Linda asked if we would still be using Kim to communicate with Roger and Paul. I was holding my breath. I hadn’t seen Kim while we had been in classes.
Ellen said, “Of course!” Once again, she reminded us that all we could really do was discover information ‘our way’ and guide Roger to the mortal discoveries quicker than he would have found them on his own. We could not manipulate mortal environments. Boy they were really big on that. Still.
Then Ellen looked at us all and said, “Let’s figure out these mannequins right now. I am going to teach you a few ‘tricks.’ After about an hour of testing Ellen’s patience, I am pretty sure I read her mind. (We might be a bad influence.) We had all figured out how to make the mannequins move, somewhat naturally. Looking in the mirrors we did the ‘Hokey Pokey.’ Ellen had our grand finale be our version of the Can Can. Not ready for Broadway, but not bad. I tried belly dancing after that and nearly broke my mannequin. At least she had the appropriate facial expression on. Utter shock.
Ellen said we had no time to spare, and while usually only authorized as a ‘special’ assignment, we were going to practice moving real mortals.
Teresa asked, “Why would we ever want to move a mortal?”
Ellen answered, “Remember when Devon was choking Jack?”
We all answered, “Oh yah!”
Ellen continued, “Also, you may need to save a mortal by moving them out of harm’s way.” Then she looked at me, “Vicki, you are thinking that this is a form of manipulation of mortal environment, aren’t you?”
“Well yeahhhhh,” I said. “I suppose it is all in whose definition you go by?”
Ellen frowned, “We go by mine.” Of course. “You remember stories of women who lifted cars off someone trapped? Or people who survived being under ice for hours? Or, people being thrown to safety from an accident?”
This was me, “Speaking of that, why didn’t someone throw us to safety from our crash?” It seemed to be a valid question. Since we were dead.
Ellen had a serious look on her face. “No one was near to help. There are actually only a few of us that can manipulate mortals.” I was shocked.
Mary said, “You mean we are getting ‘special’ training?”
Ellen answered, “Oh Yes, very special training, for very special angels. We had no idea allowing you to retain as much of your mortal mind as we have, would have resulted in your spiritual minds performing as they have been. This is very advantageous!”
Something is very wrong in heaven if the way we think is advantageous.
Ellen stood up, “Okay, this is what we are going to do. There is a biker bar in Nevada that is hosting a big four day blast. Some of these are pretty bad boys. Get used to the interior mortal signals, lots of drunks to choose from. You are going to do whatever it takes to stop them from driving a motor vehicle. I am just going to watch. Remember, you can mess with them, but not their environment.”
I cleared my throat. My voice cracked when I squeaked, “Wait.” This was not sounding good. “I need an example here!”
Ellen chuckled, “Maybe in your attempt to subdue one, his mortal anger starts a fight. You can’t let them involve machinery or weapons, no knives, guns, you know. They can’t get hurt in any way.”
“Can I have another example?” This was still me, not real happy with that example at all. “Don’t you think it is quite a leap to go from a mannequin to a drunken biker?” I was starting to speed talk now. “Can’t we start with animals and work our way up… or babies… teach them to walk. Old people! That would be good. They wouldn’t even remember! You know, easy stuff?”
Ellen said, “Nope, we don’t have time. These drunken bikers are babies compared to what you are going to face with Devon and Patterson. This is the easy stuff.”
Linda asked, “I have to go inside a drunk biker?”
Ellen answered, “Yup.”
Teresa said, “I get the first one!”
Mary looked at me, and I started cracking up. The look on her face. Mary inside a drunken biker was going to be ‘interesting.’ (There’s that word again.)
Nevada was nice this time of year, not too hot, September, pretty pink sunset on the horizon….
There were five large barn type buildings and a long tent structure. There were rows and rows of motorcycles, trucks, and strange cars. Really hairy people all tattooed, spinning their vehicles in the dirt, other people cheering them on. There were people lying in the parking lot. Alive. I checked as I flew over. Women wearing very little clothing, more than one band playing, and at least a dozen bar areas. Little groups huddled in secret transactions… ah shit… and various other activities.
Ellen pointed to a big sign that said ‘Parking.’ “I will be watching from on top of the sign. When you enter into someone take a moment to listen to their thoughts. Make sure they are drunk. No sense messing with the good guys. Besides, if you lose your balance they will think it was their fault.”
I saw a real scrawny guy trying to start his motorcycle. He could barely hold it upright, and he was having trouble with his kick start. I can do this. I entered through his ear… ugh. He rubbed his ear and all I could hear in his head was, “Come on you damn piece of shit… start!” Yup, I had me a certified drunk here. I leaned real hard to the left and he completely fell off the bike. Two guys, who had been talking nearby, came over to help him up. I had him kick one of them. Mistake! The big dude pulled a gun on me! Shit! Before I knew it, Ellen was in there with me. (Getting crowded.)
She looked at me, “What made you do that?”
“I don’t know. Must have been my mortal!” Good an excuse as anything. Ellen had the guy get down and pray for forgiveness, said he was drunk and didn’t mean it, said he would polish the other guy’s chrome on his bike.
When we left him, I am sure he was wondering how he ended up polishing that guy’s bike. Ellen called a quick meeting. Teresa was mad. She had picked out her first guy, and now he was driving away.
Ellen started, “Look for weapons! You are not playing with mannequins anymore! Vicki, that guy’s gun was in his hand! He had been shooting beer bottles. Now you guys try again and be careful.”
Teresa said, “Geeesh, Vicki.”
Mary said, “I’m going to stay close to Linda.” Whatever. I told Teresa we should pick two guys together and experiment between us. That way we knew who we were.
Teresa thought for a minute and said, “It really worries me that makes sense.” We found two guys talking to each other as they stumbled out to the parking lot. Looked like they were heading for their trucks.
I looked at Teresa, “I think they are going to drive!” We swooped in.
Mine had a distinct case of beer breath, and he was thinking he needed to pee. I was just about to tell Teresa we needed different guys when both these guys stopped and started peeing in the dirt. I sent Teresa a message, “Now what?”
Teresa messaged back, “This is really different isn’t it? I’m going to try to write my name.” When Teresa’s guy got done, he was so startled to see that he had written ‘Teresa’ in the dirt, he told his buddy to go on without him. He was going to nap in his truck. One for the good guys.
Mary and Linda had decided to do the same thing Teresa and I had done. Pick two guys together. Their guys were definitely drunk, and the bartender had just told them to go sleep it off for a couple of hours. They were determined to drive to town, so they were perfect… and no guns.
Mary had some trouble deciding how to go in. It didn’t look good anywhere. All of a sudden her guy threw his head back laughing, and she dove in. He started gagging and said he just ate a bug. That started another round of back slapping, and Mary almost fell out again. Linda was already in her guy and reading his thoughts, “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”
Linda sent a thought to Mary. “My guy thinks your guy is cute!”
Mary didn’t answer right away. “My guy isn’t thinking at all. He is really drunk. Now what?”
Linda
asked Mary, “They are almost at their trucks! How do we stop them?”
Mary said, “All I know how to do is dance.”
Linda was thinking, “Okay, let’s start dancing and see if they don’t just get tired.”
Ellen was sitting on top of the parking sign shaking her head. To the delight of the crowd, the two brawny bikers started to waltz together. Not too bad, she thought. Then they started bitch slapping each other. (The only way we knew how to fight.) Guess one of them got frisky. Finally the crowd separated them and made them sit down which eventually led to them falling asleep. Someone covered them under one blanket. Hmmmmm.
Teresa and I sat on a huge rock and watched Linda and Mary dancing with two new guys. We needed a short break. I looked at Teresa and said, “You know I am pretty proud of how you are doing in this class! You really rock!”
Teresa looked at me and said, “I think I need to get a lot better, fast.” Her facial expression said she knew something I didn’t.
“And you think that why?” I really didn’t want to hear her answer.
“Ellen asked me if I had any issues with alligators…. or Voodoo.”
I was right. I didn’t want to hear that.
Jeremiah Dumaine was seventy- four years old, a fourth generation swamp man with a tuft of long gray hair, and one blind eye. He had seen a lot in his years of living in the haunting bayous. His cypress clad home had been his grandfather’s, and he had helped his own father carve the belly of this boat. These were dark waters tonight… silent… as if life itself was holding its breath. He stood, his bent frame nudging through the thick muggy air, and slowly glided his craft to Mambo’s den on the other side of Honey Island.
His eyes moved to the half dead woman in the corner of his boat. Almost didn’t see her curled on that cypress root in the swamp. Lucky a gator didn’t find her. Mambo would know what to do. He stooped as the draping moss tickled across his shoulder, and he listened for the whispers of the marsh. The occasional soft splash of his paddle and the subtle ripples on the water were the only hints he was there. His skin twitched with fear tonight. This was the second woman he had found in the swamp.
Jeremiah secured his boat to a large cypress root at the edge of the swamp near Mambo’s den. The dirt path into the marshland was well worn from many visitors. Tiny animal skulls and colorful clumps of feathers tied with thin leather straps adorned the low branches of shrub trees. Where the path met the green iridescent crust that cloaked the black water edge, the swamp gasses bubbled and occasionally released tiny spurts of blue flame.
Scientists had explained the phenomenon as decomposing organic material mixing with the stagnant swamp waters, creating methane that would ignite and create a ‘pop’ like sound. That didn’t explain the concentrated pockets of activity. In spite of the efforts of numerous research teams, this mystery of the swamp remained impossible to duplicate in a lab. The scientists were left with unproven theories.
Nights like tonight, the blue haze from the gasses made the wings of flying insects appear florescent and the huge webs of the Cypress spiders glow blue. Jeremiah didn’t care what the scientists’ thought. He knew that in all his years in the swamp, the most flames were at Mambo’s. The eerie blue glow surrounding her hut could be seen for miles at night. Any fool could see the spirits lived here.
Jeremiah came to Mambo last month when he had found the first woman in the swamp. Mambo had taken her in and brought her back to health. Instead of leaving, the woman had stayed to help the aging Mambo in her daily chores. Mambo had named her Heeshia, meaning ‘chosen one.’
The path to reach Mambo was narrow and overgrown. If you didn’t know where her hut was, you would never see it. There was a large clump of giant knurled Cyprus trees where her hut had been built in the center. Decades ago moss and wetland shrubs had enveloped the entire structure except for a small chimney opening in the roof. The Cyprus clad door was covered in moss, and piles of offerings were scattered at the threshold.
Believers brought staples and gifts for the gods in exchange for potions and amulets. They wanted Mambo’s blessings and protection, and believed in her abilities to summon the Saints. Mambo was the recognized Voodoo Queen of the faithful.
Jeremiah helped the woman he had just found out of his boat, and he wondered what Mambo would say. He didn’t know what else to do.
Heeshia met him at the door and helped him walk the woman over to a cot in the corner of the large main room. Mambo was sitting on the floor in front of a small open fire pit throwing pinches of powder into the flames and chanting softly. The powder would briefly ignite and shoot colorful flashes of light that danced around the walls, casting moving shadows from unseen sources. Her large dark eyes followed them across the room and she slowly stood. “Heeshia, bring our guests food.” Mambo sat on the edge of the cot and put the woman’s hands inside her own, “You are protected here.”
The young woman burst into tears and Mambo stroked her hair. “You have seen evil and survived. We will build from that.” Mambo slowly walked back to her place in the center of the room and lowered her crippled body to the floor. She had her arms held up over her head and was chanting loudly. Then she closed her eyes and began swaying to a softer chant. She slowly lowered her arms, crossed herself and began a slow rocking motion. She looked so frail. No one really knew how old she was. She had always been an old woman, even when Jeremiah was a boy.
Jeremiah went outside and cut firewood for Mambo’s stack. He filled a water bucket from the rain cistern and carried supplies he had purchased for his home, to Mambo’s little porch. Heeshia stepped outside to speak to him. Her long black hair was pulled tightly back from her face and she was wearing clothes that probably had once belonged to a man. Her boots were worn and she had made a belt of rope. Even in the middle of the swamp she was a striking beauty.
“I need to leave here. Mambo will need to help the new one. Did you find her, like you found me?” Jeremiah nodded. Heeshia said, “Evil men are bringing women to this swamp to die. I am strong enough now to stop them. Can you take me to the city tomorrow?”
Jeremiah looked at her trim body and wondered how she could stop the evil that had come to his swamp. He started to speak, then saw something in her lavender blue eyes that was very powerful, almost hypnotic. He was instantly reminded of a story his grandfather had told him. A band of Polish warriors came to Haiti on the orders of Napoleon, but soon changed affections and helped the Haitian people win their revolution against the French Army.
A few descendants of these folk legends could still be found in rare blue-eyed Haitians. Almost exclusively women, Voodoo lore professed them to have special warrior skills. They were believed to be cherished by the Saints, messengers of Erzulie Dantor, sometimes called ‘Black Madonna’. A female warrior spirit, and fierce protector of women and children. Jeremiah was quite certain Heeshia was a blue-eyed Haitian. Mambo called her the chosen one. Jeremiah would not question the wisdom of the spirits.
He nodded respect to Heeshia, and slowly walked back to where his boat was tied to the shore. He pushed his long paddle against the tall swamp grasses and quietly steered his craft into the open black water towards home. Heeshia stood at the swamps edge and watched his boat slowly glide away. He could see her form fading in the blue haze, yet he could still see those eyes.
Jeremiah had a plan. He had a large stash of mink furs and alligator skins he would take to the city tonight to get money for Heeshia, and buy supplies for Mambo. He would also purchase ammunition for his guns. Jeremiah didn’t like guns, but evil had come to his swamp.
A single frigid breeze whipped around his shoulders and vanished. Jeremiah shuddered as the icy sensation tickled down his spine. He looked around for some source of the sudden chill. It was unseasonal, unexplained. The moon peeked from behind the dark clouds and offered a brief display of diamonds sparkling on the black water. Sounds of the wildlife rose from the marsh like an orchestra warming for a performance. The long grasses rustled and b
egan to dance near the shore from invisible trespassers. The swamp was coming alive again.
The Shallow End Gals
Linda McGregor
Teresa Duncan
Mary Hale
Vicki Graybosch
Kimberly Troutman
Alcohol Was Not Involved : A Shallow End Gals Trilogy Page 26