The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  The temperature was falling.

  “Sun’s going down,” she said.

  “But the water’s rising. The moon’s almost full, sky high.”

  She and K-Paul held hands, comforting each other, looking out to sea, across the expanse of graves. Normally, she knew water signified life, but here, everything was turned upside down. Even the rainwater that refreshed the air, and fed flowers and plants, could, in an instant, go from shower to storm to destructive hurricane.

  “K-Paul, is it possible that Vivco is still involved? Still poisoning the area?”

  “Possibly.” He whistled sharply. “That’d be a secret worth hiding.”

  “And one worth killing for.”

  “You bet,” said K-Paul.

  “Destroy the land, destroy the people. Maybe that’s what the apparition was signifying. Unnatural substances poisoning the soil. Like the dead zone in the Gulf. Dying land, dead waters. A world falling apart.”

  “The history of Louisiana.”

  “This is what the Guédé were warning about. A rotting world incapable of regeneration.”

  “End of the world. Scientific fact.”

  She shuddered. She’d traveled from Chicago to Louisiana, following the Mississippi River south, to practice medicine at Charity. Amazingly, the trail had led her back to herself, her heritage.

  But was this how her journey would end? Katrina erasing marshes, flooding the Mississippi, the streets, with bodies? A natural disaster.

  She could accept that.

  Oil drilling and processing, damaging what was left? Men—engineers—changing the Mississippi’s course? An unnatural disaster.

  Humanity’s hubris was harder to accept.

  ELEVEN

  L’OVERTURE HOMESITE

  EVENING

  The Jeep rocked, its struts moaning and straining through the unsettled marsh. Occasionally, its wheels spun ineffectively, sucking up mud, trying to right itself as it moved over uneven soil—land, at times, more wet, more oil than earth. For hundreds of years, plantation owners, settlers, and oil companies had tried to tame the land but it remained raw with power.

  Tonight, more than ever, Marie felt the bayou’s nightmarish beauty.

  The Jeep turned left, its headlights sweeping across the L’Overture homesite. Then the beams cut through the humid night, illuminating the small band of DeLaire residents. They were captured in the light’s stream and were startled into inaction, stunned, still, like zombies.

  “Have we gone back in time?” asked K-Paul, pressing hard on the brake.

  “Seems like it. Old school, K-Paul. Like a ritual from an earlier time.”

  The yard was transformed. Someone, with yellow chalk, had drawn a dividing line between the L’Overture home burnt to ash and the rest of the cleared yard.

  They’d made a square of earth for the ceremony, raked a square of dirt and pebbles where the invited loas would be safe. In the middle was an outraged bonfire, trying to lick the moon. Extra fuel, logs and brush kindling, were off to the side.

  Marie’s lips thinned. She was pleased yet displeased. The townsfolk had been busy as bees. They’d even raked away the arsonist’s trench.

  Small stones, painted white, were placed around the bonfire to look like waves and sea foam. She blinked. Shadows and firelight made the stones appear to undulate.

  She focused on centering herself. Fire, oil, and water were intermingling elements. It was her job to understand the spiritual give-and-take.

  K-Paul cut the engine, turned off the Jeep’s headlights.

  The DeLaire residents began moving again, fire-lit silhouettes dressed in white: old, wrinkled men, shirtless, in drawstring pants; women in scooped, ballooning blouses, shuffling in rustling ruffled skirts, their hair bound in cotton scarves.

  “These are the same people who turned against you, aren’t they? When you accused Aaron of destroying the crime scene.”

  “Yes.”

  “Makes them hypocrites, not divine believers. Sorry, Marie. This looks like a bad B movie.”

  Marie nodded. K-Paul was right. The entire scene had an old-fashioned black-and-white-picture quality: deep night; glowing fire; men and women of color in bright white cotton; trees and bushes cast in shadows. Still, she felt an extraordinary latent power.

  “Don’t underestimate them, K-Paul. Hollywood has conditioned us all. They might look less authentic, too, because so many of them are elderly. They’re direct descendants of slaves, perhaps only two generations removed. They’re dying—yet incapable of leaving.”

  “Tied to the land.”

  “Yes. Tied physically, psychically, and spiritually.”

  The small community, a few dozen people, began swaying. Left, right. Left, right. An old two-step. A hum, guttural, heartfelt, yet less insistent than what she remembered from before, rose from their throats.

  Tommy and Nate walked toward the Jeep.

  “K-Paul,” she said, hurriedly. “Help me. Help assess the people’s health. It’s all connected. Then I’ll do a ceremony. Please. Help me add it all up.”

  “I don’t have much medical equipment. Just the basics.”

  “For now, that’s all you’ll need. I want to know if you agree with my earlier assessment. Later, we’ll bring more supplies. More colleagues.”

  K-Paul reached into the back, behind the passenger seat, and grabbed his medical kit. “My rifle’s here, too. Health insurance.”

  “You won’t need it.”

  “Someone tried to kill you, Marie.”

  Tommy and Nate, at the passenger door, interrupted them, their somber faces framed by the window.

  K-Paul clutched Marie’s hand. “Be careful.”

  She squeezed his hand, then swiveled as Tommy opened the passenger door.

  “Maman Marie.” The wounded grocer was gone, replaced by an eager, needy supplicant. “We’ve arranged things as Nana would’ve wanted it. She always wanted you here. Said you’d be back.”

  She took Nate’s proffered hand, stepping out of the Jeep.

  “We didn’t have much time to prepare. Hope you approve.” She could hear Tommy’s pride. Nate grasped her hand as if he were leading her to a dance floor.

  Followers milled about; some, their eyes closed, hummed to the gods; others smiled at her; some, humbled, looked away; and some, intensely curious, stared. But they all had a greedy desperateness. She’d seen it before. Country or city people, it didn’t matter. Everybody had needs to be fulfilled.

  And yet, she felt uneasy, as if some other unidentifiable need was being expressed. She imagined—or did she?—furtive glances, some unspoken communication being exchanged among followers. Like they had a secret to be kept from her.

  K-Paul, the medical kit in his hand, veered right. Charming, smiling, he wooed an old woman, asking her to step aside.

  “This is our altar,” said Tommy to Marie.

  She nodded.

  “These bowls were carved,” added Nate, reverently, his fingers circling the edges, “by ancestors who survived the Middle Passage. They didn’t have mahogany, so they used oak.”

  “They wanted to keep faith,” murmured Tommy. “After all they’d suffered.”

  “Praise be,” she said, feeling reverence and humility for her ancestors’ sacrifice.

  She touched the altar. It was a weathered picnic table, but on it were the most intricately carved cups and bowls, wooden crosses, and statues of the Virgin and St. Peter. Plates were filled with beans, rice, and corn to feed the spirit-loas. Baby catfish were splayed on a platter, cut almost in two, their spines removed. There was a cane for Legba, a hundred small snakes cut deeply into wood; a wooden sword for Ogun, the warrior god. For Erzulie, the voodoo Venus, there was a wooden mirror without reflective glass. It was said that Erzulie was so beautiful, even glass couldn’t capture her glory. Followers would use these props during possession. On the bench seat were sheer, blue-green cloth, seashells, and seaweed, all props for water goddesses. But there weren
’t any statues of water spirits or a statue with both male and female anatomy. It all seemed strange, especially given Nana’s adoration.

  Beneath the picnic table was a wooden crate filled with someone’s prized chicken. She’d never sacrificed animals but most of the world’s religions required blood sacrifices. Catholicism had taken it to an extremely ritualistic weekly communion, “This is my body . . . this is my blood . . .” to honor Christ’s ultimate sacrifice, his crucifixion.

  She bent. Dozens of water-filled bowls—all shapes, colors, and sizes—were beneath the table.

  Nate stooped beside her.

  She smelled him, warm, wet, with a hint of decay.

  He whispered, “Said we were taken from water. Said water’s fury would set us right.”

  “Who said?”

  Nate shook his head, intently watching for her reaction.

  “Nana said,” she said, answering her own question.

  Before her eyes, Nate’s smooth, obsidian skin became fluid, without sinews and bones. Then the male features became more feminine.

  “No, not Nana,” said Nate, standing, walking away.

  If not Nana, who?

  Watching Nate’s retreating back, she suspected the creature that had healed itself in the ER possessed him. Amazing. How could the spirit be here? It reminded her of the wazimamoto, the ancient vampire spirit that came without being called.

  She needed more time. More study. She knew there were often schisms between western medical traditions and folkways rooted in spiritual traditions. She knew it was best to question every assumption, to be open to large and small miracles.

  She looked skyward. Dead stars, sending down light, seemed alive.

  The air was filled with static, electrical, yes, but filled with magic, too.

  She shuddered.

  Nature was becoming wilder, mirroring older spirits that seemed beyond her control.

  The community’s hum was intensifying, a wild, passionate sound, filling the night air.

  “Tommy, take me to the drummers.”

  K-Paul was doing another vitals check, this time on a short, compact man with a concave chest and protruding ribs that seemed to have healed crookedly.

  Tommy passed torches. Rags soaked in oil were elevated on stakes. Night lighting as it had been done centuries before. Burning oil sent black plumes floating into the sky.

  In her city ceremonies, she used halogen bulbs and white mini Christmas lights. She had two drummers, teenage twins, Renee and Raoul, graced and touched by the gods.

  Here, there were six drummers, a line of thin black men with large, calloused hands. Unlike the rest of the DeLaire residents, they were extremely fit. Old men with muscular shoulders and arms. She didn’t remember seeing these men before. She stood, nodding in turn at each, then bowing, curtseying, honoring them all.

  “Maman Marie.” “Eh, yé, yé.” “Maman Marie.” Their voices overlapped and they sounded like six proud fathers offering unconditional love and grace.

  She embraced each man. She tapped each drum, shaped from hardwoods and cow skin.

  During ceremonies, drummers were the honest brokers. They articulated the call-and-response between the voodooienne and the spirit world. Depending upon which loas arrived, and in what order, they managed the rhythms, the herald, the spirit’s passage into a concrete realm. Drumming, during a ceremony, required the same intuitive, improvisational skills of a jazzman.

  The last and lead drummer was the eldest. His face was lined as intricately as a spider’s web. His arms were as tough as knotted cords.

  She cocked her head. “From the beginning, you served Nana.”

  “Up until her death,” the drummer replied.

  “You’ll honor her tonight.” It wasn’t a question.

  “You as well.”

  “What do I call you?”

  “Gabriel. Call me Gabriel.”

  Gabriel was the messenger of God, the archangel who told Mary of her immaculate conception, of Jesus’s expected birth.

  “Do right by me, Gabriel.”

  He touched the charm hung arond his neck. “I always do right by the true.”

  “May I see?” Her hands quivered, holding the charm. She was certain it was Nana’s androgynous statue. Gabriel had taken it . . . stolen it? and created a necklace. Black threads had been tied about the statue’s neck, then the threads were tied to a thin black rope.

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  “Shape-shifter. Medicine man. Medicine woman. Shaman. Healer. Priest. Priestess. The shifter is known by many names. It only matters that it heals, transforms. Inside and out.”

  “Transfiguration?”

  Why did she say that? Was there a metamorphosis?

  Christ transfigured. She, herself, transfigured, becoming more than human when it was required, needed. Becoming a vessel for spiritual grace was an honor. She wasn’t a goddess or Christ or Buddha, she was a human being. Frail and imperfect. Nonetheless, she knew the beauty of spiritual possession.

  Tommy was pulling her arm. “Normally we have our ceremony on shore. Next to water,” he said, dragging her away from Gabriel.

  She ignored his implied criticism; it worried her more that Tommy had purposefully separated her from Gabriel.

  She touched the Mami Wata statue in her pocket, feeling the cool wood, feeling the contrariness of water goddesses versus the earth.

  Did the other spirit, the statue, “take” away? Heal by taking, not giving?

  She looked back at Gabriel. He was cupping his statue, staring, smiling smugly, as if he were the voodooienne, not her. As if she, Marie, was lesser, beholden to him.

  She was far enough away to see drawings on Gabriel’s drum. Stick drawings. Cave drawings. Drawings like those on Nana’s grave. There was a large spirit—perhaps the no-name spirit? Trembling, she focused on the stark figure of the woman, on her knees, ill, clutching her abdomen.

  She looked across the yard. K-Paul, his stethoscope around his neck, the buds lodged in his ear, was monitoring Brenda’s and her baby’s heart.

  “Leave me,” she said to a shocked Tommy. “Please.” She needed space, air, time to escape Nana’s small band of followers.

  Reluctant, Tommy left her, but he still watched her, following her movements.

  Oddly, here, under the open sky, she felt caged.

  What was she missing?

  She crossed the chalk line, crossed from the ceremonial space near the mound cradling the L’Overtures’ remains.

  Seething oil moved beneath ash.

  She saw the L’Overtures, mourning. The infant wrapped in her mother’s arms. A family, a trinity of ghosts.

  Behind her, the bonfire raged.

  Her arms were damp, slick with sweat. She turned, circling, trying to understand where she was—how she’d come to this—how supplicants and drummers could both unnerve her. How Nana’s world had been frozen in time, populated by ancient loas. Loas she was unfamiliar with; loas who, during the African diaspora, transformed; loas who only in this remote corner were still vital and worshipped.

  “El?” she whispered. “Are you there?” She wanted El’s pragmatic comfort.

  Beyond the bonfire and torches was a ravaging darkness. And silence.

  No echoing spiritual call.

  K-Paul came to stand beside her. “You were right, Marie. There’s too much illness to be explained by random circumstances. Active pollution, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

  Was it? She focused on K-Paul’s mouth and words.

  “If Vivco is releasing solvents again, it’d be in violation of environmental law. It’d be repeating criminal behavior. Penalties would be severe, not just financial, but prison time.”

  John L’Overture had been murdered by Vivco. She felt certain. Someone in authority had ordered it and Walker had executed him. Walker had taken pleasure in executing the entire family. Her nails dug into her palms.

  K-Paul started to walk away, but he turned back,
adding, “Marie, some of these illnesses could be long standing, long maturing. But given their condition, not so much their age”—his hand swept toward the DeLaire residents—“most of these folks should’ve died long ago.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “I don’t know. I mean . . .” He scratched his head, stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. He inhaled, blurting, “Some of these folks said they’ve been sick for decades. I mean it’s not possible.”

  “That they survived so long?”

  “Yes. Luella, the woman with the lump in her breast, should’ve been long dead. The cancer should’ve spread to her lungs, abdomen. Another man, Simon, has an open wound on his side, inflamed, with pus. Said it was bad now, but Nana, before she took ill, fixed him up . . . always. For the past thirty years.”

  She knew they were both thinking the same thing. In medicine, doctors knew there were miracles, individual miracles. But an entire community postponing death? In a rational world, a single miracle was one in a million, a group miracle was one in an infinite number.

  Inexplicably, her mind made a leap and she thought, “Sin eater.”

  “What?”

  “Like a sin eater.”

  “The Vatican has banned such claims. There’s no such thing as a sin eater.”

  “Just because the Vatican denies it doesn’t mean there isn’t truth. In medieval times, it was believed that the rich could pay a sin eater to swallow their sins so they could go to heaven. What if there was a way to delay disease—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “It’s a metaphor, K-Paul. What if there was a way of transforming diseased cells, delaying the growth, taking away the impact of the disease?” Her head hurt. What was she thinking? Take away. That had to be it. It was illogical. Yet she knew, in her spiritual world, logic didn’t necessarily triumph. K-Paul was looking at her as if she was crazy; she didn’t blame him.

  She turned quickly, raising her hands high. The humming stopped. She could see their pinched, hungry faces, sense their unfulfilled desires.

  “You’ve suffered a great loss. Tonight’s ceremony is in honor of Nana.”

  Followers nodded, clapped. Tommy was as eager as a boy.