A VOODOO PRIESTESS
When Florence and June Travis arrived at the home of Marianna Christophe,
the voodoo priestess, next afternoon, they met with a surprise. The
surprise was not in the building—it was unpretentious enough, a long, low
building with a pink front. The surprise came when they found several
large and shiny automobiles parked along the curb before the door.
“Our visit is off,” Florence sighed. “Must be a funeral or something.”
“But I have an appointment at four o’clock!” June protested.
“Oh, well, we’ll see.” Florence lifted an ancient brass knocker and let
it fall.
Instantly the door flew open and a brownish young lady with white and
rolling eyes peered out.
“I have an appointment,” June Travis said timidly.
“I’ll look.” The brown one vanished, to return almost at once.
“Yass’m! Jest step right in!” She bowed low. “The priestess will see you,
’zactly at four.”
The reception room which the girls entered was large. Along one side was
a row of comfortable chairs. All but two of the chairs were filled. If
one were to judge by their rich attire, these people were the owners of
the cars parked outside. They were all women. One was old and one quite
young. The others, four in all, were middle-aged.
“She’s marvelous!” one of the waiting ones said in a half whisper. “The
first time I saw her she told me I had a boy who was not yet sixteen and
who was more than six feet tall. She said I had been married twice, but
that I have no husband now. She said my principal jewels were a necklace
of pearls coming down from my grandmother, a diamond bracelet and three
diamond rings. All of this is exactly right. And think of it! She had
never seen me before! I had not so much as given her my name. Wasn’t that
most astonishing?”
Florence listened in vast surprise. This woman was speaking, beyond
doubt, of the voodoo priestess. Could she indeed tell you all about
yourself, your innermost secrets? She shuddered. Who could want any
stranger to know all that? She looked at June. She, too, had heard. Her
face was all alight. “All these people believe in her,” she whispered.
“They are much older than I, and must be wiser, and they are rich. Surely
she will tell me where my father is, and when he will come back. It—it’s
so very little to ask.” There was an appealing note in the girl’s low
voice that went straight to Florence’s heart.
“I have ten dollars left,” June whispered. “Next week I’ll have a little
more, and soon a very great deal.”
“Yes,” Florence thought, “and therein lies your great peril! In such
times as these much money is a menace to any innocent and unprotected
person. We must find her father, we must indeed! But how? There’s the
trouble.”
Her thoughts were broken in upon by the brown girl of the rolling eyes.
“The priestess will see you all now,” she whispered.
“June,” Florence asked in a low tone, “have you been here before?”
“Never.” The girl shuddered.
“And yet,” Florence thought, “they are passing her in ahead of those
others! Can it be that this priestess has already heard of this child’s
money?” For the first time in her life she began to believe that at least
some of these fortune tellers knew everything, even the innermost secrets
of one’s heart. The feeling made her uncomfortable.
The room they entered was weirdly fantastic. Its walls were covered with
paper so blue that it seemed black. Over this paper flew a thousand tiny
imaginary birds of every hue. The floor was jet black. On a sort of
raised platform, in a highly ornamental chair that seemed a throne, sat a
very large black woman with deep-set dark eyes. She was dressed in a robe
of dark red. As the two girls entered, she was swinging her arms slowly
up and down as if to drive away an imaginary swarm of flies, or perhaps
ghosts.
“I am—” June began.
“No, child. Don’t tell me.” The woman’s tone was melodiously southern.
“I’s a priestess, a voodoo priestess. I’s the great, great granddaughter
of Cristophe, the Emperor of Haiti.
“Listen, child!” Her voice dropped. It seemed to Florence that the lights
grew dim. “At midnight in the dark of de moon, on de highest mountain in
Haiti, dey took me an’ a big black goat, all black. Dey sacrificed de
goat in de dark of de moon. But me, honey, me dey made a priestess. To me
it is given to ask and to know all things. As I look at you now, I seem
to see no father near you, no mother near you, but girls, one, two,
three, oh, mebby a dozen. That right?”
“Yes, I—”
“Don’t speak, honey. You come to ask where your Daddy is, and I—I am here
to tell you. Only—”
“I—I’ve got ten—”
“Don’t speak of money, not yet. I—”
The priestess broke off suddenly. Florence had entered silently, but had
fallen back at once into a dark corner. For the first time the priestess
became conscious of her presence.
“Who’s that?” she demanded.
“Only my friend,” June replied timidly.
“Well, she can sit over there.” The priestess pointed to the farthest
corner.
When Florence was seated the woman began again her monotonous monologue,
but she spoke in such low tones that Florence could catch only a word
here and there.
“Darkness,” she heard then—“Spirit of Cristophe—darkness—the black
goat—gold, gold, gold—spirit of darkness.”
Even as these last words were spoken, the lights began slowly to fade.
Then it was that for the first time Florence became conscious of some
living creature in the corner opposite her own. As she looked, she saw it
was a black goat with golden horns. Strangely enough, as the light
continued to fade, she felt herself imagining that the goat was a spirit,
the spirit of that black goat sacrificed on the highest mountain at
midnight in the dark of the moon. This, she knew, was pure nonsense.
But why all this failing light? Was this some trick? She was about to
leap to her feet and demand that the thing be stopped. Then she thought
of the ones who waited in the room beyond the plastered wall. “Nothing
serious can happen.” She settled back.
But what was this? The room was now almost completely dark. Along the far
side of the room she seemed to catch sight of something moving. It rose
and fell, like some filmy shadow or trace of light.
“Like a ghost!” She shuddered. “Yet it is not white. It shines like
ebony. It—”
She could not really think the notion that formed in her mind which was,
“This is Cristophe’s ghost, a black ghost.”
As the thing moved slowly, oh so slowly across the wall, there came the
sound of whispers—whispered words that could be heard but not understood.
Florence was ready to flee. But what of June? She must not leave her.
This thing was horrible. Yet it was fascinating.
And then, close beside her, there was a movement. Looking down quickly,
she caught two golden gleams. “The goat’s horns. He has moved, he is near
me!” She was filled with fresh terror.
And then the light began returning. Slowly as it had faded, so slowly did
it return.
Once again Florence looked at that spot close by her side. The goat was
not there. Her eyes sought the opposite corner. There lay the goat,
apparently fast asleep.
“I have asked the spirit of Cristophe.” The priestess spoke in her usual
melodious drawl. “He says dere must be gold, much gold. A statue to his
memory must be built. There must be gold, much gold. He will tell all
things—all—all things for gold.
“There now!” she ended abruptly. “Some other time, you shall know all.
There must be gold, much gold—”
And then, for the second time, Florence saw it, the shadow on the wall.
It was the same, the very same as that she had seen on Madame Zaran’s
midnight blue drapes. There was the sharp nose, the curved chin, all that
made up a perfect Satan’s face. One second it was there, the next it was
gone. But in that second Florence saw the large black woman half rise as
a look of surprise not unmixed with fear overspread her face. Then, as
the shadow faded, she dropped heavily back into the arms of the chair
that might have been a throne.
A bell tinkled. The brown girl appeared. They were led out into the light
of day.
“She—she didn’t even take my ten dollars,” June whispered.
“No, but she will in the end, and much, very much more!” These words were
on the tip of Florence’s tongue, but she did not say them. This surely
was a strange world.
“June,” said Florence after they had left the home of the voodoo
priestess—her voice was low and serious—“you must be very careful! Such
things as these might get you into a great deal of trouble; yes, and real
peril.”
“Peril?” The younger girl’s voice trembled.
“Just that,” Florence replied. “Most of these fortune tellers, I’m
convinced, are rather simple-minded people who earn a living by telling
people the things they want to hear. They read your palm, study the bumps
on your head, tell you what the stars you were born under mean to you, or
gaze into a crystal. After that they make you happy by saying they see
that you are to inherit money, have new clothes, go on a journey, marry a
rich man and live happily ever after.” Florence laughed low.
“They charge you half a dollar,” she went on. “You go away happily and no
real harm is done.
“But some of these people, I think—mind you, I don’t know for sure—some
of them may be sharpers, grafters in a big way. And when a dishonest
person is prevented from reaping a rich but unearned reward, he is likely
to become truly dangerous. S—so, watch your step!
“Anyway,” she added after a time, “your problem may perhaps be solved in
simpler ways. Remember the suggestion of Frances Ward? She said you
should be able to recall more than you have told thus far. If you could
remember the place where you lived with your father, perhaps we could
find that place. Then, it is possible someone living near there would
remember your father. That would help. In time perhaps we could untangle
the twisted skein that is your mysterious past.”
“Oh, do you think we could?” June’s tone was eager. “But how can I
remember a thing I don’t recall?”
“There are people, great psychologists, who have ways of making people
think back, back, back into the remotest corners of their past.”
“Do you know one of them?” June asked excitedly.
“Not at this moment, but I could find one, I think.”
“Will you try?”
“Yes, I’ll try.
“And now—” Florence’s tone changed. “I’ll have to leave you here. I—I
have an appointment.”
Florence was, in the end, to find a psychologist, and that in the
strangest possible manner. Meanwhile, her appointment was with Madame
Zaran and her crystal ball. There was just time to make it.
She arrived, rather out of breath, to find the place much the same, yet
somehow different. The crystal ball was in its place at the center of the
room. The chair, the rug, the midnight blue draperies were the same.
Madame Zaran came out with a smile to greet her. All was as before, and
yet—the big girl shuddered—there seemed to be an air of hostility about
the place.
“Yes, you may gaze into the crystal.” Madame’s claw-like hands folded and
unfolded. “You may see much today. I have read it in a book, the book of
the stars. You were born under a remarkable constellation. Yes, I do
horoscopes as well. But now you shall gaze into the crystal ball.”
She withdrew. Florence was left alone with her thoughts and the crystal
ball.
There followed a half hour’s battle between her thoughts and the magic
ball. Her thoughts won. No beautiful island came to her in the ball, no
stately trees, no still waters, nothing. Only the sordid little world
which, it seemed, pressed in about her, stifling all beauty, all romance,
filled her mind. With all her heart she wished that she was to fly away
with Sandy and Jeanne to the magic of Isle Royale in winter.
“But I will not go.” She set her will hard. “I must not!”
And then there, standing before her, was Madame Zaran.
There was a strange light in the fortune teller’s eyes. She said but one
word:
“Well?”
In that one word Florence seemed to feel a dark challenge.
“No vision today,” she replied simply.
“No!” Madame’s voice was harsh. “And there will be no visions for you.
Never again. You have betrayed the sacred symbol!” Her voice rose shrill
and high. Her short fingers formed themselves into claw-like curves. Her
tiger-like hair appeared to stand on end.
“You—” her eyes burned fire. “You are a traitor. You—”
She broke short off. Her weak mouth fell open. Her pupils dilated, she
stared at the midnight blue drapes. Then, for a third time, Florence saw
it—the shadow, the long, thin face, the narrow nose, the curved chin, the
shadow of Satan, all but the horns and the forked tail.
While Madame still stared speechless, Florence slipped from her chair,
glided from the room, caught the teetering elevator, then found herself
once more upon the noisy city street.
“Ah!” she breathed. “There was a time when I thought this street a
dangerous place. Now it is a haven, a place of refuge.”
She walked three blocks. Her blood cooled. Her heart resumed its normal
beat. She was in a mood for thought. What did Madame Zaran know? Did she
know all? There had been a little in her column that day, the column
“Looking Into The Future,” that was about Madame Zaran’s place and her
methods. No names were mentioned, no address given. It was written only
as an amusing incident.
“And of course my name was not signed. It never is,” Florence thought to
herself. “How could she know that I conduct that column? And yet—” Here
truly was food for thought.
“Jeanne,” she said as, two hours later, they sat reading beside a studio
light, “these fortune tellers have an uncanny way of finding out all
about you. That black priestess today told June all about herself. And
yet, she had never seen her before. Jeanne had made an appointment over
the phone, that was all. I don’t believe in black magic, though I did see
something very like a black ghost. But how do they do it?”
“How can they do it?” Jeanne echoed.
“I’ve got a notion!” Florence exclaimed. “We’ll try it out on one of the
fortune tellers of the simpler sort, you and I. What do you say?”
“Anything for a little happy adventure,” Jeanne laughed.
“All right, it’s a go! We’ll start it tomorrow. And finish it, perhaps,
the next day.”
“My dear, I am intrigued!” Jeanne threw back her head to indulge a merry
laugh.
Florence was glad that someone in the world could laugh. As for herself,
she felt that things were getting rather too thick for comfort. She felt
that somehow she was approaching an hour of testing, perhaps a crisis.
When would the testing come? Tomorrow? Next day? In a week? A month? Who
could say? Meanwhile, she could but carry on.