Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

“Always under foot.”

“Where my Maria?”

In 1853 Maria had been the toast of Rue Dumaine, a star attraction at Auntie Jin’s Sporting House. But she’d given her heart to a common man, a lowly cemetery worker. The gravedigger left Maria brokenhearted and heavy with child, making things easy on himself-and so Malvina had seen to it that he paid for his crimes. Among other things, it was hard to be handsome minus a nose.

The gravedigger’s son had died during childbirth and Maria fell gravely ill shortly after. Malvina had tried desperately to save her niece-had done everything she could think of. Conjured cures of the body, cures of the heart-

ground cinnamon, 8 parts; rhubarb, 8 parts; calumba, 4 parts; saffron, 1 part; powdered opium, 2 parts; oil peppermint, 5 parts; macerated with 75 parts alcohol in a closely covered percolator for several days, then allow percolation to proceed to obtain 95 parts of percolate, in percolate dissolve the oil of peppermint, dissolve the oil, dissolve the oil, the oil, the oil, powdered opium, 2 parts; dissolve, powdered, dissolve, powdered

dissolve…

None of it worked. Nearly out of hope, she’d turned to otherworldly methods. A ritual of the spirit meant to mend Maria’s heart, body and mind-and something more, something special for the gravedigger.

Malvina would always remember that night. That strangest of nights. That black, black night in 1853.

“Pickin’ up other people’s shoes.”

“Where my Maria?”

dissolve…

As Maria lay withering in the fall of 1853, Malvina had discovered her own bruised heart lacking in its former capacity for faith. As she prepared for the night’s ritual she was unsure if she possessed the strength required to bring Maria back from death’s edge-but she was quite sure she possessed the skills and wherewithal to ruin the one who had done her harm, the lowdown good-for-nothing gravedigger known as Marcus Nobody Special. Real faith, she determined, was easier to conjure from a heart bolstered by rage than from a heart damaged by sorrow. To fortify her faith, she must focus her rage.

Discarded corpses were plentiful in the killing season of fever, so it hadn’t been hard for Malvina to locate one suitably resembling the gravedigger. The mulatto corpse now lay face-up in an open pine coffin near the foot of Malvina’s altar. The altar itself was a beautiful collage of dried flowers, fine jewelry, gold coin, keepsakes from long-dead ancestors and bones of the dead collected up from the crumbling, shallow-bricked tombs of the poor-all artfully arranged around molded statuettes of Catholic Saints. Other various and appropriate amenities for the lwas (tenants of the Spiritworld) included a fine red rooster, omelets prepared with corn and hot peppers, a honey mixture of corn and black pepper, dried corn mixed with gunpowder, raw tafin liquor, pepper jelly, and a red candle intricately carved into the shape of a woman holding a heart.

With all preparations in place, the big door of the tall, box-shaped coffee warehouse shut with a hollow boom ; signaling the drummers to begin their slow, steady rhythm. Brands held by the dancers were lit aflame, then used to light the many candles of the crowded altar. The rooster responded by squawking and flapping nervously, its plumes bathed dimly in flickering light. Long shadows brushed gracefully up the twenty-foot ceiling’s thick beams, painting various shades of radiant gray on wood.

The guardians of the Spiritworld gladly protect their earthly children from its more destructive tenants, but these same guardians must be specifically invited and given proper respects before such protections can be enjoyed. First was the evocation of Legba , who holds the key to the gateway. Then of Loco , who will sound a warning crow to alert Legba of any malevolent beings at his back. And lastly, Loco’s wife Ayizan- who will hold at bay any dark being who attempts entry into the world of the living. However, with the gravedigger in mind, chaos and vengeance were not things Malvina wished to avoid on this occasion, so tonight Ayizan , the protective mother of the living, was not to be called-leaving unknown possibilities.

Malvina had drawn a large veve for Erzulie le Flambeau with powdered cornmeal twenty feet from the altar’s base . A dancer called Rosalie now sat at the center of it, legs crossed and head down. A loose circle of dancers glided deftly around her, all of them dressed as she; immaculate white linen draping their lithe brown bodies, bright red headwraps hiding the black of their hair. Malvina raised a finger towards a barrel-chested man who nodded in response before sounding the conch shell. The sound of it was a low moan, a request for Papa Legba to open the gate. The drumming intensified as the dancers dipped and weaved with improvised elegance, and the salty wind of the Spiritworld gushed forth.

As the call for Ayizan’s protection was bypassed, Malvina felt a guilty thrill. She breathed in deeply, a childlike smile coloring her face with wonder. Anything could happen now, she marveled. Anything, anything .

As the dancers continued their slow circle, Rosalie lifted herself into a standing position at their center. Arms held forward, head thrown back, eyes closed; an invitation for possession. Malvina reached into the bucket near the altar; threw a handful of dried corn and gunpowder towards the girl’s shins, tempting the rooster to draw near. Rosalie lifted a foot to stroke its feathers. The fowl cooed.

Slowly, almost unnoticeably, Rosalie’s face began to change.

Rosalie fell.

Her red headwrap loosened as her head hit warm, hard ground, her black hair flowing down like water against concrete. Tiny drops of blood dotted the rooster’s beak as it pecked her head and neck. Rosalie’s eyes opened; changed. This was Rosalie. This was not Rosalie.

Djab.

Malvina rushed forward to wave the bird away, but was interrupted by a fist to the jaw that threw her to the far wall between altar and coffin. The bird made soft chuckles.

The djab in Rosalie now turned to face the drummers, its newly acquired body jerking in wild spasms, instructing rhythm with alien motion. The men changed their beat to suit the movement of the djab, and as the new rhythm fell into place the djab’s weird motion intensified-coaxing the drummers to push harder, faster.

Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap

Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap

Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap

Rhythm changed, night taken.

Malvina ran towards the girl, but scooped up the rooster. Threw the bird towards the altar, jumped down upon it, held its body firmly between her knees. The rooster protested-pecking frantically at Malvina’s hands and legs in rhythm with the drums, blood now pouring from the mambo’s wrists. Malvina wrinkled her nose at the smell of her own blood before reaching into a small leather pouch she kept tied around her neck, quickly smearing a mixture of bloodroot and honey over the bird’s feathers. Holding the rooster’s neck in one sticky hand, she reached into the bucket by the altar and proceeded to push the dried corn and gunpowder down its gullet with the ball of her thumb. As the bird’s neck bulged, its panicked squawks degenerated into sleepy whistles. A final pinch of hard corn and the rooster whistled no more.

As the bird slipped from her fingers, a wave of dizziness washed over Malvina and gravity urged her down. Lying on her side and facing the bird’s honey-matted feathers, her head felt light, almost peaceful.