The King of Bones and Ashes

by J. D. Horn

  “Come on,” Isadore said, his tone soft, playful. He reached over and laid his hand on her hand that held the check.

  Lisette held her tongue, but leaned back a little. She hit the “No Sale” button on the register, an item their vandal—odd that she had begun to think of him as “their vandal”—had left untouched, and slid the check beneath the cash drawer. She pushed it closed.

  “If that woman is buying the place, I don’t see why I got to . . . ,” Remy began.

  Lisette held up a single finger, and the boy fell dumb.

  “You ask yourself, why so much?” Isadore picked up the same tune he’d been singing since last night. “Why for this place? It isn’t special . . .” Lisette’s narrowed eyes cut him off. “It isn’t special to anyone but us, I mean. There are, what, six stores pretty darned near just like this one within spitting distance. But you’re telling me you believe she bought this whole building just so she could get her hands on this little shop.”

  “I never said that. I said she said she’d bought the building and she wants the shop. And before you ask, I already called the property management company to ask about the sale of the building. They don’t open till nine.”

  “Why does she want what’s in this particular one?”

  “I told you a thousand times,” Lisette said, knowing it sounded less true with each repetition. “She said she owed Mama a favor. She wants to breathe new life into the place. And help us at the same time.”

  Remy stood and made a show of turning over the empty box before slouching to the back wall to pick up a full one. “Oh, yeah. You got it so tough,” Lisette said.

  “And you believe her?” Isadore came up to her, offering her the same dopey smile he used whenever he wanted to make up after a fight. And this time they hadn’t even been fighting. Not really. “Come on, girl. The woman even wants this?” He waved a hand at the jammed full waste cans.

  “I don’t know. I was up all night asking myself the same thing.”

  “I know. Your rolling around kept me up all night, too.”

  “So you snore while you’re awake now, do you?”

  Isadore laughed, a hearty, throaty laugh that made it easy for them to be friends, even if their romance had matured enough to take a little work. “I’m just saying. This place isn’t special to anyone but us.” He held up a hand to fend off her response. “But it is very special to us.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “If that check is good. If the offer is real. Are you really okay with turning your mama’s legacy over to this woman without understanding what it is she plans to do with it?”

  “I’m sure it’s what Mama would’ve wanted,” she said, trying to make it sound like she believed her own words. She waited, hoping her mother would chime in with a firm confirmation or denial. Lisette told herself she wanted an out. An easy out. One that would add something to her children’s future, not just detract from it like shuttering the shop would do. That money would more than pay for Remy’s college, and graduate school, too, if he wanted to go. And they could fund a new business for Manon. Of course, they’d have to call it a loan, or Manon wouldn’t take it, but . . .

  Remy opened a box of statuettes that had somehow managed to survive. Lisette was trying to repair Papa Legba, who’d lost both his cigars, with rubber cement. She wouldn’t be able to sell the damaged figurine, but she’d add it to the new altar. She watched as he unpacked three identical busts of Marie Laveau, two Saint Michaels, a Saint Barbara, and a figurine of the Marassa twins. The three Marassa twins, whose torsos shared a single lower body—the loa of truth.

  The truth . . .

  The truth was that Lisette didn’t know if she could stand to be here without her mother at her side.

  “It’s what Soulange would have wanted,” Isadore said, stretching out each word to convey his disbelief. He shook his head and laughed. “Yeah, girl, you just keep on telling yourself that. ’Cause me, I grew up coming in and out of this shop, and I’m not so sure myself your mama would’ve been okay with it. Not at all.”

  The bells of the cathedral began pealing, announcing the hour.

  “Well, we’ll know soon enough if this offer of yours is on the up and up,” Isadore said, turning and crossing to peek through the spy hole he’d cut in the plywood covering the door. He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Better brace yourself.”

  “Is it her?” Lisette said, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “No. It’s Alcide.” Isadore’s face assumed a near-comical expression, and he shrugged. “He’s got that new horn with him.”

  Isadore stepped away from the door and crossed the room to her. He knew better than to try to hold her, or stand before her. He did what she needed him to do. He stood by her side.

  Remy slunk up behind them.

  The bell over the door clanged as Lisette’s father entered the shop. He stumbled over the threshold and looked around the place as if he’d never set eyes on it before. In some ways, he hadn’t. It had been changed by the violence, and then by the proffered deal. It felt less theirs. Her father shrugged his shoulders and turned to Lisette. “Well, where is she, then? This woman who’s gonna take this place off your ingrate hands?”

  Lisette felt her face flush hot. His words echoed her own feelings toward herself. This shop had been her last real link to her mama. And her guilt didn’t just stem from thoughts of her mother. It was as if she were being disloyal to the shop itself. Her family had lived here, with sleeping bags and a camping stove, taking sponge baths in the tiny washroom, for two months after Katrina. Their block in the Tremé had only seen a few inches, maybe a foot, of floodwater, but the roof of their house had been ripped damned near off. No amount of blue tarp would’ve made the place livable. And no amount of intimidation—she’d even resorted to threats of hoodoo—or money was going to get the few roofers left in the city to fix things any faster than they had a mind to.

  “She isn’t here,” Lisette said. “Yet.” She decided to change the subject before he could start in. “You,” she said, treading up to him, placing her hands on her hips, doing her best to imitate her mother, “smell like a damned brewery.”

  He raised a hand and waved her back. “You aren’t your mama, girl. Don’t you even try . . .”

  “And you aren’t my mama, either,” she said, happy to feel the sap of her anger rising. “What are you doing? Running around with that horn of yours, talking hoodoo. Making a fool out of yourself.”

  “I’m no fool.”

  “Not a natural one. But you’re sure making yourself look like one. What do you think your grandson thinks about all this nonsense?” She looked back at Remy.

  Her boy’s eyes went wide and he started stuttering. He threw up both hands and shook his head. “Oh, hell, no. You leave me out of this.”

  “Don’t you swear at your mama,” Alcide snapped at him. Then, turning to her, he said, “You leave the boy the hell out of this.” He wagged the trumpet at her—and seemed baffled to find the instrument in his hand. “You come on, boy,” he said, looking past her at Remy. “You come with me. We got time before the big show. There are things,” he said, making an effort not to slur his words and failing. “I need to make sure you know. Things I’m not sure your mama is gonna wanna teach you.”

  Remy looked to her for guidance. She and Isadore shared an entire conversation with only two quick, silent expressions, the way that only people who really knew each other, who really loved each other could.

  “Yeah, you go on with your grandpa,” she said.

  “Okay,” Remy muttered. “Just don’t yell at me if you gotta come bail us out.” He went to his grandfather and looked back. It struck her once again how much her son resembled her father. So much more than he resembled either of his parents.

  “Where we going?” Remy asked her father.

  He winked at the boy, making good and damned sure Lisette could see the devil in his eyes. “You’ll see, my boy, you’ll see.” He put that horn to his li
ps and blew a fast reveille before crossing to the door. He gestured for the boy to open the door, and at the sound of the bell started blowing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Remy tossed another confused look back at them, then followed his grandfather out the door.

  “Would you . . . ,” Lisette addressed Isadore, “will you follow them? Make sure Dad doesn’t get himself too worked up? Or both of them into trouble?” There were a million reasons to worry about her dad that had nothing to do with magic.

  Isadore nodded. “Of course.” He cast his eyes around the shop. “What about the Brodeur woman? You don’t want me around when she shows up?”

  Lisette shook her head, then went up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. She wrapped her arms around herself. Somehow, without knowing how she knew, she knew. “Ms. Brodeur isn’t coming.”

  NINETEEN

  Alice’s first full memory was of riding on her Uncle Vincent’s shoulders as he walked along, keeping pace with the rearguard of a jazz funeral. They weren’t official guests—or maybe mourners was the correct word—at least she didn’t think so. Their participation, as she remembered it, felt more haphazard, like they had stumbled on the parade, and through curiosity or perhaps the contagion of sentiment, got swept up in it. She couldn’t remember her father being there, but she had flashes of a boy’s face—Hugo’s face. Hugo had reached up and given her foot a squeeze. She had begun crying. Not because Hugo had upset her, but because she’d been overwhelmed, by the crowd, by the mournful music. By her big brother’s tender touch.

  The current scene was eerie in its similarity. Only today, the whole family was there—at least the surviving members. And it was her grandfather’s remains in the ancient black enameled hearse. Unlike the funeral in her memory, today there were no tears.

  A pair of white horses pulled the glass-sided hearse along, snaking in a zigzag to extend the six-and-a-half-block direct route from the funeral home to the entrance of Précieux Sang Cemetery into a ridiculous twelve-block parade route. Her father had suggested it was a matter of noblesse oblige since the musicians involved had wanted to honor Celestin for his contributions to their community.

  Uncle Vincent walked beside Alice, and Lucy followed a step behind, the soles of her black satin flats slapping the pavement with as much vehemence as the horses’ shoes, even as their crystal buckles captured the sunlight and transformed it into a blinding weapon. Hugo, hidden behind the darkest of sunglasses, hungover, or maybe still even a bit under the influence of something, dragged alongside their cousin. Another disappointing reunion. Even present, Hugo seemed somehow absent.

  Nicholas and Fleur were ten or fifteen yards ahead of them in the procession, Celestin’s eldest and youngest children following directly behind the hearse. It was an odd and unexpected sight to see the two hold hands as they followed Celestin’s coffin. This was the first show of affection Alice had witnessed between them, though they may have been close, she realized, when they were younger, perhaps before their mother’s crisis.

  Alice had often wondered about the nature of her grandmother’s illness, whether it was hereditary or situational in nature. It had struck her grandmother. Everyone thought it had struck her. She couldn’t help but wonder if they were right. Could it be something in the makeup of the Marin women? Did the males, too, carry its seed?

  The band marching behind them changed to a new tune, one Alice felt she should recognize but could not place. Slow. Mournful. She felt her pace slow to match its tempo.

  “You three have to promise me,” Vincent said, speaking up over the hymn. “When my time comes, there’ll be none of this nonsense. Promise me you’ll cremate me, then dump my ashes in the river at the end of St. Ann on Mardi Gras.”

  Alice took a moment, trying to decide if he was serious.

  “People do that?” Lucy said, sounding a bit skeptical, but ready to catalog yet another example of idiosyncratic behavior on the part of the city’s residents.

  “Of course people do,” he said, a wide grin splitting his face. “As you young folk like to say, ‘It’s a thing.’ Been going on for, what, like forty years now.”

  “So an ancient tribal custom, then?” Lucy said, with just a touch of sarcasm.

  “Precisely,” he said, then the humor faded from his eyes. “’Course since they wouldn’t be placed in Précieux Sang, the coven would want to perform a dissolution ritual on my ashes . . .”

  “Fire wouldn’t be enough?” Alice wondered aloud.

  “Seems like it should be,” Vincent said, “but then you got folk like your new friend Delphine. She’d find a way to strain the last touch of magic out of the dust.” He chuckled. “Reconstituted me. Just add water.”

  Alice grimaced at the thought.

  “I’m just saying,” he said, picking up on her disapproval, “some of these witches are getting downright desperate.”

  Hugo slid his glasses down the bridge of his nose and glanced behind them, casting the musicians an evil glance. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. “There,” he said. “That’s better.” The musicians carried on playing, unaware that Hugo had just turned down their volume.

  He adjusted his glasses, then nodded toward Nicholas and Fleur. “I reckon if it doesn’t kill them, we might just survive, too.” He surprised Alice by grasping her hand. His hand felt clammy and cool in hers. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

  A nascent hope caused her to catch her breath. Maybe Hugo wasn’t lost to her after all. Maybe his heart hadn’t been poisoned, at least against her.

  “It grew out of the AIDS crisis,” Hugo said. “The whole St. Ann ashes in the river thing.”

  “You think I didn’t know that?” Vincent said, irritation in his tone. “You’ve read about it. Heard about it. They were my friends.”

  “I know you’re one of the good guys,” Hugo said, reaching up with his free hand and grabbing Vincent’s shoulder. “I was just explaining things to the prodigal sister.”

  Alice wondered if that’s how Hugo really thought of her. “Prodigal” implied someone had given her a choice. She’d had no choice about leaving, and very little about returning either. She had felt she owed it to Vincent, who at least wanted her to come home.

  Mixed grumbling caused Alice to glance over her shoulder at the remnants of the coven, once dozens strong, who straggled along behind them. Alice had counted eight of the aging witches during the service, held in the same room at the mortuary as the viewing had been. Six of those witches now followed them.

  “The Prospers aren’t coming?” she said.

  “No,” Vincent said. “Julia and Gabriel are in charge of tomorrow’s ball in honor of Celestin. Not much time to pull everything off, with the new moon tomorrow.”

  “Doesn’t it seem a bit odd,” Lucy said, “to throw a big party to honor the only person who can’t attend?”

  “What seems odd is that you’re complaining. I thought you liked formal events.”

  “I do, when the guest list doesn’t read like the human passenger list on Noah’s ark—short, ancient, and mostly family.”

  “No,” Vincent said, “the whole region is buzzing with excitement.” He winked at Alice. “Every witch with a walker is gonna be there.”

  “Glorious,” Lucy said.

  “But it is,” Alice said. “An odd custom, I mean. To throw a ball to honor a dead dignitary on the first new moon after their death.”

  “Not if you scrape off the bull,” Hugo said. “These things never had anything to do with honoring anybody. And don’t believe the bit about how they’re a peace offering to other covens either. They’re an opportunity to make a show of strength, simple as that.”

  “You’re such a cynic,” Vincent said. “This is hardly a show of power. It’s more like one last hurrah for a way of life that’s ending. It’s unlikely any of us will see another.” Alice cast another look back at the older witches, and her uncle leaned in, speaking into her ear. “Not many of us left anymore. We’re a dyi
ng breed.”

  More like a species that was going extinct. Even Hugo was nearing thirty. Alice and Lucy aside, there were no young members of the coven anymore, and Alice wasn’t sure if she and her cousin even counted. They were included because they were Celestin’s blood relations, but the truth was, Alice suspected Lucy had no magic. Her uncle, the senator, had rarely been home in the nine months she’d spent with her aunt’s family, so she did not remember him well. Still, she suspected he wouldn’t have been so quick to cut ties to his daughter had she been in possession of power that might benefit him, new child on the way or no.

  “The older witches you knew—the ones I always thought of as old, anyway—beat your grandfather into Précieux Sang,” Vincent said. Alice knew most witches from New Orleans ended up there sooner or later. “I think trying to fend off Katrina took more out of them than any of us thought it would.” Vincent shook his head. “But for the past five years or so, more and more of us are just . . .” He motioned with an upturned thumb, like he was trying to hitchhike. “The Dreaming Road. At least that’s what people say has happened to them.”

  “You think otherwise?”

  At first Vincent shrugged, but then nodded in the direction of the cemetery. “When someone dies, we bury them, but these witches who’ve left for the Dreaming Road, what happens to their bodies?”

  “I don’t know. I never gave it much thought,” she lied. As a child she had spent many nights imagining finding her mother’s sleeping form, waking her. Rescuing her. She had come to realize that it was only a fantasy. Besides—Alice’s mind flashed on Babau Jean—she knew that dreams aren’t so easily escaped.

  “Sure, the magic will keep you going for a while, but once you stop eating, drinking . . . ,” Vincent said, his words building on her own thoughts. “We may be witches, but we’re still human. It was one thing back when a move to the Dreaming Road was a rare occurrence, but given the number of witches that have supposedly gone down it, it’s odd no bodies have turned up.”