Healing the Bayou by Mary Bernsen Page B

Underneath my feet was a woman that shared my blood and my powers, and I was in awe.
    Out of respect, I brushed away the cobwebs covering the marker. Aunt Vivian knelt to place a small hemp sack on the ground, closed her eyes to pray quietly, and I joined her. Once the respects were paid, she sat on to the grass and bid me to do the same.
    “May I ask what is inside?” I gestured to the offering.
    “Sugar cubes,” Vivian chuckled. “She had quite the sweet tooth, I’m told.”
    “Hmm. My dentist thanks you for passing that trait on to me,” I teased the earth. “My father’s wallet, not so much.”
    Aunt Vivian reached into her mouth and pulled out her top dentures to show that she, too, suffered from a sugar addiction, and we both snorted the same ungraceful laugh. It was so nice to be able to feel so easy around someone. This was a welcomed change. Deep down, I knew I belonged here with these people who were so welcoming to me. Next week I would miss them all when I returned to Florida.
    “The widow Paris,” she began once she caught her breath, “was the last truly great Voodoo priestess. There has never been another as powerful as she was. The white men feared her abilities and called her everything from a fraud to a witch. But she is a figure of sainthood to those who know the truth. She healed anyone who wanted it and gave charity to those that needed it.”
    “But she practiced Voodoo?”
    “She was the Queen of Voodoo, my child. And she was the only true one since. You can walk the streets of New Orleans and find shops that say they will sell you authentic Voodoo potions and charms, but it’s all a fake for the tourists that come by wanting to dabble in the dark magic. You’ll even find a few ladies around that claim to be priestesses themselves, but real Voodoo isn’t about making a few dollars to deceive somebody. Marie Laveau never charged a cent to save a soul.”
    “The plaque at the other cemetery called Voodooism a cult.”
    “Of course they called it that! Voodooism and Christianity have been at odds for many years, and since the Christians have the numbers they can call us anything they want to and everybody will just take them at their word. But if they sat down and studied our religion, they could see for themselves we worship the same people as the Catholics do. We just call them by different names. You know, the woman right here”—she pointed to the ground—“called herself a Voodoo Christian. She went to Sunday mass, and the church called on her to perform a great many exorcisms on their behalf. They respected us then.” She pointed an angry finger into the dirt for emphasis.
    “What changed?” I leaned forward, engrossed in this powerful tale of my ancestors.
    “Well, once great-grandma died there wasn’t anyone powerful enough to keep us at odds with the Christians. They feared the magic we held in our hands and quite frankly, I suspect they were jealous of the miracles we could perform. They outnumbered us, and we were forced into hiding.”
    “But what about the dark magic? You don’t think it was that they were afraid of? That is a lot of power to trust to someone.”
    “Somewhere along the line trust became something you have to prove. It wasn’t terribly long ago that one’s word was enough.”
    “Maybe it was when the bad started outnumbering the good.”
    “You’re very wise, Eliza.”
    We sat quietly for a moment, both of us deep in thought. I was trying to drink in everything I had just learned. I understood what it was to live in hiding. Because of my condition I never did attend school the way other children did. Instead my parents thought it best to homeschool me so I wasn’t found out. I had a couple of cousins that lived nearby, and they were the only friends I ever enjoyed until I went to college.
    I graduated high school two years early, and attending the University of West Florida was the first fight for freedom I managed to win with my parents.