Mr. Edi whipped out an arm and slapped Griffe across the face, so hard that Griffe’s hat tumbled to the concrete. “That’s Queen Ayaba to you.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Edi. Really I am. I didn’t mean no disrespect.” Griffe cradled his jaw, and his knife slipped to the sidewalk. Tears moistened the cracks in his tightly shut eyes.
“Get outta here,” said Mr. Fowrou.
Griffe’s eyes opened, and two streams of tears trickled down. “What’d you say?”
“I said get outta here,” Mr. Fowrou ordered. “We got bigger problems to deal with than you.”
Without another word, and without any attempt to recover his knife or guitar, Griffe slipped around the hulking gentlemen and hustled across the street, expertly dodging several cars. He sprinted off down an alleyway and leaped from his clothes. I saw a spotted cat emerge from the chaos.
“Don’t let that ol’ leopard scare you,” Mr. Edi said with a smirk. While he spoke, he cleaned his hand with a silk handkerchief.
“Leopard?” I asked.
Grabbing the money-filled guitar case and tucking Griffe’s knife into his belt, Mr. Fowrou said, “We just keep him around for fun. We like messing with him.”
“And leopards are good practice in case we ever find lions ’round these parts,” added Mr. Edi.
The other hyenas giggled fiercely over that last comment. I did, too, even though I was only following along.
Mr. Fowrou fixed his gaze on me. “Now, what is it we got here? A white boy hyena, a jaguar, and a coyote?”
“Two jaguars,” I corrected, pointing to Manny’s mom across the street. “They all brought me down here.”
“They brought you here?” Mr. Fowrou sounded surprised. “Where’s your clan?”
“My family was … um … taken away by birds,” I offered weakly.
Placing the golden toothpick back in his mouth, Mr. Fowrou asked, “What’s your name, young blood?”
“It’s Sam. Sam Budovich.”
“And where are you from?”
“Vermont.”
“Dag, that’s far. And there’s other hyenas up there like you?”
“Not anymore,” I said.
Mr. Fowrou peered over at Mr. Edi and said to him, “What do you think?”
“Take ’em to the queen,” was Mr. Edi’s only reply.
MR. FOWROU AND HIS COMPANIONS LED ME TO A BIG CAR—some kind of shiny black SUV. Manny and the others followed, squinting when the glossy paint job reflected sunlight into their eyes. The chrome wheels gleamed brightly, and the inside smelled like it had only been bought a few hours before.
When Manny moved to join me in the backseat, Mr. Edi swung a hand to stop him.
“This isn’t for you,” he said. “Only hyenas travel in style.”
Manny’s response was a furious glare. Turning in my direction, he asked, “Can’t we go with you?”
I shrugged, unsure what to say.
Manny fumed, “You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me and my mom.”
My eyes flicked to Mr. Edi, then I glanced at Manny’s mother and said, “She had a vision that told her to bring me here.”
Mr. Edi glanced at Mr. Fowrou, who sucked on his golden toothpick for a moment before asking, “Did y’all come in a car?”
“Over there, across the street,” said Paco. It was the first he had spoken since the incident with Griffe.
“Then follow us,” said Mr. Fowrou.
Five minutes later, Paco’s dinky hatchback was revving behind us down a cobblestone street. Bumps from our tires over the stones made a constant low rumble, although I could also hear music coming through the speakers. Like that music the leopard was playing, it resonated inside me, even though this song had a faster tempo and included trumpets and trombones. I think there might’ve also been an accordion in the mix.
“What kind of music is this?” I mustered up the courage to ask.
Neither Mr. Fowrou nor Mr. Edi were driving; another werehyena with a sleeveless shirt and a thick gold necklace was behind the wheel. Muscles flexed on his arms, and another gold chain swung at his wrist. Mr. Fowrou was in the front passenger seat, Mr. Edi and another werehyena were on either side of me, and the remaining two lounged in the back row.
With a glance at Mr. Edi, who was on my left, Mr. Fowrou said, “We gotta get this Vermont boy schooled on Louisiana culture.”
“Most definitely,” said Mr. Edi.
Mr. Fowrou turned and said, “It’s called zydeco.”
“What is? The music?”
“Down here,” Mr. Fowrou said while nodding, “we’ve got a whole mix of cultures—influences from all over the world.”
“But it all beats with an African heart,” added Mr. Edi, who bumped me and then asked, “What can you tell us about Vermont?”
“Not much, really,” I said after a slight pause. “There aren’t any other hyenas up there besides my family—mostly it’s just wolves and bears.”
“Then how’d you get up there?” asked Mr. Fowrou.
“My family has lived there for a long time. My great-grandfather moved to Vermont from Russia about a hundred years ago.”
“Was he a hyena?” asked Mr. Edi.
“Yeah, he was,” I said.
Mr. Edi glanced at Mr. Fowrou. “Now we got a Russian hyena? I can’t figure it out.”
“Queen Ayaba will know,” Mr. Fowrou assured him.
“She will?” I asked.
“She knows everything,” he said, like it was no big deal.
It felt like the right time to ask what I really wanted to know. “Um, that jaguar kid back there—well, his mom told him that I come from a long line of hunters. Do you know anything about that?”
“About what?” asked Mr. Edi.
“About hyenas being hunters. We also ran into some bears in the woods who said the same thing.”
Practically spinning in his seat, Mr. Fowrou peered straight into my eyes. “Of course! What else would we be?”
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe … like … scavengers?”
With a suck of his teeth, Mr. Fowrou faced forward and said, “Don’t ever use that word again.”
After that, we sped along in silence. The cobblestones finally ended, and we coasted along smooth asphalt. Paco kept behind us; I knew because I checked over my shoulder—one time, at least.
We spent an hour on a highway marked INTERSTATE 10 and passed Baton Rouge, then turned in the direction of the setting sun. In unison, every one of the hyenas retrieved a pair of dark sunglasses from their suit pockets, except for the driver, who got his shades from the glove box. Once his eyes were covered, he offered me a spare pair.
“Oh … thanks.” It felt weird to speak again, since everybody had been quiet for so long. It was a gesture of kindness, though, and my parents always told me to be respectful if people offered you something.
“Just so you know,” Mr. Fowrou warned me, “your friends might not be welcomed where we’re headed.”
“How come?” I asked in barely more than a whisper.
“Hyenas don’t take kindly to dogs and felines,” said Mr. Edi. “They’re viewed as competition.” He chuckled. “And lesser competition at that.”
“Competition …” I trailed off. “For what?”
“For hunting,” chimed in one hyena.
“For territory,” said another.
“Actually,” said Mr. Fowrou, “I would’ve chased them off entirely except that vision you mentioned got me thinking.”
Swallowing hard, I worked up the nerve to ask, “Thinking about what?”
Mr. Fowrou sighed. “Sometimes that’s how the spirits call us. They work in mysterious ways, so I want to run it by the queen.”
“Spirits?” I asked with a gulp. That sounded a lot like ghosts or something—and that wasn’t something I really wanted to encounter.
“Dag, young blood,” said Mr. Edi, “you’ve still got lots to learn.”
We left the
highway, sped along an asphalt road, and turned down another made of dirt. The right side of the road was lined with pine forest, and the left sloped into what appeared to be a swamp, even though trees with wide roots rose from murky, black water. Vines wrapped around the closest trunks, weaving a barrier that became seemingly more impenetrable the farther in we drove.
I peeked back again to make sure Paco was following. Through a cloud of dust raised by our SUV’s tires, I made out a tiny blue car bumping along. Twilight was settling in, and everyone removed their sunglasses, including me. Soon after, a soft glow coming through the back window told me that Paco had flipped on his headlights.
We rolled along for another mile or two until the driver pulled to an abrupt stop. A massive gate loomed in front of us, its bars pounded from thick rods of iron. One shoulder of the road curved around a stagnant pool that fed into the swamp. Next to the pool lay a white alligator. And if that sight wasn’t strange enough, the alligator was wearing overalls. A thick tail spilled from the rear section of the pants—the part that’s usually kept buttoned shut when cartoon characters wear such clothes.
Paco’s car squealed when it stopped behind the SUV. A cloud of dust swept into the alligator’s mouth, making it cough and sputter. An instant later, it rose on two legs and shifted to a human, becoming a ruddy-skinned, heavyset white man suffering from a bad case of sunburn—on those parts I could see, at least. He was shirtless, but the front bib of those overalls covered his chest. Placing a straw hat on his head and a corncob pipe in his mouth, he stroked his beard and gave us a once-over.
“You sleeping on the job again, Lamont?” Mr. Fowrou chided the shape-shifting alligator. To be honest, I’d never heard of werereptiles before, so I’m sure my jaw was hanging wide open in disbelief.
“No, sir,” he answered in a thick, French-sounding accent. “I been keeping watch this whole time.”
Mr. Fowrou glared at the man in overalls, completely unconvinced. “I’d hate to tell Queen Ayaba that you ain’t keeping alert.”
“But I am,” Lamont insisted.
With a quick scan from head to toe, Mr. Edi said, “Looks like you’ve been sleeping all day in the sun.”
The alligator-man scratched his scraggly beard and readjusted his hat, clearly unable to think up any excuse.
“Tell you what,” Mr. Fowrou said in a comforting tone. “We’ll let this one slide, provided you take these folks around the back way.”
Mr. Edi shook his head. “You’re gettin’ soft, Darnell.”
Sucking his teeth, Mr. Fowrou—first name Darnell—said, “You just gotta choose your battles, Baptiste. Lamont here means well enough.”
“That’s right,” said the alligator-man. “I mos’ certainly do.”
“Take these folks around back,” Mr. Fowrou ordered, waving his hand back toward Paco, Manny, and Manny’s mom.
“All the way ’round?” Lamont asked. His half-reptilian eyes squinted while he spoke.
“Come on now,” said Mr. Fowrou, “you know the rules. Only hyenas pass through the main gate, and these ones ain’t hyenas.”
“They ain’t hyenas?” asked Lamont.
Mr. Fowrou crossed his arms. “I thought y’all gators had a good sense of smell.”
“We do,” said Lamont, “but mammals all smell the same to me.”
“Well, these ain’t hyenas. We got two jaguars and a coyote back there in that car.”
Lamont tugged at his beard for another moment, then slid a hand down the front of his overalls, which were completely covered with dirt. Clutching the plastic tip of the corncob pipe between his teeth, he asked, “Is they even allowed in?”
Mr. Fowrou shrugged. “Let me speak with Queen Ayaba first. Taking them around to the back will give us some time. The lady sitting in the front seat there has visions, and they helped bring the young blood here, so maybe they’ll get permission.”
Letting out a tired sigh, Lamont motioned at a wide hole in the vines and said, “Y’all might as well come this way.”
Manny and Paco exited from the car and peered at me uncertainly. Not Manny’s mother, though; she looked almost serene as she lightly closed the hatchback’s door.
“You aren’t going to let anything happen to them, are you?” I asked Mr. Fowrou.
“Nah, Sam,” Mr. Fowrou assured, “they’ll be fine. Like I said—Queen Ayaba might even want to meet the cats who brought a lost brother home.”
Paco, Manny, and his mother shuffled off behind Lamont, who’d forgotten to button up the back of his overalls. His pasty-white butt was bright as a full moon when the gator turned away from us, and the hyena-men burst out in laughter. Even I joined in.
“Maybe you’d better let them go first, Lamont,” Mr. Fowrou cackled. “Otherwise, they’re gonna go blind.”
Eyes cast over his shoulder, Lamont blinked at us for a moment with a blank stare on his face. When the driver finally pointed at Lamont’s bare backside, he took the hint and buttoned up.
Still snickering, Mr. Fowrou said, “It sure ain’t easy getting good security out here. Lord knows we’ve tried.”
As soon as Lamont and the other non-hyenas disappeared through the gap in the vegetation, Mr. Edi and his companions jumped out of the SUV and opened the “hyenas only” gate. When it was wide enough for our SUV to pass through, they clambered back into the vehicle, and we started barreling along. We bounced over ruts and dips in the road for a few minutes until Mr. Fowrou turned, hooked his arm around the headrest behind the driver, and said, “Now when you meet Queen Ayaba, you never look her straight in the eyes, you hear?”
Tearing my thoughts from Manny and the others, I asked, “How come?”
“That woman’s got some powerful hoodoo,” said Mr. Edi.
“Huh?” I didn’t follow.
“Hoodoo’s like … like magic our ancestors brought with them.”
“When they were stolen from Africa,” said Mr. Fowrou.
“Magic,” I muttered. “Is that how we change into hyenas?” Truth was, I’d never thought about how we changed before.
“Queen Ayaba will tell you,” said Mr. Edi. “She can explain it better than we ever could.”
Mr. Fowrou locked eyes with me. “You know, they say her great-great-great-grandfather was the mighty François Mackandal.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound impressed—and failing in the attempt.
Mr. Fowrou sighed. “You don’t know who I’m talking about, do you?”
“Um …” I trailed off.
“Three hundred years ago, Mackandal was a great leader in Haiti. Some say he was a shape shifter, some say he was a voodoo priest. But whatever he was, his power was legendary.”
“But isn’t voodoo, like, black magic or something?” I asked.
A ferocious giggle erupted from Mr. Edi. “That’s lies, all lies.”
Mr. Fowrou turned even farther around. “Hoodoo … voodoo … whatever you want to call it comes from the religions our ancestors practiced in Africa. There ain’t nothin’ evil about it, no more than any other religion.” He sucked his teeth. “But white folk call it ‘black magic’ because they’re scared of our power. You follow?”
I nodded, if only to smooth things over, and hoping they wouldn’t consider me one of those “white folk” who they clearly didn’t think highly of. And, if I was really being honest with myself, even though my skin color was hard to hide, I felt more of a connection with these six men than anybody I’d ever met before—except for my own family, of course.
As we drove along the dirt roadway, I suddenly heard the sound of drums. They were distant, but grew louder as our vehicle clawed around a curve. Suddenly, a flat field spread before us, bordered by pine trees and covered in well-manicured grass. It almost looked like the grassland in my dreams, except it was filled with people—hundreds, if not thousands, of them.
And they were dancing. Every last one. Men, women, and children. The drums pounded a thundering beat, and everyone followed along. Each
person was kind of doing their own thing, some flinging arms up and down, some stomping their feet, others swaying their whole bodies back and forth—yet they moved in one mass under the guidance of the drums. When the rhythm shifted, they did, too. Night was falling now, and I noticed torches rimmed the dance area. The torch flames lashed the air, which was heavy with humidity, incense, and smoke.
We eased out of the car, and the people started to chant. Everyone appeared to be mouthing the same words, except I didn’t understand the language.
“What are they saying?” I asked Mr. Fowrou, who was nodding his head to the beat.
His lips cut into a smirk. “They’re inviting Queen Ayaba to share her wisdom.”
“In what language?”
“All kinds of languages. Some from Africa, some from other parts. There’s Yoruba, Ewe, Igbo, Wolof, a dash of Portuguese and Choctaw, and a generous helping of French. It’s like I told you before—we have a mix of cultures down here.”
It was then that I noticed an elevated platform to one side of the crowd. Its wooden frame was adorned with intricate symbols—hearts and snakes and circles with arrows. Trees in the vicinity were painted with similar designs, every one in blazing white.
Then, without warning, everything went silent. The drums stopped rumbling, the people stopped dancing, and it was so quiet I thought I’d gone deaf.
Except I hadn’t. Out from the darkness behind the platform came a series of shakes and jangles. Seconds later, a woman appeared on stage. Her movements were graceful, her figure was muscular, and the dress she wore was multicolored. It poured over her body in folds. Similar fabric wound around her hair, and I saw a puff of braids spouting from the top.
An object in her right hand caught my attention. It was a gnarled, wooden stick topped with an enormous skull.
The sharp teeth showed that it came from a predator.
A big predator, no doubt.
“My sisters and brothers,” the woman said in a commanding voice. “These are rough times for our kind, and the days ahead will bring more hardships for hyena people.”
“She sees the future,” whispered Mr. Edi.
“Really?” I asked.
The woman’s gaze shot toward us, as if she’d heard what we were saying, even though we were over two hundred feet away.
Earning My Spots Page 7