Deadly Loyalty Collection

by Bill Myers

  Before they left for the ceremony, both of them knew they needed a reminder of the power God had given them through Jesus. The events of the past days had shaken their trust and weakened their faith. There was only one way to build it back up. They grabbed their Bibles and headed for the porch.

  “Hey, remember this?” Scott asked as he flipped to a well-worn page. He quickly read the verse: “ ‘The one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world.’ ”

  “Yeah,” Becka sighed. “Too bad I forgot that earlier.” She looked at the page her finger rested on in her Bible. “Here’s another one we’d better not forget: ‘These signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will drive out demons.’ ”

  Scott nodded. “ ‘If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.’ ”

  “Praying and believing,” Becka mused. “Sounds exactly like what Z told us at the very beginning.”

  “And Mom and Aunt Myrna’s pastor,” Scott added.

  Becka shook her head. “Funny how you can hear some stuff so much that pretty soon you don’t even pay attention to it.”

  “Well, we’re paying attention now,” Scott said as he stood. “Nothing’s going to make us back down tonight.”

  “Scotty?”

  “No, sir, we’re going to get in there and bust some heads . . .”

  “Scotty?”

  “ . . . and show them they’re not messing around with just any — ”

  “Scotty!”

  “What?”

  “Before we go, shouldn’t we, like . . . you know . . . pray first?”

  “Oh . . .”

  For the first time she could remember, Becka actually thought she saw her brother blush.

  “Yeah, of course.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh, I knew that.”

  She gave him a grin as he sat back down. And there, together, brother and sister bowed their heads to pray for God’s protection. They asked God’s forgiveness for their wavering faith and pride, then asked for wisdom and faith to do whatever he wanted. Neither was sure how long the prayer lasted. But that didn’t really matter. They continued praying, not wanting to stop until they were positive that the Lord had strengthened them. What was most important for them was to know whether God wanted them to go to the ceremony. At the conclusion of the prayer, both were certain.

  They had to go.

  The ceremony was in full swing when Becka and Scott arrived. A large fire burned in the center of the clearing. A dozen dancers, all dressed in colorful costumes with faces painted different colors, moved slowly around the fire to the beat of the ever present drums. Most of those gathered were barefoot.

  Sara Thomas was nowhere to be seen.

  Big Sweet, on the other hand, was. He wore the same battered straw hat he’d had on earlier and chewed on a piece of sugarcane. He sat in a big wicker chair that looked more like a piece of run-down patio furniture than a seat of honor. Every once in a while, he smiled and waved at Becka and Scott from across the sea of dancers.

  Finally the drumming stopped.

  Big Sweet stood and chanted in a language Becka didn’t understand. She guessed that it was probably French or Creole. At the end of what seemed to be a prayer, the drums began beating again — much faster this time.

  Big Sweet raised his arms to the sky. “I call upon you, BonDieu.” He closed his eyes and waved his arms. “Bring forth the loa now to guide the people.”

  As soon as he returned to his chair, the drums churned out an even faster rhythm.

  “I know loa means the dead,” Becka whispered to Scott, “but who is Bon Dieu again?”

  “I think he’s the most powerful of the gods,” Scott whispered back. “Kind of like the supreme ruler.”

  Most of the dancers moved in the same undulating rhythm as they had before. Others jerked spasmodically like puppets on a string. A few threw themselves to the ground, twitching like bugs in the dirt. One man ran wildly around the circle as fast as he could, screaming hysterically until he collapsed on the ground from exhaustion.

  “This is getting too weird,” Scott whispered.

  Becka nodded. Once again she had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that they were in over their heads. But the prayers and the Bible verses they had read still echoed in her heart. She knew that they were exactly where they were called to be. Not only would God protect them, but he would also show them what to do.

  On the other side of the dancers, she noticed a man whose face was painted bright red. She also noticed that he glared at them. She nudged her brother. “Do you see that man? The one with the red face?”

  Scott looked around. “Nope. I see a green-faced man, a guy with orange spiders on his cheek, a woman with a blue star on her forehead, and . . . oh, that guy. What’s the matter with him?”

  Becka gulped. “He’s coming over here.”

  Scott shook his head. “No, he’s not. He’s just heading out to . . . wait. He is coming over here.”

  The red-faced man never took his eyes off Becka and Scott as he used his walking stick to clear the dancers out of his way. He towered over them. “Sama sama tay, sama sama tay!” he shouted, pointing at them.

  A few of the dancers nearby stopped and stared at Becka and Scott.

  Suddenly the red-faced man leaped high into the air and screamed, “AIEEEEEEYA!”

  The cry sent chills through Becka. She glanced at Scott in a silent signal to hold their ground.

  The drums stopped beating. Everyone quieted.

  “Sama sama tay!” The red-faced man shouted, still pointing at Becka and Scott. “Sama sama tay!”

  The whole group stared now. Becka tensed. She waited, silently praying. Others in the group joined in with the red-faced man, chanting, “Sama sama tay! Sama sama tay!” They crowded around Scott and Becka.

  “Sama sama tay! Sama sama tay!”

  More and more joined in, pushing themselves closer and closer.

  “Sama sama tay! Sama sama tay!”

  The red-faced man raised his walking stick high into the air.

  “Sama sama tay! Sama sama tay! SAMA SAMA TAY! SAMA SAMA TAY!”

  Becka wanted to bolt, to break through the crowd. She was sure the red-faced man intended to crack either Scott or her over the head with his stick. But instead of running, she closed her eyes and prayed for all she was worth. She hoped Scott did the same.

  Suddenly the conch horn sounded.

  Everyone froze and turned toward Big Sweet. He blew the giant shell two more times.

  The red-faced man was not about to give up. He pointed at Becka and Scott and shouted, “Sama sama tay!”

  Big Sweet angrily shook his head. “No! No sama sama tay.

  Untero tay. Untero my tay!”

  The dancers seemed relieved by what they heard and turned away. But the red-faced man still pointed at Becka and Scott.

  “No!” Big Sweet shouted again. “Untero tay! My tay!”

  The red-faced man stepped back. He gave a slight bow in Big Sweet’s direction and rejoined the group. The drums began again, and the dancers resumed their gyrations.

  “What was that all about?” Scott whispered.

  “That fellow thought you were intruders — spies trying to steal our secrets,” Big Sweet replied. “I told him you were my guests. Potential members to join the group.”

  “Potential members?!” Scott shouted, incredulously. “You told him that?!”

  Big Sweet laughed. “Who knows? The night is young.”

  Before Scott could respond, a pale girl broke through the brush and entered the ring of dancers.

  “Look.” Scott pointed. “It’s Sara.”

  Though she wore nothing unusual — just high school PE shorts and a T-shirt — Sara stood out dramatically from the dancers. True enough, most of the others were having some kind of experience. But Sara seemed to be fighting a war. She contorted one moment, flowed with the rhythm of the drums the next, then contorted again, fighting against something with
all her strength.

  Slowly Big Sweet stood. This time he shouted out the names of several spirits. Some he called rada loas.

  The drummers increased their tempo. Big Sweet walked through the dancers until he finally arrived at Sara’s side. “And you, Sara? Are you ready for your final rite of initiation into our group?”

  Suddenly Sara stopped moving. She glared at Big Sweet and tried to shake her head. But her whole body began to tremble.

  Scott leaned over to Becka and whispered, “Look at her eyes. She’s scared to death! She’s trying to fight this thing.”

  Scott was right. The girl’s eyes were wild and filled with fear as her body shook harder and harder, clearly out of control.

  Becka rose to her feet. “We have to help her. We have to — ”

  Animal growls suddenly came from Sara’s mouth. Her body twisted and contorted uncontrollably.

  Big Sweet tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away and flung herself to the ground.

  The crowd began to murmur, but Big Sweet raised his hands. “Sara is fighting with her petro loa for control of her body. She will tear herself apart unless I can quiet the spirit with the magic balm.”

  “No!” Becka called. She started to push her way through the crowd. “Don’t — ”

  But her voice was drowned out as Sara began shrieking and rolling in the dirt. Big Sweet signaled two other men for help. It took all three of them to hold her.

  “No!” Becka repeated. “She doesn’t need potions! She needs — ”

  Sara’s scream was unearthly, unrecognizable, as Big Sweet applied some special ointment. Then, almost instantly, she quieted. The fit subsided, and she lay perfectly still.

  Scott and Becka stared.

  “I guess he does have power,” Scott finally ventured.

  But Becka wasn’t convinced. There was something wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something wasn’t right.

  The drums began again, and the dancers resumed their actions. Big Sweet turned to Scott and smiled triumphantly. But Becka barely noticed. As she knelt beside Sara, she knew what was wrong.

  Sara wasn’t breathing.

  Quickly Becka reached for Sara’s neck, searching for a pulse. There was none.

  “She’s dead!” Becka cried. “Sara’s dead!”

  8

  Immediately Becka and Scott put their CPR training to work. Scott blew air into Sara’s mouth several times while Becka pumped Sara’s chest.

  “It’s not working!” Becka shouted.

  “We’ve gotta keep trying!” Scott yelled.

  Becka continued pumping Sara’s chest. But it was no use.

  “Still no response!” Becka cried, feeling for Sara’s pulse again. “We have to get her to the hospital.”

  Big Sweet offered his battered pickup truck. They quickly loaded Sara into the back. Becka and Scott crawled in with her to resume CPR as Big Sweet sped off.

  “I’ve seen this before!” Big Sweet called through the back window. “When the petro loa gets violent, the magic balm sends the loa cheval into a deep sleep. She will wake up okay. I give you my word.”

  “She’s dead!” Becka shouted. Her eyes burned with tears. “Don’t you get it? She’s dead!”

  “Don’t blame yourself!” Scott shouted over the wind. “We did everything we could do! Like Pastor Barchett said, you can’t deliver someone if she doesn’t want — ”

  “But she did!” Becka cried, wiping the tears out of her eyes. “She wanted to be delivered. I could see it in her eyes. She was fighting for control when that demon killed her!”

  Minutes later Big Sweet skidded the pickup into the emergency entrance of Sorrento’s hospital. Scott threw down the gate while Big Sweet scooped up Sara and raced inside with her.

  An orderly helped him get her onto a gurney, while an admissions staff person asked questions in the background. Becka gave the admissions clerk all the information she knew as the orderly wheeled Sara into another room. Scott and Big Sweet stayed behind near the hospital entrance.

  Time passed while the emergency room team worked on Sara. Becka paced in the narrow waiting area. She stopped as Scott approached. “Where’s Big Sweet?” she asked.

  Scott gave a slight shrug. “He had to get back to the ceremony.”

  “He what?!” Becka felt herself growing angry.

  “Yeah, he said the people needed him and, uh . . .”

  “And what?”

  “And that . . . well . . . that Sara would be all right.”

  Becka couldn’t believe what she heard. She slumped into a chair, feeling a sudden chill. Her fever was on the rise again. It drained what little energy she had left. She was angry, scared, and reaching the point of total exhaustion.

  Scott sat beside her. “Are you gonna be okay?”

  “I don’t know.” Once again hot tears sprang to her eyes. She tried to blink them back but couldn’t. Finally she turned to Scott. “Someone died, Scotty. That’s never happened to us before.”

  Scott nodded.

  “Where’s all our power? All those verses said we’re supposed to have the victory.”

  Scott looked away. When he spoke, his voice was thick and faint. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m scared, Scotty.”

  “Don’t say that,” he said. “Fear is a weapon of the enemy. If we believe he has the power instead of God, then he can beat us.”

  “He’s already beaten us.”

  “Don’t say — ”

  “She’s dead, Scott! We lost! She’s dead!”

  “Excuse me?”

  They both looked up to see a nurse approach. She seemed nervous. “Are you the ones who brought Sara Thomas in?”

  “Yes,” Becka said, already preparing herself for the worst.

  “Well . . .” The nurse took a breath. “She’s gone.”

  Becka nodded. “I know. We were just hoping you could do something to — ”

  “No, you misunderstand me,” the nurse said. “She’s not gone as in dead. She’s gone as in she left the hospital.”

  “She what?!”

  “I don’t know where she went. When she arrived in the ER, I checked her vital signs. One minute I couldn’t detect any, and the next . . . she just sat up and said she was fine.”

  “How’s that possible?” Scott asked.

  “I couldn’t believe it myself. I raced to get the doctor. But when we got back to the room, she was . . . gone.”

  Becka and Scott exchanged glances.

  For several minutes Sara stood outside the hospital — the same hospital where John Noey and Ronnie Fitzgerald fought for their lives.

  She felt terrible for them . . . and for herself.

  Her identity seemed to ebb away. I’ve used the power of voodoo, she thought. Now I must serve its power.

  The irony almost made her laugh, but she knew she must not. The petro loa in her demanded her vigilance. If she let down her guard, even for a moment, it would take over again. And then what little was left of Sara Thomas would vanish.

  Completely.

  Big Sweet had been right. He had told her that she could not resist the petro loa on her own. If she tried to stand against the spirit, it would make her insane. It would take complete control of her — maybe even kill her.

  She remembered other bits of information he had given her after one ceremony.

  “Can you heal me of the petro loa?” she had asked hopefully.

  Big Sweet had only shaken his head. “No, I cannot do that. But I can teach you how to stay healthy while you learn its ways.”

  “Learn its ways?” she had asked. “What do you mean?”

  “The loa may leave you in time, Sara, but for now, you must learn to live with it. Learn when it is awake and when it sleeps.

  Learn what it requires of you. Then you will be able to use what is left for yourself.”

  “You’re asking me to let the spirit rule so that it might let me have a little of my life back?” she had asked incred
ulously.

  Big Sweet had nodded. “I know no other way. When my father studied with Marie Leveau, we knew a man who had been a loa cheval for forty years. In the daytime he was a wonderful man. He used to take me fishing. He often brought little candies to us kids. But my father warned us to stay away from him at night. That was when his petro loa came out. He was very violent then. It took five men to hold him down. But his life was not a total loss. He had his days.”

  Unable to think of this any longer, Sara turned from the hospital and headed down the street. She didn’t care where she walked or for how long. She just had to get away.

  The streets of Sorrento seemed barren as Sara wandered them. Soon she passed the old church near the library where she worked. Unable to explain her attraction to it, she came to a stop in front of the church, then turned and moved up the stairs. She hesitated before trying the door.

  It was open.

  It was eerie inside the church at this hour. It was lit only by a small lamp near the front and a few votive candles.

  Sara took another step inside and suddenly began to feel very nauseous. Holding her stomach, she turned to go when she was suddenly startled by the presence of an elderly man kneeling in the back pew. He was thin, and his white hair caught the moonlight.

  She hoped he wouldn’t notice her. But suddenly he looked directly into her eyes.

  “Sara?” the elderly man stammered. It was obvious he was as surprised as she was.

  For an instant Sara was frozen with shock. Who was this man? How could he know her name? The nausea suddenly increased. She backed away toward the door.

  The elderly man rose unsteadily to his feet. “I am Pastor Barchett. Just now I was praying for you. Please, won’t you — ?”

  Sara spun around to the door. The nausea was worse. She had to get out. Still, something inside was crying, begging her to stay. With great effort, she forced herself to turn around and face the pastor.

  “Help me . . . ,” she cried. “Please . . . help — ”

  Suddenly her mouth slammed shut. She spun around, then ran for the door.

  “Sara, please — ”

  She could barely hear him over the laughter filling her head — taunting laughter that was not hers. She felt herself moving outside and down the steps. There was no stopping now — the loa was in charge again.