by Marcus James
Table of Contents
I
II
III
IV
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
I
Kathryn sat in the car for several moments, taking in the full measure of the energy that was buzzing around her, pulsating through the earth, reaching out through the living soil and seeping into the corvette, and wrapping around her like vines working their way up her bare legs.
There was so much power on this property, a power that was not unlike the currents of her own home back in South Hill, and yet it was an entirely different beast. It was cousin to what she had always known, and yet, like a relative from some far off place, she was meeting it for the first time, and taking in how alien it was from herself.
Angelina Ramos was standing outside waiting for her, leaning against the driver’s side door of her Camaro, dressed in the denim cut-offs, black tank top, and cowboy boots from the night before, her thick black hair had now deflated after the night’s sleep; the Aqua Net no longer holding it’s sway.
“You’ve got this.” She reminded herself, taking a couple of deep breaths before popping the door open and stepping out into the mid-morning heat.
“You okay?” Angelina asked her. Her arms were folded across her breasts, and there was a look of genuine concern on her face.
“Yeah, I’m good. Just needed a moment... there’s a lot of power here.”
Angelina smiled and nodded. “It’s the Orishas. They are strong here. This is their home.”
There were great oak trees with emerald leaves that scratched against each other in the breeze, and the rush of cool air was a welcome reprieve in their shade. Kathryn knew that the breeze would only warm as the day continued. In a few hours it would be hot and oppressive, and no amount of shade that these great oaks provided would be enough to keep a person from feeling languished.
“I can feel them. I can hear them in the wind and sense them in the earth. I used to be so connected to it as a child, but the older I got it became so familiar that I stopped paying attention. But here-at your home-it’s like I’m hearing them again for the first time.”
They were there, the pantheon, aspects and paths of her deities that she had never met before. When Kathryn had first considered picking up and leaving, long before she had even decided on where she was going to go, she had worried that perhaps being so far from the carriage house she would somehow be disconnected from them, that these living gods would be too far for her to reach.
Gods were carried in the hearts of those who loved them and believed, she knew this, and yet she feared that being in a place that wasn’t her own, that she had no connection to, would somehow make it harder for her to call them, for them to hear her. But all that changed with the geography was their names, as it had always been throughout history, and she realized that no matter where she went there they would be; waiting for her to come before them.
The fears and gossip of her parish had never made her question her belief, and she had been raised with the knowledge that the gods could be found in the saints, that they simply wore those Catholic faces like masks on Halloween, and so even being sent to parochial school and attending daily mass never presented her with any contradiction with her faith, but the idea of being so far from the carriage house in the back courtyard of Blackmoore Manor and the altars and the power in the drums and the sacrifice within, made her fear that without being able to properly feed the Loas would mean that they would eventually stop listening.
“If you are hearing them, then it means that they are ready for you.” Angelina cocked her head over her shoulder and began making her way around the side of the house. “Let’s go!”
Kathryn followed a few steps behind, focusing on her breath and trying to steady her beating heart as she past banana trees with waxen leaves, palms-both three feet tall and thirty feet tall, various flowers in bloom that exploded with pinks, fuchsias, yellows, oranges, and reds of all hues.
There was Tropicalia music coming from the house, the sixties Brazilian rock was flowing out of the open windows with iron bars painted the same rich blue as the house, and she could smell the most amazing perfumes of meat and sugary bread baking.
When they reached the backyard, Kathryn was awestruck by a simply crafted pergola that led to the old mother-in-law house in the back that had been converted into their place of worship. It was decorated with handmade stars of glass, none of them painted, just simply polished and as clear as fresh water, casting rainbows on the manmade stone path.
There were wind chimes hung amongst them, and with each gentle breeze, the world around them was filled with music. Towards the backside of the large yard was an immense chicken coop, and next to this was a pen with goats.
“I can’t believe this!”
Angelina stopped at the set of old French doors with their six-panes of glass and looked at everything that Kathryn was staring at and smiled.
“Thank you. My family worked very hard to make all of this. We wanted to make sure that the Orishas were always surrounded by beauty and always knew that they were loved. These chimes were blessed and hung for the purpose of always singing for them. That even when we were sleeping or away from home, our songs would always be sung for them in one form or another.”
“My cousin would love this. I would love to show her this sometime.”
Angelina said nothing. She knocked on the doors six times, three on one and three on the other interchangeably, and then she kissed the tips of her fingers and placed her hand briefly on the door.
“We always make sure to ask permission before entering.” Angelina opened the doors and stepped inside. “Come in.”
There were no more walls to separate rooms, save for the still-intact kitchen, and there were lavish altars along the walls with statues of saints and stones with faces made of glued cowrie shells and adorned with feathers of specific colors and she could see the faint stain of old blood on each of them. Each altar was covered in cloths of a different color, and everywhere were fresh flowers laid out at the feet of these saints.
It reminded Kathryn of the carriage house, with its walls of exposed wood planks with deeply aged knots, and instead of the poto mitan in the center of the room, there was a large classic three tier fountain gurgling cool, fresh water.
The ceiling had been opened up and the roof was exposed, and from every beam, just as in the carriage house, there were bushels of herbs drying out all around them.
“This is... there are no words...”
Kathryn could feel the love and tranquility that permeated the space. It filled the air around them, and reached deep inside and comforted her and gave her warmth. The scent of the cool water from the fountain and the fragrance of the flowers and herbs helped to quell any unease and tension she had felt when she had first pulled up to the house.
“These grounds are sacred and protected. Much like you had done to your bungalow at the Marmont. No harm can come to us while we are here, and we can speak freely without worry that perhaps speaking of this thing out loud will somehow bring it to us.”
Kathryn nodded and made a slow pivot on her heel, catching sight immediately of an altar covered in red and black cloth, with a statue of Saint Nino de Atocha-the little boy in his brown cape with a scallop shell affixed to it, deep blue robe underneath with a feathered hat adorning his locks of auburn hair, as dark as Kathryn’s, carrying a basket and staff with a drinking gourd hanging from it.
Next to him was the familiar statue of Saint Peter with his keys, and all around the altar were white, red, and black candles, toys, candies, and bottles of rum. She knew him. This was Papa Legba, though in this sanctuary he felt younger, more child-like, as if he were a rambunctious and over-sexed teenager.
She walked to him. Her legs moving before she had made the conscious decision to do so. Everything inside of her was pulling her to this altar, to open herself up to the phantasmal arms that wished to embrace her and love her and whisper sweet nothings into her ear like a lover cooing her to sleep.
“That is Eleggua, The Keeper of the Keys, The Great Communicator. You know him as Papa Legba.”
Kathryn looked at her only briefly before bringing her attentions back to the altar.
“He is the more impulsive and juvenile aspect of Legba with more than two hundred paths. We Latinos embrace that liveliness. There is a party wherever he goes and he represents the ability to take action; to learn wisdom in just ‘doing’.
“New doors and new possibilities are open through his paths and his tricks never fail in teaching.
“He reminds that youth holds its own wisdom and knowledge and that even in the behavior of children there are things to be learned and new ways of seeing.”
Kathryn closed her eyes and crossed herself. “He has come to me already. He has shown me this place and in my dreams I have danced with him here. I didn’t get it when I woke up from it. I didn’t realize there was any real significance. But it was the night I first met you.”
“A path...”
Kathryn nodded. “Yes. A path. I was meant to be here. I was meant to come into this place and learn whatever it is I am to learn. Perhaps a new way to talk to the Loas, or Orishas as you refer to them-to perhaps, discover new parts of myself.”
Angelina moved beside her now and crossed herself just as Kathryn had done, and then she placed her hand on Kathryn’s shoulder and they looked deep into each other’s eyes.
“Every journey, every mistake, every heartache, and every single missed opportunity has a purpose that leads to somewhere. We can never see it at the time. Not when it is happening, not when we are in the midst of it.
“It is not until we end up where we are supposed to be that we can look back and connect the dots and see the chain reaction. That everything that occurred, occurred because of them. They were turning everything all along to bring us to these places.
“In this moment-right here and now-you have found your dots connected. Eleggua has things to teach you now. Things he could not teach you as Legba.
“He needed to be someplace else with you. Someplace ruled by youth and vibrancy and freedom.
“He needed rebellion and music and impulsiveness. He needed only what Los Angeles or Miami or San Francisco could give you.
“He needed you here and now you see.”
Kathryn did see. She understood it all now and connected all the dots-the paths that lead her here-but she was angry. She understood that as long as Sheffield was around she would have never left. She would have never arrived in Los Angeles unless it was with him, wrapped up in a relationship.
There would have been no drinking at the Rainbow and she would have never encountered Angelina or Richie. All of this could only happen if she were alone.
She could see that and she could understand it, but it did not take away from the pain in her chest, feeling as if her god had purposefully broken her heart and did not even bother to quicken her recovery. It was that squeezing compression inside that makes it hard to breathe whenever his name was mentioned or when she thought of him.
It was that pain that seemed to always choke you with tears that come before you can even prepare for them. That tremble in the body that only the memory of Sheffield could bring.
She lingered in the pain-still lingered in it-and he let her.
She wanted to rage. She wanted to scream at him, and perhaps inside she was, but he was hearing her and he was soothing her. He was telling her that the pain taught her strength and brought her back to the self-reliant person she had been before Sheffield Burges had come along.
She needed to be heartbroken to be renewed. She needed to know she could rely on herself, no matter how dark the night, that as with all witches, she thrived in the shadows, that the moon and the stars were her power. She needed to be free before she could come and take on the heavy burden that awaited her.
“And now...” Angelina began, leaning forward and placing her finger to each candle wick, tapping them ever-so-slightly and sparking them to life. “We begin this call to arms with sacrifice.”
Angelina turned and walked back to the once-closed off kitchen, and pulled a mason jar of deep amber honey from the cupboard, followed with a glass that was sitting in a drying rack by the sink. She smiled as she walked over to that fountain and whispered a prayer while she filled the glass.
Upon returning to the altar, Angelina knelt before it and extended her hand to Kathryn, inviting her to kneel with her. Kathryn did so, closing her eyes and tuning into the divine power and strength that vibrated off of the altar and flowed into her.
Yes, she knew this energy. She knew this electric current that pulsated and coursed through her veins and sped the beating of her heart.
Angelina took a sip from the water, and passed it to Kathryn, showing to Eleggua that it was pure, then she poured it over the decorated head of stone, feathers, and shells, followed with Saint Nino, and finally Saint Peter, next the gesture was repeated with the honey, sweet and with notes of lavender, straight from the hive. It poured out slow and was like liquid gold, as if the sun itself had been harvested and transformed into food.
Finally Angelina grabbed the bottle of rum, and with this she handed it to Kathryn. “As with Voodoo, we spray the rum... this I offer you to do first.”
Kathryn had done this hundreds of times, and the honor of being asked to offer the rum first was not lost on her. One’s place of worship and their relationship to deity was always a very personal one. A familiarity and routine is developed, and often in one’s home, the resident almost always was the first to offer anything.
She swigged the rum, swishing it briefly in her mouth and with her teeth gingerly pressed together, sprayed the rum all over the altar. Kathryn crossed herself once more, and Angelina took the bottle and did the same.
“Next,” Angelina removed a woven grass mat from beneath the altar, along with a satchel made of animal skin, and dumped out a pile of cowrie shells, all of which had been altered to have a flat back and the edge had been made smooth by a file.
“We divine from Eleggua if what we suspect is true of what we are facing and what it could be.”
Kathryn looked on silently as Angelina pulled sixteen shells from the pile and set aside the rest, then over them she whispered prayers in Spanish and began picking up the shells and casting them on the mat.
It was a long process, aided by a notepad and a pen, Angelina began writing down a series of numbers. It made Kathryn think of numerology, and yet was a much more complicated process.
Angelina’s expression never changed. She was focused, nodding often in understanding, and giving a sigh every so often, as she continued to divine answers.
When she was finished, she turned to Kathryn and shook her head.
“Well, that tells me everything I need to.” Kathryn offered a smile and Angelina returned it.
“It’s not good.”
“How not good are we talking here?”
“These things-and there are more than one-are as old as the gods and yet they are not gods. They are judges of the divine, and they only come forth when summoned.”
“Summoned, by whom?”
“I couldn’t figure that out. The answer I got was that the apostate brings the judges.”
They looked at each other quizzically.
“The apostate?” Kathryn looked up to the blue sky above, finding the light piercing through green leaves of palms and oaks, and sighed
. “A betrayer... who could that mean?”
“I don’t know... I kept pressing. Trying to get some sort of explanation, but the same answer was cast. But they are here for a reason, and I don’t know if the victims are the apostate, or if someone called these things... but they are divine. They are not inhuman spirits like demons, as people like to call them, and what they do is not about evil, but about obligation.”
Kathryn shook her head. “Then to believe that is to believe all of these deaths-your friend-were asking to be killed. Do you believe that? Can you believe it?”
Angelina put the shells and the mat away and stepped away from the altar. Kathryn did the same and they both walked out of the church and lit a cigarette.
“No. I can’t believe that about Fred, and whatever these things are, perhaps what they are obligated to do in itself is not evil, but what if whatever has been betrayed is evil.”
“Exactly! then perhaps these things can be reasoned with!”
Angelina laughed. “Yeah, right.”
Kathryn took a drag and nodded. “Hey, a girl can dream. No, there is no reasoning with the divine... only bargaining.”
“So, if these things are judges of some kind, wouldn’t that make them like angels?”
Kathryn shrugged. “Well, the archangels were mean and terrifying beasts... but they were always in service of God, it could very well be these things are angels. But angels that go around killing people and leaving bodies around town like another serial killer?”
“Yeah, I don’t know...”
“Were you able to get anything else?”
Angelina nodded.
“It said that they were already around you. That they had known you would come... that you were brought here. It said that you had a mark on your head. You are not one of many, you are one alone.”
The air changed in that instant. The animals silenced and the breeze had ceased. A chill ran down Kathryn’s spine and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
Eight years before she had known this feeling. For a week she had become so familiar with it, that it became her constant companion. It was fear. Pure, uncompromising fear and the constant paranoia that no matter where you turned, it would come for you.