Magic (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 2)

by J. Davis Henry

  I wiggled the cash. “How much did he pay me?”

  “That, my friend, is the equivalent of seven hundred dollars. That’s what I told him you’d charge.”

  “Far out, Johnny. Man, I love that this country has purple money. Purple, wow.”

  Seven hundred, that’s usually what I get for three or four large drawings.

  Johnny slipped a cigarette over his ear to hold it in place, looped an elbow onto his door window frame, and looked very pleased with himself as we shot alongside the gentle blue waves of the Caribbean.

  “Where we going? I noticed my two cameras are in the back seat.”

  “We have a few hours drive. There’s a curing ceremony tonight in a little town on the other side of some mountains further down the coast. They celebrate a saint. I thought you should see it. Then we’ll go into Caracas for a few days before we go to San Francisco de Yare.”

  “I’d like to see Cecilia before we split.”

  “No, you have work to do. We’ve already checked out of that hotel. I packed all your belongings and put them in the trunk while you were drawing pictures of your girlfriend. You’ll see her in a few weeks.”

  Chapter 4

  “This stream is safe to drink from. It’s fresh from the mountains. You have to be careful of disease in the slow-moving water, but this is fast and clear.”

  We waded barefoot in a wide, but only ankle-deep, stream. The car was parked in the middle of the rushing water. Through the palm trees and tangle of flowers that lined the waterway, we could see the ocean about one hundred yards away.

  The highway had turned to dirt two hours back. We had twisted and turned up a one lane cliffside road, climbing higher along the rocky coastline, Johnny weaving the car through scattered debris of broken stone and inching around blind corners cut into the hillside. The ocean churned and crashed against the steep escarpment which fell off to our left. Dust spit and spun around us and flew through the car. Dirt had stung my eyes, caked my mouth, and lodged in my ears. Even Johnny’s usually immaculate oil slick on his hair became chalky with sand and soil. The sun had beat relentlessly onto the metal roof of our vehicle, stoking an oppressive heat that sucked us into misery. Our canteens went dry far too soon.

  We had escaped from one close call on the dangerous road after descending an incline usually only witnessed in nightmares. I had just counted the fifth memorial cross, plastic flowers and faded photographs at its base, for drivers who had been beaten by the perils of the journey, when our car began to tilt to one side. Our wheels spun, but the car didn’t move, and I poked my head out to see what was happening. Half of the right front tire was buried in soft dirt. Johnny floored the accelerator, and a spray of brown earth flew into my face. The car shot forward. Johnny yanked the wheel to the right as the road disappeared, and the windshield filled with the blue of water, instead of sky. The front tires slipped, battling the pull of the mountain’s sheer drop-off.

  “Coño madre.”

  “Holy shit.”

  Whether by luck or fate or the gods’ manipulations, we were blessed in the next moment. Johnny slammed the brakes just as I yanked up on the door handle and propelled myself out of the vehicle. I landed on all fours and managed to scramble to safety. Johnny shoved the gearshift into reverse as one of the rear tires bumped up against a large rock. The engine screamed, the car shot backwards, and, with all wheels back on the road, jolted to a stop.

  Johnny looked at me through the wide-open passenger-side door. “Hmm. That’s the way you’re going to be, huh?”

  I sat in a sinkhole of loose pebbles looking down upon pelicans zipping along the surface of the water far below me.

  So when the unpredictable road finally settled itself at sea level, we welcomed the stream as we filled our canteens, washed our faces, and lay fully-clothed in the cool water. I took a picture of Johnny lying face-up on the shallow stone runway, water beating at his shoulders as he took a drag on one of my Kools. The scene looked like a cigarette ad, and I cracked up with laughter when Johnny said, “Ahh, American menthol. Very refreshing.”

  I wandered upstream for a few minutes, pausing near a patch of brilliant magenta flowers. A group of birds were making a racket high up in a nearby entanglement of trees and vines that covered the mountains rising from the sea. The leaves on one thick branch shook in different places as if something was moving along it. A loud demonic screech burst from the disturbed area.

  The hairs on my arms stood straight up. I didn’t know if I had just heard a bird, a cat, a monkey, or some unknown beast, but I sensed it was screaming directly at me, and I became acutely aware that I had wandered into wild territory I knew nothing about.

  I rejoined Johnny and lit a cigarette.

  “What kind of animal was that?”

  “What?”

  “That loud call, sounded like ‘Eeeeeeaak.’ Creeped me out. There’s no entrances to hell in these mountains, are there?”

  “Ha, ha. I didn’t hear anything. Around here? Probably some sea bird. Maybe a hawk or an eagle. C’mon, let’s get moving again.”

  It took us another hour to arrive at the village, sometimes driving on stretches of sand where crushed clam and oyster shells were packed together to designate the safest route.

  Surprisingly, there were a dozen cars and a rusty, pint-sized bus in the plaza where the coastal road ended.

  The parking area opened to a gently sloping beach where large rollers crashed in, washing coconut fibers, seashells, and kelp to the edge of town. Just out of the water’s reach, three brightly colored rowboats were pulled up past the high-tide mark. Sandy paths led through a scattering of palm tree groves. A patchwork of whitewashed adobe houses and wooden shacks were nestled among cactus and bougainvillea. The single-room church was composed of unpainted brick and cement block walls. It stood next to the only two-story building in the village. Dark blue lettering painted onto the outer wall identified the taller structure as a bar, hotel, and restaurant.

  The establishment’s veranda had six tables. Sitting at one was a stocky, squat-faced man who burst out laughing when he saw us get out of our car. He waved a beer bottle in our direction.

  Johnny yelled out to him, “Bernardo, siempre el boracho.” He stood, hands on hips, shaking his head slowly, clearly delighted to see the man. “Can you imagine, Deets? We drive practically to the ends of the earth just to find an old drunken friend.”

  We sat with the man. I made out in Johnny’s introduction the words Americano, Esso, and artista. In greeting, Bernardo popped the cap off of a beer featuring a label of a polar bear on it, and handed it to me.

  “Gracias.”

  He surprised me by answering, though thickly accented, in a very flamboyant and fluent English.

  “I lived in New York.” He held up five fingers. “Five years. Do you know New York? Harlem?”

  We traded tidbits about our neighborhoods as he reminisced, asking me if I had ever eaten at Manny’s on 42nd Street and laughing at how Manny would insist the Venezuelan cuisine on his menu was authentic.

  “So, señor artista, you are here to draw the curing ceremony of Santa Paloma?”

  “Is it all right if I take photographs in the church?”

  “It would not be a problem.”

  “I might make some sketches of the town and then work from photos of the ceremony.”

  He nodded in understanding. “Did this disgraceful man, who is your companion, tell you the story of Santa Paloma?”

  “Not much, just that there’s a celebration for a saint who helped settle the town.”

  “It was a miracle, truly holy, but it is nothing to Rome. Superstitious nonsense, a myth, they call it. There is not even a priest in this village. The church is being built by the people who live here.” He raised his bottle and saluted the unfinished construction with it, then drank deeply.

  �
�A miracle?”

  “Long ago, possibly hundreds of years ago, a boat with slaves to be sold in Cuba or Columbia—God only knows where the poor souls were being taken—sank many miles out in that beautiful sea in front of us. Three very black men survived, drifting on a piece of wood until they dragged themselves, half-dead, up on that beach. Right there.” He pursed his lips, then wet them again with his drink. “They are very sobering—the events that brought them here—do you not think?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Well, Mister Deets, you are young. Much happens in life to shape our way.”

  Three empty beer bottles stood in front of him.

  He turned in his chair and yelled back into the bar. Returning his attention to me, he asked, “Have you eaten? I have just ordered us arepas.”

  “Thanks, I’m hungry. What happened with the three survivors?”

  “The black men were free once again. There was nothing here then—no buildings, no boats—just three men on the edge of a mountain jungle with the ocean behind them. They were skilled men and knew how to survive. Perhaps they thought they had landed back in Africa. They fished, hunted, and were happy to be alive. But they missed what every man would miss.” He gulped another mouthful, then swept his bottle of beer in a grandiose arc to take in water, sky, and the encroaching steep ridge of rock and vegetation. “Of course, there were no women, no families, no way of knowing where to find other humans. Look at that mountain and that sea. It remains unchanged from the way they saw it every day. The road was only built in the last few years. I remember when we would arrive for the celebration in boats.”

  The bartender brought us our corn meal sandwiches stuffed with ham and cheese.

  Bernardo continued his story while he chewed. “One day, the men were pushing their small fishing boat through the surf when an explosion shook the air above them. As they looked up, a multitude of feathers sprinkled down on them. When the feathers settled, the men saw a woman drag herself from the waves and fall unconscious onto the sand. She had terrible burns on her shoulders. The three men carried her into their palm leaf shack and nursed her back to health. One morning, as the men were setting out in their boat to fish, she announced that she would give them a gift when they returned.

  “That evening as the sun set, they hauled their boat ashore, and went to their little home. Inside, three women sat, chatting and laughing. They had prepared many wild vegetables and fruits and told the men, ‘Start a fire so we can eat the fish you have caught. We will celebrate our new lives together, for our mother who travels between the heavens has told us of three kind men who shall be our husbands.’ ”

  Johnny cocked his head and grinned in my direction, challenging me to reveal whether I thought the story to be a fable or if I believed in such strange happenings.

  With a slow, thoughtful nod of my head, I let him know I embraced the idea that mysteries are waiting to be discovered all around us. “Wow, that’s pretty amazing.”

  Bernardo burped. “So, inspired by these miraculous events, we celebrate the spirit of life, of goodness, of healing selflessly when we come here. The ceremony is led by a curandera.”

  “What’s that?”

  Johnny answered, “A healer.”

  Bernardo wiped sweat from his neck with a napkin. “Sometimes she is called a bruja. A witch. She has special powers which may help you but could, just as easily, hurt you if your faith is not pure.”

  “Are you sure it won’t be a distraction for me to take photographs?”

  “There is no reason to worry. She will be in a trance, but I will relay your concerns to her.”

  “Thanks. So, why is this village called Santa Paloma? What does that mean?”

  Bernardo laughed. “Of course, I have not finished the story. The men were very superstitious. Because of the condition of the woman’s shoulders and the feathers floating to earth, they believed she was a goddess that had somehow burned her wings and fallen from the sky. And there is the matter that when her daughters spoke, they described her as being from the heavens. Over the years this aspect of the story has combined with the men’s rescue from the sinking ship. The two tragedies, one from the sky, one from the sea, combined to form a miracle that gave birth to this village. The feathers are always described as of a common shape and size, with sparkles of many colors that danced like sunset on the ocean. Greens to purple. Ever-changing golds and teals. What kind of bird does that sound like? You are from New York. Surely you can guess.”

  The story was linking up with my own experiences. I took a swig of my beer. “A pigeon.”

  “Exactly, mi amigo, but here is another mystery of the miracle. The slave boat that had sunk was named the Santa Paloma.” Bernardo leaned back in his chair with an expression of confidence that proclaimed no one could possibly doubt the story after this revelation.

  “What’s that mean?”

  Johnny’s grin was buoyant as he awaited my reaction to the translation of the punch line.

  Bernardo tapped his green beer bottle to mine. “Saint Pigeon.”

  He was triumphant, a believer, assured no more proof of a miracle was ever needed in his life. I stared at the waves rolling in, wondering how Doctor Steel and Santa Pigeon fit into the universe. What did they see? Why did they need me?

  It seemed there was a reason for me to be in Venezuela, at the moment drinking a beer in a remote village, thinking about a black, sooty char mark in Monster Alley and a burned pigeon-woman falling from the sky hundreds of years ago.

  Chapter 5

  The ceremony began with three men carrying a plaster statue covered in feathers up from the beach, across the plaza, and into the church. The sculpture was of a woman, eyes lifted skywards, her hands upraised.

  I joined a crowd of about eighty people filing into the building where a few benches and chairs had been lined along the walls of a large communal room. An air of nervous expectancy was heightened by murmurings of prayer as the local villagers and pilgrims found places to safely witness the holy power of Santa Paloma.

  After setting down the statue on a small, rough-hewn altar, the three men began beating on large conga drums. Shirtless, their chests gleamed with sweat as the rhythmic pounding grew determined and steady. Three young women, dressed in white, appeared from a side door carrying torches. A number of onlookers held out candles to be lit, and the women circled, accommodating them. The sun went down, leaving the gathering in a room illuminated only by fire.

  From out of a dark corner, a thin, middle-aged woman in a blue skirt and blouse appeared, strutting to the center of the room.

  The curandera.

  She closed her eyes and began rocking side to side to the tempo of the drums. Her facial countenance was hard and distant yet her body movements, purposefully luring. The three torchbearers danced and swirled nearby in no specific pattern, sometimes lighting her fully, other times spinning away, leaving her to be a shuffling and swaying shape in the dark parts of the church.

  Suddenly, a spray of flaming liquid flew from the solo dancer’s mouth. Her companions began to skip and stomp wildly, singing out words with a primitive ululation, shrieking out appeals for spirit guidance—and waving fire. The drummers double-timed their beat, building a crescendo of sound that thumped relentlessly, driving itself past our chests and ears, imbedding the energy into our nerves and souls.

  The curandera shimmied closer to the audience crowded along the perimeter of the room. A silver cross dangled and bounced between her breasts. Her three dancers followed nearby, twisting and shaking, arms and torches raised and flailing. Fiery sparks swirled alarmingly.

  A human-sized white bird, maybe five feet tall, suddenly manifested near the periphery of the cast light. I cried out in amazement at its presence, but no one else seemed to react to its appearance or my gasp of surprise. Then the apparition was gone, and before I had time to wonder if I had truly uttered any sound or rea
lly seen the bird, the curandera locked her eyes onto mine. Hips flipping and pelvis grinding, with knees pumping and arms swimming through a thickness of air that seemed to envelope her, she danced purposefully towards me, stopping to gyrate directly in front of me.

  I felt Johnny quietly sidestep away and sensed Bernardo gulping nervously.

  I had been chosen by the witch.

  She rolled her head up, as if beseeching powers above her, and weaved odd patterns near my face and neck with her hands. The three assistants circled nearby, reeling and bobbing, tits flopping, crucifixes jangling, torches twirling. A smell of peppermint, chocolate, gasoline, and an earthy woman’s sweat filled the air. The curandera swayed erotically as she leaned her upper body back and shifted her feet closer to me while spreading her legs apart. Her body convulsed, and in the midst of her shaking, she let out a cry to the invisible, a long piercing call that grew and reverberated with pain. I flinched, recognizing it as the same unsettling shriek that had spooked me back at the stream.

  Drums thundered in my head, blood rushed beneath clammy skin, and my saliva dried up.

  The curandera straightened and swept her hand across my left shoulder. Brenda’s knife slashed through my thoughts. The sweat-drenched healer gently ran one finger along the scar on my right jaw. Grasping her cross tightly, and with her lips quivering in a fervent whisper, she traced her free hand down from my neck area until it came to rest on my heart. Her lingering touch brought an image of Teresa into the firelight of her eyes. Withdrawing her warm palm, a trace of a smile appeared on her hard face. She placed three fingers on my lips almost familiarly.

  The mysterious woman backed away into the darkness and began chanting. I couldn’t understand a word, but I did catch references to Santa Paloma. The four women continued on for another hour, approaching various onlookers, with the curandera touching and praying while the torch-bearers whirled in an animated and sensual dance.