by Hugh B. Cave
Paul Henninger, the soccer player. The artist.
The Man. Especially the Man.
Into Clermont's consciousness seeped a sound, then, that he normally would have paid little attention to. Voodoo, after all, was a way of life in this island town. The sound of drumming from The Hounfor was as familiar as were the sounds of the sea, the streets, and the marketplace.
At one in the morning, still hearing the drums, he went to bed.
At four o'clock he awoke to a sound of footfalls in the street outside his window, and went to the window to look out.
It was a procession.
A procession in the moonlight, obviously on its way to Pointe Pierre. In the lead was the houngan, Auxian Ramses, flanked by two bearers of multicolored ritual flags that fluttered limply in a gentle breeze from the sea. In his outstretched hands Ramses held a small wooden boat filled with offerings of food and drink. Offerings, Clermont knew, to the voodoo sea god, Agoué.
There was no drumming now, though three of the marchers carried drums. There was no chanting. In complete silence some twenty followers of Auxian Ramses trailed their leader past the house. A parade of ghosts.
A thank-you to Agoué? Probably, Clermont decided. These people knew what had happened, of course. Somehow they always knew what happened.
He went back to bed.
Half an hour later he heard the drums again, and knew the sound came from Pointe Pierre this time as the houngan and his followers embarked in one of the fishing boats.
It was, somehow, a very comforting sound when you stopped to think what the faith of that brave man, Paul Henninger, had done for him. As a doctor, Louis Clermont would never cease to swear by the power of faith.
More than once he had seen it move mountains.
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