power of God.
Satan has no power, the old priest had said, over a good man whose heart is pure.
Of course, Père Antoine had never been any man's slave, either.
The full bronze lips quirked down at one corner when he did not put forth his hand to take the little red silk bag. “You think God didn't make jack honeysuckle and verbena, with the power to uncross any that's crossed?” she asked. But in her tone he heard no anger. Only exasperation, like a mother whose child refuses to wear a coat on a cold morning.
He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Mamzelle, and I thank you. But I can't.”
Paul Corbier and Gabriel were at the Cabildo when January got there. A grudging Guardsman led them all from the watch room through the yard and up the two flights of rickety steps to the gallery where the women's cells were. The madwoman whose children were dead still sobbed and muttered somewhere, pleading for someone to stop her father and her husband from entering the cell at night and sitting on her chest. More loudly, a drunken voice interminably sang “The Bastard King of England.” The day had already turned hot.
“Mambo Oba?” Olympe shook her head, leaning against the barred window in the cell door to look out at her brother, husband, and child. “She's no enemy of mine. When I was with Marie Saloppe, Mambo Oba set herself up against us, and we put fixes on one another; I think she sent a gator to live under the floor of Saloppe's house. But that was years ago. We see each other at the Square, now and then, or in the market.” She shrugged. “That's all in the past.”
“Hmn,” said January. The conflicts among the voodoos in town-breaking into one another's houses to steal bottles or idols or calabash rattles supposedly imbued with Power, placing crosses and fixes on one another's houses or followers-had given January a mistrust and a disgust for them, even before the final dance at the brickyard. It had seemed as childish and petty as the tales they told of the loa, how the goddess Ezili had had an affair with this god or that god, creating scandal; how the god Zaka would run away in fear from the Guédé, the dark lords of the Baron Cemetery's family; less like gods than like children, and illmannered ones at that. It had seemed to him greedy, too, for it was clear to him that money lay at the bottom of it, fear and influence over the minds of potential customers. He knew perfectly well that when white ladies, or colored, paid Olympe to tell their fortunes, Mamzelle Marie took her cut.
“Mamzelle Marie says somebody likely paid Mambo Oba,” said January, and his sister nodded.
“Likely. She always was the kind who'd put a fix on her next-door neighbor so the neighbor would pay her to come take it off.”
“I thought you all did that.”
“Only when the rent's due, brother.” The fine lines around her eyes deepened with a malicious smile. January glanced at the Guard who stood nearby, gauging the broad Germanic cheekbones, the fair hair, and the heavy chin. Leaning close to the window he asked, in the fieldhand African-French of their childhood, “Where were you on the night Isaak Jumon died?” And he saw her eyes change. Wondering if he'd pass that information along.
“Olympe, your life is at stake here. They arrested you because you wouldn't say.”
“They arrested me because I'm a servant of the loa,” she replied. “That journalist Blodgett, he's been here twice. Asking about pagan gods, and hoodoo, and demons, writing notes in his little book to make white folks gasp and whisper over their tea. What does it matter where I was, if I sold poison that could be used anytime?”
“Olympe . . .” said Paul desperately, and Gabriel bit his lip.
And January understood. “The twenty-third,” he said. “St. John's Eve. Were you at a dance?”
Behind her in the cell a free colored woman got into a shoving-match with a slave over who would next use the communal latrine bucket, and Olympe glanced
Satan has no power, the old priest had said, over a good man whose heart is pure.
Of course, Père Antoine had never been any man's slave, either.
The full bronze lips quirked down at one corner when he did not put forth his hand to take the little red silk bag. “You think God didn't make jack honeysuckle and verbena, with the power to uncross any that's crossed?” she asked. But in her tone he heard no anger. Only exasperation, like a mother whose child refuses to wear a coat on a cold morning.
He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Mamzelle, and I thank you. But I can't.”
Paul Corbier and Gabriel were at the Cabildo when January got there. A grudging Guardsman led them all from the watch room through the yard and up the two flights of rickety steps to the gallery where the women's cells were. The madwoman whose children were dead still sobbed and muttered somewhere, pleading for someone to stop her father and her husband from entering the cell at night and sitting on her chest. More loudly, a drunken voice interminably sang “The Bastard King of England.” The day had already turned hot.
“Mambo Oba?” Olympe shook her head, leaning against the barred window in the cell door to look out at her brother, husband, and child. “She's no enemy of mine. When I was with Marie Saloppe, Mambo Oba set herself up against us, and we put fixes on one another; I think she sent a gator to live under the floor of Saloppe's house. But that was years ago. We see each other at the Square, now and then, or in the market.” She shrugged. “That's all in the past.”
“Hmn,” said January. The conflicts among the voodoos in town-breaking into one another's houses to steal bottles or idols or calabash rattles supposedly imbued with Power, placing crosses and fixes on one another's houses or followers-had given January a mistrust and a disgust for them, even before the final dance at the brickyard. It had seemed as childish and petty as the tales they told of the loa, how the goddess Ezili had had an affair with this god or that god, creating scandal; how the god Zaka would run away in fear from the Guédé, the dark lords of the Baron Cemetery's family; less like gods than like children, and illmannered ones at that. It had seemed to him greedy, too, for it was clear to him that money lay at the bottom of it, fear and influence over the minds of potential customers. He knew perfectly well that when white ladies, or colored, paid Olympe to tell their fortunes, Mamzelle Marie took her cut.
“Mamzelle Marie says somebody likely paid Mambo Oba,” said January, and his sister nodded.
“Likely. She always was the kind who'd put a fix on her next-door neighbor so the neighbor would pay her to come take it off.”
“I thought you all did that.”
“Only when the rent's due, brother.” The fine lines around her eyes deepened with a malicious smile. January glanced at the Guard who stood nearby, gauging the broad Germanic cheekbones, the fair hair, and the heavy chin. Leaning close to the window he asked, in the fieldhand African-French of their childhood, “Where were you on the night Isaak Jumon died?” And he saw her eyes change. Wondering if he'd pass that information along.
“Olympe, your life is at stake here. They arrested you because you wouldn't say.”
“They arrested me because I'm a servant of the loa,” she replied. “That journalist Blodgett, he's been here twice. Asking about pagan gods, and hoodoo, and demons, writing notes in his little book to make white folks gasp and whisper over their tea. What does it matter where I was, if I sold poison that could be used anytime?”
“Olympe . . .” said Paul desperately, and Gabriel bit his lip.
And January understood. “The twenty-third,” he said. “St. John's Eve. Were you at a dance?”
Behind her in the cell a free colored woman got into a shoving-match with a slave over who would next use the communal latrine bucket, and Olympe glanced
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