I stole a glance at Irena, out of the corner of Mama Samm's eye. Clearly we were simpatico: she was as baffled as I.
"So that would be a big 'no' to my second guess," she reasoned aloud; "Jafar from Disney's Aladdin, as well?"
I was starting to like this girl.
My hostess, however, turned her attention back to the altar with disgruntled musings on the inadequacies of today's educational system.
Since I had to look where she looked, we contemplated the shimmery topography of Laveau's voodoo workstation.
What first appeared to be a cacophony of color, shape, and purpose slowly emerged to the patient eye as an ever-shifting pattern of geometric shapes, like an ever-evolving equation in three dimensions. Beads of various hues, sizes, and configurations flowed in cacophonous strands over and under and around and about everything: strands of pearls and gems, Mardi Gras leis and rosary chains—the latter ritually defaced and changed into something foul and fell. The chromatic rainbows of droplets seemed to be in constant motion, appearing and disappearing in the shimmering landscape like herds of tiny chameleons, transforming and redefining their relationships with their surroundings.
Two books were immediately visible in the roiling collage. They were positioned side by side with uncharacteristic precision. Mama Samm picked up the one to the left and looked at the title: L'Île Mystérieuse. A quick perusal of the book's interior revealed two things: that the text was in French and a portion of one line had been highlighted: 34°57' S 150°30' W. Repeatedly fanning the pages revealed no other markings or notes but the author's name gave us some additional context. We were holding an old French edition of Jules Verne's The Mysterious Island.
The other book was in English and of more recent vintage: And The Sea Will Tell by Vincent Bugliosi. A quick perusal of the contents yielded another highlighted set of coordinates: 5°52' N 162°6' W.
>What do these numbers mean?< Mama Samm asked me.
>I know that. You're the boat person. Where are they? What do they have in common?<
>Anything else?<
I shrugged. Or tried, anyway. Not having my own body or having it while wearing a straightjacket—pretty much the same end result.
Mama Samm flipped to the front. >Says 1991 here.<
I tried shrugging again.
Mama Samm plunged her hands into the shimmering sea of beads, bowls, and offerings and pulled another book to its chroma-keyed surface. It seemed to resist her efforts to extract it but, with a mighty heave, it finally pulled free.
It was an old, leather-bound tome, heavy with thick, parchment-like pages. Mama Samm examined the fine, golden-brown binding, marred only by a stippled, circular impression near the outer corner.
>A nipple.<
>Yes, Cséjthe, this accursed thing is bound in human skin.<
Well.
Okay.
I mean, yuck, but it's not like this sort of thing is totally unheard of.
The practice of binding books in human skin was not completely uncommon in centuries past: some of our country's finest libraries have such books in their collections.
Put your library card back in your pocket, psycho nerd: they're not out on the public shelves.
A lot of said volumes are medical texts where the doctor/author had access to skin from amputated parts, patients' bodies that went unclaimed, executed criminals, medical school cadavers, and the very poor—who never had much say over their own lives while still breathing and even less after they had stopped.
A 1568 anatomy text by the Belgian surgeon, Andreas Vesalius, resides in Brown University's John Hays Library. The College of Physicians of Philadelphia has several volumes bound by Dr. John Stockton Hough, who diagnosed the city's first case of trichinosis. He used some of that patient's skin to provide covers for three of his tomes.
And while some physicians were credited with the practice as a means of honoring some patients and/or providing an educational tie-in to informative works, other books have a decidedly unsavory hint of marketing attached. Two nineteenth century editions of The Dance of Death—a medieval morality tale on the theme of how death prevails over all, rich and poor—are bound in human skin.
An 1837 copy of George Walton's memoirs was bound in his own skin. Walton, a highwayman of some repute, bequeathed his own hide-bound book to one of his victims. No doubt with some "pound of flesh" joke invoked at some point in the process.
The Cleveland Public Library has a Quran that may have been bound in the skin of its previous owner, an Arab tribal leader. I shudder to think what the Vatican may have tucked away in its secret archives.
>Yes.<
<—human skin, that could contribute to the kind of sympathetic magic that would bring about the end of the world?> The skeptic in me was uncomfortable with voodoo having any kind of influence outside of the tourist industries for New Orleans and Haiti. Of course, the skeptic in me was uncomfortable with the concept of vampires and werewolves and demons and elves when you get right down to it.
She opened the book and gasped.
Actually, there was no sharp intake of breath. A "gasp" is the closest analog I have to my host's reaction to the spiked script that slashed across the pages in crabbed lines. The inside of her head seemed to grow dark as if all of the light in the room had dimmed and a simultaneous eclipse of the sun had commenced outside. The darkness seemed to roil with menace and inaudible voices that gibbered and whispered just beyond the range of human hearing.
Irena did gasp, though. "Is it the Necronomicon?"
Mama Samm ignored me and rounded on Laveau's stepdaughter. "What do you know of such things, little girl? A Latin or Greek translation of that monstrous work would be an abomination beyond telling! But this!" she hissed, shoving it toward Irena like a weapon, "this, is far worse! It is one of the Al Azif—the original Arabic texts of Abdul Alhazred the Mad! No original copy of the source material has been known to have survived the first millennium!"
Until now apparently.
>That's it! I need to be getting you outta my head and finding you another ride back home, now.<
>You are a distraction and you are using up conjure memory that I am likely to—<
She had opened the book and was turning the pages as if each piece of parchment had been dipped in excrement. Dozens of handwritten notes had been scribbled in the margins—in a variety of handwriting styles and inks. Two notations seemed to jump off the page with unnerving vitality.
Additional coordinates: 47°9' S 126°43' W and 49°51' S 128°34' W.
Without setting the book down Mama Samm fished through her valise-sized purse and landed her cell phone.
"Um," Irena said, "cell phones don't work down here. You can't get a signal."
"Can't, huh?" Mama Samm touched the phone to her forehead and whispered something that even I couldn't hear. Then she hit number six on her speed dial and within two rings Zotz was on the other end of the connection.
"Everything all right?" my erstwhile caretaker asked.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you the proper way to answer the phone is to s
ay 'hello'?" Her voice lacked its accustomed snap.
"Caller ID," he answered. "I knew it was you."
"I got an assignment for you."
"Oh goody. My existence has no meaning when I'm not steppin' and fetchin' for your beneficent consideration and past kindnesses."
"This is for Mister Chris," she said sourly.
"That's different; I actually am in his debt."
"I need you to do some research for us—him. Can you go online without getting distracted by all the nasty stuff?"
He sniffed. "The fact that my studies of the human condition include research on human sexuality—a major factor in human motivation to both create and destroy—does not mean that I am a porn addict, madam. I merely seek clarity."
"Yeah? Well, I got some numbers for you to clarify. You got a pencil?"
"Gimme a moment."
While Zotz rummaged for a writing implement, I whispered in her—um—"ear" to ask after our own, personal homeland security.
"Ready whenever you are, S.D."
"Before we continue I need to ask you a question," she said, shooting a sidelong glance at Laveau's stepdaughter.
"What? Like Truth or Dare?"
"No. Like how's the fishing up your way? I hear it's so good the fish are just climbing out of the river and into your boat. Are they still biting?"
"Uh, that's a big negatory there, Big Mama. But we are taking no chances. I've got spear guns and firearms stashed everywhere, the weapons lockers are unlocked, and I've rigged a dozen homemade depth charges. The fish finders are alarmed and running night and day. No one's sticking their feet in the water and anything sticks its head out, I'm taking it off."
"Good to know. I'm gonna give you four sets of numbers, now. They're geographical coordinates in latitude and longitude. Do you know what that—"
"I know what longitude and latitude are; just give me the damn numbers. And tell me if 'his nibs' is all okay."
"He is. That's all I can say at the moment."
"Got company, huh?"
"You're smarter than you look. Of course, you'd have to be just to walk erect."
"Yeah, I love you, too. Gimme the numbers: Olive's coming over shortly to see if her nephew needs changin'. I'll make a run to the library then."
She repeated the four sets of coordinates, they exchanged a couple more unpleasantries and she refolded her phone and dropped it back into her bag.
"Um, Miss Sammathea?" Irena tugged on our arm. "I know there's no love lost between you and my stepmother. And this . . . book . . . means that she's probably crossed a line that—well—there's probably no uncrossing. But if saving the world could coincide with saving Marie Laveau from herself?" She looked up at us with large, liquid brown eyes. "Well, that wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it?"
Mama Samm gazed back down at her and smiled. I think the smile was meant to be reassuring. I know that it took all kinds of effort. "Where is she, child? Do you know where she's gone?"
Irena nodded. "I think so."
"Tell me."
"Better than that, I'll drive you."
Now it was the juju woman's turn to lay her hand on the young girl's arm. "It would be better if I went alone. Just tell me."
* * *
My host fumed all the way to the New Orleans' Museum of Art.
>Another five minutes and I would have figured it out on my own!<
>The newspaper was lying right there! Opened right to the Arts & Culture section for gods' sakes!<
>What? Where?<
>It's hard to concentrate with a babbling fool carryin' on inside your head. Bad enough babysitting one. Now I'm babysitting two!<
"You alright back there?" Irena asked from the front seat. "You haven't said two sentences since we crossed Esplanade Avenue."
"I'm thinking, child." Mama Samm lifted the newspaper from her lap and skimmed the trio of grainy photos accompanying the article on the NOMA exhibition. "Marie Laveau said something about a Russian key. This exhibit contains hundreds of religious icons and artifacts from Russia and it closes tomorrow. The odds are, we're too late to prevent her from taking what she needs for her sorceries . . ."
"But, if we can figure out what she's taken," Pantera's daughter extrapolated, "it might give you a clue as to what sort of a spell she was working on and how to counter it?"
Tap.
Mama Samm nodded but I just folded my nonexistent arms and glowered at the back of Irena's head.
Tap tap.
Mama Samm nodded again, this time for my benefit. >Which is why I didn't want her tagging along. The next time I see Marie Laveau, it won't be a "come, let us reason together" kind of moment.<
Tap-a tap tap.
Tap tap-a tap tap tap-a tapita . . .
"Listen, I'm going to drop you off by the front door," Irena said, putting on her turn signal, "because my umbrella's pretty small and I don't see any parking places under the one-hundred-yard dash."
Thunder boomed in the distance and the tapping of random drops of rain on the car roof moved from background noise to a roar of sound that essentially drowned out any further conversation.
Oncoming traffic switched their headlights on.
Between the back door of Irena's car and the front entrance of the New Orleans Museum of Art, I learned how to curse in Haitian, Yoruba, and some humming-clicking dialect that the old juju woman refused to identify for me.
Maybe it was a passing squall. Rain in Southern Louisiana and the Crescent City, in particular, was both common and transitory, sometimes occurring two to three times a day with hours of sunshine sandwiched in between. This might last twenty minutes, pass on, and we'd have a few more hours of daylight to keep Marie at bay while we searched the museum for her handiwork.
That would be a typical weather scenario.
Unfortunately, typical had gone out the window with tentacle-faced beings from other dimensions and dreamcasts from Deep Space Malign.
>We split up and begin searching,< Mama Samm growled. I actually felt the vibrations.
>Irena and I split up,< she clarified. As Irena came slamming though the main entrance, looking like a drowned—well—certainly not a "drowned rat" as the saying typically goes. Her long, dark hair was plastered to her head, shoulders, and back so that the tips of her ears poked out like little kitty-cat triangles. Similarly, her shirt was now reapplied to the sweet curves of her upper body like a second coat of paint, semitransparent where the swell of bosom stressed the wet fabric, and leaving little to the imagination. Her jeans drooped on her hips from the weight of waterlogged denim, exposing a two-inch strip of bare, brown belly. Unlike Volpea's, the shadowed whorl of her navel was still empty and virginal.
>Will you keep your mind on the business at hand?< Mama Samm snapped, giving me a sharp mental elbow. >What would Miss Lupé think?<
>Not to mention, a lesbian.<
She turned to Irena. "Baby, we can cover more ground if we split up. Why don't you take—"
Pantera's daughter shook her head, creating a small rainstorm of her own. "I'm sticking with you. If you
find my stepmother first, I need to be there!" It was clear to both of us that arguing the issue would just waste more time.
Mama Samm sighed. "All right, let's go."
We headed for the main gallery with Irena trailing slightly behind, making squishy sounds in her wet sneakers.
* * *
The overall theme for the exhibition was "Windows on Russia" but most of the collections on display were religious icons and relics ranging from the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries.
"I'm afraid this is more of an 'I'll know it when I see it' situation," she replied. >I hope.<
As we walked, she explained how icons were usually painted upon a wooden base or icon board which, in turn, was composed of several parts bound together and backed by planks. The picture is painted in the "ark," a shallow, rectangular groove or depression that has been primed with a covering of fabric, glue, and chalk and then covered with an initial coating of dark, red-brown or greenish paint. Ochre or whiting was applied, depending on the subject to be portrayed. After the portrait of saint or savior was accomplished, additional touch-ups were applied in gold, called "assist." While these were initially radial lines associated only with images of the Christ, they eventually ended up gilding everything by the fifteenth century. And, if gold wasn't enough, precious gems were included in some icons, and holy relics were embedded in more than a few.
Since the icons were at the centers of not only the churches and the church services but the very religious practices of many communities—which meant they spent a lot of time being kissed, touched, carried, incensed, holy watered, and hanging about in close proximity to generations of beeswax candles—they were further layered in ornate frames called "oklads," which were more like metal covers with cutouts designed to display the faces, hands, feet, or key elements of the icon enclosed within. These oklads were often made of silver or gold with elaborate workmanship and additional jewels, gems, and engravings and, in some cases, were capable of holding multiple icons and were called iconostases.
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