual abilities. He admired her hospital skills, understood the edge intuition and faith gave her. He’d been there when a vampire spirit had possessed her in the ER. And he knew DuLac and El, both trained in medicine, had been believers who believed in her.

  He opened one of her untouched bottles, swigged deeply, and then laid his hands on the table. He had soft, magical hands able to feel a pulse, palpate an abdomen, and massage a heart. She swore he had his own special talents—extraordinary medical skills.

  “My people been in Louisiana since Le Grand Dérangement, the Great Expulsion, when the British evicted us from Acadia.”

  “You mean eastern Canada. The Maritime provinces?”

  “Yes. Acadia was a French colony. It was supposed to be our promised land.” K-Paul’s gaze unfocused, as if he were having an internal vision, seeing his homeland. Forced migration was ordered by the British governor and the Nova Scotia Council 1755 to 1763. Today, we’d call it ethnic cleansing. Thousands of French colonists were maimed, killed.” His expression bleak, he drank.

  Marie waited, knowing she’d uncovered one of K-Paul’s profound wounds.

  He went on: “Most, but not all, my people escaped to Louisiana. We’ve been in America a long, long time. Through Spanish and American rule, we held tight to our native culture. Good food, good fellowship, and faith. Over time, us, French Acadians, became proud Louisianan Cajuns. ‘Let the good times roll.’ ‘Laissez les bon temps roulez.’

  “Still,” he turned his chair backward, and sat, his knees bent, his hands holding tight to the chair rails. “I’m a good Catholic boy, which means I believe in the unseen. Mysteries.

  “Just cause folks paint God as white and male, I never bought it.” He looked around, got up, and ambled toward the screen door. “I think God is right here. In Nature. This bayou.”

  “You’ve always worn that crucifix?”

  “Since confirmation. My father whittled it for me. From cypress bark.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Died in a fishing accident. ’Bout ten years ago. My mother died two years afterward, never fully recovering from losing Pa. It was Pa’s dream that I doctor. Said hardworking people, poor people, died too soon. Said I should help.”

  K-Paul turned from the screen, looked at Marie, and said earnestly, “Just because I don’t see what you see doesn’t mean I disbelieve.”

  Overwhelmed, Marie murmured, “I don’t know anything. I wasn’t a good enough friend to Huan. All these years, working together, I knew nothing about you. Nothing about your background, your past. I don’t know anything.”

  “Plenty. You know plenty. I don’t understand your powers, but I’ve seen how you use them. You always help.”

  “Everyone around me dies.”

  “Nature of life. Nature of evil.”

  She stretched her arms on the table, and laid her head on them. “It should’ve been me. Not Huan.”

  K-Paul stroked her still-damp hair.

  She felt like Marie-Claire, getting comfort. It mattered to her that K-Paul believed her, believed in her. She hadn’t realized how much strength she’d drawn from El’s and DuLac’s, even Huan’s, belief in her.

  Trembling, she sat up straight. “I’ve been warned. Over and over. But I can’t figure out what it all means. Marie-Clarie’s drawing, the mermaid, the oil slick—”

  “What oil slick?”

  “At least that’s what I think it was. A kind of oozing darkness, threading like veins out of the ground, organic, yet not. A black oil-like substance covering the ground, pooling, where the L’Overture family died.”

  “It’s either oil or it’s not. Let’s go see.”

  “We can’t.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “It was a vision. An apparition. I didn’t really see it. I mean, I did. But you couldn’t see it.”

  K-Paul swung open the refrigerator, grabbed another beer from his endless supply, and snapped its tab.

  “You think I’m crazy?” she asked.

  Nonstop, he swigged beer, then crushed the empty can. He stared out the window.

  “K-Paul?”

  “Only two words I really understand. Oil and water. That’s all Louisiana’s ever been about.”

  K-Paul’s shadow stretched behind him on the floor. Neither man nor shadow moved.

  She’d seen this stillness in K-Paul when he was diagnosing a challenging case. He seemed entranced, like worshippers during her ceremonies. Except she knew it wasn’t the spiritual infusing him. He was connecting with intuition grounded in scientific fact.

  She slipped on her tennis shoes, opened the screen door, and stepped outside, leaving K-Paul space to think.

  Heat settled on her shoulders like melted butter.

  She stared at the Gulf. This was where the Mississippi ended. The largest river slicing America for over 2,300 miles. A great river mingling with Gulf waters mingling with the ocean.

  Mind the water.

  She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket. It was reassuring to see Parks’s text. Reassuring that even after a breakup, he’d fly to Louisiana.

  She trembled, wondering whether Parks would reach Marie-Claire in time. Of course he would. He was Parks.

  She pressed for voice mail. No cell signal. No disembodied voice coming through the small metal speakers. She tapped the tiny screen. The signal bars were faded, dead.

  “You need a cell booster.” The screen door slammed; birds fluttered out of trees; brush creatures scampered.

  “You startled me.”

  “Here. Use my phone. I need to get Riley. He’s a friend, a biologist. Used to work for public health. Did some environmental activism. Now he mostly fishes. Drinks.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “But Riley knows this land better than anyone. Knows about water, oil. I think you need to talk with him.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Riley doesn’t have a phone. Or even electricity. I’ll row down to him. If he’s not at home, it might take a while. He’s got a couple of regular fishing holes. We’ll return in Riley’s airboat. That all right? You’ll be all right while I’m gone?”

  “I’m a ‘big girl,’ as Marie-Claire would say.”

  “Yeah, one people shoot at.” K-Paul winced. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to remind you—”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Huan’s death wasn’t your fault.”

  She stared at the blue waters.

  “You should be safe here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Barefoot, K-Paul headed for his boat, slipping the rope off its
mooring.

  He jumped into the boat, his back muscles rippling as he moved the oars. The small craft sliced through water.

  Marie wiped her eyes with her sleeves. Mourn later, she told herself.

  She opened K-Paul’s cellphone, pressing numbers. At first, there was nothing but static, followed by silence, then, without a ring, she heard, “Parks.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Marie-Claire?”

  “My plane’s just landed. Need to pick up the rental car. I should be with her soon.”

  Relieved, Marie murmured, “Thank you.”

  “You know, everybody’s leaving New Orleans,” said Parks. “Few flights landing, mostly leaving. Did you hear? Katrina did major damage in Florida. Right now, she’s back at sea.”

  “But she’s heading west,” she said, alarmed.

  “Meteorologists think it could go either way. Katrina could become wind starved, turn into a storm or a tropical depression. Or she could catch her breath and turn inland.”

  “Heading straight for New Orleans.” Her legs lost strength. She sat on the porch steps. Her dream was a foretelling of Katrina. Bodies, floating, flashed in her mind.

  “Yeah, I didn’t want to say.”

  “Get Marie-Claire out of New Orleans,” she said urgently.

  “If it comes to that, I will. Where are you, Marie?”

  “On the Gulf.”

  “Delta land? I’d feel better if you were the hell out of there.”

  “Can’t. Something else is going on. Something, but I don’t know what—connected to Katrina. Get Marie-Claire out of the city.”

  “We’ll wait for you.”

  “Don’t. Go.”

  “We’ll wait for you,” he said, loudly, then, softly, “I’ll wait for you.”

  “Parks—”

  “We’ll wait for you.”

  “Parks,” she pleaded. She could hear his labored breath, imagine his jaw, squared and stubborn.

  Were they true loves searching for each other? Her heart ached. She was running out of time. Maybe she’d never know. Never get a second chance. There were multiplying dangers—Katrina; Walker; warnings from ancient spirits; and the L’Overture murders not far from the Mississippi’s mouth.