But I’ll leave that last part out of the bedtime stories.
I give Grady a tearful smile as I brush the hair from his clammy forehead. I feel like a broken vase, bound together with glue that’s still wet. I’m just waiting for a firm squeeze before I crumble into all my previous broken pieces from the last time I lost him.
And the squeeze is coming very, very soon.
Whatever Ms. Josephine is doing is working. Grady is tired, struggling to keep his eyes open. His voice is getting softer, his grip on my hands weaker.
Death clings to him, waiting.
At least this time, he won’t die alone. “I’m here,” I whisper, tears falling. “I’m right here. You can let go.” At least this time, he’s dying in peace instead of pain. Comfort instead of horror. With me beside him, instead of alone in the dark.
I hold on to him as if I can keep the breath in his body, as if I can anchor his soul to this earth and keep him from slipping away, despite my words. But I can’t. I feel him going, and squeeze harder, sobbing. I can’t let him go.
“You’re my everything,” he says. Then, a smile in his eyes and on his lips, he slips away. That quick.
That moment between life and death was so brief that I wasn’t entirely sure. “Grady?” I put a hand to his cheek.
But his eyes are empty, his face and hands slack, and I’m certain he’s no longer there.
My Grady is gone. For good, this time.
I break, no longer worried about what it would do to him to witness it. He won’t. His hand still in mine, I drop my head to his motionless chest and sob.
Ms. Josephine scoots closer and wraps her arms around me, hand on my head. “Sister, you will make it through this. I promise you.”
But she’s wrong. I was wrong.
I can’t live without him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Josephine
My heart cracks for young Maisie as she lays crumpled over her husband, crying and rocking him. Hot tears prick my eyes at his sacrifice and her pain. But there would time enough for mourning later, if my plan didn’t work.
Darting up, I free the full-length mirror of it’s prison of scarves and other discarded clothes and pull it closer to the pair. This last-minute plan came from the gris-gris on the belt I had stolen from the bokor. I only hope I am right about what it means, what I can do with it. I hope I am right that Mr. Grady is meant for more than dying for the final time on my attic floor.
Quickly I scan the room, but everything I’d put out for the soul-freeing ritual was still in place. The veve I’d drawn on the floor with cornmeal was still perfect. There is little more I can add that would make a difference, except prayer. Under my breath, I start my petition to the Supreme Creator as I adjust the mirror.
Then I sit by Ms. Maisie, hand on her heaving back, waiting. My work is done, his soul released.
As soon as Mr. Grady’s soul appears, fluorescent blue, over his body, the Baron materializes from thick cigar smoke in the corner of the room, ready to lead him into the underworld.
To me, he looks like the same old Baron, but I know to Mr. Grady, he probably looks like something else, something more in line with his expectations. A tall figure robed in black with a scythe perhaps? Or maybe even a glowing angel.
Mr. Grady’s ethereal form kneels at Maisie’s side and puts his hand on her head. She doesn’t feel it, and just keeps crying. He looks up to me with sad, sad eyes and nods to me in thanks, before standing and turning toward the Baron.
He was right. He had been ready to go. It is my hope that he will be equally ready to return, should he get the chance.
“Grady, wait.”
Ms. Maisie looks up at me, then frantically around the room. “Grady?” She can’t see his soul, of course, or the Baron. “Ms. Josephine—” she starts, but I put out a hand to stop her. I have no time for explanations. Grasping both her hands in mine, I say, “You must pray as hard as you can. Pray like you’ve never prayed before.”
She nods and clasps her hands over her husband’s body. I gather my heavy skirts in one hand and stand.
“Baron Samedi,” I begin by bowing low. I hope my deep respect is enough to get him to listen for a moment, and might sway him to consider my offer.
“Mambo,” he answers in a gruff voice, stalled for a moment from whisking Mr. Grady to the afterlife.
I breathe out a sigh of relief and then rise to face him. “Baron, I wish to once again bargain with you to reject this soul.”
He looks around, almost comically, then bites down on his cigar in obvious dissatisfaction, joining both hands together on the head of his cane in a tight grip.
My palms sweat and I wipe them on my skirt. “I have no rhum to offer this time. No cigars, no coffee.”
“You make no offering, yet wish me to do this thing for you?”
“Not for me, no.” I have to make sure he doesn’t see this as a personal favor. Owing a spirit could result in a lifetime of servitude. And the favor always came due. “For Bondye, as his faithful servant. I too am a faithful servant, and I only wish to see his will done.”
I take his silence to mean he is waiting for me to elaborate. So I do. “Mr. Grady first died by the hand of man, not by the hand of God. This time, he dies as a sacrifice, for his family, and again not by the hand of God. You know of the magic that afflicts him.”
He probably knew the magic very well, indeed. The bokor had copied him in appearance and had likely petitioned him for his power and blessing at some point. But though Samedi has a changeable and mischievous nature, he is not evil. Some petro spirits must have been helping the bokor.
“It wasn’t his time then, and it isn’t his time now. If Bondye had put out his hand to claim Grady’s life, his entire journey from his first death would have been impossible.” I’d never taken such a bold tone with one of the spirits before, but I have to appear confident.
“I have to believe that Bondye considers him valuable, or the other spirits wouldn’t have summoned me to him in the first place.” I’m making a lot of assumptions, but my words ring with truth. “Bondye is the Supreme Creator. He is the originator of all human life, and as such, it all belongs to him.”
“I need no reminder,” he says, voice sour around his cigar. Samedi would have to be certain Grady’s soul was meant to move on before taking it. After all, questioning and usurping the will of the Good God is what got the spirit Lucifer cast from Heaven. None of the current spirits would risk that, though they might walk the line. Yet the Baron seems reluctant.
“I have already rejected him once. Am I to turn him away when he appears on my doorstep a second time?” He sounds so reasonable, like he’s just doing his job, which he is.
But a lesser-known fact is that while he is the Lord of the Dead, he is also a giver of life. He can cure any disease or wound, so long as he thinks the venture is worthwhile. So I have to make sure he sees it as worthwhile.
“I am not completely without offering. I wish to make a trade for something you will find more valuable than this particular soul.”
He laughs, deep and mirthful, head tipped back. “And what could you possibly offer me of more value?” His eyes shift to Maisie behind me, and he removes his cigar from his lips. “Are you offering me the pretty blan?” he asks through a lecherous smile.
Maisie can’t see or hear him, and since he asked me in English, I should reply in the same. But I don’t want to embarrass or scare her. His more lustful traits can be uncomfortable for those who aren’t familiar with him.
Instead I pull from the pocket of my dress, the inconspicuous bottle that had been hanging on the bokor’s belt with the soul-ties of the zonbi goons. The Baron’s eyes flash to it immediately, and he makes a hissing inhale when he realizes what it is. And who.
But the Baron hedges, chewing on the end of his ever-burning cigar. “What makes you think I would want that soul more?”
Only Samedi or one of the other spirits can see who the soul inside belongs
to. But I’m judging by his reaction that I must be correct. And if I am...it’s the soul-tie of the bokor himself. Also raised as a zonbi, to be a servant of a larger evil.
“I’ll wager this man has bargained and schemed to cheat death many, many times. And cheating death is cheating the Baron, is it not? He also possesses a soul and magic so dark, that he must have taken many lives. Mr. Grady’s is one. And how many souls has he stolen from your hands?”
I take the pieces of the broken gris-gris of the minions out of my other pocket and allow them to clatter to the floor. “I know of at least two. Whereas, Mr. Grady has lived a good life, and would rather sacrifice his life than shed any unwilling blood.”
My arguments seem to be working. Samedi’s head and shoulders are smoking with anger at the reminders I am tossing at him. “One soul darkens this world, and one soul brightens it. Bondye would surely smile upon you for making the right decision.”
Still, he hesitates.
“If you are not interested in this soul, take Mr. Grady.” I make a show of putting the bottle back into the deep pocket of my skirt, and ignore Ms. Maisie’s desperate look. “I will find another loa to exchange favors with.”
The Baron taps his cane on the wooden floor twice. “I will honor the exchange. Give me the soul.” He holds out his hand.
I take the bottle once more from my skirt but hold it in my hands. I can’t risk Samedi lying to me or playing a trick. This is my one chance to bring Mr. Grady back. If Samedi takes his soul, he is lost to us. “Swear by Papa Loko.”
Papa Loko is a higher spirit, one that hates injustice and can sometimes help keep the other spirits in check. Some of prayers earlier were to him.
Baron Samedi takes a long drag on his cigar, then takes it out and releases a cloud of gray smoke.
“I swear by Papa Loko.” He says after a moment, and holds out his hand. He is displeased, and he may discipline me later, but it is worth it. I take the bottle to him and place it in his palm.
He closes his hand around it and it disappears.
Then he walks to Mr. Grady’s form while his bemused soul looks on, and bends down. He swirls his fingers over the body, gathering strands of black mist around his fingertips. He clears the death from the body like cobwebs. He then rubs his hands together until the mist disappears and stands. He grins at Mr. Grady. “Are you ready, Cousin?” Then with a sharp rap of his cane over his corpse’s heart, Mr. Grady’s soul is sucked violently back to his body.
For a second, his soul wavers as a bright blue outline above his skin, before settling like a falling feather into his earthly abode.
A smile of grim glee around his cigar, the Baron twirls his cane and dissipates into a thick cloud of gray smoke that then flows from the room out the same doorway the bokor had fled through.
Quickly, I kneel by Mr. Grady, Ms. Maisie’s desperate, desolate eyes seeking mine. I’ve forgotten that she could only hear and see my side of the conversation, and much of it had been in kreyol’.
She hasn’t let go of her husband yet, and I gently pry her hand from his chest and place it at his throat. I take his wrist, my fingers pressed to the pulse point, my breath held.
I feel nothing beneath his cooling skin. But then—a gentle thump against my fingertips that begins slow and reticent, but then speeds up with strength and courage.
His wife gasps. She feels it too.
“He’s really alive?” Her gaze then flashes to me for confirmation. “Like really, really alive?”
I nod, grinning. And then I laugh, hugging her. “Praise Bondye! God has blessed you!” And because God has blessed them he has blessed me. He is really there, and hears me when I pray to him.
I stand, I sing, and I dance while Ms. Maisie rubs her husband’s face with bated breath. “God is good! Praise Bondye!”
He finally opens his eyes, having fully escaped the embrace of death. She sharply inhales and the cries out, kissing him and crying and incoherently babbling.
He puts a hand to her cheek and pulls her down for a kiss, and I cannot help but clap. They rock on the floor in each other’s arms while I sing my praises and dance for Bondye and Samedi.
***
Grady
I can’t stop the tears. I didn’t cry before, but now my eyes won’t stop leaking.
I can’t stop smiling or kissing my wife, either. Or thanking Miss Josephine.
I’m alive again, whole again. Fully alive, not in the half-dead state I’ve been in for several weeks. I can feel the difference.
My heart seems to pound in my chest, the blood rushing in my ears. Every breath stretches my lungs, and I’m buzzing with wild energy. Though less traumatizing, it was still a haunting experience to die again. An experience that I will probably relive in my nightmares, but for now, I feel alive.
“Miss Josephine, is there anything we can do to thank you? Anything at all?”
Maisie nods in agreement at my side, unable to let go of me either.
“Live good lives,” she says, smiling, looking between us. “Glorify God. Be happy,” she says, squeezing my shoulder. “You have done all else you need to do. My work, however, is not yet done.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, dread filling me.
“Well, the laboratory. Something must be done about them. They are raising zombies, both purposefully and carelessly,” she says with a pointed look.
“But Mr. Lucien is gone now, right? Won’t that stop them?” My heart races at rabbit speed.
Panic rises as Ms. Josephine shakes her head. “Mr. Lucien... He is many things, very intelligent, but he is no scientist. Whoever he is working for will probably just find another bokor or mambo to do his work.”
Horrified that this wouldn’t stop them, I asked, “Are there many of those around?”
Somber, she shakes her head. “No. We are the only two I am aware of in this area.” Her voice lowers. “And now they are aware of me as well.”
I look at Maisie. “We have to do something.” We’d endangered Ms. Josephine by involving her in our lives, even though it was her choice. To me, that just meant we owed her even more. It wouldn’t be far for her to help us, only to fall into the evil hands of the lab.
The look on her face says Maisie agrees. “Ms. Josephine, what can we do?”
Serene, she folds her hands in front of her. “Only pray. I will ask the spirits for protection, and ward my house.” She frowns. “Better than it was before.”
“That’s not enough.” Alarm makes my newly-revived body shake. Stepping forward, I grab her hands in mine. She mentioned family out of state, though they didn’t sound particularly close. “Isn’t there somewhere you can go for a little while?” I ask, squeezing gently. “Someone you can visit or stay with, until this whole thing blows over?”
“First, prayer is always enough,” she admonishes me. “But, I suppose I can ask the spirits to guide me. If they say so, I will go visit my daughter.” She squeezes my hands back, and I feel reassured enough to let go.
She’s too valuable, too pure and kind, for the spirits to let her be used that way. She’s saved me from death, twice, and has been a guide the whole way.
I take a deep breath. She will be okay. The spirits will take care of her, I’m sure of it.
But... “We have to do more.”
I look at Maisie and then Ms. Josephine. “What else can we do to bring the lab down? Let’s think.”
Half of me wanted to table this for now, to just celebrate life and love and put this whole nightmare behind me. But with the lab out there, making zombies and endangering people, it didn’t feel entirely over. We weren’t completely safe. And I think both of them agree.
“We will discuss it. But first, we need to refresh ourselves. Come.”
She motions for us to follow her, and we all descend the dim, creaky stairs and go into the kitchen.
“Sit,” she commands, and though she doesn’t control me, I do without argument. Maisie sits beside me, as close as she can, and we wrap o
ur arms around each other.
Ms. Josephine sets large glasses of iced tea in front of each of us, and for a few moments, we all drink in silence. We’re all exhausted by this ordeal, it seems.
“Now, about the laboratory,” I start. I can’t leave it alone yet. “Do you still have the soil report you told me about, Ms. Josephine?”
“I do,” she says, nodding. “In a safe place.” She puts a finger up. “Let me get it.”
After a few minutes, she comes back with a tri-folded piece of paper and lays it before me on the table.
I spread it open and look at it, but I don’t understand a single word. I have to trust that someone, somewhere, would. “I think it would be enough to at least cast suspicion on them what they are doing there is illegal and dangerous, if we can get it into the right hands. So, what do we do with it?”
“We could go to the media, anonymously” Maisie says. “Let them investigate it.”
But Ms. Josephine shakes her head. “Those people have no protection, and no real power, even if they do find something.”
“What about the FBI then?” Maisie looks at me. “Surely they would look into it.”
‘Yes, definitely. I’m sure there are other people that would be interested, too. Like the CDC, and possibly even other organizations.”
“CDC?” Ms. Josephine asks.
“Center for Disease Control.”
Her eyebrows go up, and she nods. “This evil is a plague upon humanity, so perhaps.”
“In fact, why not all of them?” I add. The wheels are turning now, almost too fast now that the zombie brain fog is gone. The ladies turn to look at me. “That way, there is a criminal investigation, a scientific one, and a public one. Maybe if it’s everywhere, no one can bury it.”
“Yes!” Ms. Josephine exclaims, hands out, her smile triumphant. “My friend, Farah, who studied the sample, maybe she can help us get it to the right people. And provide some credibility to the report.”
“Okay, so we need multiple copies of this,” I say, waving the report. “To send to everyone we can think of, and to stash in a few safe places so we always have a copy, no matter what happens.”
A Cursed All Hallows' Eve Page 32