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A Murder in Cursive

Lisa Pevey
 PROLOGUE

THERE ARE SOME things you never want to hear in a Louisiana

swamp at midnight.
You don’t want to hear the telltale splash of a gator near your
boat, for instance, or the buzzy cloud of mosquitoes zeroing in on
your neck. You also don’t want to hear the engine of your old,
dilapidated houseboat-slash-lettering shop suddenly sputter to an
untimely death. But definitely, and I can’t emphasize this enough:
you do not want to hear a woman scream.
Yet, that was the very thing we heard that evening.
Cherie Mamou, locally known as Critter Girl, froze mid belly
scratch. As did my cat, Serif. Their eyes widened, and I could feel
the hairs on the back of my own neck stand at attention.
There was no time to confer because as soon as we’d all run into
the night air outside the cabin of my houseboat, the mystery of
where the sound had come from was already solved.
From the general direction of the scream, we now heard the
rhythmic splashing sound of something trudging through the shallow
waters that surrounded us.
It was headed towards our boat.
Summoning my courage, I grabbed a spotlight and shone it out
into the night.
An old woman stared back at me from the swamp. She was in a
bad state: matted hair, chest-deep in the water, looking haggard and
upset. Which, I guess you would be if you were in a swamp at
midnight without so much as a pair of arm floaties.
 As she got closer, I made out more of her features. She was sun-
worn with gray hair, wore a dress of motley fabric soaked through
with swamp water, and had deep crow’s feet around her eyes. As
she trudged towards us, those wrinkles deepened with remarkable
effort.
Cherie reacted before I did, finding the life preserver somewhere
and tossing it to the beleaguered woman. But she seemed to ignore
the plastic ring. Perhaps she didn’t see it. As she fumbled forward,
her hands found the rope instead. She began to pull.
One hand over the other, the woman slowly used the hemp to
hoist herself up onto the deck of the houseboat, where she
immediately collapsed into a dripping pile. Small moans came from
her chest and she said nothing. I handed the light to Cherie and
went to help.
“That’s Mimi Laveau,” Cherie whispered, with no small amount of
reverence in her voice. We stood over her, wondering what to do.
Something was deeply wrong with this woman, whatever her
name was. Her skin was pale and her eyes had gone a deep shade
of yellow. She seemed to be having trouble breathing. She continued
to moan, growing weaker and weaker.
“It’s alright. You’re going to be OK. We are going to take you into
town and see if we can find you a doctor. Just hang tight,” I said.
Cherie shot me a glance. I caught her shaking her head, as if to
say that any attempt to save this person was futile.
As I leaned over the old woman, trying to reassure her, she
suddenly raised a trembling hand. Before I could react, she had
grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and pulled my ear close to her
lips.
“Gris-gris maléfique,” she whispered.
“What? Cherie, what is she saying?”
Cherie had started to back away, having none of this.
“Get over here and give me a hand!” I shouted, but Cherie only
backed up more as the woman spoke again in my ear.
“Gris-gris maléfique … À moins que tu me venges.”
I heard Critter Girl gasp just behind me. Heard her drop the
spotlight where it rattled on the fiberglass deck, leaving us in
darkness.
The old woman gasped one last time.
Then her eyes went empty and she breathed no more.
 1

IT ALL STARTED with a piece of driftwood: a gnarled brown thing,

gifted to me out of the blue by the most handsome game warden in
the little swamp town of Monchac, Louisiana.
Nevermind the fact that he was the only game warden in town.
The sole official for three watery and mostly empty parishes, in fact.
Nevermind that his idea of an amorous offering was a soggy piece of
timber. You overlook things like that when a man sparks your
interest.
Officer Xavier Ordoyn, or Buck as the locals called him, liked to
sit on the porch of his lonely station in the evenings and whittle
strange shapes out of whatever sort of wood floated up nearby.
Once in a while, he would find a piece that looked special or
unusual. Those he would save for me. You make do when there is
no department store for a hundred miles, I suppose. It ended up
being a lot more romantic than it might sound. Trust me.
This particular piece of wood was so special that he interrupted
my work day at the bayou’s only floating stationery and lettering
shop.
“Look at this, Mila!” he said, hoisting a big, still wet piece of
wood onto the counter. His hoisting scared my cat, Serif, so that the
animal emitted a low hiss of displeasure and stalked off into the
stacked boxes in the back.
The thing dripped, and I was pretty sure I saw a crawdad in one
of its crannies, but I otherwise had no idea why this particular piece
of driftwood might be significant. Still, I played along, if only to
make Xavier feel good. It was the thought that counted, after all.
 But my weak performance did not convince, and he furrowed his
substantial eyebrows, waiting for me to say something.
“It’s lovely, really. What is it?”
He splayed his hands out over the log.
“This is sinker cypress. It is one of the most valuable types of
wood in the bayou.”
“Sinker cypress?”
He looked over his shoulder at the assembled customers. Most of
them were only pretending to peruse my wares anyway, getting out
of the hot bayou sun and into my frosty air conditioning. But they
were far more interested in the hunk of lumber now sitting on my
counter and in the accompanying spectacle of Buck and his sparking
on the new girl in town.
“See now, Mila Breaux, back in the times before Europeans came
to these swamps this was all virgin forest with cypress trees as big
around as your Auntie Roma’s supper table, tall as any shrimp boat,
with knees coming up higher than your head. Monster, mother trees
that kept the floor of the swamp as black as midnight,” Xavier went
on. “It wasn’t until they started building that French Quarter in New
Orleans that lumber operations got ramped up. And they came out
here for all of these sleepy giants with their axes and saws. Fast
forward a few hundred years of development, and these days there
ain’t a bit of virgin forest left. You walk into any old building in the
Quarter and BAM! You get that cypress smell head on. But that smell
is all that’s left. Them mama trees are all gone from here, made into
studs. The trees in the swamp now are the great great grand babies
of those monster cypress. They are all but lost to the world …
except.”
Here he patted the soggy log and smiled a proud grin.
“Because cypress is so, so water resistant. It is made to resist
water, in fact. The safest place for it is at the bottom of the bayou.
There, it can remain almost completely intact for hundreds, even
thousands of years. Sinker cypress. Usually you don’t see a piece like
this just floating by. Usually you need a crane or a winch or a come-
along to get it up from the swamp bottom. But what you are looking
at here, Mila, is a piece of those grandmama cypress that covered
the bayou primeval!”
I felt the circle of onlookers gasp collectively as they pressed in
for a better view. This town really needed a theater or something.
“That’s really impressive,” I said, giving him a warm smile. “I
guess you are just having some good luck today.”
He nodded, shining with his good fortune.
“It’s a gift,” he said. “But I’m hoping you’ll write something on it
for me. You know, one of your sassy puns.”

***

Since it was more like a commission for Ordoyn rather than a ‘gift’
for me, I made him do most of the prep work. I wasn’t going to do it
all myself. He sanded down one side of the piece of driftwood until it
was flat and smooth, added a layer of polyurethane, and it was
ready for my ink. Then I got down to work.
I was shocked! There is no other way to describe it. The wood
was so smooth, took the ink so well, and looked absolutely incredible
once the piece was done. I spent that hour entranced by the
wonderful surface, fully convinced by the end that I’d found one of
the world’s best lettering mediums.
“This stuff is amazing,” I said to Xavier, taking my turn to hoist
the piece of wood up onto his desk. Only now it was covered in
multiple sanitizing layers of lacquer, and all the crawdads had been
chased out and evicted.
“Dang Mila, you really did a number on it! Will you look at that. I
sink, therefore I am, huh?”
I was preparing to explain the joke to him, but he beat me to it.
“Big Descarte fan?”
Buck was full of surprises.
“Well, I just thought it made sense based on your description.”
“I absolutely love it, but … isn’t it all a bit premature?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just that,” he said, smiling wide. “You really put Descarte
before the horse here.”
 We shared a dorky chuckle at that, my heart fluttering a bit.
But puns aside, the piece had really turned out fantastic. There
was an intricate, almost blue vein that ran through the pattern of the
wood. The surface was so smooth and so lovely that it drew the eye
in. It had an ancient, almost hypnotizing effect on whoever looked at
it. Truly, it was as if the wood had been waiting a thousand years
just to be dredged up and made into something the world could
appreciate. My pen had fallen in love with sinker cypress, and the
piece really showed it.
“I need more of this stuff, Xavier. This sinker cypress. I think
there might be a big market around here for pieces like this. What
do you think?”
He nodded, studying the driftwood from different angles. “I
believe you might be right. I think people would love a piece like this
for their living room. Only, you might have to tone it down on the
17th Century philosophy jokes. You need something a little more
folksy and down home if you want to really sell around the bayou.”
He was right, though I couldn’t help feeling a little peeved about
it. Puns were the highest form of comedy, after all.
“Well, can you get me more?” I asked.
He shook his head and glanced sadly down at his desk. As he
adjusted the wooden statue of a deer he kept there, he explained.
“This stuff is real rare, Mila. It was just good luck that I
happened upon this piece. You could buy it from a specialty store,
but you’d be eating all of your profit.”
I sat down across from him and scratched at my chin. Ordoyn
leaned back in his chair and began to pack his corncob pipe. We let
a moment pass between us, the both of us considering.
“There is one way you can get more,” he finally said, blowing out
a plume of his vanilla-smelling tobacco smoke.
My ears perked up and I sat forward in my chair.
“There is a little town out in the swamps. Way down the bayou
from here. Very isolated country down by the coast. Name of the
town is La Reine Laveau. There is a forest just north of town about a
hundred acres. I say forest, but you know what I mean. A drowned
forest. Big, wild, swamp country. It is one of the last completely
undeveloped places in Louisiana. But it is famous for its sinker
cypress.”
I waited, sure that there was some sort of a catch. But he would
not meet my eyes.
“Why do I feel like this place is too good to be true?”
“Well, people talk you know?”
“No, I distinctly do not know.”
He rubbed his chin.
“I don’t go in much for that kind of thing myself,” he said. “I’m
thinking more about the practical side. I’ll help you hook up a winch
to the deck of your houseboat. That will help you pull stuff out of
the water. You’ll need supplies to last a week or two. Your Auntie
Roma can help you with that.”
“Xavier, what do people talk about?”
“I don’t want to put any ideas in your head, Mila. I’m sure Critter
Girl will do enough of that. But, if you do decide to go, take this with
you.”
He stood up and walked to the back wall of his office.
I watched him stop near the high-powered rifle on the wall,
cringing at the expectation that he might try to hand it to me. But
instead, he bent down and produced a cardboard box from
somewhere near his filing cabinet.
“Here,” he said, setting it down in front of me.
I raised an eyebrow at him as I peered into the box. Inside was a
kind of futuristic-looking device with propellers and a camera lens.
“It’s a drone. Nice one too. Courtesy of the State of Louisiana.”
“I … am I supposed to have this?”
He reddened briefly, settling himself back down in his chair.
“Well, now. I mean, technically I’m supposed to use it to catch
poachers, but there ain’t no one poaching out here. If there were, I
wouldn’t need some fancy-pants robot gizmo to catch them. I could
see it on their face at the farmer’s market. After which I’d give them
a firm talking to.”
I was still incredulous at the way things were done here: the
complete and almost aggressive disregard for regulation, rules and
procedure was enough to stagger a big city person like myself. I
supposed it was a way of life that I had best be getting used to.
I pulled the box towards me, wondering how many years I’d
spend in the federal penitentiary if this exact moment were ever to
come to light in a trial.
“With that thing, you can fly around the swamp like a bird and
catch a glimpse of any promising honey holes. Places where you
think there might be some sinker cypress.”
“Thanks,” I said, still feeling non-committal about the whole plan.
That boyish smile of his stilled my thoughts for the moment, and any
worries I had fell by the wayside.

***

I sat down across from Critter Girl at my Auntie Roma’s supper table,
preparing to dine on some freshly made jambalaya. The smell was
intoxicating—buttery onions and sizzling Cajun sausage. But all it
took was the mere mention of La Reine Laveau before the entire
mood of the evening was spoiled like seafood left too long in the
sun.
Cherie spilled her glass of sweet tea. Auntie Roma paused her
stirring and turned the fire down low on the stove. She started
tutting and stopped setting the table, standing with her arms
akimbo.
Both women looked at me with grave concern, such that I nearly
lost my appetite.
Nearly.
“Well, Xavier Ordoyn says those swamps are chocked full of
sinker cypress,” I tried to explain. “And that old wood, well, it is one
of the best surfaces I’ve ever found for my lettering. You should see
the little pun I made. And the wood has almost got this kind of …
marbling, like you see on an expensive piece of steak. I don’t know
how else to describe it, but it is hypnotizing. Beautiful. I feel like if I
can get my hands on some more of it, I can double my business.
Keep the lights on in my shop for a bit longer.”
They stopped looking at me and started looking at each other.
“Bless your heart!” Auntie suddenly blurted.
That’s when I knew it must be serious.
“What?” I asked. “Tell me.”
Roma sat down at the table, first producing the usual bottle from
under the sink—the one she reserved for frank, somewhat difficult
conversations with her naive niece from California and her
harebrained schemes. She poured the three of us small drinks and
nodded towards Cherie.
“Mila,” Critter Girl started. “What exactly did Ordoyn tell you
about the swamps around La Reine Laveau? I mean, besides the fact
that there is a lot of sinker cypress to be found there.”
“Nothing really, though he did act a little strangely about it. Kind
of like how you two are acting right now. Are we eating or aren’t
we?”
“No, we aren’t eating. Not at least until you drop this silly notion,”
said Auntie Roma, taking a swig from her drink. She liked a bit of
drama about as much as she liked butter on her cornbread.
“What is going on with you two?” I asked, my stomach grumbling
in dissatisfaction.
“Mila, that swamp is haunted,” Cherie said.
I tried to laugh, as if a ridiculous joke had just been told. But
neither of the women seemed willing to cut the tension in the room.
“Haunted?”
Auntie took another drink. “Haunted might not be the right word,
honey. Sacred might be a better word. It has a heavy spirit around
it. Why do you think there is so much sinker cypress there? Think
about it. You know how much that stuff is worth? The fact that folks
haven’t been in there dredging up every last bit of it must have a big
reason, sure? That reason is on account of the bad gris-gris
surrounding the place!”
“Gris-gris? What is that, Auntie? Sounds like something you
might fix me for breakfast.”
 The two women still didn’t laugh. Another tense moment passed
before Cherie finally spoke.
“It is a Voodoo thing, Mila. Like a curse, usually. It is not always
bad like in the movies. But it is powerful. A thing to be respected.
Maybe even feared.”
“I thought you all were Roman Catholic?”
The women shared another look at my expense.
“You can be Catholic and still know better than to mess with gris-
gris,” said Roma, and took another drink.
Cherie put a hand on my shoulder. “Best stay out of those
swamps. Now that that’s settled, let’s dig into this jambalaya.”
I raised a hand to show the conversation was by no means
settled.
“So, Cherie Mamou, are you saying you won’t come with me if I
go?”
Cherie shifted in her seat uncomfortably, putting her spoon back
down on the table with an emphatic thud.
“What are you, a chicken?” I mimed, flapping my fake wings.
Finally, I managed to elicit a brief smile from my friend.
“I’m advising you, as your local guide here and as … well, as
your friend, that you give up the idea. It ain’t a thing to mess with.”
“And what if I don’t?” I said.
Cherie pushed her plate away from her. “Then I believe I done
lost my appetite.”

***

About a week passed in friendly jostling, then in pitiful pleading, and

finally in a misplaced confidence that perhaps I would eventually
summon the courage to venture out to the so-called haunted swamp
on my lonesome. The heat of summer turned out to be a slow time
for business in south Louisiana. People took long siestas in the
middle of the day, ate light meals, and remained sluggish well into
the evening. No one seemed to want to move too much, or else risk
a heat stroke.
 The idea of a jaunt out to a new place, a place riddled with the
marvelous lumber, became more and more appealing as the dog
days ticked off the calendar.
I tried bribery on Cherie. It fell flat. There was really nothing she
wanted except to be outdoors, conversing with the natural world.
She didn’t need to go anywhere for that. The town of Monchac was
surrounded on all sides by wild swamp.
I tried appealing to her very robust sense of adventure, but it
seemed to have waned with the intense heat. So much so that she
actually started reading these dense books on the law. It seemed
very out of character for her, but she claimed she had a good
reason. What that reason was, she wouldn’t say.
Then I tried soliciting the help of her animal friends. I took her to
a nest of baby raccoons I’d found, curled up in a nearby cypress
stump. Then I waited until she was fully charmed before popping the
question.
The answer was still no. She wouldn’t be convinced to try the so-
called haunted swamp, adorable little bandits or no.
That is, until one day.
In the end, it wasn’t teasing or begging or lust for gold that got
Critter Girl to come around to joining in my big-money schemes of
sinker cypress. It was her daddy, Beau Mamou.
She came into work an hour late one day and spent all of five
minutes behind the register reading one of her law books before her
sighs became so heavy I feared they might sink my old houseboat. I
mentioned as much to her, more as a friend than as a boss.
“It’s Daddy,” she said.
I dropped my pen and went to her.
“It’s nothing serious. Well, he’s not dying or anything. But he’s
got the kidney stones.”
“Oh,” I said. “Ouch!”
“Ouch is right. He’s been laid up for a week now. Can’t shrimp.
And you know even with all his fancy equipment and big hauls,
those boats got to be paid. Since Pierre was locked up Daddy ain’t
had no good help, and no matter how I beg, he swears up and down
he won’t have his only daughter follow him into the shrimper’s life.
He says he’s wanting me to study on being a lawyer.”
“What, really?”
“At first I thought it was silly, but I kind of like it now. Napoleonic
Code and all. Anyway, I ain’t fixing to pass the bar any time soon, so
I’m stuck trying to figure this money situation out.”
I tried not to smile. “I could loan you everything I’ve got, but it is
probably less than a thousand, if I’m being honest with you.”
She shrugged and kept reading.
“There’s one thing we could do.”
Cherie wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Come on, you don’t actually believe in Voodoo, right?”
She let out another sigh and looked at Serif.
“Kitty says, even if you don’t believe in dragons, it still ain’t wise
to go stealing treasure from a smoky cave.”
“Well, good thing there are no caves around here, Cherie.”
She nodded weakly.
“All we got is talking cats, apparently.”
That was good for the tiniest smirk, a hairline fracture in Cherie’s
armor.
I put my hand over the page in her law book, blocking her view.
“Let’s try it, Cherie. I’m tired of sitting here. Adventures, dragons,
and riches await.”
She finally smiled and nodded. And that was that.
 2

IT ONLY TOOK a day or two for Ordoyn to install a kind of crane-like

device on my houseboat, and for word of my endeavor to spread
throughout the little swamp town of Monchac. Auntie Roma, despite
her best efforts to talk me out of it, showed up on the dock the day
we were set to depart. She had a picnic basket in her arms. I don’t
think I’d ever realized until that moment that picnic baskets were a
real thing outside of childhood cartoons. But the worry lines on her
forehead were very real. She was all earnestness and concern as she
put the food in my hands and gave me a sober look.
“Whatever you do …” she said, trailing off. She was still half
holding the basket.
“Yes?”
“Just be careful. I know you're an educated city girl, and so don’t
believe in spirits and ghosts and other such stuff. But it doesn’t
matter. Because they believe in you. The world ain’t all periodic
tables and parking lots. Especially down here. You remember that,
chère.”
“Alright, Auntie. Don’t worry yourself. I’ll be fine. Cherie is with
me, and we will be back before you know it.”
She finally released her vise grip on the basket and began to dig
in the front patch of her apron. My stomach half-wondered what
delicious pralines or divinities she was about to scoop out of there.
“I have something for you, and it is very, very important,” she
said. I almost started to drool, but kept it together.
She held up a trinket that was definitely inedible, much to my
disappointment. It was long and white and was tied to the end of a
bit of hemp twine. Whatever it was, it glistened faintly in the early
morning sunshine.
“What is that?” I said.
As I asked, the shape of the object registered with me. It was a
long and sharp tooth, clearly from some formidable beast.
Auntie Roma smiled.
“This is a tooth from a gator, child. Not just any gator, mind. It is
from the cocodrie blanc. The great white gator of south Louisiana.”
“There are white gators?” I’d never heard of such a thing.
“Many are born, but hardly any survive. A white gator is lucky,
see. Because there are so many things in the swamp that want to
eat a little baby gator, sure. Most gators blend in with their green
and brown scales. But picture you this—nothing stands out so much
in a green swamp than a bright, white critter. You hear me? Might as
well be wearing a neon sign saying free lunch as be tiny and bright-
colored down the bayou. So, a full grown albino gator has lived its
whole life getting one lucky break after another. That’s why it is
known as the most fortunate animal in all the swampland, and
brings good luck to anyone blessed enough to chance upon it.”
“Chancing upon a big white gator doesn’t sound like it would be
very lucky,” I said.
But Auntie ignored my jibe. “There is one big white gator that is
known in those swamps down south. Don’t ask me how I know this.
And don’t ever ask me how come I got one of his teeth. But here it
is. And I’m giving it to you. To protect you from all the bad luck out
there where you are headed.”
She leaned in, a secretive whisper coming off her lips. “To protect
you from the gris-gris, child.”
I took the tooth from her, planning to stick it into my pocket. But
she was clearly waiting for me to drape it around my neck. I did so
and gave her a conciliatory smile, peaking into the picnic basket to
avoid any further awkwardness.
“Thanks for everything, Auntie. We will see you soon.”
She nodded, wiping a stray tear from the corner of her eye, and
was gone.
 It was then that I became aware of someone else. Someone had
been standing on the dock behind my aunt, clearly waiting his turn
to speak to me.
It was a man I had never seen before. Late middle age, maybe.
He wore dusty blue jeans and an AC/DC t-shirt. His hair was jet-
black and matted with sweat, and it looked to me like he had just
come off of a job site.
“I’m looking for Mila Breaux,” he said.
I glanced behind me to see where Cherie was. She had left the
deck and was inside the cabin of the boat, packing things away for
our voyage. Now, with Auntie gone, this left me and the strange
man standing there all alone.
“Who’s asking?” I said, doing my best attempt at feigning
toughness.
“My name is JP Laveau,” he said, and smiled as if feigning the
opposite. Here was an actual tough guy trying to appear soft and
gentle.
Something about the name he’d given struck me, though it took
a few seconds to work its way into recognition.
“Laveau. That’s the name of the swamp town, right?” I blurted
out, before my instinctive defenses could stop me.
He nodded and said, “right.” There was a touch of condescension
there, maybe. He put his arms akimbo and looked at the dock as if
searching for the right words to explain a difficult subject to a child.
“There is a woman out there in the swamp,” he said, still not
meeting my eyes. “A strange old woman named Mimi Laveau.”
“There are women everywhere these days,” I snapped back,
unable to stop myself from being a bit sassy. “What do you want
with this one?”
“Yeah, well, this particular woman happens to be my mother.”
I nodded. “And what does that have to do with me?”
“Well, I need to talk to her. And I was wondering if you could
help me out. I heard where you were planning to go and I thought
I’d catch you before you took off, ask you for a favor.”
“Your mom doesn’t have a cell phone?”
 He smiled that condescending way once again. It was off-putting,
but only mildly so. His blue eyes and familial request were beginning
to warm me up to him.
“No, she doesn’t have a cell phone. There is no way to contact
her, in fact. Her other son, Jimmy, that’s my little brother. He’s got
the cancer. He’s in a bad way. I need to let her know about that.”
“You haven’t thought about maybe heading out into the swamp
and telling her yourself? A guy like you probably has a boat, no?” I
gestured at the row of assorted watercraft that lined the Monchac
wharf like trucks in a parking lot.
“It’s not like that. I can’t just roll out there and find her.”
“But you expect me to?”
He’d begun to look a little frustrated with me now. “No, I don’t
expect you to find her. But, just in case you do. Give her this here,”
he said, and pulled a crumpled envelope from the pocket of his blue
jeans, handing it to me.
I looked at it there for a moment, wondering if I was willing to
accept.
“Please?” he said. “My family would greatly appreciate it.”
I took the letter and folded into my own pocket.
“OK,” I said. “I’ll do my best. But don’t blame me if I can’t deliver
a letter to a woman with no address.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Thank you, Mila. I appreciate it. Jimmy
appreciates it.”
Once inside the cabin, I realized that Cherie had been watching
the latter half of my dockside interaction through the window.
“You know him?” I asked her.
But she didn’t answer, running off to busy herself with more
packing in silence.

***

Summer in the swamps of south Louisiana is not for the quick, the
busy, nor the ambitious. The sun is toxic and merciless in the
morning, and the afternoons bring monsoons and mosquitoes the
size of squirrels. Snakes sleep without shame, coiled in the sun spots
where the forest canopy parts. Snapping turtles slide from logs, and
all of life is slow and deliberate.
Which is exactly how a houseboat operates, for better or worse.
Maybe that was why they were so common down in these parts.
In any event, we were making fairly good time for a barge of our
size. I was finally getting the hang of the controls, learning to
maneuver, and generally becoming competent in handling a craft
this substantial. It had not been easy, but with Critter Girl tutoring
me over the months, I’d found myself in capable hands.
“Sorry to keep pressing you on this. But I have to know. In all
seriousness. Do you really believe in Voodoo?” I asked her, when
we’d come to a peaceful channel that required a little less attention.
Serif sat between us, turning his head as Critter Girl gave a
response.
“You put a lot of stock in believing or not believing. But the world
don’t care about that. About what you believe or don’t. It is what it
is, you know?”
I had to say I definitely did not know, but I bit my tongue.
Some time passed and I started getting antsy without much to
do. We were planning on stopping at a sort of crossroads up ahead,
where I’d heard there was a weekly farmer’s market. But our boat
was in no hurry. I decided to try Cherie again.
“That phrase never made a lot of sense to me. It is what it is.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think the world is just random,” I said.
“That’s nice, Mila,” Cherie replied.
“Well, why don’t you tell me this. Does Serif here believe we are
about to have a successful and auspicious expedition? Because if he
blesses the voyage, I’ll stop my worrying.”
I’d never fully accepted the fact that my best friend in the world
believed she could talk to animals, was even famous for it in these
parts. A sort of Cajun Dr. Doolittle. But I suppose it was as she said:
my belief in her abilities didn’t change them one way or another. And
she certainly had convinced herself. If anything, I envied her
absolute faith and self-confidence. It was something I sorely needed
in my own life.
 “Animals are different than us. They don’t even have a word for
believe or not believe. They don’t worry nor expect anything of the
future. It wouldn’t make sense even to discuss a thing like that with
Serif here, ‘cause to him there is only this moment here and now. To
him, it only is what it is.”
“I see.”
I let the strange conversation fizzle out, and focused on my
piloting as we made our way deeper and deeper into the wild
swamps and bayous beyond the town of Monchac.

***

The farmer’s market was like something out of a fairytale. It was at

the intersection of two oyster shell roads that someone had built up
through the swamp. We had to pass through an old, rusty elevator
bridge to get into the little bay created by these roadways. Once we
did, there was a parking lot near the water full up with all kinds of
produce. The market was so large, in fact, that much of it had been
built out onto the water. It was the first time I’d seen other floating
shops, besides my own, since coming down to bayou country. I was
thrilled!
We wandered through some of the market stalls on dry ground,
scoping out the competition. All sorts of knick-knacks were available:
woodwork ranging from the fully decorative to practical Adirondack
chairs; taxidermy of all sorts of fish and fowl; an assortment of
musical instruments carved from cypress wood; jams, jellies, and
emulsions of every variety you might imagine. It was truly a delight
of the senses.
I set up a table just off the edge of my boat, right near the
florist’s tent, and prepared some paper and pens. Once a few people
had gathered around to see what the fuss was about, I began a
demonstration.
I decided to make a composition based on Critter Girl’s rather
taciturn philosophy. I chose to use the faux-calligraphy style, so first
I wrote out the words in large cursive on the paper. Each word was
on a line of its own. Then, wherever the down strokes of the letters
fell, I thickened them to give them the traditional calligraphic look.
“It is what it is,” read our market neighbor. She studied the rustic
platitude I had just lettered, putting her face down to inspect my
work.
“That’s just what I used to tell my kids at the cafeteria,” she said,
her eyes flicking from off my piece and up towards my chest. I
reddened, realizing that the gator’s tooth around my neck had
caught her attention somehow and seemed to interest her even
more than my lettering skills. She registered my discomfort and
quickly looked away.
“Hey Mama Zephyr,” said Cherie. The nosy florist, who was a
large and round woman with a metallic grin and wandering eyes,
exchanged a few pleasantries with my friend. I wandered off,
deciding to make myself scarce for a few minutes.
“My old lunch lady,” Cherie said, once I’d returned and the florist
was back in her booth, snipping at a few hydrangeas. “Didn’t know
she was into flowers. Good for her.”
We finished out the day with a few sales, and climbed back
aboard the houseboat just in time to feed Serif before we set off for
our destination.

***

There is nothing in the world that can prepare you for the kind of
thing that happened to Cherie and I next.
We traveled throughout the late afternoon and into night. Once it
was fully dark, we anchored ourselves in a bayou and were
preparing to sleep.
The cat purred mildly, and a fat moon shone overhead. Cherie
was scratching his belly, and I had started to actually relax a bit.
That turned out to be premature, to put it lightly.
The scream shattered my peace all at once. It was more like a
moan, really. But it was something that had no place being out here
in this desolate spot, that much was for sure.
 I rushed out onto the deck, but Cherie had beaten me to it. She
was already standing and facing the black wall of swamp.
From the general direction of the scream, we now heard the
familiar, rhythmic splashing sound of a person struggling in the
water. It was unmistakable and it was certainly coming this way,
which was not a development that I appreciated one bit.
I steeled myself and grabbed the spotlight. Then, I shone it out
into the darkness, my heart dropping at what I saw.
There was a face there, and eyes. They were damp and in
distress, but unmistakably human.
It was an old woman, frail and small. She was waist deep in the
water but coming at us with purpose. She was grizzled looking and
almost certainly not having a good time, if the expression on her
face was to be any indication.
As she moved, the woman continued to moan and release sharp
cries of pain, clutching her stomach.
Cherie reacted before I did, finding the life preserver somewhere
and tossing it to the beleaguered woman.
The woman ignored the flotation device, but grabbed the rope
that it was tied to and used it to hoist herself up onto the deck of
the houseboat, where she collapsed into a dripping pile.
“That’s Mimi Laveau,” Cherie whispered, with no small amount of
reverence in her voice.
I could see that something was horribly wrong with her. Her skin
was pale and her eyes had gone a deep shade of yellow, and she
seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“It’s alright. You’re going to be OK. We are going to take you into
town and see if we can find you a doctor. Just hang tight,” I said.
Cherie shot me a glance. I caught her shaking her head, as if to
say that any attempt to save the woman was futile.
As I leaned over her, the woman grabbed me by the collar and
pulled my ear close to her lips.
“Gris-gris maléfique,” the old woman said.
“What? Cherie, what is she saying?”
Critter Girl had started to back away, refusing to help.
 “Get over here and give me a hand,” I shouted at my friend, but
she only backed up more as the woman spoke again in my ear.
“Gris-gris maléfique … À moins que tu me venges.”
I heard Critter Girl gasp just behind me. The old woman gasped
as well, struggling for air.
Then her eyes went empty and she breathed no more.
 3

I’D ALREADY CHECKED her pulse a few times: nothing.

I’d tried CPR to no avail.
Cherie had even said a prayer, but the woman remained limp and
motionless.
The both of us stared down at the deceased, now sprawled out
on the deck of my houseboat. The only sound was that of bullfrogs
and crickets, punctuated by the occasional hoot of an owl. All else
was shocked to stillness by what had just transpired.
“You said you know who this is?” I finally asked, once the
adrenaline had begun to fade.
Cherie nodded. She had still not said a word other than the
mumbled prayer over the deceased. And now, in the light of that fat
moon, she looked about as white as a ghost.
“It’s Mimi. Mimi Laveau,” she finally whispered.
It took a few seconds before I remembered the name and made
the horrible connection. Was that not the same name uttered by the
man who had stood next to me on the docks of Monchac just that
morning, begging me to ask after his lonely, somehow un-
contactable mother?
Yes. He’d wanted me to find a woman. This woman. This woman
who was his mother and whose name was Mimi Laveau. This woman
who was now dead.
“Cherie, this is the person I was supposed to give that letter to. I
was supposed to reach out to her and deliver it.”
“Well, I’d say you done got in touch with her, Mila Breaux. But
her letter reading days is surely passed.”
 I bit my lip, wondering what to do.
“Mimi whispered something in my ear as she lay dying. Did you
hear it? Something in French.”
It was then that I chanced to look up at Critter Girl and realized
that she had backed up across the deck in order to be as far away
from me as the small craft would allow.
“Where are you going, Cherie?”
She was shaking her head.
“What did the old woman say?” I asked.
“She said: gris-gris maléfique, À moins que tu me venges,” Cherie
whispered, in a voice barely audible over the increasing distance
between us.
“Gris-gris maléfique, À moins que tu me venges,” repeated my
best friend.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
But Cherie just shook her head again and a hand went over her
mouth.
“Just tell me!”
“A terrible curse. A terrible curse unless you avenge me,” Cherie
said.
“Come again?”
“She cursed you, Mila. She put a hex on your head. Unless you
can find vengeance for that old woman you are to be cursed for all
time!”

***

The ride into the tiny swamp town of La Reine Laveau was tense, to
say the very least. Cherie did the respectful thing, and threw a sheet
over the deceased woman. There, the lady would remain until we
pulled into the dock at around seven the following morning, planning
to go straight to the authorities.
The town was much like other swamp towns of a few hundred
souls, only this one had a key difference. It seemed that the citizens
of the little hamlet had, at sometime in the last decade, decided that
instead of fighting against the endless water encircling them, they
would instead invite it in for sweet tea. Most of the important
buildings had been raised at one point or another. The post office
was high up on creosote poles. The town hall was built out onto a
kind of dock. Even the place where I was headed, a small sheriff’s
station, had been placed on what could only be described as a
barge.
Not exactly Venice, but in the same neighborhood as that.
I traversed the maze of raised walkways and made it into the
sheriff’s station, where I confronted a sleepy deputy with the facts
about the old woman. He listened quietly, and seemed to wake up
by degrees as the story progressed. By the end, he was grabbing his
hat and hoisting up his utility belt.
When we made it back to my houseboat, a crowd had already
begun to form down at the docks. Cherie had not kept her uncanny
silence after my departure, and it seemed she was deep into what
could have only been her third or fourth retelling of the tale,
gesticulating wildly.
The deputy and I paused there, captivated as well for a moment
or two by the performance. It wasn’t long before I heard the wicked
phrase fall from Cherie’s lips, followed closely by the incredulous
gasps of the crowd.
“Gris-gris maléfique. À moins que tu me venges!” she repeated.
And then she pointed to me across the sea of faces. The crowd
hushed, the deputy next to me suddenly gave me a wide berth, and
as I made my way up onto the deck of the houseboat, even Serif
seemed to want nothing to do with me.
“Oh, come on! You don’t really take that seriously, Cherie.”
But she said nothing, suddenly revisited by her shocked silence.
I turned to the crowd, hoping for some commiserating smiles
over the ridiculous tale. “You all don’t really take that seriously, do
you?”
Their shocked silence said it all.
“OK, well to be fair everybody, Cherie here also claims that she
can talk to animals. So … take it all with a grain of salt, if you would
be so kind.”
 The crowd backed away slowly without a smile to be seen on
their upturned faces.
“I mean, I don’t even believe in horoscopes!” I pleaded,
becoming desperate. “I played with a Ouija board a few times
growing up, until I realized my cousins were the ones moving it. I’m
a lettering artist. I make sassy little sayings on paper using cool
looking letters. Look!“
I held up my latest work, for all to see.
“It is what it is!” I yelled.
“I hate to interrupt, but if you’ll excuse me,” said a loud male
voice, as he pushed through the crowd to the edge of my
houseboat. “I need to get to my clients.”
“Your clients?” I said, once I realized he was headed right for me.
I lowered the lettering piece in defeat.
I was fairly certain I’d never laid eyes on this man before. He was
lanky and his blond hair was balding, but he was immaculately
dressed for an early morning swamp town. His white suit had been
tailored to his bean-pole frame, and he asserted himself with a
confidence that made me think he might be someone in this little
raised village.
When he extended his hand to me, I found that I couldn’t help
but shake it.
This allowed him to lean in and whisper to me. “Just follow my
lead,” he said with a wink.
“No questions, please,” he cried in his outside voice, which was
sultry enough to make a glass sweat. “I’ll need to confer with my
clients before any further questioning.”
The sleepy deputy now raised a finger in objection.
“Wait a minute, Max. These girls just showed up in town with a
dead body in tow. And not just any dead body, mind. Sheriff is going
to need to bring them in and at the very least get their statements.”
“They have a legal right to representation, Jimbo,” said the lanky
man, before turning to the crowd, who were again being generous
with their attention. “As declared in the Constitution itself!” he
shouted, clearly for the drama and spectacle.
 “Now, if you will excuse us. I will see to it that these young
ladies, my clients, will report to you and your sheriff no later than
lunch time, you have it on my very word of honor!”
I thought perhaps I caught a slight eye roll coming from the
sluggish deputy. However, he seemed to shrink back into the crowd.
I found myself following the well-dressed man where he would lead,
beckoning Cherie behind me before the crowd could swallow us all
up.

***

Once we’d separated ourselves from the throng, we moved swiftly

along the raised pathways of the town. It was odd walking over the
swamp on wooden planks, meandering among the tilted buildings. A
stiff breeze blew out of the west and it caused the track to sway a
bit. I gripped the rail out of instinct, causing the lanky man to
chuckle politely.
“You’ll have to pardon our village, it is going through somewhat
of a transition these days,” said the man. “Sometimes it’s got more
sway than the Governor.”
“At least you can pretty much fish from anywhere in town,”
Cherie replied. “Talk about convenience.”
“Yes, well, the federal government actually insisted that all of us
relocate a few years back, after a particularly bad hurricane season.
They commanded us to completely abandon the area for higher
ground. It was I who fought them tooth and nail using every
instrument the law provides. Alas, I was not so fortunate with the
insurance companies. And so, most of what you see has been done
out of pocket. Ah, here is my office,” he gestured.
I looked over at a brick building with some of the only concrete
pillars I’d seen so far in the town. This was clearly a well-to-do sort
of fellow. Even the wooden bridge leading to his place of business
seemed less rickety, the wood deeply finished and with an air of
department-store-opulence about it. Out of the muck below, a few
grand cypress trees flanked our approach.
 In one of the branches was a purple heron. It was a creature of
such majesty and poise that Cherie stopped in her tracks to look up
at it.
“He have anything interesting to say, you think?” I joked.
A concerned look came over her face then, and she shouted at
me.
“Mila!”
The great heron took that exact moment to lift off from the
canopy above us and spread its enormous wings. With a groan, the
branch it had been sitting on began to crack. It was a sound that
echoed across the swamp, and before I had time to react, the
branch came hurtling down directly towards my upturned face.
But Cherie was quick. At the last moment, before I could be
struck down by the branch, she threw me out of the way. The limb
crashed with a thunderous thud that shook the walkway. The bough
then tumbled headlong into the swamp. It splashed below us, likely
planning to form its own bit of sinker cypress over the eons ahead.
It had almost taken me with it!
It took me a moment to fully appreciate the gravity of what had
just happened. My two companions rushed to aid me in that
understanding.
“You were nearly hit!” the lawyer said, dabbing at his forehead
with a silk handkerchief. “I don’t know who would have been liable,
but that was crazy. I would not have been liable, but I’ve never seen
such a thing, you were nearly smitten! Not liable in any way shape
or form, but mercy!”
“He’s right , Mila. That limb like to give your noggin a knocking
something fierce.”
I stood up and brushed myself off. “What are the odds of that
happening just as I walked under it? They have to be one in a
million.”
Cherie gave me one of the most solemn nods I’d ever seen and
gently crossed herself over a mumbled prayer.
“I don’t believe in curses,” I stammered, more to convince myself
than the two people listening.
 “Let us hurry in before more calamity dares to find us,” said the
man, gesturing towards his office.
It was about the time I settled into a comfortable leather chair
across from this man’s desk, that I realized he hadn’t so much as
introduced himself.
I gave the office a once over, noticing a nautical theme. There
were portraits of big ships on the wall, the kind with cannons and
sails. I noticed more than one of them was flying the Jolly Roger.
There were a pair of cross swords above his fireplace, and a row of
books about adventure on the high seas. Near a globe, he even had
a bust of a dashing figure.
“Jean Lafitte,” said the lawyer, catching me looking.
“Who are you and why are we here?” I demanded, still fueled by
the adrenaline of a near-brush with a noggin knocking, as Critter Girl
had so eloquently put it.
“My name is Maxwell Bergeron the Third, attorney at law,” he
said. “As for why you are here, well that should be self-evident.”
It wasn’t, and I stared at him in a way that helped him to
comprehend my impatience. This situation wasn’t aiding me with my
responsibility to the old woman. I needed to make sure the
authorities had what they needed to alert next of kin, and that was
it. Aside from that, I needed to sell my lettering, or find precious
sinker cypress. I was beginning to grow annoyed at all of this.
“It occurs to me that you are in need of my help, having been
the sole witnesses to whatever happened to our dear Mrs. Laveau.
Now, if you don’t mind sharing, exactly what happened?”
He leaned in across his desk, fingers interlaced and eyebrows
raised.
“She died asking for vengeance, a curse on her lips,” said Cherie.
“That woman looked like she was sick to me,” I said. “That’s all I
know. I’m not a doctor. I’m a letterer. I make art, and I need to—“
He held up a hand to silence us.
“We have to discuss your story, get the facts straight and so on,
and quickly. Because I have a notion that Sheriff Bergeron will be
here to collect you directly. At the very least he will want a detailed
statement. And it may be, that depending on how he likes your
story, he may even try and arrest you.”
“Arrest us?” Cherie said, standing up from her chair. “For what?”
“Everyone calm down,” I said, glancing over at my young friend.
“You said Sheriff Bergeron, if I’m not mistaken. Any relation?”
“A distant cousin, I assure you. I would have no particular familial
sway over the man, if that is what you are implying. Now we don’t
have time for family histories ladies, we need to get down to crafting
y’all’s story.”
“Now, wait a minute. We aren’t crafting anything here, aside
from some lettering pieces, Mr. Bergeron. We have the truth on our
side, and the truth is good enough.”
As I put my palms on the chair’s arm rests, ready to lift up and
storm out of the room, I felt something give way.
The leg of the chair snapped, and I went tumbling onto the
carpet.
Cherie was at my side and lifting me up in a moment’s time. I
was no worse for wear, but a bit embarrassed that my poignant
rejection of this man hadn’t landed as dramatically as I’d liked.
The lawyer, instead of looking to my safety, was bent over the leg
of his chair, examining it.
“Damnedest thing,” he said. “This chair ain’t hardly a year old. It
is a shame that the manufacturer would have been liable. Clearly the
fault of shoddy craftsmanship. I mean clear negligence on the part
of—”
“It’s fine,” I said, feeling far more humiliated than litigious.
I noticed Cherie crossing herself again out of the corner of my
eye.
“Anyway, my point stands. We will not be crafting any kind of
story because—“
It was then we heard a knock on the door, where the man’s
secretary appeared.
“Sheriff is here,” she said.
Maxwell raised his eyebrows at me, as his way of rubbing it in.

***
We had been through the story about a dozen times with the Sheriff
and his investigators. Each time, I fished in my memory for any
extra detail, being very careful not to give in to my natural
inclination to embellish. I detailed the exact time, the nature of the
scream, the light of the fat moon on the bayou. Anything I could
think of. Always, I made sure to emphasize the fact that I was an
artist trying to make a living and that was no easy task. But no
matter how many times I covered the same old ground, Sheriff just
kept asking similar questions over and over again, his tone
increasingly accusatory. They kept Cherie and I in separate rooms,
no doubt interrogating my young friend at the same time. I only
hoped Cherie stuck to the truth as tenaciously as I did, and that she
didn’t start getting into the curse or how she conversed with
animals. I didn’t feel up to the task of rescuing her on the off chance
she was committed to a psych ward this afternoon.
Into the second hour of questioning, I was about to cave and ask
for the lawyer with the sultry voice, when my knight in shining armor
picked my lowest moment to swoop into the little rural station with
my salvation in mind.
Xavier Ordoyn.
“Boy, am I happy to see you,” I said, when I met him in the
lobby.
He took me by the arm, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “I lied to
them about my credentials, so we better high-tail it before they find
out I’m just a sleepy game warden and not in the FBI.”
In the next moment, Cherie was pulling me out of the door and
we made our way down to the docks. Ordoyn had parked his airboat
next to my clunky shoe box of a ship. It was late afternoon now, and
there were seagulls clucking at us overhead.
“It must have been awful scary for you girls. I heard the whole
story all the way back in Monchac. Word like that travels up the
bayous faster than high water in a hurricane.”
“Mila is cursed,” said Cherie, as if commenting on the weather.
Xavier gave me a smile and a hand on the shoulder that
somehow filled me with courage.
“Nothing your Aunt Roma’s cooking can’t fix, I’m sure,” he said.
 4

WE WERE ON our way back to Monchac and I had relinquished

control of the houseboat to Cherie, deciding I needed a lettering
break from all this craziness. I had drawn a giant bowl on the page,
and inside it I lettered the words “a hot bowl of gris-gris,”
absentmindedly wondering how much of this was real. I used
watercolors in blues and purples, to try and give the piece some
magical vibes.
Poor old Mimi, I thought to myself. At least she hadn’t passed
away alone. Cherie and I had seen to that. If that was all the help
we could give her, so be it.
An hour or so later, I took the controls back from Cherie so that
she could feed Serif. That was when it happened.
In point of fact, I saw nothing. No stump, or anything for that
matter, appeared to be hiding in the sleepy black waters of the
bayou beneath where the incident occurred. Whatever it was, it
must have been large, jagged, and treacherous, because it caused a
jolt, followed by a hairline fracture in the fiberglass hull of my
houseboat. This hull was mission critical to a ship’s main function. It
was the part that kept my whole operation afloat. That crack ran
further and faster than it was supposed to, even Cherie said so. She
also swore up and down that whatever submerged object had
caused this damage, it had not been there before, that I had piloted
correctly, and that this was all the dark work of bad spirits hovering
over my head.
 I asked if they wouldn’t be hovering below, in the water, if they
wanted to knock my boat around. The spirits must be snorkeling
today, in other words. But Cherie was not in the mood for my dark
humor.
And things kept getting worse, no matter how much comedy and
light-hearted frivolity I tried. The temporary patch that we attempted
to stick onto the crack just would not stay stuck. Every time we
applied it, it would wilt off of the curvaceous hull like skin peeling off
a sunburn.
Ordoyn had been circling us in his airboat, a concerned look on
his face. When he boarded and we explained the problem, he cast a
worried glance up at the sinking sun. After explaining that it would
be dark soon, he suggested that we sleep on the problem and see
about a solution in the morning.
“Boat’s not going anywhere,” he said, and tried to smile. But I
could see that the situation had him ill at ease.
We put up for the night. Instead of sleeping in the stuffy, broken
boat, we had Ordoyn make a fire on a nearby sandbar. He found
plenty of logs and kindling, and soon had a bright blaze roaring on
the shore. This was more for the feeling of safety than for the
warmth, and the smoke was a great help to keep the bugs at bay.
It was already hot out, but I found myself cozying up to the fire
as it died down to embers. With enough layers of triple DEET
mosquito repellent and the smoke from his pile of driftwood, I found
myself blessedly free from the terrible itch that the mosquitoes
around here loved to inflict. A light wind blew in and stirred the saw
palmettos, and they clapped together in cheerful applause.
The moon was high and soon my two companions were snoring
lightly. I let Serif curl up at my feet. The silt below my sleeping bag
was soft, and the crickets were humming their peaceful tune.
I let the weight of everything I’d been through in the last two
days roll off my back. There’s no such thing as a Voodoo curse, I
told myself. This is just another wacky bit of south Louisiana culture.
Just roll with it, like you would any other quirky nonsense down
here. It is all part of the fun and the flavor.
 With the hoot of a lone owl echoing through the swamp, I was
out the second my head hit the pillow.

***

By early the next morning, the houseboat was a good six inches
lower in the water, with the bayou lapping at the deck like it wanted
to have all of my stationery and lettering supplies for itself. About
the time the sun hit and dried up the mist and fog, my happy
thoughts about the quirky local color had also dissipated.
After a huddle, my two friends and I decided the safest bet was
to call a towboat on Ordoyn’s radio. In such a way, we had our
triumphant return stolen from us, and instead were seen limping
back into port, to putter through the waters no more until the
needed repairs had been done.
Cherie left straight away from the docks to go check on her
daddy and his kidney stones, leaving Ordoyn and I alone. We went
in his station to sip on cups of bad instant coffee and discuss where
it all went wrong.
“You didn’t see the stump, huh?” he said, smiling that good-
natured smile of his.
“The stump,” I mumbled, blowing the steam off of my coffee. It
all seemed so much bigger than one rogue piece of wood.
“Xavier, do you … do you believe in Voodoo?”
He sighed and put down his mug.
“Did I ever tell you about my old man?”
“No, I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned him.”
“Well, he was one of those people who believed in luck. Fate. He
had lucky numbers, a special pair of socks so the Tigers would win.
Kept a rabbit’s foot in his back pocket, just in case.”
Here, Ordoyn paused to gaze fondly at the far wall, before his
eyebrows finally took a downturn.
“But he was hooked on the notion of luck. He’d spend days at
the horse track in New Orleans. When he came home with nothing,
he’d blame it on bad luck. The few times he won big it would be like
Christmas in July, and of course, he would want to double down on
the good fortune he’d had until the house inevitably found its way
back on top. Because that is what a gambler does.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m not a gambler. I’m a shy artist
who just wants to sell lettering pieces.”
“Point is, he died penniless and broke, divorced from my mother,
and not having the best relationship with my brother or I. And it
wasn’t no bad luck or curse or spirits that put him in that position. It
was him. Do you see what I’m saying?”
I wasn’t completely sure I did, and I let him see it on my face.
“He was the bad luck, Mila. And believing in superstitions, signs
and all that, it was just a way for him to pass the buck and not take
personal responsibility for his choices. Point is Mila, you make your
own luck in life. The curses and blessings you pick up along the road
might not always be in your control. I’ll give you that. But the way
you deal with them is. The way you break a curse is to forget about
it and get busy making the best life choices you can.”
“I like you. Thanks for that. I guess I was just getting a little
crazy with everything going wrong lately. Not to mention watching a
woman pass away.”
We were quiet a moment, maybe both turning the story of the
late Mr. Ordoyn over in our minds.
Xavier stood up and came over to me, bending down and placing
a gentle kiss on my forehead. I felt my face flush and decided that
maybe I wasn’t so cursed after all.
“You are right, Xavier. I’ve got to get busy. I don’t know that I
can afford to repair my hull and still make ends meet. Cherie’s
daddy’s been down for a week now with his stones. Tough times are
here I guess. I need to just go on and do the best thing I can
possibly do.”
I stood up.
“If there’s one thing I believe in, Mila Breaux, it’s you,” he said,
flashing me that smile again. I hurried to leave before I melted right
there in his office.

***
I returned to my houseboat lettering shop, which I’d fought to keep
open for the day despite the cracked hull. A group of boat
mechanics stood on the docks tutting in the direction of the big
crack, and there were no customers to be seen anywhere. I could
already see the prognosis from the looks on the mechanics’ faces, so
I went inside to check on Cherie.
She was reading another law book, though from the look of
things, Serif was making it difficult. Every time she turned the page,
he would paw at the newly revealed text as if the letter of the law
offended his personal sensibilities. Perhaps he was an anarchist.
“How’s Mr. Mamou?” I asked.
But it was much the same as it had been with the boat
mechanics. There was a look on her face that could be read as
clearly as any book, and this chapter was a tragic one.
“He’ll be better soon, I’m sure,” I said. “Has no one been in
today?”
She uncrossed her arms and stood up, gesturing around the
room. “Of course not, Mila. Not a single one. How we going to pay
for the fix? How we going to—”
“Take a deep breath,” I interrupted and brought her over to a
place where we could both sit down. “We will figure this out. We’ve
been in worse spots, haven’t we? In the time we’ve known each
other?”
At that moment, Serif jumped down from the counter and ran up
to me. He sat up on his haunches and put his paws on the cuff of
my blue jeans, searching my face with his hunter eyes.
“Your cat is hungry, Mila. And there ain’t been nothing on my trot
line since…”
“Since?”
Well, you know since what.”
“We’ve been over this.”
“You ain’t been over it. It is time to face the music. That old
woman is known, was known, in these parts for having powerful
gris-gris. That’s magic. That’s religion. That’s whatever you want to
call all the stuff you can’t find in no law book,” she said, slamming
the open tome in front of her with disgust.
 “And what it all ads up to is this.”
I waited, wishing I could run back to the reassurances I’d found
with Ordoyn.
“It means you’re snake bit, Mila! You are cursed. And you are
always going to be cursed unless you do what the old woman
commanded you to. À moins que tu me venges. À moins que tu me
venges! It means unless you avenge me. Mila unless you avenge her
you will always be cursed!”
Cherie was beside herself, and rarely had I seen her this worked
up. Not even in times when her life had been directly threatened. It
was beginning to rub off on me.
“Alright. So I have to avenge the old woman. But I don’t know
who she even was. I don’t know what it was that killed her. I don’t
even have a boat. What the heck am I supposed to do? I’m still not
even sure I believe all this, to be completely honest with you. Bad
things just happen sometimes. It could be coincidence, right?”
Cherie reached into the cash register and pulled out a silver
dollar, holding it up to the light so I could see both sides of it.
“Call it,” she said.
I shook my head.
“Call it, Mila. This is serious.”
“Alright, heads then.”
She flipped it high into the air, where it almost scraped the ceiling
before it went bouncing down on the carpet.
Tails.
“It’s a fifty-fifty probability, Cherie. Basic statistics would argue
that—“
“Flip it again. Yourself this time,” she said.
After ten unsuccessful flips, I had to admit things were a little
weird.
After twenty, I was beginning to feel scared.
By the thirtieth flip, I was crying.
I didn’t know what the math on thirty unsuccessful coin flips
looked like, but I had to imagine it was pretty rare. No matter which
way I called it, how I changed my flipping technique, or what secret
prayer I mumbled on my breath, the results were always the same.
The coin won, and Mila Breaux lost.
“You’re telling me this is real?”
Cherie nodded, solemn and with the cat now clutched close to
her breast.
“We have to find out who killed Mimi Laveau!” I said.
She walked over and, with the cat tucked under one arm, she put
her free hand on my shoulder.
“You finally got it, Mila. And we are with you all the way.”
 5

HOW DOES ONE get vengeance on behalf of an old woman they’ve

never met, except in her dying moments? A woman who lived alone
in a swamp and practiced Voodoo? How did I even know there was a
perpetrator to get vengeance on? The leading killer of women that
age was what, heart disease? Diabetes? How exactly does one get
vengeance on cholesterol? Should I walk into a fast food restaurant
and start stabbing the cheeseburgers with one of my pens?
Where to even begin?
These were the questions I asked myself as I sat across from
Cherie at Auntie Roma’s supper table. Auntie herself was up on a
farm some place north where the swamp receded and dry hills
began. She’d go up once every two weeks and spend her time
gathering eggs or picking blueberries or hunting chanterelle
mushrooms in some hardwood bottom. When she returned, it would
be with a minivan full of nature’s bounty of the kind a swamp just
could not provide.
But for now, her absence left Cherie and I with nothing but my
own poorly made, lukewarm coffee over which to hatch our master
plan. Another bit of bad luck in a running streak.
“We should start by finding that man. What was his name? Her
son?” Cherie mused.
“JP Laveau,” I said. “You know where we can find him?”
“You didn’t notice his truck?”
“Why would I have noticed his truck?”
“Sometimes I forget you’re from the city.”
“And that makes me not notice trucks?”
 My face must have shown her how plainly confused I was,
because she moved past it. Maybe to help save me the
embarrassment. Although I wasn’t quite sure what I had to be
embarrassed about.
“Broom Brother’s construction. Small outfit. Easy enough to find
out where their current job site is located. Leave that to me.”
“OK.”
“But the bigger question is, what do you want to say to him once
we get there? Message undeliverable?”
I thought about that for a minute. With a brother dying of cancer,
wasn’t there a little unfairness in piling more on the man’s plate?
And was it my place to do so? I was sure, with the speed of gossip
in the bayou, that he’d already heard of his mother’s demise. So,
why show up and poke the wound?
But I was not sure where else to start. And anyway, I needed to
return his letter.
“Alright, that’s the first step. Let’s go. This coffee is horrible,” I
said, pouring it down the drain.
“Can’t blame your kitchen skills on a curse,” said Cherie. “They
were lacking already.”
She was on her way out the door before I could think of any
snappy comeback.
“You make the coffee next time then! A truck expert and a coffee
aficionado, all in one package … what are the odds of that?” was the
best I could manage, as I followed her out into the swampy air.

***

We had to “borrow” Ordoyn’s pickup truck. He was off dealing with

some poacher by way of airboat, but I knew where he left the spare
key. It was right under the buck statue he kept on his desk. He’d
always said that if there was ever an emergency, I should take the
truck without a second thought. Doubtful if he would have agreed
that a Voodoo hex was an emergency, but I wasn’t about to
hesitate.
 His truck was a dark green camo that let him sneak up on errant
hunters. It had a big state seal emblazoned on the side, also in that
palmetto shade of green. That giant, olive-hued pelican feeding its
tiny sprout offspring looked almost comical. But Cherie, who was in
the driver seat with the radio tuned to loud country music, assured
me that where we were headed there’d be no need to blend in with
any flora.
She was right. The vehicle stuck out like a sore thumb as we
pulled into the construction site—a dozen or so skeletal apartment
buildings about an hour north of Monchac. There was finally enough
dry ground here on which to build such things. I wondered how far
we were away from Auntie Roma and her farm, wishing that picking
blueberries was instead the happy order of the day.
But here we were, rolling up in a state truck among a passel of
tough-looking men. They were glazed by the sun, muscled and
tatted. Absently, I felt the gator tooth around my neck where it
rested, sharp and cold.
Heads turned when we pulled in. Most of those heads were
wearing hardhats and sunglasses that hid whatever trepidation they
might feel at seeing a government vehicle approach their job site.
But you could still feel it. Around here, the government was probably
up there with Voodoo hexes, as far as things you certainly didn’t
want hovering over you on your lunch break.
It took us a few minutes of asking around and being met with
cold shoulders before we finally found an electrician who was at
least willing to grunt in a general direction, pointing his chin at the
cage-like frame of one of the rising apartments.
I headed in that direction before Cherie shouted for me to stop.
She picked up a hardhat lying on a stack of lumber and placed it
on my head.
“Active construction site is a pretty bad place to be cursed, Mila
Breaux,” she said, and winked at me. “You keep your head on a
swivel, OK?”
Her arms came down and grabbed me by the shoulders, and I
could see how real and heavy was her concern. All I could do was
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 SUBJUGATION OF CHOLULA.
October, 1519.
Departure from Tlascala—Description of
Cholula—The Welcome—Army Quarters in
the City—Intimations of a Conspiracy
between the Mexicans and Cholultecs—
Cortés Asks for Provisions and Warriors—He
Holds a Council—Preparations for an Attack
—The Lords Enter the Court with the
Required Supplies—Cortés Reprimands
them in an Address—The Slaughter Begins
—Destruction of the City—Butchery and
Pillage—Amnesty finally Proclaimed—
Xicotencatl Returns to Tlascala—
Reconciliation of the Cholultecs and
Tlascaltecs—Dedication of a Temple to the
Virgin—Reflections on the Massacre of 235
Cholula

CHAPTER XV.
FROM CHOLULA TO IZTAPALAPAN.
October-November, 1519.
Montezuma Consults the Gods—He again 252
Begs the Strangers not to Come to him—
Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl—News from
Villa Rica—Death of Escalante—Return of
the Cempoalan Allies—Again en route for
Mexico—Reception at Huexotzinco—First
View of the Mexican Valley—Exultations and
Misgivings—Resting at Quauhtechcatl—The
Counterfeit Montezuma—Munificent
Presents—The Emperor Attempts to
Annihilate the Army by Means of Sorcerers—
Through Quauhtechcatl, Amaquemecan, and
Tlalmanalco—A Brilliant Procession Heralds
the Coming of Cacama, King of Tezcuco—At
 Cuitlahuac—Met by Ixtlilxochitl—The
Hospitality of Iztapalapan

CHAPTER XVI.
MEETING WITH MONTEZUMA.
November, 1519.
Something of the City—The Spaniards Start
from Iztapalapan—Reach the Great
Causeway—They are Met by many Nobles—
And Presently by Montezuma—Entry into
Mexico—They are Quartered in the 275
Axayacatl Palace—Interchange of Visits

CHAPTER XVII.
CAPTURE OF THE EMPEROR.
November, 1519.
Cortés Inspects the City—Visits the Temple
with Montezuma—Discovery of Buried
Treasure—Pretended Evidences of
Treachery—Cortés Plans a Dark Deed—
Preparations for the Seizure of Montezuma—
With a Few Men Cortés Enters the Audience-
chamber of the King—Persuasive Discourse
—With Gentle Force Montezuma is Induced 294
to Enter the Lion’s Den

CHAPTER XVIII.
DOUBLY REFINED DEALINGS.
1519-1520.
Hollow Homage to the Captive King— 309
Montezuma has his Wives and Nobles—He
Rules his Kingdom through the Spaniards—
The Playful Page—Liberality of the Monarch
—The Sacred Treasures—Cortés Resents
the Insults of the Guard—Diversions—
Quauhpopoca, his Son and Officers, Burned
 Alive—Plantations Formed—Villa Rica Affairs
—Vessels Built—Pleasure Excursions

CHAPTER XIX.
POLITICS AND RELIGION.
1520.
Growing Discontent among the Mexicans—
Cacama’s Conspiracy—He Openly Defies
both Montezuma and Cortés—The Council of
Tepetzinco—Seizure of Cacama—The
Tezcucan Ruler Deposed—Cuicuitzcatl
Elevated—Montezuma and his People Swear
Fealty to the Spanish King—Gathering in the
Tribute—Division of Spoils—The Spaniards
Quarrel over their Gold—Uncontrollable
Religious Zeal—Taking of the Temple— 328
Wrath of the Mexicans

CHAPTER XX.
THE CUBAN GOVERNOR IN PURSUIT.
1519-1520.
The Mexicans Threaten Revolt—The Clergy in
Arms—They Denounce the Conduct of
Montezuma—The Emperor Declares he can
no longer Restrain his People—Tidings of
Velazquez’ Fleet—Sailing from Cuba of an
Expedition under Narvaez—Arrival in Mexico
—Conflict with Cortés—Interchange of
Threats and Courtesies—Attempted Union of
Forces—Narvaez Remains Loyal to
Velazquez—Desertion of Some of his Men to 353
Cortés

CHAPTER XXI.
THE COUP DE MAÎTRE OF CORTÉS.
May, 1520.
Dismal Prospects—Empire to Hold, Invasion to 374
 Repel—The Army Divides—Alvarado Guards
Montezuma, while Cortés Looks after
Narvaez—The March Seaward—The
Rendezvous—The Chinantecs and their
Pikes—Cortés Sows Alluring Words in the
Camp of the Enemy—Proposals of Peace—
Defiance—Night Attack—Cortés Captures
Narvaez and his Army

CHAPTER XXII.
ALVARADO’S MERCILESS MASSACRE.
May, 1520.
After the Battle—Victory Made Secure—
Conduct of the Conquered—A General
Amnesty—Disposition of the Forces—Affairs
at the Capital—Insurrection Threatened—
The Spaniards Hold a Council—Alvarado’s
Resolve—The Great Day of the Feast—The
Spaniards Proceed to the Temple—The
Grand Display there Witnessed—The Attack 399
of the Spaniards—Horrors upon Horrors

CHAPTER XXIII.
UPRISING OF THE AZTECS.
May-June, 1520.
Character of the Aztecs—Spanish Quarters—
The City in Arms—Growing Hatred toward
the Invaders—Perilous Position of Alvarado
—Montezuma Called to Interfere—Failing
Provisions—Miraculous Water—Cortés to the
Rescue—Rendezvous at Tlascala—The City
and its People—The Army Joins Alvarado— 419
Desperate Encounters

CHAPTER XXIV.
FIGHT UPON THE TEMPLE SUMMIT.
June, 1520.
The Natives Continue the Assault—Their 436
Fierce Bravery—The Spaniards Build Turrets
—Still the Mexicans Prove too Strong for
Them—Montezuma Called to Intercede—He
is Insulted and Stoned by his Subjects—
Cortés Attempts Egress by the Tlacopan
Causeway—Failure of Escobar to Take the
Pyramid—Cortés Gains the Slippery Height
—The Gladiatorial Combat There

CHAPTER XXV.
DEATH OF MONTEZUMA.
June, 1520.
A Living Death—The Old Imperial Party and the
New Power—Aztec Defiance—Perilous
Position of the Spaniards—Disappointment
to Cortés—Another Sally—The Dying
Monarch—He has No Desire to Live—His
Rejection of a New Faith—He will None of
the Heaven of the Spaniards—Commends
his Children to Cortés—The Character of 449
Montezuma and of his Reign

CHAPTER XXVI.
LA NOCHE TRISTE.
June 30, 1520.
The Captive-King Drama Carried too Far—
Better had the Spaniards Taken
Montezuma’s Advice, and have Departed
while Opportunity Offered—Diplomatic Value
of a Dead Body—Necessity for an Immediate
Evacuation of the City—Departure from the
Fort—Midnight Silence—The City Roused by
a Woman’s Cry—The Fugitives Fiercely 463
Attacked on All Sides—More Horrors

CHAPTER XXVII.
 RETREAT TO TLASCALA.
July, 1520.
Fatal Mistake of the Mexicans—A Brief Respite
Allowed the Spaniards—The Remnant of the
Army at Tlacopan—They Set out for Tlascala
—An ever increasing Force at their Heels—
Rest at the Tepzolac Temple—Cortés
Reviews his Disasters—The March
Continued amidst Great Tribulation—
Encounter of the Grand Army—Important
Battle and Remarkable Victory—Arrival at
Tlascala—The Friendly Reception Accorded 482
them There

CHAPTER XXVIII.
INVALUABLE FRIENDSHIP.
July-September, 1520.
Divers Disasters to the Spaniards—Mexico
Makes Overtures to Tlascala—A Council
Held—Tlascala Remains True to the
Spaniards—Disaffection in the Spanish Army
—Cortés again Wins the Soldiers to his
Views—Renewal of Active Operations
against the Aztecs—Success of the Spanish
Arms—Large Reinforcements of Native Allies
—One Aztec Stronghold after another 509
Succumbs

CHAPTER XXIX.
KING-MAKING AND CONVERTING.
October-December, 1520.
Conquest in Detail—Barba Caught—Other 536
Arrivals and Reinforcements—The Small-pox
Comes to the Assistance of the Spaniards—
Letters to the Emperor—Establishing of
Segura de la Frontera—Certain of the
Disaffected Withdraw from the Army and
 Return to Cuba—Division of Spoils—Head-
quarters Established at Tlascala

CHAPTER XXX.
CONSTRUCTION OF THE FLEET.
December, 1520-February, 1521.
The Objective Point—Vessels Needed—Martin
Lopez Sent to Tlascala for Timber—Thirteen
Brigantines Ordered—Cortés at Tlascala—
Drill and Discipline—Address of the General
—Parade of the Tlascaltecs—March to
Tezcuco—New Ruler Appointed—Sacking of
Iztapalapan—The Chalcans—Arrival at 561
Tezcuco of the Brigantine Brigade

CHAPTER XXXI.
PRELIMINARY CAMPAIGNS.
March-May, 1521.
Plan for the Investment of Mexico—
Reconnoitring Tour round the Lake—Cortés
in Command—Alvarado and Olid Accompany
—They Proceed Northward from Tezcuco—
Capture of Cities and Strongholds—
Xaltocan, Quauhtitlan, Tenayocan,
Azcapuzalco, Tlacopan, and back to Tezcuco
—Chalco Disturbed—Peace Proposals Sent
to Mexico—Further Reconnoissance of the
Lake Region—Many Battles and Victories—
Quauhnahuac Captured—Burning of
Xochimilco—Second Return to Tezcuco— 582
Conspiracy

CHAPTER XXXII.
INVESTMENT OF MEXICO.
May-June, 1521.
Phases of Heroism—The Brigantines upon the 613
Lake—Division of Forces between Alvarado,
 Sandoval, and Olid—Desertion, Capture, and
Execution of Xicotencatl—Departure of the
Troops from Tezcuco—Naval Battle—
Possession Taken of the Causeways—At
One Point Cortés Unexpectedly Gains
Entrance to the City—But is Driven Out

CHAPTER XXXIII.
CONTINUATION OF THE SIEGE.
June-July, 1521.
Something about Quauhtemotzin—Infamous
Pretensions of European Civilization and
Christianity—Prompt Action of the Mexican
Emperor—Repetitions of the Entry Assault—
Submission of the Surrounding Nations—
Dire Condition of the Mexicans—Spanish
Defeat and Disaffection—Resolution to Raze 636
the City

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE CONQUEST ACHIEVED.
July-August, 1521.
The Destroyers Advance—Fierce Fighting in
the Plaza—Dismal Situation of the Mexicans
—The Work of Demolition—Movements of
Alvarado—The Emperor Refuses to Parley—
Misery of the Aztecs Unbearable—Horrible
Massacre of Women and Children—The
Tender-hearted Cortés Mourns over his own
Work—Capture of the Emperor—The
Conquest Completed—Banquets and
Thanksgivings—Dispersion of the Allies to 669
their Homes—Reflections
 AUTHORITIES QUOTED
IN
THE HISTORY OF MEXICO.
[It is my custom to prefix to each work of the series the name of
every authority cited in its pages. In this instance, however, it is
impracticable. So immense is my material for the History of
Mexico that a full list of the authorities would fill a third of a volume,
obviously more space than can properly be allowed even for so
important a feature. I therefore reduce the list by omitting, for the
most part, three large classes: first, those already given for Central
America; second, those to be given in the North Mexican States;
and third, many works, mostly pamphlets, which, though consulted
and often important, have only an indirect bearing on history, or
which have been cited perhaps but once, and on some special topic.
These, and all bibliographic notes, are accessible through the index.]
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1869.
Abert (S. T.), Is a ship canal practicable. Cincinnati, 1870.
Abispa de Chilpancingo (La). Mexico, 1821-2.
Abreu (Antonio Joseph Alvarez de), Víctima Real Legal. Madrid,
1769. folio.
Abreu (Francisco), Verdad Manifiesta que declara ser la
jurisdiccion ordinaria. n.pl., n.d.
Abusos del poder judicial en la Suprema Corte. Guadalajara,
1844.
Academia de Derecho Español. Solemne Accion de Gracias al
Congreso. 15 de Marzo de 1813. [Mexico], 1814.
Academia Nacional de San Cárlos de Mexico. Catálogo de los
objetos. Mexico, 1850; Sétima Esposicion. Mexico, 1855.
Acapulco, Exposicion de la Junta del camino de. Mexico, 1845.
Acapulco, Provision para tripulantes de los galeones y para
guarnicion. MS. 1766-8. folio.
Accion de Gracias que Tributa el Clero y Pueblo Mexicano al
Todopoderoso por el Triunfo de la Religion. Mexico, 1834.
Aciopari (José Querien), Ratos desgraciados. Mexico, 1819. MS.
Acta Capituli Provincialis celebrati in hoc Imperiali S. P. N.
Dominici Mexiceo Cœnobio. Mexico, 1808 et seq.
Acusacion contra El Sr. Gobr. Don José Gomez de la Cortina.
Mexico, 1836.
Acusacion que hacen al Soberano Congreso muchos Profesores.
Mexico, 1836.
Adalid (Ignacio), Causa formada contra. Mexico, 1815. MS. 3 vols.
Adamdicosio y Canto (Perez José María Alejo), El Jacobinísmo de
Méjico. Mexico, 1833. MS.
Adams (John Quincy). Discurso del Ex-Presidente. Mejico, 1836.
Adams (W.), Actual state of the Mexican Mines. London, 1825.
Addey (Markinfield), Geo. Brinton McClellan. New York, 1864.
Adorno (Juan Nepomuceno), Análisis de los males de Mexico.
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