by Tom Poland
“I might, maybe a death hex even. I’m thinking of doing Garrett in … he’s an affliction. Sometimes you got to do something evil to feel good.”
“Yes, like kill a man. You’ve killed a man, right?”
“Many.”
“How did it feel? I mean this is something I need to know. Can I kill a man?”
“Well, try it sometimes. The times I killed people who needed killing, I felt like a god who had rid the planet of a plague. Then, once, I killed the wrong person, and it didn’t sit too well with me. I didn’t sleep too good for a week.”
“How’d that happen?”
“Let’s talk voodoo, not my mistakes. Everybody fucks up now and then.”
“Killing Garrett—you’re going to invoke the powers of the evil loa?”
“Maybe. I ain’t making no mistake in killing that bastard.”
“I’d like to see that. Kill Garrett if you like. Yes, kill him. That suits me fine.” After what I’d seen of Garrett, it was fine with me. Kill him, I thought. Good. Good riddance.
“ … Say, you listening to me?”
“Yes, I was just thinking ahead. Later on, a photographer’s coming to the island. We’d like to take pictures of you casting a spell.”
“A photographer?”
“That’s right. You’ve met him already. Last summer. A guy named Cameron. Photographed you and your cast nets.”
“Cameron. Yes. Real calculating guy,” said Rikard.” Real deliberate fellow.”
Tyler, looking in her suede bag and pretending to be bored, was listening intently.
“You go into the city, Savannah and Charleston, right?” I asked.
“Mostly Charleston.”
“Do you sell sweetgrass baskets?”
“Now and then at the old market.”
“You know how to make them?”
“I told you already. An old black woman here, Sally Wambush, taught me to make them. She’s dead, part of the Great cosmos again, but her baskets live on.”
“So, you met this hungover girl, this Crystal, at the old Slave Market,” I said.
The mention of a girl galvanized Tyler and she rushed over toward Rikard, who shot her a sideways glance, like he was watching a snake out of the corner of his eye.
“This fellow’s bringing up my girl ’cause he thinks she’s your daughter.”
“Maybe she is,” said Tyler. “What had Crystal been drinking?”
“I already told you. Grain alcohol punch. Pure firewater. Yeah, the slave market’s where I got her, good thing too. She’s a real looker. If she’s your girl, you did good, real good. There she was—hungover as hell, cottonmouthed, and red eyed—trying to sell crystals. She had the good sense to admire my sweetgrass baskets. Didn’t believe I made ’em.”
“I can see why,” said Tyler. “You don’t look like a man who weaves baskets. You look like a drug smuggler.”
“A smuggler? You mean that or you just trying to flatter me, pretty lady. Here, I’ll show you like I showed her.”
Rikard walked over to a clump of grass. Using Mitchell’s knife, he slashed several blades of grass and held them up to the sky where they paled green. The hands that cast killing voodoo spells had mastered a Lowcountry art dying with its old women practitioners.
Rikard held a sheaf of grass up to Tyler.
“Watch this,” he said, fingers flying. He braided the grass into a three-inch-wide headband. “I made Crystal a headband just like this one. Wear it. It’s yours.”
“That’s all it took?” I asked.
“No. I told her I’d give her a home and teach her to do good. That’s what did it.”
“So, she came here with you just like that? Right here to Sapelo?” asked Tyler, smoothing her hair beneath the plait of grass.
“That’s right. Oh it was rough at first. That girl didn’t know nothing about the real world.”
“Did she say anything about her childhood?” Tyler asked, hope and grief colliding upon her face.
“Her childhood don’t matter. I don’t dig into people’s past. I will say she’s a hell of a lot smarter, hasn’t had a hangover in a long time. She makes baskets and looks after me. I make cast nets, cast spells, and look after her. We practice the old ways and before we die—and we’ll die together, by God—we’ll teach others to carry on what we’re carrying on. Nobody lives forever, not even Mullet Man.”
***
The first interview was going well. Rikard told how his mentor Delano taught him voodoo and made shadowy references to his extraordinary bond with the island’s wildlife. He threw in some island history and explained how voodoo and all of it fit together.
A calculated question rose within me. “Have you ever put a hex on the human poachers?”
Rikard stood and shot me the evil eye. He walked around the campsite, rubbing his hands together as if cold, cursing with abandon.
“Son of a bitch. One minute I’m sharing my knowledge, which is as bountiful as this island, and the next you’re digging up trouble. I thought this was an interview on voodoo. Kidney cutting is dead man’s talk.”
“Are you afraid to talk about this?” asked Tyler.
“Yes, if you’re afraid of these people, we sure understand,” I said.
“I ain’t afraid of nothing. I live here and you don’t. You’re going back over there sooner or later,” he said, nodding his head mainland way. “When you’re gone, I’ll have to deal with the crap you leave behind.”
“Tyler’s looking for a missing daughter,” I said. “Then there’s my daughter. We’re here for however long it takes. We’ve already run into poachers once.”
Rikard had Mitchell’s knife, flipping it and catching it by the handle. The slate flashed in the setting sun. A deep crease furrowed over his brows.
“Okay, I’ll give you the big picture. Given your ignorance of the natural ways, you probably won’t make it off this island alive anyway. The doctor first came here as part of a United Nations health team. So he said. He took care of the children—vaccinated ’em, treated ’em, ordinary medicine stuff. He’d give ’em medicine, check ’em out, and take blood samples. Of course that was to get their blood and tissue type for compatibility. He or-ga-nized ’em too. Had to be sure who’s who. Check out the dark blue numbers tattooed on the left shoulders of the blacks. Can’t see ’em unless you get real close.”
“Numbers?”
“That’s right. Serial numbers. Don’t need no mix-ups.”
“So at first the doctor was a Good Samaritan,” I said.
“Not really. He came here with a mission: to raise a crop. He’d come here give ’em shots and keep ’em healthy. Nothing like a good inventory, you know. Well, that went on for a long time. The kids grew up and things changed. Now, every time the doctor comes to the island, he makes a harvest.”
“Who knows about this?”
“Nobody much. You know. I know. Oleander knows, and Garrett knows.”
“Garrett said Cade’s kidneys would bring more money than he could make in three years.”
“Cade? That’s the guy you saw killed?”
“Had to be. Oleander said he’s been missing a good while now.”
“Well I’ll be fuck. Cade was all right, helped me gather oysters now and then,” Rikard said, a pained look wracking his face. “That settles it. Garrett’s ass is history. I’m gonna unleash a helluva maleficia on him.”
“Maleficia?
“The evil occult.
Rikard pressed Mitchell’s knife into his throat, releasing it just before the blade pierced the flesh. Each time he removed it, a dimple of flesh whitened before returning to the burnished gold tan it was before the knife violated it.
“Let’s get one thing straight, priests don’t admit to doing evil. I can talk about killing all I want, but you never heard what I just said. Understand?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Heard what?” asked Tyler.
“Good, we understand each other. I’ll put
a killing hurt on that bastard. I hate like hell they got Cade.”
Rikard turned to the west, shielded his eyes, and gauged the day’s last suggestion of sun, a red, wire thin rim melting into the horizon.
“I’ve ed-u-ma-cated you folks enough for one day. Tomorrow night, I’ll take you on an expedition into the island’s birth and death cycle. First, we’ll go looking for loggerhead seaturtle eggs. Then we’ll go inland and spotlight baby alligators. Then we’ll visit a graveyard … the Bone Yard. See for yourself how many have departed this life here on Forbidden Island. The Bone Yard will give you a new appreciation for recycling. I’ve always thought it a shame and a waste we stick folks in the ground in fancy coffins inside steel vaults. All those minerals and nutrients locked up … no way for the animals and trees to give ’em new life … no way to rejoin the great cosmos.”
Tyler looked at me but she seemed none too confident.
“How about it?” I asked. “Remember Garrett’s warning that a mama gator will kill anything that gets too close to her babies.”
“I don’t want to see any damn bones,” she said, looking a bit shaken.
“Come back tomorrow at dusk,” I said. “We’ll take your nature trip.”
Tyler’s brilliant blues gave me a go-to-hell look. Rikard studied her then looked west.
“Okay, one last lesson for today. Weather’s gonna change for the worse.”
I looked to the west. The sky was a deepening blue with the thinnest trace of cirrus clouds, ice crystals jetstreaming through an indigo heaven. I could see no evidence of change but what did I know? I had not mastered the natural ways like Rikard who stood atop a dune like a heroic bronze statue and pointed west.
“Get ready,” was all he said, then he left without so much as a goodbye.
Tyler exploded, pummeling me in the chest.
“You damn chauvinist. You make me stay at camp like some short-order cook while you two discuss my daughter. Now you’re planning my evenings.”
“Hold on,” I said grabbing her hands and holding them over her head. “It’s the break we’ve wanted. Rikard said if you handle the ’gators, he’ll take us to meet Crystal, but you have to prove you can handle ’gators first. Who knows what’s that about? I know you can handle it and when you show him, he’ll consider taking us to his home.”
Tyler fell silent. Then her expression sweetened.
“Is he for real?”
“I get the feeling he’s on the level. That’s why I took him for a walk. I wanted to see if he’d open up. I promised him I wouldn’t tell you any of this. So stay cool. Otherwise, he may not open up again. He’s very protective of this girl.”
“Is the girl Lorie?” she asked.
“There’s always a chance she’s someone else.”
“Lorie wouldn’t run off with a strange man,” said Tyler.
“She ran away, didn’t she? Who’s to say how much she’s changed? You’ve been depressed as hell and this is the first real break you’ve had. I’ll be damned if we don’t follow up on this. Crystal makes baskets and she asked Rikard ...”
“Baskets?” she asked, grabbing me by both shoulders.
“… to get her a pet, a pelican. It adds up.”
“Yes it does,” and a look like no other consumed her.
“So, we’re going to the Bone Yard. Then Rikard will take us to his hideout … At least I think he will. You’ve got everything to gain. Do you want to go to the Bone Yard or not?”
“Hell yes.”
“Good. Don’t even mention your daughter. Play it cool.”
“You have my word. There’s not a gator on this planet that can keep me from Lorie,” she said, rubbing the .38 resting beneath her waistband.
***
An hour after we’d eaten the weather changed as Rikard predicted. The afternoon had been torrid, even along the beach where breezes felt like a blast furnace. Things changed fast. A purple squall line roared through flattening the tents. Rain fell in sheets and the temperature dropped. It felt like fall. The heat wave was over, at least on Forbidden Island.
Dark and cold arrived together. We torched some driftwood and a bonfire shed flickering light across camp. The flames danced, throwing shadows across the dunes and hummocks, and a fog rolled in off the Atlantic. We could have walked four feet from one another and disappeared into the gray invisible. We sat within an intimate halo of orange and red mists with nothing to do but watch the fire, drink, and talk.
The fog and chill excited me because I knew the tent would be cool and we would burrow into the sleeping bags together, our bodies sharing their warmth.
Tyler stretched out, feet toward the fire, head in my lap so I could stroke her blonde hair. I removed her hair band, which she liked a lot and smoothed her hair with my fingers, which she liked even more.
We listened to the crackling fire and watched old Voodoo sleep, the fog pouring in and around us like steam as we talked in the damping mist. Then we went to sleep.
A few hours later I awakened and couldn’t get back to sleep. It no longer made sense not to open Murphy’s package. Mallory sounded crazy anyway. Now, in the cover of night and fog, was the time. I removed the package from its hiding place. Tyler threw a long slender leg free of the sleeping bag but didn’t awaken.
I stepped into the night.
The thickening fog had condensed into swirling billows and ember-lit mists glowed like incandescent orange-red gases around the dying fire.
I had chosen the right moment. No one could see me for no one was there and besides I could scarcely see my hands by the fire. I stuck the knife into the plastic and cut a neat line along the carton’s bottom. I sliced a flap open.
I put the carton down on the sand. Surely, no bomb was inside. Had Murphy schemed to kill his chief critic on an island where no law could come after him? I reached inside. My hand felt something cold, something smooth, something pliable, much like leather.
A hand grabbed my shoulder. I jumped, a nerve-recoiling reflex that scared me as much as the voice.
“What’s that?”
Tyler leaned over me.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to see what’s in here.” I told Tyler about the package and Mallory and how it was for his missing twin, Murphy.
I tipped the carton over. A zippered bag with a letter taped to it slid out. Inside it were two ziplock bags. One held fat stacks of currency, the other a cell phone with a bright green, blinking LED.
“God, look at the $100s,” said Tyler.
I removed the bills and began to count crisp, new, uncirculated C notes.
“It looks as if Murphy’s serious about atonement with his brother.”
“What, exactly, went wrong between them?”
“They had a falling out over their father’s estate. Murphy got a larger share. Mallory felt his brother took advantage of their father. Murphy said he earned it taking care of his father.”
“Now that’s a Southern tradition,” said Tyler. “I can tell you stories about families feuding and all sorts of meanness.”
“We’ve got a big problem now,” I said counting the last of the money.
“What?”
“A $50,000 problem. We can’t just let it lie around in a tent. The island doesn’t have any laws and people will kill you over a lot less.”
“What do we do?”
I looked around the camp. The flames threw colors into the swirling mists. We had hundreds of dunes to bury our newfound treasure in, but that was no good. A raccoon might dig it up. Burying it inland was risky unless we were dead certain we could locate the spot again.
There was only one place to bury it.
“We’ll move my tent, bury it, and put the tent back over it. We won’t forget where we buried it, and the tent will keep animals from getting to it.”
“Don’t bury the phone. We may need it,” she said.
“Why would we need it?”
“You can’t know if we’ll need it or not,” she said,
taking the phone out.”
“Put it back.”
“No, let’s keep it.”
“Hell, no,” I said and I damn well meant it.
“You wait just one minute,” said Tyler. “I’ll go to the Bone Yard, but we don’t bury this phone. The damn radio doesn’t work. We’re cut off from the world. If we think a hurricane is forming, we can find out.”
“Keep it in your tent but don’t dare turn it on. I don’t want to hear it chirp. Not once. When we find Mallory, we’ll give it to him.”
“The money too?”
“Yes … the money too.”
“What if Mallory is dead or crazy?”
“… I don’t know. Right now we need to hide it and hide it good.”
Tyler took the phone to her tent. We moved my tent and dug a deep hole, dropped the money in, covered it, and moved the tent back into place.
We slept over blood money.
***
Rikard walked into camp the next night just before dark to lead us on his birth and death expedition. The plan was to walk the beach north, look for turtles, then cut inland over the dunes to a creek where his bateau was tied up. He would pole us inland into the swamps, into gator country.
We set out around 9 P.M. on a beach snow-white beneath luminous stars and a dazzling moon. Rikard expounded on the art of turtle gazing.
“The head will look like a big rock in the surf line. Freeze if you see a dark round noggin. What she’s doing is casing the shore, seeing if any danger’s there. She’ll go back to sea if she spots you.”
We walked north scanning the milky surf, which rushed in flirting with our feet, then melted away. For a long time the surf fell endlessly upon itself in a wavering line of gleaming water. Then a break, a concentrated segment of darkness thirty yards up, interrupted the glowing foam.
A log had floated ashore, its journey across the Atlantic complete. I nudged it with my foot and a glow rippled from one end to the other. Seafaring foxfire had made the log its home over the long journey. Pale green light, like the aurora borealis, shimmered down the length of the log. Rikard scooped a handful of the bioluminescent broth and smeared it over his forehead and cheekbones like war paint. His face—dark in places and ghostly green in others—became the face of a voodoo killer.