Lundi Gras Is Your Last Chance

The brittle fingers of the palm tree beat a sharp staccato against the ancient windowpane in the stiff winter wind. A chill has descended upon New Orleans, colder than anything felt in these parts in decades. But it’s more than just the temperature, it’s more than just a breeze - a dark coldness permeates the night, sending those who know back into their homes, back to safety.

Lundi Gras

They said it was the day for the locals, the day for New Orleanians to gather and celebrate. Tuesday was for the tourists, but Mardi Gras is more than just a single day - it's a season. And it isn’t just for the locals, the transplants, the carpetbaggers, those who have somehow found this place and made it their home. It isn’t even just for the natives, those stalwarts of the French Quarter, those staunch defenders of what this city means, what it means to be from this city.

This town has roots. This town is ancient, and beings dwell here that are far older than the stone archways in the Quarter with keystones laid centuries ago. They were here long before the natives were born, and they’ll be here long after they’re dead and gone. Brought over from ancient traditions of a people forced to be here, forced to relocate, but their spirits found this new home much to their liking. Stewarded by a holy few who tend their flocks in the shadows of the swamp. These are the beings for which Lundi Gras is truly for, to whom it truly belongs, the ones that storm when all appears calm.

But they rage tonight. They are fed by revelry, their prayers are the songs of vagabonds, the debauchery and chaos that only holiday can inspire. This is the season for their feast, their festival devoted to baccahanalist worship. They feed on the tribute offered to them, their reward for transitioning to a harsher, less forgiving climate than the tropics of West Africa. This is the time when the old gods shine through the thin veil of Christianity thrust upon them by kidnappers, by captors, by colonists.

But tonight, they go hungry, and for that they rage. Tonight, the streets are empty. The bitter cold has forced revelers indoors. The pandemic lays a shroud of fear across the populace. The politicians have shut down the city, closed the doors of establishments, closed the spigot on the endless fountain of lasciviousness that would otherwise be flooding this town. The streets are empty, thus the gods go hungry. Their tribute is not being paid, the other end of the bargain is not being upheld. The tithe must be paid, in coin or in blood.

Drastic measures must be taken. The gods are unpredictable in their rage, and the consequences of leaving them unsatiated may be dire.

Vagrant tourists defying orders against traveling during the pandemic look out their hotel windows, up into the sky. Transplants peer through the shutters of their French Quarter condos, made available to rent by the pervading march of gentrification. Professional-types look up from their late-hours corporate hypnosis, out through the steel and glass ‘hi-rise’ cages of the Central Business District. Natives in the Wards put their brass down, and stare wistfully at the rags being used to polish their instruments obscuring the fingers they’d much rather be using to play them. Priests in the bayou cast their gaze upwards into the heavens, fast realizing that no ritual in their arsenal can ward off this sense of impending doom. Those who have been here for hours know just as well as those who have been here for centuries:

something is wrong

something has changed

something stirs which should never have been disturbed

So much has changed in this city, it can be easy to overlook how ancient it is. Technology has swept through like a brushfire, eradicating so much of the tradition this town was built on.

So much - but not everything

And sometimes, we need to be reminded of what we’ve forgotten

we had a deal.

We feed the beast to stop the beast from feeding on us. We keep the peace, we hold up our end of the bargain and they hold up theirs.

Until we don’t. This is the final straw. Paving over hallowed ground. Forcing their worshippers, unwittingly or otherwise, out of their ancestral homes. Forcing the natives to the suburbs, the keepers of the old faith into the shadows. The pandering to the occult - ghost tours and sham voodoo shops sprinkled throughout the Quarter and the Garden district next to a lululemon popup and a boba tea shop. These indignities could be suffered, so long as the tribute continues to be paid. So long as the gods can continue to feed off the revelry in the streets. Every intoxicated screech a paean to their cause. Every drop of putrid vomit is nectar in their cup, runneth over in the face of an environment crafted to encourage exactly such turpitude.

But the winter has been lean. Fall before that, and summer before that. Nearly a year has passed since they were able to feed in earnest - sustained by a fractional faction of stubborn tourists and the dwindling trickle of locals desperately trying to keep hope and tradition alive. The silence in the streets is the last straw, the ultimate indignity that can no longer be suffered. The deal is off, the populace needs to be shown why it was struck to begin with.

Thus, they rage tonight. Mother Nature has brought the cold, but they bring the chill, the icy claw that devours exposed fingers and pierces through tightly wrapped jackets to grip the heart and warp the mind towards shades of helplessness.

The pervading wind presses on to the Northeast, away from the Delta, yet over New Orleans the clouds swirl. The sky, illuminated with an inexplicable red glow. A churning vortex forms over the city, drawing energy from all denizens of the city. If the living cannot feed their hunger, perhaps the dead will be given the opportunity.

In Saint Louis Cemetery #3, harsh winds send iron gates clanging open and heavy stone doors creaking against their hinges, disturbing the eternal slumber of the spirits. They rise, up into the sky, joining the endless array of similarly roused souls in their supernatural journey to the center of the city.

The dogs of the city desperately try to warn their masters of what is to come; the cats look on with malevolent indifference. The souls are being gathered by their eternal masters, as they prepare for what tomorrow brings.

One final chance, one last opportunity for the bargain to be upheld, for the human population of the city to give their spiritual overlords their due. Their army is gathered, their strength has been marshaled. Tomorrow night, Mardi Gras, they will take what is theirs - by coin or by blood.

All photos taken and writings written by BD on Lundi Gras itself, 2/15/21, in New Orleans, LA. Right next to a cemetery. Not spooky at all, honest.