Southern Sins: Lust and Voodoo (Xeres & Mr Quixotic)

[Xeres]

On any given evening, music could be heard drifting through the streets as it seeped through windows and doorways of bars and lounges. The true nature of the tunes could be felt then, out in the dimly lit streets as it permeated the thick, humid southern air. The wild energy carried out into the night like a ghostly memory, bittersweet in its distant warmth. Music was the lifeblood of the city, the birthplace of jazz. New Orleans, 1953, nurturing the unique blend of rhythm and blues as it poured throughout the city. It held strong the tradition of New Orleans's nature, that of amalgamating and harmonizing.

All intertwined in a web of deep roots, they entangled like those of the bayou trees, the European and African, the blacks and the whites, the Catholics and the Voodoo practitioners. Certainly, the city's history was rich with music and arts and culture... all of which entwined in the tendrils of Voodoo. As widely celebrated as it was scorned, even the whites could not resist the call of the drums, the rich, powerful voices of the priests and priestesses and the incantations they sang. Though not all would admit to partaking in such barbaric and laughable practices, the call of the dark magic was difficult to resist. The degree of tourists coming in from far and wide throughout the United States was a testimony to that.

Despite its music, food, people... the sheer celebrations of culture that was a part of the city... as any, it had its flaws known only to the locals. Crimes had been committed as of late. Missing local peoples, all from different walks of life. Somehow directly unrelated with one another, no matter how deep the roots were traced by the police. It was only one person gone at first, a long time had passed before the second was reported. Shorter still was each spanse between the rest. It was becoming a matter of great urgency and stress for the missing whites. If there had been any blacks missing, they had either gone unreported or the police put those files in the bottom of the stack. Although no bodies were found, no one could count that as a blessing. Better dead than... well, the bayou was unforgiving, and its inhabitants were not always of the civilized sort.

Life went on for those uninvolved in the lawful forces or the immediate acquaintances of the missing persons. The music of the night played on, blissfully and wildly. The people drank their cares away, entranced by performers that danced and sang and beckoned so lasciviously. Business hadn't faltered anywhere, by any means. If anything, even though not all inhabitants of the city were aware of the mysterious case of missing persons, humans had the capability to sense a degree of distress and tension in the air as well as they swayed to the pull of the music. There was a heaviness that weighed upon them, and it called to a deeper, primordial part of themselves, the same part that created knots in the belly at the call of some unidentified wild animal buried in the shadows of the night. The same part that raised the hairs of the hackles on end when a ghost story was being told. The same that felt and irresistible pull to the ancient song and dance of Voodoo.

At the surface, however, it was curiosity, intrigue that drew people in to her shop. No more than that, people convinced themselves in a logical manner. Regardless, it was enough to keep a flow of customers and clients. Though being located on the near outskirts of town, word of mouth was a powerful thing. There was hardly any need for posters or TV or radio advertisements, not when any gas station, barkeeper or hotel manager would simply say "Drop in at Estelle's if you would like a taste of true Louisiana Voodoo."

They would, and they did. Tucked around the corner of an alleyway, the only evidence that a shop was there at all was a hand-painted, four-legged sign that sat on the sidewalk with a large arrow pointing into the alley. Worn, crudely painted skulls and snakes formed a border around the sign that read;

MADAME ESTELLE'S
VOODOO BOUTIQUE / BOUTIQUE VAUDOU
Candles, Talismans, Potions and More!​

Certainly not as easy to find or as popular as the more renowned voodoo shops, however its seclusion allowed for a closely knit clientele base. At least, that's what the founder of the boutique had claimed.

The evening was young, the raucous nightlife only just blossoming forth from the setting sun. Locals and tourists alike milled about in the streets and weaving through establishments of various forms of entertainment. Some would find their vice within the bars or exotic dance parlors, others thirsting for more beyond that of the physical. They wandered the streets as though partaking in the festivities would satiate their thirst, ignoring the knot in their belly that felt the tantalizing darkness, unknowing in that their desires were far more difficult to tame.

 

[Mr Quixotic]

The sounds, the smell, the sights, the buzz of conversations and laughter, all enveloped in a sea of melancholy and eerie jazz music, assaulted the man's eardrums as dusk turned to night, and the final rays of the sun lit up the sky in an incandescent, orange glow. Michael Brennan had yet to become accustomed to New Orléans, and he continually shifted his bright green eyes to appraise the dolls and trinkets, flared his nostrils to enjoy the aroma of gumbo and spice, and smiled at the men and women of all ages, who attempted, in their lyrical voices, to entice him closer with the promise of magic as he walked. The patois of the locals was obviously distinguishable from the tourists who crowded the streets, lined the porches on the floors of the bars above, and entered businesses where Michael had learned anything was for sale at the right price.

The crowds were no greater from those of New York, however, what was on offer was, and he couldn't help but shake his head in wonder at the gullibility of the human species when a small caramel-skinned woman, face wrinkled with age, shook a doll in her hand and touched it against his arm, with the whispered words that it could make all of his dreams come true. A magical doll. How could people still follow superstition in such enlightened times? Did they really believe in what they spoke of, or did they keep the tradition alive only for the benefit of tourists, to make a living, and, in turn, the privileged whites purchased the items, not from desire, need or belief but from a misguided sense of charity or sympathy for the coloureds?

He didn't have the answer to those questions, and neither did he have the time to contemplate them further, and despite his interest, not once did Michael cease walking to inspect a stall, finger the trinkets, chat with the locals, or buy an item. The man hadn't entered the district to satiate his desires, or to drink away the filth of the day (which on another occasion would have been his purpose), but for another reason entirely; Madame Estelle. He placed his fingers around the old woman's wrist to pry her hand away when she followed him, and wove his way through the mass of humanity with a steely resolve that belied his appearance. At a lanky six-foot, two inches tall, with a friendly, open face, warm smile, shock of ginger hair, and hint of an Irish accent, the bespectacled thirty-eight-year old did not cut an imposing figure, but one didn't rise high in the ranks of investigative crime reporting without possessing a certain strength, toughness and determination.

Five whites, vanished without a trace. The first two before he'd arrived in the city a month previously with wife Amy in tow, then the others since, in ever increasing succession. All with husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends or parents who'd frantically proclaimed them missing when they hadn't returned home as expected. Only a day had passed with the first before authorities had begun to investigate with every resource at their disposal; if it had been blacks, that may have been a week, or a month, possibly not at all; and a task-force immediately formed once the second had been reported, but no progress had been made. It was as they'd disappeared off the face of the Earth, and no reasons for their disappearances or commonalities between them had been uncovered. If it hadn't been for one cryptic phone call, Michael would have been as clueless as the authorities. He may well still be, this wasn't the first anonymous tip he'd received, all of which had turned out to be dead-ends or practical jokes, but experience had taught the seasoned reporter to investigate every lead, and follow up each call and off-the-cuff remark, no matter how small or insignificant it appeared.

"Madame Estelle. The Black Witch sees all. Be careful."

It had been the voice of a man, youthful, and with the lilt of a creole, and that was all he'd spoken. The call had come the day prior, and it had taken Michael the best part of twenty-four hours to trace the mysterious Madame Estelle. Now he was here to speak to her. The man chuckled as he recalled the anonymous callers words, and checked the address written on the paper in his hand against the sign that stood outside the small shop entrance, then pushed his way through the door. The Black Witch, indeed. No ninety year old toothless, wrinkled black woman would intimidate Brennan, and neither would the threat of voodoo or impossible curses she believed could protect her. Magic didn't exist, only facts, and that which could be proved and documented. It was why he'd become a journalist, and Madame Estelle would answer his questions, like it or not.

 

[Xeres]

Upon stepping through the doorway of Madame Estelle's Boutique, or perhaps even approaching it, one would notice the red dust strewn over the ground of the entryway and trailing into the shop itself. The door was heavy and plain with no special markings. It required some deal of force to push open, although made no noise on its hinges. A bell sang softly as the door pushed against it. Once inside, strong arboraceous and herbal aromas wafted heavily through the musky air within.

All around, there were faces. Faces and lude, naked figures carved from wood and stone. Dismembered appendages of animals all sorts ornamented the space, some displayed in glass cases, others aligned along the various shelves on the walls. It was dimly illuminated by a mixture of eclectic lighting, burning candles here, a lamp there, accentuating the eerie shapes that inhabited the shadows. Dried plants hung from the ceiling by rope and string, also perched in glass vases and decorating whatever space wasn't inhabited by other bizarre commodities, giving the interior a wild, rustic ambiance. The interior was no less warm than outside, despite the low hum of an air conditioner perched in the single window of the shop.

Whether the perusers of the store were intuitively inclined or not, one could possibly feel, if they did not resist the sensation, something of a warmth that permeated deeper than the humid southern air. Perhaps it was the queer merchandise, or the smell of unfamiliar plant life, or the somewhat claustrophobic sensation that the heat and the confines concocted. There was an energy here that could only be shaken by those skeptical enough to dismiss it, those who buried it without consideration for the metaphysical. The atmosphere was simply meant to pander to the tourists, after all.

Others mulled about within the boutique, examining the trinkets and fetishes with a mixture of awe and repulsion. Despite the somewhat hazardous array among the walls and other available surfaces, there was enough room to navigate past a person so long as they stood to one side and minded their surroundings.

One individual, however, remained comfortably in the far end of the shop, partially obscured behind an archaic oak desk laden with yet more Voodoo goods. Smaller items, but no less valuable. Handcarved talismans that could fit into one's palm or inside a (also handmade) gris gris bag. More plants still, though thoroughly green and thriving unlike those that dangled overhead. And a cash register, oddly out of place among the wood and stone and leaves.

Besides the clutter, the figure on the opposite side of the till was well obscured in half-light and a partially drawn, floor-length curtain that hung from an doorless threshold as they rummaged about amongst drawers and storage in the farthest end of the shop's lot.

 

[Mr Quixotic]

Michael felt like he'd entered another world; one back in time; when he stepped through the heavy door. The air appeared to thicken and to close in around him, and to contained particles of smoke, invisible to the naked eye, but its presence able to be inducted. The sound of the entrance bell slowly clanging to a stop, and the noise of the door as it shut behind him, startled the reporter, and forced him further into the shop, where a momentary shiver, as if fingers dipped in ice had been trailed down his spine, caused goose-bumps to break out on his skin.

The Journalist had been so immersed in contemplations of how he'd approach Madame Estelle that as his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and the different quality of light from that of outside, he'd run headfirst into the tendrils of a hanging plant, which felt to him as if a spider scurried across his scalp, and his gaze had alighted on a dried snake, head raised and fangs bared, prepared to strike, in his direct line of sight. Instinctively, his arms had raised to ward off the danger, and he'd stepped back on his heels in the red dust that now coated his shoes to avoid the spider.

Then he'd admonished himself, stupid fucking superstitions, as he recovered his composure and balance, and recognised the dried animal for what it was; the snake had probably been dead for longer than he'd been alive; and that the plant was just a plant. Fortunately, the incident was over in a millisecond and had, he fervently hoped, gone unnoticed. Michael had seen it all before, of course - if one lived it New Orlean's, it could hardly be avoided - but that had been in the market stalls and larger boutiques that lined the main thoroughfares, where the atmosphere wasn't quite as intimate, and he took a moment to appraise the unfamiliar surroundings.

The interior was small and crowded, lit by candles and lamps, with every possible nook and cranny crammed with trinkets, dolls, animal appendages, masks and talismans, and a bevy of customers browsed the merchandise. Tourists or locals? His innate curiosity compelled the questions, and induced him to finger various items, and to even lift some, inquisitive of their purpose, from a resting place for closer examination. The man displayed great care to not knock any of the shelves, or to bump against the cabinets, in case the items should fall and break, as he walked.

With gentle nudges, and touches of the shoulder, Michael weaved his way through the clientele to the rear of the boutique, where he'd noted the figure of what he took to be a woman silhouetted through a partially closed curtain. A stock room, and the mysterious Black Witch, he presumed. The rap of his knuckles on the oak service desk cut through the eerie silence, reminiscent of a library, where people spoke in hushed whispers, when he leaned across the counter, and in a clear, strong voice, called out. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Madame Estelle."

 

[Xeres]

The man's voice carried easily throughout the hushed shop, turning heads of other customers with its resonance. The figure buried in the darkness at the back of the shop paused and seemed to look in his direction as well, although still obscured behind half a curtain and the scarce light of the room beyond.

"You've come to the right place," came a husky voice from the shadows. The response sounded welcoming, though slightly coy as well. "Although that may cost you a seance to reach her..."

The woman spoke with the pace of an elderly person, each word hanging in the air as though each syllable held value. She made her way forward from the back room, revealing herself as she pushed the half-drawn curtain aside, stepping into the light emanating from the lamp on the front counter.

"... Considering that she no longer dwells in the land of the living."

It was no wizened old hag that was illuminated by the warm light of the lamp and the candles and the sheer atmosphere of the shop. This woman's skin was unmarred by the war against time, glowing with youth. It was the color of creamed coffee. Her hair was a mess of untamed curls, defiant against women's styles of that decade. She wore no eye makeup or lipstick, her rich brown eyes rimmed with thick lashes, her lips ample, the most keen betrayer of her mixed race. No white woman could boast such naturally full lips, tan skin, and a body so full it seemed fit to burst from her creamy white dress, decorated only in a belt around her hips, accentuating her bust. Bracelets of wood and bone and leather encompassed both wrists, the trinkets of the boutique in the form of jewelry. No, it was her. She was the energy of the boutique, personified. Dark, wild, strange.

The woman placed a hand on her hip, tilting her head ever so slightly as she took in the man's red hair and stern look, a soft smile playing on her lips as she awaited his response.

 

[Mr Quixotic]

His voice reverberated off the walls in the confined, cluttered spaces of the boutique, and Michael immediately regretted having not lowered it from its normal volume. The last thing he desired was to bring attention to himself, however a glance over his shoulder quickly eased that concern. Apart from an odd bob of the head here and there, to see who it was that had broken the silence, the majority of the customers were too immersed in their selection of the variety of goods on sale, to have cared. Michael presumed the boutique to be a place where the clientele mostly kept to themselves, and didn't make waves; possibly in the event that caused their intent for being there to be questioned. Issues with your husband? A Voodoo doll, perhaps?

That thought elicited a chuckle as he turned in the direction of the one voice that had answered him, and the vague response sunk in. "If it's a séance I require, I gather I've entered the correct establishment. Or is that someone elses superstition? They're all pretty much the same to me." He spoke lightly, and the words were accompanied by a welcoming smile in readiness for the figure's emergence, however any concept of immediate further conversation was dispelled when she stepped into view. Although her timbre had sounded youthful, his mind had retained the preconceived notion of an elderly hag, and Michael's pupils widened in surprised when, instead, a young, attractive woman appeared.

Obviously of mixed race, the bracelets, trinkets, and contrast of a white dress against dark skin served to draw his attention its colour, and the body it adorned. The Journalist struggled to hold back a whistle of approval as his eyes lowered to appraise her physique, then slowly lifted to take in the shock of wild hair, and finally came to a full rest on her face. She possessed an exoticness that was the antithesis of his wife Amy - the epitome of a stereotypical, middle-class, big-city raised, private-school educated, white girl -, and Michael's expression displayed a mixture of interest and curiosity when he finally responded. "So, if Madame Estelle no longer dwells in the land of the living, who might you be, and why would I have been sent here in search of a dead woman?"

 

[Xeres]

If she had observed his eyes scouring her body and lighting up in silent, internal praise, she made no mention of it. She placed a hand on the oak desk, leaning her weight into it languidly. Her demeanor was relaxed and without proper poise, but her gaze betrayed her focus. The shop girl had her dark eyes fixated on the customer, as intently focused on him as a lazy cat examining potential game.

"Well, mon chéri, I cannot tell you exactly why anyone would... send you," she emphasized this with a quirked eyebrow, "mais je suis la petit-fille de Madame Estelle. Her granddaughter, that is. My name is Seline."

Although her English was immaculate, her pronunciation was caressed with the accent of Cajun French, mingled with a soft southern twang and enriched by the dulcet tone that those of black decent all seem to inherit, deep and soulful. She spoke slowly and sweetly as though savoring every word before allowing it to glide forth from her tongue and lips.

"As for a seance, I can promise you that superstition has little to do with communion with the dead. Surely you haven't come all the way from New York to exchange queries with ma Mémé. There are much more lively folk in this city to have a conversation with."

Seline offered a smile, her eyes still locked keenly on her new customer. "What's your name, chér?"