Nancy K. Duplechain - Dark Trilogy 02 - Dark Carnival (3 page)

“We
were just about to go to Du Monde’s.  Wanna join us?” asked Cee Cee.

“I
don’t have time for that.  I have more important things to do,” said Ruby,
as she exited, letting the door swing shut behind her.

I
looked at Cee Cee and arched one eyebrow.

“She
takes some getting used to.  She’ll warm up to you sooner or later.”

“I’m
sure it’ll be later rather than sooner.”

Cee
Cee laughed.  “I’m sure that’s right!  Now let’s go get them
beignets.”

The
rain had stopped, so Cee Cee and I walked the few blocks to Du Monde’s.  We
passed St. Louis cathedral first, since she practically lived next door to it.  A
magnificent church with three towering steeples, it is the most recognizable
structure in New Orleans.

As
we strolled along the cobbled-stone street, I was relieved that Hurricane
Katrina hadn’t done much damage to the Quarter.  There was no sign a hurricane
was ever there.  The lower Ninth Ward told another story, though.  Several
years after the hurricane and they still hadn’t restored it completely.  People
were still scattered across the country, some vowing not to return, others
wanting to return but nothing to go back to.  While the Quarter still looked
the same, the atmosphere was slightly different from when I was last there.  It
was like New Orleans’ gumbo mix was missing one of its ingredients. 

It
was a short wait for a table since most tourists hadn’t begun to arrive in the
city for the Mardi Gras festivities yet—that would be a few more weeks.  The
beignets were delicious, like I had remembered them.  I found myself licking
the powdered sugar from my fingers after I finished with the little fried
pastry.  Cee Cee and I talked over coffee for a few minutes.  Occasionally, we
heard the
clip-clop
of a horse-drawn carriage passing by, while a jazz
band serenaded the brunch crowd from around the corner of the famous Café Du
Monde.

Noticing that I was a bit
nervous, Cee Cee kept trying to reassure me that learning from Miles was the
best thing for me.  But it sounded more like she was trying to convince
herself.  By the time I would leave New Orleans, I was to understand why she
seemed uncomfortable when I mentioned his name that day.

After our coffee, Cee
Cee and I walked back to the shop, and she gave me directions to Miles’ house.  I
was impressed to find out he lived in the Garden District, which was New
Orleans’ priciest neighborhood.  

When
I arrived at the address, I had to make a mental note to ask Cee Cee what it
was that Miles did for a living.  I knew Traiteurs didn’t charge for their
services, so I had no idea how this man could afford the mansion that loomed
before me.  I had to check the address a couple of times on the slip of
paper she gave me to make sure I had the right place.  It was huge, at least
twice as big as the other houses on the block.  It sat on a corner lot with one
house to the left that was a good size in its own right but dwarfed in
comparison to the mansion beside it.  The lot was surrounded by a black wrought
iron fence with typical fleur-de-lis lining the top.  The house was set far
back in the lot, giving it a large lawn that was perfectly trimmed and kept.  There
were no flowers, but there were plenty of trees that seemed to almost hide the
house, which was painted a dark gray.  It looked very gloomy, especially given
that the house was in French Gothic style, resembling a chateau somewhere in
the French countryside. 

I
parked on the street in front and walked up to the large iron gate which was
already open.  I shuddered, realizing that he was expecting me—it was starting
to feel like some spooky movie.  I quickly put the idea out of my head and
walked up the long pathway to the front door.  I took a deep breath and rang
the bell.

It
took a very long time for someone to answer.  I was about ready to leave when I
heard footsteps on the other side of the door.  The footsteps stopped and
I was sure someone was looking at me through the peephole, so I braced myself
and forced a smile.  The door opened and I half expected to see someone who
more or less resembled Igor from the Frankenstein movies.  I was pleasantly
surprised to see a tall, good-looking older man in his late fifties standing
before me.  He was clean-shaven with green eyes and dark hair with wisps
of silver in it.

“Yes?”

“Hi.
 I’m Leigh Benoit.  My grandmother—”

“Oh
yes.  Clothilde’s granddaughter,” he said, studying me for a moment.  “Come
in.”

He
held the door for me.  I held my smile and entered into a large, open foyer
with a grand staircase as the focal point in front of me.  The staircase was
wide and fanned out as it ascended to the second floor with a long hallway
lined with stained glass windows.  The banister was a rich mahogany that
matched the walls of the foyer and hallway.  I noticed several works of art
hanging on the walls of the foyer, and something told me they weren’t prints.  There
were also a couple of potted palms on either side of the entrance.  The floor
was a marbled, black and white checker pattern with gold fleur-de-lis etched
into the black tiles.  I had expected to see the inside of
Frankenstein’s castle with cobwebs and dust all over the place, but so far this
house was immaculate.

I
heard the door close behind me.  I turned to face the man, still smiling.  He,
on the other hand, never showed any indication that he was happy to meet me,
but instead stared at me with the most peculiar look, like I wasn’t what he
expected. 

“I’m
Miles Knighten,” he said.  I nodded in recognition.  “How is your
grandmother?”  I noticed an accent in his voice.  It sounded European—German
maybe, but not thick at all, like he was perhaps second generation
American.

“She’s
fine.  She’s back home in Abbeville.”

“How’s
her health these days?”

“Pretty
good.  Her knees are a little weak, but she gets around just fine.”

He
nodded.  “Well, I suppose we should get started.  Follow me.”

I
followed him through the foyer, behind the staircase, through the kitchen and
out the back door.  There was a garden there, much bigger than Clothilde’s.  This
one had nothing I recognized, but they looked like roots and herbs.  There was
a long, stone path through the garden that continued to an enormous greenhouse
before curving away toward a stone water fountain.

Miles
led me to the fountain, which was very simple in design.  It was a large circle
and, in its center, a small spout of water to ripple the surface.  The stone
wall of the fountain was surrounded by a tight circle of plants that would
probably bloom into lilies when spring came.

Beyond
the lilies was a meticulous St. Augustine lawn that covered most of the yard.  In
the distance, about fifteen yards away, was a delightful gazebo draped in
honeysuckle vines.  It seemed as though this estate would be fit for a
princess, rather than the subdued man before me.

He
took a seat on the edge of the fountain.  He motioned for me to do the same.  “I
want you to place your hands in the water,” he instructed.

I
sat near him and placed my hands in the water, feeling a little foolish.  “Is
this part of a ritual?”

“What
do you feel?”

Is
this a trick question?  
“Um … water?  Wetness?”  I shrugged, unsure what he
wanted me to say.

“Do
you get any type of force from the water?  Like a sort of powerful sensation of
it coursing through you?”

“Uh,
no.  Sorry.”

He
looked perplexed.  “All right.  Follow me.”

We took
the path back toward the greenhouse but followed it to the back where there was
an outdoor kitchen, similar to Clothilde’s, but far nicer.  From the outside,
it looked like a very small house.

We entered
and walked into a room that at first appeared to be a large kitchen, but looked
like a kitchen-laboratory hybrid.  There were racks hanging from the ceiling
containing dried herbs and vines, cascading over a big table with Bunsen
burners.  Lining the walls were shelves of organized, multi-colored bottles,
not unlike the store room at Cee Cee’s shop, but these were nicer and
cleaner.  Bags of dried herbs were stocked on another shelf near the hallway.

Miles
closed the door behind us.  “What has Clothilde told you so far?” he asked.

“That
we can naturally heal people and we use herbs and things to help treat
patients.  We can heal each other, but not ourselves.”

He
nodded.  “You were a doctor, she told me?”

“Not
really.  I kind of … quit before I finished my residency.”

He
nodded again and it made me uncomfortable, like he was judging me.  “Do I
make you nervous?”

“What?
 No, no!  Not at all,” I lied politely, wanting to crawl out of my skin.

“Okay,
then.  Let’s get started.”

He
pulled out a pot with soil in it and placed it on the table.  “Dig your hands
into the soil.”

I
hesitantly did as I was told.  “Aren’t we kind of doing this backwards?  Maybe
we could have done the water after the soil,” I joked.

Miles
did not show any signs of amusement.  “Feel anything?”

“You
mean like a powerful sensation?”

He
nodded.

I
wanted to answer,
Yes, a powerful sensation of feeling stupid
, but I
shook my head.

Next,
he lit one of the Bunsen burners and asked me to place my hands around the
flame.  I held them a couple of inches from the flame, but felt nothing other than
heat—no powerful sensation.  “I’m sorry.  I’m not feeling anything like you
want me to.”

“I’m
merely trying to figure out which element will help you best with your
ability.”

“Element?”

“You
know the four elements—earth, air, fire, water.  As Traiteurs, we each use an
element to aid us in healing.  Your grandmother, for example, uses earth.  That’s
why she uses herbs and other ingredients from her garden so that she can make
what she needs to help the sick.  I, on the other hand, use water—holy water to
be exact.  My fountain is blessed.  I bring a vial of water with me when I do
my healing.”

“What
are the big garden and green house for if you use water?”

“I
had those made for Cee Cee and Ruby.  They use many ingredients for their
spells and potions.”

“So,
what element am I?”

“Do
you ever feel any kind of connection with the wind?”

“Not
really.”

Miles
sighed.  “Then this will be difficult.  If you don’t have an element to focus
on, then you will have to just use your hands and the healing ability inside of
you.  It’ll be hard to bring it out.  It will require a lot of training.”

Great
,
I heard that annoying, sarcastic part of myself say.

“Well
then, I don’t see why we can’t just dive in.  Would you like to ride with me to
the convent, or would you prefer to follow in your car?”

“Why
are we going to a convent?”

He
motioned for me to follow him, and we headed back into his house.  “I do my
healing from the chapel of St. Geneviève’s convent between Mid City and City
Park.  The residents of the area know by word of mouth to go there if they’re
sick.”  He paused, picking up a black case, and grabbed his coat from the coat
rack in the foyer.  He held the front door open for me, added, “I think it
would be better for you to follow me in your car.  The convent is closer to Cee
Cee’s than my house.”

As
we neared City Park, I started to remember this area a little more.  I recalled
going to the Voodoo Music Festival there years ago with Carrie.  The park
covered about fifteen hundred acres of land south of Lake Pontchartrain and
west of Bayou St. John.  Within its boundaries, it contained numerous
beautiful, old live oaks with Spanish moss, lagoons, a golf course, an art
museum, and sculpture and botanical gardens, among other attractions.

St.
Geneviève’s convent certainly had its charm.  Its exterior was made of gray
stone with a small steeple and a magnificent bell tower that rose about twenty
feet higher than the steeple.  The compound took up an entire city block
between St. Geneviève and Alexander streets along City Park Avenue.

The
convent was across the street from the park’s southern border.  We parked on
the park side of the road and crossed at the intersection with St. Geneviève
Street.  As soon as we made it to the other side, we were approached by a
middle-aged woman who was previously lounging on the sidewalk in front of the
convent.  She excitedly hurried to greet us and walked with us up the steps to
the convent doors. 

“Hey,
Miles!  You really early today.”

“Hello,
Sarah.  How are you?”

With
her right hand, Sarah rubbed her left elbow through her tattered coat.  “My
joints are hurtin’ pretty bad today.  You think you can fix ‘em up, Miles?”

He
smiled pleasantly at her.  “I don’t see why not.  Why don’t you come back a
little later?  I have some things to take care of first, and then we’ll be
ready to start.”

Sarah
looked at me, perplexed at first, and then a note of realization hit her.  “Hey!
 Is she gonna to help, too?”  She grinned, revealing two missing bottom teeth.

Miles
patted her on the back.  “We hope so.”  He pulled out a ten dollar bill from
his pocket and handed it to her.  “Why don’t you go get some lunch and then
come back later, okay?”

She grinned, looking down
at the ground and, with one dirty shoe, kicked at a few pebbles nearby.  “I
ain’t taking your money, Miles.  They fed me lunch already today.  You go ahead
and keep it.  You might need it later.”

“Please,
Sarah?” he coaxed her.

“Well
… okay.  But don’t offer me any next time, okay?”

“You
got it.”

Sarah
hesitantly took the money from Miles, and he and I went inside the convent as
Sarah headed down the street.

The
nuns were Dominican, in honor of St. Dominic, and they wore white.  They varied
greatly in age from twenties to seventies.  We were greeted in the lobby by one
nun who appeared to be in her mid fifties.  Her hair was brunette with a few
streaks of silver, her smile warm and welcoming.  Around her waist was a woolen
belt.

“Miles,
is this Leigh?  The young lady you were telling us about?”

Miles
smiled at her.  “Yes.  Leigh, I’d like you to meet Sister Alice Martin.  Alice,
this is Leigh Benoit.”

Sister
Alice shook my hand.  “Pleasure to meet you, Leigh.”

“You,
too,” I said.

“I
think we should show her around the convent first, and then we can get to
work,” said Miles.

“Why
don’t you go ahead and set up in the back.  I’ll give Leigh a little tour.”

“Sounds
good,” he said.  He smiled at me for the first time since I met him.  “You’ll
be okay with Sister Alice.”

“Sure,”
I said, returning the smile.  He headed for the back of the convent with his
black case.

“Right
this way, Leigh,” said Sister Alice, leading me through the lobby and out into
the courtyard in the center of the convent.  It was lovely with a small
reflecting pond and stone benches with a large oak tree in the middle of the
yard.  The convent itself formed a square shape with a Spanish-style covered
walkway extending around the parameter of the courtyard.

Sister
Alice talked as she led me across the courtyard.  “We often use this area to
visit with family and friends and for solo time to pray and be connected with
nature.  In the far northeast corner we have a little vegetable garden.  That
and the flowers and plants you see are all thanks to Sister Melanie.  She has
the green thumb here.  I’m sure she’s here somewhere.  Can’t miss her—a tiny,
little blonde.  She’s in her thirties, but when she’s wearing normal clothes,
she’s constantly mistaken for a teenager.”

When
we got to the other side, she stopped under the covered walkway in front of a
set of thick, oak double doors.  She opened them, revealing a hallway with
fifteen doors.