by C. L. Bevill
“I take it they weren’t your pets,” Jane said.
“Not hardly. It was fortunate that the hospital had antivenin on hand. Of course, it’s not like the snakes had serial numbers on them, and their ownership could be traced, so it was difficult to say who was responsible.” The doctor relaxed into the chair and thoughtfully regarded Jane. “I wonder how you were cursed.”
The statement was a question to which Jane had given some thought. She wouldn’t have said the words before, but at that moment, they came effortlessly out of her mouth. “I can’t remember who I am,” she said without further hesitation. “I was involved in a car accident a week ago, and I thought the amnesia was because I hit my head, but other things happened…” she trailed off uncertainly.
Raoul’s handsome face appeared in her mind’s eye, laughing as he stood at the bottom of the stairwell. “Remember my name, do ya? But not yours. That’s rich. Must be driving you crackers, little miss thing. Have you remembered anything else? La Famille?”
The bald man hadn’t been surprised that Jane didn’t remember anything. The fake doctor they’d sent had been counting on the fact that Jane didn’t know she wasn’t the ignominious Margot Alder. They couldn’t have known the Jeep hitting her would have caused amnesia, much less complete amnesia.
“They made me forget,” she whispered.
Dr. Sorrell made a hoarse sound. “You don’t have a charm on you, something that was around your neck?”
Jane shook her head.
The doctor rubbed his nose with the tip of one index finger. “I’ve heard stories about people run out of their regular lives. They vanish into the fog of the bayous, and their families report nothing to the police. Either out of fear of retribution from the practitioner or because the curse has caused them to be unable to do so.” His hands trembled a little. The fingers were shaking.
“You mean someone might miss me, but they’re unable or unwilling to go to the next step?”
“It might be that,” the doctor nodded. “It might be worse than that.”
“What can be worse?” Jane asked miserably.
“In traditional stories, a bokor or a sorcerer, is the one who makes a zombie. Not the fiddle faddle you see now in the movies and on television. Brains. Brains. Hah. What I mean is that the bokor would re-animate the dead. The dead who were buried in their crypts. But you must understand, in sociology, stories are related usually as a moralistic tale or a warning. Sometimes they even have a basis in fact. If a bokor controlled the soul of one individual who was forced to do the bokor’s bidding, then the others in the village would respect the bokor’s power. Obviously a bokor couldn’t truly animate a dead person, but he could take over the will of a tortured individual through means of pharmacology and structured psychology.”
“A person is drugged and brainwashed,” Jane said.
“I don’t like the term brainwashed,” Dr. Sorrell scoffed. “It’s an inane way of saying people are controlled by those outside of themselves. Humans are social animals. We want to belong to the herd. If the herd says we have to shave our heads and dance naked in the moonlight, then we do it.” He took a deep breath and added under his breath, “That’s why we voted the way we did in the last election.”
Jane sighed. “The entire population isn’t all zombies.”
“No?” he asked skeptically. “Anyway, in purest legend, a bokor absorbs part of his victim’s soul and thus controls the person. The bokor obtains free servitude insomuch that the victim lives, and others are warned of the bokor’s supremacies. It’s win-win for the bokor. Not so much for the victim.”
Unconsciously, Jane ran her hands over her arms where dozens of needle marks still remained. Pharmacology and structured psychology. Jeez. “You’re suggesting that the only reason I can’t remember is that I’ve been drugged and persuaded into not remembering.”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Dr. Sorrell protested. “I don’t know much about you, young woman. These are stories about supernatural and religious practices, although some of them have little to do with religion.”
“What do they have to do with?”
“Power, young woman, it’s always about power.”
“It’s been suggested that I did something to this person,” Jane said softly.
“Did what?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Well, those who have offended the practitioner are usually the biggest target of their vengeance. Those and their loved ones.” Dr. Sorrell glanced around as if suddenly impatient.
“So what do I do?” Jane asked.
“That is the question all wish to be answered,” the doctor said mysteriously.
“You don’t know,” Jane perceived.
“I don’t know,” he agreed.
“Do you know where to find the Noir?” she asked.
“I’d have to check my references,” Dr. Sorrell said carefully. “It’s not like I have an address or a website. These sorts of people have confidences to keep, and they’re not like the street performers who profess the secrets of Vodoun.” He grimaced. “You understand, I royally ticked off this person, and consequently many previously open-mouthed individuals ceased to speak with me.”
“You don’t want to help me,” Jane said abruptly. “I suppose I can understand that. I wouldn’t want to wake up with a dozen snakes in my bed again. Or with a Roux-Ga-Roux on my bedside, glaring down at me.”
Dr. Sorrell glared at Jane. “You remind me of my first wife,” he said. “She had balls bigger than church bells, too. Terrible woman. So much fire and brimstone. A veritable trial to live with. God, I miss her.”
“What choice do I have?”
“Did you really take that pendant off a Roux-Ga-Roux?”
“I think he was going to kill me until I ripped that from his neck,” Jane said. “This unknown practitioner had control of this werewolf/man and when I did that, the person lost control.” I sound like a lunatic, but it’s true, isn’t it? All of it, whether I want to believe or not. Someone might have kidnapped me. Someone might have drugged me. Someone might be willing to have an underling pretend to be a medical doctor from another facility to kidnap me out of the hospital. But who makes an animal say words? Who makes the other one able to speak in my head?
Dr. Sorrell’s eyebrows went up. “That might do it. But if the man is still cursed, he might still change into the Roux-Ga-Roux. By the way, it’s more common to call it a loup-garou. Sometimes a rugaru. Just in case the subject comes up.”
“Will you tell me how to find the Noir?” Jane insisted.
The doctor’s brown sugar eyes examined Jane critically. “I don’t imagine you have a phone number to give me. I’ll give you mine.” He produced a business card from the oversized pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. “I give them to all of the cute girls. I’m always on the lookout for a new wife. The younger ones are especially transfixed by my sexual stamina.”
“I’m not that kind of girl.” Jane took the card from his fingers as he leered.
“Pity.”
“Besides, if I’m cursed, you wouldn’t want it to rub off,” Jane added insincerely.
The leer faded from the doctor’s face. “Honey girl,” he said sincerely, “I wouldn’t want to piss off anyone who did that to you and the Roux-Ga-Roux.” His expression suddenly became concerned. “You wouldn’t really kill the curse-layer, would you?”
Jane stood up and stuck the doctor’s card in her jeans pocket, along with all the money she had and the medallion. “Don’t worry, Dr. Sorrell, I won’t tell the police you told me that’s what I should do.”
As Jane walked away, she could feel the elderly man’s eyes boring a vexatious hole in her back.
* * *
Jane spent an uneasy few hours in a park she found while she was walking. She got a snow cone from a vendor and sat on a sunny bench to eat it while she cogitated. The sun was out. The skies were cloudless, but her soul was black. There were even more questions than before. The d
octor suggested that even if she knew who she was, she couldn’t reveal herself because she would endanger those whom she loved.
Perhaps I should give myself to Raoul and take the abuse, she considered.
No!
It was the other one again. Masculine demand and irritation rolled into a neat package.
What choice do I have?
Run away.
And never remember who I am? What’s to keep this person from following me? From finding me later?
Better to live half a life, than none at all, came his urgent reply.
Speak for yourself, she shot back.
I am speaking for myself…and for you, since you seem inclined to throw your life away like a child whose ice cream cone has fallen into the dirt.
Jane glanced at her snow cone. Half of the dome had slid away and fallen into the dirt at her feet. It’s not an ice cream cone.
There wasn’t an answer, and Jane slowly scanned around her. Parks in the French Quarter, Marigny, and the Bywater were small, one-block affairs. Some had little monuments to this or that or to a person who was long dead. The trees were grand and flowing. Some were still apparently scarred from Katrina’s hedonistic fury, but miraculously most had survived. Years after, the park remained a place people came to enjoy for a bit of respite from the concrete jungle. The grass was still vibrant green from the rain they’d had previously in the week. A few older teens played baseball. A woman had an impromptu picnic with her newborn child. The snow cone vendor moved down Royal Street yelling, “Snow cones! Icy! Refreshing!”
There were lots of people around. School had been let out. The day was nice. It was busy. The playground was inundated with elementary-aged children. Parents congregated to one side, chatting and sitting in the shade.
No one really stood out.
I think I know part of it, she thought to the other one.
No answer.
I’m cursed to forget something I need to remember. I managed to get away. You managed to get away, too. Was it because of me? Jane thought about it. It was as plain as the nose on her face. If I put the necklace back on the Roux-Ga-Roux would I be able to control the beast, or would the witch be able to control it?
We’re not completely without will, came the response. It was weary and heartfelt. You broke away despite her hold on you…on us. I followed you.
Answer me. Would this person who hates us so much control the beast again if the medallion is put back around his neck? Jane stood up and systematically turned in a circle. It didn’t look as if anyone was watching her. She didn’t see anyone who looked as if they had their eyes upon her. Kids were shouting and laughing. Parents were chuckling. The mother was cooing to her infant. Car engines could be heard in the distance. There was the sound of a river boat horn crossing the nearby Mississippi.
I don’t know. I hope not.
What if I destroy it?
Dieu, non! his response was immediate and full of denial.
Why? Jane asked.
It might destroy the beast, the answer was slow.
But the Roux-Ga-Roux is the witch’s weapon, Jane thought. The beast had looked upon her and said her name. It sat below her in the darkness of the cemetery and said a single word that announced it wasn’t just a cursed animal intent on harming her. It could have dragged her off the crypt. She knew that but it hadn’t.
Perhaps a weapon, the other one thought back, but also a victim, just as you are.
I need to know what to do, she thought back. Anger surged into her soul. Jane was angry. She was furious. She wanted to know who she was. She wanted to know why this had happened to her. She knew deep inside her that she was a decent person and it was as the sociology professor had said. The practitioner wanted power, and this was one way of showing their power, by demonstrating their skill over other human beings.
The anger inside Jane’s head was a red tide of rage rising upon a thunderstorm of annoyance, irritation, and frustration. It blocked everything out, and the other one’s voice was cut off.
Don’t do that, don’t do that. I can’t—
Jane put her head down, dropped the remainder of the dripping snow cone onto the ground, and wept with tears of fury.
“Lord, don’t cry,” came the voice behind her.
It wasn’t the voice Jane expected. She whipped her head up and saw…
Philippe. His coffee brown eyes regarded her thoughtfully. She dashed tears away from her face. He was close, too close to her, and Jane wanted to back away, although she was sitting on the bench with nowhere to go.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked instead, and the words sounded stilted and accusatory. Is it Philippe in my head? Is it you? she asked silently. It didn’t feel right. It felt wrong, and she remembered the voice of the other one questioning Philippe’s shoes in a way someone would have never done if they had been speaking of themselves.
But—
“Here, have a napkin,” Philippe said and stuck his hand out with the folded-paper serviette. She noticed his other hand held a bag with the name of a local chicken place on it. “I din’t know you was here, Jane. Dis here is the only halfway decent park around unlessin’ you feel like going all the way to Audubon Park, and traffic is hell dis time of day. Jackson Square is right pretty but between the street performers, the tourists, and the pigeons, can’t get a seat, you, unlessin’ parks your butt on the cobblestones, you.”
Jane took the napkin and looked around. The Guatemalan girl, Flor, was getting a snow cone from a different vendor. She glanced at Philippe and saw Jane sitting on the bench. Even from a hundred feet away, Jane could see the unhappiness settle on the pretty girl’s face.
Oh don’t worry, Flor, she said silently. The anger that had enraged her soul was flowing away swiftly, as if down a drain, speeding away as if it had never been there. Philippe doesn’t like skinny girls, remember?
Jane blew her nose noisily. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Philippe wince. “I t’inking you ain’t pregnant or such,” he asked. “Can’t do much about dat. I recollect Flor said you wasn’t at Titus’s place dis morning, but I don’t know what happened to you, do I?”
“I got held up,” Jane muttered. On top of a crypt with a Roux-Ga-Roux below me. I don’t recommend sleeping on top of a tomb, by the way. Not very good for the back. Or the legs. Or any other parts.
Standing up, Jane swooped and plucked up the snow cone. There was a garbage can to one side of the bench that she used for the cone and the damp napkin.
Coincidence. Coincidence. Coincidence. In a city of over three hundred thousand people, and another hundred thousand tourists and various visitors, Philippe brings Flor to the park where I’m sitting? Sister Mary Joseph used to say— Who the hell is Sister Mary Joseph?
Jane faced Philippe. She stared at him and tried to see inside his soul. He was about twenty years old or so. Perhaps he had a baby face and was older. He was wearing a stained football jersey with the number two on front. A name popped into Jane’s head. Aaron Brooks. That’s the quarterback’s number. See I haven’t forgotten everything. I know the name of a quarterback who hasn’t played in years.
“So who do you work for, Philippe?” Jane asked and her tone was flat.
“Tulane Medical Center,” he said immediately. Suddenly his accent was thicker. “Dem people over dere, idiots, dem, but a job is a job, and my maman always said a man’s got to work hard.” His frank brown stare examined her minutely, taking her measure. “Of course, I see lots of folks dere. Lots of folks who need someone like Titus to give dem a job. Like you. So Titus throws me a dime or two, him.” He suddenly grinned. “Who you t’ink I work for? The gov’ment? Heeheehee. I be a fine fed, me.”
Over Philippe’s shoulder, Jane could see that Flor had finished getting a snow cone. The vendor presented the colored ice to her in the cup, and she smiled halfheartedly at the man.
Jane shifted uncomfortably. She was thinking that Philippe was a witch or a warlock or whatever she was s
upposed to call them. He isn’t all good to be certain, but a witch? The Noir? A twenty-something-old boy with the hots for short Hispanic women with lots of curves? Why help me then? Why do anything for me at all?
I’m just going to have to add that to my list of paranoid delusions, Jane decided. Her eyes followed down his figure as he looked back at her. He had well-worn blue jeans on, too. His shoes were some sort of high tops. They looked cleaner than everything else. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m paranoid about everyone.”
“Sure. Sure,” Philippe agreed. “You ain’t paranoid if someone is after you. Dem folks coming to the hospital and saying dem is doctors from Lafayette dere to get you. Well, dat ain’t paranoia, is it?”
The saying from the t-shirt appeared in Jane’s head. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.
Philippe frowned at her. “You got a place to stay, chère? You look a little frazzled about the edges. I stay at a boarding house, me, but the lady’s got a few rooms, her. She makes breakfast, too. Damn good biscuits. Little cheap with the eggs but plenty of dem biscuits. And her gravy, well it make you cry. Seriously, don’t eat the gravy, just dem biscuits.”
Jane looked to the west. The sun was going down within a few hours, and she didn’t want to go back to the deserted warehouse. She nodded at Philippe. “Yeah, I need a place.”
Flor came up with the snow cone in one hand. “Philippe,” she said, “you want a lick?”
Philippe grinned at Flor. “Don’t you fret, mon petite fleur. Plenty of that to go around, oui?”
Jane chuckled at Flor’s expression. The younger woman didn’t know whether to smile or spit. “Don’t worry, Flor,” she said, “Philippe just wanted to know if I was okay.”
