A Vision of Fire

Caitlin was moving to confer with Aaron when Madame Langlois stood up and, handing her blue tarp bag to Caitlin, turned her fierce eyes on her son. In Creole, she snapped at him. He answered back defensively. Caitlin thought she recognized the word “papa” and asked Aaron about it.

“Papa Legba is the loa that guards the gate between our world and theirs,” he whispered in her ear. “No spirit can come through without his approval.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered back. “Was Enock going to try to contact him?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

The madame suddenly marched into the back room and ordered her son to follow her. Enock huffed but turned and shoved past Aaron. Leaving the door to the back room open, they exploded into an argument in Creole. Gaelle looked slightly relieved.

“What’s wrong?” Caitlin asked.

“He was going to trace the Papa spirit’s symbol on the floor,” the girl explained. “His veve.”

“Why did Madame Langlois stop him?”

“It is always done with flour or cornmeal, not pepper. She is asking why he has so much cayenne in the first place. It’s expensive. He is saying it is more powerful.” Gaelle paused and listened. “She says that the power comes from the one who invokes, not the powder. Using cayenne will make him weak…” She searched for a word. “Forgetful.”

Despite the drama of the moment, Caitlin could not help but smile. Theirs was like any family squabble in any corner of the world.

“You’re brave,” Aaron said.

Caitlin raised an eyebrow.

“Holding the bag of a Vodou priestess.” He smiled.

Caitlin had forgotten the bag, rapt as she was in the debate in the next room. Through the open door, she saw the madame lift her son’s hand with the ring, then fling it down. Caitlin wondered if this argument would make Gaelle more or less inclined to listen to the Houngan’s advice, if the madame might allow her a little more leeway.

Suddenly, Caitlin’s eyes lowered to the blue tarp bag. She had felt it move. It had been infinitesimal but definitely real. There it was again, a little more lively this time. She gripped the bag tightly to keep from dropping it.

“Madame,” she breathed, with no sound behind her breath.

Madame Langlois looked in on Caitlin, sized up the situation in a glance, and entered the room immediately. Enock followed but she pointed at him with one finger and he sat in the nearest chair. Retrieving the bag, the madame hefted it twice gently, like a grocer judging the weight of a bag of grapes.

“This is very interesting,” the madame murmured to Caitlin. “Damballa is active in your life.”

Caitlin did not know who or what “Damballa” meant and did not feel disposed to speak. She remained absolutely still.

“He protects the weakened,” the madame continued. “This is why I brought him.”

Caitlin noticed that she did not say “the weak” but “the weakened.” It was an interesting distinction. The woman placed her bag on Gaelle’s desk and reached into it. Slowly and with both hands, she brought out a clean white bag that looked like a hotel pillowcase. Its end was twisted, curled over, and secured with white ribbons.

“Enock,” the madame said.

Her son stood quickly, looked around, and seized the bottle of water Aaron had been drinking from. He took the saucer from Gaelle’s cold cup of tea and poured a few tablespoons of water into it. Then he placed the saucer near the madame and went back to his seat.

As Madame Langlois unfastened the white ribbons, Caitlin felt cold fear grab her throat and heart.

“Fear is respect,” the madame said, as if from a distance.

She opened the pillowcase and slowly, almost lovingly, pulled out a tightly coiled snake.

Caitlin was barely breathing.

“The serpent is in pain,” the madame told Caitlin. Then she leaned toward the reptile and murmured, “Damballa is grateful for your sacrifice.”

Caitlin could not pull her eyes from the snake. It was not very big, and its scales were a chalky gray with copper spots shaped like a leopard’s. She remembered from one of Jacob’s projects that a snake only coiled tightly when it was very afraid. She saw the faintest of trembles across the snake’s skin. Had that been what she felt through the bag? But the bag was too thick… The madame held the snake near the water but it made no move toward it, no flick of the tongue to sense its surroundings.

“Why is it acting like this?” Caitlin asked. “Are you torturing it?”

“These tiny hands cannot harm her,” the madame said. “She is doing Damballa’s work.”

Madame Langlois slowly, stealthily stepped to Gaelle. The girl was crying silently and she craned backward as the snake neared her. Suddenly red liquid oozed from the snake’s eyes, nostrils, and mouth, dripping onto the floor. Caitlin felt bile rise in her throat. Some snakes, she remembered, could bleed from their orifices at will, in the presence of a predator. This snake was terrified… specifically of Gaelle.

Jack London flashed through Caitlin’s mind.