Lizzy Ford - Cursed

Marie Toussaint moved as fast as her plump body would go down the street running between the Iberville Projects and an expansive cemetery located just outside the French Quarter of New Orleans. The early autumn night was chilly enough to make her shiver despite the gown she wore. Street lamps rendered the sidewalk well-lit while the graveyard and side streets were shrouded in darkness.

As a member of a culture that revered death and celebrated the transition of a person from flesh into a spirit, Marie normally felt comfortable – honored even – to be anywhere near the tombs of the deceased.

Except when she came to the city.

Evil lurked somewhere in the cemeteries of New Orleans, and it scared her more than the Projects at night. She dug through her pocket to grab a good luck gris-gris she created for herself, a chicken claw and cat foot bound with the hair of a loved one and blessed by no less than two magic spells. Comforted by the charm, she focused on the rhythmic clicking of her bone and wooden bracelets instead of the unwelcoming city around her.

By the time she reached the end of the cemetery, she was panting and ready for a tumbler of her favorite Sazerac. She licked her lips and slowed without stopping. She was already half an hour late for the secret meeting in the city with the heads of the other two Houses – families of ancient voodoo magic bloodlines.

She stopped to catch her breath.

Someone had begun following her at the bus stop and was closing in. Pretending not to notice, she silently asked the spirits to warn her of any danger, the same way they told her someone trailed.

She began walking again.

Rene. The spirits whispered the name of the gang member in a voice only she could hear.

“Ah. The warrior,” she said loudly, pleased. “He watches over me.”

She listened intently for a moment, wondering if he’d respond. Her pace was quick for her, but slow for a young man accustomed to prowling the wards and graveyards of New Orleans. He could’ve robbed her or attacked her or worse. But he wouldn’t. Not this member of the Loa Ogoun gang. Named after the warrior god, Ogoun, the LO gang was small and dedicated to voodoo. They were created in the wake of Hurricane Katrina to protect the core voodoo religion and its adherents when the city was thrown into total chaos after the storm wiped away most of the city – and all forms of law and order.

“I ain’t no warrior,” Rene grumbled at last. “How you know I’m following, Madame Marie?”

“The spirits protect them who serve well,” she said with a grateful look towards the cloudy sky.

The rugged gang member materialized out of the shadows lining the storefronts and apartment buildings. Tall and lean, Rene wore baggy jeans and a t-shirt with cap sleeves that left the tattoos on his roped forearms visible.

“You got almost all the Loas on your arms,” she said in approval. “Ogoun twice.”

“He’s my family’s god,” he said, pointing to the warrior god’s symbol. It was in the center of both forearms.

Any other day, she might try to convince him that the spirits really did want him to take his place as a warrior. Today, however, she was already late. She walked faster instead and saved her breath for the journey.

She spotted the Coffee Loa – Coffee God – a hole-in-the-wall café that specialized in voodoo memorabilia and African imports located at the edge of the trendy, touristy French Quarter. The door of the all night meeting spot was propped open, and the rich scents of incense and coffee rolled out onto the street. They reached her half a block away, along with the sounds of a jazz band playing in the club across the street.

“I could eat a horse,” Rene said, eyes on their destination.

Accustomed to feeding eight children and their two dozen grandchildren whenever they dropped by her house north of New Orleans, Marie kept a ready supply of treats in her pockets. She automatically reached for one and pulled out a small baggy, handing it to him.

He took it and held it up, peering at it cautiously with blue-green eyes the color of the shallow Caribbean water of her native Haiti. It was another reason she felt at peace with the reluctant warrior. He reminded her of a much simpler time from her youth.

“Mini-po-boys,” she told him. “Homemade.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “I never eat homemade no more. My mama’s too sick to cook.” He opened the baggy and pulled out the messy sandwich. Two bites later, he was done and sucking the spices from his fingers.

Marie smiled then turned her attention to the café. Instead of going in the front door, they went around the side, to the secondary entrance.

Rene opened the metal door for her. It scraped the cement below. Two doors were on the other side, though only one was visible to the naked eye. The second was protected by magic.

She went to the hidden door and pressed her palms to the cool cement. The spell that hid the door sizzled around her hands in warm, yellow flames. Recognizing her, the protective ward retreated, and the sound of a bolt being retracted filled the quiet space where she and Rene stood.

The door opened. The narrow stairwell beyond was lit by buzzing fluorescent lights. The walls and ceiling were made out of slate gray cement.

“Always feels like a tomb,” she complained and gripped the wooden railing. She stepped down, letting her good leg go first.

She heard the voices before she reached the secret vault under the coffee shop. The others were already present.

Marie descended the last step with a heavy sigh and reached into the knit purse hanging over one shoulder. It held more snacks for the grandkids and a collection of vials with ritual powders and herbs, small boxes containing mummified animal parts and other essential items to perform magic on the go.

The two voodoo leaders sat at a small table in the center of the room whose corners pointed in the cardinal directions. An altar to each House’s respective god was in three of the four corners of the room, and someone had recently drawn a protective veve under each chair. Homemade purification sachets in lovingly created silk pouches of bright purple and gold lined the room with one tossed under the center of the table.

She admired the sachets for a moment. They were the work of one of the voodoo leaders. Marie’s tools of the trade, plastic baggies and beat up boxes, were functional and far less pretty, much like her cooking.

Marie went to the corner dedicated to Papa Legba, the benevolent, powerful chief of the gods who was also her family’s personal protector. She pulled a squeeze bottle of cascarilla – crushed eggshells – from her bag and used it to deftly draw the veve of Papa Legba on the cement in front of the altar.

Kneeling in the purified spot, she closed her eyes and prayed to her deceased husband, her parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.

“Please grant me protection and forgive any offenses I made,” she murmured. Uncomfortable in the city at night with the people behind her, she called upon the spirits of the long dead, just in case she needed the added protection.

When she rose, she went to each corner, deposited puffs of eggshell powder into each then drew the family god’s veve under her chair.

The others waited in respectful silence for her to finish a routine similar to those the House leaders no doubt went through before she arrived. Only when she was ready did she look up at who awaited her.

“Madame Toussaint,” Rene’s uncle, Olivier DuBois, greeted her. He was tall with the polished, educated air befitting the man who bore the title of Assistant Police Commissioner. Well-dressed and middle-aged, he had the family’s blue-green eyes. “Welcome.”