Ritual

by Graham Masterton

  20

  Charlie was awakened by a bony hand shaking his shoulder. Involuntarily, he shouted in fright, and sat up so fast that he knocked heads with Eric Broussard, who was leaning over him. Eric Broussard said, ‘Shit, Charlie, that hurt.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Charlie asked him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not too sure,’ said Eric, in the darkness, ‘but there’s a vehicle parked in the cypress grove, about two hundred feet off to the east. I heard it coming. Your ears acquire a sensitivity for things like that. But it didn’t come right up to the house, like you’d expect. It parked in the trees and now it’s just waiting.’

  Charlie switched on the light. Eric Broussard was wearing a wonderfully ancient pair of red-flannel longjohns, and big, old, frayed carpet slippers. Eric said, ‘If it’s the po-lice, I don’t want no shooting.’

  Charlie climbed out of bed. In doing so, he allowed Robyn to roll into the dip in the middle of the mattress, and that woke her up. She blinked and stared at them and said, ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Five o’clock,’ Eric told her.

  Charlie went to the window and drew back the blind, but it was too dark outside for him to be able to make out anything. All he could see was his own face, as pale as a ghost floating in the night. ‘If it’s the police, or the FBI, it seems pretty weird that they should park in the trees like that. They know I’m not armed.’

  ‘Who else could it be?’ asked Eric.

  ‘Célèstines?’ Robyn suggested.

  Charlie dressed himself. ‘The only way to find out for sure is to go out there and see for ourselves.’

  ‘Charlie,’ said Robyn, ‘they’ll kill you.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think they meant to kill us the last time.’

  ‘They shot holes in our car and they didn’t mean to kill us?’

  Eric stood up. His belly hung slack in his longjohns like a giant canned tomato. ‘I can think of a better way. Let me send my dog Gumbo, he’ll roust them out. He’s half Doberman, half German shepherd, and half bird-dog.’

  ‘That’s a dog and a half,’ Charlie remarked.

  ‘Sure it is, and that’s what Gumbo is, a dog and a half.’

  Charlie said to Robyn, ‘You’d better get dressed. If the Célèstines are really here, we may be in for some trouble.’

  Eric went off to find himself a yellow plaid shirt and some bleached-out blue denim overalls, while Robyn dressed in the same skirt and blouse that she had been wearing this morning. She had washed the blouse and it was still slightly damp. ‘What are you going to do if it is them?’ she asked.

  Charlie shrugged. ‘Try to give them the slip, I guess. Maybe Eric knows another way out of here.’

  ‘There can’t be another way,’ said Robyn. ‘The house backs right on to the bayou.’

  Charlie gave her a wry smile. ‘What kind of a swimmer are you?’

  Just then, Eric came in to tell them that he was ready to let Gumbo off the leash. They all went downstairs, keeping the lights off, feeling their way across the kitchen to the back door. Eric unlocked it, and opened it up as quietly as he could, and stuck his head out to listen to the sounds of the night. Charlie whispered, ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing; but there’s somebody there. I can feel it in my bones.’

  ‘Where do you keep your dog?’

  ‘He’s around the side, in his doghouse. Come on, Charlie, you follow me. Miss – you stay here. Keep the door locked. Don’t open it to nobody, only to us. But when it is us, you make sure you open it real quick.’

  Robyn gripped hold of Charlie’s sleeve in the darkness. ‘For God’s sake, Charlie, be careful.’

  ‘You can count on it,’ Charlie told her.

  He and Eric stepped out on to the verandah and Robyn turned the key in the lock behind them. Dawn was not far off. All along the banks of the bayou, the trees and the bushes seethed in agitation, and Charlie wondered how Eric could distinguish any kind of noise amidst it all, but when they reached the top of the steps Eric stopped for a moment, listening, and then said, ‘Come on. It’s okay for now.’

  Keeping close together they skirted the northern side of the house until they came to a ramshackle collection of outhouses and derelict chicken coops. Gumbo, the dog and a half, growled deep in the back of his throat as they approached, and his tail started to lash against the planks of his doghouse. Charlie had never seen a doghouse built like this before. It was more like a miniature fort. Eric unfastened the padlock that held the doghouse door, and Gumbo launched himself at them like a jet-black, bristling drag racer. Charlie instinctively jumped back, but Gumbo was chained up and, with a jingling of solid steel links, he was arrested only a foot away from Charlie’s ankles. He snarled and slavered and twisted, but Eric let out a sharp whistle between his teeth and said, ‘You mind your etiquette, Gumbo, this is a houseguest,’ and the dog quietened down a little, and allowed Eric to approach him, although Charlie still felt uncertain about his lolling tongue and hungry panting, and decided to keep well back. ‘Now, you stay polite, boy,’ Eric kept soothing Gumbo. ‘You stay polite and keep your fangs to yourself.’

  Eric caught hold of the dog’s chain and released it. Then, with the dog leaning away from him as if it were being pulled by a giant magnet, its breath scraping in its half-strangulated throat, he led it across the yard toward the edge of the fields. ‘You see them trees,’ Eric told Charlie, indicating the dark, sad spires of the cypresses. ‘That’s where they’re at. I heard them drive off the track and across to them trees and they haven’t stirred since. But old Gumbo’ll roust them, won’t you, Gumbo? Gumbo’s the best rouster that ever was. Chickens, rats, turtles, catfish, gars. He’d roust anything on land or water, would Gumbo – wouldn’t you, Gumbo?’

  As if he had been given his cue by an off-stage prompter, Gumbo said grrooowwrrrr and scrabbled at the grass with his claws.

  Eric knelt down and let Gumbo off his chain. ‘Go fetch them, Gumbo. You go fetch them.’ Gumbo dashed off madly towards the left, abruptly stopped, and then barked loudly and tore off toward the cypress grove. They saw him running like the shadow of a passing storm cloud across the grass, and then he had disappeared into the darkness. Eric slowly stood up, and placed his hands on his hips and listened.

  ‘That’s some dog,’ said Charlie, mainly because he was nervous.

  ‘That’s a dog and a half,’ Eric agreed. Charlie liked to hear him say it, because of his Cajun pronunciation of hay-uff.

  They waited. The wind blew through the trees, making the cypresses bow and curtsey like dancers at a midnight ball. Eric sniffed but kept his hands on his hips and said nothing. Charlie surreptitiously checked his watch. He didn’t like to say that, for the best rouster that ever was, Gumbo was taking his own sweet time about rousting. It was quite clear that Eric worshipped his dog and a half; and Charlie would no more have thought about criticizing Eric’s wife, if she had still been alive.

  After about five minutes, Eric placed his finger and thumb in his mouth and let loose a sharp, ear-splitting whistle. ‘Dog’s taking too darn long,’ he said, by way of explanation.

  Charlie strained his eyes to penetrate the pre-dawn darkness. ‘Give the poor fellow a chance.’

  ‘Fellow?’ said Eric. ‘That ain’t no fellow. That’s my dog.’ And to prove the point, he let out another piercing whistle.

  The wind blew and the night began to lighten a little, a faint grey light that outlined the world without colouring it. Eric hummed ‘Les Blues du Voyager’ and Charlie could tell that he was worried now. ‘Maybe that dog forgot to stop running,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe there’s nothing in those woods to roust,’ suggested Charlie.

  ‘Oh, I heard them all right.’

  Charlie said, ‘Do you want to go take a look?’

  Eric was silent for a long while. Then he said, ‘I don’t know... this ain’t like Gumbo one bit. That dog’s the best rouster that ever was.’

  Charlie peered into
the gloom. He was sure that he could see something move, over to the left of the trees. Something small, and pale, like a child running through the long grass. He took hold of Eric’s arm and said, ‘Look – do you see that?’

  Eric looked, with his glasses and without them, but in the end he shook his head. ‘I guess I could use a new pair. I haven’t had my eyesight tested since Nancy went. I guess I haven’t been looking after myself too well in lots of ways.’

  Charlie said, ‘Come on. Let’s take a look for ourselves. It’s the only thing we can do.’

  He began to walk toward the cypress trees, and Eric reluctantly followed behind him. They were almost halfway there, however, when Eric said, ‘Ssh – listen! I heard something! That’s Gumbo, I swear it!’

  Charlie listened but all he could hear was the wind. Eric said, ‘He’s mewling or something, like he’s been hurt.’

  Without any further hesitation, Eric began to run stiffly across the field, his long arms and legs waving like a semaphore. Charlie called, ‘Eric, for Christ’s sake be careful!’ but Eric had heard his dog calling and that was all he cared about. Charlie had no choice but to go running after him. He glanced behind him only once, just to make sure that the house was still deserted and unlit, apart from the single lamp that he had switched on in their upstairs bedroom.

  ‘Eric!’ Charlie shouted. He didn’t care if there was anybody there to hear him. If there was, they would have seen them and heard them by now in any event.

  He had almost caught up with Eric when they saw a huge ball of orange fire suddenly ignite in the shadow of the trees. The flare up was immediately followed by a high stomach-lurching scream – a scream that sounded human at first – but which was even more horrifying to Charlie when he realized that it wasn’t.

  The fireball came rushing towards them through the grass, zigzagging as it came, and it was shrieking unbearably – high and harsh and agonized, like somebody dragging their fingernails down a dry chalkboard. Charlie and Eric stopped where they were, both of them, and stared at the running, tumbling flames in helpless fright. They knew what it was but they couldn’t bring themselves to believe it. It was Gumbo, and he was ablaze from head to tail, and screaming in agony as he ran.

  ‘Watch out!’ Charlie told Eric. ‘He’s coming straight for you! He wants you!’

  Gumbo ran burning through the grass and the fire that engulfed him rippled like a cloak. Eric was paralysed for a second, but then he turned and began to stumble away. Gumbo in his death agony was running for the one person he could trust; the one person who had always protected him and fed him and kept him from harm.

  Eric tried to escape, but Gumbo was too fast for him. Gumbo was driven by the pain so intense that he was running faster that he had ever run in his whole canine life, faster than he had ever chased chickens or catfish. He passed within two feet of Charlie and Charlie felt the heat of his blazing fur, and smelled gasoline and burning flesh.

  Eric tripped, and cried out, and fell to his knees. Gumbo leaped on top of him, still screeching, still blazing, like a dog from hell. Eric rolled over and over trying to beat him off, but Gumbo’s flesh and fur came off in burning chunks, and seemed to stick like napalm to Eric’s clothes. Eric yelled out hoarsely for help. ‘Charlie! Charlie! For God’s sake, Charlie! He’s killing me!’

  Charlie ran through the grass and kicked Gumbo hard in the side. The dog rolled off his master with a roar of flames, then rolled over again and lay quivering on his back, only barely alive, his blackened paws drawn up like spider’s legs. Charlie tugged off his coat and covered up Eric’s shoulders and chest with it, and brushed the smouldering dog fur away from his face. He glanced at Gumbo but the dog must surely have been dead now. The flames had died down, and all that Charlie could hear was the crackling of his fire-shrunken tissues.

  ‘Eric, are you okay?’ Charlie asked him.

  Eric shook his head. ‘He’s hurt me bad, Charlie.’

  ‘Come on, Eric, I’ll call for the ambulance. You’ll be okay.’

  ‘It’s not the burns, Charlie. The burns hurt but the burns ain’t nothing.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Charlie demanded. ‘If you let me call the ambulance right now, we can have you in hospital in fifteen minutes.

  ‘Don’t,’ Eric whispered. In the growing light of the morning, Charlie could see how grey his face had become. ‘I don’t want to die in no hospital. I want to die here, by the Normand Bayou.’

  ‘Eric, you’ve been burned, but only superficially. You’re not going to die.’

  Eric cleared his throat, and looked up at Charlie with an odd smile. ‘It’s my heart, Charlie, it’s been giving up on me for years. I had a bad attack last year, the doctor said I was lucky as all hell to be still alive. I’m going, Charlie. I can feel it closing in. Old man death, creeping in. Old Baron Samedi, that’s what my mother used to call him.’

  ‘Eric, I’m not going to let you die in some field,’ Charlie protested. He squeezed the old black man’s hand very tight.

  ‘Well, you don’t understand, this isn’t no ordinary field, this is the field where I lived, me and my Nancy. This is the field where we danced, and delighted ourselves. So, this is a good field to die in, if you’re talking about dying in a field.’

  Charlie said, ‘Somebody set fire to Gumbo on purpose.’

  ‘Them Célèstines.’ Eric nodded. ‘They’re out there now, you take my word for it. They came after you, didn’t they, even though you thought you was clean away?’

  ‘Eric, what can I say? If it hadn’t have been for us, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  Eric laid his head back in the scorched grass, and let his eyelids droop a little as if he were tired. ‘Every man has to go some time, Charlie, and none of us chooses the way. It wasn’t your fault. My heart was ready to take me at any time. I could of been brushing my teeth, I could of been dancing. I just thank the Lord that it wasn’t in bed, when I was asleep, because then I wouldn’t have known nothing about it.’

  Charlie said, ‘Do you think you can make it back to the house, if I carry you?’

  Eric shook his head again. ‘Don’t move me, Charlie. I want to stay here. I want to see the sun rise, if I can.’ He grunted, and then he smiled and said. ‘It’s a funny thing, that yours should be the last human face I ever see. My father ain’t going to be too pleased with me, when I get up to heaven. He sent the doctor out of the room when he was dying. He said he didn’t want no white ghost faces looking at him when he died.’

  ‘I have to move you,’ Charlie insisted.

  ‘Don’t you dare try. Those people who burned my dog are out there somewhere and believe me they want to do the same to you, or worse. The best thing that you can do is get the hell out of here, you and your lady friend, and not come back. There’s a skiff down by the landing. You can row south-westwards from here, if you keep the sun off’n the right side of your back all morning, and off’n the left side of your chest all afternoon, you shouldn’t get lost.’

  ‘Eric, you’re coming with us,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No,’ said Eric. ‘Leave me here, Charlie, and leave me now. I’ll only slow you down.’

  Charlie stood up. He looked towards the cypress grove, following the zig zag path of scorched grass which Gumbo had left behind him as he chased after his master. It was light enough now for him to be able to see the quick glint of chrome from an automobile bumper, and the small pale flicker of a hooded child.

  They had sent David the dwarf after him. Now he knew for certain that the Célèstines meant business. They were determined to catch him, and they were probably determined to kill him, too. He bent forward to give Eric’s hand one last squeeze, and then he began to jog towards the house. He had no intention of leaving Eric out in the field unattended, but with the Célèstines closing in on them, he figured that the best idea would be to call for an ambulance as quickly as he could.

  He ran up the verandah steps and knocked at the kitchen door. The curtain was t
ugged back and he saw Robyn’s frightened face. ‘It’s okay, it’s me. Let me in.’

  She frantically unlocked the door. ‘Where’s Eric? What’s happened?’

  ‘Eric’s been hurt. The Célèstines are here. I have to call an ambulance.’

  ‘Oh, my God! What are we going to do?’

  Charlie picked up Eric’s old-fashioned telephone and dialled for the operator. While he waited for an answer, he told Robyn about the skiff moored on Eric’s jetty. ‘We won’t stand a chance if we try to get out by road. They’ve probably got the track blocked back by the highway.’

  ‘Do you know how to row?’ Robyn asked him, aghast.

  ‘It’s easy, it’s like anything else. You can pick it up as you go along.’

  Robyn watched him, biting his lip, as he talked to the operator. ‘Listen––there’s been an accident out at Eric Broussard’s place, on the Normand Bayou. Eric’s suffered a heart attack. He’s in the field about seventy feet to the east of his house. I offered to move him into the house but he didn’t want me to touch him. Can you make sure an ambulance gets here quick... You don’t have to worry about my name. I’m just passing through. All right, then, yes. I surely will. Thank you.’

  Charlie hung up the telephone and said, ‘That’s the best I can do. Right now, you and I have to get out of here.’

  They went upstairs to gather up the few possessions they had left there, including the Célèstines’ Bible. Then Charlie went all around the house, peering out of the windows, to see if there were any signs of an ambush. ‘It looks quiet,’ he said, as he let the parlour drapes fall back. ‘Maybe they’ve decided that we’re too scared to come out again.’

  They opened the kitchen door, and Charlie leaned this way and that to make sure that the verandah was deserted. He listened – but, like before, his untrained ear could hear nothing at all but the wind and the rattling of dry leaves across the yard.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I guess it’s now or never.’