June 15th, 1881
It has come to my attention that I am face to face with death itself. And not of the faceless, quiet, dark creature whose enigma encompassed most of my rituals. No—death, this time, has a face. Several faces, rather. The faces of those I have damned long ago, vengeance ripe in their rotten minds.
I am writing this letter—only to be passed down after the event of my soon and inevitable death—because I wish to confess to my crimes, both inflicted upon the living and the dead. Many here in New Orleans have come to me seeking guidance, spells, incantations, herbs to heal and herbs to harm, in addition to many other things the gift of practicing Voodoo has entrusted me to bestow faithfully upon the populace. I have even dedicated the years of my life before my illness to teaching the practice of Voodoo—as well as the art of Hoodooism/conjure—to those who I saw worthy of becoming priestesses and even Queens in the craft. I am known as the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, and I wish for this title to live on in other viable figures. These potential figures are aware of the current situation that awaits me. I told them not to fight the hands of fate and the presence of Papa Legba judging me for my crimes and often misuses of the sacredness of Voodoo.
Therefore, before I have no time to finish this letter, I shall confess to all my wrongdoings and abuses I have conjured in the name of Voodoo and Hoodoo. In my act of forgiveness, I confess to:
—Cursing many innocent in fits of jealously and discontentment with painful and even lethal potions and spells
—Lying about my capabilities in the practice of Voodoo and in the art of Hoodoo in exchange for compensation from the naïve and the desperate in their time of need
—Abusing the gifts of the gods, in turn, one example stated in the first line above
—Using Voodoo and Hoodoo interchangeably; blaspheming the Vodou [commonly referred as 'Voodoo' in New Orleans] gods in the name of the practice of Hoodoo, and vice versa.
—Practicing Voodoo selfishly instead of in favor of the gods
—And most prominently, using my powers to charm certain undead to inflict the innocent with their curse whenever I deemed someone punishable, one of these innocent people being Hezekiah Mercier, whose curse has gifted—or plagued—him with abilities that rival even the leader of the undead cult he now follows, their leader being the Elder, 'Terah'
I hope that the gods will have mercy on my soul after my painful death; my death will be by Sir Hezekiah Mercier's hand, I am certain, due to the horrible evil I have done to him and his family. If any of my nine apprentices or three root doctor colleagues should find this note where I have kept it safe from the undead cult, be wary of this warning that I give:
The years of my illness, I have been given visions. My death will cause strife and discord between the Voodoo/Hoodoo practitioners and the undead cult
s
. The visions were blurry but said strife will lead to the destruction of any Voodoo practitioners left in the future I have seen, most certainly Voodoo Queens. Our religion, our art, our craft, will be left to only a mere mythical tale shall you let them gain control.
So, by the grace of Legba, Damballah, Erzulie, and all other gods merciful and powerful, do not let these undead—these Vampires—gain control.
Should this letter be found, let it be brought to the most powerful Voodoo and Hoodoo practitioners. My word must be immortalized.
Signed officially,
Marie Catherine Laveau
*********
Mama's shop was nestled in the heart of the French quarter in New Orleans, right on the corner of Tulane street and Spelman avenue.
"Dumont House of Voodoo." It was popular—more popular than when I was a kid running around the counters on a slow day. I mentioned this to Mama, how suddenly the newer generation was garnering an appreciation for voodoo.
"It's hoodoo they think they're coming to get," she answered over the phone; I heard her cutting something, but I didn't want to know what it was. "They think I'm a root doctor or a witch. That ain't true; it's always the white folks and the tourists who don't know what they're getting into."
That same phone conversation, I told Mama I'd be coming down for the summer, and she was so happy she couldn't stop screaming about it. I didn't tell her that I had thoughts of dropping out of college or that I had exhausted much of my college fund paying for classes that catered to my ever—changing major—civil engineering, then psychology, then goddam fashion merchandising. Who the hell am I to market clothing when I can't even match my pants to my shirt half of the time?
Anyway, she was happy at the news I was coming down, so I took it as an opportunity to construct my case about me finally taking up the writing field and asking her to help me with it. I went over my entire request the journey down home from Houston.
"I've always wanted to be a writer," I mumbled, situating myself in a cheap motel in Shreveport before I hit the road again the next day. "And along with being a writer, I've always wanted to learn more about voodoo, especially from the most popular Voodoo Queen in New Orleans."
I had intentions on kissing ass, mainly because voodoo was a sensitive topic for Mama; I was never allowed to even bring it up much, even though she often prayed to the Loa around me, sometimes with her fellow priestesses
I was definitely Mambo Nene's favorite little girl in the whole French Quarter. Priestess Qadira didn't care much for me, and Missus Taima—never leave out the 'missus'—forgot my name half of the time
. I grew up around voodoo, but never between or in the midst of it. Mama made that an intention, but I was determined to swing it into a fortune on my end as if the twelve or so half—finished manuscripts on my laptop weren't indication enough of the amount of initiative I possessed.
Early afternoon the next day is when I arrived at Mama's shop, on the eighteenth day of May. I turned off my car and waited a bit inside of it, wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead to look somewhat presentable. But how could anyone look presentable in Louisiana heat? I wish someone would have given me a tip on how because I would have loved to know. My kinky—frizzy hair tied up in a god—forsaken bun and my sweat—stained tank—top would have loved to know. Hell, even my glasses, lopsided from the sweat on my nose would have loved to know, too.
I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, nervous but excited to see Mama. I hadn't seen her going on three years; I couldn't bear to come back only for her to know how college was going for me. But it was the sixth year for me, meaning that hiding my failures was no longer any use.
"Lisa!"
My head turned to a voice outside my window. Mama was there, smiling widely and pulling on the locked car door like I had no sense to have it locked in the first place. I smiled back at her and opened the door to a strong, oil—and—lavender—scented embrace waiting for me. I could barely breathe in her arms, but I didn't mind—I missed her hugs.
"Sweetheart!" she hummed into my shoulder.
"Hi, Mama!" I laughed. "You're choking me. And crushing my glasses."
She let go, refusing to apologize for her outburst of affection. Her eyes, blue as a clear noon sky, narrowed at my armpits. "Damn, you have the heater on in your car?"
"It's over ninety degrees, Mama. And humid." I couldn't understand how Mama wore a thick kente headwrap with a dark blue jumpsuit and still managed only a light sheen of perspiration on her face. It made me conflicted—I acquired everything from her except her hypnotic eyes and her inability to sweat.
After we spent a few minutes sharing our honeyed words, we finally got to getting my things out of the car. Mama didn't carry much—she had her novitiate, Imani, come get the rest of my luggage. Imani was an old soul who shared my age, with skin such a rich chocolate shade that it made people on the street stare in awe. I even stared in awe at her, long enough for me to bump into a lamp post on the way to the shop door. Mama chuckled, but Imani didn't. Maybe she didn't realize why or for who I almost broke my two front teeth; maybe she thought I was just stupid.
The shop was busy when we walked inside. People strolled past the display cases that were filled with ancient charms and voodoo dolls "from a time back when," asking the associates about voodoo, most likely leading up to how they could get their hands on a love spell or something of that sort. Mama only helped those who were a
serious, and b
worthy of being helped. She had an eye for evil souls begging for a way out or a short cut through a blessing or a ritual by Loa Rada or Erzulia or another merciful god; her eyes scanned the room at her customers like she was determining which ones were even worthy of her time if they asked for it. Which they would ask—they always did.
"Imani, go on and take Lisa's things up to her room."
