Narcisa

by Jonathan Shaw

  Luciana would know. She’d been trying to clean up for decades before she finally got free from her lifelong cocaine addiction. Since then, through AA and her Umbanda practice, she had really changed. I was glad to be there with her; happy to be anywhere, as long as it was far from the Crack Monster and Narcisa’s angry spirits. Riding up the winding dirt path through a little rural encampment of thatched-roof huts, I prayed to Pai Ogum to open my heart to whatever guidance I might receive from the spirits there.

  As we passed a crude wooden gate and entered the terreiro, the ceremony had already begun. Drawing closer, I could hear the conga drums and moody, monotonous African chants of the pontos. I parked beside a simple rustic shack with wood smoke rising from a chimney. We were greeted by a young woman with rough indigenous features, dressed all in white. She smiled and pointed the way along a narrow dirt path.

  We made our way downhill, into a shaded clearing, then sat on a rock beside a waterfall. We watched in silence as a dozen mediums, all dressed in the traditional white ceremonial garb of the Umbanda, danced on the packed dirt in swaying, trancelike circles. Long, heavy guias of colorful crystal beads swung from their necks like underwater plants as they swayed back and forth, flowing in and out of this and other dimensions, chanting and singing the traditional curimbas in a deep, hypnotic cadence. Other workers moved around the circle, spreading sage smoke and Palo Santo incense from earthen jars dangling on thick hemp ropes, while two white-haired Negroes beating on big wooden tambores led the oração.

  To the right of the drums was a long wooden congá. Plates sat on straw mats on a rough wooden table under a thatched palm roof; exotic food offerings to the spirit guides. The oferendas were surrounded by dozens of colorful imagens of Catholic saints, devilish exús, angels and carved wooden statues of the various Orixáis. The altars were covered with long-stemmed white, red and yellow flowers.

  Right away, my eyes fell on a large ancestral African wood carving of Ogum, the mythological Yoruba warrior god—my Orixá, or spirit-guide. Paí Ogum looked fierce and powerful, brandishing his pair of mighty swords.

  I could smell a sickly-sweet odor from the open champagne bottles as a persistent cloud of mosquitoes hummed around my face. The bubbly liquid had been poured out into delicate crystal taças on another shrine, covered with dozens of blazing white candles. The ground was peppered with weird esoteric geometrical symbols scratched into the hard dirt in white chalk markings, closed off by a giant circle of protection.

  A little silver bell was rung by one of the mediums. The drumming and chanting halted.

  Silence.

  An old woman, who appeared to be the chief shaman, began shaking and contorting as she was “mounted” by her Orixá and taken over by the entity. Fascinated, I watched as her whole physical countenance began to change, shape-shifting, transforming, morphing into the spirit of the Preta Velha: the Old Negress. The wise and venerable ancestral spirit of Vovó Catarina de Angola.

  The spirit “riding” the woman’s wiry frame was handed a clay pipe by one of the helpers. She lit it and puffed up a great cloud of smoke.

  After walking around the terreiro, inspecting the other mediums, giving her blessings, she looked up with a fierce expression of unearthly authority. With a slow, steady eye, she peered into the crowd, looking around, checking out the assembled people, one by one. Then, her trance-glazed gaze fixed on me. Her lips were moving, saying something. I couldn’t hear a sound as she pointed a thin, leathery finger, beckoning me to come.

  Feeling a familiar otherworldly chill in my gut, I rose. Luciana put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and gave me a gentle shove forward.

  83. MOTHER OF THE SPIRITS

  “A MAN GOES TO KNOWLEDGE AS HE GOES TO WAR, WIDE-AWAKE, WITH FEAR, WITH RESPECT, AND WITH ABSOLUTE ASSURANCE. GOING TO KNOWLEDGE OR GOING TO WAR IN ANY OTHER MANNER IS A MISTAKE, AND WHOEVER MAKES IT WILL LIVE TO REGRET HIS STEPS.”

  —Don Juan (as told to Carlos Castañeda)

  I shuffled across the clearing and stepped into the circle. A cloud of mosquitos hovered around my face like they were about to inherit the earth. I could feel my sweat-soaked cotton shirt clinging to my back as a white-clad assistant led me over to a little wooden stool. I sat down before the wizened old Mãe de Santo.

  She studied me with bright, glowing eyes. Then, she reached out and took my hand in a firm, cool grasp, addressing me with an archaic cackle. “I knows ya already, me son, hey?”

  I had to ask her to repeat herself in order to understand her ancient Portuguese. She was speaking an obsolete dialect; from old Mother Africa, before the time of the slave trade and her ancestors’ forced pilgrimage to the New World.

  She stared into my eyes. “Ya done come here befo’ to see I, hey, meu filho?”

  I shook my head and told her it was my first visit to the terreiro.

  She seemed to be contemplating my words as she took several deep pulls on her tobacco pipe. As we were enveloped in a cloud of gray smoke, I knew she was making contact, sending her intentions and prayers aloft to the spirits.

  Spitting a gob of brown saliva into the dirt, she spoke again. “Yah! I knows ya, filho!” She held me with that haunting, ironclad stare. “Ya done come befo’ I in de other times, yea, wee gypsy-mon!”

  I looked down and shrugged, feeling goose bumps covering my arms and back, despite the oppressive country heat.

  “Come fo’ward den, queridinho, come close an’ mek fe’ me embrace ya . . . Come up closer, de-ah one . . .” Whispering kindly, she reached out and pulled me to her with powerful arms, holding me in a long, hard embrace.

  I could feel the magnetic charge of her love. It was like a jolt of electricity charging into me, shuttling me into another state of awareness. Tears filled my eyes, and I went limp.

  She gave me a gentle shove back and looked deep into my soul. “Filho de Ogum!” She held me with her intense stare, addressing me with the formal title: “Son of Ogum.”

  I lowered my head again as Caridade spoke on, in a calm, forceful tone.

  “Ya gal-frien’, her got de good an’ pow-ful guidin’ spirit what mek de protection fe’ she way in all she eart’ly roads. O Santo Guerreiro, Ogum. Same like ya self, hey, young warrior,”

  “Saravá, patacori, Ogunyé!” I nodded a salutation to my beloved Orixá.

  “Ya gal, dis one dem calls Narcis-sara, she got de big spirit troubles, ya seen’? Um baito encosto. Um espirito obsessor. Ya understan’ ya granny, hey?”

  I nodded as Caridade went on, talking about Narcisa’s spiritual weight, the Curse. Sinking into the dark, swirling pools of the old woman’s eyes, all of a sudden, I began feeling dizzy and nauseous. It was a sign, I knew, of an egum. The presence of a spirit; a ghost. My mouth went bone dry, and at once my mind’s eye was seeing an image of Narcisa, sitting behind me on the motorcycle, slapping at my back, yelling . . . “Pare aqui!! E’stop here, Cigano! E’stop e’stop!”

  It had been late. Well past midnight on a Monday, Day of the Dead for Rio’s many practicing Macumbeiros. As Narcisa beat at my shoulder like some cocaine-maddened racehorse jockey, I’d slowed the bike. Before I could come to a full stop, she’d vaulted off the back and hit the ground running. I closed my eyes and pictured Narcisa sprinting back to the crossroads, pilfering the oferendas, grabbing a bottle of cachaça sitting at the curb.

  I shook my head, remembering the look on her face that night; so pleased with herself and her cool nihilist punk irreverence, as she swaggered back over, munching on a fresh acarajé and swigging from the forbidden bottle.

  “Epa! Olha o azar!” I’d shot her a warning look. “I wouldn’t be drinking that stuf—”

  “Menos, old Dona Maria! Meeenos! These e’stupid Macumbeiro e’sheets don’ got no powers over me, porra! Hah! Shut de fock up!”

  I’d only been half joking at the time. Half. Sitting before Mãe Caridade now, looking into those dark, wise African whirlpools, it didn’t seem funny at all.

  The Vovó spoke on in
a grave, patient tone. “Ya try an’ give de help fe’ she, filho, cause ya de more stronger warrior den she are. Ya already been to de dark place befo’ an’ ya done fight many de hard battle fe’ mek ya way inna de light.”

  “I try to help her, Mãe, I do! But she’s so hardheaded, so stubborn!”

  “Me knows all ’bout dat, filho. Me kin sees it all right he-ah.” She grimaced, looking down at a glass of water by her feet.

  Silence.

  Finally, she looked up again, staring right through me with a knowing little smile. “Her t’ink she too much clever, meu filho, an’ her s’pose she knowin’ all ’bout de occult world. But her don’ know nuttin’ a’tall . . .”

  She stopped and studied the water again.

  Silence.

  She nodded. “Ya gots fe’ know dis one t’ing, filho. All a de gal stubborn way no only she ’lone self. Is no just she ’lone inna she body now, child, seen? Ya understan’ what I sayin’?”

  I could feel my face scrunching up as I tried to decipher her cryptic speech.

  “Dis small ga-al, dis one ya call Narcis-sara, her so innocente dis po’ wee t’ing, her don’ even knows how much de trouble her put inna she self, ya seen?”

  I nodded, watching that somber, dark leathery face.

  Silence.

  She sat there for a while, shaking her head, muttering, praying, as the coin of awareness began its slow descent into my gut. Then, it dropped with a sickening clunk as she spoke on in a confusing rush of archaic language.

  From what I could make out, Narcisa had been some sort of sorceress in another life, with great psychic abilities she carried into this incarnation. But she’d used those powers to do harm. Her present suffering was a purification, the old woman explained, to pay off some dark karmic obligation. For me, it appeared to be a promise I’d made in another life to help her in her mission to do better in this one. My own karmic debt. It all made sense as I thought of the many odd déjà vu moments I’d felt around Narcisa.

  After another long pause, as if listening to instructions, Caridade nodded. Then, she went on, confirming my worst fears. Narcisa had opened the gates to hell for herself. Her addiction resulted from her attempts to escape her mission, leaving herself wide open to occult spirit possession.

  “Her got de hungry obsessor sittin’ ’pon she heart now . . .” The old woman started coughing. “So much smoke all ’round dis po’ child! Urrffff . . .” She grimaced, struggling to catch her breath. “Is de vampiro what attach to she. I feels it ’pon she chest right now, filho, suckin’ de life out. An’ she spirit body lookin’ black, all cover wit’ ashes, full a hole an’ all cut up, like a wee bird what de cat got! Yah, her got de jealous spirit enemy all ’round she self.”

  “What kinda sprits?” I cocked my head.

  “Some a dem de dead peoples what can’t get free from de physical world. Other ones still livin’ inna human form, incarnados. All a dem feedin’ ’pon she life force . . . An’ someone livin’ close by she what gots de negative carga ’pon dem, fe’ sho’!”

  I watched her lips moving like the wings of a vulture flapping over a corpse. As goose bumps crept up my back, I thought of Doc and Narcisa’s mother.

  “What do you mean, Mãe?” I swallowed hard, dreading the answer.

  “Pois é, meu filho, são os vampiros espirituais!” She nodded; Caridade repeated the frightful prognosis of psychic vampirism. Then she took another long draw on the pipe.

  Silence.

  A cloud of tobacco smoke surrounded us again as she spit in the dirt, then began to explain. “Some peoples livin’ in de same body wit’ a vampire spirit, seen? Dem parasita gon’ stay ’pon dis po’ ga-al till she body all use up. An’ if her don’ change up she way soon, den her gon’ go down fe’ join wit’ dem low spirit in de dark region, soon as she go fe dead.”

  It was hard to make out her words. I scrunched up my nose. Confused, I blurted out. “But why, Mãe? Why would some invisible vampire spirit wanna attach itself to a person?”

  I looked into those bottomless black eyes as the old Spirit Mother explained how Narcisa was surrounded by all sorts of troubled spirits, both living and dead; mad, demanding, hungry, ghostly parasites, using her to sustain their earthly vices.

  “Dem needs she physical form for dem own sustenencia, meu filho.” She gave me another sad look. “Dem gots to have de vehicle fe’ keep goin’ he-ah. Dem be livin’ through she, usin’ she body, seen? If she no get spirit help now, dem gon’ destroy she . . .”

  84. VAMPIROS

  “THE GENERAL POPULATION CAN BE OPEN TO SPIRIT POSSESSION AT TIMES OF EXTREME DEPRESSION AND OTHER LOW VIBRATIONAL ENERGETIC STATES. DRUGS AND HEAVY DRINKING CAN SERIOUSLY OPEN THE DOOR, TOO. SO CAN HAVING SEX WITH A POSSESSED PERSON. THE ENERGETIC CONNECTION CREATES A MUTUAL FIELD WHICH THE SPIRIT ENTITIES CAN CROSS.”

  —David Icke

  The old Spirit Mother’s words were boring into my brain like spikes.

  “What can I do, Mãe?” I cried out, pleading through a haze of tears. “I wanna help her, but I’m afraid one of us is gonna die if we keep on like this! What can I do?”

  Caridade put those strong, bony hands on my shoulder and pulled me closer, closer, until I was looking so deep into her eyes I thought I’d be sucked away.

  “Is true de danger fe ye-self ’long wit’ she, filho. If ya stays on together wit’ dis Narcis-sara, ya can come to harm too if ye no takes big care!”

  “What about her, Mãe? What’s gonna happen to Narcisa if I leave her?”

  Silence. I watched her dark, leathery face.

  Finally, she shook her head and went on with a sad gimace. “If ya no stay by dis one no mo’, den her gon’ be gone fe’ sho’, soon come . . . A’ready her almos’ finish. Meu Pai Oxalá! Her try fe’ fin’ a way fo’ live de life he-ah together wit’ ya, but her gettin’ so tire out now . . . ’Tadinha . . . Her can’ go on dis way much mo’ . . .”

  There it was. My worst fears confirmed. If I stayed on with Narcisa, my life was in danger. But if I left, she’d be finished—and soon. I thought of the promise I’d made at the Love House; my decision to never give up on her. I could feel myself making it again. I knew right then that it was easier for me to care about Narcisa’s well-being than even my own life.

  Caridade must have known it too. She stared at me with a look of such deep, compassionate unconditional love, I began to sob.

  “Ya done see too much pain an’ sufferin’ inna dis world, young gypsy boy, hey?”

  I nodded. She spoke the truth. Like Narcisa, I’d been born to lose. What else was left but to live to win another battle, or die trying? There was no turning back.

  “Dis no de firs’ time ya got de big haz-ard ’pon ye. Don’ vex yeself. Ya Vovó gon’ be wit’ ya all de time now, young guerreiro. Salve Ogum! Saravá!”

  “Saravá Ogum!” Bowing my head, I repeated the salutation.

  Caridade lowered her face. She stayed silent for a long while. Praying. Listening. Conferring with the Unseen.

  Finally, she looked up again, fixing me with those all-seeing eyes. “Who dis woman frien’ dis Narcis-sara goin’ roun’ wit’? De one dem calls Francisca-ara. Who dat one, hey?”

  Fuck! I knew exactly who Caridade was talking about. Recently, Narcisa had teamed up with an older alcoholic lesbian named Francisca, a so-called poet from the Casa Verde. A violent-tempered, man-hating prostitute, that wretched creature was an ugly reminder of what Narcisa could become, if she didn’t die or get help. Out of nowhere, this Francisca was everywhere I looked. Whenever I tried to see Narcisa lately, her new friend would appear like a shadow. Hovering, looming, drooling like a filmy-eyed old bulldog.

  I frowned and looked at Caridade. “That one really hates me, Mãe.”

  The old woman stared into the glass at her feet as I spilled my guts about Narcisa’s loathsome new companion. Francisca was a big fan of Baudelaire, I told her, a loud-mouthed advocate of the mythical wonders of the Grape. But that one was no Baudel
aire; just a vile, gutter-dwelling bum, pickling her brains in a reeking red cascade of cheap vinho tinto, which had surely never seen a grape. To me, she was like an outward expression of Narcisa’s inner soul-sickness. Another face of the hydra-headed Curse; an omen of impending doom.

  “Pois, é, meu filho.” Caridade nodded, as if she already knew.

  The two of them had been going out drinking every night lately, I lamented. This Francisca would swagger around like a demented land crab, reading out loud from a book of Baudelaire’s poetry, professing to channel his spirit. To see it, you’d think that miserable whore had made a pact with the devil or something. She was a real nasty piece of work; a loser among losers, even among the wandering beggars of Lapa. She’d broken both her legs once, after jumping, drunk, from a trick’s hotel window. The bones had never set right, so she limped around all crooked, shifting back and forth like a ghostly drunken mule’s rear end.

  Then one day, Narcisa had started coming around, raving about this fantastic new role model she’d met. I was horrified when I realized the great undiscovered genius she spoke of was the same clammy figure I’d been seeing for years, stumbling around the streets of Lapa in the foggy predawn hours, stooped over like a pigeon-toed phantom, cloaked in a shabby overcoat the color of a wet rat, wine bottles clinking in her pockets, snarling and cursing at passersby.

  The whole thing disgusted me.

  Caridade spat in the dirt. “Yah! Me no likes dat one deh! Her got de dark vampire spirit walkin’ together wit’ she all de time . . .” She paused again, then looked up at me with a wry face of concern. “An’ who dat other one me keeps seein’ he-ah, hey?”

  “Other one?” I raised a slow, weary eyebrow.

  “Yah, filho, some ol’ gray face mon me seein’ roun’ ya Narcis-sara. All de time he be watchin’ she from inna de shadow, hey? Like one ogly ol’ rat-face . . .”

  Doc! Shit! I knew from Narcisa’s friends at the Casa Verde that Francisca was friendly with the old murderer. The puzzle pieces were moving into place.