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Sixteen
Was It All Just A Dream?
When I was a little girl, I used to dream about Marie Laveau. She’d come and whisper to me, it seemed so real. She said I was meant for a purpose, that I would be the bridge that would join the past and the present. Initially, I used to look forward to the nights she’d come. She was kind and she made me feel special. It was when the others came, I hated going to sleep. Nights filled with screaming and terror, of agony and torture. Spirits caught in a loop of eternal damnation. Some of the faces looked just like Edvard Munch’s The Scream. The visions lessened when I finally left New Orleans. It’s not surprising as the ground itself in the Louisiana bayou is saturated with blood and spells. Putting some distance between me and the land helped, but not entirely.
The Beauchamp plantation house has its own energy, its own life force. You can feel it humming in the air like a current that wraps around you and sinks deep into your skin. It’s hungry, it wants life, blood, and tears. It wants it all, everything that had been ripped from it centuries ago on that fateful night when Vodu was called upon to take everything from this home. It wants it all back.
Last night on the front steps was its way of reclaiming some of what once belonged to it. We were two souls pulled in by the ancient power, centuries of hunger and want consumed us. It was one of the most powerful moments of my life.
Afterwards, Marie Laveau came back to me for the first time in a long time. She felt real, she always had. She wore a turban around her hair, piled atop her head, with a shawl draped over her shoulders, and a full skirt that I distinctly heard swishing when she entered the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and she wore a sly grin, the kind that said she knows all the secrets, and she wasn’t telling any of them, much like Hattie often does. She glanced at Ignatius asleep next to me.
“The Beauchamp plantation heir,” she said in a thick Creole accent.
“Yes, but he’s a good man,” I replied, somehow feeling I had to defend him.
“There be something dark inside him, Dominique.”
I know, I’ve felt it, many times. It both enthralls and frightens me in the most mesmerizing ways. These were only thoughts, feelings I kept to myself, afraid if I spoke them, admitted them, they’d become real, a thing all on its own, like the darkness I’ve felt inside Ignatius. My ancestor turned her head to peer at me, that sly grin stretched wider, as if she’d heard every unspoken word I thought, all my secrets, that everything about me belonged to her.
She lightly skimmed a long fingernail down his bare arm. “But he is pretty.”
A hot flash of jealousy sprang up inside me. He’s mine, you can’t have him.
Marie Laveau turned to face me again, an amused expression arching one of her brows, daring me to stop her if she felt so inclined to take him. Then her expression turned serious. “He’s coming. For you both, Dominique.”
Every single possessive instinct within me reared up, ready to fight for Ignatius, to protect him and keep the sick bastard from harming him.
“You must get up. Fight him. You have the power. Use it, girl. Get up!” Marie’s expression now hard and angry. She grips my arm, but I don’t feel her touch. She’s already beginning to slip away. I can still hear her rich voice growing fainter and fainter. “Get up, Dominique!”
My head turns to the side and my eyes flutter open as the dream floats away and clarity replaces it. Ignatius’ body is entangled with mine, his body heat making me too warm. Outside the window overlooking the backyard, I see a glow. Something strikes me as strange; something doesn’t appear right. The glow’s coming from below the window, not above it where the sun rises over the trees. My heart rate skyrockets as I separate my limbs from his and get out of bed. I pad barefoot to the window, my body aching in all the places Ignatius had laid his claim on me.
“Oh, my God, Ignatius!”
“What is it?!” Instantly, he’s out of bed and beside me at the window.
I don’t have to say anything, it’s right there in front of us. The small building in the back is on fire. I press a palm against the glass, maybe willing it to stop.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Ignatius is already across the room and shoving his feet into pant legs as he runs out. “Call 911!” he yells as he barrels down the stairs.
Grabbing my phone, my trembling hands try to dial correctly. It takes a couple of times before I get the right three digits. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I murmur, my nerves in overdrive.
The dispatcher picks up on the first ring. “911, what is your emergency?”
“There’s a fire at the Beauchamp plantation!” I’m back at the window watching the scene in the backyard. I see Ignatius shoot from the house and run for the hose.
“Is it a building?” she asks.
“Yes!”
“Is there anyone in it?”
“No!”
“Can you confirm the address please? We’ve already alerted the fire department.”
“Yes,” I suck in a lungful of air. “It’s 9805 Old Jeanerette Road.” My heart is pounding a hole through my ribs as I watch Ignatius drag the hose to the building.
It doesn’t reach.
