Healing the Bayou Read Free

Almighty?”
    “Damballah, silly! He is waiting to see you!” For only a moment her youth peeked out from behind her shadowy rouse of authority, but she quickly remembered herself.
    “Samuel,” she commanded, “take Eliza to the hounfour. Bring the shroud and dress her once she is again proper.”
    I glanced sheepishly at Samuel before protesting. “I can dress myself.”
    “No,” she insisted. “Your hands cannot touch the ceremonial clothing. He will not hurt you, honestly.”
    I didn’t have any time to further object before Samuel lifted my unclothed body into his arms and cradled me, carrying me into a nearby crypt. A man followed us with a torch, grinning from ear to ear; he was either amused or excited, I couldn’t tell which. Once we were inside he set the light source into a sconce and left us alone.
    The interior of the small building was even creepier than the outside. Maybe it was just the light from the flames flickering off the walls, but in the corner of my eye there were dark shadows dancing about the room. They disappeared when I turned to find them, so I dismissed the suspicion. The concrete walls were covered in cobwebs and when he set me down onto a stone bench, an imaginary sensation of insects crawling over my body took over. I shivered.
    On the far wall were various works of art carved into the stone. I leaned in closer to one to examine the intricate depiction of a woman dressed decoratively with something illuminating from her hands as she stood over a fallen child. Above this detailed carving was written only one word: Laveau.
    Samuel walked to the center of the crypt, where there was a well of water in place of what I imagined to be the place where a coffin should have rested. He removed his glove from one hand and dipped his fingers into the well. When he looked up at me an almost boyish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
    “It’s still warm from earlier. Come sit next to me.”
    His gaze pulled me to my feet, and I stood without thought of resisting. He held out his gloved hand. I gave him mine, locked into his trance-summoning gaze. Even through his glove a buzz of energy seeped through the fabric.
    “Let me know if I hurt you,” he said gently.
    He took my arm and washed it with a wet cloth separating his unsheathed hand from my skin. Thinking back to the excruciating pain that came when he’d touched me the first time, I instinctively jerked away.
    He must have a blackened soul. Only a blackened soul could explain the severity of the reaction his contact caused.
    “I can wash myself,” I snapped without meaning to sound so harsh.
    “Of course you can.” He looked at me like a wounded lamb with sad eyes and a deep frown.
    “I’m sorry. It’s just a little embarrassing,” I explained.
    “It’s just part of the ritual, Eliza. There is nothing to be embarrassed of. It is the highest honor a priestess can have to commune with Damballah.” I could tell by his expression that what he’d said was meant to be comforting. Damballah was clearly a source of great peace for him and the others.
    “Will it dishonor your tradition if I wash myself?”
    “Technically, it would just be a break in tradition, I think, but we can keep it between us. I will have to dress you though. That is an imperative part of the ritual.”
    I nodded in agreement and took the damp cloth from him.
    He watched me intently as I scrubbed my arms and neck. I was mildly disappointed when he respectfully looked away once I reached my breasts, but I was also relieved.
    This could easily have been the opening scene to a bad porno film, and I was a little peeved at myself knowing I wouldn’t have been able to resist his advances if it had gone that direction—he was a stranger for crying out loud!
    I quickly finished my thorough rinse in silence and stood to be clothed, making no effort to hide the humiliation on my face. Samuel chuckled as he removed the one remaining glove from his hand.
    “I’m