Between Catholics and Voodoo Queens

Ch 8: Mardi Gras Mambo

Ch 8:

The weekend before Mardi Gras is busy across Louisiana, extending the days off into Monday (Lundi Gras) and Tuesday. It often led to Ash Wednesday being a public holiday as well. So I thought nothing of being left to my own devices for a mini-vacation. I expected to be called home on Thursday.

The pull came on Wednesday, and it felt off, like it wasn't Mamman Simbi that yanked her familiar's chain. I've never had my shoulder ache when she called me, but the scent and sight were of her, you know?

It aggravated me, as I was busy building a nest for the season. Yes, early, as that's a mid-March chore, not mid-February. But I tended to build a little on the early side since my construction was sound enough to weather the extra month. I couldn't guarantee being here when my hen needed me, with the way Mamman Simbi gets up to antics.

She was starting to get fed up with all the missing person reports that weren't getting answers. She was bound to do something stupid. Soon, if she didn't find who was pulling people from their mostly-hidden lives.

That and the first body was found.

Well, that part I didn't know about until I went back to Mamman Simbi's home. That damn asshole sat in her chair, nursing a beer. A quiet muttered, statement broke the silence. "Florence was found out in Bayou Teche."

It wasn't far off our little area of the world, arguably some parts as close to us as New Orleans. That means her fate shouldn't be tied to whatever happened in The Big Easy. Shouldn't. She lived in Metarie and had no relatives. This wasn't going to get lost in the everyday deaths. At least what I thought at the time.

I perched on T-Beau and thought about shitting on him again, but noticed that he had the doll in his hands. It distracted me from how blunt he had been.

"Hey, damn bird," he slurred in exhaustion as he took his hand off the doll, exposing the pin he had in its shoulder. Something was horribly wrong, and he didn't seem to give a shit about why I was called here by his own damn hands.

"Snap out of it!" I squawked harshly. "Why are you touching that thing?"

"It's just a Voodoo doll, right, corneille?" His finger traced around where the needle poked in the thing. It sent that strange ache that called me home crashing through my body all over again.

"Voodoo doesn't use witch dolls and needles to curse people, T-Beau." My voice caught. "Damn things come from Mamman's people and Hollyweird. You called it gris-gris then. What changed?"

"It called you." He tossed the now-empty beer bottle into the trash can between the kitchen and living space, a shot that spoke of too much practice. "I had been tole all my life dat da damn tings were sold to tourists, not used. It shouldn't work."

"Well, it's not the doll that works." I laughed as only a bird could: awkward and mocking. "It's more than twigs and twine, the same way I'm more than a crow. Why did you call me in?"

"That's what the needle did?" He shook his head as Mamman Simbi's landline rang. T-Beau shot unsteadily to his feet, causing me to flap up off him and find another perch to watch from.

"Hello?" He paused and listened to quite a rant, one I couldn't make out. "Damn, Rafe. Dat's messed up."

T-Beau leaned up against the wall near the phone, acting a bit like his head was swimming. I mean, he had just downed a beer. But this is the Couillon who mows his yard 3 sheets to the wind. A simple Bud wasn't going to get him saouler (drunk). He was acting more like he wished he was too inebriated for life.

Then he uttered something that was going to alter the course of my life forever. "I'm going to bring her little corneille over. Yeah, he speaks. I suspect he's the best one for the job, unfortunately."