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"Oncle Julien told her jokes and stories and said he was happy to be in her dream. She said that. Oncle Julien said that I was to go to you, you here, Mr. Lightner, and that Mr. Talbot would come. Oncle Julien spoke French and you yourself were sitting in the cane backed chair and smiling and nodding to her, and you brought her in a cup of coffee and cream the way she likes it, with half a cup of sugar and one of her favorite silver spoons. In and out of her dreams, Great Nananne has a thousand silver spoons. " The dream continued:
"You sat on her bed, finally, on her best quilt beside her, and you took her hand, and she had all her best rings on her hand, which she doesn't wear anymore, you know, and you said in the dream, 'You send me little Merrick,' and you said you'd take care of me, and you told her that she was going to die. "
Aaron had not heard this strange recounting, and he'd seemed quite taken, amazed. Lovingly, he'd answered:
"It must have been Oncle Julien who said such a thing in the dream. How could I have known such a secret?"
I'd never forgotten his protest, because it had been very unlike him to commit himself even to ignorance, and to press so hard upon such a point.
"No, no, you told her," the fairy child had said. "You told her the day of the week and the hour of the clock, and it's yet to come. " She had looked thoughtfully once more at her pictures. "Don't worry about it. I know when it's going to happen. " Her face had been suddenly full of sadness. "I can't keep her forever. Les myst¨¨res will not wait. "
Les myst¨¨res. Did she mean the ancestors, the Voodoo gods, or merely the secrets of fate? I'd been unable to penetrate her thoughts to any degree whatsoever.
"St. Peter will be waiting," she'd murmured as the visible sadness had slowly receded behind her veil of calm.
Quite suddenly, she'd flashed her glance on me and murmured something in French. Papa Legba, god of the crossroads in Voodoo, for whom a statue of St. Peter with his keys to Heaven might do quite well.
I had noted that Aaron could not bring himself to question her further on the matter of his role in the dream, the date of Great Nananne's imminent death. He had nodded, however, and once again, with both hands he'd lifted her hair back from her damp neck where a few errant tendrils had clung to her soft creamy skin.
Aaron had regarded her with honest wonder as she had gone on with her tale.
"First thing I knew after that dream, there was an old colored man and a truck ready to take me, and he said, 'You don't need your bag, you just come as you are,' and I climbed up into the truck with him, and he drove me all the way out here, not even talking to me, just listening to some old Blues radio station and smoking cigarettes the whole way. Great Nananne knew it was Oak Haven because Mr. Lightner told her in the dream. . . .
"Great Nananne knew of Oak Haven of the old days, when it was a different kind of house with a different name. Oncle Julien told her lots of other things, but she didn't tell me what they were. She said, 'Go to them, The Talamasca; they'll take care of you, and it will be the way for you and all the things that you can do. ' "
It had chilled: all the things that you can do. I remember Aaron's sad expression. He had only given a little shake of his head. Don't worry her now, I'd thought a bit crossly, but the child had not been perturbed.
Oncle Julien of Mayfair fame was no stranger to my memory; I had read many chapters on the career of this powerful witch and seer, the one male in his bizarre family to go against the goad of a male spirit and his female witches over many hundreds of years. Oncle Julien¡ªmentor, madman, cocksman, legend, father of witches¡ªand the child had said that she had come down from him.
It had to be powerful magic, but Oncle Julien had been Aaron's field, not mine.
She had watched me carefully as she spoke.
"I'm not used to people believing me," she'd said, "but I am used to making people afraid. "
"How so, child?" I had asked. But she had frightened me quite enough with her remarkable poise and the penetration of her gaze. What could she do? Would I ever know? It had been worth pondering on that first evening, for it was not our way to encourage our orphans to give full vent to their dangerous powers; we had been devoutly passive in all such respects.
I had banished my unseemly curiosity and set to memorizing her appearance, as was my custom in those days, by looking very carefully at every aspect of her visage and form.
Her limbs had been beautifully molded; her breasts were already too fetching, and the features of her face were large, all of them¡ªwith no unique hint of the African large her well shaped mouth, and large her almond eyes and long nose; her neck had been long and uncommonly graceful, and there had been a harmony to her face, even when she had fallen into the deepest thought.
"Keep your secrets of those white Mayfairs," she had said. "Maybe someday we can swap secrets, you and me. They don't even know in these times that we are here. Great Nananne said that Oncle Julien died before she was born. In the dream, he didn't say a word about those white Mayfairs. He said for me to come here. " She had gestured to the old glass photographs. "These are my people. If I'd been meant to go to those white Mayfairs, Great Nananne would have seen it long before now. " She'd paused, thoughtfully. "Let's us just talk of those old times. "
She'd spaced the daguerreotypes lovingly on the mahogany table. She made a neat row, wiping away the crumbly fragments with her hand. And at some moment, I'd noted that all the little figures were upside down from her point of view, and right side up for Aaron and for me.
"There've been white people kin to me that have come down here and tried to destroy records," she said, "You know, tear the page right out of the church register that says their great grandmother was colored. Femme de couleur fibre, that's what some old records say in French.
"Imagine tearing up that much history, the page right out of the church register with all those births and deaths and marriages, and not wanting to know. Imagine going into my great great oncle's house and breaking up those pictures, pictures that ought to be someplace safe for lots of people to see. "
She had sighed, rather like a weary woman, gazing down into the worn shoe box and its trophies.
"Now I have these pictures. I
have everything, and I'm with you, and they can't find me, and they can't throw all these things away. "
She had dipped her hand into the shoe box again and taken out the cartes de visite¡ªold photographs on cardboard from the last decades of the old century. I could see the high slanted letters in faded purple on the backs of these latest pictures as she turned them this way and that.
"See, this here is Oncle Vervain," she said. I had looked at the thin, handsome black haired young man with the dark skin and light eyes like her own. It was rather a romantic portrait. In a finely tailored three piece suit, he stood with his arm on a Greek column before a painted sky. The picture was in rich sepia. The African blood was plainly present in the man's handsome nose and mouth.
