Southern Charm
folder
+. to F › FAKE
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
18
Views:
4,861
Reviews:
13
Recommended:
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Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+. to F › FAKE
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
18
Views:
4,861
Reviews:
13
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own FAKE, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter Seven: The Chariot
Chapter Seven: The Chariot
Date Written: 10/9/05
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Dee/Ryo
Warnings: Homosexuality, murder, hoodoo use, mentioned NC (non consent or rape) and the issues that go with it (I\'m not going to write it, though, the closest I\'ll go is memories)
Disclaimer: Same as Chapter Zero
Spoilers: All the way up through book 7
Notes: Sorry this chapter has taken so long to get out! Silly plot bunnies dying on me and whatnot. A big thanks to everyone who\'s read my story so far! Hopefully these next chapters will further the plot more. (At least, that\'s what I\'m hoping for!)
----------
One of the more distinguished aspects of New Orleans Culture is the Jazz Funeral. Architect Benjamin Henry Latrobe noted in 1819 that the New Orleans Jazz funerals were, \"peculiar to New Orleans alone among all American cities. The late JazzMan Danny Barker writing in his book Bourbon Street Black noted the funeral is seen as \"a major celebration.The roots of the Jazz Funeral date back to Africa. Four centuries ago, the Dahomeans of Benin and the Yoruba of Nigeria, West Africa were laying the foundation for one of today\'s most novel social practices on the North American Continent, the Jazz Funeral.\"
The secret societies of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people assured fellow tribesmen that a proper burial would be performed at the time of death. To accomplish this guarantee, resources were pooled to form what many have labeled an early form of insurance.
When slaves were brought to America, the idea of providing a proper burial to your fellow brother or sister remained strong. As time passed, these very same concepts that were rooted in African ideology became one of the basic principles of the social and pleasure club. The social and pleasure club guaranteed proper burial conditions as did many fraternal orders and lodges to any member who passed. These organizations were precursors to the concept of burial insurance and the debit insurance companies.
The practice of having music during funeral processions, Danny Barker said, was added to the basic African pattern of celebration for most aspects of life including death. As the Brass Band became increasingly popular during the early 18th Century, they were frequently called on to play processional music. Eileen Southern in The Music of Black American wrote, \"On the way to the cemetery it was customary to play very slowly and mournfully a dirge, or an \'old Negro spiritual\' such as \"Nearer My God to Thee,\" but on the return from the cemetery, the band would strike up a rousing, \"When the Saints Go Marching In\', or a ragtime song such as \"Didn\'t He Ramble.\" Sidney Bechet, the renown New Orleans JazzMan after observing the celebrations of the jazz funeral stated, \"music here is as much a part of death as it is of life.\"
The traditional New Orleans Jazz Funeral is as much a part of the fabric and rich cultural traditions of New Orleans as red beans and rice.
--from neworleansonline.com
----------
A young woman standing on a wooden soapbox in Jackson Square sang to the passersby in a sweet a cappella. A few people stopped to listen, and she thanked those that dropped cumpled bills into the bowler hat at her feet. She was talented, so there was quite a pile of cash before her. And she was pretty, in a sort of \'white trash\' bleached-blonde with dark roots kinda way.
\"Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I\'ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary\'s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.\"
\"Burns,\" Ryo wispered to his partner as they listened to the singing.
Dee looked at his lover, dark eyebrows raised in curiosity and slight alarm. \"What burns?\"
\"The song,\" Ryo replied, smiling at Dee. \"The lyrics are by Robert Burns. It\'s his poem \'Afton Water\' he wrote about the Afton River in Scotland.\"
\"How do you know that?\"
Ryo fixed his dark gaze on the singing street preformer, avoiding Dee\'s intense emerald eyes. \"My father was fond of Burns. He used to read his poetry to me when I was little.\"
Dee put an arm around Ryo\'s shoulders, pulling his partner close to his side and pressing a kiss against the pale forehead underneath the dark blonde strands.
They applauded politely when the song ended, Dee tossing a folded up fiver into the pile growing at the girl\'s feet. The taller detective looped an arm around the shorter\'s waist, hooking his thumb into one of Ryo\'s belt loops as they wandered the Quarter. There was a wide range of stores linging the streets, but by far the most were souvenir shops. It gave the city a very New York-ish air, with the tacky t-shirts and \'New Orleans\' memorabilia displayed in the windows and local music flowing from the speakers, spilling into the streets. And where \"I HEART NY\" was plastered over everything at home, here the colors purple, green and yellow were everywhere.
Ryo tugged at his shirt sleeve as they wandered, stopping him. \"Look, Dee,\" he motioned, pointing across the street. What looked like a prayer garden behind an old church was full of people. Whitewashed wrought iron had ivory vines twined around the intricate ironwork, the dark deep green contrasting against the bright white. Beyond the fence, he could barely make out marble slabs, about a foot thick but buried in the wild ivy.
\"Huh, it\'s a graveyard,\" Dee replied. He looked over into dark eyes. \"Wanna go over?\"
Ryo shook his head furiously and Dee laughed. \"Gives me the willies, man,\" the half-Japanese man said, shivering. Dee tightened his arms around the other man, pulling him closer and thoroughly enjoying the unconscious flush that covered the man\'s pale cheeks.
\"Y\'know... you look so cute when you blush.\"
\"Stop,\" Ryo protested, his blush deepening when his lover leaned over to nibble the top of his ear.
\"Really makes me want to go get you a Hurricane.\"
\"Dee Latyner!\" the blonde hissed, turning bright red and elbowing his lover in the stomach.
Dee, in turn, laughed. He knew his partner was just playing--hell, he hadn\'t even nudged him hard.
As the wandered the Quarter, they gradually became aware of the sound of jazz music. And not the music that was coming from the street preformers or splashing out onto the street from open stores, but the same type of music, a mix of upbeat gospel music and jazz improv, growing louder and louder. Finally, as they turned onto Bourbon Street, they could see a procession coming down the street: A horse and buggy, followed by a gathering of people walking behind it. The two could make out umbrellas--most either black or yellow, which threw Dee off a bit--over some of the people, who were spinning them around and dancing with them. Between the procession and the cart, however, was a small jazz band: a trombone player who was as tall and thin as his instrument; a white female clarinet with unruly brown hair and a blacked-out face so she could blend in with the rest of the band; a trumpeter who was playing with his all while still being able to pull off a look of arrogance; and a large tuba player dancing behind his three peers as if his instrument was weightless.
\"I thought Bourbon Street was a closed road,\" Ryo whispered as the group drew closer. The wagon passed them, the stench of sweaty horse strong, and in the cart behind the animal, through the clear glass sides, they could make out a coffin.
\"I guess they make exceptions,\" Dee replied, watching the funeral pass. Directly behind the band was an elderly black woman, dressed in grey and carrying a framed picture of a large black man, sobbing into a hankerchif while a man who looked like her son carried a black umbrella next to her. Themusic switched from the upbeat \'When the Saints Go Marching In\' to a jazzy rendition of \'Amazing Grace\', the procession slowing to stop before a bar. All of Bourbon Street was relatively quiet when the trumpet\'s last note sang high, echoing slightly in the silence as the golden instrument was lowered.
\"Ladies and gentlemen!\" a middle-aged white woman was standing on the second landing of the bar, a megaphone up to her mouth. She was dressed in black as well, but her crimped hair was festooned with green, yellow and purple ribbons. \"Today we have all come to say good-bye to our very dear friend, Mr. Timothy Hebert. Tim was a part-owner here, and became an owner so he wouldn\'t have to pay for his drinks no more.\"
The crowd chuckled and some of those gathered behind the casket lifted their umbrellas in a \'here here\' motion.
\"Now Tim, he had himself a philosophy. He often said the only things he ever needed was his wife, a bottle of Jack, and the Lord God.\" The megaphone went silent for a moment as the co-owner leaned over to get something next to her. Dee could hear the sniffling of the widow ten feet from him, and he hugged Ryo to him. *Give me just a little more time with him, please.*
\"Well, Timmy, you\'re with God now. And we\'re gonna hang onto that pretty wife o\' yours; she\'s needed down here a little while longer.\" She showed a full bottle of Jack Daniels to the crowd, the white and black label unreadable from the height but unmistakable nonetheless. \"Here\'s your Jack, to hold ya over.\"
With that, she tipped the bottle over, the clear amber liquid dribbling from the bottle and splashing onto the casket.
---
\"That was rather interesting,\" Ryo remarked as the procession turned off Bourbon Street, the jazz music lively once again as it faded off into the distance.
\"I think \'interesting\' is quite the understatement,\" Dee agreed, nodding his head.
\"I forgot ya Yanks ain\'t neva seen a jazz funeral,\" came the soft feminine reply, signaling that Marie was around them.
\"You know, there are anti-stalking laws in this country for a reason,\" Dee remarked, turning to mock-glower at her.
\"I can\' help it; y\'all got such good energy I\'m just attracted to y\'all,\" she replied, grinning. \"With all the negative energy floatin\' around, it\'s refreshin\' to come in contact with some postitive once\'n a while.\"
Ryo was watching where the funeral party had disappeared. \"Those are called jazz funerals?\"
Marie nodded, curly brown hair bouncing. \"They with th\' Good Lord now; so instead o\' mournin\', we celebrate. They happy up there, why should we be sad for them?\" A distant look crossed Marie\'s face. \"Although that man was taken before his time, cha. I feel sorry for his pauvre Madame, I do.\"
\"He was in an accident?\"
\"Murdered,\" Marie replied. \"N\'awlins has got itself a serial killer, it do. Usin\' tarot cards.\"
Dee and Ryo exchanged glances. \"Can you tell us more about this, Marie?\" Ryo asked, cocking his head to one side.
Marie grinned. \"Sure, but have y\'all eaten yet? It\'s a long story, and I\'m starvin\'.\"
Date Written: 10/9/05
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Dee/Ryo
Warnings: Homosexuality, murder, hoodoo use, mentioned NC (non consent or rape) and the issues that go with it (I\'m not going to write it, though, the closest I\'ll go is memories)
Disclaimer: Same as Chapter Zero
Spoilers: All the way up through book 7
Notes: Sorry this chapter has taken so long to get out! Silly plot bunnies dying on me and whatnot. A big thanks to everyone who\'s read my story so far! Hopefully these next chapters will further the plot more. (At least, that\'s what I\'m hoping for!)
----------
One of the more distinguished aspects of New Orleans Culture is the Jazz Funeral. Architect Benjamin Henry Latrobe noted in 1819 that the New Orleans Jazz funerals were, \"peculiar to New Orleans alone among all American cities. The late JazzMan Danny Barker writing in his book Bourbon Street Black noted the funeral is seen as \"a major celebration.The roots of the Jazz Funeral date back to Africa. Four centuries ago, the Dahomeans of Benin and the Yoruba of Nigeria, West Africa were laying the foundation for one of today\'s most novel social practices on the North American Continent, the Jazz Funeral.\"
The secret societies of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people assured fellow tribesmen that a proper burial would be performed at the time of death. To accomplish this guarantee, resources were pooled to form what many have labeled an early form of insurance.
When slaves were brought to America, the idea of providing a proper burial to your fellow brother or sister remained strong. As time passed, these very same concepts that were rooted in African ideology became one of the basic principles of the social and pleasure club. The social and pleasure club guaranteed proper burial conditions as did many fraternal orders and lodges to any member who passed. These organizations were precursors to the concept of burial insurance and the debit insurance companies.
The practice of having music during funeral processions, Danny Barker said, was added to the basic African pattern of celebration for most aspects of life including death. As the Brass Band became increasingly popular during the early 18th Century, they were frequently called on to play processional music. Eileen Southern in The Music of Black American wrote, \"On the way to the cemetery it was customary to play very slowly and mournfully a dirge, or an \'old Negro spiritual\' such as \"Nearer My God to Thee,\" but on the return from the cemetery, the band would strike up a rousing, \"When the Saints Go Marching In\', or a ragtime song such as \"Didn\'t He Ramble.\" Sidney Bechet, the renown New Orleans JazzMan after observing the celebrations of the jazz funeral stated, \"music here is as much a part of death as it is of life.\"
The traditional New Orleans Jazz Funeral is as much a part of the fabric and rich cultural traditions of New Orleans as red beans and rice.
--from neworleansonline.com
----------
A young woman standing on a wooden soapbox in Jackson Square sang to the passersby in a sweet a cappella. A few people stopped to listen, and she thanked those that dropped cumpled bills into the bowler hat at her feet. She was talented, so there was quite a pile of cash before her. And she was pretty, in a sort of \'white trash\' bleached-blonde with dark roots kinda way.
\"Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I\'ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary\'s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.\"
\"Burns,\" Ryo wispered to his partner as they listened to the singing.
Dee looked at his lover, dark eyebrows raised in curiosity and slight alarm. \"What burns?\"
\"The song,\" Ryo replied, smiling at Dee. \"The lyrics are by Robert Burns. It\'s his poem \'Afton Water\' he wrote about the Afton River in Scotland.\"
\"How do you know that?\"
Ryo fixed his dark gaze on the singing street preformer, avoiding Dee\'s intense emerald eyes. \"My father was fond of Burns. He used to read his poetry to me when I was little.\"
Dee put an arm around Ryo\'s shoulders, pulling his partner close to his side and pressing a kiss against the pale forehead underneath the dark blonde strands.
They applauded politely when the song ended, Dee tossing a folded up fiver into the pile growing at the girl\'s feet. The taller detective looped an arm around the shorter\'s waist, hooking his thumb into one of Ryo\'s belt loops as they wandered the Quarter. There was a wide range of stores linging the streets, but by far the most were souvenir shops. It gave the city a very New York-ish air, with the tacky t-shirts and \'New Orleans\' memorabilia displayed in the windows and local music flowing from the speakers, spilling into the streets. And where \"I HEART NY\" was plastered over everything at home, here the colors purple, green and yellow were everywhere.
Ryo tugged at his shirt sleeve as they wandered, stopping him. \"Look, Dee,\" he motioned, pointing across the street. What looked like a prayer garden behind an old church was full of people. Whitewashed wrought iron had ivory vines twined around the intricate ironwork, the dark deep green contrasting against the bright white. Beyond the fence, he could barely make out marble slabs, about a foot thick but buried in the wild ivy.
\"Huh, it\'s a graveyard,\" Dee replied. He looked over into dark eyes. \"Wanna go over?\"
Ryo shook his head furiously and Dee laughed. \"Gives me the willies, man,\" the half-Japanese man said, shivering. Dee tightened his arms around the other man, pulling him closer and thoroughly enjoying the unconscious flush that covered the man\'s pale cheeks.
\"Y\'know... you look so cute when you blush.\"
\"Stop,\" Ryo protested, his blush deepening when his lover leaned over to nibble the top of his ear.
\"Really makes me want to go get you a Hurricane.\"
\"Dee Latyner!\" the blonde hissed, turning bright red and elbowing his lover in the stomach.
Dee, in turn, laughed. He knew his partner was just playing--hell, he hadn\'t even nudged him hard.
As the wandered the Quarter, they gradually became aware of the sound of jazz music. And not the music that was coming from the street preformers or splashing out onto the street from open stores, but the same type of music, a mix of upbeat gospel music and jazz improv, growing louder and louder. Finally, as they turned onto Bourbon Street, they could see a procession coming down the street: A horse and buggy, followed by a gathering of people walking behind it. The two could make out umbrellas--most either black or yellow, which threw Dee off a bit--over some of the people, who were spinning them around and dancing with them. Between the procession and the cart, however, was a small jazz band: a trombone player who was as tall and thin as his instrument; a white female clarinet with unruly brown hair and a blacked-out face so she could blend in with the rest of the band; a trumpeter who was playing with his all while still being able to pull off a look of arrogance; and a large tuba player dancing behind his three peers as if his instrument was weightless.
\"I thought Bourbon Street was a closed road,\" Ryo whispered as the group drew closer. The wagon passed them, the stench of sweaty horse strong, and in the cart behind the animal, through the clear glass sides, they could make out a coffin.
\"I guess they make exceptions,\" Dee replied, watching the funeral pass. Directly behind the band was an elderly black woman, dressed in grey and carrying a framed picture of a large black man, sobbing into a hankerchif while a man who looked like her son carried a black umbrella next to her. Themusic switched from the upbeat \'When the Saints Go Marching In\' to a jazzy rendition of \'Amazing Grace\', the procession slowing to stop before a bar. All of Bourbon Street was relatively quiet when the trumpet\'s last note sang high, echoing slightly in the silence as the golden instrument was lowered.
\"Ladies and gentlemen!\" a middle-aged white woman was standing on the second landing of the bar, a megaphone up to her mouth. She was dressed in black as well, but her crimped hair was festooned with green, yellow and purple ribbons. \"Today we have all come to say good-bye to our very dear friend, Mr. Timothy Hebert. Tim was a part-owner here, and became an owner so he wouldn\'t have to pay for his drinks no more.\"
The crowd chuckled and some of those gathered behind the casket lifted their umbrellas in a \'here here\' motion.
\"Now Tim, he had himself a philosophy. He often said the only things he ever needed was his wife, a bottle of Jack, and the Lord God.\" The megaphone went silent for a moment as the co-owner leaned over to get something next to her. Dee could hear the sniffling of the widow ten feet from him, and he hugged Ryo to him. *Give me just a little more time with him, please.*
\"Well, Timmy, you\'re with God now. And we\'re gonna hang onto that pretty wife o\' yours; she\'s needed down here a little while longer.\" She showed a full bottle of Jack Daniels to the crowd, the white and black label unreadable from the height but unmistakable nonetheless. \"Here\'s your Jack, to hold ya over.\"
With that, she tipped the bottle over, the clear amber liquid dribbling from the bottle and splashing onto the casket.
---
\"That was rather interesting,\" Ryo remarked as the procession turned off Bourbon Street, the jazz music lively once again as it faded off into the distance.
\"I think \'interesting\' is quite the understatement,\" Dee agreed, nodding his head.
\"I forgot ya Yanks ain\'t neva seen a jazz funeral,\" came the soft feminine reply, signaling that Marie was around them.
\"You know, there are anti-stalking laws in this country for a reason,\" Dee remarked, turning to mock-glower at her.
\"I can\' help it; y\'all got such good energy I\'m just attracted to y\'all,\" she replied, grinning. \"With all the negative energy floatin\' around, it\'s refreshin\' to come in contact with some postitive once\'n a while.\"
Ryo was watching where the funeral party had disappeared. \"Those are called jazz funerals?\"
Marie nodded, curly brown hair bouncing. \"They with th\' Good Lord now; so instead o\' mournin\', we celebrate. They happy up there, why should we be sad for them?\" A distant look crossed Marie\'s face. \"Although that man was taken before his time, cha. I feel sorry for his pauvre Madame, I do.\"
\"He was in an accident?\"
\"Murdered,\" Marie replied. \"N\'awlins has got itself a serial killer, it do. Usin\' tarot cards.\"
Dee and Ryo exchanged glances. \"Can you tell us more about this, Marie?\" Ryo asked, cocking his head to one side.
Marie grinned. \"Sure, but have y\'all eaten yet? It\'s a long story, and I\'m starvin\'.\"