Ayida #4
Madame exhaled, long and heavy, a sound weighted with generations.
Then her voice rose not loud, but strong enough to make the candles flicker.
"Pitit mwen pèdi," she muttered in Creole, shaking her head.
My child is lost. "Li pa konnen kiyès mwen te leve li pou l' ye.
" She don't know who I raised her to be.
Her voice cracked, just a little. "Gen pitye pou mwen.
" Have mercy on me. The way she said it made my stomach twist. Like she wasn't talking to me anymore but to the spirits listening through the walls.
She pushed her chair back and stood with purpose, her bangles clinking.
Without another word, she walked down the narrow hallway toward the back room.
It was her workroom, where her altar lived, where the air always felt twice as heavy and twice as holy.
She didn't look back when she said, "Vini.
" Come. It wasn't a request. I didn't have a choice.
I rose slowly, wiping my palms on my thighs before following her.
My heartbeat drummed in my ears as I crossed the threshold into that room.
Nothing in there had ever been meant for comfort.
It was a room built for truth that was a raw and uncut.
As soon as I stepped inside, the smell hit me: sage, whiskey, smoke, and something older that had no name but carried weight.
The veil of it wrapped around me just as Madame pressed an actual veil into my hands.
"Put it on," she said. I did. My fingers trembled as I drew the black mesh over my head, letting it fall across my shoulders.
The world dimmed behind it. Sound shifted. My breath sounded louder.
Madame moved around the altar with the kind of grace only age and power could give.
She lit candles one by one, each flame rising tall.
Shadows danced across the walls in long fingers.
She poured whiskey into two glasses. One for the ancestors, one for the spirit she was calling to the door.
Then she took a small bowl of rose petals and let them fall across the floor, scattering them like soft punctuation marks.
Oil followed, drops glistening on the wood, catching the candlelight like tiny suns. I felt the room lean toward us.
My knees gave before I even meant to kneel.
I sank at the foot of the altar, lowering my head as the veil brushed my cheeks.
My palms pressed to the floor. My heart raced so hard I felt it in my teeth.
Madame knelt beside me, her beads clattering between her fingers as she wrapped them twice around her wrist. She whispered something only the spirits would understand, then louder, sharp enough to slice through the heavy air, she said: "Sa se tout sa m'ap fè pou yon St. Jean.
" This is all I'll ever do for a St. Jean. Ever.
Her voice shook something loose inside me, loyalty, fear, devotion, guilt.
All of it tangled together. Then she began chanting.
Her voice rose from somewhere ancient, from a place older than language.
She called for protection, over my spirit first, naming me like a mother calling a child out of danger.
Then over Noles, her tone shifting, harder, as if she had to fight the dark to speak his name.
She called the dead, the guardians, and the women in our bloodline who had fought and lost and fought again.
I felt the altar warm under my hands. Felt something shift behind me, like a presence stepping closer.
The veil over my head grew lighter, as if something breathed under it with me.
Madame leaned forward, whispering so close I could feel the heat of her breath against my ear.
"M'ap gide lespri li tounen kote li soti," she murmured.
I'm guiding his spirit back toward its home.
My chest stuttered. "And I'm guiding yours to meet his," she continued.
"Two souls tied at the waist but you fighting two worlds, Cher.
And tonight," Her voice dropped into something grave, certain.
"tonight we pull them together.” I tried to breathe steady, but the energy in the room thickened like syrup.
My vision pulsed behind the mesh. My fingers tingled where they touched the floor.
The candles leaned toward us, their flames stretching like hands.
Madame's chant rose again, louder now, her voice shaking the walls: "Pwoteje pitit mwen.
Pwoteje non marye li. Mande lespri yo kenbe l' vivan nan limyè a.
Mande yo fè sa ki dwat, pa sa ki fasil." Protect my child.
Protect her husband's name. Tell the spirits keep him alive in the light.
Tell them do what is right, not what is easy.
My throat tightened. I whispered his name into my veil.
"Noles." The moment I spoke it, the room changed.
The candles flickered hard. Something brushed the back of my neck cool as shadow, warm as memory.
The whiskey glass on the altar trembled, the surface rippling like something unseen walked by.
Madame didn't stop chanting. Her voice grew stronger, calling, commanding, coaxing.
She guided his spirit toward me like she was leading a man out of a burning house, refusing to look back, refusing to let him fall.
I felt the pull in my chest. A tug like a string tied to my heart, drawn tight, then tighter.
Just for a split second, just long enough to steal the breath from my lungs.
I felt him. His spirit was Sliding back toward mine like a tide returning home after months of trying to find its way.
Madame's voice cracked as she delivered the last line of her prayer: "Fè yo youn nan limyè e pa nan fènwa.
" Make them one in light, not in darkness.
The room exhaled all at once. The candles settled.
The floor warmed and air stilled. Madame lowered her head, beads clacking softly as her hands relaxed.