Shadow Conspiracy (28 page)

“What sort of work?” Mignon demanded. “I need no sleep, and work faster than humans, in general.”

A slow smile spread on Dominic’s face. “How are you with needle and thread?”

It was not months, but only four days before Dominic told Marie in a whisper, as she was admiring the new vacuum pan in the sugar house under his guidance, that he was ready. All his hesitation concerning Mignon had disappeared; he now spoke of her in reverent tones. Neither had told Marie what they were constructing at night in the barn. She was curious, but wished to preserve Dominic’s trust.

Now he leaned toward her, pointing toward one of the small view-ports in the side of the vacuum pan, which were for the purpose of observing the boiling of the sugar within. “I need help once more.”

“What now?”

“A distraction.”

Marie raised her brows. “Where, and when?”

“At your convenience. It must draw the attention of everyone on the plantation for perhaps an hour.”

Marie smiled. “Well, I can think of only one way to do that, short of setting the barn alight. Fortunately I have already promised to lead a dance.”

Adele received her pronouncement with joy. “Tomorrow night? Bien! I will tell the cooks now—they have been saving up for this.”

The occasion quickly became much grander than the simple evening dance Marie had envisioned. Apparently the whole plantation had been anticipating Marie’s dance with delight, and the occasion became a full-blown festival. A goat was slain and roasted in a pit. The kitchen was a beehive of activity.

Mr. Ramsey wisely gave his slaves permission for the ceremony, though not until the working day was done. Marie learned that he intended to watch the festival from the gallery at the back of the house, despite a slight indisposition that he had suffered of late, and which had kept him in his bed for a few days.

The ceremony must therefore be held where it could be seen from the gallery. Marie disliked this, for it meant the dance must be far closer to the barn than she had intended. She had no choice but to yield gracefully, however. She hoped Dominic and Mignon would be able to make their preparations without being observed by the household.

She dressed with care, in the white skirt and blouse she wore for the annual ritual at Bayou St. John. She tied her favourite scarf into the seven-pointed headdress that spoke to those who understood of her status, and wore the St. Therese medal that Christophe had given her on a chain around her neck.

At the altar she had set up in her room, she lit candles and prayed for the protection of all the slaves at Laurel Grove, but most especially for Dominic and Mignon. As she finished, a tingle of anticipation ran down her arms.

She lifted Zombi from her tank. The snake was alert and in good temper, having eaten two days since. She twined herself around Marie’s arm at once, but suffered herself to be laid in the basket. She knew it meant she would be dancing soon, and Zombi enjoyed the dance.

Outside, the air was warm and moist, the early evening sky hidden by restless drifts of cloud. Three massive fires had been laid, tower-fashion in the custom of the area, between the house and the servants’ wing. The slaves were gathered behind these, milling and talking in excitement.

As Marie stepped from the building she heard drumming, and saw the drummers seated in a ragged line to one side of the unlit fires. A handful of the drums were made of wood, several more were improvised from cauldrons with skins stretched across them—including one gigantic drum that had formerly been a sugar cooler—and an assortment of cook pots were also being beaten with sticks. The rhythm was simple, and it washed through the root of Marie’s being.

Movement drew her attention to the house, and she saw Mr. Ramsey, swathed in many blankets and shawls, being carried out to a sofa on the gallery. The rest of his family joined him, including little Anthony—also wrapped in shawls—and Mignon.

Marie caught her breath, and glanced toward the barn. Mignon should be there, if she was to escape. Had something gone awry? If so, Marie could not change it. The ceremony had been set in motion; she must see it through.

The sun blazed out beneath the cover of cloud as it set, red-gold, behind the house. The moment it disappeared, the bonfires were lit.

Marie moved forward. A wild cheering rose, and the drumming stopped momentarily. She swept in all the gathered souls with a gesture, commending them to the blessing of the Orisha. Setting her basket on the ground, she began to dance around it, her feet beating out the rhythm against the red earth.

Drums picked up her rhythm. She circled the basket, arms raised skyward as she called down the power of Oya, goddess of wind, queen of change.

Hesitantly at first, slaves began to dance as well, moving into a large circle around Marie. They gave her a wide space in its centre as they danced all around her, following her movements. Feet pounded the earth, hands clapped in rhythm. Marie felt the sound thunder through all her flesh, felt it moving deep into her soul as she slid into trance.

“Winds of change,” she murmured, “set these people free.”

Through slitted eyes, she looked up to the gallery and saw the family seated there, rapt in fascination. Mignon was no longer among them. Her heart warmed.

The bonfires were now fully alight, and she felt the heat of them wash over her. Glancing toward the barn, she saw another fire, much smaller, beyond the building. She caught a glimpse of Mignon’s dress, and thought she saw the maid wielding one of the great furnace bellows that she had seen in the barn and in the sugar house, pumping with incredible speed. It made no sense, but sense was not required.

Marie circled closer, closer to Zombi’s basket. She raised her voice in a common chant to Oya, and the slaves took it up at once. Dozens of voices rose into the falling twilight. A sheen of sweat covered Marie’s face from the heat of the fires and from the dancing. She came to a stop beside the basket and lifted Zombi from it.

Cries of glee went up from the dancers as the snake crawled up Marie’s arm and across her shoulders, settling into place. Marie took up the dance again, adding undulations to her steps, moving her body in waves that started from the shoulders and rippled down, making the dance more snake-like, even as her soul resonated with snake magic.

The slaves surrounded her, crowding her now, calling to her for blessings. She touched them as they passed in the dance, brushing against them with her fingers, or with the coils of Zombi twined around her arms.

She kept half an eye on the barn, and soon a vast shape swelled behind it. In her trance, for a moment she thought it was the moon come to earth, then she saw that it billowed and trembled, and knew it was the silk she had bought.

Flames from the fire below—the fire that was making the silk dance as if alive, filling it with heat—brought its colors to light against the evening. Three colours, the least costly she had been able find in bolts at the market: orange that flamed against the night, and darker glowing purple and brown.

Oya’s colours. Marie smiled.

She danced faster, and sang, calling out to the Orisha. Dancers backed away, giving her more room. She changed her dance, commanding rather than flowing now, demanding the full attention of the onlookers.

Her head was light, and she felt as if the Orisha were singing through her—Oya giving way to Ogun, Guardian of Truth and the Father of Technology. She began to chant his name, “Ogun, Ogun,” and the slaves took up the chant.

As they danced, stamping and swaying, Marie watched a miracle from the corner of her eye. The silk swelled like a mother’s growing belly, taller than the barn that no longer hid it. It bounced, as if tugging at a leash, then suddenly it began to rise upward, into the air. A small moon rising, except that she could see the cords beneath it, where the cube-shaped basket dangled from the two rings joined with canvas.

Standing in the basket was Mignon, with Dominic beside her. Marie dared not stop dancing to watch, but kept an eye upon them, even as she held the gaze of everyone at Laurel Grove.

She let a note of celebration creep into her song, and raised her arms high as she began to spin, arms extended, Zombi clinging tight. The dancing slaves around her sang and cheered and wept. In the distance, she imagined she heard the song of joy echoing, echoing against the rooftops of the plantation, against the dark alley of laurels, drifting away up into the night.

Pati Nagle
was born and raised in the mountains of northern New Mexico. Her stories have appeared in
Asimov's Science Fiction, the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Cicada, Cricket
, and in various anthologies, including collections honoring New Mexico writers Jack Williamson and Roger Zelazny. She is a Writers of the Future finalist and finalist for the New Mexico Press Women’s Zia Award. Her short story “Coyote Ugly” received an honorable mention in
The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror
and was honored as a finalist for the Theodore Sturgeon Award. Her latest novel is
The Betrayal
, released in 2009 by Del Rey Books. She still lives in the mountains in New Mexico, with her husband and two furry feline muses.