Sighing, wishing he could help her, Noel heard something. He frowned and turned his head toward the jungle to listen.
It came again, a soft, clear fluting of sound. It turned his blood to ice water.
“What is it?” asked Lady Pamela in alarm. “What is out there?”
“Don’t you hear it?”
“Hear what? Is it a boar, a wild animal, savages?”
Noel shook his head and listened to the delicate piping. It played an odd, disconnected melody that seemed elusively familiar. He was certain he had never heard it before, yet he must have.
“Mr. Kedran—”
Noel stepped away from her, forgetting her as though she’d never existed. He walked away from the dying firelight into the trees. In seconds the darkness swallowed him.
It was like being unconscious and suddenly jerking awake. Startled, Noel stared around him and realized he had no recollection of how he’d come here. He was standing in a small cave, a shallow scoop in the limestone of the hill approximately the size of his office back at the Time Institute. He did not think he’d blacked out. He hadn’t opened his eyes. It was as though he’d been blind and now he could see again. He remembered leaving the camp, then nothing until now. Yet he lacked any sense of time having passed.
Still, how he’d gotten here hardly mattered, for it was what he faced that concerned him now.
In the center of the cave, Baba Mondoun sat cross-legged on the ground, naked save for a white loincloth. His black skin glistened as though he’d been oiled. He wore a shoulder-length periwig, white with powder, and a black tricorne hat. Before him glowed a red-orange light, the color of fire, yet no flames crackled. Noel could not see its source. His instincts warned him not to look too closely at that light.
His heart thudded violently. The cave was stifling hot, so hot he could scarcely breathe. He could see ripples of heat in the air, making Mondoun shimmer. Noel tried to step back, but he found his feet rooted to the ground. He could not lift his arms, twitch his fingers, or turn his head. Only his eyes could move. They darted from side to side, seeking a way of escape, but the cave’s entrance—and exit—must be behind him, for he could not see it.
He wanted to speak, but he could not. An invisible band constricted his throat. Each time he tried to make a sound, the band tightened. The fear of choking made him give up, but he remained frustrated, angry, and frightened. Sweat ran down his face, stinging his eyes. He blinked and wondered what in blazes was going on.
Mondoun seemed oblivious to his presence. The bocor was bent over, his whole attention riveted to his task. In his hand was a white powdery substance that looked like flour. He dribbled it onto the floor in an intricate, scrolling pattern. His skill amazed Noel, for he never faltered, never made a mistake. The pattern taking shape was symmetrical, flawless, yet done entirely freehand.
He finished, returned the unused portion of flour to a small pouch and commenced a second, smaller pattern with a handful of red powder. While drawing this one, he began to chant softly, then to sing in a lilting rhythm that was almost hypnotic. Noel could feel the threads of a pattern running through his mind, as though Mondoun was drawing a vèvè in his senses. The song held a mixture of French, English, and island patois. It was also African juju.
Noel realized he was witnessing voodoo, and worry coiled in the pit of his stomach.
Part of his training as a historian had been in ancient religions. Because superstitions were not confined to strict chronological periods, but instead reached far beyond their original times, the Time Institute made certain that travelers were acquainted with all the major religions and numerous smaller cults. As a specialist in Roman, Greek, and Egyptian history, Noel knew all about ritual sacrifice. He had participated in the Elysian Mysteries. He had watched temple processions in Thebes. He knew the rites of the dead, and which pantheon of gods preferred which kinds of offerings. Beyond those, however, his knowledge was more general. He had studied the Druids, the convolutions of the medieval Christian church, the cruelties of the Aztecs, and the dark African mysticism that had spread to the rest of the world during the centuries of slave trading.
He did not believe in voodoo. But he did know its followers were capable of slaughtering him as a sacrifice if it fitted their purposes.
It was harder than ever to breathe. His chest felt as though iron weights were pressing it down. Mondoun threw a substance into the source of the weird orange light, and acrid, sour-smelling smoke belched forth. Noel choked on it. He tried to turn his head aside, tried to hold his breath, but it was everywhere, pervading every inch of the cave.
Mondoun breathed deeply, filling his lungs and closing his eyes. Noel’s desperate lungs fought his control and grabbed a quick breath. The smoke got to him. He coughed, gulped in more. The top of his skull went numb, and his heart hammered out of control.
He had been implanted with a certain amount of protection against the drugs and potions of antiquity, but this smoke was too powerful. He suspected it was a hallucinogen, but the head trip he feared didn’t happen.
Instead, Mondoun opened his eyes and stared directly at Noel. Once more Noel was mesmerized by the dark intensity of that gaze. He felt unable to look away, yet he didn’t want to be hypnotized again. He could hear a roaring in his ears, and the room began to float slightly.
“What is my name?”
“Go to hell—”
The invisible band choked Noel’s throat. He wheezed for air.
“What is my name?”
The roaring was louder, and behind it Noel heard the crackling sound of names mingled with wild shrieks and bursts of laughter.
“What is my name?”
“Baba Mondoun,” Noel said.
As soon as he spoke the name, eerie light in the cave flared more brightly, and the words seemed to echo in his chest with every heartbeat.
“It is so,” Mondoun intoned. “The world cannot see truth. The world is easily deceived. What am I?”
A tiny corner of Noel’s brain fought the spell, yet he said, “You are a bocor, a p-priest of the b-black magic.”
“Good. Hear the names of the black gods: Congo Moudongue, Congo Savanna, Congo Maussai. Say the dark names. Congo.”
“Congo,” Noel echoed dully.
“Pétro.”
Noel shivered. “Pétro.”
“Welcome the Petro Maman Pemba. Welcome Ti Jean Pie Fin. They are the dark angels whose hands are over you. Let them come.”
“No,” Noel whispered, sweating.
“Let them come.”
“N-no.”
But despite his feeble denial, he could hear them. Hissings in his ear, streams of words in Swahili and Bantu, faint screams that chilled his blood, icy caresses across his burning skin, the touch of tongues like snake flickers. He shivered, feeling sick.
“You bring us a gift, Noel Kedran,” Mondoun said.
“I have nothing.”
“It is a great gift, a gift of much power. A gift neither of the Pétro, nor of the Congo, nor of the white Rada. A gift any may use. Bring it to us, Noel Kedran.”
At first Noel did not understand, then the memory of Leon throwing the LOC overboard came to him. His anger boiled in his throat.
“LOC,” Mondoun said, putting power on the word. “Bring us the LOC.”
“C-can’t,” Noel gasped. “It’s gone.”
For the first time he was glad. He wasn’t sure how any of this was happening, but he knew that it was taking place. This was no dream. In dreams, if you felt frightened enough or sick enough you woke up. He was so scared his heart was trying to pound its way out through his ribs. He felt clammy and hot—freezing cold, then burning with fire. But he hadn’t awakened. That meant this was real. And he was glad Leon had thrown the LOC into the ocean, glad that a creep like this couldn’t get his paws on the device.
Mondoun laughed. It was a deep, rumbling sound like thunder at first, swelling to a great, bursting guffaw. He put his hands on Noel’s shoul
ders, still laughing, his pointed teeth bared in the strange light. His touch melted the paralysis holding Noel a prisoner. Noel gathered himself to run, but he found his strength fading along with the paralysis. It felt as though he were melting in the heat. He looked down at himself, expecting to see his flesh and bones sliding into a puddle of liquid. Before he knew it, he was on the floor, flat on his back and still unable to move.
In his mind he raged at this stupid helplessness. He was supposed to know how to avoid hypnotism. He was an educated, sophisticated man of the future, for God’s sake. He wasn’t supposed to turn into a quivering believer whenever he encountered a cult.
He wasn’t supposed to let himself become a victim either, but here he was.
Mondoun produced a dagger, wickedly sharp at the tip. Noel steeled himself, wondering if it was going to be the wrists or the throat. Instead, Mondoun sliced open his shirt with a swift deftness that left not a nick or a scratch on Noel’s skin.
Mondoun began to chant, his voice rising and lowering rhythmically until Mondoun himself looked in a trance. Mondoun scooped up a yellow powder that smelled bitter and began to draw a vèvè on Noel’s chest.
Noel tried breathing harder, hoping the rapid rise and fall of his chest would cause the bocor to make a mistake. He failed.
He tried lifting his head and blowing at the powder to spoil the intricate design. That didn’t work either.
The hissing noises returned, surrounding him. He felt talons dig into the flesh of his arms, yet he saw nothing but Mondoun working over him. His heart pounded like it was going to shake itself apart. In his mind appeared the image of the LOC, growing more and more vivid. The LOC in his vision was activated so that its clear sides revealed the colorful pulses of its fiber-optic circuitry.
Around him the smoke curled and formed, swirling in a myriad of ghostly shapes until it began to resemble the LOC. Suspended on the wraith tendrils of the smoke, the LOC looked more and more real, as though if he lifted his hand he could pluck it from the air.
The last of Noel’s resistance crumbled before that image. He longed for it with an intensity that hurt. Although he knew the LOC was damaged beyond repair, although he’d accepted the fact that it could no longer take him home to his own time, nevertheless he needed it for hope, for the courage to go on.
Around him rose shrieks and wails. Mondoun’ s voice cracked with exhaustion, and abruptly the chanting stopped.
The orange-red light had faded to a muted flicker. The cave smelled of sweat and mice. The heat diminished, and the cooler air made Noel shiver. He realized with a start that he could move.
He shoved himself up onto one elbow and paused as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Putting his hand to his forehead, he slowly sat on up.
Beside him, Mondoun pulled off the ridiculous hat and wig. He stared at Noel.
“Take it,” Mondoun said. His voice was a whisper of its former resonance. He looked drained, yet triumphant. “It must be your hand that takes it.”
Noel looked up and saw the hallucination was still spinning in front of him. The LOC, not activated but clearly visible, still floated on a finger of smoke. Noel blinked and rubbed his aching eyes.
“Take it!” Mondoun rasped.
Noel reached out, expecting to see his fingers pass through the vision. Instead they clutched the smooth, cool surface of the LOC. Disbelieving, he grabbed it.
It rested on his palm, real, there.
He touched it with his fingertip, prodding it.
It was real.
He grinned. He laughed aloud. “I don’t believe this! How did you—Never mind. I don’t care. I thought this thing was gone for good.”
“Bring it to life,” Mondoun said wearily.
“Yeah, I guess I should check it out. The salt water might have damaged it. It’s sealed to a depth of one hundred meters, but there’s no telling how far it sank.”
Even as he fitted it on, Noel’s mind was still reeling with amazement at Mondoun’s mastery of that much telekinetic energy. Noel wasn’t supposed to activate the LOC in front of anyone, but right now he didn’t care.
“LOC,” he said, his voice unsteady and eager. “Activate.”
For a moment nothing happened.
“LOC!” he said sharply. “Activate.”
Warmth ran through the bracelet encircling his wrist, warmth like a kiss from an old friend. The LOC hummed to life and flashed on, its circuitry pulsing steadily.
“Working,” it replied tonelessly.
Noel laughed, feeling his eyes turn misty. He was so relieved to hear LOC’s voice. “Run diagnostic checks. Any water damage?”
“Negative.”
He grinned. “I guess you’re not such a piece of junk after all.”
“Affirmative.”
“Run a scan of date and location. We’re in 1697, location Caribbean. Specify the history of a ship called the Plentitude. Her captain was named Miller. What happened to her crew?”
As he asked the question, Noel’s gaze shifted to Mondoun. The man was sitting down, still breathing heavily. It was a good time to make a break, but Noel was no longer afraid.
“…working,” said the LOC. “Plentitude…merchant ship under English registry. Tonnage…”
“Stop. Skip those statistics. Continue.”
The LOC hummed, then resumed. “Foundered in storm. Went down with all hands on June sixteenth, 1697.”
“Today is the fifteenth,” said Noel. “June fifteenth, 1697.”
Noel whistled soundlessly to himself. From the corner of his eye he saw Mondoun watching, listening.
Noel swallowed. “Any survivors?”
“Affirmative.”
“Who? Come on!”
“Records are incomplete.”
“Is this data within your damaged lobes?”
“Negative.”
“Continue. Specify as many survivors as you can.”
“Two passengers.”
Noel’s mind flashed to Lady Pamela.
The LOC pulsed steadily. “Lady Mounteigh, wife of the governor of Jamaica.”
“And Lady Pamela Davenport,” Noel added.
The LOC was silent for a moment. “Unknown.”
Noel frowned. “What do you mean, unknown?”
“Records are incomplete.”
“Was the other survivor Neddie or Edward Mountleigh?”
“Unknown. I scan an Edwin Sinclair, later Lord Mountleigh. He died of smallpox in 1724.”
Noel stopped paying attention. He was thinking of beautiful, fiery Lady Pamela drowned. That wasn’t fair, wasn’t right.
The LOC droned on: “Mountleigh estates in England and Jamaica were entailed. Edwin Sinclair was the last male heir of the family. After his death, the lands reverted to the Crown—”
“Stop,” Noel said. “He dies later on? In 1724? Leaving no heirs?”
“Affirmative.”
“Then it wouldn’t matter if he died now,” Noel mused. “That wouldn’t affect history. Say if the storm hits tomorrow and I have to choose between rescuing Lady Pamela or the boy, then there’s no problem. What about Lady Pamela’s future? Does she turn up later on?”
“Unknown. Records are incomplete.”
“It is the gods who decide if one lives or dies,” Mondoun said.
Noel ignored him. “Who else survives?”
“Four slaves,” the LOC answered. “One of whom is a young boy named Kona Masi. Later, he is known as Jonah Pontrain. He leads a slave uprising on Barbados—”
“Stop,” Noel said. He glanced nervously at Mondoun. He didn’t think it was a good idea for the man to hear more.
In the dim glow of light, shadows filled the cave, crowding closer. They were especially dark near the bocor as though more than shadows crouched beside him. He sat motionless and slumped, only his eyes moving as he listened to Noel and the LOC talking. There was something unnatural to Mondoun’s stillness, yet the cave seemed filled with energy and movement on a subconscious level.
Half-seen, half-felt—it sent a prickle of awareness crawling across Noel’s scalp.
Noel stood up, staggered for his balance, and started toward the exit.
Mondoun uncoiled from his slumped position, arching his back. He stretched out his long black arms and hissed like a cobra.
White light flashed in Noel’s face, blinding him and driving him backward. He stumbled and had to crouch to keep from falling. His eyes watered and stung, and once he was able to open them again purple splotches marred his vision.
“You have not permission to go,” Mondoun said. “If you insult the gods again, even I cannot protect you.”
Resentfully Noel turned to face him. “Look, I’m glad to have my LOC back, but don’t expect thanks. I don’t know why you—”
“You command a thing of power,” Mondoun said as though he had not spoken. “And now I command you.”
“No way! You—”
“Silence!” Mondoun roared loudly enough to make the cave shake. “Silence before I make gris-gris of you!”
“Gris-gris,” said the LOC’s toneless voice. “An amulet or incantation used by people who practice the rites of ancient African religions. Similar to the grigri amulet of Bulanda. Cross-indexed to topic heading voodoo, from the Louisiana French word voudou, and the African vo’du’, its origins are linked to a tutelary deity or—”
“Stop,” Noel said, shaken. The LOC was programmed to respond to his voice commands only. It was not supposed to volunteer information. Yet it had just violated both of those parameters. “Run diagnostics—”
“No! No more commands to the demon LOC unless I bid it,” Mondoun said. He stood up, seemingly having recovered his strength and energy.
Noel also rose to his feet and faced the taller man. “The LOC is mine. It’s not yours to command. It’s not yours to use.”
Mondoun’s dark eyes filled with rage.
Hastily Noel looked away, refusing to be caught in yet another hypnotic spell. “LOC!” he yelled. “Activate electromagnetic damping field and repel all energy forms on your sensory waves.”
He didn’t know if the LOC could hold off demons or whatever energy forms were swooping around in here. He didn’t know if it would protect him from another of Mondoun’s spells. Just the notion of a computer being affected by magic was illogical enough to make his head spin. Noel tried to remind himself that he was a modern man, too advanced to even believe in magic. But while the LOC pulsed rapidly and an eerie blue light spread through the cave, Noel turned his back on Mondoun and plunged outside, running as fast as his feet would carry him.
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