"For the spirits," said Priestess Miriam when I asked about the rum. "And for me to wet my whistle from time to time."
When I told her that golf had been driving me to drink, the priestess confessed that she'd never played the game, but she liked to watch it on TV. "Golf takes you on a journey, and gives you a glimpse into a person's soul," she said. "It also requires patience. You must concentrate for all 17 holes." "I'd like to learn more patience," I said, wondering if I should have held out for a more golf-savvy priestess. "But what I'd really like to do is put a hex on my buddy."
At this, Priestess Miriam shook her head and frowned. Hexes, curses and pins inserted savagely into dolls were pure hokum, she said, a popular distortion that gave voodoo a twisted name. As a true practitioner, the priestess believed that all life forms had a natural balance, and that anything offkilter could be shifted back to equilibrium through spiritual counsel.
Then again, she'd never seen me swing. "So, what should I do?" I asked. "Let's see," said the priestess. "I'll ask the chicken to scratch out the answer." Sitting behind a low-slung table, she grabbed a fistful of chicken bones and tossed them like a craps player rolling dice. The bones scattered on the table, seemingly at random, but the priestess saw a pattern.
"You have an important match soon, on a Tuesday or a Wednesday," she said. "We're playing a week from Thursday." Priestess Miriam nodded. "Right," she said. "Thursday." "Can you help me get my game back by then?"
The priestess gave me a weary smile. "People want things so fast these days," she said. "The other day, I was listening to Venus." "The goddess?" I asked. "No, the tennis player," she said. "She was talking about playing her sister, how she had to learn how to compete against someone she was close to." I made a puzzled face. The priestess waved her hand.
"What you need," she went on, "is not to get fixated on your opponent. You must let your own confidence grow so you can shake the hold he has over you. Approach him in friendship, not competition. And resist the urge to experiment. Stick to one pattern." "Ah," I said. "You're saying I should trust my swing." Priestess Miriam nodded, and we sat in silence. A candle on the low-slung table flickered. Outside in the courtyard, a rooster crowed.
"Fair enough," I said as I pulled the envelope of Mike's hair from my pocket. "But just in case, how about you make me a voodoo doll?"
The priestess took the envelope.
"With material and labor," she said, "that will cost you two hundred bucks." The next afternoon, as the sun died over the Mississippi delta, I drove back to the airport, my Mike voodoo doll propped in the passenger seat. Mini- Mike looked nothing like my buddy, but the priestess had added some personal touches and Mike's hair was woven inside the doll's belly, the better to hold him under my spell.
"Don't use this to do your friend harm," the priestess warned me as she handed me the doll. "That is not what voodoo is for."
Perhaps sensing my disappointment, she added,"But you can cover the doll's eyes to blind him to the prospect of victory, or put a golf tee in his mouth if you want to quiet him down."
Thursday morning arrived, and I stood with Mike on the first tee of a tight, tree-lined course just outside Boston. "I approach this match in friendship," I told myself. But Mike was sounding cocky, making brash predictions.
When I told her that golf had been driving me to drink, the priestess confessed that she'd never played the game, but she liked to watch it on TV. "Golf takes you on a journey, and gives you a glimpse into a person's soul," she said. "It also requires patience. You must concentrate for all 17 holes." "I'd like to learn more patience," I said, wondering if I should have held out for a more golf-savvy priestess. "But what I'd really like to do is put a hex on my buddy."
At this, Priestess Miriam shook her head and frowned. Hexes, curses and pins inserted savagely into dolls were pure hokum, she said, a popular distortion that gave voodoo a twisted name. As a true practitioner, the priestess believed that all life forms had a natural balance, and that anything offkilter could be shifted back to equilibrium through spiritual counsel.
Then again, she'd never seen me swing. "So, what should I do?" I asked. "Let's see," said the priestess. "I'll ask the chicken to scratch out the answer." Sitting behind a low-slung table, she grabbed a fistful of chicken bones and tossed them like a craps player rolling dice. The bones scattered on the table, seemingly at random, but the priestess saw a pattern.
"You have an important match soon, on a Tuesday or a Wednesday," she said. "We're playing a week from Thursday." Priestess Miriam nodded. "Right," she said. "Thursday." "Can you help me get my game back by then?"
The priestess gave me a weary smile. "People want things so fast these days," she said. "The other day, I was listening to Venus." "The goddess?" I asked. "No, the tennis player," she said. "She was talking about playing her sister, how she had to learn how to compete against someone she was close to." I made a puzzled face. The priestess waved her hand.
"What you need," she went on, "is not to get fixated on your opponent. You must let your own confidence grow so you can shake the hold he has over you. Approach him in friendship, not competition. And resist the urge to experiment. Stick to one pattern." "Ah," I said. "You're saying I should trust my swing." Priestess Miriam nodded, and we sat in silence. A candle on the low-slung table flickered. Outside in the courtyard, a rooster crowed.
"Fair enough," I said as I pulled the envelope of Mike's hair from my pocket. "But just in case, how about you make me a voodoo doll?"
The priestess took the envelope.
"With material and labor," she said, "that will cost you two hundred bucks." The next afternoon, as the sun died over the Mississippi delta, I drove back to the airport, my Mike voodoo doll propped in the passenger seat. Mini- Mike looked nothing like my buddy, but the priestess had added some personal touches and Mike's hair was woven inside the doll's belly, the better to hold him under my spell.
"Don't use this to do your friend harm," the priestess warned me as she handed me the doll. "That is not what voodoo is for."
Perhaps sensing my disappointment, she added,"But you can cover the doll's eyes to blind him to the prospect of victory, or put a golf tee in his mouth if you want to quiet him down."
Thursday morning arrived, and I stood with Mike on the first tee of a tight, tree-lined course just outside Boston. "I approach this match in friendship," I told myself. But Mike was sounding cocky, making brash predictions.
