by Rick Riordan
“That’s got to be where the Mormo is. I say we check out the cemetery now, while it’s still light, and then go back tonight to do some ghost wrestling. In between, maybe we can take in some jazz. And Sam?” I gestured to the hat in his hand. “What’s that for?”
“Duh. To cover my frizz. Look: nub holes.” He poked his fingers into the two slits cut for the mule’s ears and then jammed the hat on his head.
I cracked up. “Honey, those flowers are so you.”
Sam preened. “Pink is my color.”
I knocked him lightly with my shoulder. “You’re satyr-rific, Sam.”
He tipped the hat over one eye. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Saint Louis Cemetery Number One was within easy walking distance of Café du Monde. It was a popular historical attraction, and we arrived just as a tour group was setting out. We trailed behind them to a white tomb with a gently peaked roof. Candle stubs, wilted flowers, strings of colorful beads, and other random objects littered the ground around it. Trios of hand-drawn X’s marked the sides and front.
“This is tomb three hundred and forty-seven,” the tour guide droned. “It is believed to be the final resting place of Marie Laveau, a renowned healer and pacifist. You may know her better as the Voodoo Queen.”
A few people gasped. I nudged Sam. “Marie! Do you think she’s the demigod Hades talked about?”
Sam raised his hand. “When did she die?”
“Uh,” said the tour guide, sneaking a look at the tomb. “She died in 1881.”
“That doesn’t seem very recent,” I whispered.
“In god years, that’s like yesterday,” Sam whispered back.
Someone asked about the X’s on the tomb. “Ah, yes,” the guide replied. “Before we go any farther, I must request that you not deface this or any of the vaults. But to answer your question: some people believe that if they mark this tomb with three X’s and leave an offering, Marie will grant them a wish.”
When the group moved on, I held Sam back. “I want to make a wish.”
“Why?”
“Five demigods turned into zombies? We need all the help we can get.”
Sam shifted his hooves uneasily. “I don’t know. Voodoo is serious magic, and Marie Laveau was the most powerful practitioner of her time. Maybe of all time. What if something goes wrong?”
“She was a demigod. And the tour guide said she was a healer. Maybe she just needs a little coaxing to heal the people who were bitten by the Mormo.” I knelt in front of her tomb.
Sam was quiet for a moment and then took off his new hat. “Okay. Want to offer her this?”
“Maybe just the flowers.”
Sam gathered them into a bouquet, which I put with the other offerings. With apologetic thoughts to the tour guide, I made three tiny X’s with a piece of brick, covered them with my hand, and whispered my request. When I removed my hand, the X’s had disappeared.
“Whoa,” I breathed. “You think that means she’s going to grant it?”
“Either that or your sweaty palm erased the mark,” Sam replied. “So, what was your wish, exactly?”
“World peace, a hundred more wishes, and that you’d lose the hat.”
“Fine,” Sam grumbled. “Don’t tell me.”
“Come on,” I chided. “You know the deal with wishes. Tell them and they won’t come true.” I surveyed the cemetery and shivered despite the heat. “And we definitely want this one to come true.”
We had a pretty good feel for the cemetery’s layout by the time it closed to the public at three. I suggested we head to Preservation Hall and get our tickets early. Between the crowds of tipsy tourists and the Sisyphean task of pulling Sam away from open restaurants, it took us nearly forty-five minutes to get there. Sam wiped jambalaya off his chin and burped as I approached the closed ticket window. I knocked until a small, wiry man slid it open and squinted at us.
“Yeah?” he said, after a moment.
“I need two tickets for the eight o’clock show,” I said.
“Tonight,” burped Sam.
“Office opens at six,” he said, and started to slide the window shut.
“Please!” I said, and produced the gold coin that Hades had given us.
The man examined it for a moment, then shook his head. “US currency only. Thirty-five dollars apiece for Big Shot seats. Come back later.” The window clicked shut.
I turned to Sam. “How much money do we have left?”
He scuffed one hoof on the ground. “Uh, well…”
“Sam?” He reached into his backpack without meeting my eyes. “Sam.”
He removed a handful of crumpled one-dollar bills and passed them to me. “New Orleans food isn’t cheap.”
“You spent all our money?”
He nodded woefully.
“How are we supposed to get into the show tonight? Hades obviously wanted us to go for a reason….”
Simultaneously, both of us looked over at a trio of break dancers who were drawing an enormous crowd across the street. “Maybe…” said Sam.
“Seventy dollars?” I said.
“Yeah! We have almost four hours. I can sing and dance. What can you do?”
Select a choice:
MAGIC
PRETEND TO BE A STATUE
JUGGLE
WARNING! You’re about to spoil a great story by not making a choice! Page back, then click one of the links to advance the story. Otherwise, the next section may not make any sense to you.
I racked my brain, trying to come up with something. I was sure that if I tried to sing or dance, we would end up owing money. Finally, I remembered that one of my uncles had taught me a really good trick.
“Magic!” I said.
Sam half-groaned. “The four of clubs trick?” he said.
“Well, it tricked you,” I said a little defensively. “I just need a deck of cards.”
We walked toward Jackson Square. The main park area, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, was enormous and perfectly landscaped. A gothic-looking cathedral towered over everything, just behind a green-tinged statue of Andrew Jackson (he waved his hat at us). The stretch of sidewalk to the left of the main square was littered with small folding tables where psychics and tarot card readers sat. Artists had leaned their paintings against the fence to attract passersby. Sam looked around, then pointed to an empty spot next to some brightly painted canvases. “I’ll be over there,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, or the cops come, I’ll sing, um, ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ That’ll be our time-to-go cue.”
“Okay,” I said. “Good luck.”
Sam clopped off as I scanned the area and spotted an old man sitting behind a table covered by a multi-colored cloth. A chalkboard leaning against it read: TAROT CARD READINGS—15 DOLLARS. Three stacks of cards sat in front of him. I looked around for another option, then ran over.
“Excuse me, sir?” I asked. “I was wondering if you have an extra deck of cards I could borrow, just for a little while? I need it for a magic trick.”
“These aren’t your usual playing cards, son,” the man said, staring at me intently. “They reveal truth.” He indicated the empty chair across from him. “Why don’t you sit down so I can show you?”
“Well, um, I’m kind of short on time,” I said, resisting the urge to flee. “But maybe you have some you aren’t using right now?” I tried to peer inconspicuously into a canvas bag of supplies next to his chair.
The man’s gaze never wavered from my face. It felt like he was trying to read me like one of his cards.
“Look, I’m not a hustler, okay?” I continued. “I’m just trying to raise a little cash for an emergency. I promise I’ll give the cards back.” Then I added, “I’ll even give you a tip.”
The man started shuffling the deck in front of him, slowly and deliberately. I squirmed, thinking of the valuable time I was losing.
“Tell you what,” he drawled. “We’ll let the cards decide.” He divided t
he deck into three new stacks and placed them facedown on the table. “Choose one.”
“Uh, I don’t have enough money for—”
The old man waved his hand. “This is on me. Go ahead, pick.”
I don’t know why my fingers were shaking when I pointed to the pile on the right. He lifted the top card, turned it over, and laid it in front of me.
“Ah, the Fool,” he announced.
My face flushed. Obviously, this was some kind of joke he liked to—
“The Fool is the spark that sets everything in motion,” the old man continued. “The first step in the journey.” When he looked up at me, his expression was completely serious. “You are at the beginning of your enlightenment.”
I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say or do. I felt like…well, a fool.
The man leaned over, reached into his bag, and handed me a deck of cards. “Who am I to stand in your way?”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” Then I really pushed my luck. “Could I also borrow some chalk?”
“You must do what you must do,” the man said, which I took as a yes.
I grabbed a piece of blue chalk and picked up a discarded piece of cardboard nearby.
I quickly thumbed through the deck, scanning for the perfect card. There it was. I moved it to the bottom of the deck. Then I wrote THE MAGICIAN in big letters on the cardboard, placed the chalk back on the man’s table with a wave of gratitude, and walked a few yards away.
I put the cardboard sign face down on the asphalt and started shouting, “Step right up for a magic trick! Only one dollar!”
Tourist after tourist walked by, doing their best to pretend I didn’t exist. Finally, a young boy spotted me and tugged on his mother’s arm, whispering something to her. She sighed and gave him a dollar, which he then walked over and gave to me.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Byron,” said the boy very seriously.
“All right, Byron,” I said. “Thank you so much for stopping. Are you ready for a great magic trick?”
The boy nodded, looking around in anticipation. I moved my chosen card to the center of the deck and shoved my pinky in just above it to mark its place. “Okay,” I said. “All you have to do is say stop whenever you like, all right?”
Byron nodded, his face screwed up in concentration. A cowlick erupted from the top of his head like a feather.
“Okay. Ready? Go!” I started flipping through the cards quickly.
“Stop!” said Byron.
I pulled off all the cards on top of my pinky and shoved the bottom of the deck toward him. “There you go,” I said. “Take the card you stopped on and look at it, but don’t show me.”
Byron did as he was told, carefully covering it with both hands. I showed him the rest of the cards to prove they were all different. Byron’s mother came a little closer, curious.
“What card did you stop on?” I asked him.
“Can I show it to you now?” asked Byron.
“You don’t have to,” I said, pointing to the cardboard lying on the ground. “My magic cardboard will tell us both the answer. Turn it over!”
I stepped back as Byron reached down and flipped the cardboard. He gasped at the words and showed me his card: The Magician.
“The magic cardboard never lies!” I said.
Byron and his mother clapped, then his mother pulled him away.
It had worked!
I flipped the cardboard face down again and put the Magician card back on the bottom of the deck, ready for my next victim.
Sam tap danced and sang his satyr heart out, while I lured in tourist after tourist, sending as many as I could over to the elderly tarot reader as a thank you for letting me borrow the cards.
Hours flew by. Finally, I heard Sam singing “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and I gathered up the stack of dollar bills I’d managed to collect.
I ran over to him and realized how insanely sweaty he’d gotten. “It’s…time…to…go…” he panted, picking up his hat full of crumbled bills and loose change. “Did…we…do…it?”
We walked over to a nearby wall and started counting our money. “…seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine…Sam, we did it! We made eighty dollars!” I shouted, then hugged him, immediately regretting it as his wet goat scent clung to me.
“We…only…have…five…minutes…” he gasped. “Let’s…go.”
I laughed and shoved all but five of the bills into my pockets, then gave the tarot reader his cards back…along with that tip I’d promised.
GO TO PRESERVATION HALL
WARNING! You’re about to spoil a great story by not making a choice! Page back, then click one of the links to advance the story. Otherwise, the next section may not make any sense to you.
I racked my brain, trying to come up with something. I was sure that if I tried to sing or dance, we would end up owing money. I thought back to all of the street performers I’d seen over the years: break dancers, magicians, guitarists, jugglers, mimes…I stopped suddenly, remembering a man I’d seen earlier that day. He’d been standing immobile on the corner, painted completely silver, a bucket sitting in front of him. Whenever someone put a dollar into his bucket, he would move like a robot and wave. That was all he’d done, and his bucket had been nearly full.
“I can stand still,” I said.
“Huh?” said Sam.
“I can stand still like a statue,” I said. “And when someone gives me a dollar, I’ll wave to them.”
“Why would someone pay for that?” asked Sam.
“Why would someone pay to hear you sing Katy Perry?” I asked.
He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Fair point,” he said, leading the way down to Jackson Square.
The main park area, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, was enormous and perfectly landscaped. A gothic-looking cathedral towered over everything, just behind a green-tinged statue of Andrew Jackson (he waved his hat at us). The stretch of sidewalk to the left of the main square was littered with small folding tables where psychics and tarot card readers sat. Artists had leaned their paintings against the fence to attract passersby. Sam looked around, then pointed to an empty spot along the fence next to some brightly painted canvases. “I’ll be over there,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, or the cops come, I’ll sing, um, ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ That’ll be our time-to-go cue.”
“Okay,” I said. “Good luck.”
“You need it more than I do,” he said, then he took off his hat and gave it to me.
As he clopped over to the fence, I scanned the area and spotted an old plastic crate. I dragged it over to a small opening a few yards away, set the hat in front of it, and stepped up. I wasn’t sure what position to stand in, but I figured it had to be something that people would notice, so I stuck both hands in the air like I’d just scored a touchdown and waited.
A few tourists walked past and stared at me strangely, then kept walking. I wasn’t sure if they knew I’d move when they gave me money, but I didn’t know how to tell them. I realized I didn’t have a sign or body paint, so I probably just looked like a confused teenager.
I put my arms down and shook them out, my body already covered with a thin sheen of sweat. Standing still was much harder than I thought it would be. I stepped off my crate and walked around a little bit, stretching out my muscles. I needed a way to alert people that I was standing still for a purpose. I spotted an old man sitting at a card table with a handwritten sign that said TAROT CARD READINGS: 15 DOLLARS, and I walked over to him.
“Excuse me, sir?” I started. “I was wondering if I could borrow your marker? I’ll give it right back.”
“You sure you don’t want a readin’ instead?” he drawled, pointing to the empty chair in front of him.
I spread out my hands. “Sorry, dude. I’m all outta cash at the moment.”
He sighed and said, “We working people has to help each other out” as he handed me a red marker.
I picked up a small piece of cardboard off the street, and wrote a huge “$1” on it, and returned the marker with my thanks.
I placed the makeshift sign in front of my crate. Then, just to make sure the message was clear, I put one of my precious few dollars into the hat. Everyone knows that it takes money to make money.
I climbed back on top and extended one arm and one finger, pointing toward the Mississippi levee. I waited, trying hard not to move anything, not even my eyes. A few people stopped to read my sign, but then they kept moving. Finally, a blond man in a too-big T-shirt stumbled over and said, “One dollar. For what?”
He looked at me for an answer, but I didn’t move. He shrugged, reached into his wallet and removed a dollar, then placed it into the hat. Doing my best to move like a robot, I tilted my head and waved, then settled into a superhero pose, both hands on my hips.
The man stared, waiting for something else to happen. After about fifteen seconds, he said, “That was terrible!” and stumbled off down the street.
It hadn’t been great, but I’d made my first dollar. And the man hadn’t taken it back.
For the next three and a half hours, tourists came and went, a few dropping a dollar into my hat out of curiosity, nearly all of them leaving disappointed. Finally, I heard Sam singing “When the Saints Go Marching In” at the top of his lungs. I leaped down from the crate, wincing as my frozen muscles screamed in protest. I picked up the hat, wincing even harder at the sight of thirteen lonely dollar bills and a handful of pity change.
I ran over to find Sam, realizing how insanely sweaty he’d gotten. “It’s…time…to…go…” he panted. “Did…we…do…it?”
I shrugged, embarrassed. “I dunno,” I said. “I didn’t do so well.” I started counting, putting each dollar into the hat.
“…sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one.” I looked at Sam, his hair a huge frizzy halo. “We’re four dollars short,” I said.