“Well—“ She hesitated. “I did have an odd reaction when we turned to walk on Bourbon Street earlier.”
He raised a brow. “What was it?”
“It’s going to sound silly.”
“Try me.”
“Just for a minute I…I…It seemed that Time stood still. All the people milling around were gone. So was the noise from the traffic on Canal. All I could hear were horses’ hooves on the cobblestone and ladies-of-the-night calling down from the balconies.” She stopped and gave him a wide-eyed look. “It was weird.”
“Not so much. You probably connected with a time portal.”
“I’m not sure I want to know what that is.”
Michael smiled. “I’ll save that explanation for another time, but I’m not surprised it happened. The Vieux Carré is filled with spirits that linger because their descendents honor them. In fact, we can go look at Marie’s tomb later.”
They began to walk again. “If Marie were a witch, how come she’s entombed at a St. Louis Christian cemetery?”
“Oddly enough, she supposedly was a devout Catholic who attended Mass regularly and also worked with the orphans and the poor.”
“How can she be Mother Theresa and practice Voodoo at the same time?”
“I don’t think anyone would compare her to Mother Theresa,” Michael said, “but remember what I told you about Emperor Constantine converting pagan festivals into Christian ones? The same thing applies here. African slaves brought their own religion with them, but slave-owners forced them to convert to Catholicism so they merely changed the names of their spirits to be in accord with the Catholic saints. For example,” Michael said as he stopped before a painting, “this is Ogun, spirit patron of warriors and blacksmiths. You know him as St. Jude.” He moved on. “So, while the slave-owners thought the Africans had docilely accepted their new religion, it was a ruse—merely a subterfuge to keep practicing Voodoo under new circumstances.”
“That makes sense, I suppose,” Sophie said as they completed their tour of the museum. “Speaking of blacksmiths, wasn’t that the ruse Jean LaFitte used to run his illegal business?”
“Yes, but most of the French aristocracy benefited from the bounty that the Lafitte brothers brought in, so he was considered more of a kingpin than a criminal except by the American governor, Claiborne. And the French didn’t like the Americans meddling in their business anyway so they more or less protected the Lafittes.”
“Well, Jean is definitely remembered here. His name is everywhere,” Sophie said as they stepped out to the sidewalk.
“True. In fact, the blacksmith shop that you mentioned is only a couple of blocks from here. Want to go see it?”
“Why not? We don’t seem to be making much headway on clues for the sword. Maybe it’s hanging in the old blacksmith shop.”
“You’re being sarcastic again,” Michael said with a grin.
She gave him a droll smile and pointed. “There’s a Tarot card reader across the street. Maybe you should ask her.”
Michael looked in the direction she pointed to an old woman sitting at a card table. “That may not be a bad idea. Looks like she’s got a couple of clients right now. We’ll stop on the way back.”
“I was kidding.”
“Tarot can be a useful tool,” Michael said as they continued down the street. “It’s possible there is a connection since the four suits are divided into wands, swords, cups and pentacles, representing air, fire, water and earth. Clues to the Celtic relics are turning up in the same order. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Sure. I mean, why not?”
Michael looked at her. “Are you being cynical again?”
She paused. “I don’t know. Last spring, if someone had told me I would experience the things I have, I’d have thought they were lunatics. Now it’s nearly August and I…I’m not so sure what to think anymore.”
“Lugnasad.”
“Huh?”
“August first is the Celtic festival of Lugnasad. It’s a thanksgiving of sorts to celebrate summer’s abundance and first harvest. All things come to fruition.”
Sophie studied him as they came to a stop in front of the blacksmith shop. “Does that mean we’ll actually find the sword soon?”
“I think so,” Michael said. “My intuition has gotten stronger here. I just need some small clue—a slight nudge—and I think we’ll find it.”
“Maybe Jean Lafitte’s ghost will be waiting for you,” Sophie said and then laughed at Michael’s indignant look. “Okay. Well, let’s just enjoy history then. You’ve got to admit a guy who seems more like a swashbuckler than a bloodthirsty pirate is interesting.”
They spent a good thirty minutes wandering through both the front area that served as a legitimate business and the back area that was a warehouse for all sorts of goods that had nothing to do with being a smithy.
“I find it interesting that the expensive stuff—the silks and china and coins were kept on some little island instead of safe in a place that could be locked up,” Sophie said as they started back toward Rue Dumaine.
“The island was well-protected by Jean Lafitte’s men,” Michael replied, “and it was out of the grasp of the American governor, so Jean could hold his auctions there without too much fear of being raided.”
“But to call it the Temple was a bit ironic, wasn’t it? Or even blasphemous? ”
“Maybe. It actually was a ceremonial site of the original aborigines that inhabited this area. But remember what the Africans did with their Voodoo rituals. They covered them up under the cloak of Christianity. Anyone not knowing what the Temple really was, would be clueless, so the Lafittes were free to practice their not-quite-legal trade.”
“Well, it looks like someone else isn’t practicing her trade either,” Sophie said as they approached the empty table where the Tarot reader had been. “Looks like she’s gone for the day.”
“We can come back tomorrow,” Michael said and then squinted at the ground. Bending down, he pulled a Tarot card out from under one of the legs of the table.
“Did she drop one?” Sophie asked.
For a moment, Michael didn’t answer as he mulled over the card and then he smiled. “She didn’t drop it. She left it.” He held out the card. “It’s the King of Swords. I think I know where to look.”
Chapter Eighteen
They left Pendragon happily slurping up gooey ice cream the next morning as they drove over the Huey Long Bridge on their way to Grand Isle which had once served as a warehouse for Jean Lafitte.
“So you think finding the Tarot card wasn’t just a coincidence?” Sophie asked.
Michael shook his head. “Things happen for a reason.” He glanced over at her and grinned wickedly. “For example, if Pendragon hadn’t been sent to find you, we wouldn’t have had totally mind-blowing sex last night.”
Sophie felt herself blushing. Never would she have pegged herself for being sexually adventurous or given to fantasy, but Michael’s skill with his hands and mouth—especially his mouth, tonguing all of her private places until she lay panting and begging him to stop and then, not stop—had turned her into some wanton creature who craved his touch as much as any meth addict wanted dope. And the mind-linking was more powerful than any aphrodisiac she could imagine. She was inside his head, could feel him inside her, could feel how he felt inside her. There was no distinction where she left off and he began. She fidgeted on the leather seat, feeling herself grow slick and wet.
“Want me to pull over for a quickie?” Michael asked, still grinning.
“Stop reading my mind!” Sophie retorted, but couldn’t contain her own smile.
“When your shields are down, you’re fair game. Besides, I like the way you think. It inspires me to come up with more fantasy games to play.”
Her face felt like it was on fire. Michael’s imagination was boundless. Some of those positions last night—She glanced at him suspiciously. “Are you lurking again?”
“Ma
ybe a little,” he said and then turned his attention back to the drive. “The closer we get to the islands, the stronger energy I’m picking up.”
A safer subject at the moment. “So tell me why you think the King of Swords is connected with Jean Lafitte.”
“Remember when I told you that he was considered something of a kingpin with the French aristocrats?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“The suit of Swords represents power, action, force and conflict. Since most swords are double-edged, it also reflects deception, illusions, areas of uncertainly that must be met head-on. Both descriptions apply to Jean’s operations. Are you with me so far?”
Sophie smiled. “I’m getting used to the way you talk.”
“Well, sometimes the degree in Medieval Religion and Culture comes in handy,” Michael replied, quirking up a corner of his mouth. “Anyway, the King of Swords symbolizes a man who is just, fair and wise, but also somewhat ruthless in carrying out that justice. What better description of Jean Lafitte could you have? He squelched the feuding between the native Baratarians and the encroaching East Indies pirates and built a very lucrative business. From all accounts, he shared the booty freely and his men willingly followed him. The French welcomed him into their society, even though it may have been for what luxurious goods he could provide. Even Governor Claiborne had a grudging respect for him since Jean always managed to elude him.” Michael gave her a quick look. “And remember,” he said softly, “that the Grandmasters of the Priory were always called Jean. “
She gave him a startled look. “You think Jean Lafitte was a member of the Priory?”
“Maybe,” Michael answered with a little shrug. “That old woman left the Tarot card for us to find.”
Sophie shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m actually starting to think this all makes sense.” She turned to look at the real world slipping by past the window. They passed a roadside store where a somewhat worn sign advertised: “Jumbo PoBoys and Hog Head Filé with Cracklins” and smiled. It certainly wasn’t the Café du Monde, but it was real in its own way. She wondered what the local Cajuns would make of the story that Michael told her.
As if he knew she needed time to contemplate, Michael was silent. Sophie took in the low-lying marsh of the Delta covered with reeds and weeds, cane, and patches of water hyacinth. Across the bayou, craggy cypresses hung out over the water, trailing Spanish moss. It was an oddly serene setting. She cracked the window and inhaled. Damp earth, various aromas of plant vegetation and the tang of salt-air filled her nostrils while the cry of gulls and terns filled her ears. The real world. With a sigh, she turned back to Michael. “I still don’t understand why a twentieth century descendent of a secret order of Templars would decide to bury Excalibur on land owned by pirates who—even if they were privateers operating under a Letter of Marque from Cartegena as they claimed—still were considered criminals by the Americans?”
“Recall your history, Sophie. The British offered Jean a lot of money and an officer ship in the Royal Navy for aiding them up the river, past the forts, through the swamps and into the city. Instead, Lafitte helped General Jackson defeat the British in the Battle of New Orleans even though Claiborne had a warrant out on him. The whole crew was pardoned after that. But, to answer your question,” Michael said as eased the car onto Grand Isle’s main street, “the Priory has always had warriors as well as scholars and I think whoever was the guardian of the sword might have seen a bit of irony in honoring someone who actually fought, not because he had to, but because it was the right thing to do to protect the country he loved.” He stopped the car in front of a local bait shop. “Just like King Arthur did. That’s the connection.”
Sophie looked around the narrow street and across the scrubby land to cottages and a slip of blue-water that was the bay. “The sword is here?”
Michael smiled as he got out of the car. “It’s close, Sophie. Very close.”
* * * *
“Most folks want me to take ‘em past old Fort Livingston,” the old, grizzled guide said as he poled the pirogue away from the dock in Grand Isle and headed toward a narrow inlet nearly invisible in the swamp grass. “Not that there’s anything there these days, I tell ‘em. Just oyster and salt grass and black mangroves. A herd of wild ponies. Them pirates’ houses long gone, blowed away by too many hurricanes to remember.” He looked from Michael to Sophie, a gleam shining in his black eyes as his weathered face cracked into what might have been a smile. “Some say, though, the spirit of Lafitte walks there on certain nights. I tell ‘em it’s the wind howling or maybe the devil.”
Sophie shuddered a little, wondering what the man would say if he knew there really were demons and dragons out there.
“Strange, though,” the man continued, “there’s been odd streaks of lightning in the sky the last couple of nights, but not a storm around.”
Sophie could practically see Michael’s ears prick up as his gaze sharpened on the guide like wanted prey. She hoped the panther wasn’t about to make a showing and scare the man witless. The pirogue was only a little less stable than a canoe and she really didn’t want to fall into murky water invested by snakes and gators. But Michael kept his tone mildly interested.
“Just lightning? No thunder?”
“Nope. Least ways, not that I heard. One old woman claimed the streak looked like some kind of dragon, but old Lucy’s a bit daft in the head. Always claims to be seeing things in those cards she uses.”
“Cards?” Sophie asked.
“Yeah. The fortune-telling type. She goes into the city couple of times a week to make money off the tourists.”
Michael flashed Sophie a look and she knew he was thinking of the Tarot-reader they’d seen. She shivered slightly although the mid-day air was warm and humid. Their guide poled through the narrow stream which opened into a slightly larger bayou. The water lay still and for a moment, Sophie felt as though she were surrounded by a globe of bluish-green light. It was hard to tell where the water ended and the land began as they moved into a narrower inlet again that seemed to be crisscrossed with other streams. It was a labyrinth of swaying grasses, high enough so any horizon that might be out there couldn’t be seen. Here and there a chêniére rose slightly above the surface, its hard white shells forming a ground of sorts for oak trees that somehow amazingly grew here.
“This here’s called the “tremblin’ prairie”,” the old man said as he turned the pirogue in yet another direction, “on account of you can’t really tell if anythin’ is solid or not.”
Sophie sincerely hoped their guide knew where he was going since she was thoroughly confused, but now she could understand how the pirates felt safe from pursuit. The governor’s soldiers would easily have become lost.
“This is it,” the old man said as the pirogue scraped against a hard shell beach dusted lightly with sand. “Temple Island, although there ain’t nothin’ left here either.”
Michael stepped out of the boat into shallow water. Before Sophie could join him, he picked her up and carried her to the relatively dry ground a few inches above the gently lapping waves.
“My chivalrous knight,” Sophie teased and gave him a quick kiss, missing the odd look that fleetingly crossed his face.
He smiled. “No need to get your feet wet. Come on.”
Sophie followed him up the slight incline toward tall, live-oak trees that formed somewhat of a haphazard circle. She felt a slight chill slide over her as she passed between two of them and then looked up to find Michael watching her.
“You feel it too?” he asked.
“Feel what exactly?”
“The air feels heavier here, almost as though there is a lack of energy.” Michael took her hand and moved to the center of the circle. “The native Indians held ceremonies here, most likely sacrificial rituals. This is where slaves were sold, families split. There’s a pall hanging over the place. So much sorrow.”
Sophie glanced around slowly, half-expecting transparent wraith
s to rise from the ground, wailing. “You’re talking about ghosts?”
Michael shook his head. “Only residue now. The spirits are gone.”
“Great. That makes me feel better.” She looked up to see a dab of sunlight dribbling through the leafy branches. “So why would a twentieth-century Templar bury Excalibur here?”
“Justice. Excalibur has been called the Sword of Justice, as well as the Sword of Fire. Burying it here is symbolic of righting the wrongs that have been done in this place.”
“Is everything symbolic?”
“Not everything.” He grinned. “I’d say making love to you is pretty much the real thing.”
“You’re thinking of sex now?”
“Sure.” His grin widened. “Isn’t that what all men have on their minds most of the time? Besides, don’t tell me you didn’t want a quickie on the way down here. How about if I lean you up against that tree over there? We could give some positive energy back to this place.”
“Michael McCain! You don’t expect me to... I mean, that old man could come up here any minute.”
“I can create an invisibility illusion. He won’t see us.” He moved closer, putting his arms around her waist, nuzzling her nape, tugging on her ear gently with his teeth. “Oaks are sacred trees to druids. The energy force will be incredible—past anything we’ve done so far.”
Sophie leaned back in his embrace and stared at him. “How can it get better?”
The Immortals II: Michael Page 19