The Doll
Page 4
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A Google search of the terms “Eleggua” and “Oya” returned a list of websites detailing the different Orishas in Santeria, but little else. Joyce revised her search, typing “Santeria” and “black candles” into the search box before hitting ‘Enter’.
The first title in her results caught her attention:
Palo Mayombe: The Dark Side of Santeria
She clicked on the link, and her screen plunged into an inky blackness. Then white text began to load, stark and harsh against the dark background, like bleached bones on ebony.
Palo Mayombe is an offshoot of Santeria. While both worship the same deities, or Orishas, Santerians employ the powers of light in their spells. Paleros – practitioners of Palo Mayombe – use the force of darkness.
In Palo Mayombe, the place of worship is called the “house of the dead.” This is where powerful spirits reside, and as such, it is traditionally placed somewhere quiet and secluded, far from the practitioner’s living quarters. Inside, at least one candle must be burning at any one time, to honour the resident spirits. The colour of the candle is symbolic, and perhaps the most popular – and the most controversial – colour favoured by Paleros is the black candle. Associated with death and destruction, these candles are used only in the most powerful dark spells.
Central to the practice of Palo Mayombe is the keeping of a religious cauldron called a Nganga. This is a consecrated vessel, filled with sacred earth, human remains, bones and other items. Paleros believe that each Nganga is inhabited by a muerto, or spirit of the dead, that a Palero can command to do his bidding.
A powerful Palero priest is capable of using spirits to raise a man from obscurity to prominence with just a few incantations and rituals. Many political leaders in Latin America are rumoured to be involved in Palo Mayombe to keep them in power. On the flip side, a priest can just as easily bring on death with a simple curse.
However, should a Palero lack the skills to control a summoned spirit, the consequences could be deadly – and not just for the priest. It is no wonder Palo Mayombe is considered one of the world’s most powerful and feared form of black magic.
With a shudder, Joyce sat back, pulling her towel tighter around herself in a protective cocoon. Despite the warm sun beating down on her, and the heat rising off the flagstones underfoot, she felt chilled to the bone.
Palo Mayombe...
Did that creepy hermit on the island practice it?
A shrine in the middle of nowhere.
A house of the dead...
She nearly screamed when something cold and wet touched her bare knee. Taylor stood beside her in the middle of a spreading puddle, her hair plastered to the sides of her face, the sharp smell of chlorine emanating off her in humid wafts.
“Hey honey,” she said with relief. “How was your lesson?”
“Good!” Taylor replied. “We learned the breaststroke today!”
“Well done,” Joyce said, reaching for Taylor’s towel. “Let’s get you dry before you catch a cold.”
Taylor shook her head, splashing more pool water over her. Joyce shut the lid on her laptop to protect it from the drips.
“Can I just do another lap?” she asked. “Please? Dora, El and Oya have challenged me to a race.”
Joyce frowned, but she didn’t want to make a scene beside the pool. She knew many of the other mothers, and it wouldn’t do to be seen here chastising her daughter. “Fine, but just one lap, OK? We need to get home. Maria has dinner waiting.” She watched as her daughter launched herself into the pool in the cannonball position, sending up a miniature tidal wave.
Just imaginary friends...nothing more...Joyce thought, fighting down the unease gnawing at the base of her stomach. Taylor must have overheard her conversation with Maria. That must be where she picked up the names.
There’s no other explanation. It’s just a coincidence.
Just like Harold’s death was a coincidence.
She lifted the screen on her laptop and stared again at the dark and forbidding web page. It certainly explained a lot of what she had seen on the Island of the Dolls: the occult symbols, the secluded place of worship, the black candles...
“Central to the practice of Palo Mayombe is the keeping of a religious cauldron called a Nganga.”
Joyce arched an eyebrow. Calling up a new window, she retrieved her saved holiday photos, found the shot of the altar and enlarged it. Rows upon rows of dolls sat over a concrete slab etched with arcane symbols and crusted with the solidified remains of melted black candles.
There was no cauldron.
Nothing even resembling a receptacle of any kind.
Could it have been removed? Perhaps by some twisted souvenir hunter?
“Oh my God!” she heard a woman gasp. More alarmed voices joined in, snapping Joyce’s attention back to the pool. An eruption of white water disturbed the surface near the deep end. In the midst of the roiling foam, Joyce detected tiny flailing arms, and a flash of blonde hair.
“TAYLOR!”
Her heart in her mouth, Joyce sprang up from her sun lounger and raced to the edge of the pool. Cool water sloshed round her ankles.
“TAYLOR!”
Where the Hell is the lifeguard?
Taylor’s head surfaced briefly before disappearing once again under the churning froth.
Kicking off her sandals, Joyce dived in, ignoring the shock of the cold water. She made her way towards her daughter in frenzied strokes, reaching Taylor just as the girl’s head bobbed under again.
“I got you, honey! I got you!” she tried to say, but the panicked child clawed desperately at her, pulling her under, drowning her words. In the muffled chaos underwater, Joyce was disoriented by flapping limbs and a blizzard of bubbles. Water rushed up her nostrils, piercing her sinuses with icy needles. Taylor’s nails dug into her flesh as the little girl hung on to her arms, refusing to let go. As the oxygen reserves in her lungs depleted, she felt an expanding pressure inside her, threatening to rupture her chest unless she breathed in now.
With a surge of strength, she managed to tear one of her arms away from Taylor’s vice-like grip. Thrashing wildly, she broke the surface and took a deep, greedy gulp of sweet air. With her freed arm, she lifted her daughter’s head out of the water.
“I got you, sweetie,” she sputtered. “You’re safe now.” Kicking her legs, she propelled them towards the edge of the pool, where waiting hands hauled them on to dry land. Joyce collapsed in a sodden heap, heaving, the sour taste of chlorine drying out her mouth. Beside her, Taylor was on her hands and knees, coughing and spitting out mouthfuls of water.
Still trying to catch her breath, Joyce propped herself up on rubbery arms. “Taylor,” she gasped, “are you all right?”
Her daughter managed a weak nod.
“It was Dora,” she said. “She cheated. She won’t let me win.”