Ghost River Jon Coon (free reads TXT) 📖

“Since when do voodoo queens go in for zen?”

“I gave all that up as you well know. I’m just a good Catholic girl now and zen is just the universe seeking balance. Speaking of balance, how is Carol doing, really?”

“Still in shock. She really misses Charlie, and I don’t think she knows what to do about it.”

“Be careful with her, Gabriel. She must be really vulnerable. There’s a big hole in her life. I’m afraid she’s going to want you to fill it. That wouldn’t be good for either of you.”

“Did your great grand-mére Marie really do the stuff the stories tell about? Dancing with snakes and putting spells on folks?” Gabe wanted to change the direction of the conversation to something more comfortable. Alethea realized exactly what he was doing, frowned, but answered his question anyway.

“There’s no doubt a lot went on in Congo Square, in back of what’s now the Cabildo, or out at Lake Pontchartrain, where they danced and partied. We can only wonder about that. But voodoo was a lot more than drums and dances. People came from everywhere to ask for her help. They believed, and she helped them.

“She was a powerful healer, I know that. When there were malaria outbreaks or other plagues in New Orleans she was always in the middle of it—nursing the dying, feeding the living. Doing what had to be done. She must have had an iron constitution because even the worst of the diseases never touched her. She helped brothers and sisters find the Underground Railroad and escape slavery. Legend says she had the sight. She could talk to the spirits and ask for favors, always to right injustice. She was a court of last resort. If you couldn’t get help anywhere else, ask Marie. She had the blood, and her spells worked, that’s for certain sure.”

“And you—do you have it?”

“Not the way she did. I get flashes sometimes. I see things, spirits, like Charlie in church. Your mother did too. We both knew you had a gift. We just didn’t know what it was going to be.”

“But are you like Marie? Your spirit and hers?”

“There are so many stories it’s hard to know what’s true, who she really was, or what was just legend.” Alethea relaxed back into the pillows of the small wooden rocker and smiled as she recalled stories about her great grand-mére.

“My mére told me a story about how great grand-mére died. After all the plagues and malaria, which swept New Orleans every few years, with great grand-mére always in the worst of them, people started saying she must be immortal. That wasn’t true of course. But she was strong and healthy until the day she died.”

“Then what happened?” Gabe asked.

“She was caring for a very sick little girl, a child she hardly knew, when the baron, Baron Samedi, came calling.”

“Samedi means Saturday, right? I remember my mother talking about him. He was a bad guy, like death on a pale horse.”

“Not always bad,” Alethea continued. “He is the loa of the dead. The death god. And death is certainly not the worst thing that can happen to us, but when the baron comes calling he doesn’t go back empty-handed. He leaves with a soul or a contract. Mother said Marie took compassion on that little girl and made a deal with the baron. She traded her life so the little girl could live. The girl’s fever broke immediately.”

Alethea paused and rocked, her eyes far away. “A year to the day, great grand-mére died peacefully in her sleep. It was the end of a life well spent.”

“No greater love,” Gabe said softly.

“No greater love,” Alethea echoed. “It’s a beautiful story. I hope it’s true.”

“What about Casilda?” Gabe asked, changing the subject again.

“My wild child? The Queen of Barataria?” She laughed. “Ask, and she will tell you no one has ever had the vision or the power more than she does. I have my doubts. Do you remember when we met again after the storm? The first time Cas looked at you, I knew I should put a lock on the outside of her door.”

“Probably on mine too. You saved my life. I’ll always be thankful you took me in the way you did. I’m sorry things got out of control with Cas. I thought I loved her, but I wasn’t ready. My head was still pretty messed up from the PTSD.

“What I still don’t understand is what you are doing here, in this shack, when you have a beautiful home waiting for you in New Orleans? Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here, but this is pretty extreme.”

“I thought you were going to ask, why did I take you home to the Garden District house? It might have been that you are my favorite cousin’s son, or perhaps because I thought the job you were doing was too ghastly and you needed my help, or maybe I just thought you were cute, like a puppy at the Humane Society.” She smiled a teasing smile and changed the subject. “When do you go to court with the boy?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’ll pray about that.”

“Thanks. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Why am I here? Maybe I was afraid you’d starve without your mére and real Cajun cooking.” She got up from the table and checked the large cast iron pot on the wood stove. “The pot roast and cornbread are ready. Ask a blessing. Then we can eat.”

Why isn’t it ever easy? How about A shoots B, C sees it, we get a statement, arrest A, and he confesses and goes to jail. How hard is that? Why is there always so much lying and drama?

Gabe was on his way to the hospital the next morning to see Nick. Bob met him, and they found Nick awake and ready for company. “Good as new in a month or so,” Nick reported.

“I want to go over what you remember