House of Ursula | nftshowroom X alienarthive challenge for March: Theme: "Folklore" - No. 4

There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun. It's been the ruin of many young boys.

I know because I'm one.¹

And I remember vividly the events that propelled me toward my ruin. You see, I'd just turned fifteen. Home from boarding school up north, I considered myself a sensible young fellow. Not given to fanciful things, hearsay, and gossip.

So when I arrived down south, I couldn't have imagined a more different landscape that what I was accustomed. Of course, still prevalent was the Creole architecture. However, the vibrant nightlife of Bourbon Street and the famous French Quarter felt different. I'd read about these places that were merely a memory when I left to obtain a formal education.

Eavesdropping was never to my liking. But the tone of my uncle's voice intrigued me as he locked arms with father and led him into our mansion's sitting room.

"Victor, we expect to see you next Friday night at the Gentleman's Club. Most urgent business. The city is changing. The Creole's are under siege. We must protect the old way. At any cost. If others can rise up, so can we!" Vernon flinched and searched the room as though detecting someone.

"Look Vernon. There's nothing The House can do."

"We'll let the Madam decide. Besides, can't wait to taste the real thing," Vernon patted his brother on the shoulder, sipped the last of the cognac, and departed.

I eased from the foyer and headed straight to his room. Next Friday flew by. The night before, I formulated a plan.

"Pick me up at 8:00. I need your expertise," I whispered while covering the phone's receiver.

Juliette, my best friend since grade school, honked the horn twice. I rushed out, jumped in, and we sped away laughing. I couldn't wait to catch up on all New Orleans news. The Creole version.

We rounded the back alley and came to the corner. Sitting opposite us was the House on 535 Conti Street. Situated between Bienville and St. Louis, the house runs parallel to Canal Street and Bourbon Street in the heart of the French Quarter.

"You do know what goes on in there?" Juliette pointed, cocked her head to the side, then smirked at me.

"It's Creole I heard. Back in the day, a Gentleman's Club, though the area is crime ridden.

"Oh, it's much more than that. Once called the House of the Rising Sun, it now known as the House of Ursula. It's 'V'. We're not allowed to say the name publicly." She leaned closer and whispered in my ear, then continued, "only ten months to go before I'm allowed to work there. I can't wait to become Madam Ursula's protege."*

"But the practice of Voodoo was outlawed almost a hundred years ago."

"Those in charge wish. Madam Ursula is the gatekeeper. She understands how to bring the past to life. She knows all. And she's going to teach me the old ways."

"Surely you jest!. The place is only where men go to release their pent-up tensions from business dealings and have a bit of weekend fun."

Juliette looked deeply into my eyes. "When I'm all powerful and knowledgeable, I'll show you."

Darkness moved in. The streetlights came to life and cast an eerie glow on the cobbled street. Fifteen minutes later, we watched as my father and uncle entered the House.

"I know another way in." Juliette smirked.

She led me through the back alley, then crept inside through a narrow door. We navigated an empty hallway until voices erupted. Distinctive blues music played somewhere in the House. Aroma of Creole cooking waffled through the halls.

Hiding in the dark, it didn't take long for the answers to materialize.

While Juliette stood transfixed, I shrank back in horror. The inside of the house resembled nothing like the pristine outside. Strewn over the flooring were odd shaped dolls replicas, together with various books and pamphlets.

Through the opened door, we spied Madam Ursula sitting upright on a small round table. Around here, ten chairs arranged in a circle housed Victor, Vernon, and eight other prominent businessmen.

With a dazed look on their faces and their hands extended toward her, she ordered, "Gentlemen, good evening. Before we start, relax. Enjoy your Sazerac cocktail."

As if hearing her voice from the depths of a void, the men's heads fell backward before rolling in a circular motion on their shoulders. Incoherent utters filled the dimly lit room.

Within moments, they returned, picked up their cocktails, then drank slowly.

Shocked to see my father and uncle with makeup on their faces, I gasped, but not before Juliette covered my mouth. "What the hell?" I whispered. She merely laughed.

"It's part ritual and part role play. Here, men can play out their wildest fantasies, whatever they may be. No judgement beyond that door. I hope you're not easily shocked, but rumor is that your father is the owner of the House. It's called the placage system. Madam Ursula resides here at his request. She's also the Voodoo royal queen."

"Does my mother know?" in a tone that fell flat as though the news deflated my admiration.

"Absolutely not. I'm only telling you this for your enlightenment."

We waited for the ritual to finish. We watched intently as the men rose laughing as though refreshed. Business talk ensured. Madam Ursula meandered through the crowd, touched each man on the forehead, then kissed them on their lips.

Instantly the men fell in a heap on the floor. Several females dressed in exotic attire rushed in, helping each man rise, then escorted them to the various rooms in the house.

I didn't want to watch, but couldn't turn away.

"We must leave. Now!" Juliette insisted. "I won't jeopardize my future more than I already have."

Too late. Madam Ursula appeared out of nowhere behind us.

"I've been waiting for you Christian," the Madam spoke in a soft voice. She nodded to Juliette to take her leave. She responded quickly, and abandoned me to the fate of the House of Ursula.

Moments alone wasn't soon enough. In the moon's light, I glimpsed Madam Ursula intoxicating, tall and curvaceous figure. Long, black eyelashes lifted to uncover her bottomless, smokey eyes. Her Hair, soft and dark like black velvet fell past her shoulders. A goddess. No. a queen. A Voodoo Queen.

Ignoring my veiled scrutiny, she touched my back, then my chest, tracing my immature muscles with long, painted nails. "You're developing quite nicely. Almost a man, I see," she murmured into my ear.

Stunned, I jerked back, pulse racing. She's supposed to be my father's placée. Without another word, she covered my face with a black cloth and led me from the room.

Incense suffocated my reasoning. Pure ecstasy enveloped my body as it lifted me to heights I'd never experienced. A space without reservations crawled through my mind. Small huts arranged in a row. Distant animal sounds drew near as though invited to the transformation.

Men and women tangled in rapture dance to the forbidden songs of desire. Grasping hand-carved figurines, they puncture them until blood dripped outward, shouting and praising all the while.

Their movements echoed a dull throbbing that could only be produced by an abundance of spirits that reached a crescendo until the music stopped.

I woke in a stir, pulse racing. It was only after the first rays of sun followed a gentle breeze through the open window that calm pervaded my loins.

Rising, I strolled over to the balcony window.

They say in the morning is the best time to appreciate the Rising Sun. They say one can look out over the marshlands and see the beauty of the Mississippi River.

I can't see the beauty. All I can see is me returning night after night toward a clouded future. I can never go back to the north. Nothing is of importance there. Madam Ursula is my education now. Her bidding is my command. I hope. No. I must consume more of the forbidden world slightly revealed. I'm eternally grateful, Juliette, for introducing me to the House of Ursula, I remind myself to tell her when next we meet.

For some odd reason, I smile anticipating Juliette's apprenticeship.

Suddenly, behind me, soft caresses to my shoulder sent shivers through my body and reminded me of last night.

"Au revoir", Christian," Madam Ursula whispered as she urged my ear into her mouth. I melted. She ushered me downstairs straight to the front door, blew me a kiss, ushered me out, then gently disappeared behind its secrets.

I stood on the cobbled street. Turning, I raced back almost stumbling, not desiring to leave, so beat fiercely on the door. No one answered.

There is a house in New Orleans.

They call the Rising Sun.

It's been the ruin of many young boys.

I know.

Because.

I'm one.

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