When the bus got to the cemetery, the guide, Claudine, told us the famous voodoo priestess Marie Laveau is believed to be entombed there.
“I want to see that,” Nestor said.
I rolled my eyes.
“One more thing,” the guide warned. “Do not walk alone in the cemetery. Hugo is leading a walking tour now. He won’t have a problem if you stay with them. Be sure to leave when they do.”
“Is there danger of being devoured by flesh-eating ghouls?” Nestor asked.
“Actually, it’s live, money-stealing people you need to worry about.”
“That’s no fun.”
Claudine laughed. “Just remember, there’s safety in numbers.”
“I hope,” Nestor said.
We went straight to Hugo’s group. We weren’t taking any chances. We stood right next to the other people. I noticed that Nestor kept looking over his shoulder. I guess ghouls didn’t scare him, but robbers were another story.
“Our cemeteries reflect the different cultures, races, and socio-economic groups that lived side by side in our city. The high water table makes in-ground burials virtually impossible. Most of New Orleans is at or below sea level. We generally do interments in above-ground vaults, crypts in mausoleums, and family tombs.”
The walking tour guide, Hugo, continued, “We revere our dead. Strong religious devotion is apparent in our celebrations, holidays, and traditions. Death is no stranger to the residents of New Orleans. Our history is filled with stories of human suffering. Slavery, disease, natural disasters, oppressive heat and humidity, wartime occupation, and crime have left indelible marks on the psyche of our people.”
“Sounds depressing,” I whispered to Nestor, but Hugo overheard.
“Actually, just the opposite is true. The belief in life after death is strong. Jazz funerals usher our dead into the afterlife and are as upbeat as you can get. Many people still place yellow chrysanthemums and lighted candles at the resting places of their loved ones on All Saints’ Day, November 1, in preparation for their return to earth on All Soul’s Day, November 2. These monuments are also tributes to those who have passed.”
“Thanks for explaining.” I was embarrassed. I don’t like attention on me.
“Let’s walk in this direction. Please don’t stop for photos.”
The guide explained the wall vault holding areas and the year-and-a-day custom, or more recently for a minimum of two years, so that all family members could be accommodated in the family vaults and mausoleums. The bodies of the deceased are kept in the holding area, for that time period. Since the bodies decompose so quickly in the heat and humidity, first one in is first one out. The remains of the body that’s been there the longest are put in a burial bag, and moved to a special place in the vault. Their coffin is then destroyed. Now there is room for the next family member to be moved from the holding vault to the family’s resting place. Wow! This was something I never thought about, but I guess it makes a lot of sense.
Nestor was pulling on my arm, “Let’s go.”
We went to plot 347—the Glapion family crypt. The resting place of Marie Laveau, Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. It looked just like the other crypts except for the piles of food, money, flowers, candles, and beads.
“This is the family crypt of Marie’s husband where she was laid to rest in 1881 at the age of ninety-eight. Please remember, it’s sometimes hard to separate fact from legend so I can only tell you what is believed to be true. After Marie’s first husband died under mysterious circumstances, she and her second husband, Christopher Glapion, had fifteen children together.”
Nestor asked, “Was she an evil person?”
“That’s a good question. Marie worked as a hairdresser, then as a nurse during the yellow fever and typhoid epidemics that plagued New Orleans. She used indigenous herbs to cure her patients and was known to have saved so many lives that her methods were open to suspicion. Marie was a devout Roman Catholic and believed in the power of Jesus Christ but had no problem turning to saints as well as West African spirits—loahs, as they’re called—for help in solving problems or making people’s wishes come true. She was beautiful, flamboyant and ceremonious. People from all walks of life flocked to her. She gave out gris- gris—good luck charms—to those seeking help. The question remains: was it skill or occult magic?”
“So, which one was it?” Nestor asked.
“I can’t answer that question for you. We each have our own belief systems, and we must come to our own conclusions.”
The tour guide pointed out the X marks on the crypt. “Many people still believe in Marie’s powers. These marks are made by those wanting a wish granted. They scratch an X on the tomb, turn around three times, knock on the tomb to get Marie’s attention, and yell out the wish. If granted, they return, cross out the X and leave an offering as thanks.”
“Don’t people take the money and other stuff?” I saw it was just there in the open.
“Not so much. It takes a special kind of person to steal from a Voodoo Queen.”
“Good point.” I answered.
“I see a lot of crossed out Xs. That means a lot of these wishes came true?” Nestor asked. He was unusually quiet and that could only mean trouble. His mind was working. With some crazy plan.
“It could mean that.”
The guide took questions from the group, then headed toward the cemetery exit.
Nestor and I started to follow, but Nestor raced back to the Glapion family crypt.
He picked up a piece of broken cement from the ground, made an X on the crypt, twirled three times, knocked on the crypt, and screamed, “Marie, wake up. Can you hear me? It’s me, Nestor. I wish for help in rescuing the three people at Phil’s aunt’s house. I need to know what’s going on there. Thank you!”
Everybody in the cemetery turned to look. Some laughed. Some didn’t. Some made the sign of the cross. One guy gave Nestor the peace sign.
“Nestor, are you out of your mind? Do you actually believe this?”
“I’m not sure…but just in case…”