Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella)

by Jeremy Robinson

  “And I do not doubt you, cher,” she said with a giggle. “Da l’wa are crafty in deir mischief, and not limited to any one locale. You doubt deir existence, so dey merely wanted to convince you.” She held up a hand, bringing the entire company to a halt. “We are almost dere.” She turned around to face Greer and the others. “We are about to enter a most holy site. Da Simityè Dyab la.”

  Greer glanced at Finkle, who shrugged. “‘Devil’s Cemetery’ or something like that, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “A close enough translation, cher,” the bokor said. “It had been, at one time, a graveyard for a select few, dat da Catholic church deemed unsuited for consecrated ground. Pirates, bokor and at least one excommunicated priest had rested here, until about a hundred and twenty years ago. A hurricane swept through—da wrath of da Almighty, some said—and washed da graves out to sea. Da l’wa Ghede had protected dis place, and guarded dose who sleep wit’in from harm by da living, since time immemorial. After da loss of deir charges, da Ghede had nothing to guard…nothing to protect…and it nearly ended dem.

  “Sixteen years later, a dashing white captain with a crew of…well, a very strange crew indeed…landed on da island after a valiant battle. Some of his crew were severely wounded. A few were even dead, oddly to da captain’s surprise. Da captain himself suffered from a fate far worse dan any other. He was, it seemed, weary. Of da world. Of life itself. He made a deal with da Ghede, and da mambo bokor at da time, who served dem. And he and his dead shipmates have rested here, ever since.” She pointed forward, past two withered weeping willows with roots jutting up from the rain-soaked soil. “Beyond da Willow Gate, lies da boneyard. Da one you seek lies wit’in, but so does da Brave Ghede…da Guardian of da Dead.”

  Greer stepped forward with an irritated sneer. “Spare us the theatrics, woman. The loa are nothing more than a demonic lie. Christian men have nothing to fear from such things.” He gestured for the crew to follow him, and he moved toward the willows.

  “Stop!” the bokor said. “Only three may approach da Brave Ghede and hope to appeal to his mercies. To dishonor dis command will bring death on all who enter.”

  Greer barked out a berating laugh, and motioned once more for his men to follow. But Finkle was the one to stop the parade of men this time. “I will remind you, Mr. Greer, that I am in command of this expedition. I have put up with your abusive and intolerant behavior up to this point, but no more. You will respect this lady’s wishes. You and I will enter, along with another of your choosing.”

  “But I must protest…”

  “And I must insist. Or would you rather I choose another from your men to accompany me? I’m sure Captain Reardon would be interested to learn how you’ve second-guessed me at every turn.”

  Greer glared at the old man, then sighed. Although it was the quartermaster’s job to hold the captain accountable in times when his decisions came into question—to protect the interest of the crew—he was only permitted to do so when not on the ‘hunt.’ Greer had harbored his doubts about Washington’s quest from the very beginning—and certainly questioned Josiah Reardon’s judgment in allowing this annoying old man to run command of his men—but now was definitely not the time to voice those doubts. “Very well.”

  He turned to his men, and appraised each one. He already knew who he’d choose, though he wanted to make a bit of a show about it. Greer was convinced that they were walking into an elaborate trap, orchestrated by brigands or pirates. The woman obviously was part of some criminal enterprise, whose job was to lure them into an ambush. The theory explained so much, including the piece of fruit thrown at him earlier. It was all part of building the expedition’s apprehension, and the fool Finkle was falling for it.

  So with that in mind, Greer had decided on the best possible choice to deter would-be thieves. The black man who’d been spouting the superstitious nonsense earlier. Though he was certain the man would quake in his boots from tales of evil spirits and the damned, buried within the graveyard, the slave’s immense size and foreboding countenance would intimidate any would-be cutthroats lying in wait for them on the other side of the willows. Yes, he would play along with the harlot’s games…for now. But he would most definitely be prepared.

  “William!” he shouted, rather amused when the black man let out an involuntary squeal of apprehension. It served the oaf right for sowing the seeds of fancy among his men. “Come along, boy. Come along.”

  Slowly, on massive, quivering legs, the black man stepped out from the cluster of sailors around him and walked over to Greer, Finkle and the woman. “Aye, sir.” His voice seemed to tremble in rhythm with his legs, eliciting a cruel smile from his quartermaster.

  “I told you that you would be punished,” Greer whispered, before turning to Finkle. “Are you ready?”

  The old scientist nodded, and in unison they stepped toward the two ancient willows only to stop when they realized the bokor was walking in step with them.

  “Where do you think you are going, witch?” Greer asked.

  Gracing the officer with her most haunting smile, she pointed toward the graveyard. “Wit’ you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. My men, Nichols and Spratt will continue watching you while…”

  “You don’ be seemin’ to understand your circumstances,” she said. “Dis ain’t no negotiation. Enter dat place wit’out me, and every one of you will be swept up to da un’erworld in seconds. Da gates of da boneyard be locked, and I’m da key.”

  Greer glanced over at Finkle, who shrugged. “Makes sense. She does seem to be the caretaker here. I suggest taking her seriously.”

  “More likely, she’s simply a brigand’s harlot.” The quartermaster withdrew his sword, and brushed past her as he ducked under the hanging limbs of the weeping willow. “But I’ll gladly acquiesce, if only to shut the two of you up.”

  With her customary tinkling of laughter, the woman strode forward, passing under the drooping canopy and moving ahead of the three others.

  Once on the other side of the arboreal gateway, the late afternoon seemed instantly to shift to the dead of night. Where the orange-red glow of the setting sun had cut through the dense foliage like rapiers outside the graveyard, now there was nothing but darkness. If not for the warm glow of firelight from a handful of torches staked into the damp soil around them, Greer was certain they wouldn’t have been able to see their hands in front of their faces.

  William, towering behind him, let out a soft gasp. Greer turned to see the large man nervously giving the sign of the cross and then spitting on the ground beside his mud-caked boots.

  “Mon dieu,” the man hissed, and for once, Greer could understand the simpleton’s trepidation.

  “I highly doubt,” Greer said, “that God has anything to do with this.”

  They were looking out over a circular clearing in the jungle, roughly two hundred yards in diameter. Dozens of enormous bones, sharpened at the tips, jutted up from the moist soil like the fangs of some monstrous burrowing creature digging its way up. The bones seemed to mark at least twelve distinct graves in a semi-circle around the northeast edge of the clearing. To Greer, a few of the bones appeared to be the shape of human phalanges, only the size of a tall man’s femur. In the center of the graveyard, completely surrounded by jagged-tipped yellowing bones, sat a sarcophagus made entirely of sea shell fragments. A relief carving was cut into its lid depicting a macabre visage of a gigantic skull with a hole bored into its forehead. The entire casket was covered in a strange script, painted in what looked like dried blood.

  “When dey—Lanme Wa and his crew—came here a century ago, dey had been attacked,” the bokor said to no one in particular. She casually strode over to the sarcophagus and brushed the tips of her fingers intimately over its lid. “Attacked by creatures not seen in our world for thousands of years. Giants. Monsters wit’ a thirst for blood. Most of da Cap’n’s crew survived, but dese twelve didn’t. Lanme Wa brought dem to dis island to be laid to rest. Dis
island be a sacred place reserved for dose what da church would deem unholy. As added contempt for da giants dat had done so much harm to da crew Lanme Wa had such deep affection for, da Cap’n used deir bones to mark da graves of men he knew history would never remember. Da forgotten few what had saved da world.”

  There was a hissing growl from somewhere to their left, and each man turned to peer into the shadows beyond the torchlight. They paused, trying to identify the wild creature that had made the savage sound. After several moments, Greer caught the subtlest trace of movement. Three figures huddled in the shadows, dressed in what appeared to be tattered robes. The three robed creatures hissed at them, as tiny ember-red eyes burned underneath large hoods. Trembling, Greer reached for his cutlass, but the monstrous trio quickly melted once more into the jungle, before he could withdraw it.

  “What in St. Peter’s beard was that?” the Quartermaster asked, turning to face the bokor.

  She shrugged. “Only dose wanting to pay deir respects. Dere’s not’ing to fear from dem…unless you disturb dis holy ground.”

  “So they’ll leave us alone?” Finkle asked.

  When the witch nodded an affirmative, Finkle sighed and stepped toward the central sarcophagus, only to be stopped by the bokor’s extended hand. “Not just yet, cher. Remember da Brave Ghede. He not like dose creatures, and he won’t be takin’ lightly to da intrusion of da livin’. Least not wit’out da proper tribute anyway.”

  Warily, Finkle stepped back. “You said Lanme Wa buried twelve men here. But there are thirteen graves,” he said. “The sarcophagus. Is that the Captain’s?”

  She nodded, smiling. “It be he.”

  “But I don’t understand. Legends suggest Lanme Wa was immortal. That he couldn’t be killed. It’s why we came here…to ask for his help.”

  “And I told you all this was mad from the beginning, Mr. Finkle,” Greer spat. “We lost two good men on this unholy expedition. Men we’ll need against the British. Had I known you were searching for an ‘immortal’ pirate, I would have called to vote Captain Reardon out of his post immediately. I’m not sure in which lunatic asylum Washington found you, but he’d do well to send you back there.” Frustrated, the quartermaster kicked at the dirt under his feet, spun around to rejoin his men back in the jungle and screamed, as he stared into the jet black eyes of a giant, hissing python.

  “Gentlemen,” the mambo bokor declared, twirling around the central sarcophagus with melodic giggles. “Let me introduce you to da Brave Ghede.”

  3

  The three men leapt back, their gawking eyes fixed on the enormous reptile coiled around the branch of a nearby mangrove tree. The creature’s length was difficult to determine, but its width was easily three feet in diameter, and its head was the size of a small carronade.

  The snake hissed at the intruders, then bobbed its head back and forth as it eyed each of them hungrily. Panicked and unable to flee the clearing through the Willow Gate, Greer spun and ran to his right, only to be stopped by a second cannon-sized snake head, just five yards away. He then turned to run in another direction, but saw that a third head bobbed and weaved, blocking that path as well.

  “What devilry is this?” Greer shouted, backing away to return to the company of Finkle and William. His eyes had traced the long, sinewy necks of each snake to the centrally coiled body wrapped around the mangrove limb. Is this three distinct creatures, or one with three heads?

  “I already tell you.” The mambo bokor twirled around the sarcophagus, her arms spread wide. “Dis be da Brave Ghede. He guards da dead from da living, and brings dose wit’out tribute to da place of da dead.”

  “Tribute.” Finkle had his pistol calmly trained on one of the heads. “You mentioned tribute before. What kind of tribute does it require?”

  She moved toward them, seeming to glide across the damp earth, as if hovering on a cushion of air. “You wish to remove Lanme Wa from dis place…wish to wake He Who Sleeps Like Death from his rest.” Her mocha-colored fingers playfully stroked at the scruff of Finkle’s chin. “If you take him, one of you must stay. One of you must be tribute to da Brave Ghede.”

  “Sacrifice! You’re talking of human sacrifice,” Finkle said.

  The creature uncoiled itself from the branch, and lowered to the ground. It was indeed one monstrous snake, with three heads split unevenly along three squirming necks. The snake slithered toward them, the length of its tail still concealed by the thick jungle foliage. Each of the three heads locked on a different intruder and captured them with its gaze.

  “Three heads,” Finkle said. “That’s why you demanded that three of us enter.” He turned toward the Willow Gate, only to discover it was no longer there. It was as if the jungle itself had swallowed up the willow trees, the moment the snake had appeared.

  “Three heads. One of three tributes,” she said, her face was now solemn. Almost sad. “You came for Lanme Wa, but one of you must take his place.”

  “But he’s no good to us dead!” Greer shouted, his face dripping with sweat. Shaking, he withdrew his sword, but he kept his back against William’s as he watched the monstrous reptile. “We won’t take him. Just let us leave this place.”

  “It be too late for dat now, mon cher. You’ve entered da boneyard. One of you must stay.”

  Greer wheeled around, pointing his cutlass at William. “Then, I choose him! Take him.”

  William turned, his eyes widening, and he screamed. “No! No! I serve da l’wa, too.” He turned to face the serpent’s central head, and bent himself into a placating bow. “I serve da l’wa, too. Please!”

  Finkle leapt between the large black man and the quartermaster, slapping the flat of Greer’s sword away with his hand. “Stop that, Mr. Greer. Act like a man for a change.”

  Greer swept his sword up to the scientist’s neck. “What about him?” His wild eyes pleaded with the snakes. “He’s old. He’s lived his life already. Take him!”

  Annoyed, Finkle turned the barrel of his gun at the quartermaster. “Mr. Greer, I will ask you again to stand down. There is no need to panic. I’m sure we can work out an amicable, mutually beneficial, treaty with this…this jungle spirit.”

  But Greer did not back down. Nor did he remove his blade from Finkle’s neck, and the trio stood there in silence, staring at one another with coiled, anxious muscles. It was only at the sound of ominous hissing that they broke their gaze from one another, and turned their attention to the three-headed python. All three heads had spread apart and were now glaring at their potential targets, as streams of what looked like venomous saliva oozed from their lipless mouths.

  William closed his eyes, making the sign of the cross a second time. He mouthed a silent prayer while gripping a set of pearl rosary beads from around his neck. The snakehead nearest him jerked around his shoulder, its tongue flicking closer to the man’s clenched eyelids.

  “Stop this, witch!” Finkle shouted. He didn’t pull his eyes away from his own serpent head, but swiveled his pistol in the direction in which he guessed the mambo bokor was standing. “Call them off. Now.”

  “Oh, cher!” She whispered in his ear on the opposite side from where he thought she’d been. “If only I could. But I serve da Brave Ghede, not da other way around.”

  “But Greer is correct. If Lanme Wa is dead, he really is no use to us.”

  Still whispering in his ear, her soft lips brushed against his flesh, sending goose pimples down his neck. “I never did say he was dead, monsieur. I only said he was sleeping…like death. Dere’s a difference, no?”

  Slowly, Finkle turned to look at her.

  She was smiling devilishly at the man, reminding Greer of a wolf before it feasted on a fallen elk. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The crazed old man was actually believing her. He could see it in Finkle’s eyes. “You’re not actually considering what this…this harpy is saying, are you? Just shoot the snake, and let’s be done with it!”

  “Dat would not be such a good idea, I th
ink.” Suddenly, the witch was at Greer’s ear, yet he’d never seen her leave Finkle’s side. When she spoke to him, it had none of the playful seductiveness she’d used on the older man. “Da Brave Ghede is only now sizin’ da three of you up—deciding on who it wants as tribute. Dough he look solid enough, he’s made of spirit flesh. Guns won’t be harmin’ him none, I assure you. Nor will dat sword o’ yours. So if I was you, I’d be behavin’ more respectful-like, lest he decide to choose you.”

  The threat had its desired effect, and Greer bit down on his lips to restrain himself from speaking anymore. Though he wasn’t yet ready to admit that the creature that now surrounded them was of the supernatural realm, there was no denying its ominous menace, or the three salivating heads.

  Suddenly, the woman was at the black man’s side, standing on bare tip-toes, and whispering into his ear as well. Greer strained to hear what she was saying, but he couldn’t detect anything but the cold, harsh hiss of the python bobbing near his ear. The slave, whose eyes were still clenched tight, seemed to relax a bit when she pulled away and cast a coy smile at Greer from over William’s shoulder.

  “So tell us, madam,” Finkle said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “How does the selection work? What must we do to proceed? Are we expected to just stand here and wait for our doom?”

  She glanced over at the central snake head, then back at the old scientist. “Da Brave Ghede says you may proceed to Lanme Wa’s grave, and prepare him for his journey back to da sea. By da time you be finished, he will have chosen his tribute.”

  “And if we don’t?” Greer’s eyes widened in a silent scream when he realized the question had come from his own treacherous lips. “If we choose to leave him to rest, and return to our ship without him?”

  The mambo bokor cocked her head to one side. Her glare was cold, and unsympathetic. “I thought we already spoke of dis. A tribute will be had, one way or another.” She padded over to the shell sarcophagus, and beckoned them over with a hand. “Lanme Wa has slept long enough. It time he be waking up, and joining da world of da living once more. No more sulking at da cruelties he’s endured. No more hiding from his destiny. Da Sea King must rise.”