by Bill Myers
And it was forcing her to return to the ceremony.
“I say we go back,” Scott insisted.
“Scotty . . .”
“Listen.” Becka’s brother was up on his feet, pacing. “We’ve done everything the Bible said, right?”
“Well, yeah, but — ”
“We’ve prayed and believed, right? Just like Z suggested, just like that pastor guy said.”
“I know that, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Scotty, she nearly died.”
“But she didn’t. Come on, Beck, where’s your faith?”
“My faith is . . .” Becka took a long, deep breath and slowly let it out. Her temperature was up again. She fought off the chills. “I’d like to go, Scotty. But I’m . . . I’ve got nothing left.”
Her brother looked at her.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head and pulled in her legs to try to keep herself warm. “I’m wiped out. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
Scott looked at her for a long moment. But instead of making her feel guilty, he quietly knelt beside her. “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s been rough on you — way rougher than on me.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I feel like a total failure. But I just don’t even think I could . . .”
“That’s okay. You just stay here.”
Becka stared at him. “What?”
“You stay here at the hospital and call Mom and Aunt Myrna to pick you up.”
“You’re not going alone?”
He slowly rose. “Beck, we came here to do a job.”
“You saw the power there. You know what can — ”
“I know, I know. We’ve lost a few battles with this one. But the war isn’t over. Not yet.” He headed for the door.
“Scott — ”
“ ‘If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.’ Remember, Beck?”
She struggled to her feet. “I know that, but — ”
He turned back to her one last time. “Give Mom and Aunt Myrna a call. Have them pick you up. And then the three of you can pray for me.”
“Scotty?”
“Pray a lot.”
“You can’t go there by yoursel — ”
But he was already out the door. It slid shut behind him.
Becka fell back in her seat, feeling frustrated and exhausted. She closed her eyes, trying to think what to do. Scott must not go back to the ceremony alone. And yet —
“Excuse me, are you Sara Thomas’s friend?”
Becka opened her eyes to see a young doctor standing in front of her. She nodded.
“We’d taken a sample of Sara’s blood and were running some tests . . .”
“Yes?”
“Her blood seems to contain trace amounts of a rare poison.”
“Poison?”
“Yes — curare. It’s from a tree that grows in South America. When you apply it externally like a salve on the skin, it sometimes renders the victim unconscious. It can slow down the heartbeat to where life signs are very hard to detect.”
Becka could hardly believe what she heard. “You mean it makes you look like you’re dead?”
“Yes. If it’s applied externally in small amounts, its effects last less than an hour, which explains Sara’s return to consciousness. Unfortunately, if it’s taken internally, or if the subject receives too much over a short period of time, well . . .” He hesitated.
“Please, go ahead,” Becka insisted.
“I don’t know where your friend would have contact with something like this, but she should be careful. If she’s exposed to it again too soon, it will kill her.”
Becka stood stunned, her mind reeling. The first time, Sara had been lucky. But if she was heading back to the ceremony, and if Big Sweet applied the poison again . . .
“Listen, you look a little pale,” the doctor said. “Maybe we should take your temperature and — ”
Becka started for the door. Of course he was right. She felt terrible. But Sara’s life was in danger. And if somebody didn’t tell her, if somebody didn’t warn Big Sweet and Scott . . .
“No, I’m fine,” she lied. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure?” the doctor called.
But Becka was already out the door. As the doctor’s question followed her, she shook her head. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to make it back to the ceremony. But she was sure of one thing. She had to try.
“Help me,” she prayed as she headed down the street. “Please, Lord, give me the strength I need.”
9
Doomba-doomba-doom. Doomba-doomba-doom. The drums echoed through the swamp. Becka was fine as long as she could follow their sound. The moon was three-quarters full and bright enough to allow her to make her way through the thick undergrowth.
She shivered, wondering if the cause was her rising fever, the night air, or the resurgence of her fear. Probably all three.
Doomba-doomba-doom. Doomba-doomba-doom.
Somehow she managed to avoid falling into the water or running face first into branches — both strong possibilities when stumbling through the bayou at night.
Doomba-doomba-doom. Doomba-doomba-doom.
But she still had the drums to direct her. She still had —
Suddenly, they stopped.
Becka hesitated, straining to hear the slightest sound, the slightest clue. None was forthcoming. She had never been in this part of the swamp. Without the drums, she was lost.
Panic gripped her. She wanted to run, to scream for help, to plow through the swamp and its treacherous waters, to keep running and running — running to get out of the swamp, running to help her brother, running to prevent Big Sweet from reapplying his magic balm on Sara.
She struggled with fear — the same fear that had been her enemy throughout the trip. Fear on the plane, the fear of the thresher, and the fear of Sara’s curse . . .
“No!” she shouted to no one in particular. “I am not afraid!”
The fear subsided but only for a moment.
“NO!” she repeated. But the fear left and returned even faster. So she did the only thing she could think of. She began quoting Bible verses — some she had learned as a child and some she had read with Scott earlier that evening.
“ ‘The one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world . . . Whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours . . . Perfect love drives out fear . . .’ ” As she continued, the fear slowly faded. A peace settled over her. Filling her head with God’s truth left no room for fear’s lies.
As the peace came, so did a quiet logic. She decided to sit on a nearby log and wait patiently for the drums to resume.
But what if the drums never started again? What if the ceremony was over? What if Sara was already —
Once again Becka thought of the verses. Once again a gentle peace settled over her. Soon she could hear the soft rhythmic chirp of crickets. A thousand tiny insects buzzed. Frogs called from deep within the swamp. The place was a virtual symphony of nature.
Yes, God was good. Very good.
An owl hooted from a distant tree. She soon heard a splash as an animal entered the water, followed by the rattle of a snake . . .
A snake! Becka froze.
Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was something else.
No, there it was again. It was a snake’s rattle. It was closer than before.
Becka peered at the ground around her feet, looking for some movement.
None came.
The rattle had seemed to come from the left side. She rose, preparing to run to the right.
Then she heard the rattle again.
This time it came from the right.
Ever so slowly, Becka turned. Out of the corner of her eye she saw it. Something slithered along the ground. She turned fast to the left.
Too fast.
Her foot caught on the log. As she toppled forward, she tried to
shift but fell backward, arms flailing as she tried to regain her balance.
It did no good.
She landed exactly where she didn’t want to be — less than a yard from the snake.
The rattler raised itself up, preparing to strike.
“Please, Jesus,” she cried, “make it go away!”
As if in answer, the snake rattled even more menacingly and reared its head back. Becka could see its silver black eyes glaring at her in the moonlight. She closed her eyes, expecting the worst. Then, just as suddenly as it had risen, the snake lowered itself to the ground and slithered off in the opposite direction.
Becka watched, amazed at how loudly her heart was pounding. She realized that the pounding she heard wasn’t her heart, but the drums.
She stood up, took a deep breath to steady herself, and headed toward the sound.
Big Sweet nodded slightly when Scott entered the clearing and found a place in the outside circle. The dancers had already worked themselves into a frenzy as they chanted, whirled, sang, and screamed.
Immediately Scott spotted Sara. She danced with the same jerky movements as before, all the while crying out in a strange language. Her voice was unnaturally deep and husky.
Scott knew the signs.
Sara was possessed.
The time for action had come. He started toward her.
The showdown was about to begin.
Big Sweet also rose from his wicker chair. He wasn’t sure what Scott was about to do, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The petro loa in Sara Thomas was powerful. If it was cast out of Sara, there was no telling how many of his people it would attack. He would not let them be injured.
Carefully he reached into the leather bag hanging from the back of his chair. He extracted a small tin container. In it was the same potion he had used earlier that night — a potion from the strychnos tree. The tree was originally from South America. Big Sweet’s father had transplanted it in the bayou when Big Sweet was a small boy. Its resin was black and brittle. When mixed with certain roots, it turned into a dark brown salve. This was his magic balm.
Scott continued toward Sara. He was ten feet away when she suddenly spun around. She seemed to stare right through him.
Scott had seen that cold, lifeless stare before. He knew that something else looked through Sara’s eyes. That something else was what Big Sweet called the petro loa. Scott knew it by another name. Demon.
He came to a stop. Slowly, he raised his right hand. The battle was about to begin.
Sara moved like a puppet. She suddenly snatched a walking stick from a nearby dancer and twirled around, catching Scott off guard. She slammed the stick against Scott’s knee, knocking him to the ground.
The demon caused Sara to lunge at him once more, then raised Sara’s arm for another blow.
“No!” Big Sweet shouted. He held the open container in his left hand. The fingers of his right hand were covered with a white powder to shield him from the effects of the magic balm. “I speak to the petro loa occupying Sara Thomas. You shall not hurt this boy.”
Sara’s head nodded in agreement, but the nodding grew more rapid and exaggerated until it was obvious that the spirit mocked Big Sweet.
Scott raised himself to one knee, trying to clear his head. But instantly the petro loa swung the big stick down hard on his shoulder. He cried out in pain.
Big Sweet motioned to his men. Three of them leaped on Sara from behind while Big Sweet dug his hand into the tin of magic balm, preparing to smear it on her.
Sara struggled and almost broke free. A fourth man soon joined the fray. The four managed to hold her down. Big Sweet moved to smear the balm on her arm.
“Stop!” Becka ran into the clearing. “Don’t touch her with that! It’s poison!”
Big Sweet looked at her. “I must use the magic balm to quiet the petro loa!” he shouted. “It will not kill! It will make the loa sleep! You saw yourself!”
Becka strode quickly toward them. “It will kill!”
Big Sweet frowned.
Becka continued. “I spoke to a doctor at the hospital. He said the more you use it, the more dangerous it is. You’ve already used some to knock her unconscious. He said that if you use more too soon, it will kill her.”
“But I must quiet the petro loa before he brings harm to her or to one of my people. Look at your brother.”
“I’m okay,” Scott said, struggling to his feet. “Nothing’s broken.”
Sara’s body writhed once again. The four men struggled to hold her down.
Big Sweet started toward her once more. “I must quiet the petro loa.”
“I will quiet the petro loa!” Becka shouted.
All eyes turned to her. She nodded at Scott.
He slowly rose to his feet, returning her nod with a thumbs-up.
She took a deep breath. Turning to face Sara, Becka called out in a loud voice, “In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, I command you to come out of her!”
Nothing happened.
Becka moved closer. “Demon who occupies Sara Thomas, you come out of her now, in the name of Jesus Christ! I order it!”
Suddenly, with superhuman strength, Sara tossed aside the four men who held her. She rose to face Becka. “Who are you?” Sara’s mouth moved, but the voice was guttural. “Why do you force your will on others?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Becka said with confidence. “I am not the one forcing my will. You are! Now, be gone in the name of Jesus Christ — ”
“What makes you think — ?”
Becka cut the demon’s words short with a sharp motion of her hand. She knew all too well how demons argued only to stall or weaken a believer’s faith. She would allow neither. She couldn’t afford to. “I said go in the name of Jesus Christ! Now!”
Sara’s body tensed as if charged by electricity. She let out a loud, ghastly cry before dropping to the ground.
All who watched gasped. Many began to murmur, wondering at the power they had just witnessed.
Becka moved to kneel beside the still girl and tenderly touched her arm. “Sara,” she said. “Sara, it’s okay now. Sara . . .”
Sara’s eyes snapped open. Before Becka could move, the girl kicked her with all her might.
Becka cried out, tumbling backward.
“There’s more than one of them!” Scott yelled.
Sara leaped to her feet and started for Becka.
“Stop!” Scott shouted. “Enough trickery! I command you to stop in the name of Jesus!”
Sara froze, then slowly faced him with a look of menace.
Faith surged through Scott. He was not about to be intimidated, not when he knew who truly held the power in this situation. “We command you in the name of Jesus Christ to be gone! We cast you into the pit!”
Becka struggled back to her feet and approached from the other side. “Be gone. All of you! We cast all of you out of Sara and into the lake of fire. In the name of Jesus Christ, go!”
Sara’s body began to tremble, her face contorting grotesquely. The onlookers backed away. Some turned and ran.
Sara threw her head back and shrieked a long, agonizing wail, more animal than human. It echoed through the trees and across the swamp. Finally, she collapsed on the ground, unconscious.
Becka and Scott looked at each other. They knew she was clean this time. All of the demons had gone. They knelt beside Sara.
“Sara?” Becka said. “Sara?”
A moment later, the girl’s eyelids flickered, then opened fully.
“Are you all right?” Becka asked.
Sara nodded. “I think . . .” Her voice was hoarse. She licked painfully dry lips. Her eyes looked weary but hopeful. “The spirit’s gone, isn’t it?”
Becka nodded. “Yes.” She started to add, “All of them are” but changed her mind.
Relief crossed Sara’s face. For the first time she seemed to relax.
“Is this what you want?” Becka asked. “To be totally free of that kind o
f spirit forever?”
Sara nodded. “Yes . . . yes . . . of course.” Then her forehead wrinkled. “But what about . . . what I did to John and Ronnie?”
“Are you sorry you hurt them?” Scott asked.
“Yes.” There was no mistaking the sadness in Sara’s voice. “I am very sorry.”
Becka smiled warmly. “Then why don’t you pray for them with us?”
“Pray? To who?”
“To the very person who gave us the power to cast out the petro loa,” Scott answered her.
Sara looked at him. Slowly she nodded.
Becka and Scott bowed their heads. After a moment, Sara followed suit.
“Dear Jesus,” Becka began, “we ask your forgiveness for what Sara has done.”
“Forgive me,” Sara murmured. “And forgive me for what I did to Becka . . . by trying to put a curse on her. I’m so sorry for that!”
Becka sighed. “I also forgive her for that, Lord. And we ask that you heal those boys. Make them whole again.”
Sara nodded, tears forming in her eyes.
“And, Lord,” Becka continued, “please reveal your love to Sara. Help her know your truth.”
Sara began to sob.
Becka prayed silently for several moments. When she finished, she looked up at Big Sweet. He seemed astonished by the encounter with the demon and the prayer that followed.
“The magic balm is dangerous,” she said.
Big Sweet nodded. “I will not use it again. I only did as my father taught me. The petro loa was bad.”
“It was a demon,” Scott explained. “Not the spirit of someone who died but a fallen angel. A demon — more than one, actually.”
Big Sweet sighed. “Perhaps.”
“We believe in one God,” Becka explained, “the Bon Dieu who rules over everything.”
“Bon Dieu.” Big Sweet nodded in agreement. “That I understand. But he does not communicate with us.”
“He does through his Son,” Becka said. “And it was the power of his Son that you saw demonstrated here tonight.”
Big Sweet met her eyes. “His Son?”
“That’s right,” Becka said. “Jesus.”