Blood from my mouth drips down into the soft soil like slow motion raindrops. Before I can get upright, there’s a hard kick to my side that lifts me up and knocks the wind out of me, and I’m lying there clutching my broken ribs with my burning arms, trying to catch my breath.
But the kind of people who would bury toxic waste at a residential site are the same kind of people who kick you when you’re down. And they did, over and over, until I can’t feel any one individual pain. Everything hurts. I can barely breathe and end up heaving in the dirt with a sharp kick to my stomach.
I meet Biff’s eyes for a second while I lie there. Then I look at Travis, but he looks away. They start stomping my legs. I cry out with the first blow to my knee. It pops. It’s excruciating in a way that the other hits weren’t.
But they don’t stop. They’re not going to until they’re good and ready, and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t even catch a breath for more than moaning.
“Maybe we should stop now, Boss. I’m sure he won’t tell.” Travis sounds nervous.
“Do you want your bonus or not?” Biff snaps at him.
The blows keep coming. They’re going to kill me. My friends. Men I’ve worked with for years. Men I’ve been to the bar with dozens of times. Men I’ve barbecued with and met their families.
A throbbing numbness sets in. It’s like I’m drunk on too much tequila and all the blows are just dull thuds against my body. The pain is there, but distant. It’s getting further away as I feel heavier and heavier.
“Enough,” I hear someone say, but I’m not sure who. There’s blood in my eyes and ringing in my ears, and my body feels like it’s encased in liquid nitrogen. A burning, painful cold. But that one word is my Hail Mary. I’m going to live. And as strong as my morals are, my desire to live is stronger. To see my wife again.
“I won’t—” I cough, spitting coppery blood into the dirt, but I know I have to get the words out to save my life. “I’ll leave. I won’t say a word to anyone.” I heave in a breath. “I’ll forget I saw anything.” I’m not proud of myself, but self-preservation is a strong instinct.
Someone kneels beside me, blocking the bright light. I can’t see through the blood in my eyes, but it’s Biff, because somehow I can still smell his cologne over the blood and dirt and my broken nose.
“I know you won’t, Grady,” he murmurs.
I nod, to reinforce it. But he continues.
“I’m sorry, man. I already gave you that chance. You should have minded your own business.”
That doesn’t sound like my Hail Mary. “Wait—” I groan.
Hands roll me over, and I fall for a second before I hit hard dirt. And then more dirt hits me, on the back, as I struggle to get on my hands and knees. I try again and make it to my feet. But my body is weak, and the dirt is dense, and more keeps landing on me.
They’re burying me alive.
When it’s too heavy for me to push up onto my arms, the helplessness gets to me and I cry out in fresh despair.
I struggle to swim up and out of the soil, but it’s packing around me, trapping me. I can’t get out from under all this dirt, and it’s getting in my eyes, my nose, my mouth as I gasp for the disappearing air.
Within seconds, I’m locked into place, encased in soil, being squeezed from all sides.
Everything throbs with pain and panic. But the pain doesn’t matter. The situation doesn’t matter. The betrayal doesn’t even matter anymore. All that matters is that I already miss my wife, and this is going to hurt her so badly. I love her so much—I don’t want her to hurt.
Maisie, beautiful Maisie. Her smiling face appears before me, and I reach for her.
I have to get home to her. I have to hold her, to kiss her, to tell her I love her, and everything is going to be okay.
With the weight of the soil squeezing in on me, I reach one last time for her. But I’m out of strength, out of air.
Out of time.
Maisie.
***
Josephine
I’m wrapped in a plushy robe on the hotel bed watching television, finally warm, when the call comes again. More urgent this time. Too urgent to ignore.
But I do not want to go back out into the cold. I have been sitting in it for days, weeks, waiting to see what the spirits want of me. I have the feeling it has to do with the worker, Grady, who slips me a few dollars everyday, but I’m not sure.
And I do not wish to go out into a blizzard to find out.
But the call is persistent, tenacious. It is pulling me somewhere. And as one of the last priestesses, one of the last servants, I go where the loa call me, because there is no one else.
However, what makes me answer, more than anything else, is the tiny chance that it might have something to do with my eldest daughter.
With a sigh, I sit up and dig my wallet out of my trash bag of belongings and dial the taxi company. I would have paid for my own room, but it was clear the man wouldn’t have gone home without seeing me out of the cold. And if I’d pulled out my wallet stuffed with cash and cards, that would have prompted an inquiry into why I was posing as a homeless woman outside of a construction site.
But I am ‘homeless’ because the ruse works. I escape notice, because that’s what people expect to see, expect me to be. I am there, because that is where the spirits want me to be. To most people, that wouldn’t be an acceptable answer.
And a hotel room, even a cheap one, is better than an institution or a jail cell.
Would Grady understand? He seems to care about what happens to me, but I can’t trust that he would.
When the taxi dispatch tells me my ride will be here in ten minutes, I sigh again and look around. I’m getting too old for this. My bones ache, and it physically hurts to get up off the bed and change into my nicer clothes. I will follow the spirit’s will tonight, but I will do it warm. Out of the black trash bag, I pull a long, layered skirt, tall lined boots, a patterned tunic, and my nice coat with the fur trim.
Maybe I’ll get to go home soon. There is a tension in the air, pressure, that says this might all be over tonight. I would be thankful for that.
But where is home? Haiti, my birth home, is a place I want to leave when I am there, but want to go back to when I am away. Warm weather and warm faces. My people may have little money, but they have big love. It has a glorious but sad history, much like myself.
But I have my house here in America, a life I built, children. A small community of other immigrants like me. A mission. Yet I feel adrift and alone, with only my service to the loa and their promise to me.
Perhaps that is necessary. Maybe to be an effective sèvitè here, I mustn’t be tied down.
I finish dressing and look in the mirror as I place a fur hat on my head. There might be a few more wrinkles in my dark skin than there were a few years ago, but my eyes are still bright, my cheekbones sharp, and my lips plump.
“You are still a handsome woman, Josephine.” I smile at my reflection. If only my Claude were here to see me. But perhaps he can see me from where he is. Perhaps he is one of the spirits guiding me tonight.
That makes me feel a bit better about going back out into the weather.
Before leaving the room, I grab the big leather handbag that contains my tools, things I might need for tonight’s spiritual work. Some of the items are very old, passed down from my mother, and her mother. Both of whom were powerful mambos as well. It is like my medicine bag, and I am a doctor making a house call. Only, my patients are spiritually ill, and my medicine is mystical.
***
Josephine-1
The taxi driver is waiting for me downstairs outside the lobby. I give him the address to the construction site, and sit back in the seat, bag on my lap. It is late, the streets barren from the hour and the snowstorm. Only three vehicles pass, all going slowly and bunched together on the road.
When we get to the site, the driver puts the car in park. “This is the place?”
“Yes,” I re
ply, voice clipped. No one is out there, but something awaited me in the dark.
“Are you sure, lady?”
“I’m sure,” I open the door. “Thank you.”
“Want me to wait?”
“No, thank you,” I say, and get out, shutting the door behind me.
When I’m ready to leave, I will call a different taxi company, use a different name, and pay cash. I do not know what the nature of my work tonight will be, but I don’t want any suspicion falling on me.
He drives away slowly, and I wait on the sidewalk until his taillights disappear, then walk through the gap in the fence.
It is pitch black out here, with only a few sparse lights visible through the trees. Heavy clouds hide the moon and stars, but I walk with sure steps. I haven’t been summoned here just to break an ankle in the dark. The spirits guide my footsteps just as they guide my actions.
The inky blackness makes it easy to see, finally, why I have been called here.
“Oh, no,” I whisper, kneeling in a thin layer of snow over soft, disturbed soil.
A few pale fingers curl up out of the snow. I wouldn’t have been able to see them in the dark, except the identical fingers of his glowing soul wavered above them, a bright blue-white. I lay my hand over his cold one, heart hurting.
I know who it is, and it is obvious what had been done to him. Obvious, too, that his soul would not let go. Could not let go. Those who die unnaturally tend to linger at their graves.
Perhaps I should call the police. But no. I would likely end up in a cell, accused, before anyone tried to figure out what really happened. Guilty, until proven innocent.
And the pressure in this place means he is my work.
I help people who are at the bottom of their spiritual well, those in dire physical or emotional straights. That could take different forms. Sometimes it was unrequited love, or divorce. Financial troubles causing ruin, injustices done, or physical illness caused by mental emotional anguish. Any number of things that could cause a soul to cry out in pain.
Rarely, it was a soul with unfinished business.
“Are you sure?” I call into the night air, heart sinking. A resurrection is the last thing I want to do. There are so many ways it could go wrong, be wrong. And this place stinks of foul magic. There is something in the air, something more than a life unjustly taken, that smells of danger. There is something in the soil, something besides blood, that is bad.
Out of curiosity, I take a little empty jar out of my bag and scoop up a sample of the dirt. Perhaps it would help me discover what happened here, and why the spirits wanted me to resurrect Grady.
Grady had been kind to me, but that was not enough for me to risk this. I didn’t owe it to him just because of his basic human decency toward me. No, I would do this because the spirits were asking me to. Because of what I had asked of them, and what they had promised to me.
Selfishly, when my husband Claude died, I’d hoped his would be one of them, if only to give us a little more time together. But I’d been surprised, and a little bit hurt, when I neither saw nor felt his presence after he died. His soul had flown this earth, happy and free, in an instant. Ah, well. It meant we’d had a great life together. No regrets, no unfinished business.
Unlike this fellow here.
Grady worked hard for his money, and yet he’d been generous with it. With his time, his conversation, expecting nothing in return. Despite any flaws, he had a good soul.
In a perfect world, if you give good, you get good. But this world is far from perfect, and someone had done him a bad turn. I will do it for the spirits who asked because of what I hoped to gain. But this could not be taken lightly, or I might do major harm. Digging in my bag, I pull out a tiny bottle of liquor and a hand mirror to see into the world of the dead.
The spirits could be strange. They all had their likes and dislikes after death just as they had in life, and every priestess had to be prepared if she was going to petition any of them. If Mr. Grady had died by the hand of God instead of the hand of man, no offering I could make would be accepted. But since he had died unnaturally, there is a good chance this will work.
I hold the mirror up and turn slowly until I see who I’m looking for.
In the shadows, a figure in a top hat with a white skeletal face and a cane, and smoking an ever-burning cigar, waits to welcome Mr. Grady’s reluctant soul to the world of the dead. Baron Samedi. He is a different spirit than the ones that brought me here tonight. He doesn’t care much for the problems of mortals.
“With all due respect, Baron,” I say in kreyol, bowing. One did not disrespect the spirits without inviting misfortune. “This one is not ready to go yet. I ask that you reject him, for now.” For now, because Samedi accepts everyone, eventually.
I pour the rum out onto the ground in front of me. It’s not a large quantity, but it is very high quality, very expensive. Kleren is adequate for most spiritual work, but homemade rum is not good enough for the Baron, not good enough for this. Only the best rum will do. I hope it is acceptable.
The rum disappears into the ground until it seems it was never wet at all. The spirit nods, his hat tipping, and dissipates into gray cigar smoke.
With a sigh of relief, I recap the empty bottle and place it and the mirror in my bag.
I will bring Mr. Grady back, and he will hopefully get his chance to say goodbye, to get justice, or whatever it is his soul needs to do to fly free. Then the Baron would welcome him.
I open my big handbag and take out the supplies I will need. A candle, a lighter, a small knife. Some herbs and oil, my beads, and the Bible. Despite what people might think, mine is White Magic. I need His divine guidance for everything I do.
I light the candle and put the beads on over my head while singing softly. Black and red to clear the way, remove obstacles and barriers, open doors. White, for peace and justice in all things. Wine colored, for wisdom, changes, and to help fight battles. And lastly, amber; for love and passion. Because the way he’d smiled when he’d talked about his wife meant some of his unfinished business likely had to do with her.
I would give him the gift of a little more time, to settle his business, whatever it was. And some additional magic, to make sure nothing will hold him down in the dark waters, that nothing can seal him away.
Breath puffing and candle flame wavering in the cold air, I use my tools and do my work. Vodou is not just a religion, not just magic, but rather a craft that ties body and soul together and yet also makes them flexible, elastic. I needed to bind his soul to something tangible, something personal. Without a strong anchor for it, even this work could easily go awry. And that was the one thing I did not have. Truly, I was not expecting my work to take this direction tonight.
Looking around for inspiration, my gaze lands again on his fingers. Brushing the soil away, I breathe a sigh of relief that it is his left hand, and remove his wedding ring.
This will do nicely.
I will tie his soul into the ring, and it would go to his wife after the burial. It would keep her safe until he had his first meal. And when she gave it back to him, he would be the one in control of his own body, his own will. Because being an eternal slave would be a fate worse than death.
My heart contracts painfully at the reminder, but I have to brush it aside.
Finally, I need just one more thing to finish—blood. Some things were too big to accomplish without it. It held the magic that would revive his body while I worked on his soul.
And while the ground beneath me wept with the amount of blood in it, none of it would work. All the life energy was already gone from it. I need living blood.
Stumped, I sit back on my heels. “I need a sacrifice,” I say to the waiting spirits. “Will you provide one?” I would give of my own blood willingly, but this ritual required life, and then death. Something would have to die for Mr. Grady to live. It is a spiritual exchange, a way to restore balance, a transference of life force.
A pocket of
breeze picks up in the trees, rustling from north to south like a hidden hand brushing through stalks of wheat.
A moment later, a tiny squeak alerts me to a field mouse scuttling across the snowy dirt. It stops and stands on its hind legs, its little nose sniffing air scented of blood, magic, danger, and fate.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I move slowly until I’m almost right on him, then snatch him up in the palm of my hand. It struggles as any captive animal would, but doesn’t bite.
With the ritual words passing my lips, it meets a quick and humane end. I let the small amount of blood drip into the candle flame while I whisper a prayer, adding my voice to those of the spirits who want this work done.
The flame rises and turns solid red, signaling that our voices would be heard, but it didn’t guarantee the answer we want.
I speak the words of power and sing the old songs, feeling the magic flow through me. The chants are ancient, and meant to be sung by many voices. But alone in this country, in this town, the only voices accompanying me are those of the spirits. With conscious choice, I allow my soul to step aside so one of the spirits can enter.
For a time, the spirit is in me, helping me with the work. When it is done, I come to with only a vague impression of the spirit that had ridden me.
Mr. Grady’s soul still wavers there, a centimeter or so above the unmoving fingers, where it would remain until there was an answer.
“God be with you until we see you again,” I whisper.
I blow out the candle and pack up the items in the dark. All the pressure is gone, the spirits quiet, the snowy night peaceful and silent. It is done.
Chapter Three
Grady
As bad as being buried alive is, digging yourself out is worse.
A Cursed All Hallows' Eve Page 15