Bacchanal

by Veronica Henry

  A prim hat perched on her head; her smart dress was woven of pure silk, shoulder wrap keeping her modest. Gloves covered her elegant hands. The other demon spirits at the table did not stir, but someone at the next table yelped at her sudden appearance.

  “Ahiku. Always the show-woman.” Neema smiled, an expression of monsters and menace. “To scare someone is such a simple thing. I am surprised you still find such things provide . . . entertainment.” Neema wore her stock human cloak: coloring more Northern than Southern Africa, petite, a halo of black hair, and the diminutive features to match. Her round eyes were enhanced by the dark pencil that lined them.

  “I run a carnival.” Ahiku inspected her silverware as if the possibility of contracting a germ should give her pause. “I am in the business of entertainment. In my country, spirits never tire of playing games with the living. It keeps interest in their lives. To deprive them would be plain selfish.” She turned to the man sitting to her right. “Herbert could tell you a thing or two about selfishness, and my people.”

  Herbert’s skin was nearly as pale as the white linen covering the table. He had bright-blue eyes, thin dry lips, and a parrot’s nose. His brown hair was parted on the right, and he wore the simple clothes of his profession, without adornment. “Missionary work is the only thing that brought your dark continent out of the Dark Ages. Though one might argue there is still work to do. Darkness”—he brushed at his arms, snapped his cuffs—“that needs beating back.”

  “We took the liberty of ordering for you,” Francisco said between mouthfuls of eggs. He sat next to Neema on the other side of the table. He flashed Ahiku his smile. Francisco was handsome, with his frizzy black hair and the darkly tanned skin of one who wore the look of a Brazilian football coach like medieval armor. His lean, athletic frame shrouded in snug-fitting casual dress.

  A waitress appeared and set a plate before Ahiku. A largish breakfast of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. A cup of tea. Ahiku would have preferred a breakfast of peppered eggs and fried plantain but reminded herself that she was not in her ancestral home. Spirits didn’t need to consume food, but when they did, they could still find certain pleasure in it. After a bite of bacon, she tackled the toughest one.

  “Neema.” She took a sip of tea, held up a finger, added sugar, and set the cup back on its saucer. “How are things in Rabat? Have your students begun to respond to your new teaching methods?”

  Neema dabbed at her rouge-painted lips. She blinked, eyelashes so long it seemed a blink or two more would cause a small typhoon. “Yes, my students are doing well, and I have you all to thank for our enduring partnership. And what about you—has Oya paid you a visit lately?”

  Ahiku seethed but didn’t have time to respond before Herbert took up the attack.

  “Spit it out. You haven’t made one iota of progress toward finding our adversary, have you?” Herbert planted his elbows on the table and leveled his gaze at Ahiku.

  Clay hadn’t brought her anyone even close. “My people tell me you took two children from the same village. The same family!” Ahiku tsked. “Surely you are not one to talk of my failings.” Ahiku didn’t let the smile threatening to bloom come to the surface. It gave her great pleasure to put Herbert in his place. She nibbled on a bit of pancake. Neema and Francisco kept quiet, shoveling food into their mouths. Herbert reddened and suddenly found more interest in his eggs.

  The demons let the moment pass. Neema said, “Herbert’s sloppy selection process aside, can we get back to the matter at hand?”

  Everyone pushed their plates aside. When the waitress approached with a fresh pot of coffee, Ahiku waved her off.

  Francisco clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Ahiku, we should be living our special brand of the afterlife with no worry, but because you tangled with Oya’s daughter—”

  “When we explicitly forbade it,” Neema interjected.

  Francisco frowned but continued. “Point is, you put us all in her path. We meet here every year, for the last decade, and you still haven’t found her. You set Oya on the path to your demise. Our demise.”

  “Which”—Herbert had regained his voice—“is precisely the type of thing I’d expect. Laziness.”

  She would endure these indignities . . . for now. The demons were creatures of habit, after all; the insults would give way to other chatter soon enough. But the anticipated barrage did not come. Instead, the demon horde fell silent, watching her. Queenie had warned her; still, unease prickled on the back of Ahiku’s neck.

  “Humph . . .” Neema leaned back in her chair and gloated. “We suspected as much. You really do not know, do you?”

  Ahiku squirmed under her cohort’s self-satisfied glowers. The miserable wretches had planned an ambush. “There is obviously something on your minds. Spit it out and be done with it.”

  “You are harboring Oya’s descendant right beneath your nose.” Neema’s nostrils flared as if emphasizing her point.

  “Wha—” Ahiku sputtered.

  “Incompetence,” Herbert added. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Think about it.” Francisco tapped his temple. “We know Oya had to have passed down some kind of defense. We’ve always assumed it was in the blood, but what if it was something physical, an object? Something our opponent removed or lost. While you were off jockeying for position in the underworld, for a second, what was hidden flared like a bonfire.”

  Ahiku suppressed the urge to rip them all apart. If they were so worried for their own hides, you’d think they would have done something more to help her. “And you did nothing to apprehend her?”

  Neema chuckled. “It is your mess to clean up. Why risk ourselves? And we knew where, not who. Your season ends after your run in Tulsa; you have until then. Do not delay here, thinking to buy yourself more time. If you are not up to the task, we’ll be forced to take other action. What say the rest of you?”

  The congregation considered and nodded their agreement.

  Curiously, the sky overhead turned instantly more cloud covered. A sharp crackle of thunder boomed, and lightning zigzagged across the sky. There were loud murmurs throughout the restaurant. The waitstaff stopped in midstride, all turning their gazes toward the windows. As quickly as the storm had flared, the hazy sun returned, and the gasps and murmurs died down.

  “This weather ain’t been right,” a patron ventured with an obvious shiver, and everyone got back to their meals.

  “It seems that portion of our business is concluded,” Ahiku said and then took a sip of lukewarm tea to stop herself from tearing out of the restaurant. She seethed as the other demons went on to discuss matters of importance in the afterlife: spats and sides taken, the never-ending leadership changes. They traded stories about some of the more satisfying souls they’d consumed and relished in their luck at the endless supply.

  Much later, when the conversation ebbed, Ahiku stood. “If you all will excuse me, it seems I have a pressing matter to attend to.”

  “I suppose it’s my turn to pay,” Herbert said with a scowl, tossing a few bills on the table.

  The demons exited the hotel and, one by one, dissolved into baleful wisps of nothingness, gone again back to their respective corners of the world until the next gathering.

  “Bon appétit!” Neema’s voice trailed after them.

  At the corner of Broadway, Ahiku coalesced into her human form. Zinsa and Efe fell in step on either side of her. Bacchanal would head straight for Tulsa without delay, but the demons would pay. They would suffer unspeakable horrors. She would deal with Oya’s minion; then she would call on the support she’d been gathering in the underworld and settle a few scores. She trawled the crowded sidewalk, fingertips grazing a shoulder or arm, laying early claim to a few tainted souls she passed, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake.

  They’d hightailed it out of Oklahoma City and rushed headlong into Tulsa so fast that Liza wondered if Clay had gotten himself into some kind of trouble there. The carnies had spent the better part o
f the morning setting up. Despite the dour look of things, there was still some oil wealth left in Oklahoma, and not everybody had left. When the dust storms cleared, residents had begun to return. The government introduced new farming techniques that settled the land, but a total revitalization was still a ways off.

  She’d been avoiding discussing a certain incident, but Liza decided to go off and find Ishe all the same. She found him having an animated conversation with Bombardier, but as she approached, the men broke off. For once, Bombardier didn’t flash his signature smile. Ishe’s eyes, when she met them, held an emotion she couldn’t read. The man was so good at covering up that she wondered if even he knew the real him anymore.

  Ishe started walking, and she fell in beside him. The tension between them hung heavy and dark as the velvet draperies of her performance tent. Neither was quite sure how to get back to where they were before.

  Finally, Ishe said, “About what I did . . . what happened between us—”

  “Forget about it.”

  “Easier for you than me.”

  “We have other things to talk about.” Liza knew she was being selfish, but she didn’t have time to dawdle.

  Ishe looked at her, and she sensed him gulp back what was probably a tight knot of emotion. She recognized it because she’d done the same thing more times than she could count. “I’m listenin’.”

  Liza explained everything that had happened with Ago, the whole story, and what it had revealed to her. Ishe listened intently, stopping to ask questions here and there.

  “Learn to call on them spirits,” he insisted. “Don’t wait. You got to be prepared. We don’t know when or where this thing will strike. And let’s ask around, see about finding what you lost.”

  Clay had grumbled about all the work that had yet to be done, but in the end he turned over the keys and waved Liza and Ishe on. They left a trail of dust behind them as the truck rolled to a stop on the outskirts of town. As much as people had tried to dress it up, to Liza it was still a dismal place. One that in time might soon live only in old folks’ memories. She recalled her father’s voice when they’d passed through before. “This here is the bigger place, but we headin’ on to the all-colored town nearby called Taft. Set up by the freedmen from the Creek Nation.”

  Liza and Ishe left the truck without a word. Walking side by side, they greeted the couple of folks who were up and about. “I’m going to start at the general store,” Liza announced. Outside the store was a truck with the words COLEMAN FARM crudely painted on the door. A young man was hauling out large sacks.

  “Peanuts,” he said to them with a smile. They returned the gesture and entered the store to the sound of a little bell attached to the door.

  “Mornin’, be right with ya,” the man behind the wooden counter said and then limped outside to help bring in the peanuts.

  “You looking for somethin’?” Ishe asked Liza as she traversed the store.

  “Guess I’ll know it when I see it.” The close square space was crammed with dry and canned goods, flour and sugar, hard candies, and other necessities. It smelled of dust and cigars. But there, back in the corner, hanging from a wooden pole, Liza spied a couple of caps mixed in with three of her mother’s baskets. She snatched one off the nail that served as a hook and dashed back to the front counter.

  “Where you folks from?” The shopkeeper pulled at the straps of his faded blue overalls and rocked back on his heels. His smile revealed two missing front teeth. He spoke with a kind of wet smacking sound. His gaze fell on Ishe, but it was Liza who spoke first.

  “Nice baskets,” she said, holding up a particularly colorful one.

  The shopkeeper focused fully on Liza for the first time, and his eyes narrowed as they went between her and the basket.

  “Never forget a face.” He craned his neck forward and indicated his own eyes for emphasis. “First time y’all came through here, told my wife the same thing. You sho ’nuf got your mama’s eyes. I’m real sorry ’bout your pa.”

  Liza’s stricken glance over at Ishe carried the weight of a million unshed tears.

  “What do you mean?” Liza set the basket on the counter, and Ishe took her right hand in his. She was grateful for the warmth, as her body had gone rigid with cold. The shopkeeper glanced over at Ishe as if asking for permission to continue. Liza read the unasked question. Why don’t you know your own father is dead?

  “I’m right here,” Liza said, and it took everything she had not to bang her fists on the counter.

  The man rubbed the nape of his neck, took off his straw hat, and wrung it in his hands. “Well, he was sick ’fore they got here.” He stopped. “Can I get y’all somethin’? I sure hate to give folks bad news on an empty stomach.”

  Liza’s voice was raw. “Tell me what happened.” And darned if the man didn’t look to Ishe again before he continued.

  “Doc Morgan said it was his heart. Clutched his chest and fell right there in front of the post office. All you kids wasn’t with him this time. First time round, that sister of yours kept pawing at my hard candy jar—”

  Liza exhaled loudly.

  “It was only the little one with him—cute lil’ gal. She was an itty-bitty thing when y’all come through here first. He sold me five of them baskets.”

  Twiggy. Twiggy was with Pa. “Wait, my father sold the baskets? Did Mama wait outside?”

  The shopkeeper looked positively stricken. His mouth opened, his gaze flickered outside the front window, and Liza got the sense he wanted to be anyplace other than standing in front of her. “Well, with your ma gone and all—”

  Only Ishe’s quick thinking kept Liza on her feet. He held her close to him, and she leaned in for the much-needed support. Her parents were dead. She barely registered the fact that she’d spoken the word “how” aloud before the man answered.

  “Your pa didn’t say, and I had the manners not to ask. You didn’t know ’bout your ma neither?”

  Was that a tinge of judgment in his gravelly voice? Liza registered Ishe’s quick headshake.

  “’Spect you’ll be looking for your little sister?”

  Liza blinked. “Are you saying she’s still here?”

  “I got to get these peanuts bagged up and ready for sale.”

  For the first time, Ishe spoke. “Tell her what she need to know, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “At the center, ’course.”

  The door slamming told Liza that Ishe was behind her. She’d nearly run from the store, her heart thudding painfully. As angry as she was at her parents, the news of their deaths was a blow. But now, hope urged her on to the truck as fast as her feet could take her. Inside the truck, Ishe mentioned that the shopkeeper had given him directions, and besides telling her how sorry he was, he remained blissfully silent as he drove. Liza marveled at how he instinctively gave her exactly what she needed.

  She’d find something lost. The impact of Ago’s words, like a pail of ice-cold water thrown in her face.

  Ishe and Liza sat in the cab of the truck, outside the entrance to the Deaf, Blind & Orphans Institute. The shopkeeper told him it was the only place in the state that cared for colored children and even some adults.

  It had not been difficult to find, one dirt road after another, winding away from Main Street. Now that Liza was here, she felt immobile. Could not command her legs to move. Her heart threatened to leap right out of her chest, but she put on a good face for Ishe.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  “No. I need to do this myself.” She reached over and patted his hand and got out of the truck without meeting his eyes for fear he would see how scared she was.

  “I’ll be right here,” he called after her and reluctantly stayed in the cab.

  The institute sat in the middle of nowhere. It reminded her of the spots Clay so expertly picked to set up the carnival: close enough, but far enough away from everything. The land was flat and expansive, the sky overhead clear and endless. O
ne hundred acres of fine land with water nearby. There were three buildings, one for the mute, one for the blind, and one for the orphans. She’d start with the orphan building—a three-story brick affair, well maintained. A sign overhead read ORPHANS. Liza steeled herself and took measured steps forward. It was early still, so nobody was milling around outside.

  But she felt eyes following her from the many windows on the front of the building. At the top of the stairs, she took a deep breath and opened the front door. To her right was a door with the word HEADMASTER. Liza knocked and entered at a call from a voice inside.

  The room was comfortably arranged. A large window to her left let in a trickle of sunlight. Portraits lined the walls, alongside a painting of a countryside that was so green it had to be anyplace other than Oklahoma. A large desk sat in the center of the room, two wooden chairs in front of it. The man behind the desk stood.

  “Arthur Bacon,” he said. He was a tall mustached man who managed to look comfortable in his stiff wool jacket and slacks. “Won’t you invite your husband inside?” He flicked his head toward the picture window, where he’d obviously watched them pull up.

  “He’s fine.” Liza decided not to correct him. Sometimes, the cloak of marriage was a useful one for a woman.

  “Have a seat, please.” Mr. Bacon gestured to the chairs in front of the desk and waited for Liza to sit before doing so himself. “What can I do for you?”

  Liza clasped her hands together in her lap to still their shaking. “I’m looking for my sister. I believe she’s here.”

  Mr. Bacon opened a desk drawer and removed a large leather-bound ledger. He lay it open on the desk. “Last name?”

  “Meeks.” Liza couldn’t keep herself from trying to read the book upside down.

  Mr. Bacon flipped a few pages, stopped, used his index finger to scan. “Meeks,” he repeated a few times. The finger stopped and he looked up. “First name Twiggy?”