The Ship of Souls

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Two friends embark on a voyage into the unknown.
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The Crescent City: New Orleans, the most lustrous, and infamous jewel of the south. Like the ancestors of old, the ancient city wears a masque that conceals her mysteries from the curiosity of outsiders. Known for her revelry and night-life, New Orleans has a multi-faceted persona all her own.

Like a jigsaw puzzle, the city was long ago broken into diverse neighborhoods represented by the cultures of its occupants. From the notorious French Quarter to the illustrious Garden District, those cultures, for all intents and purposes, were set apart by indivisible lines comprised of individual races, languages, and traditions. Those divisions stood as firm as iron fortress walls, but on occasion, the gates between the walls are flung open and lines are crossed.

For instance, in the renown French Quarter, along Bourbon street, where the heart and pulse of the city beat, anyone can publicly experience the lively rhythm of jazz music, savor the taste of rich cuisine, or quench their thirst with a delectable, exotic drink that revives the wilted spirit from the heat and humidity of a hot summer's day.

By day, a pleasant stroll along Canal Street, lined with shops of antiquities and curious souvenirs, will satiate the desire to possess a part of the historical district. Or, one can imbibe of a blend of French roasted coffee and ground chicory, accompanied by beignets sprinkled with powdered confections while resting tired feet on the outskirts of Jackson Square where open-air marketers peddle their wares. Everything from hand-crafted jewelry to tidbits of confections, like king-cakes or pralines, art works and paintings can be procured for a price in market square.

By night, the Quarter, as it is affectionately called, comes alive with bustling activity of merry-makers, both foreign and native, raking in the bulk of municipal revenue from the tourism trade. It is a dangerous place to be in the after-hours of darkness with its narrow streets, and its strange inhabitants who lurk in the shadows seeking unwary prey to rob and molest. Traders engaged in black market wares take to the streets, peddling human flesh in the form of risqué dancers and licentious sex acts, open to public display, even if more discreet than in the days of old Storyville. When the sun sets below the horizon, crime, of all sorts, is enormously high in this area.

By comparison, the Garden District yields to the influences of its Irish community roots. Moderate stately homes, simple but eloquent by design, offer quiet repose to the weary. Its inhabitants can close their doors to the noise of the city and find the comforts of a calm and quiet atmosphere, a more relaxed and pious lifestyle than the thrill-seekers of the French quadrant of the city.

Outside the city, near the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, lies Mandeville, where antebellum homes stand in salute to the glory of the old south. While large plantations have now been reduced to more manageable estates, their beauty provokes visions of the past when ballrooms hosted celebrations that drew large numbers of guests, arriving by carriage and dressed in elegant finery of European silks and satins; a time when servants and slaves out numbered their masters, and a life of chivalry and honor was observed.

It is here that you will find live oaks older than the city itself, covered in Spanish moss that sway in the gentle southern breezes. The perfume of bougainvillea, gardenia, and lilac hang heavy on the air. Azalea bushes as large as trees, and as abundantly dressed in colorful blooms as to barely see any greenery at all, act as hedges around the large verandas where front porch swings offer a place of rest in the shade. And who could imagine sitting on such a swing without also imagining the taste of a tall, chilled mint julep or iced lemonade spiked with a fine Irish whiskey for effect?

In New Orleans and the surrounding areas, life is lived by the motto "Laissez les Bon Temps Rouler", ( Let the good times roll!)

All these things are but an elegant cloak the city wears and beneath which lies a darker, less refined society; a society steeped in mystic beliefs and ancient traditions which must be at least witnessed to be believed. There exist, societies so secretive that no outsider can penetrate the invisible walls that have been erected around them. In these societies, when the lines of culture are crossed, there is an unmistakable reckoning with repercussions beyond the comprehension of all non-believers. The Creoles of the area describe this principle of cause and effect by saying, "Apre bal, tanbou lou", or translated, "After the dance, the drum is heavy."

**********

"Come on, Ian! Don't you think you've carried this a bit too far?" Frank admonished in an earnest whisper of dismay. The café was a sea of commotion during the lunch-hour rush and he had no desire to attract any unwarranted attention to himself, or his long-time friend and client. Ian cast a sour look in his direction.

"There was no girl, Ian! When are you going to get that through that thick skull of yours?" Frank pleaded with exasperation. "It was a dream! Nothing more!" Frank insisted.

"She was no dream, Frank," Ian insisted under his breath. He was weary of the same argument that they had replayed over a thousand times in the past year. It was hard to believe that it had indeed been a year ago since his encounter with the elusive woman. The memory still seemed so fresh in his mind.

"Then, what was she, Ian? A ghost?" Frank goaded.

"Maybe," Ian shrugged with seeming indifference.

"I can't believe we are having this conversation again," Frank snorted, throwing his napkin down on the table with disgust. "She wasn't real, Ian. You were tired and you drank too much. That's all there was to it," Frank explained yet again. "Look, no one else saw her, only you. And, even you had to admit that there was no other logical explanation for what happened afterwards."

Ian sighed and sat back in his chair. It was true. No one else had seen the woman. The next day, he had gone back to the apartment where she had taken him, only to find it vacant. He had spoken to the leasing agent himself, and she had said the apartment hadn't been leased in over two months. There was no other logical explanation except Frank's insistence that he had imagined the whole affair. Ian wasn't looking for a logical explanation anymore. He had moved on to the unimaginable for answers.

"Is that what this is about, Ian?" Frank asked with narrowed eyes of suspicion. "Did you come here hunting for some phantom ghost-woman?"

Ian banged his fist on the table, rattling the silverware and causing heads to turn in their direction. He lowered his voice so as not to be easily overheard. "Damn it, Frank! I'm looking for answers. Can't you understand that?" he countered. In his own mind, he knew he was obsessed by the memory of her.

It wasn't just her beauty that haunted him, or even the incredible sex. It was everything about the experience; no one else witnessed them meeting, or leaving the party together. The doorman at the apartment didn't recognize him, or his description of the woman. Most of all, it was what she said to him. 'I own your soul', weren't those her exact words? He'd asked himself a million times, who in their right mind, would make such a claim?

"I'm a writer, Frank, and you are right. We've exhausted all the logical explanations," Ian sighed with resignation. "But, I still want answers even if they are illogical. I have to do this, Frank, and with you, or without you, I'm going to find those answers," Ian said resolutely.

Frank knew his obstinate friend all too well. There was no deterring him. It was senseless to even try. "Alright, Ian. Have it your way. I'll go along with this lunacy on one condition," he reluctantly agreed. "Whatever happens, answers or no, you give it up after this," Frank insisted. "Agreed?" he prodded.

"Alright! You go with me tonight, and either way, I'm done," Ian relented.

"And, when you find out that this woman is nothing but a charlatan, you'll go back to writing again?" Frank inquired with a raised eyebrow of doubt. It was the first hint in a year that Ian would even consider giving up his idea of finding the phantom woman.

Ian lit a cigarette and stared blankly at his friend. "You haven't even met her yet, and you've already decided that she's a quack," he observed. Frank had never had much of an open-mind, but his mind was decisively closed when it came to the realm of the occult.

"I don't need to meet her. There's no such thing as the living dead, my friend," Frank replied sullenly. "All this talk about voodoo and ghosts and demons gives me the creeps!" he shivered repulsively. "I don't believe a word of it," he said adamantly while sipping at his bourbon.

"Then why does it bother you so much?" Ian asked. "If you don't believe in it, then it doesn't exist. And, if it isn't real, why worry?"

"I worry because I don't want anyone seeing me, or you, hanging around some old witch in a dark alley!" Ian scoffed. "I'm an attorney, Ian. It wouldn't do much for my reputation with potential clients," he pointed out emphatically. "I'm speaking as your attorney now. I have no doubt it isn't going to help your book sales much either."

"Planning on running for political office, are you, Frank?" Ian smirked at him.

"Damned right! If the opportunity presents itself, I just might!" Frank blurted in a hushed tone. "And, I damned well don't need this little fiasco surfacing on my record in the future. It could ruin me...and you, for that matter!"

"Oh, relax, Frank! Take a deep breath and go sit on a toilet or something for awhile," Ian ridiculed. "Your asshole is so tight you couldn't pass gas right now, much less a senate investigation. No one even knows we are here, much less why we are here."

"I'd like to keep it that way," Frank grumbled into his drink. He glanced nervously at his watch. "What time are we supposed to meet this witch anyway?" he asked.

"She's not a witch," Ian frowned. "She's a voodoo priestess. There's a difference, you know. And, nine o'clock to answer your question. You have time to take a long nap and relax awhile if you like."

"I'll relax when we're both on a plane headed out of this place," Frank retorted as he rose and stood, if a bit unsteadily. "I'm going back to the hotel. Ring me when you're ready to go. I'll meet you in the lobby."

***********

The Fete Ghede was a feast in celebration of the dead. Traditionally, it began on All Hallows Eve, and continued into All Saints Day. For believers, it was a solemn occasion that occurred once a year, and on that one day, the souls of the departed could be summoned from the underworld to return and walk among the living.

In New Orleans, the festival had for centuries been publicly held on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain. Led by a voodoo priest or priestess, it began with the imbuement of alcoholic drink or ale, laced with certain herbs that the loa spirits favored. That particular tradition was followed by the playing of tamboulas, or ritual drums, while the priestess chanted incantations which summoned particular spirits to enter the celebration with the living.

The chevals, or believers, danced wildly to the drums, reciting the chants along with the priestess. If their prayers were answered, the spirits would appear, either in physical form, or by possessing the bodies of the living. If possessed by a loa, the dancers would take on the characteristics of the loa summoned.

It was this summons of the dead that Ian sought to witness. In fact, he hoped to summon the lady of his dreams in order to learn her true identity, since he was now convinced she was not of this world. His fear of not being believed had caused him to invite his friend Frank to accompany him on his journey into the unknown. Frank was a firm dissenter. He wanted nothing to do with the workings of spirits or magic. Frank undoubtedly feared what he could not understand, nor explain. For that reason, he would make a more reliable witness should Ian succeed in his quest.

Despite tradition, it was not to the shores of Lake Pontchartrain that the pair traveled, but rather to an obscure location embedded deep in the swamps and bayous that surrounded the city. The taxi wheeled its way along secluded roads before taking twists and turns where street lights no longer existed, and the darkness folded in upon itself until the terrain disappeared completely from view.

Suddenly, a glimmer of light appeared through the pitch and the mist of the swamps. The driver came to an abrupt stop, keeping some space between the cab and the lights ahead. He stared bleakly and pointed with an audible grunt towards what now could be discerned as fires burning in the distance. He spoke not a word as Ian and Frank stepped out of the taxi and paid the fare along with a generous tip for his trouble.

Frank pulled his coat a bit tighter around him and swore as he peered into the darkness. "Shit! This is just great, Ian! We're in the middle of nowhere and not a soul knows where we went," he muttered dismally. The sound of gravel scattering behind them made him jump with a start. The taxi peeled away and retreated hurriedly into the dark.

"Suck it up, Frank. We're here now. Come on," Ian said, giving him a nudge of encouragement and taking a step towards the fires in the distance.

"If I sucked 'em up any further, they'd be in my fucking mouth," Frank grumbled in discontent. "I don't know why I let you talk me into this shit in the first damned place! I had to be crazy! You can bet your sweet ass there are alligators and snakes looking at us like we're fucking hors d'oeuvres right now!" he spat with some vehemence, while reluctantly matching Ian's stride. He had little desire to be left standing alone in the eerie darkness of the swamps.

"Look at it as an adventure, Frank. You're about to see something most people don't ever have the opportunity to see," Ian suggested brightly.

"I've seen enough already," Frank snapped back with irritation. "Did it ever occur to you that we could end up with our heads bashed in and floating face down in pond full of giant reptiles? We'll be lucky if even parts of us can be identified," he snarled with an ill temperament.

The sound of distant laughter broke the silence of the night and Frank seemed to relax, if only a little. "Was that an actual human?" he inquired in a hopeful whisper.

"Well, what did you expect, Frank?" Ian asked sarcastically, while forging ahead through the thick blanket of fog.

"I'm no expert, but there's no telling what all lives out there," Frank retorted with a toss of his head in the direction of the black waters. "Besides voodoo queens and witches, that is," he muttered. "But, whatever it is, I don't want to meet it."

They broke through the mist and into a clearing where a large bonfire blazed, and they met a welcomed sight; a congregation of several dozen people, more or less, all colorfully dressed, and all socially engaged with one another. A petite woman wearing long skirts, a loose blouse, and donning a tignon which was the traditional head-dress for women of mixed blood in the nineteenth century, hurried forward to greet them. She grasped their hands firmly, each in turn, and smiled broadly at them. "Welcome! Welcome! I am Madame Legendre," she said to Frank. "We were beginning to think you weren't coming, Monsieurs!"

Having met with the Madame earlier in order to arrange their attendance at the fete, Ian greeted her just as warmly as he made the introductions between his friend and the mysterious woman. "It's nice to see you again, Madame. This is my friend, Frank Miller," he said, indicating Frank with a bob of his head.

"Of course, of course!" she smiled receptively again. "Bonswa! Koman ou ye?" she inquired with a pleasant and sincere tone.

"Come again?" Frank muttered while eyeing the seductively attractive woman with some vaguely concealed interest.

"I'm so sorry! Sometimes, I forget others do not understand our language. I asked how you are, Monsieur," she explained apologetically.

Frank glanced nervously about, noting a nearby shanty where candles glowed in the windows. A sudden breeze caused the window panes to rattle noisily, perpetuating his uneasiness. "Is that where you live?" Frank asked, nodding in the direction of the old wooden dwelling. His brows were knitted tightly together and he was frowning in obvious discomfort.

"Bon Dieu! For goodness sakes, no!" the woman laughed while pressing a hand to her breast. "I live in town, of course! I'm sure this all must seem very strange to you," she said with sympathetic understanding of Frank's naïve perceptions. "This place is more of a hunting or fishing lodge. See? Just over there is a boat dock," she stated, pointing towards a rather small and dilapidated looking pier in the dark.

"We use this place for gatherings sometimes when we want more privacy than the city affords us," she went on. "At my home in the city, I can assure you, I have all the amenities. Even indoor plumbing, and nosy neighbors!" she whispered conspiratorially behind her hand. Frank had to admit, if only to himself, that the lady did possess a certain charm and a delightful wit.

Frank eyed her more closely now. She possessed a notably graceful manner, much like a dancer. Her skin was tawny, like caramel candy, and smooth, without visible blemishes. The low-necked blouse she wore revealed more than a hint of two lovely, pear-shaped breasts that promised to be firm, yet supple, even springy to the touch. He tried to imagine the large, dark nipples he could barely discern beneath the thin, white cotton blouse. It made his organ stiffen and he nearly groaned aloud at the prospect of cumming between those two cushions. In his mind, he used his fingers and thumbs to stretch her nipples to the extreme, while wrapping them tightly around his throbbing penis. Her breasts were decisively fuckable, he decided.

He cleared his throat nervously and averted his gaze. His penis was alert and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other to disguise its aroused state. "Are you really a witch?" he blurted without restraint. Damn his irrepressible tongue! He hadn't meant to ask that at all. He sounded like some innocent school-boy. He blushed visibly with embarrassment.

Instead of finding himself rebuffed by the question, the woman hooked her arms through both men's simultaneously, and began leading them towards a carefully arranged stand of chairs. "Come! Have a seat over here where we can talk before the ceremonies begin," she encouraged brightly. She guided them to the arranged seating area and saw them comfortably settled.

"Let me bring you something to drink, and then we can talk," she offered. "We have some interesting beverages you might enjoy, but I think you look like a spicy kind of guy!" she teased Frank with twinkling eyes. "How about some hot rum?" she suggested before twisting about to retrieve the refreshments.

"God-damn-it, Frank!" Ian hissed under his breath. "Could you tone it down just a bit? Your tongue is practically dragging in the dirt, and if that isn't drool on your pants, I think I might throw-up!" he snarled.

"Well, you didn't tell me she was so hot, buddy! And, I don't need you telling me what a fool I just made of myself," Frank groaned in quiet despair. "I thought witches were all old and ugly, with no teeth, and big warts or some shit!" he complained in earnest. "Did you see those tits?!!" he asked in apparent disbelief.

"I wasn't looking at her tits," Ian scolded. He shushed his friend as Madame Legendre approached again.

"Here we are!" she exclaimed while handing over two small glasses liberally filled with dark rum. She gathered her skirts and swiftly straddled a chair in front of them, casually resting one arm on the back of her seat.