Vivienne's parents found the perfect house. A stunning Nineteenth Century Victorian at Rue Renaud, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
One of those houses with personality and vibe; good enough to charm even a reluctant teen into moving to what she dubbed th...
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La Fille had robbed him of all hope in a sentence. Still, she insisted on kindness. The woman opened the door, inviting him in. Pierre plummeted onto the seat that was offered; a broken man in a wicker chair.
There was no warmth left in the room. Flickering lights played off ghostly glass figurines. The brightly colored cushions were cold to the touch, and the wreath underneath Marie Laveau's portrait had wilted. Those dead flowers framing the portrait of her youth spoke volumes. Sprigs of rosemary and thyme, geraniums, bark of cinnamon and lavender did little to hide the overpowering smell of alcohol and tallow coming from the nearby room.
"Monsieur Renaud, are you well? I'll bring some tea, but I want to make sure you won't drop from that chair."
La Fille's face came into focus. It was only then Pierre realized he had almost fainted. Her touch, and the soft cadence of her voice, almost musical, brought him back from the edge.
"I... I don't think I'll ever say I'm alright, ever, again." His voice had the stamp of desperation. When the younger Marie handed him a glass of sweet tea, the man held on to it as a child would, holding it tight, with trembling hands, drinking in gulps, without a care. La Fille sat beside him, measuring the weight of her words as she spoke. The man said his piece, reliving each moment of misery. When Renaud was done, he was so wretched, that, for a moment, she forgot her sorrows.
"I'm sorry about Claudette, and the boy. The idea of losing a loved one is devastating. Losing a child is even worse. It's the root of all sorrows. In our heads, children never cease to be. I'm almost forty, and my mother and all the parish calls me La Fille. The daughter; forever her little girl. That, because neither mother nor the Quarter accept that I could ever grow old, let alone die. But we all do. That doesn't make it easier to accept." She spoke of herself, to herself, at that moment. "My own maman is about to leave this world. Yet, for Claudette and for your little son, something can be done."
She invited him into the kitchen's annex. As they went in, La Fille stopped and knocked on wood. Two quick taps, before kissing the door frame.
The annex was illuminated by gas lamps and somehow looked more welcoming than the living room. It was a quirky little room. There were oddities and trinkets all about, carefully arranged behind the glass of a cabinet in which snakeskin flowers bloomed between bottles of spiced rum, dried hot peppers and rolled tobacco.
Marie sat on top of a barrel placed in the middle of the room, her fingers tapping gently against the wood, until she got lost in the rhythm. Finding a cadence, never breaking from the beat, she asked of the man before her.
"What is it? I know you told me before, but you need to say it again. Testify."
"Cholera. Pierre Petit is overcoming the condition, but Claudette can barely hold. She also has a fever that is drying her from the inside."
The younger Laveau took off her shoes. Her body moved with grace as she walked around the barrel, her hands never stopped drumming. She looked tired, and a little sad, but she didn't let go. Her eyes closed for an instant, and when she spoke, it was as if she had been composing a song. It was mesmerizing to watch and soothing to hear, as if her whole body was a vessel of kindness, rare and beautiful to behold.
"The cholera is a disease of the flesh. The fever is a torment on her spirit. She calls out. The spirits know this. This is a work for my maman, and she's in the threshold. No one that ever steps at the gates comes back, so we will need to pursue her, before she leaves this place."
Her face illuminated for a second with a glimmer of hope that was enough to lift Pierre's spirit. He knew, right then and there, that whatever she asked of him, he'd give. La Fille stretched out her arms, like a child inviting another into a dance, and Pierre took her hands in his.
"We'll go to the Crossroads and ask for a boon. There are things that Claudette understood, things that time allows to learn, but in the face of urgency, you'll have to learn, quickly. My mother is about to give up her ghost, and this is something that one needs to do alone. But the mysteries and the oracles will be there, waiting. And now, we'll be there, too. Death is as much a wonder as life, and it must be approached with humility. You will not question what you see, you will not refuse an answer. Understand?"
Marie said as much because she sensed a change in Pierre's demeanor. The man had been humbled by both suffering and revelation.
Renaud used to be the type of man that hated walking into the unknown. He had kept that side of Claudette at arm's length, considering her tales bizarre and full of vulgar circumstances. Rites outside Catholicism held no meaning to him, and even those practices were political exercises. Religion, when taken too seriously, made him uncomfortable.
And yet, he took her hand.
That didn't make the next steps easier. As they walked the darkened hallway from the kitchen to the main bedroom, time seemed to slow down. The sounds coming from the street transformed into something other, a trace of whispers and prayers that seeped through the walls.
Above all, Renaud could make out the voice of a woman who challenged his every step, as if trying to persuade him not to enter the room.
"Are you scared of them?" The voice paused, as Pierre felt the agitated rhythm of his heart amplified by mounting fear. "Are you scared of me? Yet, you live unfazed by a world in which good men hang from trees?"
The words made him stop mid-step, to check if Marie had heard. The woman turned, unfazed, looking, not at Renaud, but through him, speaking to someone unseen.
"Now, now, Gigi. He's a friend."
"Claudette, we know, and if she dies, the crossroads will honor her. But him... Where has he been? How did he prove his loyalty to you?" The female voice was not angry, simply stating facts.
"It's not to me, he needs to be loyal to. Has The Lady grown so hard as not to be swayed by love?" It was a bold answer, but she had to try.
"Friendsss are few and far between. We trust you, Little Marie." A younger voice echoed, and though gentler, it was equally unsettling, as some syllables had the hiss of a snake hidden within.
"They are testing you, Monsieur Renaud. The loa won't care much about you, they are here to see over maman, but the oracles are at hand. You can count yourself lucky." La Fille let him know what awaited. "Brigitte and Wedo are neither loa nor saints. They have no altars, but that doesn't make them less, you see. In everything and all, there's life and death, brother and sister, and they preside over this city in their special way. Today, death is stronger in these halls, and death will always remind us of dues and debts. But if your heart is clean, there's nothing to fear. Now, come, come! Into the room. My mother waits."
