My car wouldn’t be out of the body shop for a while, so I appreciated having a rental, which saved me from needing to borrow Teag’s car. I took the long way to the museum since I wanted to enjoy the sunshine and get some perspective on all the weird stuff that had been going on. Teag and Sorren and I had fought some scary supernatural plots before, but this series of attacks was personal, and that made it worse – as if someone planning to kill tens of thousands of people wasn’t bad enough.
As I drove past one of the Ghost Bikes I slowed down. The front wheel was turning slowly, but a few seconds later it spun wildly, and the bike began to shake and shudder, as if it were trying to tear free of the chain that held it to the telephone pole. Hurry, it seemed to say. Time’s running out.
The Ghost Bike incident rattled me, and I took a few deep breaths when I parked in the Lowcountry Museum’s lot. Big banners proclaimed ‘Voodoo and You: Loas and the Lowcountry’, and other banners included pictures of items on display. It looked like everything was ready to go, and I knew it would be a real accomplishment for Lucinda to bring off a successful exhibition.
I navigated the receptionist and ignored the velvet ropes that prevented museum-goers from entering the exhibition before it opened. Lucinda and her team had gotten a lot done since my last visit. I kept my hands behind my back, resolutely not touching anything. I could hear Lucinda talking with her assistants, and did not want to interrupt, so I killed time by taking a stroll around the display cases.
One set of banners traced the history of Voodoo from its African and Caribbean roots. All around the space were large paintings of Loas like Papa Legba, Baron Samedi, and Erzulie Dantor along with their veves and the Catholic saint associated with that Loa. The glass cases held candles, dolls, shrines, and charms, showing how the practice of Voodoo – or Voudon as many preferred – differed depending on the time period and the location. The exhibit was fascinating and before I knew it, I had made my way around the room.
I found myself staring at a life-sized effigy of a woman sitting in a chair. Her eyes blazed red, and all around the chair were paper flames. A taxidermied black goat lay at her feet along with dried salvia, sprigs of lavender, and a bowl of candy. Behind her was a picture of Erzulie Dantor and a painting of a black pig. ‘Brule Marinette’ the small sign said, and explained that Marinette had been a mambo who helped to start Haiti’s slave revolt when she sacrificed a black pig and called on the spirit of Erzulie Dantor to free her people. Marinette, the sign added, was caught by the slaveholders and burned alive, and each year, an effigy of her was burned to honor her martyrdom. I stared at the papier-mâché face with its red eyes and shivered.
I heard the hoot of an owl, and a ghostly gray creature flew past me, brushing my face with its wing feathers before vanishing. When I looked back at the figure in the display case, real flames burned all around the chair and effigy, yet there was no smoke, and nothing inside the case was catching on fire.
I watched, terrified, and realized that the woman seated on the chair was no longer made out of papier-mâché. She was real, and I could see the rise and fall of her chest. Marinette’s blood-red eyes fixed on me, and she rose to her feet amid the flames. I backed away, certain that a glass case could not contain the power of an angry Loa.
The figure took a step toward the glass, and the fire licked at her bare feet and the hem of her dress, but did not burn. Marinette raised one hand and pointed directly at me. Her mouth began to move, but I could not hear what she was saying, although from her expression, I figured it couldn’t be good.
“Arretez!”
Lucinda’s voice came from behind me, strident and commanding. She continued speaking in a Caribbean patois, and then her voice began to rise and fall and she closed her eyes, raising her hands. Her whole body shook, and when she opened her eyes, her expression changed and I had the distinct feeling that