The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras

by Vickie Britton

  Trying to match his long, impatient stride, I hurried with him down the garden path. “Be careful that you don’t tear your dress,” Ian cautioned as Edward’s tamed garden gave way to a tangle of underbrush. It was a long walk. By the time we reached the bridge, we were both out of breath.

  From the water’s edge, we could hear the sound of faraway music. “It’s no use. We are going to miss the parade!” Ian mourned, disappointed. “Unless—”

  Reading his thoughts, I followed his desperate gaze down to the pirogue that danced wildly in the water just below us. “Ian, are you sure you can handle such a dangerous little boat?”

  “Nothing to it!” Purple robe flapping in the breeze, he climbed down and began untying the pirogue. “Come on. Climb aboard.”

  I glanced down at Ian and had to smile. He made a rather absurd figure, his crown askew, robe billowing out like giant wings behind him as he struggled for control of the slim, canoe-like boat. With some reluctance, I took the hand he offered.

  It was difficult to remain wary of him. No matter what scheme he and Lydia might be involved in, I was convinced that Ian himself was harmless. If injury came to me tonight because of Ian, it was much more likely to be a result of sheer recklessness than malice.

  The pirogue pitched dangerously as I stepped inside. The oars made small lapping sounds against the sides of the tiny boat as we bobbed like a cork beneath the bridge. A clap of thunder made me glance up above where bulging clouds still threatened rain.

  The music grew louder and louder as the tipsy little boat carried us downstream. A band was playing brisk, lively music that seemed out of sorts with the gloomy, rain-streaked atmosphere.

  As we floated toward the dock, I caught my first glimpse of the Mardi Gras. I was awed by the sight that met my eyes. Huge paper flowers made bright splashes of color against a pearly gray sky. The haunted cypress was adorned with fluttering streamers of purple, red, and blue.

  In the distance, wagons laden with enormous, glittering floats lined the cobbled streets. Restless horses pawed the ground as if waiting for some magical cue to begin motion. I caught sight of a silver castle, cardboard towers, and a huge dragon with a giant bobbing head of papier mâché upon the first float.

  As Ian tied the pirogue to the dock, children dressed in their Mardi Gras costumes scurried up to greet us. “Hurry! Hurry, mister,” urged a bright-faced clown, his enormous pants stuffed with straw. “Rex is coming. He’s coming!”

  “Just in time!” Ian exclaimed breathlessly. As he came up beside me, the lively music began to slow into a grand, pompous march. “Rex is the king of Mardi Gras, and his procession always ushers in the parade,” he explained for my benefit. He paused for a moment to don his mask, and I did the same. Then we searched for a place to stand in a street crowded with bandits, Indians, ghosts, and Zulu warriors.

  The very air was charged with excitement. I had to hold tightly to Ian’s arm to avoid being swallowed up by the sea of masked faces. We found a spot to wait for the grand procession, which was just making its appearance at the head of the waterfront street.

  A twitter of laughter passed through the crowd as a couple of children dressed as court jesters appeared, juggling oranges as they frolicked by. My eyes swept over the crowd of demons and hobgoblins that had gathered to watch the parade, searching for some sign of Christine. I looked around, watching for Lydia’s cat-face or Mrs. Lividais’s Gypsy costume, wondering how we would ever find any of them in this pressing mob of strangers.

  “Something tells me that mask of yours is concealing a very troubled expression,” Ian said unexpectedly.

  “I’m sorry, Ian. It’s just that I can’t help worrying about Christine. I promised Edward that I would watch over her tonight, and she’s already slipped away from me.”

  “Is that what’s been bothering you?” Ian laughed dryly. “I’d not give her a thought after the cruel trick she played on you this evening. Besides, Christine can take care of herself. Why, nobody pays any mind to chaperones on the Mardi Gras!”

  But it wasn’t only Christine’s erratic behavior that cast a gloomy spell over the Mardi Gras for me. In spite of myself, my thoughts kept wandering back to that dreadful moment on the stairway, reliving time after time the pain and horror in Nicholas’s eyes as I had come down the stairs in Elica’s dress.

  Two trumpeters appeared behind the jesters, announcing the arrival of King Rex. Tension filled the air as the crowd waited. A procession of knights and nobles upon proud Arabian horses came slowly toward us. They wore feathered hats and were dressed in fine silk ornamented with braids of gold.

  “What a spectacular sight,” I commented. I turned to Ian, surprised to find that his gaze had shifted from the parading knights to the throng of people behind us.

  “There’s Christine,” he said, pointing into the crowd. “See? I told you not to worry.”

  I followed his gesture with my eyes. “Where? I don’t see her.”

  “Well, she was there just a moment ago,” Ian replied. “I’m sure I saw her!”

  I caught a brief flash of emerald dress disappear into the mazes of people that gathered about the water’s edge. Christine? It was too late to tell.

  “Was she alone?”

  “No, she was with a werewolf and a red creature—old Lucifer himself, I believe.” Ian chuckled. “Good company, indeed! Perhaps you were right to be worried.”

  But I breathed a sigh of relief, because for days I had heard Christine sing the praises of Nathan’s devil costume. Obviously, she had met him here as she had planned. I knew how much the boy adored Christine. With Nathan, the only danger would be a stolen kiss or two. With Nathan, she would be safe.

  The Mardi Gras spirit was beginning to sway me. Now that I knew Christine was not wandering about alone, I began to pay more attention to the finely dressed knights on their snorting white horses, the men in full armor who followed on foot.

  I turned to Ian. “For all your talk about the coming of the Mardi Gras, you have never once explained its significance to me.”

  Ian seemed pleased at my curiosity. “Why, I didn’t think you’d be interested.” Carefully, he explained. “Mardi Gras is the French name for Shrove Tuesday, the day before the beginning of Lent. Every good Catholic knows that Lent is a period of penitence and prayer. And so, on the day before Ash Wednesday, there is one final bout of merrymaking before the solemn time of fasting begins.”

  “But few people fast during Lent these days.”

  “That is so,” Ian replied, and I imagined his smile behind the stiff mask. “But they all still celebrate the Mardi Gras.”

  A pleasant smell filled the air, the aroma of roasted nuts and brown sugar, which put me in mind of the French market in New Orleans. An old colored woman wearing a bright tignon pushed through the crowd, selling fresh pralines. Ian bought some from her, and we savored the delicious pecans in their sticky syrup as we continued to watch the procession of the King of Carnival.

  “I think I’m beginning to like this, after all,” I confessed to Ian. There was a midsummer night’s eve kind of magic in the air. If I had been in a more relaxed state of mind, I might well have become caught up in the wild abandonment of the night. But a part of me was unable to join in with the merry confusion that surrounded us. Part of me was unable to forget Nicholas and the way he looked as I came down the stairs in Elica’s dress. What sorrow this first Mardi Gras after his wife’s tragic death must bring him.

  Suddenly, the marching music stopped. The band now struck up a song which Ian claimed had been a tradition of the Mardi Gras since 1872.

  Aware of my new interest in the Mardi Gras, he hastened to explain. “It all started with a love story. While the Russian Grand Duke Alexis Alexandrovich Romanoff was visiting America, he fell for the charms of an American actress he had seen in a play in New York. They arranged to meet again in New Orleans during the Mardi Gras where she was performing at the Opera House. During the play, the young actress made eyes at h
im as she sang the song, ‘If Ever I Cease to Love.’ The next day, when the Grand Duke attended the parade, he discovered that the public had become enthralled by the budding romance, and ‘their’ song was being played everywhere. Since then, versions of the song have been played at every Mardi Gras. It is the official royal song of Carnival, which is played just before the appearance of King Rex.” Amused, I listened to the unusual refrain:

  “If ever I cease to love.

  If ever I cease to love,

  May the Grand Duke Alexis

  Ride a buffalo in Texas,

  If ever I cease to love.”

  A chant arose on all sides of us. “Long live Rex. Long live the king!” The chant was followed by a sudden stillness.

  Following the procession of knights was a huge, gilded float. As it drew nearer I could see, through a bed of pink roses and white carnations, the glittering thrones of the king and queen.

  “Do you know who they are?” I asked, as we craned our necks to get a good look at the local royalty.

  Ian shook his head. “Their identities will not be revealed until midnight, when everyone is obliged to unmask.”

  The dark-bearded king, looking quite regal in his white and golden robes, waved proudly to the cheering crowd. By his side, the queen, in shiny silver dress and white mink robe sat graciously upon the throne that Christine had told me Nathan had helped to build. I was enchanted by the beautiful sight. For the first time since that terrible incident upon the stairs, I felt the tension begin to ease away from me.

  And then something else caught my eye. In the gap between the two floats, I caught a glimpse of the masked revelers on the other side of the street. And in that sea of faces, faces that suddenly seemed grotesque and menacing, one stood out, even among the hideous devils, demons, and fantasy creatures that surrounded it.

  The choked cry died in my throat as I stared at the death-like visage with its hollow, cadaverous cheeks, huge, empty-seeming eye sockets, the terribly grinning blood-red mouth. I recoiled from the sight in sheer horror. Someone was wearing the voodoo mask!

  “Ian!” I cried, but the sound of my voice was drowned out by the cheering of the crowd as the king and queen rattled by upon their lovely float. The bed of roses and carnations completely obstructed my view.

  “Fantastic, isn’t it?” Ian shouted above the cheering voices. I shivered, realizing that he had mistaken my cry of horror for one of excitement.

  When the commotion had finally died down, and I was free to look again, the ghastly face was gone. It had been buried by the throng of masqueraders, leaving me to wonder if my eyes or my imagination might have been playing tricks on me. Was it possible that I only thought I had recognized the voodoo mask in this veritable breeding ground of witches, goblins, and monsters that surrounded us?

  I tried to persuade myself that it had only been my imagination. With a queasy feeling, I stood remembering the empty peg in Edward’s room, a constant reminder that the voodoo mask was still missing. Was someone here at the masquerade tonight wearing the evil mask? I must find out!

  “Now the actual parade will begin!” Ian said. With Rex’s procession at an end, the gaudily decorated floats that waited upon the side streets swayed into motion. I heard the excited cries of the children as the dragon with its bobbing head lurched slowly toward us. A princess in glittering dress showered candy and sparkly carnival baubles into the crowd from the high tower of the silver castle. Ian raised his arm to catch a strand of brightly colored beads.

  “For you, ma chère,” Ian moved to drape the shining strand about my neck, his hands lingering upon my throat as he straightened the glimmering beads. He stepped back, viewing his addition to my costume with admiration. “Beautiful!”

  I glanced down. The bright colors gave my long, flowing dress an even more festive appearance. “The beads add just the right touch” I conceded.

  “And what do you think of the Mardi Gras now?” he asked anxiously. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Yes,” I replied, glad for the sequined amber mask that concealed at least part of my expression from Ian. I knew that he was doing his best to entertain me. Though I tried to share his enthusiasm for this magical, fairy-tale night, I knew that the uneasiness was here to stay. I kept thinking about that brief glimpse of the sinister face in the crowd on the other side of the street. A cold shiver ran up and down my spine. Who was wearing the voodoo mask?

  The same person who had struck me down at the old house might be here, watching my every move. Icy blood flowed through my veins, chilling me to the bone. Once again, the carnival atmosphere seemed to me grotesque, artificial, and vaguely threatening.

  Another float rolled by. I gasped at the sight of a fair-haired Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine, flashing white teeth and laughing. Even the parade seemed to be taking on a sinister quality. Unaffected by the horror of the scene, children scrambled for the beads, whistles, and toy doubloons she tossed into the streets. Then, with a final wave of farewell, she knelt before the wicked guillotine and off rolled her head!

  Feeling slightly sickened, I watched the executioner hold the artificial head up to the crowd. Then he furtively slipped it away in its basket so that the scene could be re-enacted.

  I stole a glance at Ian, who was watching the parade with fascination. Should I confide in him? No, I decided. After the conversation I had heard between him and Lydia in the garden, I would be a fool to trust him.

  A scene from Romeo and Juliet clattered by upon rickety wheels. A tawdry Juliet leaned upon her famous balcony, throwing kisses and trinkets into the crowd while Romeo strummed a guitar.

  And then I saw it again. Now, at the edge of the crowd, near a cluster of dark cypress, the moonlight glanced off the stiff edges of a face as pale as death.

  Had it been the voodoo mask? I still could not be sure. If only I could get closer But there was no way to cross the street until the parade had run its course. Impatiently, I waited, trying to keep in sight the place where the figure had been.

  More floats sailed by, once again obstructing my vision. Indians, wild men, native dancers, a cardboard ship of ominous-looking buccaneers riding a restless, painted sea. Then, at last, the band that had been playing such lively music became visible, bringing up the rear. The parade ended with a final uproar of cheering and song. During the ensuing confusion, I found my chance to slip away from Ian’s side and lose myself in the crowd.

  I pressed on through the throng of masked people, gradually making my way across the crowded, cobbled street. When I reached the spot where I thought I had spied the voodoo mask, the figure was gone. I looked about, bewildered. It was as if he had vanished into thin air.

  Anxiously, I looked back across the street where I had left Ian, but he was nowhere in sight. For a moment, a feeling of panic swept over me. These people—where had they all come from? I was alone in this bizarre crowd of masqueraders. Why, I might never find Ian again!

  I stood for a moment, trying to get my bearings. Most of the crowd was now moving in the opposite direction, toward the waterfront. In the shelter of the cypress trees near the bayou, the gumbo pots for the feast were waiting. If I followed along in that general direction, surely I would either encounter Ian or one of the others from the house.

  Uneasily, I pushed my way through the mass of masked, costumed people. Swept along by the crowd, I moved toward the spot where the blackened pots of gumbo simmered and sputtered over open bonfires. The clouds, which had been threatening rain all evening, scattered a fine spray of raindrops, making the fire smoke. I spotted Cassa tending to one of the fires. With her long, ragged skirts and unruly white braids, she seemed as much in costume as the masqueraders who passed her by.

  I stepped toward her, glad to have discovered a familiar face. “Good evening, Cassa.”

  The old woman made no reply. An unsettling sensation gripped me as she peered at me closely, as if she weren’t exactly certain who I was. Then, with a nervous laugh, I rememb
ered my disguise. “It’s me! Louise!”

  A smile of recognition crossed her face as she said something in that odd half-French of hers that I never could quite understand.

  “Have you seen Ian?” I asked.

  She continued to watch me, her eyes still slightly blank. Either she did not understand my question or she did not know Ian. I realized that it was possible that she had never met him.

  “Edward? Lydia? Have you seen them?”

  This time she shook her head. “Non.”

  There was a heavy, sinking feeling in my heart. “Mrs. Lividais?” I tried in frustration.

  Her eyes suddenly brightened. “Ya. M’dame Lividais.” She pointed to a place not far away where women were setting out food for the feast.

  “Thank you, Cassa.” I began to move away in the direction she had indicated.

  I had only gone a few steps when the strange feeling that I was being watched made me turn around slowly. I glanced back at Cassa, but she was once again bent over her gumbo pot. And then I saw him. At the edge of the cypress grove a tall, cadaverous figure stood against the moonlight.

  In startled horror, my eyes locked with the deep, piercing eyes behind the voodoo mask! I felt my heart pound rapidly against my throat as I forced my gaze away. Then, steeling my courage, I looked again.

  Sheer relief made my body feel suddenly weightless. I had been mistaken, after all. The stranger was not wearing the voodoo mask, but only a crude imitation. The mask had a rough, unfinished quality, as if it had been hastily created for this particular occasion. Upon closer scrutiny, I could see that the features were slightly different. The nose was too knotted, the mouth had been cut into a grimacing line instead of that malevolent, blood-red smile.

  I waited spellbound as the gaunt man in his frightening replica of the voodoo mask moved toward me. As he stepped out of the darkness, the flowing African robes that draped his tall form suddenly gave away his identity. It was Brule!