Help Wanted, Open Tag

[Isa Solieux]

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug, mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
-- Wallace Stevens

"Don' you be sassin' me none wi' your mout, Missy. Maman will be havin' a fit, you don' come home." Claudine Solieux waved a finger at her younger sibling. She stood a head and a half taller, and possessed the same dark chocolate hair that fell in waves down her back, the same clear sepia skin that was remarkable for as little sun as England was host to, and the same full lipped mouth that seemed made for sugar-spun kisses. Her dark eyes sparkled with an inner fire, the sure sign that she would not take 'no' for a likely answer.

Yet rather than be effected by such chiding, Isa offered her up a coy and secretive smile, the calm radiance projecting outward. There was little that she feared for now, trusting in greater forces than those presently at odds in the world. The tiny witch sauntered her way through her shop, arranging clothes draped airily over the cozy tables, adjusting the candles here and their. Beyond where they stood were display cases and wooden shelves, the small shop that was her beloved Rainbow Dragon cluttered not unlike the menagerie back home on the plantation.

A good Gris-Gris shoppe, she had always believed, was to be genteel, a black hole with good taste and welcoming to all. "No cup no broke, no coffee no dash wey," she replied and then paused. She truly believed the words, that even if disaster struck, that not all would be lost. "'Sides, Moldywort, him no badda mi."

"Fire de a Mus Mus tail, him tinka a cool breeze. When mi go, don' tandy tink sey mi a-go help you."

"Gone a foreign den, an' don' go aww Red-eye when mi don' come weepy weepy on yo' door. Give Maman a kiss for me."

And that was the end of the arguement, Claudine telling her that a mouse with his tail on fire thought it a cool breeze, indicating she thought Isa was being stupid, and Isa replying that Claudine should go and not get jealous when she didn't follow, weepy eyed. Many of the conversations between the two were thus evolved, their delicate Creole tones rising and falling in volume like the sea, but always with love.

When there was little else to say, Claudine gathered her bags and clenched Isa in a bone crushing hug before apparating from the Rainbow Dragon with a loud crack, leaving her sister to stand there for long moments, shaking her head.

~*~

The next morning, sunshine stretched itself golden over Diagon-alley, autumn's cool breath making itself less inclined to fullness than usual, occasionally murmuring sweetly to entice it into a dreary decline. Despite of this tussle of wills, the young woman stepped out into the morning with bare shoulders, prefering to do drudge work in worn Muggle attire. She carried the small A-fram sign to the little cobble walk reminiscent of her French Quarter childhood.

No tourists hovered here, defiling artistic legacies with hands of greed, nor did jazz-band funeral processions jar the living with a sense of wakefulness, and certainly there was no chicory cafe au lait scent wafting through the air arm in arm with the steam of fresh baked beignets, or even a hint of crawdaddy ettoufe. Yet the peacefulness of a gentle Sunday morning brought a faint trace of smile to her lips.

The lettering had been handpainted in shades of russet upon cream, in hopes of drawing the eye and making perspective faces alight with wonder, two simple words bolstered upon either side by eccenric manifestations of the imagination: veves of Ayizan. She had taken great care to mix rum in with the silver lacquer in homage to the Lady Loa of the Marketplace, the Mistress of Herbal Healing. Beneath the lettering and intricate scrolling art was the depiction of the white palm leaves that were her symbol. And while the Rainbow Dragon wasn't exactly a temple, she saw no reason not to ask for better sanction from the protectress of the Houngan.

Isa was nothing if not devout in her steadfast beliefs.

The genteel shopkeeper took a step backward in grace to admire if only for a moment this call to arms before she turned her bare step to carry her back to the door. With providence would come the one meant to work here, drawn by the guidence of invisible force from the spirit as much as the fancy script that read:

"Help Wanted."

[* Kate Elden]

<sub>Being the type to keep to herself, Kate found herself following the usual Sunday routine of the Northerner: Hide out away from the world and revel in gravy-soaked plates piled high with your "meat and six veg" meal. Probably the only real meal she'd be having all week.
But Sundays were becoming boring in Kate's little Newcastle flat, and as she meandered from room to room seeking something to do the girl found herself getting dressed.

What sacrelige was this? To be clothed on a Sunday as if to leave the house! Kathryn had a tendency to take this business of "And on the Seventh Day He Rested" -very- seriously. Usually not even a nuclear threat could move her from the boxed in rooms.
But dressed she was, and in not her usual "I fancy spendin' money so I'm go'na shove some raggies on" garb. The girl had actually gone to the trouble of making herself appear respectable in a pair of tight jeans and a poloneck that seemed to be a polo-sleeve and polo-waist too, the way it stretched to cover her nearly to her thighs.
This, of course, could be explained by the cold. Coastal cities, and all that.

Bundled up as if on an arctic mission (Or close, at least. Perhaps Alaska), the rosy-cheeked girl soon tired of Newcastle's Muggle shops (and even those few Wizarding shops), and impulsive to buy.
There was no place better to spend money, she knew, than Diagon Alley. The only place to find something entertaining.

--

It never ceased to amaze the muggleborn Witch, the things that the Wizarding world thought up to keep themselves entertained, compared to muggledom's adamant desire to remain dumb.
She wandered the wide street with eyes as amazed as they had been the first time she had set foot to this place, an air of contented safety coccooning her bony figure.

It was a new addition to the street that caught her eye; A colourful affair that seemed at once jarringly newborn and endearing in its many years. A place that drew the heart before the eyes.
Stock-still, Kate admired the place with tilted head, noting the 2Help Wanted" sign.
She had a job, of course. Kathmandu was a thriving shop; she couldn't possibly leave.

And yet still she was drawn onward. Inward, to admire the busily whispering atmosphere. Such a hoarde of intensity, Kate was in love. Without a thought she was walking the edge of the room, fingers hovering over this and that in awe and curiousity.</sub>

[Isa Solieux]

The moment the small bells tinkled as the door was open, a riot of another world exploded before the customer. It was a colloquial and beautifully cadenced aria to the owners roots encased in a vaguely heart shaped interior. The walls were lined with colourful watered silks and the rich woods gleamed from hand-waxing. Summoning music of the night were silent instruments hung like portraits: tumbrils, gongs and gamelans. A little alcove was corded off hiding its mystery in a darkly spangled veil but there was a hint of one neat quill, one candle that puttered its life out hour by hour.

Lexica and phrase books crowded on shelves between well loved covers, appearing more a lending library than products for sales. Thin glass display cabinettes held both bags and oils that shimmered in the softly romantic light, others displayed lavish and rich foods for the small tea area. Long pillars huddled beside specialty shaped candles while the scents of baroque spices filled the air in a song of incense. Somewhere, in gilded cage chittered and hissed a sleek serpent in shades of jungle and fire with vibrant rainbowed wings, a miniature coatl, vied for the attention given to the rest of the quaint little shop.

But there was nothing so beautiful, so curious as the mambo who presented herself in shades of timid elegance. She came down the tarnished brass and mahogany stair at the far, pointed end, opposite the alcove. Bare feet at first sight, brown as the earth and dainty ankles encircled by fragile looking chains to which were attatched the most minute of bells. Cold passionate feet. A long white skirt slinked around the legs, frothy as mist or milk freshly poured, and a black blouse of welcome which hid a tender bosom and accentuated long arms with petite bones. She bore the face of a sepia angel, something sultry that called to mind burbon on a hot summer night. Bright dark eyes sat above a widely smiled mouth with pearled white teeth. Sharp cheekbones enough to cut the petal soft skin of her face, yet they somehow didn't. All framed in long dark curls that coiled seductively about those too narrow shoulders.

And then she spoke.

Whispers of bygone days, hushed vigil of bayou beauty, meant to make Kate feel as if she were the only person in the world.

And she might just be.

"Wailcome chile, to de 'ouse o' de Rainbow Draaagen. Wha' can mi do fo' ye, pickeny?"

[* Kate Elden]

<sub>An astounding assault to the senses, Kate took it all in with quiet amazement. To think that this all-permeating peace was here as if on tap, available to all in a sanctuary of rainbow light made her near giddy. She was still staring at the Coatl as Isa came from the apex of the room, caught by the contrast of skin to cloth.
Seeing the glow about Isa, Kate felt suddenly unhealthy in her pallor, vowing to get herself off to some sundrenched island for a month to soothe her own neglected skin.

The woman, though tiny, was quite perfect, the sort that made one seethe with envy whilst wishing only to glance upon their visage. It was a torment, and brought a smile to Kate's lips as she turned to the greeting.

Jamaican, she picked out, Or something like it. In the second that she took to decipher the words, from Creole to Queen's English, to her own thick Geordie, Kate had stepped towards Isa with her smile wide.
"Thanks," She half chuckled, voice seeming oddly deep in the contrast between the two. "It's a luv'ly place ye've got. 'slike a trehsheh co(e)ve. (treasure cove)"

Again she was moving across, feeling it only right to introduce herself, whilst querying the purpose of the place. She could discern no 'for sale' items, no hints of food or drink. Perhaps a gathering place then? And if so, what was the help needed for? Kate was ... Intrigued.</sub>

[Isa Solieux]

Isa Solieux did indeed bear an islands accent, it was hard not to when she'd spent seven blissful years in the land of her ancestors at school, but there was the subtle shading also of her Creole roots in the Cajun French of N'awlins. As her cousins would say, the whole mixture came across chaud com l'enfer. She continued to smile knowingly at the young woman, a slight tilt to her head. She could sense immediately that the Rainbow Dragon, Diagon Alley's best kept secret, appealed to her.

The poor child seemed in need of a little island respite, far too pale as the English tended to be, and too thin by half. Upon cursory inspection, the girl seemed to be too everything and it put Isa to a half mind of fixing it. She couldn't help but wonder when the girl had last experienced a sense of... Zion.

"Be like trasuah ta one, temptation'adda." Isa replied. "But I t'ank you, chere. Come in, come in. Make yo'self at home. I'm Isa" she said, pronouncing her name 'eye-sah'. "Isa Solieux and dis me home an' me work. Di 'ansome grey boy in da window box, me cat Ibeji... an' you seen our coatl, Tafari. And you ah...you a Kayte, now, ain'tcha? Yes, you look like a Kayte."

Isa had in that time, gained the floor and there, beside Kate, she smelled like magnolia blossoms in the spring. She didn't reach out to shake Kate's hand, nor anything else that would be considered an invasion of space, but it was enough. "Sa tell me, Katye...wha bring you heah?"

[* Kate Elden]

<sub>Perhaps Kate would have been suspicious of Isa knowing her name, had she not been so enchanted by ... Well, by everything.
"Hoew didje...?" She only half questioned Isa (noting in the recesses of her mind the similarity of the woman's name to Isis and wondering if perhaps that was not accidental) before chuckling softly. "Ehh, Aye, Yea', I'm a.. I'm a Kayte; And I'm def'nit'ly impressed."

Again, her lips parted and breath taken as if to speak as her head gave that tell-tale questioning tip, discarded with a slight shake of her head. On first impressions, Kate liked the Mystery of Isa Solieux, and of her ... shop?

"It's," Breathtaking, most definately, though without the breath to utter it, Kate only gave a small laugh before returning her attention to the angelic form before her.
"New. Ah thenk... Ah thenk ah meight hev te cuhm back hyeh; a lot."
No answer at all to Isa's question Kate was still seeking the rhyme and the reason, unsure really what had brought her inside. Usually she'd wait until she saw someone she knew, or was dragged inside by a friend.
"The help sign," She uttered finally, half a question and a reply.

In time she was sure to become used to the place, and see it as just another hideaway. But for now, and quite possibly the next year or so (For Kate couldn't picture herself ever not being awestruck by simply the look of the place.) she was caught in the majesty, the near religious tranquility, and the surprising warmth of her Hostess.

"Ye need help in hyeh?"</sub>

[Isa Solieux]

There was no incongruous harmony in their blended voices, and almost immediately Isa shook her head and broke open for Kate a dazzling white and even-toothed smile before sauntering with all the sass of an alley cat toward a small table and then pouring herself down, slow as treacle, into one wrought iron fashioned cafe` chair. She waved Kate over before taking out her wand and stirred the air above the table's surface. She summoned up a French press which bubbled merrily with sweet coffee that gave off a faint whiff of all-spice, and then some sort of torte that looked just this side of sinful.

"Lemme tell you somet'in bout wheah mi grow up. Firs' t'ing you know bout Nawlins is dat it nice to lay in bed on Samedi night, safe behin' you windaws, savourin' da call o' trombones, trumpets, clarinets and drums adrift from de open doahs o' Bourbon's Dixielan' clubs. A gumbo of tempos an' tunes spiced wi' folk be talkin an laughin an' lovin. So den, you pickin' you way mong da tourists an da trash, an yet its home, though anyt'ing can 'appen, an every situation a stage set. All dem ghost o' you loved ones dere, an it's overpowerin. De 'ole place peopled wit' ghost, an maybe one or two come witchew everywheah you go."

The saucy smile remained as she again watched Kate's face for any reaction, "Course, you don't has to believe me none when I tell you it a gift brung me by ma Grand-mère. Mama Marie always say girls got de gift betta'n menfolk."

In the small cups sitting daintily upon their tiny saucers, she began to pour them both a sliver of liquid darkness, and nodded as Kate finished speaking. "I t'ank you, I 'appen to love mi shop. An' de 'elp wanned sign, it cause I need 'elp." The explination certainly was that simple. "Almos' ever't'ing you see heah.. fo' sale. No question aksed, be it ju-ju oah mo-jo, oah mos' powerful of all.. dem Gris-Gris. Way I see it, out dere," here she paused and cast a diparaging glance toward one of the windows, before delicately spitting on the ground over her shoulder.

"Out dere you only got Babylon. In heah, Zion. Make no difference to me, so long as dey is respec'."

[* Kate Elden]

<sub>Listening to tales of New Orleans was nothing short of fantastic, and Kate's ears perked as soon as the words began to flow.
Her legs crossing of their own accord and elbow resting to table, the girl's hand supported her chin as Isa said her piece. Ghosts in New Orleans, and the music that she could only ever fantasise. Of course, for the most part she knew that these ghosts would be figurative, memories upon the streets themselves of times gone by.
But that was the Muggle in her, and the Witch in the bony little girl clapped her hands with glee.
To hear it said that the ghosts of New Orleans stayed with Isa, that the angel before her could see them and know them and call that fabled city home? Enough to make a poor girl explode with excitement.

The contrast of course was apparent immediately. To lie in bed on a Saturday night (she could discern some small French words, though when it came down to the base Kate was a hopeless linguist), with the movie-scene music overlaying the world... So different to the high stepping and feral beats of Newcastle's clubs.
Where the Creole girl was air, heart, freedom, Kate was fire, heart and chains, imperceptably trapped in her mindset and enchanted by the other.

It was the talk of ju-ju, mo-jo, and Gris-Gris that caught Kates ear the most, however, and not the ghosts of New Orleans.
She took her coffee with a murmured thanks, turning the conversation towards the sacred arts, storing a question of Babylon and Zion in her mind. Perhaps later.
For now, she found herself asking what these magics were, this Gris-Gris and the much ridiculed Ju-ju and Mo-jo.</sub>

[Isa Solieux]

However much Isa enjoyed the darkness, she was equally enamoured of the light and it showed in the gentle laugh she gave, the sound of a rippling stream over smooth stone the only comparable sound. She took a sip of the demure cup and then set it down, her dark, liquid eyes seeming to focus on Kate's elfin face, and she pinioned her elbow point on the tabletop, the bangle bracelets clattering about her forearm as she gave a slight wave of generality.

"Firs' t'ing you learn bou' conjure is dat Magic...is. Comme le ciel, comme la mer, im no bad, no good. Dere only be intention. Jus' like you breath. You breath in or out, but only you intent dictates what you say wit it. Same waith conjure. Oils, feathers, blood, dancin'... everyt'ing is tools. Those tools made use wi' good intent...is ju-ju. Tools used wi' bad intent.. is mojo. But then, be times when you need somet'in gots lil more powah. That, that is when you need de Gris-gris. Gris-Gris is de iron fist of the conjure man an' woman. Its hammer-like quality of relentless pounding until de spell takes effect. Once a Gris-Gris spell is cast, de momentum slowly build until it become an unstoppable force."

She gave a shrug of her shoulders. "Could be worse. Could be one o Mama Marie's wangas."

[* Kate Elden]

<sub>Intention. Wasn't that what life came down to, in the end. How you intended things to work.
As she had listened, Kate found herself drawn into this idea of light and dark - a theory which she had previously only lightly entertained.
Like most magic, intent only took you so far, and the spell itself could only carry a certain weight with it. the weaker the intent, as most everyone was taught now, the weaker the spell.
It all had an awful tie to the current world, and Kate unwillingly found herself thinking of You-Know-Who and -his- intent. It was quite clear that he was firmly convinced by his own mission.

But one could not dwell on such horrors, and quickly the skinny little girl dispelled the thought with a brief smile and a casting back of her mind to the talk of Gris-Gris.
Like any person, Kate was intrigued by the idea of such a power. Something stronger than simple intent - was there really anything of the sort?
And something worse than that was apparently Mama Marie's Wanga's. It settled in her mind that this was meant to be something funny, and querying that (Thus proving the trudging gravity of her thoughts today), Kate gave a tip of her head.

"Mama Marie?"</sub>

[Isa Solieux]

Isa paused in her conversation with the lovely girl, letting her sort the words in her head, collect the information she was receiving. Most of the Solieux women were a chatty bunch and at times it seemed as if they never shut up. Add to this the enormity of what she was addressing, gainsaying most of what the Ministry approved for witches and wizards, it put her on a precarious pedestal. It had come down to the days where innocent folk were jailed or intensly questioned based on the slight of rumour alone, and Isa knew all about that kind of treatment herself, having seen it in the history of her own family.

She rose from the small table and took away the empty dishes, disappearing behind a beaded curtain for a moment before returning. When she came back to her seat, she looked far more composed than she had when she left and breathed out a small sigh.

"Maman Marie... was me grea, grea grandmaman. She boan in St. Domingue, Haiti back when it still a colony o' dem French 'foar she moved to Nawlins. Maman Marie was a free woman o' colour, daughter o' a weal'ty plantation owner and a slave, bot' dem witches and wizards. She ventually marry Jacque Paris. When he die, she live wi' another wizard and dem have fifteen children. One of which was also named Marie...and trew her, come we family. But Mama Marie.. she become famous to di Muggles round Nawlins. They would come from all over, aksin' her to read dem fuchar, to heal dem sick. Dey pay her to cast hexes and remove dem. Like Docta John and Docta Yaya, she was very important woman in American Wizard society. To dis day people come to Nawlins and visit her grave, leavin' her all kinds of tokens, and prayin' to her. It's verra strange ting."

Isa laughed softly and shrugged her shoulders.. "Muggles. Every hoe ha dem stick a bush. So tell me Kayte, wha bout chew? Wha bring you heah? You don' seem to need wit de juju."

[* Kate Elden]

<sub>Sorting through what she had heard so far, Kate found herself increasingly intrigued by the place.
Isa seemed nice - Kate got the idea that the woman was already decided where she stood in this whole conflict, and wouldn't move an inch if a hurricane came at her. That was admirable, and set the pair in good stead.

Hearing of such magicks that she'd not known of before, our skinny girl was staring into space, disentangling her own thoughts thread by thread when Isa began on Maman Maria.
She sounded like a great woman. A woman who might appear frail, and yet strong; the thought put her in mind of her own roly-poly grandmother, and the sudden set of her face when she was crossed. Perhaps it was the same with all old women.
But somehow Kate felt that Maman Marie was never old - would never be old. Not even at ninety, living in the hearts and minds of New Orleans.
"Sh' sounds .. Whey, Sh' sounds excellent. A real queen, ah reck'n sh'll 'a' bin." came the reverant whisper, Kates voice lowered in respect for this woman she had never known.

"..So tell me Kayte, wha bout chew? Wha bring you heah? You don' seem to need wit de juju."

"Whey, nauh, ah dinnae. Bu' ... Ah di-nah," She faltered. Why had she come here? Was it only the sign? or the colours or the intrigue or something else?
Obviously she had felt the pull in her guy; she always did when something new came along.
But Kate couldn't quite put her finger on it. "I dinnae." She laughed softly, shaking her head slowly with a puzzled expression.</sub>

[Isa Solieux]

Isa completely understood the shivering words that poured forth from the girl's honeyed lips. She was a tiny albatross lost on the open sea, and tossed about by the ravages of war and the currents of human nature. Which were made all the worse when that human was a Witch or a Wizard.

Things tended to become complicated, they became tangled and sometimes one couldn't easily extricate themselves without disturbing the tapestry around them. So The new, the unconventional often offered up an epiphany, some slight inspiration of the divine to shine forth a light and offer up hope.

"Don' s'pose it matta, really. Best t'ing is to know you heah, an dat dolo toujou couri lariviere."

Isa settled back in her chair, her fingers playing across the tabletop when the idea struck her. "I got some work need doin', yer welcome ta watch. Ever make a gris-gris, Miss Kayte?"

[* Kate Elden]

<sub>It was a wonder that Isa understood her, for Kate hardly understood herself as the words tumbled free, as denoted by the new-lit curiousity born when dark eyes swept over the woman and her shop.
It was for this newborn curiousity, Kate assumed, that Isa's words became foreign, and confusion fluttered over her face before she realised that no, the words had simply been another language.

She was trying to understand them, slowly but surely, when the pretty-eyed angel spoke once more.
"A Gris-Gris?" she asked hesitantly. That, she had only just been informed, was some big and powerful thing. Something that Kate had never had a part in - somehow it seemed daunting.

"Ah cannae say tha'a have, nawh,"
Of course, she couldn't say that she hadn't either, without knowing what it actually was. Somehow things were vague in a very crystallised way, here - hovering on the verge of being infuriating, if it wasn't for the amazingly peaceful atmosphere.</sub>

[Isa Solieux]

Isa gave her a soft, knowing smile and nodded her head. “Sho’ nuff, chile. Mo konmprann. Ever’body come here,’venshully. We comego as de spirit move.”

At some point, while Kate had been unaware, the young Creole woman had used subtle charms to summon a few things to their table and while she spoke, she was working. Industrious, she truly believed in the proverb that idle hands were the devil’s playthings. There was a small crate on the table now, sectioned into small compartments, which held various strange ingredients. In her strong but delicate hands, she had a large square of purple velvet turned outward and a pure silver needle looped with black thread. With soft pace, she was sewing the bag by hand, she did not create her work with her wand. Something of her held pride in the old traditions and she feared Maman Marie would rise from the grave to strike her down if she ever mass-produced the very things that the family reputation had been built upon.

For the most part this work was all but second nature, though somehow the way she managed not to have to look at what she was doing was slightly… disturbing. “You a good hearted gal, Miss Kayte. Don’ evah let nobody tell you different. An’ if dey try, you curse dem to nex’ week. De t’ing be, you is lost in terrible storm. Dat what me t’ink. Course, me fi ken to be wrong, jus’ no often.”

Isa offered her a wink and began sewing the draw string at the top of her little bag now. “Holdin’ da secrets all inside like swallowin’ snakes. Dey wiggle in de belly, and dey bite an sting an leave dey poison in you. It chuck on you all de burden an den, who you gang ta tawk at? Well, if’n you find you need de s’renity, you come heah. Mi doaw always open, you ken?”