She could see stars, the shadows on the moon.
“Here.”
She flipped over, treading water.
The mermaid was before her.
“Wata.”
Wata opened her arms and Marie swam into the cool, watery embrace.
“Mine the water.”
“Yes, it is yours,” Marie answered.
“Mind the water.”
An explosion of greens, blues, ripped through Marie’s mind. She felt fluid, without form. She was Wata, swimming.
“Come.” She was diving deep, breathing inside the waters. Exultant, she saw creatures stirring. Catfish. Shrimp. Alligators floating in brackish waters.
Yet she could see more clearly than she’d ever seen before. Even polluted, she felt the vibrancy of Gulf life.
“Water goddesses once ruled,” said Wata. “We nourished the world.”
Marie wanted to shout with joy. Free, unbound, she felt Mami Wata’s power. Felt herself a mermaid, swimming, traveling upstream to the Mississippi’s start. They reached the cold waters of Lake Itasca, then turned south.
Wata, pregnant with rich soil, was flowing down through America’s heart. But as water rushed, as she and Wata swam over rock, granite, sand, the waters became less clear, fouled by pesticides, metals, and solvents. Worse, she felt Wata’s pain at being banked, dammed, cut off from her natural course.
Down, down they swam through eddies and currents, twists and curves, until they reached the widening Gulf.
“No place to be,” said Wata. “No place to nourish land. Give birth.”
She felt Mami Wata’s pain. She felt she was dying, just as Mami Wata was dying, fading from the New World.
Disrespect. Forgetfulness. Poisons were undoing the goddess. Unlike Charyn, Wata only served good. She gave and didn’t require self-sacrifice.
“I create,” said Mami Wata, her voice sounding like music. “I make worlds.”
“I understand.” Marie felt the womanist connection. Creating life, a fertile world, these were the enduring blessings.
As quickly as she’d come, Wata disappeared. She was no longer inside Marie, no longer in the warm Gulf waters.
Marie felt bereft, as wet and cold as a newborn.
Wata had followed her children from Africa to America, only to have the New World disrespect her life-giving waters.
“Wata?” she called, hoping to feel the spirit.
There was no response, no answering call.
Religions, faiths evolved. Everyone, including herself, had forgotten Mami Wata.
Marie prayed, “Mami Wata, by my ancestress Marie Laveau, by the love given to you by Nana, I promise to honor you. To encourage better care of your waters.”
Marie floated, drifting farther into the Gulf.
She felt life—kelp, shrimp, and microorganisms thriving in the water. Sand particles and algae twirled in the water, brushed against her skin.
“I promise,” she said, “to honor you. Always. I won’t let you be forgotten.”
Then, as if all the stars had fallen, she saw diamond specks, floating, twinkling in the water. The entire Gulf was vibrant with light.
Mami Wata rose. Legs fused, her body, sea blue, her hair cascading down her back, Wata spun above the waters, coloring the sky with rainbows. Colors of love, grace, and rebirth.
“You are me,” Wata murmured. “See,” she said, insistently. “See.”
On the horizon, there was a gathering darkness.
Marie felt dread.
“See.” Water and sky parted, and Marie saw, in the distance, another horizon where a monstrous hurricane fed.
“No,” Marie screamed.
Mami Wata pulled her inside the storm. She felt herself shattering inside the violent swirl of wind and rain.
“Mine . . . mind the waters,” said Wata.
A blessing and a curse.
“Nature heals.”
Then the vision disappeared.
The sky cleared. Mami Wata floated serenely on blue waters.
But Marie couldn’t undo her terror.
She understood. A ferocious storm was growing, coming to cleanse the Gulf waters, to undo the river’s dams.
“Wata, please. I will honor you. But please, keep DeLaire safe, keep Brenda and her child safe.”
Wata’s head tilted. The approaching storm would free her, wash away poisons in her water.
“Please.”
Wata, like all the gods, was passionate; but they were just as imperfect as people. Wata had called the hurricane, but she hadn’t considered the consequences.
The hurricane would be a horrific, sawing vortex of wind and rain.
Marie could see it tearing at the vulnerable marsh, see it moving, slowly, destructively, up the coast, toward New Orleans.
She started crying, her tears blending with Wata’s waters.
“Mami Wata, protect us. Please. Use your powers to keep DeLaire, Brenda, and her child safe.”
She couldn’t change the course set by Mami Wata. But she prayed for grace, for charity.
“Please, Mami Wata.” Water roughed by incoming wind washed over her face. “Please. Keep DeLaire, Brenda, and her child, safe.”
Mami Wata dove deep into her waters.
Marie swam with all her might. She swam through surf, swam through the soon-to-be storm-tossed waters, channeling fear. The hurricane would hit the Gulf first.
Her mind balked at the thought of the hurricane reaching the city. New Orleans. She couldn’t imagine it.
Lungs aching, she stepped onto sand, slipped on her T-shirt and jeans, and started running for her and everyone else’s life.
FOURTEEN
NANA’S HOUSE
BEFORE DAWN
“K-Paul,” said Marie.
Brenda was on her side, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
“What is it?”
“Katrina. It’s a major hurricane. Headed here and for New Orleans.”
“We’ll have to ride it out.”
“I’ve got to call Parks. How can we let the DeLaire residents know?”
“There’s a horn. Down by the docks.” Brenda, her face slick, her hands wrapped about her stomach, said, “I’ll be all right. You don’t have to stay.”
“Of course we’ll stay,” said Marie. “Don’t you worry.” But she was worried. “Give me your cell, K-Paul. I’ll call Parks. Louise and Marie-Claire.”
“I’ll go. Sound the alarm,” he said.
“No, let me do this.” She felt guilty because she hadn’t correctly interpreted the signs.
Brenda moaned.
K-Paul murmured, “The contractions are becoming more regular.” He handed Marie his cell.
“Tell the baby to hurry, K-Paul.”
Marie was out the door, down the porch steps. Nana’s yard was empty, sad looking. She could smell the wetness in the air.
“Parks?”
“I’m here.”
“Marie-Claire?”
“She’s fine. So’s that dog. Louise’s upset because he peed on the carpet.”
Marie laughed, then, inexplicably, she started to cry.
“You okay?”
“Get Marie-Claire out of New Orleans.”
“Yeah. I know. Weatherman just said ‘category five.’ Louise is packing Marie-Claire’s clothes now.”
“Just go,” she said. “Leave now. Don’t wait. Now.”
“You know something.”
Parks, who used to doubt her sight, now trusted her implicitly.
“Do you want to say good-bye to Marie-Claire?”
“She’s sleeping, right?” She could see her daughter with Beau curled next to her. “Let her sleep. Bundle her into the car and just go. As far and fast as you can.”
She could hear Parks breathing. “Doc . . . Marie, I love you.” He paused. “See you in Baton Rouge?”
“Yes.”
IV
Mississippi, the Great River diverted,
Mami Wata cried; so, t
oo, her Yemaya,
And all her sisters.
FIFTEEN
NANA’S HOUSE
MIDMORNING
Stubborn and suspicious, none of the DeLaire residents evacuated. They wouldn’t listen to her. She wasn’t Nana, so why should they believe her? Why was Katrina worse than any other storm?
“Go,” she’d said. “It’ll be bad.”
“We’ll stay,” said Tommy. And all the sad-eyed, disease-ridden residents had shuffled back to their homes.
She placed the clay statue of Mami Wata on Nana’s nightstand. K-Paul had taken the Jeep to scavenge supplies in town. Humidity was high, and thunder crackled on the horizon. Katrina was coming and Marie guessed she’d come at night. Brenda slept fitfully as her body erratically labored.
Marie wished they were at Charity. She was worried that a C-section would be needed, that the baby would need intensive care.
She held Brenda’s hand, praying for the strength to make things right.
“It’s going to be a girl,” said Brenda, sleepily. “Nana told me so.”
“You should rest, Brenda. You’ve got a ways to go.”
“I know. It’s gonna be a storm baby. Nana told me so.”
Marie smiled. “Nana was right.”
Brenda was looking at her with blind trust. It felt as if the two of them were the only people left in the world. Nature was creating a fury. Bayou country would be hurt bad, but the city would be hurt worse.
She needed to survive and return to New Orleans.
She thought she heard K-Paul’s car. Brenda’s eyes were closed. She thought she’d slip outside. Just for a moment. Just to see K-Paul’s smiling face.
Gently, she slipped her hand from Brenda’s fingers.
Marie stepped outside. She shuddered. The sky was already darkening. Wind whipped the waves and you could hear them crashing onto shore.
Birds had disappeared. Animals had run to ground. There was no sound. No signs of life.
The road was empty. She’d made a mistake. K-Paul hadn’t returned. She only wished that he had.
Marie sighed, rubbed the back of her neck. She felt as if she’d aged a hundred years. Coffee. She’d make coffee.
She touched the screen door’s handle. A shadow dulled the silver mesh.
Before she could turn, a hand covered her mouth while another hand gripped her waist, hard.
A scream caught in her throat.
“You need to be taught manners.” Walker. His pale, translucent hands gripped her.
She squirmed, trying to pull away.
Walker twisted her around, fast and deadly. His hands were now pinching, twisting her throat. She couldn’t scream; she didn’t have enough air. The constant pressure on her throat was inflaming muscle, tendons, pinching her carotid artery. Soon her esophagus would be crushed.
She summoned her strength, scratching, tugging at Walker’s arms and hands.
She thought of Marie-Claire. Her daughter had already endured so much.
“The world can be hard on women.”
But it shouldn’t be hard on a child.
She fought desperately, but Walker was strong. She let her body relax and focused on calling, “K-Paul.”
She closed her eyes, blocking out Walker’s albino-faced rage. She was lightheaded, dying.
K-Paul.
Her neck was released. She gasped.
K-Paul slammed Walker into the wall, then, gripping his collar, shoved Walker backward. He fell, tumbling down the porch steps.
Calmly, K-Paul fired his rifle. Twice. Once into Walker’s heart, the second time into his forehead.
Blood flowed, staining the ground red.
K-Paul knelt to check for a pulse. The impulse was automatic. He reached inside Walker’s pocket and opened his wallet. “Vivco. Head of security.”
Marie didn’t say anything. She was glad to be alive. She was transfixed by the river of Walker’s blood, purple-red, soaking into the soil.
K-Paul, stood, kicking aside his rifle.
Marie thought he was in shock. Doctors saved lives, they didn’t take them.
Marie embraced him.
“I heard you,” he kept repeating. “I heard you.”
“Ssh,” she said, holding him closer, feathering his face with kisses. “It’s all right. Thank you. Thank you for saving my life.”
SIXTEEN
NANA’S HOUSE
EVENING
This is the way the world ends. Wood straining, rain beating like pellets on windows, and a howling wind.
Hurricane Katrina had touched down on the coast.
Brenda’s baby was trying to push her way into the world.
There were no voodoo drummers, no special sacrifices for the gods. No faithful followers. No possession.
It was just her. And K-Paul. And Brenda. And a baby eager for life.
In her bones, she knew Parks had Marie-Claire safe in Baton Rouge.
K-Paul was anxious. “We should’ve gotten the hell out.”
“There’s no place to go.”
The kitchen window shattered. “Marie, I’m not sure this shack can last.”
“I don’t want to die,” Brenda whined, alternating between fear and pain.
Thunder rumbled; outside, they could hear trees and branches snapping.
“Don’t push. Not yet,” pleaded K-Paul.
Marie saw John, Mimi, and the infant L’Overture. Was this a sign that they’d all die, too?
She stared at the statue of Mami Wata, praying, “Still the waters. Still the storm. Please. Still the waters.”
The cottage shuddered, a wind squall threatened to rip the house from its foundation.
K-Paul reached for her across the bed. Clasping hands, they used their bodies to shield Brenda.
Then there was silence, as if the wind had parted like waves, leaving the cottage safe, an island of calm.
“The storm’s turning.”
Mami Wata had spared them and DeLaire from the brunt of the hurricane.
“ ’Bout time.” Sweat dampened K-Paul’s shirt. He felt Brenda’s pulse, touched her brow and abdomen.
“Something’s wrong. The birth canal’s still constricted. Or else the baby’s breech. I’m not sure which. Everything feels right, but it’s not. Something’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Brenda. “Save my baby. Please.”
Marie picked up the figurine of Mami Wata. Then she saw El. Nana. Her ancestor Marie.
Heal.
“I am,” she said, touching Brenda’s abdomen, “Marie Laveau.”
Brenda quieted. Marie could feel the baby beneath her fingers, moving in her mother’s body. She could feel the irregular pulse of her heart.
Medically, nothing was available to save Brenda’s child. The baby was premature. Toxins had probably affected her. There’d been no prenatal care.
Brenda clasped her hand. “Save us.”
K-Paul was watching her, too, expecting a miracle.
She was Marie. She had to do this—become extraordinary when need demanded it.
She closed her eyes. “Mami Wata, bless me. Make me special.”
She kept thinking she’d been brought to Louisiana for a reason. She’d been brought to heal and encourage life.
She murmured, “When medicine fails, faith begins. Pray, K-Paul.”
He made the sign of the cross. “I believe in you, Marie.”
“Me, too,” Brenda whispered, faltering, drained by her labor.
“I believe in me. Marie Laveau. I believe in Mami Wata. The goddess who gave birth to the world with her waters.”
Marie touched Brenda’s abdomen. Light sprang from her fingertips. She stroked the flesh covering the baby and felt the child move. She murmured: “You need to be strong for this world. The world can be hard. But you’ll survive.”
She felt the baby turn, ever so slowly, swimming in the birth canal. She felt its tiny fingers reaching toward her palm.
Her body was hot, filled wi
th spiritual power.
Ghosts were at the head of the bed—El, Mimi, Nana.
And, inside herself, Marie could feel Mami Wata. She felt, too, Marie Laveau.
The wind, outside, howled louder; a sheet of rain made the house shudder. But she believed it was just the storm’s fiery aftermath, the hurricane was moving on.
“I believe in you, Maman Marie.”
“I believe in you, Brenda. And in my ancestor Marie Laveau. I believe in the sacred waters, the power of Mami Wata.”
K-Paul was staring at her, his love for her glowing on his face.
Marie stroked Brenda’s swollen abdomen—circles and circles of touch and heat. “Heal, little one. Heal.”
She felt the small heart fluttering, then becoming stronger, beating like a tiny, steady drum.
“It’s time,” Marie murmured. “It’s time.”
A contraction, like a rippling wave, moved through Brenda. The baby swam.
K-Paul whooped. “Bear down,” he shouted. “Bear down.”
Brenda marshaled her energy, grunting, bearing down, and expelling her baby.
A tiny, perfectly formed baby slipped out of her mother’s body. Slipped out, bloodied and wailing. Slipped out, her arms and legs flailing.
The spirits faded; Mami Wata dove into clear waters.
Brenda crooned, “My baby. My baby.”
K-Paul bundled the infant in cloth and placed her on her mother’s chest.
Marie felt good.
The hurricane was moving north. Mami Wata had gifted her with grace.
K-Paul embraced her, his chest to her back. She cupped her hands over his. His cheek was pressed against hers.
They watched the baby suckling, heard Brenda vow, “I’m going to be the best mother ever.”
Marie smiled. “You’ll need some help.”
She saw the future. Saw Brenda and her baby, joining her small, but growing family. They were strolling on the Riverwalk. Marie-Claire was the proud big sister. Beau was happy, barking, chasing his tail. Parks was there.
And, of course, K-Paul.
SEVENTEEN
A BAYOU ROAD
THE JOURNEY HOME
They were driving back to New Orleans. To Charity.
Brenda and her baby were asleep, exhausted, curled in the backseat. At the hospital, they’d do a complete exam to make sure mother and daughter were healthy.
The Legend of Marie Laveau Mystery Trilogy Page 60
