this statue, it was Papa Legba in Voodoo, the god of the crossroads, the god who must unlock the spiritual realms if you are to obtain anything with your magic.
Before you begin a spell, a prayer, or a sacrifice you honor Papa Legba first. And whoever had made this statue realized these things. How else explain the deliberately darkened complexion of the saint who appeared now to be a man of color, or the mysterious book?
He had his complement in Candomble, whom I had so often saluted. This was the orisha, or god, by the name of Exu. And any Candomble temple would have begun its ceremonies by first saluting him.
As I stared at the statue and the candle, the very scents of those Brazilian temples with their hard-packed dirt floors came back to me. I heard the drums. I smelled the cooked foods laid out in offerings. Indeed, I let the sensations come.
There came back other memories, memories of Merrick, as well.
“Papa Legba,” I whispered aloud. I’m certain that I bowed my head ever so slightly and felt a rush of blood to my face. “Exu,” I whispered. “Don’t be offended by anything that I do here.”
I uttered a small prayer, more formulaic in the Portuguese that I had long ago learnt, asking that whatever realm he had just opened, he not deny me entrance, as my respect was as strong as that of Merrick.
The statue of course remained motionless, its pale glass eyes staring quite directly into mine, but I had seldom beheld something which seemed so animate in a sly and unexplainable way.
“I’m going slightly mad,” I thought. But then I had come to Merrick to work magic, had I not? And I knew Merrick, didn’t I? But then, I had never expected these tricks!
I beheld in my mind the temple in Brazil once more, where I had trained for months learning the proper leaves for offering, learning the myths of the gods, learning finally, after months and months of struggle, to dance clockwise with the others, saluting each deity with our gestures and dance steps, until a frenzy was reached, until I myself felt the deity enter into me, possess me . . . and then there was the waking after, remembering nothing, being told I had been mightily possessed, the sublime exhaustion.
Of course . . . What had I thought we were doing here if not inviting those old powers? And Merrick knew my old strengths and weaknesses if anybody did. I could scarcely tear my gaze off the face of the statue of St. Peter. But I finally managed it.
I backed away as anyone might do when leaving a shrine, and darted silently into the bedroom.
Again, I breathed in the bright citrus fragrance of the Florida water, and also the scent of rum.
Where was her favorite perfume, the Chanel No. 22? Had she ceased to wear it? The Florida water was very strong.
Merrick lay asleep on the bed.
She looked as if she’d never moved. It struck me now and only now how much her white blouse and skirt resembled the classic dress of the Candomble women. All she needed was a turban for her head to make the image complete.
The new bottle of rum was open on the table beside her, and about a third of it consumed. Nothing else had changed that I could ascertain. The scent was powerful, which meant she might have sprayed it through her teeth into the air, an offering to the god.
In sleep she looked perfect, as people often do when they relax utterly; she seemed the girl of herself. And it struck me that were she to be made a vampire, she would have this flawless countenance.
I was filled with fear and abhorrence. I was filled also—for the first time in these many years—with the full realization that I, and I without the help of anyone else, could grant this magic, the transformation into a vampire, to her, or to any human. For the first time, I understood its monstrous temptation.
Of course nothing of this sort would befall Merrick. Merrick was my child. Merrick was my . . . daughter.
“Merrick, wake up!” I said sharply. I touched her shoulder. “You’re
Before you begin a spell, a prayer, or a sacrifice you honor Papa Legba first. And whoever had made this statue realized these things. How else explain the deliberately darkened complexion of the saint who appeared now to be a man of color, or the mysterious book?
He had his complement in Candomble, whom I had so often saluted. This was the orisha, or god, by the name of Exu. And any Candomble temple would have begun its ceremonies by first saluting him.
As I stared at the statue and the candle, the very scents of those Brazilian temples with their hard-packed dirt floors came back to me. I heard the drums. I smelled the cooked foods laid out in offerings. Indeed, I let the sensations come.
There came back other memories, memories of Merrick, as well.
“Papa Legba,” I whispered aloud. I’m certain that I bowed my head ever so slightly and felt a rush of blood to my face. “Exu,” I whispered. “Don’t be offended by anything that I do here.”
I uttered a small prayer, more formulaic in the Portuguese that I had long ago learnt, asking that whatever realm he had just opened, he not deny me entrance, as my respect was as strong as that of Merrick.
The statue of course remained motionless, its pale glass eyes staring quite directly into mine, but I had seldom beheld something which seemed so animate in a sly and unexplainable way.
“I’m going slightly mad,” I thought. But then I had come to Merrick to work magic, had I not? And I knew Merrick, didn’t I? But then, I had never expected these tricks!
I beheld in my mind the temple in Brazil once more, where I had trained for months learning the proper leaves for offering, learning the myths of the gods, learning finally, after months and months of struggle, to dance clockwise with the others, saluting each deity with our gestures and dance steps, until a frenzy was reached, until I myself felt the deity enter into me, possess me . . . and then there was the waking after, remembering nothing, being told I had been mightily possessed, the sublime exhaustion.
Of course . . . What had I thought we were doing here if not inviting those old powers? And Merrick knew my old strengths and weaknesses if anybody did. I could scarcely tear my gaze off the face of the statue of St. Peter. But I finally managed it.
I backed away as anyone might do when leaving a shrine, and darted silently into the bedroom.
Again, I breathed in the bright citrus fragrance of the Florida water, and also the scent of rum.
Where was her favorite perfume, the Chanel No. 22? Had she ceased to wear it? The Florida water was very strong.
Merrick lay asleep on the bed.
She looked as if she’d never moved. It struck me now and only now how much her white blouse and skirt resembled the classic dress of the Candomble women. All she needed was a turban for her head to make the image complete.
The new bottle of rum was open on the table beside her, and about a third of it consumed. Nothing else had changed that I could ascertain. The scent was powerful, which meant she might have sprayed it through her teeth into the air, an offering to the god.
In sleep she looked perfect, as people often do when they relax utterly; she seemed the girl of herself. And it struck me that were she to be made a vampire, she would have this flawless countenance.
I was filled with fear and abhorrence. I was filled also—for the first time in these many years—with the full realization that I, and I without the help of anyone else, could grant this magic, the transformation into a vampire, to her, or to any human. For the first time, I understood its monstrous temptation.
Of course nothing of this sort would befall Merrick. Merrick was my child. Merrick was my . . . daughter.
“Merrick, wake up!” I said sharply. I touched her shoulder. “You’re
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