“Impossible,” I said. “The past has already happened.”
“So has the future, which she can’t predict with total accuracy because it is constantly changing.”
“I should type this up and publish it,” I said.
“I can’t let you do that,” Lowther said.
I had finally managed to draw up some initiative, and write. But the force in his voice all but killed it. I dropped my hands to my sides, crumbling the paper’s edge in my fist. “See. I knew you weren’t going to help me,” I said. “Just when I’m ready to take action, you say I can’t.”
“Mason,” Lowther said, shaking his head. “I can help. I’m here for you.”
“No, I don’t think so.” I plopped in the seat at my desk. “Explain,” Lowther said, crossing his bulky arms.
“I shouldn’t have to explain,” I said. “You’re a demon. Angels are called guardians, not demons. If I’m going to believe a demon is here to help, then I must be stupid.”
Lowther rolled his eyes. “You are cynical and disillusioned,” Lowther said. “What was your college major? Philosophy. Not journalism. You turned to journalism because you wanted to learn the truth in all things. But you never accepted the truth when faced with it. You wanted proof. There was always something you thought people were hiding from you. You had nothing but contempt for authority and anyone who you deemed ignorant. Isolation and independence became the norm. George befriended you because you two shared a commonality; you were both stubborn and argumentative. You were both your own geniuses.
“When he died, you sought me out. You stood alone in your apartment, hour upon hour, wishing for me. Not consciously. All the same, here I am in your hotel room. You don’t really want me to go, do you?”
I reflected on what Lowther had said. I searched for truth behind Lowther’s words. My mind rummaged for a time when I might have wished for a being like Lowther. I would admit to being stubborn. I wouldn’t call myself argumentative; I liked to dispute ideas. And who had the right to take on any position of authority? I was free to do whatever I wanted, not what someone else told me to do.
“It’s not that you can’t publish what you wrote,” Lowther said. “You can’t do it now. It’s too soon. You’ll be written off as a joke. Listen to me. There is a better way. First, you have to gain credibility. Then you can start to slowly drop in some of the big stuff, before you hit them with the whammy. Get it?”
“Okay,” I said. “I get it.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
My heart said no. But I gave Lowther the answer I thought would benefit me most. “I want you to stay.”
Lowther closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You will command me,” Lowther said. “You are the king, and I am your knight.”
It was hard to feel like a king when I had to stand before Lowther with my head bowed, because I still didn’t have the stomach to look him in the eye.
Yet Lowther was decent enough. He didn’t move from his corner unless I gave permission. I tested Lowther by asking him to fetch things around the room, like Simon Says, but I could not trip Lowther up. He asked me questions, and answered the bigger ones I had, filling me in nicely on the cartel. Who was really in charge; who instigated the order for George’s murder; how much money was riding on my head; which missing persons were given new identities and shipped off to places like the Netherlands, Russia, England; who was on the take; and who was a mole. He gave me tips I could have called in, but I didn’t care anymore about that story—I had all the information I wanted, and a bigger story loomed on the horizon.
34
“McPhee,” Lowther said when my phone chirped.
The display showed the number as “private.”
“He’s going to make you a big offer, contingent on the book’s whereabouts. Give him Jeffrey’s name, and give him the address of his law practice.”
“You said McPhee was going to try to kill me.”
“He will try, but he won’t. Trust me.”
“We have custody of the eye, Lowther. We use the images others see in which to evoke the powerful stimuli of the imagination. We work in their daydreams and whisper what they really desire into their ears. At night, the brain often works with us by reinforcing what we have imposed upon them as their own thoughts.
“Identify your charge’s predilections and encourage them by working on his senses. Sounds, smells, and tastes will stir the imagination. Use your power of precognition to lead your charge, this man who is nothing more than a maggot, into stimuli at precise moments, making your job easy for you. Do you comprehend what I am saying?”
“Yes, master. I will do as you say, master.”
35—Mason, the Reporter
McPhee made an offer, all right. It was big. McPhee said he’d call back, give me the location of the exchange. I wanted my book. The seed-water helped my cough, but I would be out of seeds within months
“You need to be patient,” Lowther said. “Wait for McPhee.”
“I don’t have time to wait. Once McPhee gets my book, what’s to stop that fucker from leaving with it, without paying me?”
Lowther rolled his eyes, shook his head.
“We don’t need him,” I said. “If you come with me, I can get the book. Fuck McPhee’s money,” I said. “We’ll go into her barn, get more seeds, snatch a bunch of those pods. You’re a demon. You can deal with that Granger thing.”
My gold-tipped knife sat on the desk by my laptop. I could turn generic kitchen knives into gold. Hell, I could turn paperclips, even staples, into pure gold. But not without the spell in her book. I began to wonder what we might find in the house.
“I want to go inside her home,” I said, adamant. I pounded my fist on the desk. “There’s got to be more in there. What would we find? No one’s ever written about it.”
A shadow fell across my desk. I turned over my shoulder, expecting to see Lowther hovering, but he was still in his corner.
“She’s published this book,” I said to him, my voice rising with frustration, “and no account of the author exists. I want to write her story.”
“You can’t go inside her house,” Lowther replied. “She has servants designed to keep people like you out. Tatwaba is the housekeeper. She has tactile hypnosis. Ever hear of it?”
“No, but I guess it’s a type of hypnosis done through touch,” I said, sarcastically.
“Correct. She’ll have you hopping around, cackling like a chicken when she convinces you you’re a chicken, just by touching you.”
“Hypnosis is a focused form of therapy. In my understanding, one has to be a willing participant for hypnosis to work.”
I’d seen those cons in action, the ones onstage at night clubs. If I wasn’t willing, then I had nothing to fear from Tatwhatever-her-name-is.
Lowther rolled his eyes again.
My legs itched to take a long walk, and my fingers ached to write the awesome chronicle about the white house against the mountain. I was dying to reveal the secrets behind its doors.
I loved being an investigative reporter. I asked questions for a living and followed wherever the answers lead, sort of like forensics. There were always surprises in my findings, which brought its own form of a reward, whether an internal one, like self-esteem or self-importance, or a monetary one. Or prestige.
“Listen to me,” Lowther said. “Wait for McPhee.”
“This is quite important, Lowther. The man-maggot believes he is beyond our grasp. You have done well by nurturing this false sense of security. Continue this line of thinking by encouraging the man-maggot’s bravo, his valiance. Give him the opportunity to be the hero more than once.
“Allow him to show his own strength and assist him at times so he may think himself stronger than he actually is. Remember, physical strength encourages self-reliance. Reliance on self means less reliance on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Do you see the wisdom in this?”
“Yes, master. I see. I will do as you wish.”
/> 36—Mason, the Reporter
Mental note on Lowther: He never physically threatens, but glares whenever he makes a suggestion.
I sat on a chair in front of the TV. The local news was on, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I coughed, holding my chest. “Fuck, it hurts to cough.”
It was unlike any throat irritation I had ever experienced. My throat burned and tickled at the same time. The sensation caused shortness of breath, a spike in pulse, and an intense headache. My stomach fluttered, and I pissed myself a little.
I got up to get a drink of water from the sink. “I need more seeds,” I said.
“Muti will make them last longer,” Lowther said. “If all you want is to use them for medicine, to keep your strength up, then we need muti. Go visit a sangoma and get eye muti.”
“Eye? As in, eyeballs?”
“Have you ever heard of muti?” Lowther asked. He scratched at his backside with a leg lifted, like a dog.
“It’s medicine,” I said, remembering my visit to the sangoma. “Witch doctors mix plant extracts with body parts and call it medicine.”
“Correct. The eye is powerful enough to see through your body, so the seed-water can travel where it needs to in order to properly heal and strengthen.”
“Is it really made from eyeballs?” I asked.
“Bull semen is in hair products. Animal skin grease is in chewing gum. Whale shit is in perfume. Enzymes from a calf’s stomach are used to make cheese. Infant foreskin is used in face lotion. Beetles are in …”
“Okay, okay. I get it. My throat is on fire. One eye is all I need, I hope. I don’t want to go shopping every time my throat tickles.”
“We’re not going shopping; we are going on an adventure for a story.”
“I’ve been to a sangoma shop. It’s different, but not worthy of a story.”
“Where do you think those witch doctors get body parts?” Lowther stepped out of his corner. “It’d make a great yarn, wouldn’t it? I think you should start publishing something. McPhee will contact you again soon. But in the meantime, don’t wait for Jeffrey and his witch to give you your story.”
I gave a tiny nod like I knew exactly what Lowther was talking about. “You’re right. I need to get my name out. It’s time to establish a platform here in South Africa.”
Lowther clasped his hands. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
37
We drove to Cape Town and parked along the curb in a quaint shopping area. I remembered being in the same area not too long ago when I had first met Jeffrey in the restaurant.
“What time is it?” I asked, looking at the clock on the dash.
“Five in the morning,” Lowther said.
“Shit,” I replied. “Morning. I thought the day was ending, not just beginning.” I coughed. I’d been losing track of time lately. Days blended into night all too quickly.
Though it was still dark, people gathered along coffee stands as vendors poured the black elixir of life into advertisement-laden plastic cups. The air surrounding us was mixed with steam from breakfast foods cooking in kiosks. The early morning fog hung with the smells of sweet and salted foods, and my stomach rumbled. I coughed again.
Lowther and I stopped outside an awning-covered door. “Here we are,” Lowther said.
“I recognize this place,” I said, staring inside the window at the cluttered display. The same voodoo dolls, candle figures, incense sticks, beads, and crystals.
“We are at a Ndumba shop,” Lowther said.
“This is where I got my book.”
I rubbed my arms. The morning air was cold, and it had gathered outside this shop’s door, chilling me to the bone. I clenched my teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. “You cold?” I asked Lowther as I looked around, noting no one else seemed to be bothered by the frigid air.
“No,” he said. “Cold gathers in the presence of dark magic.”
Lowther pointed to a white, marble mortar and pestle in the window’s display. “Those are packets of powdered human remains—strong, dark muti,” he said. “Those seashells, chicken heads, goat horns, and jaw bones are used as tools. Makes me think of Samson from the book of Kings who took the donkey’s jaw to kill the Cyclops, but the jaw had no magical value. The thing does not bestow magic.”
“Then why use those things?”
“They are tangible items, and represent what you cannot see—supernatural power. See the toe bones? They are thrown like dice to tell fortunes, the good bones taken from pilgrims and sailors, because they had already walked many roads gaining experience along their way.”
“But if there’s no power in the bones, then who cares where they came from?” I asked.
“They are a representation,” Lowther said. He ribbed me and said, “And they make for a good story, huh?
“This particular Ndumba’s position speaks to the sangoma’s success. He is much more serious than the other local ones in Cape Town and is considered more of a sorcerer than anything else.”
“He’s definitely got a prime location,” I said. “There’s upscale boutiques and a bank across the street. I thought this shop was kinda out of place, when I was here before. Now, I think even more so. Don’t they have zoning laws here?”
“Most sangomas’ crappy little storefronts spill incense out of their open doorways,” Lowther continued. “You might see them pandering outside, fully dressed in their beads and wraps. They hold handwritten signs advertising their promises for an easy price, competition being the driving force of the Rand each one accepts. One might hold a sign saying, “Registered,” a distinction separating the professionals from the unregistered practitioners. Their muti is usually harmless and mostly ineffective.”
“What about this one?” I asked.
“He is a dark art sangoma. He uses human blood and body parts. This sangoma does not advertise. You won’t see him out on the sidewalk pandering. And his stuff,” Lowther whistled. “Expensive,” he said.
“Yeah. I had sticker shock when I was in here.”
“They sell on an individual basis,” Lowther said. “C’mon. Let’s go in.”
38
Inside was as stuffy and dim as before, and it smelled spicy, just like the last time. The same prune of a man robed in white sat on the couch, and he smoked a fragrant pipe, beaded hair clicking every time he bent to take a puff.
Lowther put his mouth to my ear and said, “He is well-trained, well-aged, and dangerous. The sorcerer has murdered many and sold his soul over a dozen times to rise to his level of power. He is reputed to be in league with the devil.”
Two round tables stood in a corner with upholstered chairs seated around them. A deck of cards lay in one of the tables’ center. “Those tarot cards,” Lowther said, “are used to read the future. The bowl in the center of the other table is filled with dried and broken branches of the Buffalothorn Tree. The mangy, gray, twisted Buffalothorn branches are used as protection and often placed on the graves of the dead.”
Glass display cases contained large, string-bound books stamped with pentagrams. “These books are blank,” Lowther said. “They’re meant to be used as journals and a place for the practitioner to write his own spells.”
Plain wooden bowls held an array of polished stones. A note was taped to the bowl front notating which color brought health, which brought happiness, which brought protection. Bundles of colored candles were also notated according to desired outcome or wish; prosperity and money were green. “And they are the best sellers,” Lowther said.
There were soaps along with massage oils, teas, and fine powders all concocted with muti. Pipes shaped out of bone to smoke the muti, rubber hoses to use the muti as an enema, razor blades to cut the skin and rub the muti into the incision. I hadn’t noticed most of this stuff last time. I guess I was in too much of a hurry, too eager to get my hands on the book.
“This is his ithwasa—a sangoma in training,” Lowther whispered when I saw the fat and shapeless man on the cement floo
r in the corner. The ithwasa sat throwing small, white bones within a circle drawn onto the floor. He mumbled what he read in the bones to the sangoma. The sangoma nodded in agreement.
I turned and whispered to Lowther, “Why are you whispering? They can’t see you.”
“Yes, they can,” Lowther whispered back.
Addressing the sangoma, I asked, “Pardon me, sir, but can you see the, uh, man, standing beside me?”
The sangoma said, “I don’t see a man. I see dark little creatures, as one might see a cloud of flies buzzing about a lion’s head while feasting on the bloodied carcass of its latest kill.”
Then the sangoma looked through me and said, “Siyasebenzela,” meaning, “We serve.”
“He doesn’t mean he serves customers,” Lowther explained as he gave me a mindful look. “He serves the devil. Get it?”
“Yeah. He sees you as a big swarm of flies, and he looked right at you when he said, ‘We serve.’ You’re not the devil, but one of many. I get it.”
39
A large, dark stain was in the middle of the circle drawn on the floor.
“Blood always darkens when spilled,” whispered Lowther. “A healing went wrong on his floor only two days ago. The accidental victim was a child sickened by the Guinea worm. The sangoma tried to heal him with an enema of water, salt, powdered gall bladder from a goat, and goat’s milk. The rubber hose used for the enema is the same one in the shop’s window.”
“To be used again?” I asked with disgust.
“Yep,” Lowther replied.
I felt a cough coming. I put my hand to my mouth, keeping my body fluids within, not allowing them to be left behind to be used against me by this magic man.
“Tell him what you want,” Lowther said to me.
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