“What?” Jeff blurted.
“Everything is out of balance. Angry loa have been set loose in Harlem,” Puma said. “We must propitiate the spirits and seek their protection with a generous offering and a major ritual. Or else we will all suffer the consequences of their wrath.”
9
“I can scarcely imagine how painful this subject must be for you,” Max said to Puma. “But may I ask you to recount how your dog met its fatal end?”
Jeff gave Max a warning glance, then said to Puma, “Unless it’s too upsetting for you.”
She smiled warmly at Jeff. He smiled back, his bald head shining like a new penny. I hoped the gladiator job was worth having shaved off all his hair.
“It’s all right,” she said. “After all, you’ve come here to help, haven’t you? And to figure out what to do about the strange things happening in this neighborhood?”
“Indeed,” said Max.
“Then you need to know. Things have been . . . out of balance lately,” Puma explained, “You see, Vodou seeks balance between opposing influences. Light and dark, good and evil, life and death. These things are all aspects of human nature and part of us, not separate or alien. So we have gods of death and vengeance, just as we have gods of life and love. We serve them all, because they all claim a place inside each one of us.”
“Very practical.” I thought it was unlikely that death or wrath would vanish from human experience, so I could see the sense in a religion that accepted these forces within its theology and sought balance between the extremes.
“But lately,” Puma said, “things seem all out of whack. When I perform my Vodou rituals at home each morning, asking for good luck and blessings, I feel that the spirits are distracted and agitated.”
Jeff’s expression was a visible struggle between trying to look politely interested in a pretty woman’s earnest comments and trying not to roll his eyes in open skepticism.
“The natural harmony . . .” Puma seemed to search for a more accurate word. “The . . . direction . . .”
“The flow?” Max suggested tentatively.
“Yes! The normal flow of spiritual energy seems . . . disrupted or . . .” Puma shook her head and frowned. “Out of balance. I don’t know how else to describe it.”
“You’re doing very well,” Max said.
Jeff flashed him an incredulous look but said nothing.
I met Max’s gaze, recalling what he had told me this morning about the flow of mystical energy being reversed or misdirected. He gave a little nod in response to my inquisitively raised brows.
“Anyhow, Biko stayed late the other night at the foundation, to do some extra training by himself,” Puma continued. “And when he was leaving, he heard someone in trouble across the street from the foundation, near the gates of the park, crying out in the dark. So he went to help, of course.”
“Of course,” said Max.
“The boy’s got more guts than sense,” said Jeff.
I imagined that the Garland siblings’ mother had raised them to be the sort of people who did indeed help without hesitation when they heard someone cry out in the dark. The woman had, after all, named her daughter after the bold and resourceful mountain lion and her son after the brave activist who had galvanized resistance to apartheid in South Africa before being slain by his enemies in the 1970s. Those names were a lot to live up to, and I thought that Puma and Biko came across as people who made the effort.
Puma said, “And there on the sidewalk, right outside the park, Biko saw . . . these growling creatures attacking a man.”
I drew in a sharp breath through my nostrils and looked at Max again.
“He described them to me.” Puma gave a shudder. “Horrible little monsters with fangs, claws, pointy ears, hairy legs, and greenish skin. They had glowing red eyes and foul breath.”
“That’s exactly what I saw!” I said.
Jeff gave me a censorious look, as if I were encouraging Puma in a warped delusion.
“Biko fought the creatures and chased them off,” said Puma.
“How was the victim?” Max asked.
“He was confused and panicky. Weeping and sweating. Actually . . .” She bit her lip. “Biko said the man had wet his pants.”
“Whoa,” Jeff said. “Messy.”
“Who was he?” I asked. Not Darius Phelps at any rate. Until meeting me today, Biko hadn’t known that Darius was up and about. So to speak.
The victim also probably wasn’t a zombie, I suddenly realized. If, like Darius, zombies didn’t bleed, then chances were they also didn’t sweat, weep, or urinate.
Puma replied, “Biko didn’t recognize him, and the man wasn’t coherent. He just babbled hysterically about demon possession, dark rituals, and the walking dead.”
“Jesus,” said Jeff. “Heavy.”
“What did Biko do?” I asked.
“You know what boys are like.” Puma shook her head in exasperation. “Instead of staying with the victim, Biko went chasing after the creatures—which I guess we all agree are baka?”
Max and I nodded. Jeff shifted his weight and looked at the voodoo dolls displayed near the cash register.
“But your brother didn’t catch the baka, did he?” said Max.
“No. And when he came back to the spot where he’d left the victim . . .” She spread her hands. “The man was gone.”
“Then the victim wasn’t wounded in the attack?” Max asked.
Puma shook her head again. “Just scared and disheveled, according to Biko.”
“Well, having seen those creatures myself,” I said, “I can understand why the man ran away.” And even though Biko was armed with a rapier, I still had to give him a lot of credit for going after the baka.
Max was stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Hmm. Exactly which night did this happen, Puma?”
She thought back. “Monday.”
“Was the victim African-American?” When she nodded, Max asked Jeff, “And is your colleague Frank, the missing substitute teacher, also African-American?”
“Huh? Yeah.” Jeff shrugged. “So what? This is Harlem, Max. Most people here are Af. . . .” His eyes widened. “Okay, wait a minute. You’re not thinking—”
“Oh, I get it.” Following Max’s train of thought, I asked Jeff, “When did Frank start playing hooky?”
“The day before yesterday. Tuesday.” Jeff added, “But that’s got nothing to do with—”
“So Frank stopped coming to work at the foundation the day after Biko found a terrified man being attacked by mysterious creatures in the same neighborhood.” I said. “Doesn’t the coincidence even make you curious, Jeff?”
“No, of course not! Because Biko’s story is crazy—no offense intended, Puma—and because there are a lot of reasons Frank might be missing. His absence does not have to be because he was attacked by demon spawn!”
“Missing?” I repeated. “What do you mean, missing? ”
“Calm down. I don’t mean ‘missing.’ I mean . . . out of touch. All right?”
“Who’s Frank?” Puma asked in confusion.
Jeff said, “Frank Johnson. My sub.”
“Pardon?”
I explained to her who Frank Johnson was. Then I said to Jeff, “Define ‘out of touch.’ ”
He sighed. “Okay. Fine. Catherine called Frank on Tuesday, after he didn’t show up to teach class. She tried him again yesterday, after he missed class a second time. No answer, no reply. Both times. That’s why she called me today. After I heard from her, I called him, too, and left him a message.” Jeff shook his head. “He hasn’t called me back, either.”
“Given his reaction to the attack that night,” Max said, “the victim may have been terrified into a hysterical retreat.”
“Frank’s dodging calls because he has screwed up, that’s all,” said Jeff.
“Does he screw up a lot?” I asked.
“Well, I didn’t think so, obviously, or I wouldn’t have asked him to sub for me,” J
eff said snappishly. “But I guess I was wrong.”
“If Frank Johnson is indeed the victim Biko rescued,” Max said, “then he may have information vital to our investigation.”
“What investigation?” Jeff said.
“We must speak with him,” said Max.
“Lots of luck. I just told you he’s not returning calls.”
“Then we should go to his home,” Max said.
“I’m not sure where he lives,” Jeff said. “Somewhere in Hamilton Heights, I think.”
“Hey, that’s in the Thirtieth Precinct!” I said brightly.
They all looked at me.
“Never mind,” I said. “You were saying?”
Jeff pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. “Look, if it’ll make you people happy, I’ll call Frank again. And I’ll say . . .” He looked at Max. “What will I say?”
“We want to know exactly what happened on Monday night.”
Frank was still not answering his phone, so Jeff left him a rambling message. “Look, man, don’t worry about the Livingston classes. It’s cool. I mean, I’ve found someone to fill in for me. You. Me. Anyhow, the workshops at the foundation are covered. But I need to ask you about Monday. Did you happen to see anything, uh, a little out of the ordinary that night? Or were you—oh, I don’t know—attacked by green gargoyles with bad breath, for example? Call me back. It’s important.”
As he hung up, I said, “Smooth. Very smooth.”
“Like you could’ve done better.”
Puma smiled warmly at him. “Thank you so much, Jeff. I know you didn’t really want to call him, and I appreciate it.”
That helped. He stopped sulking.
“With Frank still unavailable and Biko still at the foundation, perhaps we should continue with Puma’s recitation,” Max suggested.
Jeff hoisted himself up to sit on the sales counter, next to the cash register. My feet were starting to hurt again, so I gratefully sat on a tall stool that Puma brought out from behind the counter. Max declared himself comfortable standing where he was.
Puma continued her tale. “Biko looked for the victim, but there was no sign of him. So he came home and told me what had happened. I suppose it seems like jumping to conclusions, but given everything he told me, and the imbalance I had been feeling during my rituals . . . I had a strong feeling that my brother had seen baka.”
Max nodded. Jeff closed his eyes and looked like he was trying to imagine himself elsewhere. I kept listening attentively.
“So the next night, Biko took his sword and went out hunting in the same area. He figured if the baka came out to attack someone else, he’d find them. But he phoned me after about two hours to say it was starting to seem like a waste of time, so he was coming home.” Fear and revulsion crossed her face as she said in a low voice, “I don’t know if they realized he was hunting them, and hid and stalked him. Or if they picked up his scent, recognized it from the night before, and followed it. Either way . . .” She shuddered again.
I gasped as I realized what she meant. “They followed him home?”
Puma nodded. “We had a little mixed breed dog. Maybe twenty pounds. His name was Gilligan. He always comes . . . came to the shop with me. Gilligan was getting old and slept most of the time. I’ve still got his daybed here, behind the cash register. And his little food and water dishes.” Her face crumpled briefly, then she cleared her throat. “Biko always took him for his bedtime walk. Gilligan was gentle and easygoing, and he sure didn’t move fast anymore, but he and Biko were barely outside the door of our building that night when Gilligan went crazy. I’d never heard him bark like that. So I looked out the window of the apartment right away—we live on the second floor—and I saw that little dog take off down the street like a bat out of hell. Faster than he had run in years! My brother had dropped the leash and was staring after him. I don’t blame him. Gilligan never ran, so he took Biko totally by surprise.
“And then I knew,” she said. “Because it had to be something really strange to make Gilligan act like that. Something out of this world. So I was out the door like a shot, down the stairs, and out onto the street, running after them. Biko was already half a block ahead of me. It was dark, so I couldn’t see Gilligan, but I could sure hear him. He was barking his head off!”
Puma took a shaky breath and continued. “Then I could hear him attacking something. And since he was the friendliest dog in the world—loved kids, loved other dogs, even loved cats—I knew he’d only do that if he’d met with something truly evil.”
“The baka,” I murmured, totally immersed in her tale.
“So I’m running down the street, and I can hear barking and growling and howling. Biko’s shouting, and I’m shouting, and then . . . then Gilligan gave this horrible wail, and . . . Oh!” She covered her mouth with her hand and lowered her head, unable to continue.
Jeff looked dumbfounded and glanced at me, as if hoping I’d know what to do now.
Max pulled a clean white hanky out of his pocket and handed it to Puma. “Here, my dear. Take this.”
“Thank you, Dr. Zadok.” She sniffed, wiped her long-lashed eyes, and swallowed hard. “I caught up to Biko, but we couldn’t find Gilligan. Not at first. But then . . . we found the trail of blood.”
I made an involuntary sound, picturing the scene.
She continued. “It was dark out, but there was some light from the streetlamps, and Biko’s got good eyes. We followed the trail into the park. And we found what was left of Gilligan, right by that big stone staircase that leads up to the old watchtower.” She struggled with the memory for a moment, then said, “They had eaten most of his little body.”
Feeling almost as if I could see what Puma had witnessed, I covered my eyes with my hand while she finished her story.
Gilligan’s collar lay nearby. The Garlands had taken that to remember him by, then had scrounged a big enough piece of plastic from a park garbage can to wrap up what was left of their dog. They had taken Gilligan’s remains to a twenty-four-hour animal clinic and paid for proper disposal.
Puma gave a watery sigh as I looked at her now. “He lived a long and good life, and he died quickly and bravely, fighting something evil. I guess that’s not so bad, all things considered.”
“No, indeed,” Max said gently. “I hope the same words might be said of me, one day.”
After a moment, she said in a firmer voice, “So last night, Biko went hunting the baka again.” She shivered a little. “It had to be done, of course. But I was so scared for him, I was pretty relieved when he came home without having seen them.” She looked at me and added, “But you saw them.”
“I’m glad I didn’t know about Gilligan at the time,” I said honestly. “I’d have been even more scared than I already was.”
Jeff said skeptically, “Esther, you’re telling us you really saw these things? These growling, green gargoyle things that, uh, ate Puma’s dog?”
“Yes, Jeff, I really saw them. I fought with them.”
He looked appalled. “Why did you do that?”
The phone rang, startling us all. The caller was Biko, telephoning to tell his sister that his class had just ended. He had to put away the training equipment and pack up his swords, and then he would come straight here.
After she hung up the phone, Puma set aside her sorrow and briskly offered us cold drinks, which we accepted with gratitude. She pulled some bottled water and canned soda out of a little mini- fridge behind the sales counter. I felt so sticky and dirty by now, I wanted to pour my water over my head, but I settled for drinking it. Thirstier than I had realized, I drained it within minutes. My empty stomach responded gratefully to the feeling of something—even if it was only water—filling it.
Since Biko would be here soon, Max proposed that we wait until he arrived before we dissected the events of last night or discussed what to do next, so that we wouldn’t have to repeat anything after he got here. Clearly eager to change the somber mood of the group, a
nd perhaps also motivated by the natural instincts of a merchant, Puma encouraged us to ask questions about the stock in her shop while we waited for her brother.
Jeff seemed interested in some of the voodoo dolls that were stocked within easy reach of his perch on the sales counter. There were wooden dolls, as well as ones made of different colors of cloth: red, brown, blue, green, tan. They had yarn for hair, and they wore a variety of little outfits, such as smock dresses or drawstring trousers. One even wore a suit and had little spectacles on its painted face.
“Hey, here’s one that looks like you,” Jeff said to me, holding up a pale burlap doll with tangled brown yarn hair and button eyes and wearing a smock dress.
“I fail to see the resemblance,” I said.
“I’ve also got one that looks a bit like Dr. Zadok,” Puma said, pointing it out.
I looked at the little figure, which was clad in garish green-and-purple trousers. “Well, the white hair and beard, I’ll grant you,” I said. “But Max would never wear those pants.”
“Hmm.” Max regarded the voodoo doll with interest.
“Don’t show Esther one that looks like me,” Jeff said to Puma. “She might start sticking pins into it.”
“There’s always that possibility,” I agreed.
Looking at the Max-like doll, Jeff asked doubtfully, “Do people really do things like that?”
“Oh, of course,” said Max.
“What’s so ‘of course’ about it?”
“It’s sympathetic magic,” Puma said.
“Sticking pins into a doll to torment a person sounds pretty unsympathetic to me,” said Jeff.
She smiled at this sly witticism. “ ‘Sympathy’ means an affinity between two things. In this case, a magical association, so that what happens to one thing affects the other thing in a similar way.”
“It’s pretty far-fetched,” Jeff said.
“It may be the oldest form of ritual magic.” Puma seemed relieved to have a topic to take her mind off the menacing mystical influences looming over Harlem. “Paleolithic hunters painted pictures on their cave walls that showed them killing and honoring their prey. They believed that the magic associated with this ritual art would help them achieve success in the hunt.” She smiled and added, “At least that’s one theory about cave paintings.”
Unsympathetic Magic Page 12