He opened his eyes and tossed the ball into the air. The ball returned to his waiting hand, landing snuggly against his weathered palm. He examined the scrawled signature and an image of the drainage pipe appeared to him as if he were standing in Junction. He could see Flatrock Bridge, the evaporating water of the Llano River and the gaping maw of the drainage pipe. Whatever Jared had brought out, it hungered. It hadn’t destroyed Jared yet, but before it was through Nathan felt certain it would.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Reserve, Louisiana
Almost every memory of Nathan’s granny Ninon started and ended in the kitchen. He searched there first. The smell of spilt cinnamon conjured an image of her chasing the men from the kitchen, her easy laughter following them into the next room. The kitchen had been her domain. He took each recipe book off the shelf, thumbing through the binders, anticipating pages, filled with ancient words, inserted in place of a recipe.
Climbing up onto the counter he searched the shelves for anything they might have missed. On the highest shelf, in a place a woman would not have been able to easily reach he found her oldest recipe book. He recalled the letter from the lawyer and the package he’d received in Atlanta. “Your grandmother asked me to send a few personal effects in the case of her passing.”
To celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary, his grandfather had gathered all of his grandmother’s loose recipes; some handed down over three generations and had them bound. He had hand-tooled the leather cover himself. A giant oak draped with Spanish moss was etched into the cover. In the center he had branded a single word: Ninon.
The lawyer had sent the book to Nathan. Narried’s words, spoken in confidence whispered through his mind. She give de book to you for safe-keepin. He had brought it back with him when he moved into her house. Breath held in anticipation he opened it. He thumbed through the recipes. The smell of cooking grease wafted off the yellowed pages.
Nothing.
He shook his head in disbelief and jumped down from the counter. He had been certain pages from the sacred script would be inside the recipe book. Frustrated he slammed his fist on the book.
Narried peered through the door. “Patience Nayton.”
“Damn it, we’ve got to go find the boy, we’re wasting time here!” He walked toward her with the intention of passing her by, and heading out the door and into the night in search of the boy and Agador. He was almost out of the kitchen when the smell of cinnamon overwhelmed him.
Narried whispered, “Look Nayton, look.”
He turned slowly, not knowing what to expect. On the counter, his grandmother’s book of recipes was open. The pages fluttered as if someone were flipping through them. Several months ago he would have tried to find a rational explanation for the phenomenon. A draft, or perhaps he would have blamed it on warped counters. Now, however he stared at the book with a mixture of fear and love. In his heart he knew only one person could be flipping those pages. He could feel the presence of his granny emanating from the very walls of the small kitchen.
The pages stopped moving.
He stepped back into the kitchen approaching the book with caution. The invisible presence had flipped through each page. The book lay open with all the pages turned to the left. He ran his fingers across the last, empty page. A fine seam, almost invisible, ran the full length of the inside cover. He pulled a sharp knife from the drawer and ran it lightly down the seam. A note was written on the inside flap of paper.
Nathan, I promised your mother years ago I would never mention the Sansericq bloodline to you or the obligation that goes with it. In return for my sworn silence your mother permitted you to visit me each summer—it is a bargain I have never regretted. If you are reading this, Narried has come for your help. Do what you can and try not to judge too harshly the things that are difficult to understand. The script is under the floorboards near the fireplace.
Be careful, love Granny Ninon.
The script along with bottles of rum, pictures of saints a bag of flour, smaller bags with unidentifiable contents and several clay pitchers were all beneath the floorboards. The items brought a smile to Narried’s face. Once the area beneath the floor had been cleared she sent Nathan to the kitchen to retrieve two eggs.
He left mumbling, “We better not be baking a goddamn rum cake.” When he returned, the car and driver were gone and Narried was outside dragging a large stick through the dirt. A deep line extended from each corner of the porch. She connected them creating a large rectangle.
She pointed with the stick. “This is a peristyle.”
Holding the eggs out to her he asked, “Where’s your car?”
She accepted the eggs. “I sent my son to fetch his family before de town burns.”
In the distance the rhythmic sound of drums floated through the night, the tempo feverish and sexual. Nathan looked toward the dark woods and found himself resisting the urge to follow the drums. Nute appeared, walking from the shadows. In one hand he carried two chickens by the feet, in the other a green snake. Sensing Nathan’s weakness, Nute smirked. “Elise be calling on Ayida-Weddo, tonight.” He lifted the snake toward the sky. “De Loa of fertility.”
Nathan took a step away from the wiggling snake.
Narried called out, “The Loa keep they own hours. She have to abide by they schedule. Come Nayton.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward a small fire in the center of the peristyle she created. “I’ve got things to show you.”
She opened a bottle of rum, saluted the four corners and the four faces of the world, tilted the bottle and splashed the rum into the fire. Next she picked up a gourd and began to shake it rhythmically. She closed her eyes and began to sing. Her lilting voice floated in the darkness.
While she sang, Nute pulled a knife from his belt. He cut a line across his palm and let his blood drip over the flames. He spoke a few words in Creole and Narried extended her hand toward him. He gently sliced her palm, tipped her hand and let the drops of blood drip into the dancing flames. His eyes came to rest on Nathan. Fighting the urge to run away, Nathan extended his hand. He winced as the blade slid across his palm and watched as Nute turned his hand. His blood joined theirs in the fire.
Narried unrolled the first sheet of parchment. It crackled beneath her fingertips. Her index finger moved quickly from left to right, her lips moving as she read. She flipped to the next sheet and studied the words. The only indication she had found something of interest was the slight nod of her head. It looked as if someone was talking to her and she was agreeing. She rerolled the script, and tucked it away inside a deep pocket in the fold of her skirt.
She tossed a small bottle into the flames. The smell of cinnamon exploded into the air, an invitation for Ninon’s spirit to join the living by the fire. Closing her eyes she extended her hand over the fire and began to chant. The flames leapt up like an excited pup, licking eagerly at her hand. She passed her hand over the fire in a circular motion; the flames followed the movement of her hand twisting into a vortex. Above the roiling vortex of flames, the smoke shifted, transforming itself into hazy images.
The scene unfolding in the smoke was at his grandmother’s house. His grandmother sat on the porch, in the exact chair where he watched the sunrise each morning. Elise Dupier stepped through the doorway carrying a tray of drinks.
The smoke shifted.
Clutching at her heart his grandmother fell against the wood deck. Elise stepped over the prone figure and sauntered back into the house.
Nathan strained forward trying to reach his dying grandmother. Nute and Narried held him tight. She murmured, “Let it go, Naytan. Let the pain go.”
He sagged between them, unable to fight his grief.
A low keening emanated from Narried as she called on Papa Legba the god of the crossroads and keeper of the gates. This time she picked up Jared Riley’s backpack. She took each item and dropped them into the fire. The water bottle buckled and began to melt, blue flames leapt up releasing images of Jar in
the sand storm. The pocket knife turned red hot and an old truck, very similar to Nathan’s left a dirt road and sank into a river. The Carlton Fisk ball started to smoke and for a moment the green monster at Fenway Park was visible in the haze.
The flames climbed higher and once again the images shifted. The boy appeared again, this time looking nervous. He was standing at the center of a large crowd clasping the Govi. Elise appeared, moving toward the boy like a predator. Her eyes however were not lowered with malice, they had a sensual gleam.
Nathan recognized the look. He turned toward Narried. “What…?”
She gave him a tight smile. “She will channel the spirit away from the boy - in the oldest ritual known to mon.”
“What happens to the boy?”
“If the ceremony is successful the spirit will exit the boy and enter Elise,” Narried hesitated before finishing, “after, the boy will be sacrificed to appease the Petra Loa.”
An image of Angelina’s body hanging from the tree in the woods flashed through Nathan’s mind. “We have to stop her. How do we stop her?”
This time, Nute responded. “coup n’ ame - a soul spell. We will steal Brunache’s ti-bon-ange, trap it once again in the Govi and then we must burn the clay vessel and dispatch the soul to its final abode.”
Narried continued where Nute left off. “We must bide our time. Let Elise lure the spirit away from the boy—If she is successful we will have our chance to destroy her and Brunache in the moments of weakness following the transfer.” She didn’t wink when she finished but she may as well have. The silence followed her words was loaded with possibilities.
Nathan stared at Narried. She served him lunch every day at the diner and they bantered like friends but he had never known her until this moment. There was no doubt in his mind she and Nute could have taken Jared the minute he walked into Reserve. The boy had merely been bait, an opportunity to lure Elise into action. Nathan felt like a simple pawn, maneuvered expertly across the board until the more important pieces were in position. Now they were poised to strike and she was giving him the opportunity to avenge his grandmother’s death: a pawn for a queen.
He had never killed anyone, not even in the line of duty. Now he looked into his heart and wondered if it was in him. As much as he loved his grandmother, it was not the memory of her death that answered the question for him. It was the image of Angelina’s mutilated body hanging in the woods. How many children would die if Brunache existed in a willing vessel? It was a question he didn’t want to answer. He said, “We’re wasting time.”
Narried knelt down by the fire, uncorked a small vial and filled it with ashes. When she finished she plucked the slightly charred but intact Carlton Fisk ball out of the edge of the fire. She massaged the ashes into the skin of the ball, mumbling in Haitian.
Handing the ball to Nathan she said, “You never ask me how it is three women could kill Brunache when an army of men failed.”
Incredulous, he cast a wild glance toward the dark field behind his house. A faint glow outlined the trees in the distance. The fire that started at Elise’s house had spread. He said, “Narried we don’t have time for this. We need to find Elise.”
She ignored his urgency and said, “He was expecting men—not three beautiful women.”
Nute chuckled. “I guess every mon has a weakness.”
“That they do. That they do.” She folded Nathan’s fingers over the smoking ball. “When the time come, you give this ball to the boy. Ever ting in the universe has a destiny.” She looked at Nathan. “Yours, Nayton, was to come home.” She tapped the ball sitting in his hand. “This ball,” she shook her head in mild wonderment. “This ball been coming toward the boy for a long time now.” She clasped her hands together intertwining her fingers. “Their destiny is like this.” She nodded to herself pleased with her interpretation.
Nathan looked at the ball. If not for the game at Fenway Park it would have been just an ordinary baseball. Maybe on a different day it would have been caught by a diehard Red Sox fan, a guy who would have taken it home, given it to his kid as a memento. The kid might have treasured it for awhile, only to lose interest later. From there it might have ended up stuffed at the back of a closet, chewed by the family dog, or lost at a local park. It certainly would not have attracted the attention of a collector or ended up in a drainage pipe in the small town of Junction.
He pushed the scuffed ball into his pocket. It was uncomfortable and created an odd lump at the side of his trousers. He thought about her words, spoken with conviction. Was it possible for a baseball to have a destiny and if so, could it be a boy?
Nathan had seen replays of the game. There wasn’t a baseball fan out there who didn’t know about Game 6 in the ’75 series. It was a tied game in overtime, after midnight when Fisk came up to bat. He hit the second pitch of the inning. It went deep into left field, right down the line. Everything was riding on that ball. For a moment it appeared as if the entire stadium had taken a collective breath—holding it, waiting to see if it would go foul or stay fair. It hit the left field pole and stayed fair. It was a homerun. The Red Sox won the game. It didn’t matter they lost the series that year. Everyone talked about Game six and Fisk’s homerun.
It had been a historic game—the ball had become a priceless collector’s item—so what in hell was that ball doing here, covered in soot and stuffed in his pocket? As he followed Nute and Narried through the woods toward the sound of the drums and a confrontation which would most likely end with him killing his ex-lover, releasing an evil spirit and possibly saving the life of an innocent boy, he couldn’t escape the one illogical thought that might have changed everything. The damn ball should have gone foul.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Reserve, Louisiana
Jar and Suzy entered an old confederate graveyard—they were close to the drums, a low chant joined the rising tempo and the air nearly frothed with energy. A sentinel spotted them and shouted for them to stop. Suzy kept walking. The sentinel rushed past Jar and grabbed Suzy’s arm. His fingers met cold skin and water moved beneath his grip. Lifting his torch he illuminated her bloated face. Suzy’s milky eyes met his. He backed away from her, crossed himself, turned and fled.
Jar followed Suzy through the crumbling grave markers until they came to a path lined with human skulls, suspended on poles. The clay box nearly burned his hands. He wanted to put it down at the entrance to the gruesome path and let someone else carry it toward whatever fate awaited at the other end. He glanced over his shoulder wondering if Nathan had made it home and if Agador was safe—it felt like he’d spent a lifetime with them instead of two days.
Suzy walked down the path, her shoulder knocked one of the skulls and it spun merrily around on its perch. His eyes went past Suzy and he saw people waiting at the end of the path. Jar stepped forward, edging between the two rows of skulls. As he approached the group at the end he heard them muttering the word zombie. They let Suzy pass. When he exited the path, rough hands grabbed him and dragged him through the woods. He held tight to the govi and felt energy course through his hands and up his arms.
They entered a sea of people clad in red, black, and white linen, writhing to the rhythm of the drums. The men pushed him through the crowd until he stood at the center of courtyard next to a colorful pole. A woman wearing a white gossamer robe turned to look at him. She held a human skull in her hands like a chalice and she moved with the poise of a queen. Ignoring him, she squatted down in front of the elaborate pole, placed the skull on the ground and poured a packet of flour in the dirt. She drew a cross with eyes at the intersection.
People approached reverently and tossed pieces of candy, small toys and cigars around the drawing and the colorful pole. The air crackled with electricity, and the pole hummed like a lightening rod conducting current. Jar’s hair lifted and his scalp tingled. He cast a nervous eye toward the starless night sky in search of heat lightening. Sensing that the energy came from the pole, he stepped away.
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br /> A young man from the crowd screamed and immediately fell to the ground writhing.
The crowd chanted, “Papa Legba, Papa Legba.”
The man rose from the ground and began hobbling around the courtyard. He looked transformed as if he had visibly aged. A woman ran forward and handed him a stick. The man took the stick and shambled away until he disappeared among the crowd of worshippers.
Jar observed the ritual with fear and curiosity. What he knew of Voodoo came from books and movies and he was pretty certain at some point during the night something was going to be sacrificed. A woman in the crowd fell to the ground and began to writhe.
It felt staged, like a bad movie. His eyes swept over each person looking for Suzy. She stood listlessly at the fringe of the crowd—her head cocked at an odd angle. It looked like she was listening to someone whisper in her ear. Why did she bring him here? Was this a ritual to end the curse?
The woman poured another packet of flour into the dirt and drew a different design with her finger. People came forward carrying white chickens. A man cut the head off a chicken and threw its body toward Jar. He jerked back as if burned. The headless fowl ran around the courtyard spouting blood until it dropped to the ground. Several more white chickens were sacrificed.
The priestess stood and held out her palms. The chanting came to an abrupt halt. When she spoke, her voice resonated through the dark night. “Ayida-Weddo is with us but she hovers there.” She pointed to the tops of the tall trees surrounding the grove. The trees shifted beneath a wind, not felt in the hot circle below. It appeared as if the wind and trees were within her command.
The priestess stepped behind Jar and rested her hands upon his sloped shoulders. “Ayida-Weddo warns me someone among the worshippers will betray me.” She stroked Jar’s cheek. “Will it be this boy who has traveled so many miles to return the sacred Govi to us?” She narrowed her eyes, encompassing the worshippers, searching for the source of betrayal.
The Drought Page 30