Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

Malvina flew upwards from the pine casket and fell hard against the concrete floor of the coffee warehouse. She did not recall the words, face, or touch of Manman Brigitte but she did recognize in herself a new (if mysterious) sense of resolve.

Resolutely, she pulled herself up on unsteady legs, crossed herself, and turned to face the djab in Rosalie .

“Gerouge! Serpan dezef! Arete sek!” The thing in Rosalie grinned in amusement and lifted what was left of the motionless rooster, its gullet still thick with dried corn and gunpowder.

Placing the rooster’s head into Rosalie’s mouth, the demon bit down then jerked away. The stump of the bird’s neck shot white flame into its host’s unguarded face, scorching the girl’s lips, nose and chin with blackish purple blisters. Rosalie’s ruined face cracked in the heat of flame; blisters swelling, bursting, running down once-perfect cheeks like clear, thick honey.

Rosalie’s feet pounded the ground in relentless rhythm, the gunpowder no longer merely sparking beneath them but igniting into sharp, crisp flame; blackening the girl’s soles. Flames spread quickly across the floor, dried kernels burst into fluffy popcorn, popcorn reduced to fiery ash. Ash dipped and jetted through the air, touching and infecting all in its path with hungry bits of orange, yellow and red. Popcorn ash: Wafting downward, landing on the white linen dresses of the dancers, invading large sacks of coffee, catching everything alight. The skin of Rosalie’s feet blackened then peeled in the heat; tissue and muscle falling away in chunks to expose charred bone, cracking against hot concrete with sickeningly rhythmic smacks. The taut skins of the drums transformed with new color as the drummers beat on, undeterred, slapping at flame, hands oblivious, exposed finger bones whacking against the hard wood of the rims. The formerly rich, thumping drumbeat degenerated into ugly, hollow clacking:

Clack. Clack-clack. Cluh-clack, clack, cluh-clack

Clack. Clack-clack. Cluh-clack, clack, cluh-clack

Clack. Clack-clack. Cluh-clack, clack, cluh-clack

…somehow circular to Malvina’s ear- round and round and round .

The warehouse filled with a sound like crackling gunfire as thousands of coffee beans exploded in the heat. The fleshless bones of the dancers whipped and writhed, drummers clacked ever on, and Rosalie’s black ashes mingled with those of the rooster on the dirty concrete floor. Without so much as a whimper they all burned to dust.

Running through flame, Malvina reached the door.

Upon touching the cool air outside, she discovered her own dress partially alight and so flung herself to the wet November grass, rolling herself in dewy moisture till the last of the embers had smothered. She sat up in the grass, hugging her knees and sobbing quietly as smoke poured from the single open door of the windowless warehouse.

She had done this thing. She had killed these children. Had thrown them into the arms of unknown evil. Her excuse was less than pitiful; she had done it because she had loved.

Flames failed to consume the building. Did not punch irregular holes through the walls of it, did not angle up to melt the tar of the flat roof. Billowing smoke quickly reduced to a trickle-then, finally, evacuated completely into a handful of snake-shaped wisps. There was no smoke at all now. The sky was clear and full of stars; no trace of it remaining.

Malvina rose to her feet. Looked at the door. Quiet, smokeless. Squinted her eyes. Nothing. As if the awful night had not taken place at all. A reprieve from God? Malvina took a step forward. Still nothing.

Then. Something:

Orange water.

Streaming lightly through the front door, down the steps and onto the grass. Just a trickle at first-then more than a trickle. Bright orange with slender streaks of red and yellow. The color of flame. Pure, smokeless, liquid flame.

Orange floodwaters progressed along the ground with a low-toned hum, rushing towards Malvina’s bare feet. The mambo held her ground, said a quiet prayer to Ayizan- begging forgiveness-and crossed herself once more. Closed her eyes tight and wished it away.

Prayer and wishing stopped nothing as the sound of rushing liquid steadied into a roar. Malvina Latour-a mother to none, a mother to many-opened her mouth to scream. Sound poured from her soul and into the night as orange water flowed to, around, and past her ankles. But there was no pain in its touch, no heat, not even warmth.

The sensation was of cool water. She bent down to place a finger in. Stared into it, noted nearly transparent streaks of pink, flitting past. Like wisps of human flesh, the pure flesh of the not-quite-born. Immortal, bloodless flesh.

Closing her eyes, she listened.

Beneath the thick drone of wet motion was a kind of music. Sweet, light music; a rich, tinny echo of happier times-times both past and yet to come. And the echo carried with it a familiar rhythm.

The carpet of wet surged onward from the yawning mouth of the coffee warehouse; covering the ground, running into and past the street, into and past Congo Square, soaking into the dry, coarse dirt of the yard at Parish Prison. She watched as the water headed towards the Old Basin Canal ,kissing oblivious dirt streets as it passed.

It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Tonight she’d committed grave error and witnessed resultant death, but in the here and now there was only epiphany-a culmination of mystical things beyond her understanding. Feathery tongues of recent dream continued to nag at the edges of her mind-wanting to understand, knowing that she would not, could not. She acknowledged a strange joy in the not-knowing. A voice interrupted her rapture:

“Keep yer damn mouth shut, nigger witch! People trine ta sleep!”

Malvina hadn’t realized she was screaming.

She looked up at the irate pink face sticking out of a second story window, feeling oddly thrilled at the sound of a human voice, even an unfriendly one. She smiled and waved in his direction.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she cried.

“Crazy whore! Opium eater!” the man shouted before slamming the shutters.

As the window smacked shut, the sky drained of color, the humming ceased-and a series of recently loosened gears in Malvina’s soul clicked and snapped into place. The door of the warehouse stood closed and silent as before.

Once again: no apparent trace of blackest night.

Suddenly: Aware of a lingering scent. The metallic, acrid smell of burnt coffee. Something remaining. In the air. And she knew that something else remained, too. Something that had gone towards the waters of the bayou.

“Shoes.”

“Kilt her is what.”

She would never clearly remember her journey through the grave that night, through the waters of the dead. Nor would she ever fully recall the gentle caress of Manman Brigitte . At least never in waking life.

But she did-and always would-remember the orange water with its thin streaks of pink. Would always remember the tinny music, its distant echo. These memories would become a part of who she was. That could not be changed.

She had called it. It was here. It remained.

She’d never sent it back, didn’t know how. Wasn’t sure if she would want to. It had been so beautiful, this thing that consumed both life and death before retiring to the stagnant waters of the bog. Maybe, she thought, it would eventually leave this world of its own accord. Maybe it would die in the swamp. Or maybe it was sleeping and biding its time.

Awaiting rebirth.

She decided that if it did return, she would be ready for it.

“Goddamn shoes. Always in my way.”

“Where that little girl go?”