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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Lying in the middle of a massive bed and wrapped in red sheets, Marie Laveau breathed with difficulty. The woman Pierre remembered from their soirées had nothing in common with the frail creature before him. Her trademark hair, once black, thick and fixed in elegant wraps, was now cropped short and white at the roots.
The dying woman was surrounded by candlelight. One for every soul the priestess has done a charity in life. La Fille set them, row upon row, as escorts into the hereafter.
The walls were marked with intricate white lines. Banners of life and death swaying to a rhythm that, beat after beat, beckoned towards shadows. Not that the shadows were bad. They were definite. It was a pathway drawn with equal measures of sorrow and devotion.
Renaud kept still, but the patterns moved with each flicker of a candle and the walls hummed softly. The man hesitated, earlier, in the hallway, he was able to make out words, and they were not at all welcoming. His only option was to move forward, and he did, keeping his eyes to the ground.
"They are pleased I didn't have to warn you to keep your eyes averted. You might not know what it means to follow our path, therefore, your lack of knowledge is forgiven. Lack of respect is another matter. If you want to understand, count on me." Marie La Fille went ahead of him, guiding every step. "The writing on the wall is the pathway to the spirits. We are fortunate enough to come into their presence. They have been crying for a while, over my maman, and each one cries in their own way. There are those who like to share their pain with strangers, there are those who prefer to carry their feelings alone. Focus on my mother."
The youngest of the mambo bowed to the walls, keeping her eyes downcast and her back straight, spreading the full width of her skirt as she bent the knee. Her voice was firm as she declared their business.
"Honored spirits, oracles of Life and Death, Pierre Renaud wants to talk to the Queen."
Pierre felt bile rise to his throat and did the best to contain his feelings of inadequacy. Half of the candles died out as the younger Marie turned towards him, her skirt brushing against the leg of his trouser. The fabric didn't make a sound, but he could hear her joints cracking. The body of the woman contorted in unimaginable angles, yet she didn't scream. She reveled in it, the transformation empowered her. She touched him, at the height of his elbow, and he had to accept she had grown taller. When she asked him to look up, her voice had grown deeper and there were heavy lines on her face.
La Fille was gone, her body had embraced a complete shift, as it was the most natural thing for a human being to go through. Fingers twisted and knuckles grew hard. Her skin, once unblemished, grew ashen, ravaged by time. She approached Pierre with a tobacco stained smile, and then wholeheartedly laughed as her keen hearing caught the trotting pace of Renaud's heart.
"Music!" Her voice lingered in the vowels, savoring each sound. "However I can get it, the beat of skin mounted on wood, the flutter of a heart, I'll take it as an offering. Now, Pierre, grow bolder. You were warned in the hallway, weren't you? The more scared you are, the scarier I will get because like in every dance, the dancer follows the beat of the drum." The spirit that had touched her needed no introduction and still, it greeted. "I'm the Keeper of Keys, and you are standing at the threshold. Speak your mind now. This daughter of ours, our blessed and beloved, is about to leave this Earth, and there are many who love her waiting to see her cross that door and leave the pain of a battered, old body behind."
