by Tom Poland
“Let’s say coma is another word for trance. I want you to break her trance. I spoke to an old black woman in Atlanta who runs a voodoo shop and she told me you could do it, though it wouldn’t it be easy. She gave me a book and told me you’d need certain ingredients for your recipe.”
“And that would be?”
“Her urine, her teddy bear, two locks of hair, and the bloody seat covers where she and her mom sat and the cell phone she was using at the time.”
“Yes, those’ll help but you’ve left out an important ingredient.”
“That’s all the woman told me I’d need.”
“No, there’s one more thing you need, the most important thing. You need to believe.” Rikard walked to the sea’s edge. He took off his sand dollar necklace, leaned over, cupped seawater, and splashed his face, then he submerged his head in the brine. He came back to me, shaking wet hair like a dog. “I’m thinking about it … just let me think about it.”
“That’s all I can ask. It means everything to me. I’ll pay you—”
“Don’t bring up money. That’s your white blood coming out.”
“Fine, do it for free. Do it for me.”
“Damn it, man, if I do it, it’ll be for your daughter.”
“I appreciate it more than you know. When do we do it?”
“I’ll need some time. These things don’t happen just like that. The timing’s got to be right. I’ll let you know.”
“Fine. Now there’s one other thing. I’m looking for a couple of people. I can’t discuss this in front of Tyler. She’d take over the conversation and piss you and me off in about five seconds. You see how she is.”
“Hell yeah. I can’t remember the last time a woman jumped down my throat like that. She gave me a reading, I’ll tell you.”
“She’s determined to find her missing daughter. Do you know if her daughter is on this island and do you know a professor named Mallory?”
“The professor? He’s one loco hombre. How the Hell do you know him?”
“Never met him. I work for his twin brother, an editor in Atlanta by the name of Murphy. I’m here to interview you, but another reason I’m here is to deliver a package to Mallory and bring him back to Atlanta.”
“What kind of package?” asked Rikard, eyes gleaming.
“I don’t know. It’s sealed up.”
“Well, hell, let’s tear into it. I guarantee you his brother’s got no use for it.”
“So I hear. I gave my word I’d hand it over, unopened, to his brother.”
“Well, you’re making a mistake. But hand it over to him. I’ll just take it from him later. He can’t use it no matter what it is. So … Mallory has a twin brother?” said Rikard, stroking his beard. “Well now that’s a surprise for sure. All right, you earned some information or maybe you just got lucky. Either way, pat yourself on the back. You’re the first person to spot my creek barricade.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hell, I know most everything that goes on here. This island is mine. Oh, I don’t have a deed to it. A deed is for developers, realtors, lawyers, and people who think they can own a piece of the world. What bullshit. The world owns them. It owns you and me. That’s why we all end up in the earth for eternity, swallowed by the dark. No, the island’s mine ’cause I’ve got something better than a deed. The island is in me and I am in the island. I’m at one with the collective consciousness of the universe. Nature’s at one with me and I’m at one with nature. The herds, the flocks, hives, and forests—I’m in harmony with it all.”
“That would include porpoises, right?”
“Other animals too. Trees. Ospreys, eagles, and seaturtles. And I know what you’re gonna say. How do I do it? How do I connect with all this naturalness? How do I converse with porpoises? Well, you’ve seen me do my thing. You didn’t thank me, by the way, for getting you the canoe.”
“Thanks. How in the Hell did you do that?”
“I won’t tell you just how I communicate with them but the fact is I do. You don’t need to be writing about that, so leave it alone.”
“Why not?”
“Because every photographer and writer in the world would descend on the island and they’d ruin the very things they came to see.”
“Well what about the girl and the professor?” I asked.
“What about ’em?”
“I need to find them if they’re on this island.”
“If they’re here and alive it’s only because they have survived somehow. First things first, survival is the key to everything. Let’s talk about the basics.”
***
I sensed that survival and natural living were all that mattered to Rikard and Forbidden Island represented the heart of all things natural. A cling-to-life-at-all-costs disciple, I knew he had read the work of Tom Mitchell Jr., the survivalist’s survivalist from the New Jersey Badlands. I was ready to talk survival and play my trump card: the fact that I had met Rikard’s idol, the infamous Tom Mitchell Jr. Mitchell’s knife would cinch everything.
“What do you think of Tom Mitchell Jr.?” I asked.
“He’s a god. His life and mine are a lot alike. He knows what’s going on. Don’t know him. Wish I did. Like me, Indian blood courses through his veins. The Apache raised him. Mitchell is a ‘pure T’ survivalist, but he’s also a spiritualist. If you want to learn just how little you know, check this guy out. He’ll show you for sure.”
“I met him.”
“Don’t shit me. A city man like you ain’t gonna meet a survivalist like Mitchell.”
“I met him a few years back in his home in New Jersey. I was writing a piece for Ultimate Outdoors.”
“Is that so … Well tell me what’s his nickname?
“Shadow.”
“How’d he get it?”
“On his first tracking case. He stuck with the trail so hard, an old family friend, a lieutenant in the Highway Patrol, named him ‘Shadow.’
“You got that right but anybody could come by that. Prove you know him.”
I slipped my article from my shirt. “Read this.” Mitchell walked into the Badlands and lived there for two years—naked.”
“That he did,” said Rikard. “There’s your name right above his photograph. Okay, I’m impressed. That guy is my hero, and I take everything he says to heart. I think as he says. I do as he says. I survive as he says. Mitchell advises every survivalist to live off the land for two weeks at least once a year. So each year, I take a gallon of fresh water and go into the island’s wilder areas. I hunt in the interior, the marshes, among the oyster banks and along the creeks with my bare hands for two weeks and cook on an open fire. No matches, just rubbing sticks together. I sleep beneath the stars. It’s as natural a vacation as you’ll get.”
We passed the bottle between us.
“So you think you could survive a hurricane, a war, most anything,” I said.
“Anything. I’ve learned from the master. He’ll teach you to live off nothing. He’s one white man who knows what the deal is. I’m not saying a white man can’t know it. He’s just got all the odds stacked against him. He’s done in from the beginning. He loses all his true natural instincts right off. Hell, a white baby comes into the world surrounded by machines and it just gets worse. Any baby I father will be born here on Sapelo. To be born anywhere else would be unnatural. I wouldn’t want my kid devoted to machines. Turn on the electricity; turn on the water; get in the car; go to work. Come home. Watch TV. Hell, that’s not living.”
“I agree. It’s just going through the motions.”
“It ain’t even that. Technology has bred the natural instincts right out of most folks,” said Rikard. “The people over there,” he nodded toward the mainland, “they’re trained monkeys. The only way to discover who you are is to get out where we all come from. The natural world. And the purest natural world of all is the marsh. Without marshes like Forbidden Island’s ain’t nothing gonna live. Period. The sea, brother. Tha
t’s your nursery and mine.”
***
We held similar views, though we had come by them by far different routes, and I sensed we had the potential to be friends, too.
“When we get back to camp, I have something for you.”
“What?”
“A flint knife Mitchell gave me. It’s yours.”
“To be white, you’re not so bad but if it’s fake, I’ll know it.”
“It’s real. Now let’s get one thing straight. I don’t need to give Tyler false hope. I’ll sit on anything you tell me.”
“That’d be smart,” said Rikard who handed me the bottle after a long draw that had to burn like fire. “Let’s talk about your campmate. You trust her?”
“I don’t have much to trust her with, a tent and some supplies.”
“You trust her with your life, don’t you?” asked Rikard.
“I suppose.”
“You suppose? Didn’t she kill her husband? What about till death do we part? Wouldn’t you say she moved that right along?”
“She had good reason to. She’s evens stevens, overall. She took a life and she saved one too. She saved my life right here on Sapelo. She shot a gator back in a lagoon that would have gotten us both for sure.”
“Shot a gator? With what?”
“A .38. Shot it three times in the mouth; broke a big tooth out.”
“So, she’s a life saver, man killer, and gator hunter too. The complete package. How’d you two end up here?”
“I stopped for lunch at an old café. She overheard me tell a lady I was coming to the island and followed me here. That’s the short of it.”
“So, you’ve known her what—not even three weeks?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, take it from Old Mullet Man. Women want what they want and you are a means to an end. You gotta be a step ahead of ’em always.”
“We’ll see. She’s not easy to deal with. She’s headstrong for sure. Tell me before she comes looking for us, does a young white woman live on this island?”
Rikard thrust his hands into his pockets and turned to face the breakers. The sea rolled up to his feet, then retreated, rolled in and fell away again. He turned back to me.
“You’re a persistent son-of-a-bitch. Yes, a white woman, Crystal, lives with me. She’s a natural blonde, know what I mean?”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-something.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“I already told you. She threw the drink on me. There she was the next day, hung over as hell, at the old slave market. She was selling crystal jewelry claiming it could heal anything. Said if you sleep with crystals under your pillow, you’d be smarter. I told her that crystal nonsense was horseshit. “Them damn crystals ain’t helped your hangover now have they?” That did it. Caught her at her own game. I had her all right. I told her not a damn thing would come of crystals, that if she wanted to make a difference in the world, come with me to Forbidden Island. She looked me in the eye and said, ‘I know what you want.’
“I told her she was right but in return, I’d teach her island ways, basket weaving, voodoo, and survival. Then I took some grass from an old black basket weaver and made her a hair band. Stuck it on her head, smoothed her pretty hair back, and walked away.”
“And?”
“She chased me down wanting to know my living situation. The best I said. No electricity, natural food, no white people, and plenty of wild animals.”
“So, she took up with you.”
“That would be right and she’s staying put too.”
“Crystal selling crystals … sounds odd,” I said.
“What’s in a damn name anyway?” Rikard said, agitated.
“The natives call you ‘Mullet Man.’ “You tell me. What’s up with that?”
“I catch mullet in my cast net and feed ’em to pelicans and porpoises. Helps me tame ’em. As for the girl, she’s good to me, she’s pretty and sexy, and I don’t ask her a lot of questions. Digging into the past. That’s not my style. She’s a nature type. I’ll tell you that.”
“How so?”
“Soon as she got to the island, she asked me to get her a baby pelican. Said she wanted to make it her pet. So, I rescued one from a Fish and Wildlife Service rookery. Now there’s a joke for you?”
“What, a pelican as a pet?”
“No, the fact that the US government thinks it can o-w-n an island where pelicans breed,” he said, drawing out his words for emphasis.
“Things are starting to add up.”
“How’s that?”
“Jackson and Oleander said people have seen a woman here followed by a pelican. Tyler’s daughter had a pet chicken her stepfather killed and forced her to eat. He was abusing her sexually.”
“A sick SOB.”
“A dead SOB. Tyler shot him. She spent four years in prison but her daughter has no idea that happened. Other than one letter years ago, they’ve had no contact.”
The barest bit of shock crossed his face. He turned and stared out to sea, which crashed all around us, only I couldn’t hear it. The blood pounded in my head, obliterating everything, and I sensed a breakthrough for Tyler or was I wrong?
“So, you met Oleander,” Rikard said, turning back from the sea.
“Yes. He speaks his mind when he’s done repeating whatever you say.”
“That’s just his way of showing whites deference. He was born here but grew up on the mainland. He educated himself and he’s no dummy, just an oddball. Came back here late in life. He repeats what white people say to take no chance of pissing them off. He wears that turban ’cause he thinks it buys him acceptance here. He’s an outcast. Can’t even go into the village. The kids on the island love him though. He’s good to ’em, teaches ’em things.”
“He can’t go into the village?” I asked.
“No. The villagers hate him. He sold out on ‘em. That’s what they think.”
So, we had no passage into the village after all. We were back to square one.
Rikard spat onto the sand, and looked me straight in the eyes. “Tell you what. Tomorrow night, I’ll take you and pretty lady out for a night of watching seaturtles lay eggs. Then we’ll go inland to look for baby alligators. I’ll take you to a lagoon where a mama gator gots some babies. We’ll see how your lady friend holds up when gators surround her, snapping their jaws and smashing their tails against the water.”
“She’ll hold up fine.”
“We’ll see. If she doesn’t freak out, I’ll consider taking y’all to my place. Now, if my girl turns out to be your lady friend’s daughter, let’s get one thing clear.”
“What’s that?’
“She stays right here on Forbidden Island. I guarantee you that. No woman is taking her from me, and no man’s taking her either. Whoever tries to take her will suffer bad shit—the wrath of voodoo’s high gods. Pure evil revenge. You have the Mullet Man’s word on that, and my word means a hex from Hell itself.”
SOLO FLIGHT
Back at camp, Tyler gave us the cold shoulder. I had two strong personalities on my hands for sure. A tug of war between Tyler and Rikard over a white woman and her pelican would be disastrous. How would a clash between Tyler and Rikard turn out? The irresistible force meeting the immovable object … the murderess versus the voodoo priest … a mother’s love versus sexual love.
Would Crystal—if she were Lorie—even want to see Tyler?
I gave Rikard the knife, which he held to the sun in supplication and kissed. He agreed to an interview on the spot.
“Knock yourself out,” said Rikard, running a fingertip along the knife’s edge.
“What kind of hoodoo do you practice?”
“First of all, there’s a difference between voodoo and hoodoo,” he said, settling onto a driftwood log. “Hoodoo’s a folk version of voodoo more to do with conjuring and herbal magic. It’s mainly show. I’m a voodoo man, no hoodoo, the real deal.
; “The West African slaves brought voodoo here long ago, the seeds of it at least. You got to understand the main thing and it’s this: spiritual forces control nature and these spirits are a pain in the ass. You got to please them all the time. I satisfy them with offerings and an animal sacrifice when necessary, and rites. Say, am I throwing too much at you?”
“No. Go on. What animals do you sacrifice?” I was curious what animals a voodoo priest considers expendable.
“Squirrels, frogs, doves, … now and then a deer, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. There are two main types of voodoo spirits. Rada, a family spirit voodoo that’s good-natured, and Petro, one mean, nasty son of a bitch. Petro makes bad things happen … death curses and zombies—”
—“Is that what happened to Mallory?”
Rikard gave me a cold hard stare. “As I was saying, to make a zombie you put poison on the victim’s skin so it can soak into the blood ... secretions from a tree frog or a paste of poisonous seeds, or puffer fish venom—you can’t beat that. The victim falls into what you might call a wakeful coma.”
“This coma … can you bring someone out of it too?”
“Why would I want to? Hell, it ain’t safe to handle puffer fish and poison frogs.”
“Just for the sake of argument, could you?”
“Only with the greatest of trouble. Even voodoo has limits.”
“I hope not. Stick pins into a doll if you have to.”
“Shit. You’ve been watching too many damn movies. Everybody thinks of voodoo as sticking pins in dolls and curses. Voodoo is about healing. Your daughter? We may give it a try, but I don’t need no pins.”
A glimmer of hope blazed inside me. “So you practice healing … a good kind of voodoo?”
“No. This world we live in won’t let you get away with being good all the time. I can heal and I can kill,” he said drawing the blade’s tip lightly along his face in many directions, like some shipwrecked sailor tracing scrimshaw into ivory.
“Will you let me watch you perform a spell?”