Zamani

by Angelic Rodgers

  Zamani

  Book Three of the Olivia Chronicles

  Angelic Rodgers

  Copyright © 2016 Angelic Rodgers

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Rosalie

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue: Mardi Gras Day, 2013

  Notes

  Dedicated to all who have Sasa and Zamani in their hearts.

  The Sasa generally binds individuals and their immediate environment together. It is the period of conscious living. On the other hand, Zamani is the period of the myth, giving a sense of foundation or "security" to the Sasa period; and binding together all created things.…[h]istory moves "backward" from the Sasa period to the Zamani, from the moment of intense experience to the period beyond which nothing can go.

  John S. Mbiti, African Religions and Philosophy

  Many African societies divide humans into three categories: those still alive on the earth, the sasha, and the zamani. The recently departed whose time on earth overlapped with people still here are the sasha, the living-dead. They are not wholly dead, for they still live in the memories of the living, who can call them to mind, create their likeness in art, and bring them to live in anecdote. When the last person to know an ancestor dies, that ancestor leaves the sasha for the zamani, the dead.

  James Loewen, Lies my teacher told me: Everything your American history textbook got wrong.

  Prologue: Rosalie

  The tip of a chair. It seemed like such an insignificant event, and it would have been, had Rosalie not just stepped off the edge of the seat, her feet sure in their journey into air.

  The dreams had never stopped. This would surely silence them, she thought, as she tied the rope and stood on the ladder to reach the beam. She looped it twice, then a third time, wanting to be sure it was secure and wouldn’t slip. She’d bought plenty of rope for the job, and she’d been practicing knots for some time now. She was confident in her ability to tie not only the knot that would secure the rope around the beam, but also the one that would slide swiftly, ending in a jerk that would snap her neck. Surely then, she thought, the dreams would stop.

  For as long as Rosalie Garnier could remember, she’d had the recurring dream of the ghost children.

  The scene was always the same—night, among the trees. It would start pleasantly enough, the light of the moon streaming down through the branches of the Southern Live Oaks, illuminating her way. Off in the distance she would see movement and a flash of white, and then she would see the children—all girl children—gliding through the trees. They made no sound, and as they moved toward her she wanted to run, but her feet wouldn’t move, as if the ground had risen around them, sucking at her feet and ankles, keeping her frozen there, transfixed.

  The ghost children kept gliding, moving swiftly yet taking forever to reach her. Then, and only then, could she see the faces of the young girls with no eyes and gaping mouths opened as if in a silent scream. The silence was deafening and their hands grasped toward her, grabbing empty air in front of Rosalie. Their agony overwhelmed her, and she always woke up screaming and sobbing for them.

  The night before, she’d woken as she often did from these dreams, sitting up suddenly, covered in sweat. Her breath caught in her throat, her own hands outstretched to meet those ghostly hands.

  The dreams were partially why she never allowed Auguste Bellot to stay with her; the other reason was that she feared what her mother would do if she had such easy access to Auguste. Rosalie managed to keep his identity a secret, as much as she could keep anything from her mother, Marie, up until Vivienne was born. Her mother had spotted him at the Christening and the ruse was up. They’d argued about it, but the birth of a child offered some protection for Auguste. That he was rich and married, and thus not too much in the way, actually helped.

  Even when Vivienne was not yet a year old, sleeping in her crib in the corner of Rosalie’s bedroom, she never stirred when the dream came. Rosalie wasn’t sure if she ever cried out in her dreams or if Vivienne was just so used to her mother’s nightmares that she didn’t wake from them. During her pregnancy, Rosalie feared the dreams were prophecy, that her child would be stillborn. Far from it; Vivienne was not only born alive and healthy, she thrived. Rosalie marveled in Vivienne’s perfection. She had hoped since the baby was fine the dreams would stop, but they intensified after Vivienne was born. Her only comfort was that Vivienne was the best baby—she was never colicky and she’d slept well from the start.

  Rosalie’s dedicated her life to ensuring Vivienne had opportunities she herself never had. Marie, Rosalie’s mother, groomed her to take over in the family business. She was educated, but not in any formal way.

  New Orleans Parish schools had been slow to integrate and Marie used that to her advantage, keeping Rosalie close to her, citing fears over what might happen if she sent her child to school during all of the fighting and chaos over integration. By the time Rosalie was three, Marie had taught her how to read and ensured she was fluent in French and English. Her clients were also among some of the most finished and refined women in New Orleans and they enjoyed helping Marie teach her beautiful daughter. Their own daughters supplied reading lists and homework examples, and Rosalie often would work beside those daughters while her mother did their mother’s hair and saw to their other needs.

  Marie was a powerful Voodoo Mambo; in the tradition of the Maries in her family before her, she ministered to the sick and to those who needed guidance. Her skill with making charms and gris-gris was well known throughout the city, and her services were highly prized. She was happy that her own daughter was forming bonds with the young women whom she would later serve, just as Marie served their mothers. These were the friendships that Marie wanted Rosalie to cultivate.

  Rosalie was smart and she learned all that she could. Her cultivation was successful, and it is what drew Auguste Bellot to her. He saw her first at Mass, taking Communion. She was sitting a row up from Auguste and his wife. He noticed her as she stood, her back to him. Her hair was carefully styled. She had long, good hair wound into a glossy chignon. He wondered how long it would be if he took out the pins and ran his fingers through it. At t
hat moment, she turned to the side, and he saw her face and thought she glanced his way, but she was soon moving toward the aisle. He felt his wife nudge him, impatient that he was daydreaming and not paying attention to the movement of his own row.

  He’d been content to watch her walk ahead of him, a few people separating them as they moved toward the priest. She wore a cute hat that matched her blue dress. As she reached the priest, she turned and he caught a glimpse once again of her in profile. Her skin was clear and the color of caramel. She closed her eyes as she offered her tongue for the wafer, and Auguste wished he were the man before her. He grew flustered and drew his gaze away from her. He placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder, trying to ground himself.

  Once he was seated again, he tried to stay focused and not obsess about her. She looked young, but not that much younger than his wife.

  Rosalie didn’t know her father. Her mother had a shrine dedicated to him, but he had died when Marie was pregnant with their only daughter. There were no photos of him and Marie together, not even wedding photos. Marie kept one black and white portrait of him as a young man on her altar. Rosalie would stare at it for hours sometimes, wondering what her life would have been like with a father.

  “Child, stop staring at that picture and come help me in the kitchen.” Marie called to Rosalie, pulling her out of her fantasy of a life with a father who bought her sno-balls and took her to Grand Isle to let the warm gulf waters splash around her ankles.

  Marie was a stern mother, one focused on providing for her child and also teaching her child her trade. Marie cut and styled hair, but she also had a side business as a confidant and Voodoo practitioner for her customers. Like her mother before her and spanning back to her famous relative—the fabulous Marie Laveau—Marie spent her days concocting charms and gris-gris bags for clients who desired their own children, relief from an abusive boss or husband, or true love. She was in the kitchen cooking alongside the woman who did her food preparation, adding herbs and other powerful ingredients to bottles to infuse oils for her magic. Rosalie got up from where she sat, slowly shuffling to the kitchen. Marie didn’t turn to look as her daughter crossed the threshold; she merely said, “Come here and watch what I am doing.”

  Rosalie sat on a high stool to the side of Marie’s workspace. She knew better than to ask about her father. Marie had told her the story only once, and she did so only after telling her daughter that she must listen carefully and remember because she would not tell it twice.

  Marie had been quite young when her own father died, not still a child, but barely a woman. Roland Garnier had been a family friend, and he was a good decade older than Marie. When her father died, her mother withdrew a great deal, taking on the rusty black garments of the ever-grieving widow. Without her husband, she had no use for the outside world. Roland worried about his friend’s widow, and he was soon making frequent visits to the Garnier house, where Marie still lived with her mother.

  “We fell in love. Yes, he was older than I, but he cared for me very much. I could not marry him so soon after my father’s death, but sometimes babies don’t wait for marriage. Just like sometimes, fathers don’t wait for their daughters to be born before they die.”

  That was the story Marie told Rosalie. And, Rosalie knew better than to ask further. She wished her grandmother, who still lived in the house with them, could be trusted to tell her more, but she was a mere shell of a woman these days. Rosalie could see fear in her eyes when Marie would go help the nurse care for the older woman. She’d had a stroke shortly after Rosalie was born and had lost her power of speech as a result. No therapy seemed to help. She was despondent most of the time, and she loved her grand daughter dearly. Marie limited their time together and scolded her mother about fawning over the child too much. “You are too full of grief; you will make her melancholy.” Marie would come fetch her daughter, pulling her from the elder Marie’s arms. “She needs sunshine and fresh air, not to be up here, clutching your dusty black skirt and weeping.”

  And in the moment that Rosalie stepped off the chair, she stepped into the sunshine. Her true mother was there, along with all of the ghost children. This time, they ran to her, their eyes smiling and their mouths open in laughter.

  Chapter One

  Midnight, October 17th, 2012

  Alex was so cold. She couldn't remember ever being so cold; winters in New Orleans are relatively mild, and the bone-chilling cold she felt now was totally unfamiliar to her. She was disoriented and unsure of where she was. It was completely dark and silent except for the hum of something that sounded like a refrigerator. As she came to, she felt the presence of something over her face. In her mind, it made sense that she would have burrowed under the covers from the cold she felt.

  But the fabric on her face was not soft or comforting. In fact, there seemed to be something rough and biting, metallic and cold against the bridge of her nose. A zipper.

  The same moment she realized the fabric was not a blanket, she shifted on the cold slab. At the sound of rollers moving and the sensation of sliding, she reached full panic attack mode. As she fought to keep from hyperventilating, she heard and felt the zipper of the body bag she was in move.

  As the fabric parted, light filtered in and she gasped for air. Her eyes darted around as she tried to find clues as to why she just woke up in a body bag and who was setting her free. After her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw a face above her own. The woman was pale, with a splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had green eyes and wavy red hair, some of which had fallen out of the clasp that held it back from her face. Squiggly strands dangled over her furrowed brow as she worked at the zipper. Alex’s brain told her to speak or to reach out to the person, but she was still so cold, and she felt paralyzed. She also wondered if this slight woman put her in the body bag.

  The woman who rolled the morgue shelf out of drawer 212 (a number Alex would soon know) was petite. Alex couldn't tell her age, but she looked young. She was wiry and strong; Alex could tell that from the way she moved and how easily she pulled the shelf out.

  When she noticed Alex’s open eyes watching her, she spoke. “Hi, there. I know you can't do much right now, but I want you to know I'm here to help you, not harm you. You were brought to the morgue because the police do not understand. I know your kind, and I'm here to help. Will you let me help you?" The woman smiled reassuringly, her eyebrows arching up at the end of the question. "It's ok to just nod or to take my hand." Alex felt the heat of the woman's hand hovering above her own. She concentrated and was able to lift her hand the short distance to grasp the other woman's and intertwine their fingers; even this felt like hard work.

  "Good. Good. I suspect all of this is new to you, Alexandria, but we have time." She removed her hand from Alex's and took a small package out of her back pocket. To Alex, the case looked like the ones that they used to keep dissection kits in when she was in advanced biology in high school, but this case only seemed to have scalpels in it. The woman pushed back her own sleeve and made a cut that was just deep enough to make the blood bead up.

  At the sight of the blood, Alex was terrified. She was at first repulsed by the black ruby drops beading on the surface, and her heart raced in fear that the woman would strike out at her, too, cutting her flesh. The other woman remained calm, though, and simply offered her arm up to Alex like an offering.

  Alex felt a surge of desire that her brain tried to reject. As she realized that there was no threat, her repulsion turned to an overpowering need to press her mouth on the wound. Her physical need was too great and her rational mind could not overcome the desire to drink.

  The warmth of the woman's blood slowly seeped into Alex and she drank as greedily as she could. Just as she felt like she might regain her strength, the woman took her arm away. It surprised Alex to hear her own groan of displeasure at having the taste of blood removed from her lips. She was still in a fog and everything lacked a sense of reality.

  "That's
all I can safely give right now, but it should be enough to get you out of here. Can you sit up?"

  Alex tried; it was sort of slow going, but she managed. She swallowed hard and somehow was able to ask, "Where am I?"

  "You, my dear, are in the morgue."

  "Morgue? Why?"

  "Well, because most people think you are dead. I, however, am very aware you are quite alive." The woman smiled again. "I would introduce myself, but you will probably realize you already know more about me than any name could tell you."

  Alex started to protest, but then she realized the woman was right. The initial fears she had about her had disappeared. She couldn't explain it, but she knew that the woman could help her. She knew the woman was not who put her here, and she also knew the woman's name.

  "Lucy."

  "Aha! We're going to do just fine. You're going to have to help me, though, with a Jane Doe who is going to take your place. First, though, we're going to have to get you a set of scrubs. You can't walk out of here dressed like that."

  Alex looked down at her clothes. Lucy was right; they were covered in blood, the darkest stains near the neckline of her shirt. She had a flash of memory of Wren at her throat, of pain and terror, but as her hand flew to her throat she realized she wasn't hurt.

  "Hurry up and strip those off. We want to hurry so we can get going. I'll go get you those clean scrubs."

  Lucy left Alex sitting on the slab, the body bag crinkling under her as she swung her legs over the side and slid down carefully, testing her footing. She still had her shoes on, and the toe tag identifying her was attached to the laces of her right shoe. She was relieved she’d at least be able to keep her shoes. By the time Lucy returned, Alex was stripped down to her underwear and shivering.

  Lucy handed her the scrubs. “Put these on.” She then started looking at the other numbered drawers, finally finding the one she wanted. “And here is your replacement.” Alex slid the scrub top over her head and stepped into the scrub pants as she slid off the slab. She moved down the row to where Lucy was pulling out another drawer that was higher up than her own had been. “This is why I need your help. Help me slide her down and we’ll put her on the slab where you were.” Lucy pointed Alex toward the foot end of the body bag and she moved to the head end. Together they gathered handfuls of the bag to get a hold on the body. Then, they began to shift and slide it toward them. Alex wrapped her arms around the legs while Lucy shifted to grab the bag above the shoulders. They hoisted the body between them and moved down to drawer 212, pushing Alex’s body bag off the slab as they replaced it with the occupied one they carried.