by Jon Skovron
“She does excel at saving people’s asses, though,” said Poujean.
“You’re telling me,” said Paul.
Astarte was waiting in the lobby when Paul and Poujean entered the hotel. Instead of her usual jeans and T-shirt, she wore a long, heavy skirt and a simple white blouse. Her usually wild black hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail. She smiled warmly at Poujean, her green cat eyes twinkling.
“Ah, Father Poujean,” she said, extending her hand. “So good to see you again.”
Poujean kissed the back of her hand and said, “The pleasure is all mine, as usual, Erzulie Freda.”
Paul handed her a bunch of bananas and gave her a quick kiss. “Why are you dressed like that?” he asked.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked with an impish grin.
He regarded her for a moment. The austere clothes made the fine angles of her face even more pronounced, and since her green eyes were the only splash of color, they seemed to sparkle even brighter than usual. He shrugged. “You’re still beautiful.”
She smiled and laid her hand gently on his cheek. “My husband, master of the artless compliment.”
“Ah,” said Poujean. “But you know he always tells the truth.”
“Of course,” she said. “One of the many reasons why I keep him around.” She slipped her arm through his in the strangely formal way that she always did when there were other mortals around. “The reason, my dearest, that I am wearing this drab attire is because we’re going to Crown Heights and I thought it best to blend in somewhat.”
“Crown Heights?” asked Paul. “Why would—”
“How did you know?!” asked Poujean, his eyes wide.
She grinned. “Magic,” she said, and winked.
Poujean looked imploringly at Paul.
“That’s the best explanation you’re going to get out of her,”
Paul said. “So I take it this guy you’re taking us to see is in Crown Heights?”
Poujean nodded, looking a little disappointed that Astarte had stolen his thunder. As they walked to the subway station, Poujean filled them in on the climate of the neighborhood. There were two main ethnic groups in Crown Heights—the Hasidic Jews and the West Indians. And they didn’t get along.
The Hasidim were one of the most conservative sects of Judaism. In their community, a great deal of importance was placed on attire and social interaction between the genders. The women wore long dresses and covered their heads. The men wore black suits and hats and grew full beards. On the other hand, the West Indians, were considerably more liberal. There had been long-standing tensions between the two groups. Then, in 1991, there was a car accident in which a Hasidic man killed a West Indian child. A three-day riot followed.
“It’s been a few years since the riots,” said Poujean as they descended the station steps to the underground subway platform. “But tensions remain.”
Soon the number 4 train pulled in, and they boarded an empty car. The subway train rocketed through the tunnel that connected Manhattan and Brooklyn beneath the East River.
The lights flickered out for a moment. When they came back on, Paul noticed there were two people in the car who hadn’t been there before. They stood at the far end of the car, casually reading the advertisements above their heads. One was a tall, thin man with a long nose, a pronounced overbite, and glittering orange eyes. The other one was short and round, not so much fat as simply thick, with droopy, florid jowls and lavender eyes.
Both of them were clearly demons.
Paul squeezed Astarte’s hand and she immediately squeezed back. She knew. When they got out at the Franklin Avenue Station, the demons followed but maintained a good distance.
“We’re being tailed,” Paul muttered to Poujean.
Poujean nodded. “I saw them. They must be fairly powerful to manifest without a human host.”
“I know those two,” said Astarte. “The tall one is Amon, the fat one is Philotanus. They are powerful, but clearly time has not made them more intelligent if they thought we wouldn’t notice them slipping in like that.”
“Will holy objects affect them?” asked Poujean.
“I should think most would,” she said.
“Good. Then they won’t be able to follow us for long.”
Poujean led them out of the station and onto the promenade, a strip of sidewalk along the main thoroughfare of Eastern Parkway. The street was lined with old apartment buildings and the occasional grocery store, all with bars on the windows. A few Hasidic families walked along the promenade, glancing at the mixed crew as they passed.
The two demons followed at a distance until Poujean turned and led his friends up the front steps of an old brownstone.
As Paul and Astarte walked through the front door, Poujean pointed to the small box nailed above the doorway.
“There’s a little piece of blessed Torah above every door in every Hasidic home,” he said.
“Spiritual security system,” said Paul.
“Precisely,” said Poujean. “And much less gruesome than painting the door with lamb’s blood.” He glanced at Astarte. “It still baffles me as to why none of these objects affect you.”
She shrugged. “I’m just not that kind of demon.”
Paul knew the real reason. It was because she pre-dated all Judeo-Christian religions, and was therefore immune. Of course, saying “Because I’m too old” was not something Astarte would ever say.
They entered the building and ascended an old, creaky staircase to the third and topmost floor.
“We’re meeting with Rabbi Kazen, a very progressive voice in his community,” said Poujean. “He’s rather eccentric, and a little too in love with his books. But he’s a good, kind man. He and I have been working together to try to ease some of the tensions between our two communities. If this case of yours is somehow connected to real estate in Brooklyn, there’s a good chance the Hasidic community is involved, or at least aware of it. And if they are aware, so is he.”
Poujean knocked quietly at a door covered with peeling yellow paint.
There was a sound like a pile of books falling over, then slow, heavy footsteps. A moment of silence as the person presumably peered through the peephole, then . . . “Ah!” Paul counted the sounds of three dead bolts and a chain sliding open, then at last the door flew wide. A large man with a flat, bearded face stood in the doorway in shirtsleeves and suspenders, his arms outstretched.
“Father Poujean!” he bellowed in a deep baritone, and embraced Poujean in a rough bear hug, slapping him several times on the back.
“Good to see you, Rabbi,” said Poujean, wincing slightly.
“And who did you bring me?” asked Kazen. He glanced briefly at Paul, but then he saw Astarte and his eyes went wide. “An interesting pair, to say the least!” His eyes flickered anxiously to Poujean, who nodded.
“Come, then, come!” He gestured inside. They followed him into a living room with no furniture, only stacks of books. “Who needs shelves, yes?” Rabbi Kazen said and chuckled. “This way, I don’t even need furniture.” He sat down on a stack of books and gestured for them to do the same.
“Rabbi,” said Poujean. “This is an old friend of mine from seminary, Paul Thompson. And this is his wife, the lovely—”
“I am not blind,” said Kazen, still jovial, but with a strange edge to his voice. “And I certainly need no introduction to Lilith, the First Woman.”
Astarte nodded. “Rabbi.”
“Ah, my dear,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly.
“The knowledge that must be contained behind that radiant face.
I could ask you a thousand questions and still not be satisfied.”
“Quite so,” said Astarte. “But what about an exchange of one for one?”
“Only one?” he said with good-humored anguish. “Well, I will have to make it a good one, then.”
“Rabbi,” said Paul, “we’re tracking a large and well-connected group of demons. They se
em to be getting heavily involved in a lot of financial activities—real estate, stocks, that sort of thing.”
“That seems a bit complex for them,” said Kazen.
“Right,” said Paul. “This actually seems to be a coordinated effort. We’re trying to determine who is in charge of it. Our concern is that this is being organized at a higher level. Perhaps even by one of the grand dukes.”
“Hmm,” said Kazen. He leaned back into his stack of books and stroked his beard. “There is one group that has been trying to push into Hassidic turf, actually. Of course, there’s more than money at stake for us. We need this neighborhood in order to maintain our way of life. So they haven’t been very successful yet. But they’ve got someone in the Haitian community who’s been stirring up old resentments the past few weeks and I fear that things could get unpleasant.”
“One of mine?” asked Poujean in surprise. “Do you know who?”
“A fellow named Emile Rameau, I believe,” said Kazen.
Poujean frowned. “That’s strange . . . ” He looked at Paul and Astarte. “I know this man. He’s not the sort to get mixed up with demons in any sort of serious way. If he’s working for them, they’re pressuring him somehow.”
“Or possessing him,” said Paul.
Poujean’s eyes widened. “We should see him immediately.”
Paul nodded and stood up, extending his hand to Kazen.
“Thank you very much for the information.”
“Just a moment!” said Kazen with a sly grin. He turned to Astarte. “What about my question? One for one?”
Astarte leaned back and crossed her arms. “Ask away,” she said, and smiled in that cold way of hers that told Paul quite clearly that this poor, knowledge-thirsty Rabbi was about to be taught a lesson.
“Well!” said Kazen eagerly. “One question only . . . hmmm .
. . which to pick . . .” He tugged on his beard for a moment, his thick brows furrowed. “Ah! I’ve got it!” He sat up and smoothed his shirt and pants, as if preparing himself for a historic event.
“Oh, Lilith, First Woman and Queen of the Lilitu, where is the Garden of Eden?”
“The Garden?” asked Astarte, her smile still present, but taking on an even harder edge than before.
“Hon . . . ,” said Paul, placing a hand on her arm.
“But my love,” said Astarte. “I did promise I would answer.”
“Yes, yes!” said Kazen, his eyes gleaming eagerly. “Can you tell me where it is or what it looks like?”
“Better than that,” she said. “I can show you.”
“Oh yes!” he said exultantly.
“Look into my eyes,” she said in a voice that almost purred.
He did, and the lines of tension in his face lessened until it was almost slack and his eyes grew distant.
“The Garden,” said Astarte. “Omphalos, the center, the origin of all . . . it lies at the point where Heaven, Hell, and Gaia—the mortal realm—intersect.”
Kazen’s eyes widened, seeing something in his mind’s eye.
“It is a place,” continued Astarte, “that follows all rules and none. The crossroads of order and chaos, light and dark, good and bad. It is, as Lao-tzu once said, the source from which both mystery and reality emerge. A darkness born from darkness.
The beginning of all understanding.”
Kazen’s eyes changed slowly from dreamy amazement to unease.
“In that darkness,” said Astarte, “lives Abbadon the Destroyer. He stands upon countless worlds of mortal souls.
His eyes are the torment of a million dead gods and goddesses, and his mouth is a gaping wound in a reality that consumes time itself.”
Kazen’s face twisted up with fear. He covered his eyes with his suddenly trembling hands, but it did not block the images that were in his head. “Please . . . ,” he whispered.
“And past him,” said Astarte relentlessly, “the Void, the unmaking of everything. To look upon it is to know one long, endless moment of death as the Universe itself dies.”
“Please,” moaned Kazen, tears coursing down his bearded cheeks. “Please, no more.”
“Yes,” said Astarte abruptly. “A wise choice.” She waved a hand in front of his face. He shuddered, then began sobbing.
“Astarte,” said Paul, giving her a reproachful look.
“What?” she said, blinking innocently. “He asked.”
“He also just helped us with the case,” Paul said.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, perhaps I was a little harsh.”
“Yes,” Paul agreed. “You had your fun, but . . .”
“Fine,” she said crossly. She leaned over the still-sobbing Kazen. “Rabbi,” she said gently, “look at me.”
“No, no,” he said weakly. But he looked.
“It’s Okay,” she said, and stroked his bearded cheek. “It is best for mortals not to know some things. You will remember this lesson, but not the images I showed you. It will be like a dream, in which the feeling is recalled vaguely and without detail. Now sleep on your nice, safe, scholarly books and take comfort in their simple embrace.”
Kazen’s face slowly softened and his eyes closed. She gently laid him down amidst his piles of books.
“Thank you,” said Paul.
She shrugged, then kissed him. “One of the many reasons I keep you around.”
“God . . . ,” said Poujean. He looked at her with a new appreciation and a bit of unease.
“Let’s go see this Emile of yours, Father,” said Astarte, and walked out of the apartment.
“Y-Yes, of course,” said Poujean. As he and Paul followed her down the steps, he whispered, “Does she do this a lot?”
“Only when they ask for it. She still feels a responsibility to enlighten mortals. I’ve tried to suggest that it doesn’t have to be so . . .”
“Cruel?” asked Poujean.
“Yeah,” said Paul. “She’s having a little trouble with the concept.”
When they got back out onto Eastern Parkway, the two demons who had followed them from the subway were gone.
“They’re somewhere around,” said Astarte.
They walked down the Parkway Promenade, out of the Hasidic section and into the Haitian section. The same old buildings lined the streets, although they seemed a little more run-down. Out of many windows came the thumping music of raga—similar to Jamaican reggae, but harder and more aggressive. Poujean led them to the largest apartment building on the block, five floors high.
“I’m not sure how Emile is mixed up in all this,” said Poujean. “He’s a very fine, stable member of my church. Sells a few traditional remedies on the side, but nothing serious.
Certainly nothing that would make me think he was dealing with darker aspects of Vodoun. He is no bokur.” He turned to Astarte. “Please, Erzulie Freda. Be kind to him. For my sake.”
“Why, Father Poujean,” she said and smiled sweetly. “I’m always kind. Except when they ask me not to be. And I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that in this case.”
“Why do you say—,” began Poujean. Then they heard a scream coming from within the building.
They pushed through the heavy front doors and charged down the hallway. Poujean led them up to the second floor and through another hallway to a scuffed white wooden door. The screams were coming from behind it. Poujean pounded on the door.
“Emile! Marie! It’s Father Poujean! Open the door!”
They heard the sounds of frantic fumbling with the locks, then the door swung open. A middle-aged Haitian woman stood in the doorway, panting, the sleeve of her shirt torn.
“Father! Thank God!” she said between breaths. “It’s Emile!”
“What happened?” asked Poujean as they piled into the narrow foyer of the apartment.
“He’s been mounted by the loa before,” said Marie, “but they’ve never taken control of him this violently! I had to lock him in the bedroom!”
Almost in response, a sharp crash
of breaking glass came from down the hall.
“Did this come on suddenly?” asked Paul. “Or did it happen gradually?”
“Who? . . .” She glanced worriedly at Poujean.
“It’s okay,” he said. “This is Father Paul, an old friend from seminary. Please answer the question.”
“W-W-Well,” she said, “he had been acting a little moody the past few weeks, and that’s not like him. But it was nothing like this.”
“And when did he lose control?”
“Only just a little bit ago.”
“They knew we were coming,” Paul said to Astarte and Poujean. “They’ve been prepping him for something and we forced their hand. Poujean, come with me. We’ll see if we can’t kick whoever’s in there out. Astarte . . .” They exchanged a quick look and she nodded.
Astarte turned to Marie. “Come, dear,” she said in a soothing tone. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I don’t suppose you have any fresh fruit? I’m famished.”
Marie looked helplessly at Poujean.
“It’s okay, Marie. You and your husband are in good hands.”
Astarte led Marie into her own kitchen, murmuring quietly to her. Paul and Poujean followed the screams and pounding to the bedroom. As they walked, Paul pulled two long, fat rosaries from his overcoat pockets and handed them to Poujean.
“I’ll stun him and you tie him down to something heavy,” he said tersely.
Poujean took the rosaries, looking nervous.
Paul didn’t break his stride as he knocked aside the chair that held the door closed, opened the door, and stepped into the dark room. It stank of piss and vomit. A naked man crouched on top of the bed. His head snapped in Paul’s direction like an animal’s would. His eyes were bloodshot and a thick, clear liquid leaked from them. He was chewing on something and had blood smeared on his face and a headless pigeon in his hand. A snarl curled his lips.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be gone!” shouted Paul, splashing holy water on the man. “In the name of Muhammad, Siddhartha, Lao-tzu, and Confucius, of Zeus and Jupiter, of Shiva, and Osiris, in the name of the faith of all those named and unnamed, I cast you out, you parasite, you scavenger, you bottom-feeding scum of mortality!”