The Traiteur's Ring

by Jeffrey Wilson

  “Hep yo git to dat knowin’ place,” the man said. “You be mindin’ how findin’ dat place we be visitin’ both us dere? Yo needin’ dat place find soon more now, sho’ ‘neff true dat. Dat dead eater wait no fo’ yo dere, but not ever time be dere, know yo dat sho now. Waitin’ down way dat bottom. But you be seein’ friend long dat hole and also nudder one, sho ‘neff true dat. Dey hep’n yo dere and keep yo on dat trail. Mindin’ where to go?”

  “I remember,” Ben said. He realized he would go, if only to prove to himself that the bunny hole had just been a dream. He no longer really believed that lie, he supposed, but either way he would go and then it would be over.

  Closure.

  The old man coughed again, his frail body shaking hard. He wiped dark blood that spilled over his chin with the back of his hand, and then looked at it and laughed his shrieking laugh from the dream.

  “Git down dat hole, Bennie boy. Scaredy sho ‘neff dat, but mos portent tings down dere. Needin’ dat yo be short time dat now.” He spit dark blood onto the sidewalk and sighed. “Git down dey now,” he said and then closed his eyes and rocked back and forth again to the sax music, which had moved to a slower and softer tune. The way he moved his head, eyes closed, reminded Ben of the video of Ray Charles, swaying at his piano and singing “Ebony and Ivory.”

  Ben took Christy by the elbow and guided her away and down the street. She didn’t resist; he felt her concerned eyes on him, but didn’t look at her – not yet. He stopped suddenly and turned around.

  “Will I see you again?” he asked.

  The Cajun no longer sat beside the musician, and Ben darted his eyes and head around. He caught a short glimpse, or at least he thought he did, of the small old man in his dirty ball cap just as he turned into an alleyway.

  Caint dat be knowin’ now. None of us.

  The man was gone.

  Ben turned and looked at his wife.

  “How did you know that man?” Christy didn’t looked frightened or worried, just terribly confused.

  “He knew my Gammy,” he said. He wanted to say more, but had no idea what he could say that wouldn’t tip his hand and show how crazy he felt. He watched her instead in silence.

  “What did he tell you? What did you talk about?” she asked. “I couldn’t understand a word either of you said. It sounded like a different language, but with a French accent. What language was that?”

  “He told me that I should visit home before we leave here,” Ben said. That didn’t seem too much of a lie actually. Ben stopped and considered something. “You couldn’t understand me either?” he asked.

  Christy shook her head. “You both used that crazy language,” she said.

  “Cajun talk.”

  She nodded but seemed uneasy. “That was really weird.”

  “Yeah,” and he tried to sound light. “Totally bizarre. I never expected to see someone from there in the city. Times change, I guess.”

  Christy said nothing, and they walked on towards the Esplanade, hand-in-hand. Ben actually felt great. Christy had seen him – had heard him even. That meant the Cajun was real. As frightening as what that meant was, Ben realized it felt way less scary than believing you had lost your mind.

  Tonight they would enjoy the Quarter. They would drink and listen to jazz, hold hands and make love later. They would talk about the beach and babies.

  Tomorrow they would drive up past Chackbay and into the bayou. He would go alone down that fuckin’ bunny hole, he knew, and whatever he found there, they would leave it all behind and head to Destin Beach. Then, they would head for home and their new life.

  Chapter 22

  Christy had a lot of questions, but had no idea how to ask them or really even how to put them into words. She sat beside Ben, her hand on his arm and head against his shoulder and listened to the music (which was everything the guide promised). How could she find out if he was okay without making him worry? Whenever she asked about dreams or other things that disturbed him, he always seemed so defensive and upset. She had gotten pretty good over the years at reading him and knowing when to ask for more – which meant rarely at best. Everything inside her told her to let him be and ride it out. The last thing she wanted to do was ruin his night on this very special trip.

  Who the hell was that strange man?

  No doubt in her mind the bizarre language added to the impression the Cajun had left on her. The fact she could understand almost nothing her husband said made the entire experience even more surreal. But what made it impossible to swallow, she realized, was the circumstances surrounding it.

  An old man who knew Ben’s grandmother happened to be sitting beside a street musician in the French Quarter, right along their path to Snug Harbor. He and her husband had a short (and apparently heated) conversation, and then they just moved on. Yeah – okay, that could really happen. It bothered her that he didn’t tell her more, but she knew asking more would not help either of them in any way. She had asked, and he had likely given her all he was prepared to give right now.

  This is not my first day with this complicated man.

  Ben looked over with those gorgeous eyes and smiled.

  “You need another drink?” he asked.

  “I’m good for a bit,” she held up her half-full glass. “I love you, baby,” she added.

  Ben leaned over and kissed her deeply. She breathed in the scent of him and felt her pulse quicken. She loved this man so much, more than she had ever believed possible. What she wanted more than anything, especially any satisfaction of her curiosity, was for him to be happy. Happy and at peace, and while she hoped her husband may have found happiness in her, he still searched for answers. It seemed so much worse after Africa, and she wondered if his deployment and the things that had happened there had opened old wounds or if he now had brand new ones to heal. She knew the story he told her of the village in Africa deeply affected him.

  “You like this place?” he asked and pressed her hand to his lips. Just like Ben. He had so much pain inside him and wanted only to be sure she was having a good time.

  “It’s great,” she said. “I love the music so much.”

  Ben nodded and tugged on his beer. “Yeah, you found the perfect retreat, sweetheart.” He kissed her cheek which made her feel warm and safe. “As usual,” he added. He went back to watching the five-piece group on a large stage as they completely dominated the piece they pounded out. His eyes still had a storm brewing inside them, however.

  Maybe it was just this area. Obviously that didn’t really explain the encounter with the old man, but maybe it explained his reaction to it. Maybe it explained how distracted he was and the way he seemed to drift away from her periodically over the evening. She knew his past troubled him, and she suspected there had been at least one particularly bad event that still haunted him. She also knew it involved his Grandmother somehow. She realized it was not in any way important that he tell her what had happened to him as a child – only that he somehow find a way to leave it behind them, to say goodbye to it when they left here. It was why she had so eagerly agreed to this trip and why she still held so much hope for it. She had suspected it might be weird (though the old man encounter way surpassed her expectation), but she felt very strongly it had been the right thing.

  Did she have some morbid curiosity about where he had come from? She looked up at his strong face, those sometime hard eyes, and thought about the childlike cries she periodically heard from him at night. Hell, yeah, she was curious about his home. He had told her so little, but enough that she knew he grew up dirt poor (literally, she suspected) and in squalor in the bayou somewhere. He had talked about his home, which he always described as their shack in the woods, only rarely, but she knew it had been hard and always felt impressed he had made it out. He had found his way to her, as she liked to think of it. She thought for a moment of the Rascal Flatts song she loved and thought of as sort of their song. She certainly felt blessed by the road that had brought them together.r />
  Christy suspected that when she saw it, Ben’s childhood home would not seem nearly as bad as he suggested. A part of her wanted to just drag him away from here, to pack the car like he suggested earlier and to lose themselves in honeymoon sex, drinks, and sunshine in Destin Beach. But she knew he needed to find closure, to put this in perspective, and to leave it behind. Running away would get them no closer to that.

  She gazed at him again. Though he looked straight ahead, she could see he focused on something far away and in no way related to the stage where the group now brought new life to a song that seemed familiar and brand new at the same time. She wondered where he was right now. She wanted to just hold him and make it better. Christy squeezed his arm, and he startled a little and then looked over. He raised an eyebrow. Christy raised her own eyebrow, tried to look alluring, and hoped she didn’t just look silly.

  “Wanna head to the room?” she asked. “I would really love to be naked with you, and I think that would go over the line here – I don’t care if we are in New Orleans.” She gave him her best I love you and want you smile. He lustfully glared back.

  “Don’t have to ask me twice.” He kissed her and then finished off his beer.

  They walked home in quiet but Christy had become used to these times. She knew his mind moved rapidly, though through what exact thoughts she had no way of knowing. She suspected it had something to do with home and his past and a lot to do with the old man from the street. She held his hand and let his mind work. She felt a tingle, like the brush of static electricity you feel when you run your hand through your hair on a winter day, and she looked down at his hand in hers. The ring on his right middle finger glowed bright enough to nearly cast light on the flickering passing shadows. The ember red burst looked tinged with orange, but the brightness and the way it seemed to pulsate made her stomach churn. She had an overwhelming need to pull her hand away. She realized the ring didn’t just disgust her (it did, and she had no idea why even such a bizarre piece of jewelry would make her nauseated), but it frightened her. She resisted for a moment, but finally shook her hand free of his, and wrapped her arm around his waist so he wouldn’t notice her irrational aversion.

  She wanted that ring gone. Not just off his hand, but gone from their lives. She wanted it thrown into the sea or, even better, buried deep in the ground. She decided she would have to wait until he finished his journey through his past over the next day. By the time they arrived in Destin, she decided she would ask him to get rid of it. She couldn’t bear the thought of it still being on his hand when they walked into their town house in Virginia Beach for the first time as Mr. and Mrs. Morvant.

  Not much later her obsessive revulsion of his ring faded (though didn’t disappear) as their mouths explored each other on the big bed in their room at the Dauphine. She was aware of the ring on his hand and equally aware that she tried to avoid touching it. As his caressing fingers explored her body she found herself moving around to avoid that damned circled band, but after a few minutes, as her passion and arousal rose, the aversion faded into the background.

  A short time later, as she bucked her hips up to meet his, their bodies sweaty and their eyes locked in a loving stare, she thought of nothing except how fantastic he felt inside her and how great his ass felt in both of her hands. They exploded together and only a short time later fell asleep clinging to each other. Her last thought as she fell into a contented sleep in his embrace was relief that his left arm draped across her instead of his right, but this time it brought a sheepish smile instead of the near terror she had felt earlier.

  Later she heard the soft but rowdy sounds from Bourbon Street and felt him slip from their bed – presumably to go to the bathroom. She lay half awake and felt something else, too, something inside her. It felt strange but wonderful, but she had no idea what it could be. She never really woke up enough to wonder it through. She did feel like she had forgotten something, but didn’t think it could be anything important. She fell back into a deep sleep before he returned.

  Chapter 23

  Ben awoke from the first dream with no memory whatsoever of its content. He felt calm and safe and so for a moment wondered if he had really dreamed at all. He knew he had, but figured the lack of anxiety (and the clean feet that he stole a glance at when the urge finally overwhelmed him) meant maybe it had been nothing more than a normal person’s dream. He didn’t think he had those much, but his life was better than ever now, he realized with a glance at his sleeping wife. He slipped out of her embrace to hit the head and relieve himself and saw that she stirred only a little.

  When he returned Christy had both hands on her belly, just below her navel. For a moment, he worried she might have some abdominal pain or cramping from their food and beverage binging, but the very content, almost angelic smile on her face allayed his worries that his wife might be sick.

  He slipped into bed beside her and snuggled close (her familiar, but ridiculously high, skin temperature less important than the touch of her skin) and watched her sleep. Then, his own eyes grew heavy, and he drifted off again before he knew what was happening.

  The old man spoke to him from far away and only for a moment – a gentle reminder of the awake-journey that lay ahead of him. Ben couldn’t even see him. He found himself seated with his back against a large and gnarled tree trunk, and the voice came to him as if from the jungle itself.

  “A many folk be waitin’ yo, Bennie boy. See dem fo sho’ ‘neff down dat dark butt hole in dem woods, heah. Don’ lettin’ em down be. Bes fo yo also be, wit all comin’ for yo’ den in dat ‘affa time. Dey tellin’ yo mo in dat dark hole, sho’ ‘neff true dat ist ‘kay? Yo be memberin’ dat way and git down dat hole. Jess yo boy. Leavin’ dat woman back fo sho’ ‘neff. Bes fo her, too. Don fergit dat mos ‘portent ting. Alone, boy.”

  Ben didn’t answer, probably wouldn’t have had he seen the old Cajun beside him, but definitely not when the jungle spoke to him in that Cajun voice. He knew he would go and needed no reminder in any case. The old man needn’t worry about Christy – there was no fuckin’ chance in hell he would take her along down that dark hole in the woods. No matter what he did or didn’t find there, she would wait behind.

  So the voice did little to shake him from his thoughts of where he found himself. He recognized this patch of jungle very well. He was nowhere near the village now, but only a click and a half away from the other village – the one where they had hit the presumed leadership for the Al Qaeda cell that had slaughtered his people. He had managed to put most of that night out of his head these last two weeks. Now, as he sat beside the tree just in from the clearing into which Viper team had fast roped that night, it all crashed back on him. The whispers from the jungle, and the voices in his head on target. His own violent slaughter of the killers in the target house. The feeling of being watched if not guided. And Reed, of course – Reed’s mortal wounds that had not killed him. The fireflies from his own hands and the pulsations from the ring.

  All of these images flittered around him like mosquitoes, and he unconsciously waved his hand to shoo them away. The images went nowhere, and the emotions that came with them continued to churn inside him as if that night had happened only hours ago. He felt his eyes turn wet at the images of Reed, pale and weak and clearly near death. He remembered how he asked about lightning after Ben had healed his ravaged chest. The thought and feeling of knowing his dead best friend would now survive filled him with happiness.

  He felt no guilt at the men he had killed that night. He regretted the task force may have lost some intel, but other than that, the death of those animals left him with nothing – no, maybe there was something – a warm sensation of justice. A feeling that lives might be saved from the death of those bastards.

  “You are more than a seer, Ben – more than a Traiteur, if you like. That is part of it, but you have been born to be much more. Your Gammy would call it Rougarou.”

  That term Ben remembered from his childhood in the wo
ods. It sounded like werewolf, but really meant a protector – someone who hunted down and killed the evil that threatened his people. Like a Sentinel – or maybe like a SEAL. It was a term more Indian than Voodoo, but likely familiar to both.

  Ben looked over and felt no surprise to see the Elder squatted beside him and watched as he poked at the ground with a green stick. He looked tonight much like when Ben had first met him – an old man, thin but fit, with a much younger man’s eyes. It surprised him to realize he had missed the old villager. He spoke to Ben out loud, and he heard him in English. But somehow he knew they spoke in another language – an ancient language he should not know but realized he always had.

  “Rougarou is a fable – a monster of sorts, but one for good – in the minds of children in the bayou at least,” Ben told him.

  “Yes,” the man said and drew in the dirt. “And like all such things, it finds its origin in fact. The Rougarou is the evolution of the Seer – or Traiteur – and only some of us receive that gift. You are one such Seer. Perhaps only once in a few hundred or even a thousand changes of the seasons, does the Living Jungle need such an Ashe, such a power, but that time is now.”

  They sat in silence while Ben absorbed what the Elder told him.

  “Why now?” he asked. “And why me? I share nothing with your people except one horrible night when I failed you miserably.”

  The old man looked at him, his face split over a jutting mouth of rotting teeth.

  “Now is because the dark force returns and seeks to destroy us. Not just my village but all of our people. It uses the men you fight now, but it is greater than them and wants much more.” The old man looked at him with eyes that seemed to slip back and forth between old, wise mystical orbs and those of a much younger man. Both held life and power. “The ‘You’ is beyond us. You were not chosen by me, or the Mami Wata you know as Gammy – you simply are what you are. We are children of the Ginen. We share a lineage, if not of blood then, for sure, of spirit – both descendants of the ancient one – Children of Ginen and sons of the Living Jungle – the Great Vodu.”