by Eli Easton
I was clothed tonight.
While I flipped burgers and traveled back and forth to the kitchen, cutting tomatoes (and opting against onions tonight—I was hoping for much kissing) and lettuce and such, Myles found my scrapbook from my Chicago-suburb days.
“Oh, God, Myles! Don’t look at that?”
“Why not?”
I swallowed hard. “It’s embarrassing.”
He looked at me, concern in his dark eyes. “Why embarrassing?”
“It’s—it’s just it’s all such sappy stuff. You know, ‘Kid With Autism Confronts His Bullies with Forgiveness,’ and ‘Old Man Turns His Garage Into a Shelter For Strays.’ That kind of bullshit.”
“It doesn’t sound like bullshit to me.”
I gave up and let him read.
Which surprised me all the more when I came out on the balcony with cheese for the burgers—I mean, who eats burgers without cheese?—and found him with tears running down his face. “Myles!” I said, alarmed. “Are you okay?”
“This story,” he started to reply and then his voice broke. “Th-this story about the twins….” His voice broke again and he pointed. I looked.
“Twin Carries Injured Brother Across The Finish Line At 800-Meter Race.” My breath caught. I remembered that day. It had been a spring morning, a Saturday, and I’d been planning on going to the Rocks on Lake Michigan to sun myself and maybe get lucky when my boss called and asked me, as a favor, to cover the sporting event at the high school. I didn’t do sporting events. Not even high-school sporting events. Maybe especially high-school events. But I went. As a special favor. I’d been there in the bleachers, trying not to kill myself from boredom, when I saw the kid fall down. Saw another kid, who had been in the lead, stop, go back, and pick him up and carry him the rest of the way. “They came in dead last,” I said quietly.
“…but for the very best reason.” Myles read, “‘I couldn’t leave him there,’ said fourteen-year-old Julian. ‘He’s my brother. And I’m my brother’s keeper.’”
Myles sighed and wiped his face, and I was surprised myself when I realized there were tears gathering in my eyes as well.
“Oh, Taylor. You’re ashamed of stories like these?”
“Not—not ashamed,” I said.
“But embarrassed.”
I shrugged, suddenly at a loss for words. It had been a powerful day. Imagine if more people stopped to help their brothers.
“Taylor, I would read the paper if there were more stories like these.” He pointed at the article, carefully cut from the Daily Herald and glued on the scrapbook page. “Imagine,” Myles said, “if more people stopped to help those in need. Not caring if they come in first place, only in making sure everyone crosses the finish line.”
And once more I had to entertain the idea of wondering if Myles could read my mind.
“This reminds me of the Marassa.”
“The Marassa?” I asked.
Myles smiled. “The Lwa twins. They are always the second to be honored in any vodou ceremony, after Papa Legba. Some say they were one soul born into two separate bodies. They bring good fortune. But watch them!” Myles chuckled. “They are children, after all, and they can be impish! Kids will be kids.”
“Even… on the other side?” I asked. “When they became saints?”
“Of course!” Myles exclaimed. “How else can they help us if they don’t feel like we do? That is why I always had trouble with Jesus. We are supposed to follow His example, but how can we? He was God on earth. Christians say He knew what He was, even as a child. So how could He have been tempted in the wilderness? I mean, really? He knew the devil couldn’t give Him anything because everything already belonged to Him, right? How could He have been afraid of death? He already knew He was going to rise on the third day, right? According to the Christian stories. But we humans have only faith. So how can we live up to Christ’s example? We aren’t God!”
I nodded slowly. It’s something I hadn’t thought of in a long, long time. Part of why I had let my mother’s religion slip out of my life. How could I possibly follow the example of a perfect being who knew He was God?
“Now the Lwa on the other hand,” Myles continued. “And the spirits of our ancestors? They were human, and sometimes, even though they are powerful, they are still human. If you have a relative that was always trying to set you up on a date because she never realized or couldn’t figure out you were gay—then don’t ask her to help you find a mate. She’ll still be looking for a woman. Unless you finally let her know. Tell her. And in vodou, you can tell her. Then with the wisdom she has with the Ghede, she will do what she can to help.”
“What are the Ghede?” I asked.
“They are the recently dead. They know all about human suffering. They remember it clearly. The altar at the store, the one covered in purple? That is their altar. I go to them for healing. They can be pranksters, though. Like Dasou and Dasa, the Marassa.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “You really believe this stuff, don’t you?”
“Stuff?”
“I don’t mean stuff. I….” I didn’t know what I meant. It was hard to believe. It sounded like wishful thinking. Like just another religion created from man’s fear that when we die, there is nothing.
I jumped when Myles pulled me into his arms. “I do believe in this stuff. I have proof. I don’t have to take it by faith. I have seen it.” He kissed the top of my head. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I’m so sorry, Taylor.”
Sorry? “For what?”
“Oh, Taylor. We—people who believe in vodou—there is something that we do not do. We don’t evangelize. We don’t try and bring people into the fold. That’s what I’ve been doing to you, isn’t it?”
“I—I….” Had he? “No, Myles. I’ve been asking you—”
“My own monbo,” he said. “The priestess who taught me vodou, she tried to talk me out of it at first. A good teacher always does. She asked me, ‘Why vodou?’ and I surprised myself when I said, ‘Why not vodou?’ It must have been the right answer, because then she was willing to teach me. And most practitioners stay at the lowest levels—believing but never becoming monbo or houngan, priestess or priest. Never ounsi, first level like me, let alone surr pwen, second level, or asogwe, the highest level. But I knew I had been called for more. Papa Legba called me.”
I looked up into his dark eyes, filled with emotions. This wasn’t religious crap to him. It was real. And when he talked of vodou, I could hear the love in his voice. It wasn’t about the hellfire and brimstone from my childhood. It was so different. And what had he said? Something about how before he found vodou—before it found him—he was only waiting for his life to begin…. “It’s okay, Myles,” I said quietly. “I was curious. I asked….”
“Then maybe you should stop.”
“Stop what?” I asked him.
“Stop asking. Because you need to know this. Asking will bring you to their attention. In fact, you probably already have. Unless you stop, they might start calling to you….”
“Me?” Gooseflesh ran up my arms. I closed my eyes again. So much to take in. And did I really want to take all this in?
God. What was I doing? This was all crazy! I was seeing a man who believed in Haitian saints! He had an altar in his home. He ran a vodou shop. There were religious fanatics trying to drive him out of the city. Did I want that in my life?
“Look,” Myles said. “I know how this all sounds. I know how it sounded to me. But it is who I am. The Lwa know me. They called to me. And I serve them. It is the most important thing in my life. You might as well sleep with a Catholic priest, except he would have to keep it a secret. Taylor… I like you. I like you a lot. I want to see you. But I come with… with this.”
I opened my eyes and he raised his hands above him.
“I am ounsi. I am a vodou houngan. I will always be a part of the société.”
Very abruptly, he pulled his shirt
off over his head, revealing the well-muscled chest I remembered so well from the night before. Kissing it. Sucking on those dark-chocolate nipples. But then he turned and showed me his back. He pointed at his huge tattoo. “This is the vévé—the ceremonial drawing to Ezili Danto, my patron.” He turned around. “I am vodou. If you can’t deal with that, we should stop now.”
“The hamburgers are going to burn.”
“What?”
“I said the hamburgers are burning. Let me put the cheese on them. Let’s deal with that first, okay? Hamburgers? Then the rest of our lives?”
“S-sure.” He backed up.
I flipped the meat patties once more and placed the cheese slices over top. A minute later, they were done, and I took them off the fire and back to the kitchen, where we fixed our burgers and heaped our plates with the potato salad and chips we’d picked up from the local Thriftway. We watched TV and we cuddled on the couch and then we kissed.
Oh, it was such good kissing.
We could just sleep on this, right?
But then I saw the man in my dreams again. The man with the red heart painted on his face. Suddenly a chill ran through me, and I shuddered and pulled away from Myles.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ve been having this dream. And I thought about you and your dreams, and it made me wonder.”
“Well, if you’ve been having some weird dreams, it’s pretty normal. The last few days have been pretty weird.”
I nodded. “Yes. But….”
“But?”
“This man—he’s come to me twice now. And he seemed very real. Scared me half to death.” I scooted closer to Myles.
He nodded.
“He was a black man and he had this huge mane of dreadlocks, and painted on his face with this bright red heart.”
Myles eyes went wide. It was only for one second. Not even that. He tried to hide it, but I saw.
“And he had very sharp teeth. Like shark’s teeth.” I took the tooth that was hanging around Myles neck. “Bigger than this. And much sharper.”
I saw him swallow, saw his Adam’s apple bob. It meant something. I saw it. He was still trying to hide it, but I saw. “He’s real, isn’t he?” I shivered. Moments ago, I had tried to tell myself it was all crap. Just more religious crap. And now? Now I was entertaining the idea that this vodou stuff could be real. Wasn’t I dreaming about something I couldn’t know anything about? In all my research, there hadn’t been anything about a man with a heart on his face—a man with shark’s teeth.
“Tell me,” I said.
There was a moment then that seemed to stretch forever. I was just about to ask again when Myles told me. “You saw Bawon Manjè Kè. The eater of hearts.”
I shuddered.
“In life he was a plantation slave, and he helped with the Haitian revolution. He led the revolt on his own master and killed him and ate his heart. It is said in the days before the revolt, he sharpened his teeth into daggers. He killed many men in the days to come. He ate more hearts. And when they caught him, they actually burned him at the stake. Now fire is his symbol and it obeys him. He is a very dark, very hot Lwa. He is fierce. He is not to be taken lightly.”
I began to shake. God. Myles believed this!
What’s more, I was beginning to believe it myself.
“Is this what you meant? When you said the Lwa were probably already noticing me. Why this one? Why Bawon…. Man….
“Bawon Manjè Kè,” Myles said. “I don’t know. I’ve never called on such hot Lwa. I steer clear of them. Even Mama Gloria, my monbo, she stays clear. I don’t know why he would have noticed you.”
“But you think he has.”
Myles paused. Then he said, “I think he might have, and….” His eyes went wide. “Oh, God. The killings. They’re calling on him.”
“What?”
“Whoever is killing those people. They must be calling on him! They want power and fame and fortune. Something. They don’t want to wait. They don’t want their fair share. So they went to him. And he would demand hearts.”
I shuddered. “Then—why me? I don’t want any of those things.”
Myles turned to me. “Don’t you? You want this story. You want to be a big-time reporter. Isn’t fame exactly what you desire?”
I began to shake harder. “But I didn’t call on him! I didn’t even know who he was. I didn’t know anything about any of this until a few days ago!”
Myles nodded. “No. But you were there. At the murder sites. And he could have noticed you. Noticed your ambition. Maybe he thought it was you who killed those people. And now he is calling to you.”
“No!” I cried. “No. This is bullshit. This isn’t real. I don’t believe it! You hear me? And I’ve read it over and over the last few days. If you don’t believe, then it can’t hurt you. I don’t believe it.”
Myles pulled me into his arms again. I tried to fight it at first. I was scared. I was damned scared. But resisting his muscles was like resisting coils made of steel. I didn’t have a chance. And when I stopped fighting, I let myself melt against him, melt into his strength.
“Is he after me?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Myles said. “But we can try and find out.”
“How?”
“Tomorrow night. We will call on the Lwa.”
IT WAS all quite complicated. Candle and cornmeal and incense.
We were at Lucky Charms. We stood before the altar to the far left of the room, the one set into a nook, the one that had been roped off. Myles’s private altar and not the one to be stared at by customers (or touched, as Dt. Asshole had done).
There was an image hanging on the wall above it—Ezili Danto. I recognized her now. The Black Madonna.
Myles lifted a conch shell from the altar and blew into it. A long, haunting note filled the air.
“Annoncé, annoncé, annoncé…,” he sang. “Annoncé, annoncé, annoncé….”
He picked up a machete next and began to dance around me. “Annoncé, annoncé, annoncé…. Annoncé, annoncé, annoncé….”
The libations had already been poured. The vévé already formed in cornmeal on the floor.
The ritual went on for seeming hours. This was different, he had explained to me. We were doing this alone, he—nothing but first level—and me—not even a believer. But I was starting to believe, wasn’t I? This was different, because normally there would be drummers and laplas dancers and mock battles.
“We’ll have to improvise,” Myles said. “Luckily vodou allows for this. We’ll make do. If only my partner hadn’t gone back to New Orleans. She could have helped….”
Myles danced on. “Pou Legba, kap véyé pot’la!” he sang. “To Legba, who guards the door.”
Ah, I thought and felt a chill run through me. Papa Legba—the first to be honored. The gatekeeper. Only through him could Myles reach the Ghede and the Lwa. Only with his approval.
Myles went to his knees, placed the machete on the floor, took up a bowl of cornmeal, and made a big X before him—between us.
“Lé nou fé sa, nap man sid!,” he cried. “In doing this, we touch Ginen!”
Ginen, the underwater world of the Dead, Myles had explained. The homeland where the Lwa lived.
More cornmeal.
“Fanmi Manman’m, Fanmi Papam’ap, manyin Ginen-yo. My mother’s family, my father’s family, touch Ginen.”
Something began to happen to Myles voice. It was like… like he was taking on an accent. An accent that reminded me of almost every vodou movie I had watched. Damn. Was it really only days ago? It seemed like weeks at least.
Myles dipped his fingers back into the bowl. Brought a pinch of the meal up before him. “Isit’ nap dancé, nan Ginen yap dansé. We are dancing here, and in Ginen, they dance!”
It went on and on, and often I was lost. I tried to chant with him. I tried to repeat the words when he asked. He called on Legba and he called on the twins, the
first of the Lwa after Papa gave permission for him to continue. He called on Papa Loko—Just Judge—who gives guidance, and Monbo Ayizan—the patroness of initiation—the first Monbo, Papa Loko’s wife.
There were moments of frustration on Myles’s face, only to be replaced by steel-like determination.
On and on it went.
He raised his asson, a great gourd wrapped in beads and snake vertebrae, with a bell attached. He shook it and he cried out, “Ago! Ezili Danto! Ayibobo!”
Myles eyes flashed to mine, and he nodded, and I called back, “Ayibobo!”
“Ago!” he cried again. “Ezili Danto! Ayibobo!”
“Ayibobo!” I echoed.
“Ago!” a third time. “Ezili Danto! Ayibobo!”
“Ayibobo!” I answered once more.
And then it happened.
I cannot deny it, even if were able.
Something rose up.
It was like shadow.
It was cold.
It was hot.
Myles stiffened, his body jerked upright, his back arched into a great bow, and God! His eyes rolled up white….
And that was when the brick came through the front window. Our ritual came to an ass-grinding halt.
Myles jolted upright, his arms flung out to his sides. His eyes rolled back to normal—but filled with anguish. “No!” he cried. “No! So close!”
Another brick crashed into the room. A full quarter of the large piece of plate glass now gone.
“Devil spawns!” came a shout from outside the building. “You want to worship Satan? Then we’ll send you to him!”
The next object that came hurtling into the room was not a brick. It was a flaming bottle. It hit the table of books and candles with a crash of fire and burning liquid, and instantly the whole of it burst into flames.
“Myles!” I screamed, pinwheeling back, the heat instant and huge. I fell backward, all but in his lap, cornmeal and bowl flying, my feet going out from under me.
“Oh God,” sobbed Myles, and he struggled to his feet. “So close,” he wept and then grabbed my wrist, pulled me up so that I was standing beside him. We dashed around the raging fire and toward the front door. Except just as he reached for it, just as he began to pull it open, it too burst into flame. The second Molotov cocktail had trapped us in the building.