The parade had a set order. As captain, Etienne would go first, followed by the lieutenants, all on white horses, followed by Griffen. His float was going to be pulled by a tractor. Griffen was a little disappointed. When Etienne had mentioned horses, he had visions of a team of a dozen white horses, but a tractor was more reliable and less prone to injury. The rest of the floats followed, first with the other honorees, then lesser floats populated by riders from the krewe itself and others who paid to ride. All of them were interspersed with other entertainers and affinity groups. So far the krewe had hired seventeen bands, including five from area high schools and colleges, troops of jugglers, groups of dancers, marching clubs including one from their designated charity and three from the fire departments. They were looking at some 150 units, which sounded to Griffen like an enormous number, but the others insisted it wasn't.
The ball was scheduled for Saturday, January 18, when he was to be introduced to the krewe and their guests. The king's party, and he was still not sure if he was having one, ought to be in between. Whether it was big or small was up to him, but it had to be elegant. Griffen had that feeling again of being a small boy at a board meeting.
The next krewe meeting was Monday, a day early because the next day was Christmas.
And he was now in possession of a true secret: the theme of the year's parade. It was "Dragons Rule." Mitchell and Langford, who was in charge of liaising with the costume manufacturers, produced photographs and a stack of color sketches for him to see. The floats would all express themes of dragons throughout history, literature, legend, and media of dragons who win. Griffen marveled over whimsical sketches of St. George losing to the dragon, giant snapdragons with eyes and darting tongues, a dozen different puns about dragonflies, the Welsh red dragon facing off against the white dragon of England, all five colors of Pernese dragon with one tiny white dragon on the end of the float, the nine sons of the dragon on a Chinese-themed float.
That last was the float on which the dukes would ride. Those were men who had been selected to be honored by the krewe. There were nine of them, as there would be nine maids, on a Dragon Lady float. Griffen admired the cut of the women's costumes, sexy but not revealing. Allure wasn't the purpose of Mardi Gras parade costumes since they were masques to conceal themselves against the devil. He found the whole concept exciting. Put end to end as if the parade stretched out before him, Griffen was more delighted than ever to be a part of it. Mitchell put down one more picture, of a float that resembled a huge gold dragon with green eyes. "That's the queen's float," he had explained.
Griffen had finally worked up the courage to ask the question. "Who's queen?" he asked, feeling as if he were echoing a line of dialogue. "I have, uh, a sister and two girlfriends who are interested, if you haven't chosen anyone yet. They, uh, asked me to ask."
The lieutenants had burst into laughter. Griffen had felt abashed.
"Not your problem," Etienne had assured him, his eyes twinkling. Griffen had forgotten his gift of foreknowledge. "You can tell those three fine ladies that they going to be maids. It's a big honor. They will ride on their own float and sit with the dukes of the court at all the parties."
"They aren't called duchesses?" Griffen had asked.
"Nope. That's not proper Mardi Gras terminology. They are maids, and they will have as fine a time as you will. I've seen it."
As a final treat, Etienne had shown him a photo album of the last Fafnir parade. The white leather-bound book bore the krewe name and the year, which Griffen noted was before the Second World War, when Mardi Gras had been suspended.
"I think you'll find the king's float the most interesting," Etienne had said, opening it to a page and pushing the yellow-edged book toward him. Griffen had studied the old black-and-white photograph closely, concentrating on the fine, shining surface at the man in white satin and a jeweled crown who sat majestically waving a multipointed scepter on a throne with dragon's-head finials on the uprights and the arms.
It was Mose.
Griffen stared. The man in the picture was wearing a crown that concealed his forehead, and he had a full beard, but Griffen was absolutely certain of his identity. Mose looked exactly the same as he had the last time Griffen had seen him. He looked up at Etienne, who grinned at him.
"Just wanted you to know that there's a tradition that it's right for you to uphold, Mr. Griffen," he had said.
Griffen was stunned. Automatically, he had reached for his cell phone and pushed Mose's number. His old mentor had gone to visit his daughter out of state, or at least that was what he insisted Griffen tell the others in the operation, but Griffen had to ask. The phone rang and rang before going over to voice mail. Griffen had hung up without leaving a message. Mose!
As he walked, Griffen's head spun at the thought of all that was going on and all that he had to do. He wished he could ask Mose about the krewe and get his advice. He worried that he was far out of his league. These people were all very experienced, knew the ropes, had been part of and helped dozens of other krewes over the years. They were proud to be restarting something that their parents and grandparents were part of decades ago.
He tried Mose again. The cell phone rang four times, then went straight to voice mail. Frustrated, Griffen punched the red button.
"He's not answering this late, especially since he knows it's you."
The quiet voice made Griffen jump.
He had not heard her fall into step beside him, but then he wouldn't have. Rose, a beautiful black woman in her thirties and a well-regarded voodoo priestess, had been dead for eight years. Her footsteps were silent.
"Why not?" Griffen asked.
"Because this is something he wants you to work through all on your own," she said. "It's too important. He wants you to make your own decisions."
Griffen nodded. "You never appear without a reason," he said. "Is my getting involved in the krewe important to you, too?"
"Very," she said. She gave him a wry smile. "I made a mistake not giving you more time before to decide whether or not to chair that conclave. This time, I wanted you to make up your own mind. If you hadn't said yes, I would have asked you. It's not true," she said, with a faint hint of mischief, "that ghosts can't learn anything new."
"Well, you don't strike me as an ordinary ghost," Griffen said. "Not that my experience has been very broad. What's so important about it?"
"Balance," Rose said. "This city requires it. Mardi Gras is part of the balancing act that New Orleans goes through year after year. All that indulgence before the deprivations of Lent is a balance, the feast before the willing sacrifice. It is most sincerely meant, by the locals. The visitors all think it is a big party. They do not see that the pendulum must swing from the opulent to the austere and back again. So, too, must the elements be balanced. It has been growing out of whack for a long while. I am glad to see that it will at last be redressed. You are doing the right thing. Do your part at the parties and most especially in the parade. Etienne needs you and your special skills."
"All I'm going to do is sit on a throne and throw doubloons," Griffen said, doubtfully.
"Not at all," Rose said, her serene face serious. "You are the focus, the channel. Keep your humility, but you are entitled to pride as well. Use the office well. Keep in mind your most important task."
"The balance," Griffen repeated.
"All power must be kept in balance, or destruction follows. It is part of history." Rose turned toward a streetlamp shaped like an antique gaslight. Griffen lost sight of her in the momentary glare before his eyes readjusted.
When they got used to the light, she was gone.