“What do you mean?” asked Marie.
“Have a child,” her grandmother said sweetly. “Give the magic somewhere to go.”
“A child!” cried Marie. “But how? When? With Christophe?”
Madame Henriette’s musical laugh echoed through her dream. “Oh, Lord,” she said, putting one hand over her heart. “Not him. You’re as bad as your mama. No matter what... be careful. Sometimes magic skips a generation. Sometimes power sits out a hand.”
Marie woke up late. Frowning at the red-rimmed eyes in her mirror, she dressed and headed out for Parish Prison.
CHAPTER XXX
AS SOON AS Marie’s lamp lit up the cell, she recognized Samson Moses from her dreams of Makandal.
Pacing like a tiger, Samson Moses Charles was smaller and wirier than the giant she’d imagined. But he had the same face, the same high forehead and mahogany skip, the same wild red-rimmed black eyes, the same coils of matted hair.
“I know who you are,” he said, staring at Marie as his bleary eyes adjusted to the light. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“I’m the voodoo queen,” thought Marie. “No one talks to me like that. ” But Samson Moses didn’t let her speak.
“I’m Samson Moses Charles. Christened Moses Charles. I picked the Samson myself—Samson didn’t run away like Moses. He pulled that city down. My power’s in my name and my hair, like Samson’s. Hair’s got strong magic. But I don’t need to tell you that. You got a fine head of hair. I only wish you’d brought it to me earlier. I could’ve used it in my plan.”
“What plan?”
“To bring this city down on my head like Samson.” He spoke unemotionally, stating a fact with quiet authority: his voice commanded respect. “A few white corpses here and there, then maybe some slaves getting wise and killing some masters of their own—”
“Weren’t you scared?”
“No bullet can touch me,” he said. “I’ve got powers.”
Marie swallowed hard. “How many slaves did you have with you?”
“The papers got it wrong. The others were supposed to come after me. Not with me.”
“That’s not how you told it to Christophe—” interrupted Marie.
“Who?”
“Christophe Glapion. That mulatto gentleman who came to see you a couple weeks back. You didn’t tell him about your plan.”
“I know it,” said Samson Moses with a sly conspiratorial grin. “Everything I told your friend was true—just not the whole truth. But I can tell you—you’re a voodoo queen. You’re bound to find out anyhow.
“I wasn’t a house slave fifteen years for nothing. You know what a nigger is: A mirror. A chameleon. Tell people what they want to hear. Be the color they want you to be.”
“You learn that on the plantation?” asked Marie.
“I learned it slow. From hard experience. From history. Pamphlets. Newspapers. The Bible. You know what it’s like to be a little boy named Moses? You’re shamed when the preacher reads the part about you. You think everybody’s laughing, you listen extra hard. I heard how a boy with my name did magic tricks at the pharaoh’s court, delivered his people from slavery.
“Then my granddaddy’s gambling delivered my people for me. We moved to New Orleans. My daddy joined the Young Colored Men’s Lofty Ideals and Moral Conduct Circle and slept through their meetings. The only time he ever looked awake was telling us about the gold pocket watch the Lesters owed us. But I’d nev-er’ve listened if he hadn’t brought home those pamphlets.
“They were scare stories printed in Mobile by the White Christian Brothers—Nat Turner, Denmark Vesey, Gabriel Prosser, Makandal, uppity vicious black men way back to the African kings, pictures of blacks butchering whites, hanging from nooses with their tongues out. ‘Fear the docile slave like a serpent in your bosom.’ You know.
“But here’s what got to me. Denmark Vesey had won his freedom in a lottery. ‘That’s funny,’ I thought. ‘So did I. ’ Gabriel Prosser had a wild head of hair ...” Samson Moses fingered his hair-coils. “And Makandal was born with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Strange,’ I thought. ‘So was I!’ ”
“So was I,” said Marie.
“So were lots of people. But I had it all. My mama was no root doctor, but she taught me to know a sign. I started studying on those men. What I read sounded pretty good. They all hated slavery. None of them could see a way that didn’t mean killing. And they all defended themselves with the Bible. I looked up Nat Turner’s favorite verses: ‘Vengeance is mine saith the Lord, go unto Jerusalem and suffer many things of the elders and chief priests and, scribes and be killed death where is thy sting thy terrible swift ...”
He ranted on like a mad preacher. His eyes glazed over. Realizing he’d forgotten her, Marie glanced uncomfortably around the cell.
Samson Moses regained control. His eyes cleared. “It makes perfect sense,” he said, so convinced that Marie couldn’t imagine doubting him. “The souls of Moses, Samson, Makandal, Toussaint, Vesey, Turner—they’d been reborn in me. I was born to free my people. God’s words were behind me.
“I studied harder, trying to figure out why they’d all been shot or captured or exiled. They’d all been betrayed. That’s when I decided to work alone, like Samson. That’s when I took his name. It didn’t matter if they caught me. Others would get the idea ...”
“A martyr,” said Marie.
“Not a martyr. An example.”
“Starting with your own ex-master. That wasn’t a very smart example.”
“That part was all right. I could’ve gotten away with it. But I should’ve killed the whole family. Leaving five witnesses was my mistake. But I couldn’t do it. Not my first time.”
He sighed. “From what I hear, nobody’s following my example. Those fighters’ souls were reborn in me, and we all failed one more time.”
Samson Moses’ face stopped moving long enough for Marie to get a good look. He was younger than she’d thought. He wasn’t Makandal yet. But maybe he would have been. “You failed this time,” she said. “But there’s plenty of time left.”
At that moment Marie heard a voice in her head—like Madame Henriette’s only higher, more nasal, then more like her own, then hissing like the snake’s.
“The magic needsss somewhere to go,” said the voice. “Magic and blood. Mix thissss one’s blood with yourss.”
It was a command which left no time to think. Marie stood up and walked around behind Samson Moses. She pressed her hips into his back. “I can help you,” she whispered in his ear.
Samson Moses laughed out loud. His shoulder shook beneath Marie’s hand. “What’ll the warden say about that?”
“The warden won’t say a thing. He’s gone for a while.”
He laughed again. “I never expected help like this in Parish Prison,” he whispered. “I’d be a fool to turn it down.”
He hesitated. Marie’s knees shook. At last he slipped down his pants. Still seated, he drew her around to face him, then lifted her up—and down on top of him.
Marie felt him hard and full inside her. At first that was all she felt. Then as he put his hands beneath her and gently rocked her up and around, her body began to respond. Closing her eyes, she felt pleasure radiate from her center.
But her spirit was someplace else. It wasn’t her mind observing from a distance as it had with the Creole boys, nor her soul mating with Jacques’s in the air. Now a cyclone was sucking out her spirit, spinning it, slamming it down onto blinding white beaches, past flashes of lightning, warm nights heavy with the smell of blood ...
Her spirit was nowhere near cell fourteen. But her body was right there with Samson Moses Charles. Breathing faster, she locked her thighs around him and leaned forward, so close the soft cotton dress stuck to her breasts with sweat from his naked skin.
“All right,” Samson Moses whispered huskily. Marie heard wind rush in her ears—not his quick breath or even his voice, but the edge of the cyclone spinning her spirit. Her legs tensed, he
r back arched as always when she was about to come. She felt the familiar energy building inside her, the sensation of water climbing steadily behind a dam.
It burst—suddenly, joltingly—but not in any way she’d ever known. Just as her passion for Samson Moses hadn’t been desire, her coming wasn’t pleasure. It was more like pain—not physical pain, exactly, but a shock, a ripping and splitting, then a giddy sense of loss, of something being tom from inside her.
Dazed, she felt Samson Moses grip her tighter, move her slower and harder. He put her hand over his mouth to muffle his soft cries; his lips were very wet. At last he slipped out of her. Warm fluid stuck to her thighs.
Then Marie and Samson Moses looked at each other for the first time since they’d touched. His black eyes were brighter and more bloodshot than before. His gaze held her until she couldn’t tell whose red-rimmed eyes she was looking at—The snake? Makandal? Her own self in the mirror? Finally she shook her head. “Hey,” she said. “I don’t know whaf got into me.”
Samson Moses smiled. “Don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Marie, smiling back. “I do.” She stood, swaying slightly as she straightened her clothes. Her own hard wooden chair reminded her who and where she was: Marie Laveau on business in Parish Prison. Her first thought was: What have I gone and done? Her second: Christophe Glapion.
Standing to slip on his pants, Samson Moses lost his balance and laughed good-humoredly.
“Do you want to be free?” asked Marie.
“Sure I do. Me and you and every slave and black and colored person in this country ...”
“Just you.”
“There’s no such thing. I wouldn’t be free.”
“We don’t have time to talk politics,” Marie said sharply. “You want to get out of this cell?”
Samson Moses stared at her, obviously seeing a different woman from the one who’d rocked in his arms moments before. “That’d be a pretty hard trick.”
“It’s not a trick. It’s business. But there’s a deal involved—and you’ve got to keep your part.”
“What’s that?”
“Get out of the country. Stay low. Cut your hair. Find some way of getting up North. Don’t stop till you get to Canada.”
“No. If I got out, I’d need to keep working on my plan. I was born to free my people—”
“Your people will free themselves when the time comes. And you can do anything you want up in Canada. From what I hear, there’s plenty of escaped slaves there. You’ll find something to do.”
Samson Moses’ wiry body recovered the bristling energy it had had when Marie arrived. Again he paced the floor. After several minutes he stopped, shook Marie’s hand warmly and smiled. “I never expected this kind of help either,” he said. “I’d be a bigger fool to refuse. Thank you.” He squeezed her hand.
“Thank you,” said Marie, then called for the warden to unlock the heavy doors of cell fourteen.
While the warden was making sure that his prisoner was safely locked in, Marie stepped into his office, smoothed her hair in the mirror by his desk, and rushed out down the street toward the office of Chief Justice Henry Morton.
“Not this one,” said the chief justice.
“This one,” said Marie.
“Anyone but this ...”
“That’s what you said last time. But this is the one I want.”
The judge stood up. Then he sat down. He played with his inkwell, tilted back his wig and mopped the crescent of sweat-soaked white hair. “Please,” he said. “Be reasonable. Not the Nat Turner of New Orleans. I couldn’t pardon this one. I’d never make it home alive. You know what the papers have been saying about Samson Moses Charles. The press would kill me.”
“I know all about it,” Marie said coldly. “But I don’t need to be reasonable. I been nice long enough. Now I want Samson Moses free, and I want you to do it.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t understand—”
“You don’t understand. So I’ll explain. I know everything that’s gone on in this government since before either of us were born. I know every bribe that’s been taken, every deal that’s been made. And I’ll tell so much there’ll be a new mayor in city hall tomorrow morning and a new judge in this office by noon.”
Judge Morton leaned back in his chair. He looked half-sick. He aimed his heavy fist at the desktop in an ineffectual punch. Then Marie saw Judge Henry Morton back down, saw the face he’d shown to countless men with power and family connections, to the police chief and to his own wife Alice—blackmailers of every sort. His eyelids dropped. His shoulders twitched.
“Does he have to get off?” he asked. “Couldn’t he just escape?”
“That would do fine.”
“Escapes have been known to happen.”
“Then make sure this one happens this week,” said Marie.
The judge moaned. “The city will be ruined anyway. The press will blow it all out of proportion. There’ll be a panic ...”
“I’ll stop the presses,” said Marie. “That’s my part of the deal.”
It had been a long day. By midnight, when Christophe arrived, Marie felt as if someone had put a Get Sleepy Now fix on her. She could barely keep her eyes open, let alone decide whether to tell Christophe that their Samson Moses Charles fix was going to work.
Lighting the last Desperate Prayer Candles, she could feel some fix taking hold. She watched Christophe move gracefully—a man accustomed to lighting candles. At church, she thought. At regiment dinners, his mother’s table, his own home. Just as he lit the last Make Him Love Me Candle, she realized what the fix was. She longed to run her hand down his long back, to muss his curly hair, kiss his ear. “I’ve fixed myself good,” she thought.
When all twelve candles were burning, Christophe turned toward her. “This is the night,” he said. “Don’t you know yet?”
“Know what?” Studying his handsome face, Marie prayed her eyes weren’t too bloodshot.
“About Samson Moses.”
Marie flinched. “I won’t know for another week.”
“Another week? But you said ... How will we know?”
“Don’t worry,” said Marie, unable to hide her irritation. “If this fix works, it’ll be in all the papers.”
“He’s a grown man,” she thought. “He knows I want him. Maybe he doesn’t think it’s the ‘right thing to do.’ ” Silently she mimicked the phrase she’d always respected. “It’s terrible what a little lust can do,” she thought. “How old are you?” she asked.
“Forty.”
“I’m thirty-six.”
“Really? I would’ve guessed twenty.”
“Thirty-six,” she repeated. “When’s your birthday?”
“April tenth.”
“An Aries. That means you’ve been alone since you were a baby—and it means you’ve been a baby all your life. Aren’t you tired of being alone? You want to be alone tonight?”
Christophe blushed. “Y-yes,” he said.
“You don’t want to stay here with me?”
“It wouldn’t be the right thing.”
“Why not?”
“I should spend my strength praying for Samson Moses Charles. He’s got only a few weeks. I’ve got a lifetime to stay with you.
“I’ll be back when we hear what happens.” He rose to leave. “Then you can name your fee.”
CHAPTER XXXI
MARIE STOPPED THE PRESSES.
Had the Mirror appeared that day, the editor would have called it a brilliant inside job. But the paper and its competitors had been stopped as the morning editions were rolling into the bins.
Witnesses on the graveyard shift reported a flash of white light, the sound of grinding gears, a hiss of boiling ink, the stench of scorched rubber. At noon similar accidents crippled the English, French, and Spanish evening journals. That night there wasn’t a paper in New Orleans. There was no news.
The police investigated the obvious case of sabotage. Every political party was susp
ected. Rumors blamed it on Mexican patriots, Yankee agitators and British spies. The heads of young men’s philosophical discus-sion clubs and ladies’ sewing circles were questioned. But there wasn’t a clue. The police chief was secretly relieved that the papers couldn’t publicize how badly they were doing.
Seven days later the Mirror reappeared on the stands. Its competitors followed soon after. The newspaper sabotage story filled their headlines and front pages. The news that Samson Moses Charles had escaped from Parish Prison in the intervening week was buried on the second page.
The story was a little unclear. Apparently Charles had escaped during an interview with Judge Henry Morton, who’d ordered the warden not to disturb them under any circumstances. After twelve hours, the alarmed warden opened the cell to find Judge Morton unconscious and the prisoner gone.... The judge and warden were slow in notifying the police.... Busy botching the sabotage investigation, the department got off to a typically sluggish start.... Since no one reported sighting the easily recognizable convict, police experts theorized that he’d left town and was heading for Canada.
Horrified by the thought of Samson Moses on the loose, people double-locked their doors. Still, it wasn’t as if he’d just escaped. The papers assured them that the sabotage was more serious. And the police wouldn’t say he’d left if he were still in town.
Samson Moses Charles was forgotten. There was no panic in the city.
At midnight on the day the Mirror resumed publication, there was a knock on Marie’s door. “To our success,” said Christophe, raising a bottle of good champagne.
“To Samson Moses Charles,” said Marie, lifting her glass.
After they’d each downed two glasses, Christophe coughed softly. “Come over here,” he whispered, a summons she could no more refuse than the spirits’ call.
That night the candle they burned rested in an empty champagne bottle beside Marie’s bed. There were no sharp elbows, no pulled hair. Their mating was as smooth and sure as candle flame, bright with the passion and mystery of first-time lovers, the comfort and ease of couples joined through countless lifetimes.
Marie Laveau Page 27
