Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

Lower Ninth Ward – New Orleans…

Tim Trinity peered into the darkness. “Got any idea where we’re at?”

“Not precisely,” said Daniel. “I’ll stop next time we see a street sign standing.” There was still no electricity in this part of the Ninth Ward, and Daniel couldn’t see past the beam of their headlights.

What he did see made him feel sick to his stomach. Piles of splintered wood and smashed windows, twisted metal and scattered shingles, broken furniture and rotted mattresses. The ruins of small houses. The ruins of blue-collar lives. Row upon row of them, block after shameful block. No sign of rebuilding.

As if reading his thoughts, Trinity said, “Looks like the aftermath of a three-day kegger in hell.”

Ory’s sister lived in a neighborhood that was rebuilding, if slowly. Maybe four in ten houses rebuilt, three in mid-renovation, and three still in ruins. This block had electricity, and a third of the streetlights were actually working.

Priestess Ory greeted them at the curb. In her shop, she’d been dressed very colorfully, but now she was wearing a simple white dress and white head-wrap. Her feet were bare. She led them beside the house to a gate in the privacy fence surrounding the backyard.

“Welcome to our peristyle,” she said.

Inside was a courtyard, covered by a corrugated tin roof on stilts. The inside walls of the fence were painted green with red and yellow trim, and black drawings of the veve symbols of various loa , alongside snakes and roosters and crosses and coffins, and a large portrait of Marie Laveau, the nineteenth-century Queen of Voodoo. About a dozen tiki torches provided the lighting, augmented by twice as many flickering red and white candles scattered about the place.

In the center of it all stood a striped pole, surrounded by an altar that would give Ory’s store altar an inferiority complex. A magnificent collection of fetishes and offerings, bottles of rum and perfume and sarsaparilla, plates and bowls overflowing with yams, plantain, apples, peppers, nuts, figs, and hard candy. Two framed portraits—Saint Peter and Saint Barbara—were propped up against the altar, behind the offerings.

Priestess Ory brought a couple of mugs to Daniel and Trinity. “Legba and Shango both love rum. We drink to honor them.”

Trinity winked at her, said, “L’Chaim,” and downed his in one swallow.

“Oy vey,” Daniel deadpanned.

Priestess Ory let out a good-humored laugh, then took Daniel’s hand in hers and turned serious. “You have a skeptical mind, and I respect that,” she said. “I’m not asking you to believe anything, I simply ask that you clear your mind of preconceptions and be open to your feelings. You may not believe in the loa , but please do not disrespect them.” She smiled and gave his hand a squeeze. “They can turn ugly if they feel mocked.”

Daniel felt the ghost of an ice cube slide down his spine. “I’ll behave myself. Promise.” He drank the rum.

“Thank you,” she said. “This is a Rada gathering—the invisibles we’re working with tonight are very benevolent and not aggressive. They won’t take possession unless you give them permission. So be sure that you don’t, unless you’re willing to be mounted. Just stand over here and relax. And if you get the urge to dance or sing along with us, feel free.”

“My peppermint twist is a little rusty,” said Trinity, “but you should see my watusi.”

“He’s just nervous,” said Daniel.

“I know,” said Priestess Ory. She turned to the back door of the house, and called, “Tambours!”

The screen door opened and a white man and two black men stepped into the courtyard. All three were shirtless and shoeless, wore white pants, and each carried an African drum. They set the drums up along the east wall, sat behind them on stools.

The drummers began beating out a compelling rhythm with their hands. The screen door opened again and an older black man came out, carrying a wicker basket, followed by five black women and two white women, all dressed like Ory, the youngest about twenty-five, the oldest in her sixties. Three of the women carried colorful sequined flags.

The drumming grew, both in complexity and volume. The old man put the basket down, picked a conch shell off the altar, lifted it to his mouth, and blew a long note through it.

Priestess Ory called out, “Annonce, annonce, annonce!” and the group sang out the same in response. She poured a thin line of Florida Water cologne from the back door to the center pole, then from side to side, creating a crossroads. The old man faced Ory, and they made three formal pirouettes and then exchanged a double-handshake, making crossroads with their forearms. The other women did the same, and then swayed with the drums as the old man took two handfuls of cornmeal from the altar and used the cornmeal to “paint” a veve on the ground. He leaned forward and kissed the veve three times.

Priestess Ory reached into the wicker basket as the group sang, “Damballah Wedo, Damballah Wedo, Damballah Wedo…” She lifted a young boa constrictor, about four feet in length, from the basket, held it above her head, and danced backwards around the center pole, pausing so each participant could touch the snake. Ory sang, “Damballah Wedo…Nous sommes les sevite…Ti Ginen.” She returned the snake gently to the basket and closed the lid, then danced with a beaded gourd in her hands as the intensity of the drumming climbed ever higher, growing into a hypnotic polyrhythm.

Ory chanted…

Odu Legba, Papa Legba,

Open the door, your children are waiting.

Papa Legba, open the door,

Your children await.

Ago! Legba! Ago-e!

And the congregation responded…

Ayibobo!

The old man lit a corncob pipe and made the sign of the crossroads in the air with its smoke, then lifted the plates of food offerings for Legba and passed them through the center, inviting Papa Legba to take possession, reciting in French: “Legba, qui guarde la porte. Mystere des carrefours, source de communication entre le visible et l’invisible. Acceptez nos offrandes. Entrez dans nos bras, dans nos jambes, dans nos coeurs. Entrez ici.”

Ory took a swig of rum straight from the bottle and sprayed it from her mouth, soaking Legba’s cornmeal veve. She then whirled around the pole, shaking the gourd over each initiate, and they joined the whirling dance, around and around, intentionally scattering Legba’s veve with their feet as they passed. Ory picked up a handful of the rum-soaked cornmeal, daubing it on the forehead of each, except for the old man, who she touched on the back of the neck.

The old man closed his eyes and stood stock still for a few seconds, jerked spasmodically, threw his head back, and laughed very loud. He snatched a bottle from the altar, took a large swig, then poured the rest of the rum over his head, over his face, and even into his open eyes with no sign of discomfort. He then grabbed a carved walking stick and the smoldering corncob pipe and danced around the pole, twirling the stick and puffing madly on the pipe, sending up clouds of cherry-flavored smoke, dancing faster still as the drummers jacked up the tempo and the initiates sang praises to Papa Legba.

Priestess Ory came over and took up Daniel and Trinity’s mugs. “Papa Legba has opened the crossroads to us,” she explained. “We drink once more to his honor, and then I will paint Shango’s veve and invite him to take possession of my body. If he speaks directly to you, don’t be alarmed. His voice may come from my mouth or it may manifest in your mind’s ear, so listen for it.”