by Nan Ryan
“Christ!” Lord Enfield swore. “We’re going to be eaten alive!”
“Take it easy, boss,” said the scar-faced Burton Smallwood. “We’re almost there. Around that next bend we should see the lights.”
The younger Smallwood carefully maneuvered the pirogue through a greatly narrowed stretch of the marshy waters. Tangled vines and draping Spanish moss slapped their faces and made them wince with horror. Shuddering, Desmond and Dominique closed their eyes and clung to each other.
The pirogue rounded the last bend.
“We’re here,” Burton Smallwood announced and the anxious couple cautiously opened their eyes.
They saw, glimmering in the mist, the lights of a weathered old chapel that sat on the banks some fifty or sixty yards away.
When the boat’s bow touched the vine-choked banks, Burton Smallwood jumped out and pulled the pirogue up onto the grass. Then he held out his hand to Dominique.
“You know better than that, Burton!” Desmond snapped angrily, and both Burton and Dominique were well aware of his meaning.
Both Smallwoods had been warned never to touch Dominique. Not even her hand. If Desmond learned that either of them had touched her, they would wish they had never been born.
“Sorry, Lord, I forgot,” said Smallwood.
He stepped back as Desmond got out of the boat. Desmond turned and lifted Dominique out and set her on her feet. Holding her firmly by the arm, he addressed the brothers.
“You are to stay right here until we return,” he instructed. “Do not venture a foot away from this spot. You understand me?”
“We understand,” Burton answered for them both.
That wasn’t good enough for Desmond. He looked directly at Barton. “You’re not to even consider going anywhere near that old chapel. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Lord,” said Burton.
“Very well,” Desmond softened a little, glanced again at the chapel and added, “You won’t have a long wait.”
He meant what he said. He had a low threshold of boredom, and so had no intention of spending an evening sitting in a drafty, ill-lit chapel, listening to an old black woman spouting gibberish. He could think of nothing quite so dull and tedious and he’d be dammed if he would hold still long for such tiresome foolishness.
He had promised Dominique he would come here to visit the voodoo queen. He hadn’t promised her how long he would stay. “We won’t be gone for more than a half an hour,” he said to the Smallwoods.
Twenty-Four
Dominique secretly smiled.
She knew that it would be hours before they returned to the pirogue. She knew as well that Lord Enfield would not be bored.
It was deathly still and quiet as they made their way toward the chapel through the overgrown underbrush and the cloaking fog. No sound came from within the chapel. Only the croaking of the frogs in the marshes broke the eerie silence.
Dominique took the opportunity to give Desmond strict instructions on how he was to behave once they were inside the building.
“Darling, you will be only an observer to the rituals, not a participant,” she pointed out.
“I should hope so,” he said flippantly.
“You will remain silent and seated throughout no matter what you see or hear.”
“My dear, I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse,” he said, “but I can’t promise that I won’t fall asleep.”
She gave him a sly smile. “I can.”
They reached the crumbling chapel and climbed the rickety steps. Dominique drew a deep breath and knocked on the splintery wooden door. Long seconds passed. Dominique grew nervous. But she did not knock again. She waited patiently.
The lord was not so patient. “Let’s go back, Dom. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go inside.”
“Shh!” she warned, making a face at him.
The warped door slowly opened and a tall, muscular black man holding a smoking flambeau high above his head admitted them into the chapel’s shadowy vestibule. He said not one word but pointed, indicating that they were to proceed forward to the closed door on their right.
The black man did not escort them to the chapel proper, but remained where he was, on guard. Anxious to get this pagan exercise in futility behind him, Lord Enfield reached around Dominique and forcefully pushed the door open.
They stepped inside.
The lord blinked and looked around. It was dark inside. The chapel was lit only with burning wicks floating in clay pots of oil. The pots formed a large circle. He saw no one beyond the lights, yet felt their presence and wondered how many people were in the room. A dozen? A hundred?
He squinted, trying to see, and jumped when a thin black woman emerged from the deep shadows and escorted them to their seats.
They followed the woman who stayed on the outside perimeter of the lighted candlewicks. At last she touched Dominique’s arm and pointed to the plank floor. The woman left them and Desmond realized, with rising irritation, that there were no chairs. He started to protest, but remembered Dominique’s warnings. He was not to say a word inside the chapel.
Lord Enfield stood for a long moment, looking about for a bench or something to sit on. Anything. There was nothing. Exhaling with disgust, the nobleman finally sank down onto the hard wooden floor beside Dominique and once again cursed himself for agreeing to come this god-awful place on this cold winter night.
Seeing that he shivered, Dominique quietly directed his attention to a govi, a baked clay pitcher with a small spout that sat at their feet. She whispered that the pitcher was filled with clairin, a strong white rum. She did not tell him that the rum contained an infusion of aromatic herbs. She suggested that perhaps if he had a drink of the rum, it would warm him. Desmond was tempted, but refused. There were no glasses or cups from which to drink.
So he shook his head and, as he had done in the pirogue, pulled his greatcoat closer around his ears and sat there, cross-legged, aggravated, waiting for something to happen.
He didn’t have to wait long.
The faint clattering of the asson—the sacred rattles—began. Then came the slow, steady throbbing of the drums. His eyes adjusting to the darkness, Desmond looked across the room and saw an altar upon which rested a myriad of strange-looking jars and jugs, various shaped rattles, holy emblems, stones swimming in oil, playing cards and bottles of liquor.
And bones.
Human bones. Desmond shuddered at the thought. He was suddenly very uneasy. He wished that he could leave. He had the eerie feeling that barbaric and inhuman practices took place in this remote sanctuary all in the name of sacrifices offered up to the gods.
Above the altar was a large black cross. And on the floor directly below, resting in the regal pose of the mighty sphinx, was a coal-black cat, its golden eyes gleaming in the shadows. The cat threw its head back and hissed loudly, then yawned and lay its face on its outstretched paws.
It dozed.
At the room’s center was a large straw basket with a lid covering its contents. Desmond wondered what was in the basket, but only for a moment, before something more intriguing caught his eye.
To the left of the altar stood a wood carving that looked like a man’s engorged sex organ. His mouth agape, Desmond stared at the highly polished wooden object that stood at least a foot tall and was as big around as a man’s closed fist.
Fascinated, he leaned closer to Dominique and nodded toward the mysterious object. “What in heaven’s name is that?”
“A boa,” she calmly whispered back.
“Boa?”
“A phallus used to symbolize the sex of the great god, Legba.”
Desmond was about to ask what it was used for when a ripple of excitement swept through the chapel and his attention was drawn to a tall, stout black woman who was now crossing the room to take up her position before the altar.
Mama Cecile.
Staring, Desmond realized that the celebrated Mama Cecile was nothing like he had expected
. He had imagined her to be a skinny old crone, bent and brittle, with dull eyes and a wrinkled face. Mama Cecile was exactly the opposite. Big and strapping though she was, she was quite elegant and agile. She walked with an almost queenly bearing. Her hair was as white as snow, but her broad ebony face was smooth and unlined. She was dressed tastefully in a long gown of dark-colored wool. Her great, dark eyes held a look of quiet serenity.
Draped around her broad shoulders was a wrap and Dominique whispered to Desmond that it was a magic shawl that had been sent to Mama Cecile by the emperor of China.
Mama Cecile, seating herself on a makeshift throne to the right of the altar, began the strange ceremony by calling on Legba, the god who opens the gates that separate the profane world of the living from that other sacred world.
“Atibo Legba, open the gates for me,” she intoned. “Papa Legba, open the gates for me. Open the gates that I might enter….”
She spoke in a low, cultured voice that sent chills up Desmond’s spine. He stared in awe as several zombielike acolytes emerged from beyond the burning candlewicks into the circle of light. Making their way around the huge wicker basket, they moved toward the altar and fell to their knees before their revered voodoo queen.
“What are they doing?” Desmond whispered.
“Shh!” Dominique warned.
“Shouldn’t you join those kneeling before her?” Desmond asked. “To tell Mama Cecile why you’ve come here.”
Dominique shook her head. “I will speak to Mama Cecile after the ceremonies have ended and the others have gone.” She touched his arm. “Have you the gold?”
Desmond patted the small bag containing ten twenty-dollar gold pieces that rested inside his coat pocket. “I do, but I think it’s foolish and frivolous of you to be giving money to that old woman.”
Dominique’s dark eyes blazed. “That old woman is a mistress of the god! She has unlimited powers of sorcery, so you had best hold your blasphemous tongue.”
Desmond shrugged, but fell silent as she watched Mama Cecile rise from her throne, her big body beginning to shake from head to toe as if she were having some kind of seizure. Those kneeling before her were totally motionless, petrified in sacred awe. Desmond now also sat motionless with wonder and fear.
Mama Cecile began to sing and pirouette and, quite suddenly, she produced a huge cutlass. The sharp blade caught the candlelight as she brandished it over her head. There was a pronounced silence as everyone, including Desmond, waited with bated breath, eyes fixed on Mama Cecile.
At that moment a squealing black pig was produced. Its loud frantic grunts filled the chapel. But not for long. With one vivid thrust the voodoo priestess plunged her cutlass into the pig’s throat. Blood spurted. And was quickly gathered into a waiting clay pitcher.
Horrified and half-nauseated, Desmond watched, eyes wide and mouth open, as the slaughtered pig was placed on the altar. Its blood was mixed with alcohol and the sickening concoction was then passed amongst the kneeling believers. Each drank of the blood. And each swore to never reveal the sacred secrets imparted under the seal of the blood. All agreed that there would be unfailing punishment of anyone who broke the code. Repulsed, Desmond had an overwhelming desire to get up and leave this place where profane rituals were carried out. He felt apprehensive and anxious. Afraid of what might come next.
Mama Cecile was now moving about, sprinkling magical powders from a hollowed-out gourd. Desmond stared, still gripped with horror, at the voodoo queen. Her eyes were wide-open, but her eyeballs were rolled back in her head until only the whites showed. She was chanting strange incantations, soliciting the spirit world, casting a spell.
Performing her evil magic.
Desmond felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He was relieved when those asking for help from Mama Cecile began returning to their places beyond the pots of light. Soon all had faded back into the shadows and the chapel fell totally silent. It remained so for several long, tense moments.
The white-haired voodoo queen now sat rigid on her throne. The coal-black cat sat rigid by the altar. And Lord Enfield sat rigid on the floor. Nothing stirred. The silence was deafening.
Finally, from beyond the circle of light, the calabashes began to rattle. A lone drum began to beat a slow, steady rhythm and an intense kind of tension filled the air. Caught up in the mood, Desmond felt a strange tautness in his limbs and his heartbeat quickened dramatically. He anxiously reached out for the clay pitcher of clairin, put his lips to the spout and took a long swallow.
A loud shout from out of the darkness startled him and he almost dropped the pitcher. He nervously set it down and reached for Dominique’s hand, wondering what terrible thing was going to happen next. The throb of the drums grew more rapid and it was as if the dark denizens beyond the circle of light were suddenly holding their collective breaths.
All at once a bright flash of light lit the room as a charge of gunpowder was detonated and the worked-up spectators gasped loudly. Then from out of the thick acrid smoke stepped an incredibly beautiful black woman.
The woman was totally nude.
Twenty-Five
Her only adornment was a white feather in her ebony hair.
Desmond’s eyes instantly fastened on the magnificent specimen of proud femininity. She was young, no older than sixteen or seventeen, but she had the ripe, tempting body of a woman. Her dark, luxuriant hair was unbound and it fell to well below her slim waist. Her legs were long and shapely and her breasts jutted straight out from her chest. The dark nipples were large and soft. All her body hair had been removed, shaved totally clean, leaving her most intimate parts glaringly exposed.
Desmond felt his groin stir as he gazed upon her. He liked the way she looked with no thick thatch of curly hair between her firm thighs. He found it incredibly appealing. She was so slick, so smooth, so tempting. And her body was gleaming, as if she were wet, from head to toe.
His heart pounding, Desmond heard Dominique whisper, “This girl has been given a cleansing balm bath. The bath has removed everything mental, spiritual and physical so that she may be utilized as a pure vessel by Mama Cecile. No soap was used on her body, but a secret potion made from the extract of roots was mixed with rich oils and carefully massaged into the girl’s naked flesh.” Dominique paused, glanced at the shimmering black girl, then added, “The sweet scent from the roots is the very odor of seduction.”
Desmond did not reply. He nodded, bewitched by the sight of the bare young woman who was beginning to gently thrust her pelvis forward ever so subtlety. He itched to touch her. All over. His belly grew tight as she began to slowly move around the room inside the circle of light.
She didn’t walk, but undulated like a snake. Her glistening body literally moving in waves, she slithered slowly about, a wild, not-of-this-world expression in her huge black eyes, as if she were in a deep trance.
When she had finally made her way fully around the circle, curving her malleable body throughout, she turned and went directly to the large straw basket at the room’s center. She sank to her knees before it and lifted the lid.
At once the head of a huge, hissing snake emerged and Desmond groaned aloud. But the beautiful girl showed no fear of the large reptile. She stared unblinkingly at it and the serpent continued to hiss and dart its long tongue out, its fangs dripping deadly venom.
A twitter of fresh excitement swept through the hidden crowd when the girl rose to her feet, reached out with a lightning fast movement and grabbed the snake’s head. She then nimbly climbed inside the basket with the reptile.
“Jesus,” Desmond swore, “is she trying to commit suicide?”
“No,” Dominique calmly assured him. “She is perfectly safe. The snake is the voodoo. The god. The spirit. He will not make known his will, except through Mama Cecile. Therefore Mama Cecile has ordered the girl to please the god so that we may make full use of his potent powers.”
Speechless, Desmond watched as the writhing snake wound itself around the
girl’s satiny body. For the next heart-stopping few minutes, serpent and woman writhed together in a bizarre exercise that was akin to orgasmic ecstasy.
It was frightening.
It was obscene.
It was entrancing.
Abruptly the girl, continuing to hold the snake’s head so that it couldn’t bite her, shook herself free of his great coiled body and got out of the basket. She released the snake’s head and it hissed and spit, but she calmly turned her back on it and moved away in unhurried, undulating steps.
Desmond’s eyes widened in anticipation when she approached the wooden phallus. He was already so aroused from watching her with the snake that he was uncomfortable. He had shed his greatcoat, loosened his cravat and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. Still he was much too warm and was perspiring freely. He lifted the clay pitcher again and took a long swig of the doctored rum. He swallowed and took another. He could feel the effects of the clairin heating his blood, but was unaware that the herbs which had been added to the rum worked as a powerful aphrodisiac.
His intense gaze never left the girl. What, he wondered, would she do with the carved phallus? His throat grew dry as he envisioned her attempting to mount it. He grabbed up the pitcher and took another drink.
The girl danced lithely around the wooden symbol of sex for a time before sinking to her knees before it. She stared at the giant phallus for a long moment, spellbound. Then she took the white feather from her hair and sinking back onto her bare heels, began to flick the feather back and forth over her nipples.
Desmond swallowed convulsively. He thirstily drank again.
Her head thrown back, her eyes closed, the kneeling girl continued to flick the feather rapidly over her breasts until the stimulation caused her large nipples to stiffen and stand out like twin bullets. She then dropped the feather.
She came back up on her knees, leaned forward and rubbed her hardened nipples back and forth against the phallus. Bent on pleasing the god so that he would use his great powers, she teased the wooden object as if it were flesh and blood. The distended nipple of her left breast resting against the polished wood, she lifted her hands and gently wrapped her fingers around its thick carved base.