Day 8

It starts when when Don Berger is called down from from Boston to New Orleans by his estranged sister's brutal murder.

The next time he's really, truly awake again, it's in the early hours of the next morning.

He must have walked back to the hotel, but he doesn't remember. He does barely recall, though, hearing the lobby television buzz with news of a gang shoot-out on the bayou when he'd been hit with a crippling wave of exhaustion despite the few hours sleep he'd gotten. He must have been out for nearly a whole day.

He pops out into the dark and silent corridor and buys a few packets from the closest vending machine. His first thought, when he enters his room again and looks over the small amount of luggage that has someone managed to fling itself everywhere, is that there's no reason to stay anymore.

It takes a long time to pack. It doesn't have to, but Don finds himself putting things in then taking them out again, refolding and rearranging. It almost seems like reluctance.

He wonders if it's all another dream. If what he heard and saw was nothing more than one last flashing nightly vision. If everything will go back to normal once the day comes again.

By the time a sliver of orange begins to glow out the long window, warmth warring with the bleached fluorescent ceiling light, the room finally lies bare and the bed fully made--for the third time. He bends down to check the safe under the bedside table even though he hasn't used it, and his eyelids twitch when he spies a glint of metal.

It's Adelaide's locker key. He plucks it out with a few cautious fingers, rolling it between his hands and casting a long look over the small window through which he first saw the white snake.

* * *

The door is silent this time when it opens, no creaking, no grinding. The sun is still leaning on the horizon, and its rays for the first time give a near-homey feel to the cold concrete. Don takes a single step inside.

The locker is empty.

Almost.

Gone are the trinkets and the crates, the table and the makeshift bed. The only thing decorating the blank floor is a single bauble in the very centre. Don approaches slowly, crouching to pick it up and hold it to the light.

It's a coral paperweight. The same as the one he'd given Adelaide to remember him by, but not quiet. Because that one had been red, and this one is vivid blue. A second gift. An affirmation. A promise.

He holds it tightly in both hands as he turns to gaze at the small patch of eastern city horizon-line visible over the locker roofs. It's the same city he stepped off the plane into last Friday, but everything's different to him. Because now he's seen its shadows and the power that flits within them, a power that he is sure he will one day meet again.

He's always liked his life straight-forward, planned, organised. It was Adelaide who danced on her whims until they led her here, where he had to follow. Where he couldn't hide away behind peeling office walls and black coffee any longer.

He raises a hand to check his watch, then slips it off his wrist to wind it an hour back.

* * *

He takes a taxi to the library to return his books then drops by the hospital to say goodbye, making it halfway down the corridor to Lentre's office before he remembers it's the doctor's day off. He meanders back to reception where the familiar Candy is popping gum yet again.

"Hi there."

She looks up, disinterested. "Hi."

"I'm Don Berger. I was here last week."

"Oh!" Her face flashes in a smile, which quickly fades again when she remembers their last meeting was less than pleasant. "Right. So, can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Doctor Lentre. He's not here today, is he?"

She frowns and looks down. "We're not supposed to give personal information away."

Don sighs, and leans closer. "I really am sorry about what happened last time," he says softly and truthfully enough though he still holds back a wince when she pops again. "He's helped me a lot this past week, and I'm flying back to Boston today. I just wanted to say thank you. Plus," he adds, "isn't the confidentiality with patients, not doctors?"

"Hmm." She looks a little torn, but concedes. "I guess I can say because everyone knows it. I mean, he doesn't actually tell us his address or anything, actually he's very private with stuff outside the hospital, but the Lentre mansion is pretty famous. One of the oldest in New Orleans. Let me just look it up." She clicks her way on her computer for a few seconds, then tears a sheet off a pad of paper and writes down a name. "Here. Calisse Street. Don't know the number, but it says it's at the very end."

Don thanks her, and walks back out to hail another taxi. He repeats the direction to the driver who stops, and gets an 'ah' in response.

"Want to see the Lentre Mansion?"

"Yes," Don replies, sliding into the seat. "Do you know it?"

"Yeah," the man grunts. Printed in a brochure or something somewhere, is it?. I get tourists wanting to see it every now and then, but it's private property so all we can do is drive past."

"Oh, it's not that. I'm his friend."

There's an unconvinced grunt, then the rest of the ride is spent in silence. Don watches the outside fly by until they reach a narrow street in an area in which housing is beginning to get sparser. It ends in a dead end, and he can see as they approach a tall, dark, house which looks very much like its owner.

"You sure about this?" the driver asks as Don gets out. He gets a curt nod in reply. "Alright then, but don't say I didn't warn you. Want me to wait?"

"No, that's alright. I'll walk back to my hotel. It's close by."

The man shoots him a puzzled look. "What hotel is this?"

"Lafittes?"

The puzzlement deepens. "I wouldn't be walking unless you have a few hours to spare. Who said it was close?"

Don stares at him. "It was, uh, never mind. I guess you'd better wait, then. I won't be too long."

He walks up the cracked cobblestones with a feeling that he's really stepping into the heart of New Orleans. But while the house rises impressively, he can see that it hasn't been well maintained. Paint is peeling and the gardens are over-grown, though he supposes it's only fair enough when you have something so large for only a single occupant.

The only bell is a real one, brass and greening above the door frame. Don tries that and also the lion-headed knocker for several minutes until the sounds ring in his ears.

No answer. He admits defeat with a last knock of his knuckles.

A lot of the drive back is spent planning out in his head a message he can leave at the hospital. He also wonders what Lentre is up to, what the enigmatic man might do for a hobby. Don can't quite imagine him playing sport or going out. Enjoying a fine meal, perhaps.

He steps into the hotel with a deep breath, turning around for one last glance out before the lift doors slide shut. He grabs the suitcase from behind his door without entering and locks up with a mental nod to himself.

"Enjoy your visit, Mister Berger?" he concierge asks amiably as he returns his key.

"It was certainly eventful."

"Well, I do hope you stay with us again some time. Have a nice flight home."

"Actually," Don says, "I'd like to book it again right now."

"Fabulous!" the man beams. "When would that be?"

"Oh, right away. I'll take a little while to tie things up back in Boston but I'll be back in say, four days."

"Alright." Eyebrows raise on that grinning face. "And how long would you like to stay for?"

"Well, that would depend on what our real-estate climate is like right now."

Don flashes his own grin at the concierge's wide-eyed look, turning on his heel and making his way out onto the street once more.

It's only been a week, but a lot has changed. It all really has grown on him somehow, subtly during all his running around. It's not anything grand, but as he walks across the road to the city's heartbeat he can see what captivated Adelaide all those years ago. It's a place to sit back and let your senses flow through the music and mouth-watering scents of the food-vendors on the air. A place to enjoy, and live life as you do.

He's been trying not to think since he arrived, afraid to speculate unless he hit something further than he wanted to go, pushing back his responses to it all. But now, now that it's over and he can let them go, everything's suddenly easy. He won't forget the four lives he saw ended in a flash or that feeling of something else, something more raising him over, but it's all settled in his mind instead of whirling. Become a part of him and what he's seen, what he's come to welcome, which he can remember in quite caution.

He wanders across the road and into the cemetery without really intending a destination. He can recognise it all as he walks the same path he strolled with Lentre that very first morning, drawing to a stop when he finds himself staring again at a set of familiar X's.

The Queen's tomb rises up on it's base of offerings, the prayers around it carved into its very character. He steps forward and reaches a finger to trace the marks he made, before he had any idea what he was wishing on.

Let me talk to my sister again.

The rock he used is still lying on the ground, and he bends to pick it up before he stops himself. Instead, he turns like he's supposed to and steps up to the mausoleum behind his, gripping one ridge with both hands and pushing until he feels the stone crack. He's turning around again when something catches his eye.

It's a man. A man whom he could have sworn wasn't there a moment before, standing between the rows of tombs under the shade of a large over-hanging tree. He's dressed in black, an elegant tuxedo over a crisp shirt with a very out-of-place looking top hat perched on his head. He looks straight at Don, dark piecing eyes fixing him from a high-boned face. A face which Don knows.

Lentre stands with one hand holding a thick cigar and another resting atop a tomb, not leaning on it, but more like he's guarding it. Guarding. And then it all clicks.

The morgue doctor who emerged from among the dead. The hotel across from the cemetery, 'near my place.' The talk of letting Adelaide go, of crossroads. The he the snakes spoke of, who was pushing her brother to find her. And belatedly, Don thinks, it's Saturday.

His high school French returns to put it together. Lentre. L'entre. The Between. He's smiling too, just like Charleigh from the library said. And Don has to smile back his acceptance, his respect, all his thanks.

There really is more after all.

Then Don blinks and for a second he sees that figure as the ever watchful guard of the gates, that silent figure on the shadowy crossroads. Another blink, and Lentre's gone once more, melted away. Don's left hand moves unconsciously to curl around the paperweight still heavy in his pocket as he turns back to the marked wall.

In a few hours he'll be on a plane, but he'll be back again and he'll be moving his books and his clothes and the rest of his life. Tracing back on his grandmother's footsteps. Following his sister's.

Make me proud, little brother, won't you?

An arm lifts, rock scrapes against rock, and he circles his old impossible hope in a singe stroke.

* * *

The sun is bright as Don Berger walks away, the birds trilling from their branches. The air is as light as his step, and the entire city seems to shine of promise.

New Orleans sings.

End.

Author's Note

When Don Berger is called down from from Boston to New Orleans by his estranged sister's brutal murder, he finds himself pulled into the underbelly of crime and caught in the strange and shadowy world of Voodoo magic. Searching for a dead woman in a city where his own roots lie, he is forced to wonder if there is something more to this simple life, something seeped in history and spirit...


Written for a novella writing contest, total word count ~24,000 words in 8 parts. Also put forward in an art/literature collaboration event run by myself on deviantART, cover art by greenleo94 and inner illustrations by iDraw-Rawr.


Author's Notes:

Phew. This entire thing was written in about 10 days in a massive writing intensive bout, and I'm pretty proud to have gotten it done.

Though the story is set in America I've written in Australian English since I'm Australian and the competition I was submitting to was Australian, I may convert it all to American English sometime but meanwhile I hope it wasn't too out of place.

I attempted to portray the Voodoo faith as truthfully as possible, though unfortunately my sources of research all seemed to conflict and tell me different things about different loa so in the end I just had to pick one to use instead of trying to to reconcile them all. They were also lacking in detail in some aspects, so Adelaide/Marie's ritual is completely fictionalised (though Voodoo rituals do indeed involve drumming and singing and the appearance of Loko is described accurate to at least one source of mine). The symbol in the cover art is the veve of Loko, as was shown in the first chapter.

Marie Laveau is a real historical figure described accurately in the story. Her tomb, with the X's and offerings, can be seen here: http://ih0.redbubble.net/image.6032321.0477/flat,550x550,075,f.jpg The "relation by marriage and not birth" of hers mentioned in the book Don reads is Queen Bianca, the current Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, who is the niece by marriage of Marie Laveau's granddaughter Liga Foley. The idea of possession from a deceased person's spirit, to my knowledge, is not common in Voodoo faith and was created by me as a plot point for this story. It was inspired, however, by a part of the Marie Laveau legend that had her as immortal (though it seems that was actually largely because she had a daughter also named Marie Laveau who resembled her greatly and took on her mantle immediately after her death).

This is once more the longest thing I've written so far, feedback is very much appreciated!