Zamani

by Angelic Rodgers

  Olivia walked to him, putting her hand on his shoulder and gently turning him around. He threw his hands up to his face, trying to cover it and block her out. “Renfield, I come to help you. Mina Harker sent me.”

  At the mention of Mina’s name, Renfield noticeably relaxed, the anxiety lessening. “Mina? The beautiful Mrs. Harker? Did you know she comes to me sometimes to see how I fare? She’s pleaded with Seward to help me. And he’s tried. How he’s tried. But nothing seems to help. I merely get craftier at my counting. Bugs and spiders have so little blood. Rodents are better quantity wise. Quality all around leaves something to be desired.” She could feel him spinning off again, and she knew that if he didn’t focus she’d be trapped forever listening to his listing and classifying.

  “Renfield, listen to me. My father (she felt him flinch at the word, but he stayed focused on her) has fled. If he were coming back for you, he would have done so already. For him, you were merely a way to spy on goings on here, an open channel if you will. A conduit.” He was listening now, but she couldn’t tell if it was sinking in. “Are you following what I am saying?” He nodded, his eyes glassy with a far away look.

  “Mina has asked me to release you, Renfield. Is that what you want?” She waited, halfway expecting him to reject the offer, her father’s pull was so strong on him.

  “Release? Release? As in set me loose? I don’t know that I can handle myself out there.”

  She shook her head. “Your body would not be released, but I can release your soul.” At the mention of his soul, she saw Renfield’s eyes clear for a second. He looked her in the eyes, as if he were seeing her now for the first time, and a loud sob escaped from his lips--it was almost a scream in its loudness. He then simply cried, pushing his grubby face into her neck. He cried like someone who had lost everything, as he had. She could give it back to him, though, if he truly wished to be released.

  “Do you want me to help you, Renfield?”

  He nodded, too overwhelmed to speak at first. “Please, do it now, as the sun comes up; I want the evil influence he’s had over me to dissipate with the darkness.” She felt him give himself up to her, his knees buckling beneath him. She quickly slid an arm around his waist, holding him up. She turned his face toward the window so he could see the light breaking and the sky lighten as she drained the blood from his body. As she finished him, she heard the sound of soft laughter in the air and Renfield whispered, “so beautiful” and was gone.

  Olivia left England shortly after dispatching Renfield. Van Helsing kept his distance from her, and she kept her distance from the Harkers, leaving it up to Mina to contact her if necessary. In her new-found freedom, she learned much about her own true nature and about the nature of normal human beings. Whether she was in Ireland, Spain, or China, she found comfort in larger cities where she could recede into the crowds and where her choices of playmates were infinite.

  Chapter Sixteen

  June 21st, 1881

  New York

  After two decades in England, Olivia went to New York. She was happy there; the diversity of the city suited her. She found it easy to move from one neighborhood to another every few years to prevent detection. She learned quickly upon leaving her father’s castle how to get along in the world. She’d taken enough gold with her from his coffers to establish herself. Once she settled in New York and began to enthrall her victims, she chose those who had not only the blood to spare but also those who would not be likely to miss valuables or money from their wallets. She merely had to ask and her paramours, both male and female, would give her what she wanted.

  She was contemplating a new apartment when a story caught her eye in the New York Times: “The dead Voudou queen: Marie Laveau’s place in the history of New Orleans.” In particular, the passage about Marie Laveau’s annual ritual, set to commence in three days caught her eye:

  Many old residents asserted that on St. John’s right, the 24th of June, the Voudou clan had been seen in deserted places joining in wild, weird dances, all the participants in which were perfectly nude. The Voudous were thought to be invested with supernatural powers, and men sought them to find means to be rid of their enemies, while others asked for love powders to instill affection into the bosoms of their unwilling or unsuspecting sweethearts. Whether there ever was any such sect, and whether Marie was ever its Queen, her life was one to render such a belief possible. Besides knowing the secret healing qualities of the various herbs that grow in abundance in the woods and fields, she was endowed with more than the usual share of common sense, and her advice was oft-times really valuable and her penetration remarkable.

  Olivia couldn’t explain why, but she felt an irresistible desire to go to the place where this child of a slave woman considered “one of the most wonderful women who ever lived” spent her days. She hoped, too, that if this Marie Laveau was as powerful as the Times made her seem that there would be successor who held the secrets and powers that she had cultivated during her long life time. Perhaps there were answers for her in New Orleans.

  The new Piedmont Air-Line Route by train was the fastest way to get to New Orleans from New York. In 40 hours she could be in the city, giving her just enough time, she hoped, to find the St. John’s night ritual. She quickly packed a trunk with her necessary items and set off for the station. On her way out of the building, she stopped by her landlord’s door and slid three months rent in an envelope under the door with a note indicating she planned to return before the three months elapsed and that she trusted her things would be undisturbed in her absence. She knew he feared her enough subconsciously that she need not worry, but she also realized people enjoyed having written notes about business. They found them comforting. She didn’t mind, as the average person’s poor memory and susceptibility to good manners made them all that much easier to manipulate.

  She made her way to Grand Central Station by way of a horse-drawn cab, paying extra to ensure the driver didn’t dawdle and that the horses were pushed to their maximum speed; she arrived a good hour before the train was scheduled to depart. She wasn’t worried she’d not be able to make the train; few could afford to make the lengthy trip, so service for those who could was excellent. Her trunk was loaded quickly and she was shown to her berth. She carried the copy of the New York Times under her arm, and she read and reread the obituary for Marie Laveau as the train made its way South.

  Olivia loved traveling by train. Her privacy was important to her and the private berth was a welcome refuge. She associated trains with freedom; after all it was a train that allowed her to flee her home country. Unlike the ordeal she went through when traveling by water, train travel allowed her to operate in a normal way, seeking companionship when she wanted it. Water travel made her disoriented. Water travel caused her complete disorientation that was far worse than seasickness. She experienced none of the vertigo or other irritating side effects with rail travel.

  As the train rolled into Basin Street Station some 40 hours later, Olivia was anxious to begin her new adventure in the city. And the city was ready to welcome her. The Basin Street Station’s proximity to St. Louis Cemetery #1 meant that from the moment she exited the train and entered the station she heard snippets of conversation about the interment of Marie Laveau. A week had passed since the procession of mourners to her tomb as the body was placed there, but it was apparent the passing days had not slowed the traffic of the faithful and devoted. Olivia hailed a cab and asked for the nearest respectable lodging. The driver took her to a small hotel on the corner of Royal and Iberville. Once she was settled in her room, she returned downstairs to speak to the desk clerk.

  “I’m here from New York; I read about the death of Madame Laveau? I’m absolutely intrigued.” Olivia smiled at the clerk.

  He was more than willing to talk to her about the Voodoo Queen, even telling her he’d seen her on the streets often. “You don’t want to get tangled up in that kind of business, though.” He shook his head. “I hear that even though her ma
ma’s dead, the daughter is still holding the rites down at Lake Pontchartrain tonight. Shameful, if you ask me.”

  Olivia wasn’t rebuffed. The clerk was shuffling receipts and hadn’t fully looked her in the eye. She reached across the desk and placed her hand on his, stopping his paper shuffling and causing him to look up. She smiled again and said sweetly, “Oh, I can manage myself. What information can you provide about these rites?” As she talked, a shadow moved over his face, and he became far more cooperative. He passed her the week old Daily Picayune which shared the details of her internment.

  “You can take the Pontchartrain Railroad to the lake shore. You can board it in the Marigny.” She removed her hand from his. As she did so, his brow furrowed. “Miss, I really would hate to see harm come to you. Please don’t go.”

  She patted his hand and chuckled softly. “Don’t worry about me, dear. Just write out directions for me, please, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  She’d packed her trunk with a variety of costumes and she knew from the way the clerk reacted that her best bet for getting to the ritual by the lake was to dress as a man. This didn’t bother Olivia; truth be told she preferred traveling as a man when she could—pants were so much more practical. She’d worked with a tailor in New York so the clothes fit her well and were made to create a more masculine silhouette. She was petite in stature, but she’d always been lean and well muscled. Her dresses with their extra boning to accentuate her waist and décolletage to increase her bust created more of an illusion about her than her suits did. Once she was fully dressed, she set out toward Congo Square. With her hair up and tucked under a hat that was pulled low over her brow, she could easily pass as a young businessman.

  The clerk’s information was good; on her way to the station, she’d stopped and had coffee in one of the little cafes. By the time she reached the train station at the foot of Elysian Fields by the Mississippi River, a good crowd was gathered. The rituals were not secret; in fact Marie Laveau had heavily publicized the Lake Pontchartrain festivities, inviting the press and even the police to attend in previous years. She’d made an enterprise of it, charging admission to the service. As early as 1831, the Pontchartrain Railroad ran dedicated cars to the lake for the rituals. Olivia thought that the woman must have been quite powerful and clever, indeed. She boarded one of the special cars and watched the city go by as they rolled toward the shore of Lake Pontchartrain in Milneburg.

  The other occupants of the car busily chattered away about how they wondered if Marie’s successor would ever be able to hold the same power as her mother had. One woman claimed that she had been at the final performance Marie had as the Queen in 1869. “She was amazing, even then. She never looked old. She would dance and her voice was as clear and strong as it had been when she was in the prime of her life. She passed the responsibilities of the larger ceremonies to her daughter then. Marie still did her prison work until a few years ago, though, and she still orchestrated the rituals. Her daughter has done well under her direction, but her presence just doesn’t match Marie’s. The daughter never had the showmanship her mother did; I’m not sure if she was too afraid to dance with her mother’s snake, Zombi, or if her mother forbade it, but the rituals just were never the same.”

  Olivia wished the woman would stop talking. She was starting to wonder if this was a wasted trip after all. Perhaps the magic had died with Marie and all that was left was this—the business that grew out of the magic.

  They finally reached their destination. Olivia marveled at the feast set out. There was also a full bar. Makeshift tables had been fashioned out of sawhorses and boards. Covered with clean white linens they looked like proper tables, though, and they were well stocked. As they waited for the ceremony to begin, Olivia noticed that people who arrived dressed in ritual white stopped at the tables first, adding to the bounty with a covered dish or an unopened bottle of liquor.

  The sun was not yet down, but in preparation for the night’s festivities, a large bonfire had been built on the shore. Drummers were setting up on the edge of the ritual space, their backs to the water. Once in place, they began a slow rhythm. The crowd waited. The ritual participants were dressed in white, differentiating them from the onlookers. The women wore headscarves of purple and several of the men wore purple sashes tied at the waist of their clean white pants. An altar was set up on the other side of the bon fire near the water. At the head of the altar was a large cross. In front of the cross was a large picture of St. Peter with three large candles in front of it.

  The drumming picked up in rhythm as a woman carrying a picture of St. John approached the altar. Olivia could feel a stirring inside as she watched her. At the same time, the woman from the train started up again. “That’s her! That’s Marie Laveau.” As Marie turned around to face the crowd gathered at her feet, bowing in front of her, Olivia could see a large royal python wrapped around the woman’s waist and draped around her neck. It seemed to be looking at the kneeling crowd with the same attention that Marie did. As Marie turned back toward the cross and knelt, raising her hand to knock on the ground three times, her followers mirrored her movements. Olivia heard a small sound to her right where the woman from the train was—it was a startled gasp, and she turned just in time to see the woman faint.

  Olivia was glad for the quiet. Not only was the woman out in a faint, but also the crowd around her had gone silent from the moment Marie Laveau came into view. She moved regally, gliding effortlessly toward the altar. The snake, Zombi, must have been heavy, as it was thick bodied and long enough that it coiled around her middle twice before sliding over her shoulders, yet she seemed unaffected by the burden. She was much shorter in physical stature than her presence. Everyone in the crowd, including Olivia, was transfixed. Other than when her father was exerting control over her or when she was in the throes of passion with Daniela she had never felt so free of worry and pain. In Marie Laveau’s presence she felt as if she were being held gently all the while knowing that she could be obliterated at any second by the love and power.

  The congregants recited the Lord’s Prayer in unison after kneeling and knocking. Then, the drummers took up the rhythm again, starting slowly and increasing the tempo as dancers found the music, undulating and spinning in one mass of organized chaos. Revelers ran to the water, some to immerse themselves fully and others to ritually wash their hands and faces and to look out toward the middle of the lake. Someone had revived the fainted woman, Olivia realized as she moved closer to the edge of the circle of dancers. Marie was still in that crowd, assisting believers as they were mounted by the spirit and began speaking the language of the Loa.

  Olivia didn’t need the woman to tell her that this was the true Marie Laveau; she’d known the moment she’d seen her. She stayed until the last run of the Pontchartrain Rail back to the Marigny, caught in the energy of the ceremony. She’d tried to reach out to Marie, but every effort was brushed off and deflected, which made her want to know Marie even more.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Olivia strolled from the station toward her hotel on Royal and Iberville, smoking and contemplating what it was that made Marie so powerful. She knew next to nothing of religion of any sort; her father was not a spiritual man, and he’d not raised her to be invested in idols or to even consider the possibility of a world unseen. If anything, he presented himself as all powerful. He’d tried to make himself the god in her world. It had worked for a long time.

  Then she’d found Daniela, and the hold her father had on her was broken. Her relationship with Daniela had been all consuming and was the one thing that allowed her to break free of her father’s influence enough to defy him. She wondered at Marie Laveau’s true identity; she’d given off the same force of power and energy that her father did, but it was different somehow. Olivia knew in her gut that the priestess role was not merely an act—it was who the woman was. But, she was also so much more than that. Whereas most non-vampires read to Olivia as fully body-identified, this
woman read as a sort of spiritual nomad. Her body was a tool, and Olivia caught glimpses of how the soul that inhabited the body was not the original occupant. As she’d watched the dancers, she’d noticed a few surrendered to the Loa and allowed them to enter their bodies, riding out the possession through fevered dancing. It was those Marie tended to; she would approach them with offerings, coax them into talking to her. Olivia was fluent enough in French and Spanish to know they were speaking a type of Creole patois, and some words were clear enough for her to make out. Even so, she’d not fully understood much of it. She’d been too wrapped up in the energy of it all to concentrate on the words, anyway. But, she could see the relationship Marie had with her congregants and that Marie was more like the possessing spirits than the believers who offered their bodies up for occupation.

  As she moved from the river toward the hotel, she heard shuffling and a struggle in one of the narrow half alleys near the St. Louis Cathedral. The alley was not well lit, but her eyes could cut through the darkness. She saw a working girl being mauled by a drunk. She was trying to fight him off, but he had her pinned against the wall as he fumbled first with the edges of her skirts, then with his pants, then back to her skirt with his free hand. His other arm was pressed roughly against her, just under her neck, and his knee and ample gut helped him to press her against the wall.