Carrying his clarinet case and his straw bag of tricks, Cecil Gregson wended his way through the streets of the City of the Dead. The narrow alleyways were edged with rusty ironwork and rows and rows of tombs. Some of the tombs were modest, some were grand, and most were in advanced stages of deterioration. Marble crosses and statues jutted from their surfaces. Almost all of the final resting places were aboveground.
He squinted as he walked, blinded by the light reflected off the sun-bleached tombs. His heart beat faster as he neared his goal. He wanted to have some time alone beside the notorious tomb.
Cecil pushed the porkpie hat back on his head and groaned inwardly as he came to the bend and saw the people gathered around what was said to be the spot where Marie Laveau rested. Cecil was disappointed that he wasn’t alone—disappointed but not surprised. He had heard that more visitors came to the crumbling crypt of the voodoo queen of New Orleans each year than went to visit Elvis Presley’s grave. Cecil wondered if he counted as one visitor or one hundred, since that was approximately how many times he came annually to pay his respects.
He suspected that tourists must be disappointed when they came to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 and saw the run-down Greek Revival tomb. Amassed at the bottom of the crypt were trinkets left by other visitors. Empty cigarette packages, lip-gloss wands, bottles, ribbons, sticks of gum, coins, beads, cards, rocks, and other items that would only look like trash to the uninitiated.
Beads of perspiration dotted Cecil’s brow as he found a spot at the edge of a group of tourists and laid his instrument case and straw bag on the ground. He watched and listened as a good-looking, jean-clad tour guide spoke.
“Because New Orleans has an unusually high water table, underground burial often isn’t practical. In times of heavy rains and flooding, there have been problems with coffins bursting up through the ground and floating away. Interring the dead in aboveground family crypts is the logical solution.”
A florid-faced man raised his hand. “Falkner, these crypts don’t seem big enough to hold whole families,” he said, gesturing around at the other tombs surrounding the voodoo queen’s. “Don’t they get filled up pretty fast?”
“They are really very efficient,” answered Falkner, the tour guide. “The crypts serve as reusable combustion chambers. The extreme heat of New Orleans bakes the stone, brick, and concrete vaults, quickly breaking down the human remains deposited inside. After a year or two, the tomb can be reopened, and whatever’s left is moved to a specially made burial bag and placed at the side, back, or bottom of the vault, leaving room for the next deceased family member to take up residence.”
“Eww! Creepy!” cried a teenage girl as she grabbed onto her boyfriend’s arm.
“And what about Marie Laveau?” asked another tourist, fanning himself with his baseball cap. “Why is a voodoo queen interred in a Catholic cemetery?”
“Voodoo is a religion, a form of worship brought to the Caribbean and American colonies from Africa through the slave trade,” explained Falkner. “But remember: Many slaves were owned by Catholic masters, and they were influenced by that. New Orleans voodoo is steeped in Catholicism. Marie Laveau was a devout Catholic who attended Mass nearly every day. She mixed holy water, incense, Catholic prayers, and saints into the African-based voodoo rites.”
“I’ve heard the term ‘hoodoo,’ ” said the same tourist. “Are hoodoo and voodoo the same thing?”
“Hoodoo is derived from voodoo,” answered Falkner. “But voodoo is considered a religion and hoodoo is not. Hoodoo is only concerned with the magical practices of voodoo.”
The tour guide walked around to the side of the tomb. “See these X’s?” he asked, pointing to the many marks scratched on the crypt wall. “These have been left largely by tourists who’ve heard that marking the tomb with three X’s or spinning around three times or knocking on it or rubbing a foot on it before leaving an offering of some kind will get them a wish granted. I can tell you that it’s considered a crime to mark up this tomb or any of the others. I can’t tell you if you’ll get your wish.”
Cecil watched as the tour group moved on. He wanted to yell after them and tell them that he could attest to the fact that Marie Laveau did answer when she was called upon. He knew it to be true.
Reaching into his bag of tricks—past the cigars, the leather cat-o’-nine-tails, and other voodoo goodies—Cecil pulled out a black candle and a pack of matches. Spinning around three times, he lit the candle, laid it at the base of the tomb, and made his wish.