“A voodoo question? Sure. If I can’t answer, I’ll know where to point you.”
“The person who took the kids left some mementos behind in my house.”
“Wait. Weren’t your kids abducted from some fair?”
“The kidnapper brought them back to the house and he left some things behind. I’m not sure the police ever released any of this.”
“Voodoo mementos?”
“Some of them. I think so, anyway.”
“Jesus! Dolls?”
“No. Coins. A row of coins. And a bowl of water, placed up high.”
“You know – that reminds me of this case at a nursing home in Cocoa Beach. The SEIU was trying to organize some of the help in a series of nursing homes down in that area. In one of them, the nursing home management retaliated by leaving voodoo… messages, I guess you’d call them… all over the facility. The janitorial staff was mostly Haitian, right? And these warnings, or whatever they were, took the form of patterns of coins and bowls of water in weird places. Ended up the management was charged with unfair labor practices! Intimidating the workforce, you know? Because those coins – they were curses. And those bowls of water – those were for the spirits to drink – implying that there were spirits around, you know. Thirsty ones.”
“No kidding.”
“The coins in your house – were they dimes?”
“Yes.”
“Winged Liberty dimes – with the wings sort of coming out of Liberty’s head?”
“How did you know?”
“Because those dimes are the coin of the realm in voodoo. I couldn’t squeeze any of this into the program, but it was fascinating stuff. First off, because of those little wings, most people call the things Mercury dimes. So it’s possible all of these superstitions are based on a misunderstanding. Because the head on that dime is supposed to be Lady Liberty. Anyway – Mercury was the Roman god of crossroads, of messages, of games of chance and sleight of hand. The god of magic. The way that fits is that Haitians believe some of the houngans have supernatural power – can do magic, in other words.”
“What’s a houngan?”
“That’s a priest, a voodoo priest. Getting back to those Mercury dimes, the voodoo equivalent of Mercury is called Legba.”
“The voodoo equivalent? There’s an equivalent?”
“Voodoo’s a very syncretic religion. It just appropriates bits and pieces from everywhere. Probably why it’s still rolling on. So Legba, he’s also related to St. Peter – guardian of the gates, right? This figure – Mercury, Legba, St. Peter – it’s all about access and thresholds.”
“So how do these coins get to be curses?”
“Now that, I don’t really know, but those nursing home workers would not even go into some of the rooms, they were that spooked.”
“Hunh.”
“I guess the Mercury dime can go either way luckwise, because people down in Louisiana and Florida wear the things around their necks on chains. Supposed to attract money.”
“Really.”
“Plus the dimes are used in mojo bags.”
“Mojo bags?”
“Don’t knock it. I got one made up when I did the story and maybe it’s coincidence, but my life’s been happening ever since. So for a mojo bag, you need a Mercury dime. You need a couple of roots – the kind would depend on what the houngan decides. Mine had a St. John the Conqueror root. I remember because I liked the name.”
“Hunh.”
“Anyway, the houngans, they know the right kinds of roots. So you get the Mercury dime, the roots, some sugar; you wrap it all up in a two-dollar bill; you wrap that up in a red flannel bag; you tie it all tight. Then to get your mojo workin’, as it were, you have to anoint the bag with the menstrual blood or urine of the woman you love. That part was a little tricky with Christine.”
“I’ll bet.”
We talk a little longer, and I thank him, and in case I need to know more about voodoo, he gives me the name of an academic at Florida State.
I compile a list of medieval festivals. I know from previous forays that there are more of these things than you might think.
Lucky for me, the very first site Google kicks out – a Directorie of Faires – turns out to be a huge help. By clicking on the center of the elaborately tooled leather cover of the “book” that constitutes the homepage, I get access to an extensive list of events: Faires, Festivals, Reenactments, Feasts, Pageants, Jousts, and so on. Listed in chronological order, the faux parchment pages inside the “book” provide a wealth of information. Each separate fair or festival has links that contain details about the year in which the event or festival is “set” (1567, 1601, etc.), how long the particular venue has been in operation, the number of stages for performances, the number of booths selling goods and food, maps, weather information, hours, and admission prices – along with telephone numbers and other contact information about the management. There is even a “weapons policy” for each event, declaring whether or not weapons should be “peace-tied” (whatever that means).
Apart from two hundred and nine “major events,” the directory also lists the artists and companies that drive these festivals, a mind-blowing catalog that encompasses everything from “birds of prey demonstrations” to fire-eaters and “baudy” comics.
Craftsmen and vendors have their own “page”; among the listings are purveyors of leather drinking vessels, “chaine maille,” and juggling sticks.
Using the directory as a guide, my routine is to spend a few hours every day on the telephone with people who run the events. Most have to be won over, coaxed away from the instinct to be defensive and uncooperative. I understand why they don’t want to talk to me. I’d definitely dodge calls from some desperate guy floating the notion that my fantasy world is the stalking ground of a kidnapper.
But mostly, I win them over, at least to the extent that they agree to post the Wanted poster in private employee areas.
I made the poster at Kinko’s. Under the classic banner WANTED, it displays an array of the different sketches of the Piper (including the one created by the police artist who worked with the Sandling twins). Beneath the sketches is a brief description of the abduction of my sons, the circumstances and date, along with what’s known of the Piper’s physique, costume, and dog. Finally, there’s contact information and the promise of a reward.
I send several packets a day – a cover letter and several copies of the poster. I use FedEx – even though it’s expensive – for the sense of urgency implied by overnight delivery. I log the mailings into my computer, in which I’ve set up a file for each venue, so I can track follow-up calls and e-mails, responses, and the actions taken. Links to my calendar remind me when to follow up.
As soon as I finish with all of the events in the Directorie, I plan to tackle the vendor and artist lists. In the meantime, I take breaks from the medieval world to plan a similar campaign in the canine realm.
Maybe I can get to the Piper via his dog. I’m shocked when my first Google search – whippet – produces more than thirty-seven thousand cites. Lots of redundancies, but still, there are more whippet breeders, whippet clubs, and whippet fanciers than I’d ever imagined.
“Oh, yes,” gurgles the woman from Whippet World, “they’re wonderful pets, energetic but pliant, and so… just great looking, don’t you think? Can I help you find a puppy? Is that why you called?”
My simple explanation – that I’m trying to find someone who was seen with a whippet – just confuses and worries her.