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Mama Death
by
Vera Searles
"Mama Death is hungry tonight," Telva said, sniffing the air. "I can smell her. She’s close."
Yvette shivered. Riverfront fog swirled against the two women as they walked home from their waitress jobs in an all-night restaurant in the French Quarter. Pulling her woolen wrap tighter about her shoulders, Yvette said, "I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. It gives me the creeps." She slipped her slender arm beneath the even slimmer one of her friend.
It was after four A.M. but a few tourists wandered about under the misty street lamps. Faintly, Yvette heard the brassy sounds of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band drifting on the air. At Jackson Square, Telva separated herself from Yvette’s arm. "I’ll see you tonight," she said. "Go swiftly, mon ami. Take the short cut."
The prospect of cutting through the lonely alleys by herself always made Yvette uncomfortable. But the long way around to her apartment was just as desolate. Either way, she had to pass the mask shop on the corner. The fog and Telva’s talk of Mama Death played on Yvette’s nerves. She held up the bag of pastries that she carried and suggested, "Come to my place for beignets and coffee?"
The older woman shook her head. "I cannot. Henri wants the big breakfast always before he goes off to carry the mail. For an hour I stand to beat the batter and fry the fritters. Then he eats and leaves, and I am left alone at last in blessed peace. Do not ever marry, little Yvette."
"It’s better than being alone."
"Perhaps." Telva smiled and buttoned the top of Yvette’s wrap. "Now go quickly and safely." She turned and walked into the fog, her heels making rapid singsong echoes on the sidewalk. To Yvette it sounded like they sang ‘Mama Death, Mama Death’. She shuddered, and started for home.
In the alley, sometimes the homeless slept beneath cardboards. They were harmless and never bothered her. But tonight the alley was empty and dark, except for the circle of streetlight on the corner.
It was the mask shop on that corner that Yvette hated to pass. Inside the shop window, masks were suspended from the ceiling on long, thin wires. They always gazed at her menacingly, their hollow eyes and grinning mouths gaping like evil gargoyles.
Yvette always resolved not to look at them, to keep her head down and hurry past. But each night a strange compulsion pulled her eyes to the grotesqueries. The images of demons, werewolves, skeletons, witches, zombies, and other monsters with blood dripping from their eyes and mouths, always filled her with dread and revulsion. She knew that the mask maker was famous for his creations, but the masks seemed overly gruesome to Yvette. And tonight, the compulsion to see what was new in the window was stronger than ever. Her feet seemed unable to move forward. As she watched, the masks turned slightly on their wires.
And there, in the center of all the other horrors, was the mask of Mama Death. It was the image of an old, puckered face, with goitered eyes, crumbling flesh, and maggots spilling from the twisted mouth.
A chill quivered Yvette’s soul. She clutched harder at her purse and bag of pastries. Fog closed in over the pool of streetlight and only a remnant remained. She must leave here, quickly, and yet - - she stood watching the terrible image as it turned to face her, its lips moving with silent curses. Or was it only a shadowy distortion? Yvette crossed herself and hurried away.
Even though her heart was pounding, she walked as fast as she could, keeping her head down and looking at the sidewalk so she wouldn’t think of the horrible mask. After she had gone a little way, the fog thinned out, and Yvette found herself in another alley, one she didn’t recognize. She must have taken a wrong turn somewhere because of the fog. She retraced her steps a short distance when a dimly lit street opened before her, also unrecognized. She tried to orient herself, and looked up for the street sign on the corner. It was blank. Did the street have no name?
Several ghostly shapes moved slowly through the mist, and a number of closed shops lined the avenue. Yvette was sure she had never been here before, and looked for a connecting street or alley. A chill dampness clung to her hair and clothing as she went forward a few steps. She heard no more music from the jazz band. Everything was dull and gray.
Ahead, a small light came on in one of the shop windows. Could it be open? Yvette hurried toward it to ask for directions. But when she reached it, horror swept over her. She shrank back from the window, where dozens of masks of Mama Death twirled slowly on their wires. They all leered at her and whispered curses. Yvette heard the hissing sound escape from the window.
She screamed and ran through the puddles of darkness in the shadowy mists. Confused, she bumped into a soft, ill-defined shape. Perhaps it was a homeless person who could direct her to familiar ground. "Hello?" she said, and the shape turned to stare at her with the face of Mama Death. She screamed again. Other figures wearing the same mask moved past her silently in the gray air.
At last Yvette came to a corner. She turned and found herself blocked by a solid wall. As she ran back, halos of yellowish light shone in each shop window, and the night swam with images of Mama Death.
Yvette’s eyes were blurred with thick mist, and her bag of pastries was wet and worthless. She tossed it away, hoping perhaps a homeless person would find value in it. Breathing heavily, she kept going, silently praying that she would be guided back to a street she knew. How had this happened? Where was she?
As she pushed forward into the fog, she tried to remember where she had made a wrong turn. She thought back and recalled only that Telva had walked away into the night quickly, leaving Yvette with thoughts of Mama Death.
She stopped walking. A sudden chill of awareness started slowly, spreading across her back and arms, sending her flesh out in little pinpricks. "Mon Dieu!" she cried, seeing the truth It was Telva who had smelled Mama Death. Close, she had said.
In the distance, Yvette heard the sirens, and knew why she had been steered away. This is what the masks were trying to tell her - - Mama Death didn’t want Yvette tonight. Tonight, she wanted Telva.
As the fog lifted, Yvette stumbled into the street near Jackson Square and saw the medics lifting Telva into the ambulance. While she pushed through the crowd that had gathered, Yvette heard snatches of their conversation: "Yes, she’s dead. A mugger. He got her purse."
Numb and tearful, Yvette hurried home to her apartment. As she turned the key to let herself in, she sniffed the air, hoping it would be a long time before she learned to smell Mama Death.
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© Searles, 2006
Short fiction by Vera Searles appeared recently in DARK ENERGY, BYZARIUM, DEMON MINDS, and SKULLGRINDER. Her fantasy novel, "Tales of the Witchlings," is under contract.