"Erzulie's Child" (PotC/Firefly crossover, Inara/Mal, Inara/Tia Dalma, PG) Title: Erzulie's Child Author/Artist:green_amber Fandom: Firefly/PotC crossover Characters/Pairings: Slight Inara/Tia Dalma; implied Inara/Mal Rating and Warnings: PG. Warning for horribly mangled voodoo and equally mangled dialect. Summary: The crew of Serenity needs a place to stay. Tia Dalma needs an odd ingredient for a love potion. Notes: Written for thegiantkiller at swashbucklathon December 2006.
There had been a time, not too long ago, when Inara would have turned her nose up at this place. The idea that a peer, an equal, might dwell in such squalor, would have been beyond her comprehension.
"She's some kind of witch woman," Mal had said. "Inara, you come along. You know how to talk witch-woman talk."
Priestess, she'd whispered under her breath, but all the same she'd agreed to accompany Mal on this little expedition; she told herself it was because she couldn't bear the thought of Mal's making an utter fool of himself trying to deal with a holy woman. Mal was good at that sort of thing. Making a fool of himself, that is.
She had second-guessed her decision more than once. She second-guessed it yet again as the warped, flood-bleached boards of the walkway creaked and groaned beneath her feet. An odor of decay wafted up from the stagnant water. I suppose I am turning my nose up at it. But at least I'm only turning up my nose in the literal sense and not the metaphorical, and I believe that's progress.
She'd learned by now that the sacred could be found in a hovel just as surely as in a temple; the beautiful in a palace or a ramshackle house on stilts on some backwater swamp planet at the edge of the system. Inara knew better than to doubt the sincerity or the power of this holy woman, at least before actually meeting her. The villagers had spoken of her with awe and respect when they'd landed. Whether she possessed a true vocation or merely charisma and a clever patter remained to be seen.
"What's this, some kind of welcome mat?" Mal had reached the end of the snaking walkway and arrived at the house. There was a design drawn on the boards of the front porch in chalk. It didn't look at all familiar to Inara but she could see the painstaking work that had gone into it.
"Perhaps," she told Mal. "Or perhaps it's meant to keep out those who wish her ill."
"What kind of lowlife do you think I am?" said Mal. The wounded expression on his face told Inara that her words had come out more sharply than she'd intended.
Pirate, rebel, smuggler, scoundrel, but never cold-blooded murderer. There's a difference. She didn't say that, only "I don't."
Mal knocked on the door.
"Come in, cherie," sang a low lilting voice from inside the shack. Mal pushed the door open; Inara followed him.
It took her a moment to find the woman among all of her things. Candles flickered on every available inch of flat surface, some of them in tall narrow jars plastered with pictures of people in halos and robes. Shepherd Book might know who they are, she thought. There was an altar draped with scraps of cloth and strings of beads, and more candles. Opposite the altar sat a vanity table. It was covered in the same accoutrements, along with rows upon rows of strangely shaped bottles that Inara guessed were perfume, and a gilded comb and mirror. The gleam of the toiletries stood out amid the poverty of the cabin.
Then the woman herself appeared as if from nowhere, seated at a table in the center of the room. Inara knew she'd worked no magic; it was only that Inara's eyes had been drawn by the peculiar objects of worship. Inara was always interested in the spiritual impulse and the way it always found an outlet, no matter how remote or how poor the locale.
"You come from far away," the woman said by way of greeting. Her skin was cafe au lait, her eyes dark and glittering, her teeth an eerie violet-black as she spoke. Her age was impossible to guess; she could have been twenty or fifty. She wove a string of enormous baroque pearls between her fingers with a sort of absent reverence, as if they were prayer beads.
Maybe they are.
"Captain Malcolm Reynolds," said Mal. "Serenity. I've been told that you--"
The woman held up the palm of her hand. "Hush. There is time for business later, Captain Malcolm Reynolds." She said his name as if caressing it. "And who are you, child of Erzulie?"
Inara was unsure who or what Erzulie might be, but she knew her manners. Companion training was good for that. She nodded her head in respect. "I am Inara Serra..."
"Inara. Child of Erzulie, yes. I am Tia Dalma," said the woman before Inara could say any more. She took a sip from an earthenware mug and gestured toward two other chairs at the table. "Sit down, travelers."
Tia Dalma poured drinks for Mal and Inara, a sweet fiery liquid that burned Inara's throat. "The finest rum on Laveau," said Tia Dalma. "But Captain Malcolm Reynolds don't come here just to drink Tia Dalma's rum. Non. Him wants something."
Mal nodded. "We're looking for a place to lay low for a while while we fix our boat. I'd heard you had some sympathy for our sort."
"Ah, him has heard the tales!" said Tia Dalma with a wink at Inara. Rumor had it that Tia Dalma had once been the mistress of a man much like Mal. A handsome rogue, on the wrong side of the law, on the right side of justice, at least most of the time. It was why they had come--if she were willing to help them, evading the authorities would be much easier.
Tia Dalma fell silent, a slight smile playing about her lips, fingers clicking the pearls again, then moving to toy with some dusty jars. Inara could see a muscle twitching in Mal's cheek and knew he badly wanted to tap his foot, or shout "Out with it, woman!" but dared not.
"Eh bien," she said at last. "I might be willing to make a bargain with you."
"What do you want?"
"If you'll step outside, Captain Reynolds. I want to talk to she alone."
"Now, ma'am, I don't think..."
"It's all right," said Inara. "I'll talk with her."
Mal, still shaking his head, retired to the porch.
"Hang on to he," whispered Tia Dalma. "Him's worth it. Most of they aren't."
Inara's heart jumped. "But he and I aren't..."
"You are," insisted Tia Dalma. "Him and you be both too pigheaded to see it. But you are what you are."
"My personal life is of no consequence," said Inara with as much politeness as she could find beneath the roil of her emotions. "But as for our negotiations..."
Tia Dalma nodded. "Child of Erzulie. Perhaps you can help me."
"You keep saying that. Who or what is Erzulie?"
The woman smiled a tarry smile and stood, taking down a flickering candle from the altar. The candle burned brightly within a tall glass jar. On the jar was a picture of a woman, her heart bared and pierced by a sword.
"Erzulie," said Tia Dalma. "Her is the Maitresse, the lady of love and pleasure. Women like you--women like me--we are her children. Her has children in the Companions' houses and her has children who walk the streets. It's all the same to her."
Inara touched the jar with a tentative finger, feeling the warmth on her skin. A goddess of Companions and whores, mistresses and jades. In the end we all do the same service, not that I'd ever admit that to Mal, not that I'd have admitted it at all a few years ago. We give comfort; we give pleasure. It doesn't matter, not really, how we dress it up. I think I like this goddess.
"Ah, her is wondering what Erzulie has to do with her dear wicked man's ship."
Inara smiled in spite of herself, and nodded.
"I am making love potion, the strongest love potion there is, and the final ingredient is tears shed for love by a daughter of Erzulie."
"You said yourself that you are her child as well. Why do you need me?"
Tia Dalma laughed. "My tears be dried, cherie." She handed Inara a small glass vial. "It need not be now. Just promise me, when him brings the tears of sorrow, or someday the tears of joy, you will come back to see Tia Dalma and bring this."
The promise of tears weighed against the safety of everyone on Serenity. It was no dilemma at all. "You have my word." Inara just wasn't sure she'd ever need to pay. She'd resolved not to cry over Mal. Not again, at any rate.
"Then we seal the bargain." And Inara, who had kissed a hundred women in her time, was surprised by the sudden soft press of Tia Dalma's lips on hers.
She decided she would have to visit often during their stay here. She had so many questions, about the icons and candles, about love potions and whether they were real or snake oil, about those lips, about everything.