the gallery at January's side, Bella crossed herself several times and made a sign against Evil.
“It's bad, Michie Ben,” the old servant murmured. “You'd have slept in this room, that Mambo Oba would have come in the night and rode you to death. My brother, he had a fix put on him so, and snakes grew under his skin so he died.”
“Who's Mambo Oba?”
“She lives over on Rue Morales, near the paper mill.” Mamzelle Marie reemerged from the room with the two flannels held gathered by their corners, carefully, as if they contained filth. “I'll go there to her myself and find out who paid her to fix you and what else she might have done. Bella, would you scrub the floor of the room and the steps here with brick dust and put brick dust on the soles of Michie Ben's shoes?”
“I put the brick dust on his shoes last night,” said the servant, with a quick shy grin. “I knew he'd go out this morning.”
Mamzelle Marie gave her a wink, her sudden sweet smile like a doorway into a room unsuspected. “You're a wise woman, Bella.”
“Bella!”
All turned, to see Livia Levesque standing in the back door of the house. January had brought Marie Laveau down the passway at the side of the house to the yard, rather than risk an encounter between the voodooienne and his mother: he had heard his mother speak often enough about superstition and those who preyed on the ignorance of blacks. He saw recognition widen his mother's eyes and the way her lips folded tight, but she called out only, “Bella, you bring my coffee in here now.”
“ 'Scuse me, M'am.” Bella curtsied quickly to Mamzelle Marie. “I'll do as you say, M'am, first chance I get.” She nodded toward the house, into which her mis tress had vanished in a rustle of mull-muslin skirts. “Don't hold it against her, M'am, please.”
“I don't hold grudges, Bella.” Mamzelle smiled. “There's no greater waste of time in this world.”
She and January watched the old woman hasten down the steps and across the little yard; and January reflected that Bella, whom Livia had bought when first St.-Denis Janvier had given her her own freedom, was exactly what Livia herself might have been: exactly of the same extraction of white and black, no more educated or better reared. Under other circumstances, might his mother and this woman have been friends?
“Michie Janvier.”
Mamzelle Marie held out to him a little bag of red silk, hung on a cord of braided string, smelling vaguely of dried whisky and ashes.
“Will you wear this?” she asked. “Give it a name, but don't tell anyone what that name is; wear it next to your skin, under your right armpit, and take it out every now and then and give it a drink of whisky. It'll keep you safe.”
January was silent. In those sibyl eyes he saw again the reflection of last night's dreams. Dreams of being lost in the cipriere, with mist rising from the low ground and night coming on. Dreams of seeing something whitish that scuttered among the trees, a slick sickly gleam of rotting flesh. Dreams of the smell of blood.
He had been a child in the dreams, with no strength to meet a capricious world. In those days the only thing you could do with an overseer who hated you was make a ball of red pepper and salt and the man's hair and throw it in a stream, so he would go away, or mix blood and graveyard dust and the burned-up ash of a whippoorwill's wing in a bottle, and bury the bottle where the man would walk over it, so that he would die. God and the Virgin Mary had brought him out of slavery, Père Antoine had told him. God would keep him safe. In times past he'd worn a gris-gris Olympe had made for him and had prayed, half in jest, to Papa Legba as he'd now and then addressed the classical gods, like Athene or Apollo. But lately he'd put the gris-gris away, unsure what it meant to wear such a thing. To seek the help of the loa was, at best, an act of mistrust in the goodness and the
“It's bad, Michie Ben,” the old servant murmured. “You'd have slept in this room, that Mambo Oba would have come in the night and rode you to death. My brother, he had a fix put on him so, and snakes grew under his skin so he died.”
“Who's Mambo Oba?”
“She lives over on Rue Morales, near the paper mill.” Mamzelle Marie reemerged from the room with the two flannels held gathered by their corners, carefully, as if they contained filth. “I'll go there to her myself and find out who paid her to fix you and what else she might have done. Bella, would you scrub the floor of the room and the steps here with brick dust and put brick dust on the soles of Michie Ben's shoes?”
“I put the brick dust on his shoes last night,” said the servant, with a quick shy grin. “I knew he'd go out this morning.”
Mamzelle Marie gave her a wink, her sudden sweet smile like a doorway into a room unsuspected. “You're a wise woman, Bella.”
“Bella!”
All turned, to see Livia Levesque standing in the back door of the house. January had brought Marie Laveau down the passway at the side of the house to the yard, rather than risk an encounter between the voodooienne and his mother: he had heard his mother speak often enough about superstition and those who preyed on the ignorance of blacks. He saw recognition widen his mother's eyes and the way her lips folded tight, but she called out only, “Bella, you bring my coffee in here now.”
“ 'Scuse me, M'am.” Bella curtsied quickly to Mamzelle Marie. “I'll do as you say, M'am, first chance I get.” She nodded toward the house, into which her mis tress had vanished in a rustle of mull-muslin skirts. “Don't hold it against her, M'am, please.”
“I don't hold grudges, Bella.” Mamzelle smiled. “There's no greater waste of time in this world.”
She and January watched the old woman hasten down the steps and across the little yard; and January reflected that Bella, whom Livia had bought when first St.-Denis Janvier had given her her own freedom, was exactly what Livia herself might have been: exactly of the same extraction of white and black, no more educated or better reared. Under other circumstances, might his mother and this woman have been friends?
“Michie Janvier.”
Mamzelle Marie held out to him a little bag of red silk, hung on a cord of braided string, smelling vaguely of dried whisky and ashes.
“Will you wear this?” she asked. “Give it a name, but don't tell anyone what that name is; wear it next to your skin, under your right armpit, and take it out every now and then and give it a drink of whisky. It'll keep you safe.”
January was silent. In those sibyl eyes he saw again the reflection of last night's dreams. Dreams of being lost in the cipriere, with mist rising from the low ground and night coming on. Dreams of seeing something whitish that scuttered among the trees, a slick sickly gleam of rotting flesh. Dreams of the smell of blood.
He had been a child in the dreams, with no strength to meet a capricious world. In those days the only thing you could do with an overseer who hated you was make a ball of red pepper and salt and the man's hair and throw it in a stream, so he would go away, or mix blood and graveyard dust and the burned-up ash of a whippoorwill's wing in a bottle, and bury the bottle where the man would walk over it, so that he would die. God and the Virgin Mary had brought him out of slavery, Père Antoine had told him. God would keep him safe. In times past he'd worn a gris-gris Olympe had made for him and had prayed, half in jest, to Papa Legba as he'd now and then addressed the classical gods, like Athene or Apollo. But lately he'd put the gris-gris away, unsure what it meant to wear such a thing. To seek the help of the loa was, at best, an act of mistrust in the goodness and the
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