CHAPTER 28

 ANCELIN AWOKE EARLY. The aches and pains of age that normally accompanied consciousness were gone. Sitting up, she slowly moved her arms, then her legs. Nothing! No burning, no crackling noises accompanied the bending of old joints. Staring at her hands, she flexed the fingers.

Other than the visible evidence of swollen knuckles and the purple veins pulsating beneath the thin transparent skin, there were no signs of the arthritis that had crippled her for years.

“C’est impossible!” she gasped, crossing her chest.

Sliding from the bed, she took a few steps, then a few more, and let out a high, piercing scream.

Moments later, Boudreau barged into his grandmother’s room and stopped, stunned at the sight of her dancing across the floor, both arms wrapped around her pillow as if embracing an imaginary partner.

“Grandmère? Comment ça va?”

“Ah mon petit, je vais très bien. Très, très bien!” she cried gleefully, running over to hug him. Boudreau was stunned by her strength. Before she had been given the potion, Ancelin was virtually bedridden. Now she moved with the grace of a young woman.

Picking her up, he swung her around like a small child, wanting to share in her happiness. “Eet’s a miracle, grandmère!” he exclaimed. “I was so worried. You’ve been asleep for over a week. Mambo Lucretia weel be pleased.”

Setting her gently on her feet, he pulled out his cell phone and called the high priestess. After telling her about Ancelin and listening to Lucretia’s instructions, he hung up.

“The mistress wants to see us now.”

An hour later, they arrived at his employer’s estate.

Outside the large, wrought iron gates a crowd had gathered. Lucretia’s servants had begged their mistress to let them call their friends and family so all could share in Ancelin’s happiness and witness the miracle for themselves. Smiling with satisfaction, Lucretia agreed, giving everyone the day off. News traveled rapidly amongst the priestess’s followers.

Stepping from the limousine, Ancelin ran to Mambo Lucretia, tears streaming down her cheeks. Falling to her knees, she kissed the priestess’s feet.

“Merci, Mambo Lucretia, merci beaucoup! C’est un miracle!”

“Eet eez good to see you again, très chère. I was worried. You slept a long time,” Lucretia said, looking closely at the old woman and smiling with satisfaction. Ancelin’s skin was smooth and pink. She looked years younger. “Let our people see you! Thees eez the power Bondye geeves me!” she declared, turning toward the crowd. “And the geeft I geeve to you, mes amis. Those who doubt me see I speak the truth. I am bokor to Bondye. I am heez chosen.”

As one, the crowd shouted their approval. Ancelin had been crippled for years. Now she stood before them pain free.

Signaling for the crowd to leave, Lucretia told Boudreau to escort his grandmother into her living room. The priestess wanted to check her for other signs of improvement.

As she entered the gated garden, a gust of wind blew a flier against her leg, pressing it against her ankle as if held by invisible hands. Reaching down, she pulled it away and started to crumple it. The face on the front caught her attention. Smoothing out the creases, Lucretia stared at the pale blue eyes behind the mask— disturbing eyes, mysterious and compelling.

“Boudreau, vous avez vu ceci?” she asked, handing him the flyer.

“Oui.”

“You deed not tell me?” she demanded angrily.

“I only heard of her arrival last night, mistress. Eet eez her last show.”

Obviously, this was a sign from Bondye. She had read about the Illusionist and was curious about her.

“Find me more about thees Illusionist. I weel talk to Ancelin later.”

Bowing, Boudreau left. After taking his grandmother home, he drove to the nearest bookstore and thumbed through several magazines. Finding two with detailed information on the Illusionist’s performances, he took them to Lucretia.

“Merci, Boudreau. Appel Mayhew, s’il vous plaît. Il doit venire ici ce soir.”

Boudreau nodded respectfully and left.

 

*  *  *

Lucretia spent the rest of the day reading the articles on the Illusionist and researching on the Internet. Although she found thousands of sites, few had anything informative. Most were from fans writing über stories about the Illusionist and her lovers, mostly women. The priestess scoffed. Obviously, they had fantasies about this woman and were simply projecting them on paper.

They attributed her with everything from superhuman powers to being an alien with advanced technology. The one consistent theme in every story was the woman’s sexual skills. If the Illusionist was half as talented in lovemaking as they thought, she could turn every woman on the planet into a lesbian. Lucretia snorted at the shallowness of the writers.

A few Web sites, however, did attract her interest, particularly the ones referring to an intimate relationship between the Illusionist and a reporter named Dakota Devereaux, the same person bylined in one of the magazines she had just read. Although there was little in the article about Yemaya Lysanne’s background or any great revelations about her stunts, it was obvious the woman was close to the Illusionist. She was the only person who had managed to get personal interviews and exclusive photos of the mystery woman.

A few sites alluded to a relationship between Ms. Devereaux and Ms. Lysanne since they were constantly together. The more she read about the Illusionist, the stronger her feelings that Bondye was grooming Lucretia to be his high priestess. What other explanation was there for the arrival of Ramus, whose blood was proving to be a strong medicine, and the Illusionist, who apparently had great powers? At last, she had earned her spot at the side of Bondye.

 

*  *  *

Mayhew arrived at his aunt’s house as the sun was setting. Tall and slender, he would have been a handsome man if not for the sallow skin and stooped shoulders. At thirty-two, he looked and walked like an old man. Prematurely graying hair hung loosely about his head, braided tightly in long narrow dredlocks. Nothing, however, could hide the natural exuberance he possessed. Mayhew had lived his life fast and hard and regretted little, including his indiscretions, a label his aunt put on his sexual activities.

Walking into Lucretia’s sitting room, he smiled broadly and gave her a hug.

“Yo, Aunty!” he shouted, knowing how much she detested the greeting. It was bad enough he refused to speak Creole or French, but to stoop to slang was uncalled for.

“You know I hate that you talk like thees. I pay good money for you to speak properly and thees eez what I geet?” she chastised, but kissed his cheek affectionately. “Eet eez no way to show your respect.”

“Ah, you know you love me.” He grinned impishly.

Patting his cheek, Lucretia smiled. “Such a charmer, mon cher. You look tired. Have you been taking the medicine I geeve you?”

“Every day. I think it’s helping, too. I’ve been feeling better. A lot more energy. The doc says my white count is up a bit.”

“C’est un bonne chose! Now I have sometheeng new for you to try. I theenk thees may be better.”

“Not something else,” he groaned. “The other stuff is so nasty I practically have to gag it down.”

“Peut-être. But you weel do as I say, oui? Pour moi?”

“Yes,” he agreed reluctantly. “I’ve been doing better with your concoctions than those the doctor gives me. No reason to doubt you now.”

“You are quite deesrespectful.” She shook her finger at him.

“You love it when I tease you.”

“Pffft!” she exclaimed, but didn’t deny it.

Lucretia could never resist her grandnephew’s charm. Rascal that he was, his cheery nature brought her much pleasure. Indeed, as his name meant, he was a gift from God. It was a shame one of his greatest assets was also his downfall. Like moths to a flame, he attracted many admirers. Unfortunately, his taste in young men and his carefree attitude toward sex had been his undoing. By the age of nineteen, he was infected with HIV. Although Mayhew took every precaution not to infect anyone else, he still couldn’t refrain from a carefree lifestyle or attitude.

Philosophically, he accepted his fate and vowed to enjoy every minute he had left. It was only recently that the signs of the disease’s progress began to take a physical toll. The medical cocktails his doctor prescribed did little to slow the virus as it ravaged his immune system. Lucretia had done her best to help him with her own concoctions, but she knew it wasn’t enough. Now, however, after seeing Ancelin’s miraculous recovery in only a few days, she knew she had found the much-longed-for cure.

“Come!” she ordered, leading him into a room next to the library. Opening a small refrigerator, she pulled out a vial filled with a dark, almost black substance.

“What is it?”

“Never mind,” she said, pouring the liquid into a cup. Then picking up a teapot from a nearby stove, she added some warm broth and stirred the concoction. “Maintenant, dreenk it queeckly,” she commanded, handing the potion to him.

Mayhew sniffed at the steamy potion and wrinkled his nose. “This smells awful!”

“Eet eez not the smell that cures you. Do as I say before eet cools off.”

Shrugging, Mayhew put the cup to his lips and gulped down the thick substance, trying not to gag.

“Ack!” he gasped, sticking his tongue out and wiping it with his hand. “This is worse than the other stuff. I don’t even want to know what’s in it.”

“I would not tell you anyway. You young people don’t appreciate the old ways.”

“Sure we do. We just happen to like the new ones better,” Mayhew countered, winking at her. “Now is that it? Can I go now?” he pleaded, pouting boyishly.

“Oh, be gone weeth you. I don’t know why I even bother.” She slapped his arm.

“Because you love me. Seriously, though, thanks, Aunty. At this point, I’m willing to try anything if it’ll help me feel better, even your voodooey stuff,” he teased and ran for the door.

Throwing up her arms, Lucretia could only shake her head. “No respect!” she grumbled.

Taking another two vials from the refrigerator, Lucretia mixed them with the warm broth and carried the steaming cup into the library. Picking up the flier on the Illusionist, she sat by the fire and sipped the drink while she reread the advertisement. After her first sip, she wrinkled her nose slightly.

“He eez right,” she muttered. “Thees eez awful.”

Circling the date and time of the performance, she called Boudreau and ordered him to get her a ticket to one of the evening shows. If Ms. Lysanne was as good as the articles proclaimed, Lucretia wanted to know why.

 

*  *  *

Mayhew Porteur loved his aunt, even though she seemed a little over the top sometimes. Still, her strange brews helped him deal with the medicines his doctor was prescribing for his illness. Whether they actually were improving his immune system was another issue, but as long as he felt good, he could at least pretend he was better.

Even his friends commented on the positive changes since taking her potions. After putting up with their continued nagging, he finally confided in a few who suffered from the same disease. They too wanted to try her treatments. Desperation made people willing to do almost anything.

Mayhew had pretty much given up hope on a cure for HIV/AIDS being developed in his lifetime. He still maintained a zest for life and the desire to live as long as possible, if he could enjoy it with his friends.

Although most people thought him carefree and easygoing, he was a practical young man. Arrangements were already made for how he would end his life once the disease ran its course. His closest friends were instructed to throw a big bash and invite everyone they knew.

Mayhew had obtained several prescriptions from a local doctor who was sympathetic to AIDS victims and the stigma attached. The doctor had assured him death would be as easy as falling asleep.

Back at his small apartment, he called his latest conquest, Cornelius, and invited him over. Cornelius was also HIV positive; both felt they could indulge in a carefree relationship without the worries of condoms or passing on the virus. He also liked to keep the young man informed of his aunt’s latest antics, especially since her potions made his life easier by easing the symptoms and pains.

Throwing himself on the bed, he groaned when a cramp seized his lower abdomen.

“Damn!” he muttered, reaching down to massage the area. Rolling on his side, he brought his knees up in a fetal position, hoping to ease the pain. Unfortunately, it didn’t help much, so he grabbed a bottle of painkillers, poured four tablets into his hand, and swallowed them. Grimacing at the bitter taste, he tossed the bottle aside and rolled on his back, drawing his knees toward his chest.

“This shit is the worst yet,” he grumbled, referring to his aunt’s brews. Another wave of pain scorched his insides like hot coals searing flesh. Gasping, sweat beaded across his forehead and trickled into his eyes and down his cheeks. Mayhew groaned and stretched his trembling hand toward the phone, deciding he needed to call 911.

Another spasm tore through his insides. Clutching his stomach, he could only lay curled in a tight ball, hoping each attack would be the last. Eventually, pain and exhaustion took its toll and he slipped into a restless sleep. His muscles slowly relaxed.

Several hours later, Mayhew awoke. Slowly, he rolled onto his back, testing each muscle. Feeling no discomfort, he pushed his luck by sitting up. Once perched on the edge of the bed, he was surprised at how well he actually felt.

The achiness that normally accompanied his waking hours was gone, leaving only a pleasant warmth. Perhaps there was something to his aunt’s potion this time, he thought. He hadn’t felt this good in over a year.

Wanting to share the good news, he dialed Cornelius’s cell number and invited him out for dinner.

Already he was formulating a plan to talk his aunt into giving him some of the potion for his lover.