41 Ceremony for the Lwa

The ladies strolled along the grounds of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Madame Aulin trod her steady steps with Mirielle and Christine matching her pace. "Over there is something you should see," the older woman said.

As they drew abreast of an ornamental iron railing, Mirielle took in the view of a man-made grotto. At the far end of it was a statue. They skirted the side of the pool and examined the statue.

"This was commissioned by Marie de Medici, she was Henry IV's wife. She was his widow the day of her coronation."

Mirielle scowled. "Those were such dark days."

"Indeed," Madame Aulin replied. "Her husband was stabbed while his carriage slowed for traffic that day. The assassin was drawn and quartered."

Mirielle glanced at Christine. "Torn into four parts by horses."

"Oh my God," Christine exhaled.

"That was after he was scalded with sulphur, burning oil and molten lead."

Christine stopped, her mouth open in horror.

Madame Aulin tsked. "Regicide is an unforgiveable crime, my dear. France exacts a harsh punishment on those who commit it."

"Not if it is during a revolution, as Marie Antionette would tell you if she had kept her head," Mirielle retorted. "Goodness. What a tale. But here, let's take a closer look at the fountain."

Madame Aulin took hold of Christine's arm. "I apologize, Christine. From the look upon your face you must not know much or our terrible history. Sweden hasn't had the political problems we have suffered."

"I was surprised, that is all," Christine replied. "It is not my place to judge other people by their history."

The older woman studied her face. "You aren't worried are you?"

Mirielle's own steps faltered. Christine had married into the aristocracy. "People aren't starving now like they were then. The crown squandered much of France's wealth to earn the ire of the populace."

Madame Aulin nodded. "True. Henry was a good king. He's responsible for many things. But his way around things was to pay people off. Even Marie, when faced with a group who wanted to renounce her claim to the throne simply bribed the men to go away. No telling how much that cost us."

Mirielle pasted on a smile. "Look. The fountain was inspired by a Greek myth. It's

Polyphemus finding the lovers Acis and Galatea." Polyphemus's giant form was wrought in bronze, while the lovers hid below him. "It was an opera as well, you know."

Christine explained to Madame Aulin, "Händel wrote it. It was very early in the 18th century, but historically was popular. It tells the tale of the lovers. Polyphemus was a Cyclops, in love with Galatea. Once he sees her with Acis, he flies into a rage and kills her lover."

"We should take in an opera while you are in Paris, Christine," Mirielle interjected. "We could make it a ladies night out." She stopped and looked at the younger woman who was staring up at the giant in bronze. "Are you all right, dear?"

Christine shook her head, casting an apologetic glance at Madame Aulin. "May I confide in you, Madame?"

The older woman nodded slowly. "Of course. I'm an expert at secrets." She sat a hand on Christine's arm. "And any burden shared is one that is easier lifted."

"Thank you. I-I think Erik is worried over my singing voice. It isn't my voice that is lost."

The two women waited for her to continue. Christine gazed at the looming figure. "I'm afraid I'm going to lose my husband to misfortune."

"Oh my," Madame Aulin breathed. "Let's find a tea room. This sounds far more interesting than talk of regicide."

Christine looked over the railing. "Would it be all right to toss in a coin?"

"Go on," Mirielle urged. "If anyone gets angry over it we will claim you don't speak French."

Christine drew out a coin, casting a long look at the looming Cyclops she tossed it close to the base of the statue. Mirielle felt tears prickle her eyes. The girl was terrified. No amount of coins or prayers would help her. She linked her arm with Christine's. "You have us. Erik and I will be there for you every day."

A smile flitted across her features. "Thank you."

"Come on, you can explain things to Madame Aulin."

Percival dit LaFougère stood at attention before the officer's desk. His Commander indicated the piece of paper in front of him. "This has to end."

"Sir?" Percival prompted as his commander fell silent.

"I know you have come to a working arrangement with the Phantom, but Daubigeon is now pulling strings to get people higher up the chain than myself involved."

"Exactly what does he want?" Percival asked.

"He wants the Phantom brought in for questioning." His commander made a sour face. "I understand you have worked with Monsieur, what is his name?"

"People from the Opera can verify his name is Vachon. It seems to me I heard him mention something about an apartment in the Latin Quarter."

"Really?"

Percival gave a negligent shrug. "I meet so many people. . ."

His Commander tapped a finger on his desk top. "I'll have to give him something. I wouldn't put it past him to have dispatched men to follow anyone associated with the Phantom."

Percival detected a hint in his Commander's voice. "I'll investigate it at once."

The Commander nodded. "Be discreet. I don't want any citizens bothered by this nonsense."

"Yes, sir." Percival saluted and spun on a heel. He needed to move quickly. The guards who had toured the cellars beneath the Opera would be the most likely detailed for this fool's errand. He needed to find them before they disturbed Erik.

Erik hung back at the dark space just outside of the office door. Nadir wedged himself along side, careful not to block the door for the arriving revelers. The emptiness of the Peristyle was fading under a sea of people. It hardly seemed to Nadir that the courtyard could hold everyone.

The women arrived in white dresses, all wearing a sash or a headscarf of blue. The men arrived in white shirts and pants. Some wore dark bowlers and dark glasses. Seeing one man linger at the door, Nadir sidled over and asked. He was granted his request and soon held a dark pair of spectacles in his hand as the man nodded with a smile and moved away.

Erik took the spectacles. Nadir lowered his voice. "They may be expecting their Baron, Erik. He wears those things, remember?"

"But I shouldn't. . ."

"You aren't trying to be him. They will know the difference. If they see your eyes, though," he let the comment trail off. Erik's eyes could be startling.

"Agreed," Erik mumbled.

A group of men arrived and set up drums. They began to play, each joining in the beat. One older fellow tapped on a curved piece of metal that reminded Nadir of the blade of a scythe. "Interesting."

"They must use what they had on hand." Erik's voice was matter-of-fact. As long as he sounded that way, Nadir would stand guard as casually as he could. If he detected stress in Erik's voice, well, Erik would not suffer it for long. He would grow vociferous or just outright vanish.

Nadir nodded at a few more people. They all began to circle the center pole. Mambo Sabine walked slowly among them. With a raised hand, she began to sing and the others joined.

"That's not the song she taught me," Erik explained. Sabine was joined by another woman and a man who wore dark glasses. He carried what looked like a gourd covered in a mesh. Sabine carried a bottle of spirits by the neck. The other woman was singing loudly.

They watched as Sabine and the others turned in a circle and stopped. They reversed the circle and did it again. At the end, Sabine began to speak. She held up the bottle and took a mouthful of the liquor. Spraying it upon the pole, they moved to the opposite side. This part of the ritual was repeated.

"That's the first blessing," Erik whispered. "It makes the alter holy. They will do it three times."

As Nadir watched, he too detected the pattern of words spoken in a challenge and response from the crowd. The drums played while Sabine performed the rite. The group stopped, all voices raised to offer a Lord's Prayer, a Hail Mary, and an Apostle's Creed. Finally, they began the song she had taught Erik.

"This is it," Erik said softly. "They will call the loa now."

Nadir felt the excitement of the crowd. They began to circle to pole, doing a sort of shrug, their steps shuffled one direction and then another. The song went on, their voices steadily growing stronger.

Nadir felt Erik's fingers on his arm.

"It's time," he said. Erik took his walking stick in hand, tipped his hat low over his face and gave Nadir one nod. "I can't be an observer, old friend. It's time to leap in and become part of this."

"I'll be right here, Erik."

Erik ran a finger along the brim of his hat. For an instant a reflection flashed in the lenses that turned towards him. Erik's smile was bright in the changing lights.

Nadir watched Erik's dark clad figure join the edge of the crowd. The revelers made space for him, seeming to offer outstretched hands and effusive smiles. In what had seemed like a cacophony of drums and loud singing, began to feel more familiar. They were still singing the song Sabine had taught Erik.

Nadir raised his gaze to the pole; he peered through the crowd to keep track of Erik. Rather than a blot, Erik's dark coat acted like a beacon. He had joined the steps, and the shrugs, here and there, the silvered top of his walking stick would pop up like a conductor's baton. As the crowd moved, Sabine and her helpers stopped.

The woman with her grew very still. The man took hold of her arm on one side, Sabine joined on the other. From the crowd, a younger man came holding a crutch. They gave it to the woman, helping her position it under her arm. The dancers still swayed, but stayed in place.

Erik was facing away. Nadir could tell by his body position that Erik was alert as he watched what was happening. The music continued but seemed louder. The press of the crowd was kept at a respectful distance. Sabine let go of the woman's arm.

Erik had gotten his wish.

Sabine lit a candle while people brought a deck of cards, bowls of peanuts and sweet potatoes, bottles of liquor and two carafes of a dark liquid, laying them at the base of the pole. Sabine swept a open hand towards Erik.

Nadir watched his friend hand her his walking stick.

It was time to call the Baron.

Please realize, I am not a practitioner of Voodoo. What I have learned is by research and the outreach of their community. I have left some things out, for I do not wish to show any disrespect (or ignorance) of the ceremony. I only know that Erik would feel much more than I can describe.