Evangeline of the Bayou

by Jan Eldredge

  “Thank you!” Evangeline gave Ju-Ju a final head ruffle, then jumped to her feet and raced away.

  “Get off the streets soon, girl!” the woman called after her. “It won’t be safe when the sun sets. Evil hides easy in the dark.”

  Evangeline’s gator-skin boots tapped against the dirty sidewalk as she ran. The strange breeze combed through her hair. She wove her way through throngs of tourists laughing and staggering and clutching plastic cups with their contents sloshing over the rims. She sprinted past multistory Spanish Colonial–style shops and homes, their intricate cast-iron balconies draped with leftover Mardi Gras beads and purple, green, and gold bunting. Behind their wrought-iron gates, flagstone alleyways led to hidden courtyards lush with greenery and burbling stone fountains.

  A blue neon sign advertising Readings hung above the doorway of the squat two-story building. The shop’s faded and flaking shutters were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Nearly breathless, Evangeline pushed the creaky door open and entered.

  The dimly lit interior hung heavy with the scents of herbs and spicy incense. Carved wooden masks glared down from the deep-red walls. Anyone stepping into the place, even Julian Midsomer himself, would’ve felt the strong magic there. Altars were stationed everywhere, their surfaces covered with burning candles and assorted odds and ends like coins, oyster shells, wine bottles, and the figurines of Catholic saints, their eyes gazing mournfully at Evangeline.

  “Hello?” She glanced around at the counters and shelves crowded with glass canisters of every dried ingredient one could imagine, as well as a bowl filled with chicken feet dyed purple and blue. A set of doorway curtains at the side of the room parted, and Evangeline whirled around.

  A tall man stood in the shadows, the pupils of his dark eyes glinting gold as they reflected the candlelight emanating around the room. After a moment, he spoke quietly, almost reverently, his voice deep and rich. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m . . . I’m looking for Papa Urbain,” Evangeline murmured, a current of nervousness zinging through her. She was standing on unfamiliar territory. She couldn’t afford to say or do the wrong thing. Inadvertently insulting a voodoo priest would not only be poor form, for which Gran would have been very disappointed in her, but she could also end up walking away without a gris-gris bag.

  The man stepped from the doorway. The glint fell away from his eyes, and Evangeline released her breath. With his neatly trimmed gray beard and a pair of reading glasses hanging around his neck, he could have passed for a typical suburban grandfather, though he was anything but typical.

  “Are you Papa Urbain?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m in need of a gris-gris bag, sir. For a woman. A client.”

  He didn’t reply, waiting instead for her to divulge more specifics.

  Evangeline took a deep breath. “The woman was infected by the bite of an alpha rougarou. I was hoping you could provide something to bring her improved health and luck, something that might magnify the efforts of those trying to help her.”

  Keeping his intense gaze on her, he folded his arms over his chest, a gold ring with a bloodred stone gleaming on his pinky in the flickering flame light. “You’re rather young to have such responsibilities as clients.”

  “Well, she’s really more my gran’s client.” Evangeline resisted the urge to nervously twist her fingers together. “My gran’s a haunt huntress, but she’s in the hospital right now.”

  “A haunt huntress. I see. And you?”

  Evangeline’s face flushed. The cramped, dark shop suddenly grew hotter. “I’m a . . . a . . .” But she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. Not that she needed to. The Voodoo priest would be able to see it well enough for himself.

  He pulled one of the curtains back on the doorway behind him and motioned for her to enter.

  The aroma of incense hung even thicker inside the small temple. A wooden table stood in the room’s center; a scuffed counter loomed at the back. Along one wall a single altar had been erected, this one bearing a statuette of Mother Mary along with a bowl of dirt, a lit candle, a stick of burning incense, and a goblet of water: the representations of earth, fire, wind, and water.

  The altar had also been set with a scattering of personal items—a hairbrush, a paper fan, a pair of women’s sunglasses—objects evidently belonging to a revered ancestor.

  A sudden hissing drew Evangeline’s attention to the countertop the voodoo priest now stood behind. A fat black pine snake coiling there in a pool of shadows gave her a lazy flick of its forked tongue. On a perch behind the counter sat a white bird, its beak and feet a pale pink color. It stared at her with unblinking blue-gray eyes. Evangeline stared back, easily identifying it as a crow. And though she’d heard of such rare white crows before, she’d never actually seen one.

  “That’s Beyza.” Papa Urbain nodded toward the bird. “She’s my eyes and my ears.” He reached under the counter and brought forth a leather bag. “She keeps an eye on the things that need keeping an eye on.” He drew open the bag, took out a flat seashell, and set it aside. Then he dumped the rest of the contents into his hand. Cupping his palms together, he gave them a shake and dropped the items onto the countertop with a clatter.

  Gran’s schooling had trained Evangeline well, allowing her to easily recognize the small scattered pieces as possum bones.

  Papa Urbain pulled on his reading glasses and frowned down at the countertop, disturbed by what he saw in the throw. Using the seashell, he moved the bones around, careful not to touch them with his long fingers. He studied them at length, then finally looked up at Evangeline and shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry.” He sighed and removed his eyeglasses. “But that is the way of the world.”

  “What? What’s the way of the world? What do you see?” Evangeline’s heart boomed like summer thunder.

  “I see bloodshed associated with your client.”

  “Bloodshed?” The image of a wolfish Mrs. Midsomer leaped into Evangeline’s head. Fear clawed at her chest. Mrs. Midsomer was doomed. The weaken-binds would not work. Come midnight, the rougarou madness would overtake her, and she would make her first kill.

  Papa Urbain frowned, and he shook his head again, repeating, “I’m sorry.”

  With a struggle, Evangeline took a shuddering breath. “Well, thank you anyway. If you could still prepare a gris—”

  “There’s more.” White candlelight glowed in the priest’s dark eyes. “Death is near you. Two people will die tonight.”

  His words hit Evangeline like a punch. All feeling drained from her limbs. “Oh,” she whispered.

  He swept the bones and shell back into the bag. “As you know, I cannot reverse the rougarou’s curse, but I will do what I can to help you. You will need a very powerful gris-gris, one that I will create just for you.” He replaced the bone bag beneath the counter and left the room.

  Evangeline trembled where she stood. Despite the room’s warmth, goose bumps prickled her arms.

  From out in the shop came the sounds of canister lids clinking as they were removed and replaced.

  Papa Urbain returned a moment later carrying a wide wooden bowl that contained an assortment of items. He set it on the altar, took out a small red flannel bag, and added the bowl’s ingredients to it, reciting, “Root, bone, cayenne, snake shed, wasp nest, powdered blue glass, dried toadstool, camphor, pigeon feather, and crawfish claw.” Lastly, he held up the eleventh item, a pebble. “The most potent of all. Taken from the ground at the tomb of voodoo queen Marie Laveau.”

  He closed his hands around the small bag and murmured a prayer of blessing and protection, speaking so fervently, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. When he finished, he brought the bag to his mouth and gently blew on it, activating its power with his breath. He dressed it with drops of water from a small brown bottle labeled Mississippi River, then passed it through the incense smoke, and tied it shut with a leather cord.

  “It’s the best I can do.” He hande
d it to her and narrowed his eyes. “Whatever advice your grandmother has given you, you would be wise to follow it.”

  Evangeline nodded numbly. He was right. Without the powers of a haunt huntress running through her, she was in no position to fight what needed to be fought on this night. “Yes, sir. I’ll attach it to our client’s weaken-binds, then . . .” She swallowed down the rock of a lump forming in her throat, willing her eyes not go teary. “Then I’ll return to the swamp and hope for the best for her and her family.”

  He studied her for a moment with his piercing gaze. “Perhaps I can keep an eye on the family after you’ve gone.” He cast a glance toward Beyza, the white crow, and she cawed in reply, dipping her head and rustling her feathers.

  “Thank you, sir.” Evangeline had not expected such a generous offer.

  She reached into her satchel for money, but Papa Urbain waved her hand away. “There’s no charge. Consider it a favor, from one professional to another.”

  “But I’m not a—”

  “For your grandmother, then.”

  “Thank you.” She’d taken only one step toward the curtained doorway when his next words stopped her.

  “The gris-gris is not complete.”

  She turned to him, puzzled.

  “To strengthen the magic, you must use your own words of power.”

  “Words of power?” She had no idea what he meant. “What words?”

  “That I don’t know, but I can tell you where to find them.” He pointed in the direction of the river. “Go to the St. Louis Cathedral. Stand on the church’s front steps, and speak your request to the wind. The words will come to you.”

  Evangeline forced a smile to cover the distress rising inside her. There was no time for running around the city. It would be dark soon, and she had much work to do before she could leave the Midsomers and return home. The doorway woman’s words of warning came back to her, sending her heart pounding. It won’t be safe when the sun sets.

  Not wanting to appear ungrateful for all his help, she nodded.

  She tucked the gris-gris bag into her satchel and rushed out of the shop.

  Evangeline hurried toward the river, past antique shops and souvenir stores. She passed clubs with strains of blues and zydeco music pouring out from their open doorways, past restaurants with the mouthwatering aroma of Louisiana’s holy culinary trinity—onions, bell peppers, and celery—wafting out from theirs.

  It didn’t take long to reach the grand church, its triple steeples towering above the historic Cabildo and Presbytère buildings on either side of it. Jackson Square sprawled before it. Loud jazz music from a brass band on the corner bounced off the buildings and floated throughout the park. A young trombone player caught sight of her staring; he winked at her, and she blushed. Another blast of wind rushed by, swaying the colorful art pieces hanging for sale on the square’s black wrought-iron fence, and bringing with it the distinct odor of the horse-drawn carriages lined up across the street. It blew tourists’ hair and clothing, snatching hats from their heads and straws from their drinks, sending them gasping and laughing and chasing after the wayward items in the midst of the street party atmosphere.

  For a moment, Evangeline was transported back to the fais-dodo parties she’d attended on the bayou. A pang of homesickness struck like the toll of a bell, and her heart echoed with a realization. These city folk and their guests weren’t all that different from her own family and neighbors back home.

  But there was work to be done. Sagging with fatigue, she hauled herself up the church steps. She turned toward the Mississippi River across the way, the breeze tousling the tips of her hair. She had no idea what to say. She decided on the simplest option. Taking a deep breath, she whispered her request into the wind: “Send me my words of power. Please.”

  She waited.

  Nothing happened.

  She tapped her foot.

  Nothing happened again.

  She cracked the knuckles on her right hand.

  She waited some more, feeling the minutes tick past as clearly as if a clock were lodged inside her head.

  She glanced around the square, her gaze settling on the park’s statue of General Jackson on his rearing horse. Atop his head perched a white crow, its blue-gray stare fixed on her. Evidently Papa Urbain believed she needed keeping an eye on too. She wasn’t sure if she felt comforted or offended by his concern.

  The bird kept its gaze on her for a moment longer, then sprang from the general’s bronze head. It winged away over the square, soaring above the Lucky Dog hot-dog cart across the street. There amid the throng of tourists making their way up the sidewalk, towering a head taller than any of them, strode Randall Lowell, the silent, hulking giant who’d sat at the Midsomers’ dining room table that morning. When Evangeline blinked, though, he was gone, already faded into the crowd, probably on his way to Café Du Monde for more beignets to bring to the Midsomers.

  But if the weaken-binds didn’t work on Mrs. Midsomer tonight, breakfast would be the least of the family’s worries come tomorrow morning.

  With a sigh of impatience, Evangeline closed her eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again. “Dang it, come on!” she muttered to the wind. “I don’t have all day!”

  A breeze whipped by, ruffling the gray feathers on a pigeon drinking from a puddle on the pavement. A dollar bill blew across the square. It skipped up the short steps toward her and came to a rest on the silver tips of her boots as the wind ceased.

  Evangeline pursed her lips, gazing down at the unexpected arrival. She’d asked for words but had received money instead. Evidently she hadn’t been clear enough with her request. She picked up the dollar anyway. One of its previous owners had doodled a pair of black eyeglasses onto President Washington.

  Frowning, she turned the bill over and gasped.

  One of the words on the dollar bill had been traced over with bright-red marker, one word from the line In God We Trust.

  The word was Trust.

  Evangeline thought on it for a moment.

  As ominous as the red word seemed, she didn’t know how it was supposed to be of help to her. She folded the dollar and tucked it into her satchel anyway.

  Maybe she’d misunderstood the voodoo priest. Or maybe he’d been wrong.

  Another gust blew, sending a fluttering lime-green scrap of paper flying onto the side of her face and plastering it there until she peeled it away.

  She peered down at the paper, and her spirit sank even lower. In her hand she held nothing more than a coupon for a local frozen yogurt shop. But when she ran her eyes over its print, there amid the black writing proclaiming the healthful benefits of probiotic organisms for your gut, two words stood out, highlighted in red: your gut.

  Icy prickles ran down Evangeline’s spine.

  Trust your gut.

  She knew those words well. Gran had spoken them to her all her life.

  Fingers shaking, she tucked the coupon into her satchel. She didn’t have to glance at the sinking sun to know she needed to hurry to the Midsomers’ house.

  She felt it in her gut.

  Evangeline had no idea how long she’d been wandering through the streets of the Garden District. Or how to find her way to the Midsomer home.

  She glanced around, desperate to spy any sign of familiarity. The sun was now touching the horizon, leaving darkness only a hair’s breadth away. Panic clutched at her heart. But remembering Gran’s oft-repeated words, she whispered them to herself: “Fear is a steel trap. It binds up your courage as well as your smarts.” Gran was right, as she was about so many things.

  She shook off her panic, turned, and retraced her steps, rushing past mansions and manor homes built before the Civil War, the clacking of her boots echoing off the tall privacy fences surrounding their backyards. In the distance a siren wailed, a streetcar rattled along its tracks, and a steamboat’s whistle blasted mournfully. The sinking sun finally set, disappearing like a stone beneath the water’s surface.

&nbs
p; Evangeline’s feet came to a sudden stop. There it was again, the sensation of being watched, tickling the flesh along the back of her neck. She whirled around.

  And again, no one was behind her. She glanced along the fence tops and into the tree branches, but saw no sign of Papa Urbain’s white crow.

  “Just nerves,” she muttered, and started her feet moving again.

  She hurried over the buckled brick sidewalks. And still the Midsomers’ house was nowhere to be seen.

  Darkness crept up all around her. Shaggy oak branches shrouded the gas lamp–style streetlights, which formed dim pools of light against the pavement. A few blocks over, a pack of dogs erupted into a round of fierce barking. “Fear is a steel trap,” she reminded herself.

  At last she turned onto a familiar side street. But just as her anxiety began to melt away, the clouds overhead pulled back, revealing a full moon gleaming down from the starry night sky.

  A shrill, lone howl, something half-animal, half-human, erupted from the next street over. It hung in the humid air, lingering like a lonely echo.

  Goose bumps sped down the backs of her arms. Whispering a curse word that would have resulted in a severe scolding from Gran, Evangeline slipped her mama’s talisman from beneath her shirt collar. Even with the extra protection of the gris-gris bag inside her satchel, her palms were still sweaty with fear. She raced up the sidewalk, her heart pounding in time with her steps. Why hadn’t she thought to pack some rye, mistletoe, and aconitum in her satchel?

  The back of the Midsomer house rose into view. A few steps farther and the gurgling of their garden fountain brought music to her ears. At the sight of the tall wooden fence surrounding their backyard, the familiar clumps of large camellia shrubs and cluster of metal trash cans, the tightness in her chest loosened, and she almost cried out with relief. She reached for the gate latch, but her feet ground to a stop, as though suddenly bogged down in a thick pit of mud.

  Something was watching her from very nearby, its stare nearly intense enough to gouge holes through the side of her head.