Black Magic Woman

by Justin Gustainis

  "This is the part where I say something like 'Oh, you mean people who think they're practicing real witchcraft, even though you and I know it's superstitious nonsense,' and you give me this 'Oh yes, of course, what else could it possibly be' crap."

  "I was not planning to say that, this time."

  "Yeah? How come?"

  "Because," Van Dreenan said softly, "this time, I think, you are ready for the truth."

  * * * *

  "Welcome to Rhode Island," the sign read. "Please Obey Speed Limits."

  Snake Perkins was grooving to some early Eric Clapton in his head, but he made a face as they crossed the invisible line separating Rhode Island from Connecticut. "You sure it's a good idea, doin' the last one this close to her?"

  "It is a very good idea," Cecelia Mbwato said. "The closer we are, the sooner I can make delivery once the package is ready."

  "Want your money, huh?"

  She gave him another of her contemptuous looks. "Just like you want yours, I think," she said. "But it is more than that. There is the matter of safety to consider."

  Snake blew air out his nose. "What we been doin' ain't exactly what I consider real safe," he said. "That's why we gettin' paid so much to do it."

  "You say the truth. But there is no reason to make the risk last longer than we must. If all goes well tonight, we will have with us the evidence of five murders. These American scientists, they can prove what person a piece of flesh comes from. They catch us with these things… they hang us for sure."

  "Most places don't hang ya any more," Snake said. "They use lethal injection or the electric chair. But I get what you're sayin'."

  "I have heard of this electric chair," she said musingly. "It is said that people being killed that way sometimes catch fire and burn."

  "Yeah, I guess I heard that, too. Don't matter, though. They ain't gonna be doin' it to us. We got this down to a science, now."

  "A science. Yes, I suppose so." Cecelia Mbwato consulted the road atlas she had open in her lap. "Drive another thirty, forty miles, then find us a motel." She closed the atlas with a sound like a slap, and tossed it in the back seat. "Then we go to look for playgrounds."

  * * * *

  "The truth," Fenton said scornfully. "You actually think this black magic shit is real, don't you?"

  "I trust what I have seen with my own eyes," Van Dreenan told him. "And so should you."

  "What's that mean?"

  "You viewed the videotape, as did I. You saw what happened in the convenience store. And you have read the toxicology report, just as I did."

  "Yeah, okay, I admit that's puzzling, but it doesn't—"

  "Puzzling?" Van Dreenan's voice held some scorn of its own. "The woman blows powder in the robber's eyes, ja? Almost immediately, the robber's eyeballs start to… dissolve. Later, the powder is analyzed—by professionals, people who do this sort of thing every day. Hardheaded American science, the best in the world, is brought to bear on the problem. And what do they find?"

  "Look, I know it might not—"

  "What do they find in the man's eyes, Fenton? Sulfuric acid, maybe?"

  Fenton raised his eyes to the ceiling. "No, no acid."

  "Some derivative of lye? Anything like that?"

  "Stop badgering me, Van Dreenan. We both know what the tox report said."

  "Herbs, wasn't it? Several different ones, ground to powder. And tiny bits of tree bark. And nothing else."

  Fenton rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "Yeah, I know."

  "The scientists did not believe it, either. The report said they were going to perform the analysis again. They should have completed it by now. Do you wish to check the results?"

  Fenton looked at him. "I guess I'll do just that."

  He turned the laptop toward him and began to type. Van Dreenan didn't bother to look over his shoulder.

  It was less than three minutes before Fenton logged off and turned away from the computer. "Same results," he said with a scowl. "Exactly the same. Now the lab people are making noises about how the sample must have been mislabeled, or maybe contaminated at the crime scene. It's all CYA stuff now."

  "CYA?"

  "Cover your ass. A practice beloved of government employees everywhere." Fenton shook his head, as if trying to deny what he had just read. "Look, man, this just isn't possible."

  "Except that it has happened," Van Dreenan said gently. "Believe me when I say that I know exactly how you are feeling. I went through the same process myself. As a Christian, and yes, I admit it, a white South African, I was raised to regard the tribal religious beliefs and practices of the native blacks as no more than superstitions—proof, supposedly, that their culture had not advanced as far as ours. No man's mind was more closed than mine."

  "So, what opened it?" Fenton asked sourly.

  "My investigation into the deaths of Miles Nshonge's wife and children."

  "Miles? Cecelia? How is it that these native blacks, as you call them, all have English-sounding first names?"

  "During apartheid, the government required it. No person's birth could be registered without a Christian first name. And without a birth certificate, it was impossible to later obtain a work permit, driver's license, and so on." Van Dreenan had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Once the African National Congress, Mister Mandela's party, took over, the practice was abolished, of course. But that had no effect on the millions who had been born before, unless they took the trouble to change their first names legally. Some have, but most have not."

  "All right, so how did this Miles what's-his-name make you a believer in black magic?"

  Van Dreenan ran his big hand slowly over his face, like a man bracing himself for something unpleasant. Then he leaned forward in his chair. "It was like this…"

  * * * *

  Thokoza Township

  Republic of South Africa

  February 2003

  The air conditioning in the unmarked police car wasn't working, as usual, so Van Dreenan and Sergeant Shemba kept all the windows down, except when the dust was particularly bad. Van Dreenan had never been to Thokoza before, but as they drew near he found that it looked like all the other black townships he had seen. The usual mixture of one-story mud-brick buildings and corrugated tin shacks, broken-down cars, small businesses operating out of converted cargo crates, and children running around playing—children who should be in school, except there was no school for them to go to.

  Every urban area of any size in South Africa has a township outside it; bigger cities like Pretoria and Cape Town have more than one. The townships came into existence during apartheid, when blacks and "coloreds" were not allowed to live in the cities with whites. Those who had jobs in the cities wanted to live close by, so the townships evolved.

  Apartheid disappeared in 1994, but the townships did not. The charitable referred to them as suburbs. The realists, who had seen them, called them slums.

  The first two people Sergeant Shemba asked for directions just shrugged and walked away. But then he found a boy, aged about ten, who told them how to find the house of Miles Nshonge. The boy had not yet learned to hate and fear the police. In time, he probably would.

  The boy's information proved accurate, and a few minutes later they pulled up in front of the mudbrick house that had been the home of the Nshonge family. Only Miles Nshonge lived there now, which was why the two policemen had come to see him.

  Once they were out of the car, Sergeant Shemba popped the hood and raised it. Using a rag to avoid burning his fingers, he removed the distributor cap from the engine, wrapped it in the rag, and stowed it in a pocket of his khaki uniform. The poverty and desperation in most of the townships was such that no unattended car was safe, even one belonging to the police. As it was, the two men would still keep an eye in it, lest they come back to find it stripped down to the bare metal.

  Detective First Class Van Dreenan and Sergeant Shemba had been partners for just over three years. Van Dreenan valued Shemba'
s insight, courage, integrity, and the fact that the big man spoke four of the tribal languages, including Xhosa, which was the dominant tongue in Thokoza.

  The two men positioned themselves on either side of the house's front door before knocking. People in the townships sometimes shot right through the door if they did not know it was the police outside—and sometimes even when they did.

  Following Sergeant Shemba's vigorous knocking, a male voice inside called out something in Xhosa. Sergeant Shemba answered, in a tone that brooked no nonsense.

  A few moments later, the door was opened by a narrow-shouldered, very thin man of about forty with a sad, careworn face. Sergeant Shemba asked a question that contained the name "Miles Nshonge" in it. The sad-faced man answered, then stepped back to allow his visitors entry.

  The house's large main room was sparsely furnished but spotlessly clean. The principal decoration was a large framed photograph on one wall showing Nelson Mandela being sworn in as President of the Republic of South Africa. Nshonge waved the two policemen into mismatched wooden armchairs with thin, frayed cushions on the seats; he sat facing them on an ornately carved wooden bench about the size of a European loveseat.

  Van Dreenan said to Sergeant Shemba, who would act as translator, "Please give him our condolences on the deaths of his wife and children."

  After Shemba spoke, Nshonge nodded his acknowledgment, but said nothing.

  "Tell him we appreciate his being willing to talk to us today."

  Nshonge replied briefly, shaking his head as he did so.

  "He says it does not matter, because he is a dead man already."

  "Ask him to explain that."

  "He says that the same curse that killed his family will soon take him, also."

  "Ask about the curse."

  Nshonge spent some time looking at the floor without saying anything. Then, without raising his head, he began to talk. He spoke at length, as if he were letting something out that he had kept inside him for a very long time. Sergeant Shemba translated after every few sentences.

  "He says he liked to gamble: cards and betting on horses. He has a good job as a carpenter, but the last five years, he had been gambling more and more. He lost much money playing cards with his friends. And he would go to the racetrack sometimes, but it is far away and hard to get to. So most of the time he placed his bets with a local broker."

  Shemba looked at Van Dreenan. "I believe by this he means what we would call a 'bookie.'"

  "Right," Van Dreenan said. "Ask him to go on."

  "He says the broker would extend to him credit, to let him keep betting even when he owed money. But the day came when the broker said there would be no more credit, and wanted the debt paid. He says at that time he owed the broker almost eight hundred rand."

  "I bet I know what happened next," Van Dreenan muttered.

  Shemba turned to him again. "Sorry?"

  "Nothing, never mind," Van Dreenan told him. "Please continue."

  "He says the broker has some big, tough men who work for him. Threats were made—against him, and against his family. He says he became quite desperate. He says he tried to borrow the money he owed, but none would loan it to him, even the moneylenders who charge very high interest. So, out of fear for his family, he went to a tagati."

  "Sweet Christ," Van Dreenan said softly. A tagati is a witch, of either gender. Unlike the sangomas, who practice benign folk medicine, the tagati deal in one thing only: black magic. They were notorious for being utterly ruthless, and people who did business with them usually ended up getting hurt, in one way or another.

  "He says the tagati listened to his tale very closely, very carefully. When he finished, the tagati asked him how much money he wanted—not how much he owed, but how much he wanted. He said he would like twelve hundred rand. That would pay his gambling debt and allow him some left over for his family.

  "He says the tagati then asked him if he would swear a High Oath, in return for the money."

  "High Oath? What's that mean?"

  For the first time since they had arrived, Sergeant Shemba showed signs of distress. Being a disciplined police officer, he was not obvious about it, but Van Dreenan knew something was wrong.

  "The High Oath," Shemba said, "is something that can be invoked by only the most powerful of tagati. If you swear the High Oath, you are bound to the sorcerer until he releases you, and to make the bond, you give him your soul. You belong to him. Or to her."

  Superstitious claptrap was Van Dreenan's reaction, but he kept it to himself. He liked the Sergeant too much to show disrespect for tribal beliefs, some of which Shemba still bought into, despite being nominally a Methodist. He said to Shemba, "Ask him if he took this High Oath."

  The Sergeant did so. After listening to Nshonge's response, he said, "Yes, he did. He says that he was desperate, that he had no other choice. In return for the money, he pledged to perform any service that the tagati might demand of him in the future."

  "So, the tagati just gave him twelve hundred rand?"

  "He says no. Instead, the tagati instructed him to wait two days, and on the third day to bet on the daily number, with five-three-five as his choice."

  Van Dreenan nodded. The local numbers syndicates had their counterparts worldwide, and were always more popular among the poor than the legal state lotteries.

  "He says he did as the tagati told him, and five-three-five was the winning number that day. He was the only winner in the township. The pay-out was exactly twelve hundred rand."

  Van Dreenan raised his eyebrows at that, but said nothing, as Nshonge continued speaking.

  "He says all was well, then, for almost two years. He paid his debts for gambling, and gambled no more after that. He became a different man, he says. Then the tagati came to him in a dream, demanding payment. The tagati wanted Mr. Nshonge's eldest child, a boy of seven years. He says the tagati told him to deliver the boy to a certain crossroads, at midnight, on the first night of the next full moon."

  "In a dream, eh?"

  "Yes, but you must remember, that dreams are very important among these people. They are considered a means of communicating with the spirit world, with their ancestors, and so on."

  Van Dreenan nodded. "Ask him what he did about this dream he had."

  "He says in the dream he refused. He acknowledged his debt to the tagati, but said that repayment take some other form. He would not give up one of his children. He says the tagati was insistent, reminding him of the High Oath he had taken, and told him that he would have the boy, one way or another."

  "I think we may be about to get to the heart of the matter, and about time," Van Dreenan said. "Ask him what happened then."

  "He says the moon became full three nights later. He was very vigilant the first night and stayed awake until dawn to keep watch, lest the tagati send minions to take the boy by stealth or by force. He borrowed a shotgun from a neighbor, and kept it close to his chair. But the night passed without incident. However, when he went to wake his family, he found the eldest boy having convulsions. He says blood was coming from the boy's mouth, his nose, his bumhole, and his ears, and they could not stop it. He sent for the local sangoma, who came at once, but the boy was dead by the time he arrived."

  "Ask him if he notified the police."

  "He says 'no.'"

  "What about the Health Service?"

  "Also 'no.'"

  "Then ask him why the bloody hell not!"

  Once the question was translated, Van Dreenan saw Nshonge gesture helplessly before answering.

  "He says the boy was already dead," Shemba said. "There was nothing for the police or the white doctors to do. He says they buried the boy in the local graveyard, with due ceremony."

  Van Dreenan shook his head in disgust at the man's abysmal ignorance. The boy could have been carrying an infectious disease that might have wiped out the whole township, and beyond, if left untreated.

  Except that nobody else had died. Apart from the rest of Nsh
onge's family.

  "Ask him what happened to his other two children, and his wife."

  Shemba spoke to Nshonge, then listened in return. He turned to Van Dreenan. "He says before he speaks of that, there are two other things we must know.

  "He says that the day after the boy's funeral, Mr. Nshonge's wife went to the grave, to pray that her ancestors would receive the boy's spirit in welcome.

  "He says that when she got there, she found that the grave had been dug up, and the boy's body removed."

  Van Dreenan frowned. "Animals?"

  Sergeant Shemba translated the question.

  "He says it could not be. The grave had been dug deeply, to keep animals away. And there were marks in the earth of hands, human hands."

  "His poor mother, it must have broken her heart," Van Dreenan said softly. Then to Shemba: "He said there were two things. What's the other one?"

  "He says the tagati came to him again in a dream. The tagati was very angry, saying that the High Oath had been broken. He said that Nshonge would watch his remaining two children die, then his wife, before he, too, would succumb to the tagati's power."

  "Ask him to give us the rest of it. Briefly, if possible."

  "He says the next full moon, the same happened, This time it was his middle child, who was found dead in her bed, in a pool of her own blood. After the funeral, he hired guards for her grave. But the next morning, the guards were found in a deep sleep, from which it was hard to rouse them. The grave of his daughter was empty."

  "Someone drugged the guards?"

  "He says the guards swore not. They ate and drank only that which they had brought with them, and saw no one, the whole night long."

  "They would have said that, anyway," Van Dreenan muttered. "All right, get to the end of it."

  According to Sergeant Shemba's translation, Nshonge said that he had sought the help of the most powerful sangomas he could find. They had sold him all manner of charms, amulets, ointments, and potions to protect his last child from the tagati's vengeance, but to no avail. The first night of the next full moon, the girl had died, in the same manner as her siblings.

  Nshonge had again hired guards for the child's grave, but this time he had accompanied them himself, bringing a large thermos of strong tea that he had brewed himself, to help everyone stay awake. But, after sunrise, he had awakened, groggy, from a dreamless slumber, to find the guards also asleep and the grave once again plundered.