KEEP OUT!
There were also obeah fetishes, feathers and bone-another form of warning.
It was 7:40 p.m.
Montbard touched his walking stick to the fence, then used the back of his hand-it wasn’t electrified. “I didn’t have a problem getting over the other night,” he said, voice low, “but that was the opposite side of the peak where there’s a footpath. Never hurts to double-check.”
I was leaning against a tree, pissing, as he added, “I wasn’t joking about nearly being eaten, by the way.”
I said, “You mentioned the dogs.”
“Hounds, I’d call them. Real monsters. They were nipping at my bloody heels as I vaulted the fence-a damned narrow squeak. I ripped a good pair of trousers. Found out later the woman’s staff keeps Brazilian mastiffs. Do you know the breed?”
I said, “No, but if they’re anything like the dog that chased me last night, I think we can deal with it.”
“I wish I could pretend they’re the same, but these are very different animals, indeed.”
Brazilian mastiffs, he said, were a mix of bull mastiffs, bloodhounds, and South American jaguar hounds. They had the size and strength to lock on to a steer’s nose and drag it to the ground.
“I did a bit of research afterward, and was almost sorry I did. Adult males stand seven feet tall on their hind legs-only weigh eight stone, but pure muscle, with the temperament of snakes. At pedigree shows, the beasts are disqualified if they don’t try to attack the blasted judge.”
I was calculating in my head. “A little over a hundred pounds?”
“That’s right. There aren’t many of them in the world-good thing, too.”
I zipped and turned. “Then why are we doing this? I don’t want to have to kill a dog for doing its job. I also don’t want to be mauled.”
Sir James said, “We should be all right. Last time I tried this, it was three in the morning. Since then, I’ve pieced together the retreat’s schedule. It’s strictly forbidden for guests to exit the monastery walls after eleven. And someone who should know told me the forest is dangerous only after midnight. In other words-” He held his Rolex to his eye. “-we have a window of three to four hours before they lock the doors and loose the dogs.”
The man was facing the fence, standing on tiptoes and using the walking stick to lower his backpack as I asked, “The person you spoke with- I assume he works at the retreat.”
“No. Too risky, don’t you think, tipping your hand by chatting up the hired help?”
“Was it Lucien?” Montbard had introduced me to the old man that afternoon. We’d listened to him talk about obeah.
“No. Lucien hasn’t been to the monastery in years. You heard himhe’s terrified of the place. The man who gave me the information-” Montbard paused, hands on the top of the fence. “-is a beggar. Talked to him last week. One of those poor chaps I see too often on Saint Arc. No legs, missing an eye, so he scoots around on a mechanic’s dolly. From the looks of him, he doesn’t have many days left. Too bad. Very nice chap, but broken, of course.”
Montbard climbed the fence, dropped to the other side, then continued, whispering.
“The fellow made extra money poaching orchids near the monastery, but stayed too late one night. Dogs caught him. Of course, he claimed that obeah devils attacked him-there’s cachet in that. But we’re having none of that nonsense. It’s all about timing, you see?”
I asked, “Did the man hunt orchids on weekends?” Today was Monday, four days until Shay’s deadline.
“What in blazes does it matter?”
“Weekend schedules and weekday schedules vary. Maybe they let the dogs out earlier on weekdays.”
“Didn’t think to ask-and it’s too late now. I heard the poor sot was taken off to the hospital. But we can’t expect to have every t crossed and every i dotted in our trade, now can we?” Montbard shouldered his backpack, then retrieved his walking stick. “Right. Over you go, Ford. You’re the new La’Ja’bless, according to Lucien. The hounds won’t bother a fellow demon.”
Lah-zjay-blass, the old man had pronounced it. He’d said the word with a reverence that was becoming familiar, and softly as if he were afraid the trees would overhear.
"The creature, he attack three mens jes last night over to Saint Arc,” Lucien had told us, delighted to have news to share with visitors. “The creature, he hurt one fella purty bad. It because that fella were disrespectful, and speak a profanity regarding the spirits. But all them men’s lucky, in my opinion, ’cause the La’Ja’bless got the power to do much worse than break a fella’s ribs.”
I didn’t make the connection until I noticed Sir James looking at me, waiting to confirm the significance with a slight smile.
“Three local men, Lucien?”
“That right. Boy who bring me my coffee, he tol’ me this mornin’. He down to the wharf and hear the fishermens talkin’. The La’Ja’bless, he quick to punish. But that fella very fortunate he only in hospital, not the grave.”
The La’Ja’bless was a night creature that could assume different forms. Sometimes he was a wolf or a cat-“If those things cross the road in front of you at night, it the creature, an’ you smart to run, man!”
More often, though, the La’Ja’bless was half man, half horse… or a faceless man dressed in black.
“Las’ night, the creature be a man-all black but for the eye in the center part his head. It a green eye that burn like fire, the fishermens sayin’. That fella in hospital? He never be disrespectful again, that much I know!”
We had stood in the shade of a tamarind tree, listening to Lucien tell his stories while chickens scratched in a neighbor’s garden. There was a scarecrow made of sticks and a calabash gourd, a faded red scarf over its face, like a bandit.
Lucien, I discovered, was father of the subdued man who’d served our breakfast, Rafick. It was Rafick who drove us to the old man’s cottage on the outskirts of Soufrier and encouraged him to talk freely in front of Senegal, a woman, and me, a stranger.
Before Sir James asked the first question, though, Rafick was gone- a true believer who’d done his duty, but who wanted no part in discussing obeah.
Senegal appeared surprised that I jotted key words in my notebook as the old man talked.
Gaje: Practitioner of witchcraft
Zanbi (Zombie?): Creature who rises from grave to do evil
Dragon Tooth: Volcano
Anansi Noir: Black spider whose supernatural power is equal to a snake’s
Bolonm: Tiny person, born from a chicken’s egg, who eats flesh
Maji Noir: Male spirit who roams the night, preying on women walking alone
Maji Blanc: Female spirit who appears as a beautiful woman dressed in white and has sex with men who are asleep or drunk. Uses her fingernails on their backs and genitals as her calling card
Flirting, Lucien had said to Senegal, “You would make a mos’ lovely Maji Blanc. Not a evil spirit, a’course, but the pleasuring type. Why you not allow this gen’lman buy you a pretty white dress, ’stead of wearin’ them pants?”
Senegal let him see she was flattered, even though the subject made her uncomfortable. “I’d rather have a white dress from you, Lucien. I’ll come back and model it.”
“Oh my, I like that! The Maji Blanc visit me several times when I were a young man. What you think my wife do when she see them scratches? She take garlic and rub it. Garlic burn when you been scratched by the Maji Blanc, tha’s how you know it was a spirit woman.”
The old man tilted his head skyward and laughed, showing freckles on his cinnamon skin, and eyes that were milky blue. “I tell you true now-sometimes the garlic don’t burn so bad, but I yell like fire, anyway!”
He stopped laughing when Montbard asked about the monastery on Piton Lolo.
“That a dragon tooth long ’go. It stick out the ocean so high it snag clouds. That why it a dark place where the wind got a chill, and it have washerwoman rain all the time. It a fine spot for orchids, but it bad
for peoples.
“In back times, it were a godly place for monks. But them monks all die sudden of fever. By the time they found, the birds been feedin’ and carried they spirits away. Left nothing but they robes.
“The robes still up there to this day! I tell you ’cause I know it true. One night, I seen it with me own eyes, them empty robes comin’ down the mountain, candles for faces. Trottin’ alongside was a wild pack of mal vu chien. Them animals glowed, so I knew they was demons. .. on fire with bawe yo.”
I wrote in my notebook:
Mal vu chien: Demon dogs; hounds from hell
“Any wonder the islanders stay away from the monastery?” Sir James had said as we drove away. “Madame Toussaint takes pains to ensure her privacy.”
He wasn’t talking only about the mythical dogs. According to Lucien, worse things awaited people who ventured onto the mountain at night.
“Some say the real Maji Blanc live up there now,” Lucien had told us, “but I seen that Madame Toussaint. She were wearin’ black, not white. I think she invented that tale, make peoples think she become beautiful at midnight. But I feel she a vitch, you ask my opinion. Obayifo, or a sukkoy-uan, that what we old people calls her.”
A vitch, the old man explained, had the power to quit their bodies and travel great distances in the night, and could be identified by a foul odor and a phosphorescent light visible in the hair, armpits, and anus. A thirsty vitch sucked the sap and juices from crops, but their real power came from human victims.
My notebook:
Sukkoy-uan or obayifo: Vampire witch who drinks blood to stay young
22
Sir James WHISPERED, “Males on one side, females on the other. Senegal will be very pleased by that. I think you make her nervous, Ford.”
I said, “She doesn’t strike me as the nervous type.”
“Not just you, old boy, don’t take it personally. It applies to most men, which is why I’m surprised she was lured into this fix. Interesting, your theory about victims being drugged. Do those people look as if they’ve been drugged to you?”
We were positioned in a clearing looking down on the monastery, where there was a quadrangle with miniature spires at the four corners, tile-roofed buildings within, and a cemetery on the seaward side. Torches added medieval light.
Within the walls, eleven people sat on mats, facing a fire, meditating or doing yoga, men on one side, women on the other. A few wore monks’ robes with hoods and rope belts. Others wore jogging suits or leotards, or white surgical scrubs as baggy as robes. Japanese flute and the sound of chanting drifted upward on incense.
I whispered, “You mean drugged with MDA?”
“The love potion you mentioned. Whatever it was they slipped Senny.”
I said, “No. I think they’d have the robes off by now, hugging, talking loud, laughing-something.”
Sir James said, “Quite,” and pressed binoculars to his eyes again. After several seconds, he said, “Why eleven? Five men, six women. If they accept only couples, shouldn’t it be an even number?”
I had called the Hooded Orchid earlier and confirmed that Marion W. North and friend did have reservations starting tomorrow. In Montbard’s mind, for some reason, that made me an expert.
I said, “They make exceptions, I guess. Or maybe the couples were given a choice: do meditation here, or hang out at the pool bar next door.”
Montbard swung the binoculars toward the lodge. “That makes sense. Looks a bit more interesting over there among the heathens-often the case in my travels. Folks are chatting, not chanting, at least. More like a cocktail party than this dreary business.”
He was looking to the west, where the retreat’s modern facilities were layered into the mountain with elevated walkways, subdued lighting, a four-lane lap pool and dip pools glowing blue beneath the rental suites. There were three white vans in the tiny parking lot, only a couple of cars.
Sir James had told me the road up the mountain was a private one-lane, with two security checkpoints on the hour drive to the top. The maximum number of guests was less than thirty, and most arrived via helicopter from Saint Lucia’s Hewanorra Airport. Because of repeat clientele, there was no need for the lodge to advertise. Judging from the scarcity of articles, it also did not offer journalists a free stay in exchange for stories.
Montbard did find a piece on international spas in a magazine that mentioned the place. He’d shared the clip.
HOODED ORCHID RETREAT AND SPA, ISLAND, EASTERN CARIBBEAN
Called simply the “Orchid” by its devotees, and named for a rare wild orchid that grows on the island, this spa claims to offer “rare elixirs” made from local fruits and herbs, as well as purifying ceremonies that slow the aging process and rechannel libido.
Incorporating the ruins of a French Cistercian monastery, spa operators make up for limited amenities by maintaining the monastic spirit. The operation caters to “betrothed or wedded couples.” Even so, guests are assigned separate quarters and are expected to remain celibate during their stay, while following a strict schedule that includes exercise, meditation, and “purification.”
Here, sex is considered toxic, and sin is taboo-but money still counts for something at this cultish retreat. Despite a three-star rating, the Orchid is a favorite dry-out spot for bad-boy rockers, royalty, and Hollywood film stars, whether they are “betrothed” or arrive alone. But don’t rush to make plane reservations. “We are not actively seeking new clientele,” a spa spokesperson said.
Along with the article, Sir James had made a detailed map of the area by printing a satellite photo onto sketch paper, then labeling it. He’d also created a rough diagram of the monastery’s layout.
He took out the diagram now and compared what he saw with what he’d drawn.
“Not bad for guesswork,” he told me as I looked over his shoulder. “Got most of it right.”
I said, “There was no data available?”
“Very little. But I suspected the design was similar to a template created by the Knights Templar. The Templars were warrior monks. They returned from the Crusades with drawings of Solomon’s Temple. See here-” He touched a finger to the diagram. “-here’s the portico that borders the courtyard, then the second courtyard where those dreary people are chanting. The roofed walkway… the cloister. The doors leading off the portico are dormitories where the monks slept. It’s all joined by arcades and passageways.”
I said, “Passageways?”
“When Mother Church was burning her critics at the stake, underground tunnels were a sensible addition. You’ve spent time in Central America. Supposedly, they’re a fixture in the old churches there.”
A tunnel dug during the Inquisition had once saved my life. I said, “I’ve heard rumors. How do you know all this?”
He began to toy with the Masonic ring on his right hand: skull and crossbones; squares and dividers. “I belong to a sort of fraternity that studies the subject. If I told you how many years the group’s been collecting information, you wouldn’t believe me.”
I said, “You’re a Freemason. I noticed your ring last night.”
“I’m surprised you made the connection. Very few associate the Masons with this symbol.” He held the ring toward me even though it was too dark to decipher detail. “The Knights Templar were the original pirates of the Caribbean. Their ships flew the skull and bones long before Hollywood got the idea. When we get back to Saint Lucia, I’ll give you an article to read.”
He hesitated before asking carefully, “You mentioned that you’re a traveling man. Are you?”
Strange question. I said, “Of course.”
The man suspected I was confused, but he wanted to confirm it. “You’re here for the sake of the widow’s son? You came from the east, traveling west.”
Stranger questions. I realized I was being tested. I had the feeling that I would’ve become the man’s instant confidant if I had provided the correct responses. But there could be no faking it.
<
br /> It was like a shield rising into place when I replied, “No, I came from Florida, to the north. My uncle was a Freemason. A man named Tucker Gatrell. He had a ring similar to yours.”
“Tucker Gatrell-the name’s curiously familiar. Did he spend time in the Caribbean?”
“He was a tropical bum.”
Sir James said, "Yes, familiar,” interested, but it was time to move on. End of test.
The old Englishman had picked up his thread about the monastery’s layout. I listened, but was getting impatient. It was 8:30 p.m. We still had a lot to do. There was no guarantee they’d wait until midnight to let the guard dogs out on this moonless Monday night.
“See those ruins beyond the courtyard wall?” Montbard whispered. “They might be the remains of a convent, or a distillery. Monasteries from the period often made herbal liquors as a source of income. Benedictine-a good example. Chartreuse and soda-Senny’s favorite. Secret recipes hundreds of years old. But what I’m looking for is a smallish stone structure that was called the Misericord. It’s where punishment was doled out to the monks. I picture it a chamber built of slabs-Stonehenge but without spaces. A secure place, if you get my meaning.”
Secure. I understood. A place to keep valuables.
“Let’s look for it.”
“Capital idea, Ford, but first things first.” He slipped the blueprint into his backpack, then unrolled the map and used a red penlight as a pointer.
“It’s nearly twenty-one-hundred hours. I suggest the first thing we do is mark our escape routes with your infrared tape. If they set the dogs on us, we want the fastest route to the fence. It’s tempting to string a couple of trip wires along the way. Dogs might see them, but it could also save our bacon. What do you think?”
I said, “Your story about the beggar on the mechanic’s dolly has made me a believer.”
“Good.” He was into his backpack again, confirming he’d brought wire. “Now… if we are pursued by guards, my feeling is we should lay a trail that first takes us up the mountain, because they’ll expect just the opposite. How do you feel about that? Think you can manage a few hundred yards uphill, triple time, without getting knackered?”
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