The Seer Renee (2 page)

"Gather around, y’all." I
handed out sheets of paper and pencils for them to take notes before continuing.
"To be effective, your Voodoo doll must contain the essence of the person
you want it to represent. That could be hair, fingernail clipping, skin, semen,
and even sweat. That must be attached or smeared onto the doll—the more
essence the better. Voodoo works through the Loa, who are messengers to God. They
also have powers of their own, but you cannot expect them to be sitting around
waiting to carry out your wishes. You must petition them for their help..."
I expected several were disappointed that they couldn't place a curse on
someone and had to restrict their petitions to more minor aliments or
accidents. If it didn't work, it wouldn't be my fault. It would be their lack
of sincerity, the Loa’s unwillingness to grant the request, insufficient
essence, etc. "From a practical standpoint, perception is crucial. The
person must know you have a doll with his essence and believe you have the
power to connect it to him or her. You never can depend on a Loa to grant your
prayer, and even if he does, a little help doesn't hurt."

The sales made a good profit that
afternoon, and it was fun talking with customers about Voodoo. Most were
surprised to find that Voodoo, more accurately, Vodou, was a religion with
similarities to Catholicism and was practiced by over eighty million people who
believed in one God. For example, the Loa were the equivalent of saints, not
gods.

* * *

That night I sat on my couch
listening to a CD of Taoist music. It helped me to relax for my upcoming fortunetelling
session with one of my regular clients. Fortunetelling for me felt like a
refreshing swim in a river infested with crocodiles. A year before Granny
committed suicide, she sat me down one night and told me a story.

"Renee, what I'm about to tell
you is for you alone. Your life depends on it," she said. In that moment,
she looked somehow older. "Our great, great grandmother received a gift
from some Loa. She could see into the future of anyone she touched. When her
daughters became of age, she selected one and passed on the gift. We'll never
know why she selected the daughter she did. That daughter, my mother, passed
the gift onto me. I should have passed it on to your mother, but I felt she'd
have used it for evil. I'm willing to pass it on to you if you wish. I no
longer know if it is a gift or a curse."

I didn't know what to think. She
had taught me how to tell fortunes by making up stories based on an ability to
read people and their reactions. Most people unintentionally gave you enough
information about themselves to deduce what they wanted to know. You merely had
to give them a fuzzy tale hinting at the possibility of good things happening.
I not only enjoyed it, but with Granny's coaching I became so good, I had a few
of my own clients. But the idea of actually knowing the future sounded intriguing
and exciting.

"The minute someone knows you
can actually tell the future and can in a sense change it, you become a prize
worth more than money. When that happens, your life will no longer be yours.
You would become a slave to someone and never be free again." She wiped
tears from her eyes. I reached out and took her hand, wanting desperately to
help but not knowing how.

"Some dangerous men have
discovered my secret and are forcing me to help them. I'd just refuse and let
them kill me, but they are threatening to kill you if I don't help. Fortunately,
what they want help with is at least a year off. If you decide to accept our
family legacy, that will give me enough time to help you understand the gift.
You need not decide today or even tomorrow. It's not a trivial decision."

“What will we do about whoever is
pressuring you?” I asked, frowning. “You can’t let someone do that. It’s
horrible.”

She patted my hand. “Don’t you
worry. I’m fixin’ to take care of that, but this has to come first.”

Granny and I discussed it for
several days and nights before I gave her my answer. In truth, I knew I would
say "yes" the minute she told me about the gift. A week later, she
sat facing me with her arms bared. I'd seen her tattoos before but thought
little about them, except they looked like works of art.

"They're beautiful, Granma.
Why do you keep them covered?" I asked. She seldom wore clothes that
revealed the tattoos.

"These tattoos cover runes
from the Loa. When you are given one, you will be told its name and see the
rune; however, it will soon be covered with some tattoo. The head of an owl on
my right arm hides Ohene—the rune for foresight and wisdom. My mother
transferred it to me as her mother did to her. The symbol looks like a small
circle with eight arrow-like spokes. It's the only rune that can be handed down
and only from mother to daughter.

"The other tattoos," she said,
pointing to a mouse and an ox, hide Osrane ne nsoroma—the rune for wisdom
and humility, and Gyawu—the rune for respect and leadership. They have
appeared one at a time over the years. They're gifts from the Loa, which aid me
in healing and ceremonies. Those have to be earned, but only the Loa know how."

As I sat staring at the tattoos, Granny
gently took hold of my arm and began chanting. For several minutes I felt
nothing, then I screamed as a searing pain shot up my arm. I tried to pull away
but couldn't. I felt paralyzed. Through the blur of tears, I could see the Ohene
rune on my forearm. It looked red and raw and although the pain had subsided,
the skin smelled like burnt flesh. I watched in fascination as a tattoo took
shape and slowly covered the scarred skin. It didn't take long to realize it
would not be an owl. Granny gasped when a mottled python in yellows and greens
appeared—the great serpent and focus of divine power. After a few minutes
of silence, she spoke.

"One future you can never see
is your own. Even when it's part of another person's, you must extrapolate it from
what you see. Nor can you see those of your family—I cannot see yours. You'll
probably never hear the conversations along with the images. Your great
grandmother could, but I can't. I don't know why. It may be an additional gift
a Loa gives for his or her own reason."

The doorbell thankfully interrupted
my painful reflections of the past. When I answered the door, it was Oatha.

"Good evening. You look
happy."

A smile lit her face and her brown eyes
sparkled. "Yes, Remy and Bella both made the honor roll. I'm so proud of
them."

"That's wonderful," I
said and led her to the old, wooden table in the corner of the shop. She sat,
and I shut off all the lights except for a small dim one over the table. The
reduced lighting helped to keep the person focused on me rather than the
contents of my shop. Oatha already had her hands stretched out on the table
when I sat down. I placed my hands over hers and closed my eyes. When my hands
touched hers, I felt an overwhelming euphoria as her future unfolded before my
eyes. In the beginning, I couldn't stop or slow it down, but with months of practice
I've been able to.

As I watched, I saw Oatha jumping
up and down as her husband, Virgil, told her something. He had a small boat
rigged for seine fishing and from their activities over the next couple of days,
I was sure he had an exceptionally good month. I saw her buying new kitchen
appliances several weeks later.

"Oatha, Virgil will have a
highly profitable month, and you will benefit. You can enjoy the anticipation
of good fortune, but don't jinx it by telling anyone what I've told you. It
could change what I've seen." When I opened my eyes and looked at her, she
was grinning.

The intriguing—and
terrifying—aspect of my gift was that it allowed me to impact future
events. If I saw the individual would be in a car accident and then told them
not to drive on that day, the future would change if, and only if, the person
decided to take my advice. In that event, I would see a different future
unfold. So in a sense, I could change the future by convincing him or her to do
something they would not have done otherwise. When Granny had explained that to
me, it made my head spin. In theory, it sounded simple. In practice, it was far
more complicated since changing one thing could and usually did cause a ripple
effect of other changes—some more unpleasant than the original.
Complicating matters more, I couldn't be specific without people beginning to
realize that I did actually see the future—and worse—impact it. Even
thinking about it gave me a migraine. But telling fortunes brought in extra
income, and in truth, it was exhilarating and provided an opportunity to help
people.

* * *

For the next several days, I
averaged about fifteen to twenty customers a day and half of them usually bought
something. Twice I got to use my little Voodoo doll spiel and sold eight dolls.
It surprised me that Hector or some of his crazy friends hadn't stopped by the
shop. I began to worry that they might be waiting for a more private visit. By
the third day, I concluded all I could do was be prepared. Fortunately, when I
was fourteen, Granny had insisted I learn some form of self-defense. I tried several
styles the first year and finally settled on Bagua, an internal style of Kung
Fu that focused on continuously changing positions in response to your opponents'
attack. It succeeded through balance and skill, not strength or brute force.

No clients wanted a telling, so the
evenings were quiet. I fixed dinner each night and afterward relaxed with one
of Granny's hand-written books on herbs.

* * *

Late one afternoon, just before closing, Mambo Asogwe—high
priestess—Monique, entered my shop. A Haitian in her sixties with a
strong-boned face and high arched brows, today she wore a long loose-fitting
purple gown with a matching head wrap. She said nothing as she strolled around
the shop until she reached my counter.

"Bonjour, Renee. Your shop appears to be doing well.
Your Voodoo dolls seem particularly popular." A small smile touched her
lips.

"Thank you, Mambo Monique. Merely proof that
perception is as important as truth."

"True, perception is important; however, it's
truth that separates the true mambos and houngans from the fakes. Speaking of
perception, your reputation has grown since the incident with Hector. Some
mambos wonder whether it was white or black magic.”

"Granny Eshe would not permit me to use black
magic. She would haunt me from the grave."

"True. Mambo Asogwe Eshe was a true high
priestess of Vodou, and we should expect no less from her granddaughter." Monique
nodded. "I'm satisfied. Nevertheless, the rumor will persist. Hector must retaliate
for what you did to him or lose face. Black magic would provide him with a
reasonable explanation."

"Thank you, Mambo Monique. Your opinion of me is
crucial since I can't dispute the black magic without bringing the Locos down
on me." I shuddered at the thought of what Hector and his whacko friends
would do to me.

"Take care of yourself, Renee. You're welcome at
my hounfour anytime." With that she left. I felt sure Monique had come to
talk to me because of her strong friendship with Granny. There was a delicate
balance in New Orleans and vicinity between the honest and fake mambos. We all
had to make a living to survive, like any pastor of a church. We were,
therefore, in competition for both tourists and followers of Vodou. On the
other hand, Vodou was a religion that went far beyond money and our personal
needs. The honest mambo and houngan hoped to provide their followers with a
fuller life and prepare them for death. Of course, we also had to live in the
real world with its Hectors and men like those who drove Granny to her grave.

* * *

The next couple of days were much like every other
day, although business was a little slow. As I was getting ready to close for
the night, a man and woman entered the shop. The man stood over six feet tall.
He had an athletic build, walked with his shoulders back, and had dark-brown
hair cut above the ears as though he might have had military training. He was dressed
casually in an open sports shirt, Docker slacks, and loafers. The woman was a
perfect match. She was only a few inches shorter than him, brunette hair cut above
her ears, with not an ounce of fat. She wore light brown slacks and a cream
silk blouse open at the neck. With her sleek frame and penetrating green eyes, she
looked and walked like a predatory cat. They were looking at me rather than
around the shop.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Mambo Eshe," the man said.
It took me a moment before I could talk.

"No, sir. She died over a year ago. Can I maybe
help you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. We vacation here
once every couple of years, and I always stop in for a telling. Mambo Eshe was
the best I've ever encountered. You aren't related by any chance, are
you?" He looked sincere; however, the woman looked like a cat watching a
mouse.

"Yes, I'm her granddaughter. I've inherited her
shop," I said with a smile I didn't feel.
Damn it! I didn't want her shop. I wanted her.

"Are you also a fortuneteller?"

You know damn
well I am.
Warning sirens went off in my head. Could they somehow be related
to Granny's death?

"Yes, sir. People think I'm as good as she
was," I said straightening myself and pushing my chest out as if to
challenge any doubt. But it hurt to even say it. If this were a game as I
suspected, he would be suspicious if I said I wasn't. Fortunetellers don't
claim to be less talented than someone else. They claim they're better.

"Excellent. Can you do it now? Sheila and I are
leaving early tomorrow."

"No. I'd have to close the shop. Besides, I need
time to prepare and to invoke the help of the Loa. I can do it later tonight if
you want."