overactive imagination. I removed the head wrap, left it on the counter, and followed the woman. Sliding the woven fabric aside, the shopkeeper guided me through the door. The dimly lit room was filled floor to ceiling with all things Voodoo: statues, draped fabrics, and hand-crafted dolls were scattered everywhere. Candles shimmered in crystal votive holders, the stale scent of long-extinguished incense lingered in the air. If there was a window anywhere, it was hidden. Large cushions for devotees surrounded an altar littered with offerings, like the ones I’d seen at Marie Laveau’s crypt. A china teapot and two delicate cups had been placed on a table near the altar. The woman motioned for me to sit down.
“I have tea cakes if you are hungry.”
“No thank you,” I said, settling onto a soft, oversized cushion.
Pouring the tea she said, “I hope you like chamomile.”
“I do.”
“I added a few herbs of my own. I hope you find it pleasant,” she said, handing me the steaming cup.
“Do you own this place?”
“Yes. I own the building; I live upstairs and have the shop down here.”
“What is this room?” I asked, taking in my surroundings.
“This room is used for private events. Please tell me what brings you to me this stormy night, Miss April.”
“I don’t know. I just came.”
“For what purpose?”
“I have questions.”
Marguerite studied me and smiled. “I had a daughter about your age, very much like you. Oh, did she have a mind of her own! So smart, so inquisitive. She very much wanted to go to college, to study cultural anthropology as I had done. She wanted to go to Africa, to do good works.”
She paused, lost in her past. “She was taken from me, in a car crash, my husband, too. Life can be so fleeting, so devastating.”
I nodded my head in understanding.
“But you know that already, for you have suffered a great loss,
n’est-ce pas
?”
I nodded again.
“You have questions, my child?”
“I looked you up on the Internet. You’re not an ordinary shopkeeper. You’re a Voodoo high priestess, aren’t you?”
She tilted her head, but did not answer.
“Can you tell me if after someone dies, it’s possible to contact them? Is that what Voodoo does? Like a séance or something?”
Marguerite searched my face before replying. “Is that what you want, to contact someone who has died?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I was just thinking that . . . Yes, I do. I need to contact someone.”
“In Voodoo, we can make contact with spirits, the
Loa
, through ritual.”
“What kind of ritual?
“There are many, but for you, a spiritual cleansing or healing ritual would be necessary to unblock your energy if you have had a catastrophic life event. Perhaps a death in your family? When your positive energy is released, it will be possible to have a psychic connection with the one who has passed.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
Marguerite continued, “Miss April, there is something we can do now if you like. Would you be open to a Tarot reading? I can perform a three-card interpretation for you—one card each for your past, present, and future.”
I hesitated, then nodded yes.
“Shall I begin?” she asked.
Again I hesitated, but nodded yes.
Marguerite rose to get her Tarot cards. She handed the deck to me and said, “Shuffle until you feel the energy is right.”
Not sure what energy I was supposed to feel, I shuffled several times and handed the cards back to her. The building shuddered as the storm’s violence intensified; the lights winked out. In the shadows of the flickering candles, Marguerite appeared more sinister than sincere. Totally creeped out, but fixated all the same, I held my breath while the high priestess split the cards into three separate piles.
Turning the top card from the first stack face up, she tapped it once with a well-manicured finger. In a deep, somber voice she said, “
DEATH
. This card represents your past.”
The
“I have tea cakes if you are hungry.”
“No thank you,” I said, settling onto a soft, oversized cushion.
Pouring the tea she said, “I hope you like chamomile.”
“I do.”
“I added a few herbs of my own. I hope you find it pleasant,” she said, handing me the steaming cup.
“Do you own this place?”
“Yes. I own the building; I live upstairs and have the shop down here.”
“What is this room?” I asked, taking in my surroundings.
“This room is used for private events. Please tell me what brings you to me this stormy night, Miss April.”
“I don’t know. I just came.”
“For what purpose?”
“I have questions.”
Marguerite studied me and smiled. “I had a daughter about your age, very much like you. Oh, did she have a mind of her own! So smart, so inquisitive. She very much wanted to go to college, to study cultural anthropology as I had done. She wanted to go to Africa, to do good works.”
She paused, lost in her past. “She was taken from me, in a car crash, my husband, too. Life can be so fleeting, so devastating.”
I nodded my head in understanding.
“But you know that already, for you have suffered a great loss,
n’est-ce pas
?”
I nodded again.
“You have questions, my child?”
“I looked you up on the Internet. You’re not an ordinary shopkeeper. You’re a Voodoo high priestess, aren’t you?”
She tilted her head, but did not answer.
“Can you tell me if after someone dies, it’s possible to contact them? Is that what Voodoo does? Like a séance or something?”
Marguerite searched my face before replying. “Is that what you want, to contact someone who has died?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I was just thinking that . . . Yes, I do. I need to contact someone.”
“In Voodoo, we can make contact with spirits, the
Loa
, through ritual.”
“What kind of ritual?
“There are many, but for you, a spiritual cleansing or healing ritual would be necessary to unblock your energy if you have had a catastrophic life event. Perhaps a death in your family? When your positive energy is released, it will be possible to have a psychic connection with the one who has passed.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
Marguerite continued, “Miss April, there is something we can do now if you like. Would you be open to a Tarot reading? I can perform a three-card interpretation for you—one card each for your past, present, and future.”
I hesitated, then nodded yes.
“Shall I begin?” she asked.
Again I hesitated, but nodded yes.
Marguerite rose to get her Tarot cards. She handed the deck to me and said, “Shuffle until you feel the energy is right.”
Not sure what energy I was supposed to feel, I shuffled several times and handed the cards back to her. The building shuddered as the storm’s violence intensified; the lights winked out. In the shadows of the flickering candles, Marguerite appeared more sinister than sincere. Totally creeped out, but fixated all the same, I held my breath while the high priestess split the cards into three separate piles.
Turning the top card from the first stack face up, she tapped it once with a well-manicured finger. In a deep, somber voice she said, “
DEATH
. This card represents your past.”
The
Similar Books
