O
That there as more to this girl than met the eye was a given. That
it was none of my business allowed me to cast the thought out of my mind and
focus on my work. I took the emerald-green fabric Sophie had selected, retreated
to my workspace, and drew the blue curtain behind me.
Poppets could
run the gamut from straightforward to convoluted. The variety my new client
needed fell on the relatively simple end of that spectrum. Everything began with
the initial construction. Some in the priesthood used was, or clay. Unless
specifically requested, however, I preferred the natural feel of a hardy quilting
fabric.
I premade poppet
husks in what could only be called a vaguely human shape: a head and torso two
arms and two legs. I stitched the two halves together, leaving one side open so
that the doll could be customized according to need.
Next came the
stuffing. My go-to weas Spanish moss, but cotton would do in a pinch. In a
small glass bowl, I tossed in ground Adam and Eve root, a teaspoon or so of
crushed rose petal, and a pinch of sugar. After mixing this up with my fingers,
I added the hair that Sophie had given me. I left out the dirt. Could have been
from a grave for all I knew. As I sprinkled the mixture onto the moss I
searched my mind for just the right psalm and whispered the words: For the
director of music. With stringed instruments. A psalm. A song. May God be
gracious to us and bless us and make his face shine on us.
At this stage,
most mambos and houngans would consider their work finished. Not so for those
blessed to carry the lwa with them— the Beninites. Parables suggested we were
more commonplace in ancient Benin, but over the centuries, our numbers had
dwindled. And here in New Orleans at least, there were only two: Lucien
Alexander and me.
It wasn’t something we
advertised, but for those with an eye to see it, it was there. That made my,
our, healing practices altogether differ- ent. Erzulie was the goddess of rivers,
and that river wine, my sangswe, flowed through my veins. With my father’s help
and some dicey trial and error, I’d discovered the three realms her touch had
gifted.
Evolution was foremost. It
made me a unique healer, because even a drop of sangswe wine enhanced my
spells. If the humidity was just right, I could draw on that moisture to cure
most cuts and scrapes with a touch. A delicately balanced amount of that same
moisture ripened fruit; too much, though, and you ended up with a putrefied
mess.
Currents ruled the sea, and
they allowed me to channel and guide water. If I caught myself outside without
an umbrella, I could redirect that water away from me. And it gave me the
ability to do one thing you didn’t play with: conjure physical manifestations of
the lwa.
Change, emotional or form,
was the enchanter, and the realm, I’d had the least success in cultivating so
far. With the right combination of herbs and roots, a skilled practitioner
could affect the mind.
For this part of the
ritual, I held my hands over the bowl, palms up, fingers cupped but relaxed. My
palm creases reacted. The darkened lines swelled, rippled, throbbed. With a
gentle urging, the wine-dark water from my body oozed out. The sensation akin
to being sliced open with a razor blade.
My sangswe wine dripped
into the bowl. The herbs undulated and hissed as the water temperature eased
upward. The mixture coiled around the edge of the circumference, completing the
circuit three times before crawling up my fingers and settling on my hands. The
mass solidified, hardening like a swampy shell. And then, the mixture cracked
and splintered, sloughed off back into the bowl.
With effort, I closed the
flow and relished the warmth until it had turned hot enough to evoke a sweat.
After stuffing the dried contents into the poppet, I finished up the stitching,
taking care to sew a few cowrie shells on the legs and three silver buttons on
the left side of the poppet’s chest. A zigzag stitch for the mouth and
pinpricks for the eyes.
It was beautiful.
Sophie set her phone aside
when I came back to the table and looked up at me with expectant eyes. It was
time to charge the poppet. I grabbed a white candle from the mantel and lit it.
As I took a seat, I set the candle on the table and slipped a tiny white gown
over the figure. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
The look on Sophie’s face
told me that she was surprised by the question and hoped to not have to reveal
the name. She paused a moment before, barely above a whisper, saying, “Virgil.”
I mouthed a prayer and
touched the poppet’s head with anointing oil, breathing life into my creation.
The poppet trembled in my hand and then inhaled a long, deep breath, holding it
in for a few seconds, exhaling, and settling back to itself. I thanked the lwa
silently. Then I removed the white robe and gave the Virgil poppet to Sophie.
The girl was positively
wide eyed and, at first, didn’t seem to want any part of her creation. This
wasn’t unusual. Folks asked for things and didn’t realize the implications
until all was done. It was time for my cautionary speech.
“Now, you don’t toss this
in your purse and leave it there,” I began. “This is a love spell, so you have
to nurture it. Tell it you love it and want its love back. Give it offerings of
sweet things. Keep it safe and secluded. Then let it do its job.”
Sophie considered my words,
her expression blank, and then asked me a question, chilling because of the
flatness in her tone and gaze: “And what if I don’t want it anymore? I mean,
the poppet or Virgil?”
“That’s another spell
altogether. Requires some different ingredients too.” And another price.
Sophie thanked me and paid
a tip in cash, which I appreciated. I’d taken loaves of bread, plates of food,
and unwanted advice on my love life as payment. And for the people in Tremé,
I’d continue to do so and to serve them as I served the lwa.
I wondered if the girl was
really sure what she wanted. That dirt was an interesting addition that told me
she’d listened in on a service or two in her time. Sometimes, depending on where
the dirt came from, particularly someplace like a cemetery, they wanted
something altogether different than love. But whether or not she knew it, my
new client wouldn’t be able to do any of that with the spells I wove.
And despite what some
people might have thought, I didn’t use my magic to harm people—unless they
tried to harm me first. That made it self-defense.
Erzulie murmured her
skepticism about my understanding of self-defense in the form of a watery
brushstroke against the bones. I ignored her and set about cleaning up the
place. I hoped Sophie Thibault would find real love, not the kind that people
paid for.
As I made to remove the
tablecloth for washing, I noticed the thumb ring sitting right where Sophie had
left it. I doubted she would return for it, but I knew where to find her.
Voodoo Real. I had been
more than a little envious when I’d heard that a new mambo from Houston had set
up shop there. I’d met her once and seen her a handful of other times at the occasional
vodouisant gatherings. Salimah . . . Salimah Grenade. Couldn’t help but wonder
what she’d done with the place.
Envy, curiosity, or a noble
sense of goodwill. Probably a mix of all of them. Either way, I’d drop off the
ring tomorrow and assess the competition.
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| Photo Content from Veronica G. Henry |
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