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  Papa Legba, open the door

  Your children await

  Open the door Papa Legba

  So that I may pass

  When I return, I will thank the loa.

  “Please,” I added for good measure, as I stared at the gate rather impatiently.

  Still. Nothing.

  To my relief, after a few moments, the guitar started to play again and the low, gravelly voice started to sing. Cigar smoke seeped through the gate and into the keyhole. The lock rattled and shook violently until it finally popped open. I watched in fascination as the gate slowly swung wide for me. Cautiously, I took a step towards the gate, closed my eyes, and without hesitation followed the music.

  Chapter Six

  At the Crossroads

  I wasn’t exactly thrilled with where the music had taken me. When my eyes opened I found myself standing in the middle of a shabby bar with rotting walls, a half-collapsed ceiling and a floor so filthy I swore I was about to contract some kind of rare life-threatening infection. The smell of stale cigar smoke, cheap rum sprinkled with a dash of vomit, and body odor was so disgusting that I had to hold my breath. Puffs of cigar smoke, conversation and blues music lingered in the air, giving the place an oddly lively quality despite its obvious poverty.

  There were no tables; only one long wooden bar, which was tended by an old man with dark wrinkled skin and a closely-cropped beard peppered with gray hairs. He walked with a cane and a slight limp. With his straw hat and red flannel shirt he looked like a farmer rather than a bartender. Despite his shabby appearance his smile was exceptionally radiant, and his voice was so incredibly low and smooth that it gave me an immediate craving for a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich.

  Around me, depressed bar patrons slumped on their stools, smoked fat cigars, slurped their drinks, and most disturbingly of all spoke to themselves in harsh, venomous tones.

  “No don’t say that. Don’t say that. No don’t say that. Don’t say that. Don’t say that. Don’t say that,” repeated one patron with a too-big head and freakishly hairy arms.

  “You shouldn’t talk about such things. You shouldn’t talk about such things. You shouldn’t talk about such things,” said a young woman with strikingly pretty face offset by a nasty scowl. Her voice got lower and lower. “You shouldn’t talk about such things because they make others uncomfortable… Shhhh. If you don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist. If you don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist. If you don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist. If you don’t think about it, it doesn’t exist. Shhhhhh. Don’t think about it… Don’t think… Don’t think… Don’t think…”

  “I don’t have anything positive to say about you! Nothing at all! Nothing ! Nothing! Nothing positive! Horrible! Nothing positive! Horrible! Nothing good at all!” screeched a middle-aged man with a thick mustache and icy blue eyes. I tried to suppress my laughter and horror. Watching a grown man whine like a spoiled school girl was simultaneously amusing and downright frightening. What a Dumpty.

  “Meh! I don’t know why I put up with you! I don’t know why I put up with you! I don’t know why I put up with you! You! You! And you!” screamed a girl with a mop of dark curls and bloodshot eyes.

  “Get over it. Get over it. Get over it. I’m over it. I’m over it. Really I am. You get over it,” repeated a teenaged boy with a large neck tattoo and lip piercing.

  “You’re not super-great or wonderful, I am! You’re not super-great or wonderful, I am!” repeated a thin man with long red hair and a tear-streaked face. “I’m super-wonderful not you!”

  Their energy depressed me to the point where I felt I had to immediately sit down, otherwise I would collapse. What an utterly terrifying and odd group of people they were. I went unnoticed by them as I made my way through the room and towards the bar, where I pulled out a stool. I sat beside the redheaded man and tried to avoid eye contact. Why was Papa Legba hanging out in such a miserable place? Where was he, anyways?

  I focused my attention on the thick layer of dirt that had accumulated under my finger nails and tried to think of what my next move would be.

  The redheaded man poked me with his bony finger and even though I kept my head down he insisted on speaking to me anyways. “You left him. You left him! You left! You left him! You hurt people, don’t you? Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, as I continued to avoid eye contact.

  “He he he. You hurt people! You hurt people! You hurt people!” he continued to sing. “You hurt people! You hurt people! You hurt people!”

  Calm, Arelia. Calm, don’t snap at the poor man; he obviously has problems. Compassion and respect. That’s right, show some compassion and respect for your fellow man. I took a deep breath and ignored him but he continued to poke me with his bony finger. “You hurt people! You hurt people! You hurt people! You hurt people!” He went on and on.

  Ignore him, Arelia. Ignore him.

  As much as I wanted to ignore him and keep my vow of compassion and respect, he kept poking me, and after a while it got so irritating I had the sudden urge to break his finger.

  “Shut up!” I snapped, unable to hold in my annoyance any longer. “What‘s your problem?” I asked, as I faced him.

  “You hurt people! You hurt people!”

  “Simon, be nice to our guest.” Thankfully, the bartender came to my rescue and the redhead stopped his incessant poking and went back to talking to himself.

  What kind of strange-ass bar was this? “Thank you.” I gave the bartender a half-smile, not really looking at him.

  “My pleasure, darlin’. Here, this should cheer you up. I know it always makes me feel better,” he said in that comforting voice of his, as he pushed a bowl full of candy towards me.

  I eyed the bowl suspiciously, but quickly became mesmerized by the colorful candy it contained. I was tempted to grab what looked like a monster gumdrop but had to remind myself that nothing good ever came from taking candy from strangers, no matter how tempting it was.

  “No thanks.” I pushed the bowl away.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” said the bartender, as he helped himself to a red lollipop.

  I perked up and looked at the bartender carefully. Red flannel shirt, red lollypop. “Papa Legba?” I asked with uncertainty. He didn’t look like a rock star. In fact, he looked like a frail old man with a candy addiction.

  He smiled widely and peered at me with his kind brown eyes. “Arelia LaRue, I’ve been expecting you. Your friend Marie is certain that you’re ready to let go of your fears. The question is, are you ready?”

  I was speechless. What do you say to a spirit who is infinitely powerful, wise, and knows more about you than yourself? I shrugged. “I guess so, but I don’t know why I’m here and where I’m supposed to go, so that makes everything a bit more complicated. I’m not even sure I can trust Marie.”

  His smile vanished and he leaned in towards me. “Do you want to be like these people?” he asked, motioning to the crazy patrons with his lollipop.

  I glanced around me. “No. These people are clearly insane. Why would I want to be like them?”

  “Little darlin’, this is where you’re headed if you remain imprisoned by your own fears.”

  I was tempted to roll my eyes. This philosophy lesson was giving me a headache. “I don’t get it.”

  Papa Legba laughed deeply and took another red lollipop from the candy bowl. “These people may appear crazy to you, but the sad fact is this is where most people end up and this is where most people will remain. I can’t show people what they refuse to see. I can’t offer clarity to those who choose to remain in the dark.”

  “Is that what happened to these people?” I asked, as I looked at the bitter faces that surrounded me. “They chose to stay in the dark?”

  He let out a low sigh and his eyes appeared infinitely sad as he glanced around the room. “Yes. These people are so full of fear that they refuse to believe in the truth. They r
efuse to accept the truth about themselves because it’s painful and uncomfortable so they sit here at the crossroads. They’re paralyzed by their fears, so they do nothing at all except blame others for their own problems. They’re so convinced that their way of thinking is the only way that they refuse to put themselves in their neighbor’s shoes. They’re devoid of love. After all, how can one expect to love another when they can’t even love themselves? They see no goodness or joy in anything, nor do they have any compassion for others. Do you know what happens to a soul that sees no goodness in anything?”

  “I have an idea,” I said, as I thought back to all that Ivan had done to me.

  “They become so bitter and vile that all they want to do is poison every little thing they come in contact with. Hate is their Bon Dieu and negativity is their addiction. Of course, they’re so blind they can’t even see how horrible they really are, nor can they see the impact they have on others. I can offer them options but I can’t force them to do anything they don’t want to do. I cannot force positive change upon those who don’t want it.”

  He was making me uncomfortable, mostly because I could see myself sitting in this miserable bar for eternity talking to myself like a madwoman and blaming others for my problems. I knew I wasn’t above any of it, nor was I better than any of these people. I recognized myself in every single one of them. I recognized my hatreds, my fears, my paranoias and prejudices, and that realization was a big ol’ slap in the face. But I didn’t want to end up here. I didn’t want to remain in the land of the bitter and vile. “How can I free myself?” I whispered.

  “The only way anyone can truly free themselves is by looking within themselves, acknowledging their fears, and facing them head-on regardless of how uncomfortable that process may be. You’re at the crossroads, Arelia. I wasn’t going to help you, but Marie insisted that you were mature enough to let go of your fears and understand the bigger picture. She convinced me that you were ready to meet her. She begged me to introduce you to her because she is the only one who knows the truth. She knows who is responsible for the curse and the reason behind it. That is what you want, isn’t it? You want the truth so you can free Lucus and Louis, no matter what the cost?”

  “I do, but…”

  “But…”

  The truth was I was fearful of the unknown. I was fearful of what I would discover, and mostly I was scared that I was about to find out something really terrifying about Lucus. That scene in the graveyard had shaken me to my very core. What had it meant? “At what cost?” I finally asked after a long pause.

  He grinned and pulled out a guitar from behind the bar. “The biggest sacrifice of all…”

  I anxiously grabbed a fistful of candy from the bowl and shoved it into my mouth. Something told me I needed lots of sugar before I was ready to hear his answer. “Which is?” I asked through a mouthful of candy.

  He smiled and the corners of his kind eyes crinkled.

  Of course he wasn’t going come out and say it, that would make it all too easy and what fun was easy?

  He closed his eyes and started to play the guitar. In that low, gravelly voice of his he began to sing

  Everybody say she got a mojo

  now, she's been usin' that stuff

  Mmm mmm mmm, 'verybody says she got a mojo

  His eyes opened and rested on me. “So, are you ready or would you like to hang around here a little longer?” He winked and gave me a large grin.

  “You still haven’t told me what I need to sacrifice.”

  “You have to sacrifice your illusions, little darlin’.”

  What the hell kind of sacrifice was that? “I don’t know what that means…”

  He started to play his guitar again. “Of course you do. Only the weak and mindless are incapable of thinking for themselves, and you are neither weak nor mindless.”

  I stared at him for a few minutes and tried to find a deeper meaning behind his ominous words, when it hit me. “It’s going to be painful, isn’t? What she’s going to show me is going to change everything, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Do I have any other options?”

  He nodded. “Of course you do, little darlin’. Papa Legba always gives his children choices. So these are yours: you can run away like a scared little girl and pretend that none of this ever happened. That’s what most people do, but then they end up right back here sooner or later. I can erase your memory, and you can forget all about this crazy summer. In a few years you’ll end up marrying Tony…”

  “Tony!” I scoffed.

  He nodded. “Yes. He’ll marry you in an attempt to defy his parents, and you’ll accept his proposal because you won’t know any better. You’ll never truly understand your own worth. You’ll love him regardless of how he treats you. He’ll strip you of all of your self-esteem and repeatedly hurt you, but you’ll still stay. You’ll stay for the comfort and security but you’ll be bitter and angry. You’ll have a couple of babies and they’ll be bitter and angry and the cycle of anger and bitterness will continue.”

  “What will happen to Lucus and Louis?” I whispered.

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t matter?! Of course it matters. What’s my other choice?”

  “You dance with the unknown, regardless of how uncomfortable it will make you. Seek the truth and face your fears.”

  “Hmmm… Have a couple of bitter babies with Tony or face the painful unknown. You’re not giving me much of a choice.”

  “You always have a choice.”

  I bit my nails, stared at the filthy floor, and considered my options. Was it better to live in sweet denial or fight for the truth? I thought about all the people who had fought for the truth, great people like Ghandi, Lennon, JFK and Marley. What had become of them? They had been either murdered or had died young and rather mysteriously. Had they ever regretted their decisions? Had they ever wished they just kept their mouths shut and remained submissive to the wrongs they saw in the world? Did I want to live my life with blinders on just because it was convenient? No, not really.

  “I want to meet her,” I said, as I stood up. “I want to meet her. I need to know what she has to say. Introduce us. Please.”

  Papa Legba laughed and continued to play his guitar until the music became louder and louder. “Close your eyes,” he said. “The gateway is awaitin’.”

  “Gateway? What gateway?”

  He ignored my questions and continued to play his guitar. “Close your eyes and follow the music. She’s been waitin’ at the gateway for an awfully long time. Follow the music.”

  I closed my eyes and did as he said. The music swirled around me and intertwined its hands with mine. It was ferocious, bittersweet and absolutely seductive. I gave myself over to it completely and felt myself drift further and further away…

  Chapter Seven

  Heathens, Gens de Couleur Libres, and Cecile LaNuit

  Congo Square

  New Orleans, 1852

  When my eyes opened I was no longer myself, but someone named Cecile LaNuit. I knew it was 1852, I was seventeen years old, a gen de couleur libre (free person of color) and I lived in the most glorious, romantic and magical city in the entire world. An elegantly crafted green dress made out of the finest taffeta and lace caressed my smooth honey-colored skin, lace gloves rested on my rather tiny hands, and a heavy black cape provided warmth against the cool autumn wind.

  The air was thick and smoky with the scent of manure, pralines, rotten vegetables, burnt tar, and sweet rebellion. I tossed my head back, let out a carefree laugh and began to move my feet. My hair unraveled from the bun I had arranged it in and cascaded down to my waist in thick loose black waves. Around me, drums of all shapes and sizes filled the air with their savage, hypnotic rhythm and mingled with the melody of banjos, jawbones, violins and triangles.

  It was Sunday, which was my favorite day. It was the only day out of the week in which people of all races, ages and classe
s forgot their differences and let the les mysteries seduce them into ever-elusive unity. Slaves, gens de couleur libres, and white people came together in Congo Square to either watch or participate in the slave dances- which were actually cleverly disguised mass Voodoo ceremonies- and simply let the infectious energy seep into their bones.

  Unlike the rest of the country, which was segregated rigidly into black or white, Louisiana was the only state that allowed these colors to blend together, thus producing a culture which to the rest of the States seemed like an abomination. However, in my eyes it was simply magnifique!

  Around me half-naked slaves adorned with ribbons, bells, and shells formed large circles and moved their hips to the music while curious spectators clapped and cheered them on. Most urban slaves were allowed Sundays off and they took full advantage of this privilege by celebrating their glorious culture with the city.

  I felt the omnipresent loa all around me encouraging me to dance, clap, and forget my problems, so I did. I clapped and screamed while swinging my minuscule hips from side to side. The loa and I had a somewhat special relationship. I loved, respected, and feared them, and in return they opened their strange and magical world to me. I saw them everywhere. On street corners, in the marketplace, in church, in the bathroom. They saw and heard everything.

  “Heathens, savages; this is a complete abomination to civilization,” Antoine scoffed. “They need to have some pride and self-respect. How is anyone to take them seriously if they go on behaving like this?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Antoine Dupart, you, mon ami, are a bourgeois snob!” I accused, as I grabbed his hand and tried to get him into the spirit.

  I glanced over at him and felt a sudden surge of affection. He was my best friend, companion, and the brother I never had. I had been friends with him and his twin sister, Aimee, since the age of five. Last year, Aimee had gotten married and had moved to Paris with her husband leaving, Antoine and I to ourselves. Of course, Maman didn’t know Antoine and I still saw one another, because the cold, hard truth was I was no longer a child and hadn’t been for quite some time.