American Science Fiction

by Gary K. Wolfe

  “Perhaps,” I said. “I wasn’t around here when it got started, so I wouldn’t know for sure.”

  “I understand that the participants do not much appreciate the presence of outsiders—”

  “That too, is correct. But they’ll put on a good show for you, if you pick the right hounfor and drop in on them with a few gifts.”

  “But I should like very much to witness a real ceremony. If I were to attend one with someone who was not a stranger to the participants, perhaps then I could obtain the genuine thing.”

  “Why should you want to? Morbid curiosity concerning barbaric customs?”

  “No. I am a student of comparative religions.”

  I studied his face, but couldn’t tell anything from it.

  It had been awhile since I’d visited with Mama Julie and Papa Joe or any of the others, and the hounfor wasn’t that far away, but I didn’t know how they’d take to me bringing a Vegan around. They’d never objected when I’d brought people, of course.

  “Well . . .” I began.

  “I just want to watch,” he said. “I’ll stay out of the way. They’ll hardly know I’m there.”

  I mumbled a bit and finally gave in. I knew Mama Julie pretty well and I didn’t see any real harm being done, no matter what.

  So, “Okay,” said I, “I’ll take you to one. Tonight, if you like.”

  He agreed, thanked me, and went off after another Coke. George, who had not strayed from the arm of my chair, leaned toward me and observed that it would be very interesting to dissect a Vegan. I agreed with him.

  When Myshtigo returned, Dos Santos was at his side.

  “What is this about you taking Mister Myshtigo to a pagan ceremony?” he asked, nostrils flared and quivering.

  “That’s right,” I said, “I am.”

  “Not without a bodyguard you are not.”

  I turned both palms upward.

  “I am capable of handling anything which might arise.”

  “Hasan and I will accompany you.”

  I was about to protest when Ellen insinuated herself between them.

  “I want to go, too,” she said. “I’ve never been to one.”

  I shrugged. If Dos Santos went, then Diane would go, too, which made for quite a few of us.

  So one more wouldn’t matter, shouldn’t matter. It was ruined before it got started.

  “Why not?” I said.

  The hounfor was located down in the harbor section, possibly because it was dedicated to Agué Woyo, god of the sea. More likely, though, it was because Mama Julie’s people had always been harbor people. Agué Woyo is not a jealous god, so lots of other deities are commemorated upon the walls in brilliant colors. There are more elaborate hounfors further inland, but they tend to be somewhat commercial.

  Agué’s big blazeboat was blue and orange and green and yellow and black, and it looked to be somewhat unseaworthy. Damballa Wedo, crimson, writhed and coiled his length across most of the opposite wall. Several big rada drums were being stroked rhythmically by Papa Joe, forward and to the right of the door through which we entered—the only door. Various Christian saints peered from behind unfathomable expressions at the bright hearts and cocks and graveyard crosses, flags, machetes and crossroads that clung to almost every inch of the walls about them—frozen into an after-the-hurricane surrealism by the amphoteric paints of Titan—and whether or not the saints approved one could never tell: they stared down through their cheap picture-frames as though they were windows onto an alien world.

  The small altar bore numerous bottles of alcoholic beverages, gourds, sacred vessels for the spirits of the loa, charms, pipes, flags, depth photos of unknown persons and, among other things, a pack of cigarettes for Papa Legba.

  A service was in progress when we were led in by a young hounsi named Luis. The room was about eight meters long and five wide, had a high ceiling, a dirt floor. Dancers moved about the central pole with slow, strutting steps. Their flesh was dark and it glistened in the dim light of the antique kerosene lamps. With our entry the room became crowded.

  Mama Julie took my hand and smiled. She led me back to a place beside the altar and said, “Erzulie was kind.”

  I nodded.

  “She likes you, Nomiko. You live long, you travel much, and you come back.”

  “Always,” I said.

  “Those people . . . ?”

  She indicated my companions with a flick of her dark eyes.

  “Friends. They would be no bother . . .”

  She laughed as I said it. So did I.

  “I will keep them out of your way if you let us remain. We will stay in the shadows at the sides of the room. If you tell me to take them away, I will. I see that you have already danced much, emptied many bottles . . .”

  “Stay,” she said. “Come talk with me during daylight sometime.”

  “I will.”

  She moved away then and they made room for her in the circle of dancers. She was quite large, though her voice was a small thing. She moved like a huge rubber doll, not without grace, stepping to the monotonous thunder of Papa Joe’s drumming. Aftter a time this sound filled everything—my head, the earth, the air—like maybe the whale’s heartbeat had seemed to half-digested Jonah. I watched the dancers. And I watched those who watched the dancers.

  I drank a pint of rum in an effort to catch up, but I couldn’t. Myshtigo kept taking sips of Coke from a bottle he had brought along with him. No one noticed that he was blue, but then we had gotten there rather late and things were pretty well along the way to wherever they were going.

  Red Wig stood in a corner looking supercilious and frightened. She was holding a bottle at her side, but that’s where it stayed. Myshtigo was holding Ellen at his side, and that’s where she stayed. Dos Santos stood beside the door and watched everybody—even me. Hasan, crouched against the righthand wall, was smoking a long-stemmed pipe with a small bowl. He appeared to be at peace.

  Mama Julie, I guess it was, began to sing. Other voices picked it up:

  Papa Legba, ouvri bayé!

  Papa Legba, Attibon Legba, ouvri bayé pou nou passé!

  Papa Legba . . .

  This went on, and on and on. I began to feel drowsy. I drank more rum and felt thirstier and drank more rum.

  I’m not sure how long we had been there when it happened. The dancers had been kissing the pole and singing and rattling gourds and pouring out waters, and a couple of the hounsi were acting possessed and talking incoherently, and the meal-design on the floor was all blurred, and there was lots of smoke in the air, and I was leaning back against the wall and I guess my eyes had been closed for a minute or two.

  The sound came from an unexpected quarter.

  Hasan screamed.

  It was a long, wailing thing that brought me forward, then dizzily off balance, then back to the wall again, with a thump.

  The drumming continued, not missing a single beat. Some of the dancers stopped, though, staring.

  Hasan had gotten to his feet. His teeth were bared and his eyes were slits, and his face bore the ridges and valleys of exertion beneath its sheen of sweat.

  His beard was a fireshot spearhead.

  His cloak, caught high against some wall decoration, was black wings.

  His hands, in a hypnosis of slow motion, were strangling a non-existent man.

  Animal sounds came from his throat.

  He continued to choke nobody.

  Finally, he chuckled and his hands sprang open.

  Dos Santos was at his side almost immediately, talking to him, but they inhabited two different worlds.

  One of the dancers began to moan softly. Another joined him—and others.

  Mama Julie detached herself from the circle and came toward me—just as Hasan started the whole
thing over again, this time with more elaborate histrionics.

  The drum continued its steady, earthdance pronouncement.

  Papa Joe did not even look up.

  “A bad sign,” said Mama Julie. “What do you know of this man?”

  “Plenty,” I said, forcing my head clear by an act of will.

  “Angelsou,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Angelsou,” she repeated. “He is a dark god—one to be feared. Your friend is possessed by Angelsou.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “He comes seldom to our hounfor. He is not wanted here. Those he possesses become murderers.”

  “I think Hasan was trying a new pipe mixture—mutant ragweed or something.”

  “Angelsou,” she said again. “Your friend will become a killer, for Angelsou is a deathgod, and he only visits with his own.”

  “Mama Julie,” said I, “Hasan is a killer. If you had a piece of gum for every man he’s killed and you tried to chew it all, you’d look like a chipmunk. He is a professional killer—within the limits of the law, usually. Since the Code Duello prevails on the Mainland, he does most of his work there. It has been rumored that he does an illegal killing on occasion, but this thing has never been proved.

  “So tell me,” I finished, “is Angelsou the god of killers or the god of murderers? There should be a difference between the two, shouldn’t there?”

  “Not to Angelsou,” she said.

  Dos Santos then, trying to stop the show, seized both of Hasan’s wrists. He tried to pull his hands apart, but—well, try bending the bars of your cage sometime and you’ll get the picture.

  I crossed the room, as did several of the others. This proved fortunate, because Hasan had finally noticed that someone was standing in front of him, and dropped his hands, freeing them. Then he produced a long-bladed stiletto from under his cloak.

  Whether or not he would actually have used it on Don or anybody else is a moot point, because at that moment Myshtigo stoppered his Coke bottle with his thumb and hit him behind the ear with it. Hasan fell forward and Don caught him, and I pried the blade from between his fingers, and Myshtigo finished his Coke.

  “Interesting ceremony,” observed the Vegan, “I would never have suspected that big fellow of harboring such strong religious feelings.”

  “It just goes to show that you can never be too sure, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He gestured to indicate the onlookers. “They are all pantheists, aren’t they?”

  I shook my head. “Primitive animists.”

  “What is the difference?”

  “Well, that Coke bottle you just emptied is going to occupy the altar, or pé, as it is called, as a vessel for Angelsou, since it has enjoyed an intimate mystical relationship with the god. That’s the way an animist would see it. Now, a pantheist just might get a little upset at somebody’s coming in to his ceremonies uninvited and creating a disturbance such as we just did. A pantheist might be moved to sacrifice the intruders to Agué Woyo, god of the sea, by hitting them all over the head in a similar ceremonial manner and tossing them off the end of the dock. Therefore, I am now going to have to explain to Mama Julie that all these people standing around glaring at us are really animists. Excuse me a minute.”

  It wasn’t really that bad, but I wanted to shake him up a bit, I think I did.

  After I’d apologized and said good-night, I picked up Hasan. He was out cold and I was the only one big enough to carry him.

  The street was deserted except for us, and Agué Woyo’s big blazeboat was cutting the waves somewhere just under the eastern edge of the world and splashing the sky with all his favorite colors.

  Dos Santos, at my side, said, “Perhaps you were correct. Maybe we should not have come along.”

  I didn’t bother to answer him, but Ellen, who was walking up ahead with Myshtigo, stopped, turned, and said, “Nonsense. If you hadn’t, we would have missed the tentmaker’s wonderful dramatic monologue.” By then, I was within range and both her hands shot out and wrapped around my throat. She applied no pressure, but she grimaced horribly and observed, “Ur! Mm! Ugh! I’m possessed of Angelsou, and you’ve had it.” Then she laughed.

  “Let go my throat or I’ll throw this Arab at you,” I said, comparing the orangebrown color of her hair with the orangepink color of the sky behind her, and smiled.

  “He’s a heavy one, too,” I added.

  Then, a second before she let go, she applied some pressure—a little bit too much to be playful—and then she was back on Myshtigo’s arm and we were walking again. Well, women never slap me because I always turn the other cheek first and they’re afraid of the fungus, so I guess a quick choke is about the only alternative.

  “Frightfully interesting,” said Red Wig. “Felt strange. As if something inside me was dancing along with them. Odd feeling, it was. I don’t really like dancing—any kind.”

  “What kind of accent do you have?” I interrupted her. “I’ve been trying to place it.”

  “Don’t know,” she said. “I’m sort of Irish-French. Lived in the Hebrides—also Australia, Japan—till I was nineteen . . .”

  Hasan moaned just then and flexed his muscles and I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder.

  I set him down on a doorstep and shook him down. I found two throwing knives, another stiletto, a very neat gravity knife, a saw-edged Bowie, strangling wires, and a small metal case containing various powders and vials of liquids which I did not care to inspect too closely. I liked the gravity knife, so I kept it for myself. It was a Coricama, and very neat.

  Late the next day—call it evening—I shanghaied old Phil, determined to use him as the price of admission to Dos Santos’ suite at the Royal. The Radpol still reveres Phil as a sort of Returnist Tom Paine, even though he began pleading innocent to that about half a century ago, back when he began getting mysticism and respectability. While his Call of Earth probably is the best thing he ever wrote, he also drafted the Articles of Return, which helped to start the trouble I’d wanted started. He may do much disavowing these days, but he was a trouble­maker then, and I’m sure he still files away all the fawning gazes and bright words it continues to bring him, takes them out every now and then, dusts them off, and regards them with something like pleasure.

  Besides Phil, I took along a pretext—that I wanted to see how Hasan was feeling after the lamentable bash he’d received at the hounfor. Actually, what I wanted was a chance to talk to Hasan and find out how much, if anything, he’d be willing to tell me about his latest employment.

  So Phil and I walked it. It wasn’t far from the Office compound to the Royal. About seven minutes, ambling.

  “Have you finished writing my elegy yet?” I asked.

  “I’m still working on it.”

  “You’ve been saying that for the past twenty years. I wish you’d hurry up so I could read it.”

  “I could show you some very fine ones . . . Lorel’s, George’s, even one for Dos Santos. And I have all sorts of blank ones in my files—the fill-in kind—for lesser notables. Yours is a problem, though.”

  “How so?”

  “I have to keep updating it. You go right on, quite blithely—living, doing things.”

  “You disapprove?”

  “Most people have the decency to do things for half a century and then stay put. Their elegies present no problems. I have cabinets full. But I’m afraid yours is going to be a last-minute thing with a discord ending. I don’t like to work that way. I prefer to deliberate over a span of many years, to evaluate a person’s life carefully, and without pressure. You people who live your lives like folksongs trouble me. I think you’re trying to force me to write you an epic, and I’m getting too old for that. I sometimes nod.”

  “I think you’re being unfair,” I told him. “Other people get to read their elegies, and I�
��d even settle for a couple good limericks.”

  “Well, I have a feeling yours will be finished before too long,” he noted. “I’ll try to get a copy to you in time.”

  “Oh? From whence springs this feeling?”

  “Who can isolate the source of an inspiration?”

  “You tell me.”

  “It came upon me as I meditated. I was in the process of composing one for the Vegan—purely as an exercise, of course—and I found myself thinking: ‘Soon I will finish the Greek’s.’” After a moment, he continued, “Conceptualize this thing: yourself as two men, each taller than the other.”

  “It could be done if I stood in front of a mirror and kept shifting my weight. I have this short leg. —So, I’m conceptualizing it. What now?”

  “Nothing. You don’t go at these things properly.”

  “It’s a cultural tradition against which I have never been successfully immunized. Like knots, horses—Gordia, Troy. You know. We’re sneaky.”

  He was silent for the next ten paces.

  “So feathers or lead?” I asked him.

  “Pardon?”

  “It is the riddle of the kallikanzaros. Pick one.”

  “Feathers?”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “If I had said ‘lead’ . . . ?”

  “Uh-uh. You only have one chance. The correct answer is whatever the kallikanzaros wants it to be. You lose.”

  “That sounds pretty arbitrary.”

  “Kallikanzaroi are that way. It’s Greek, rather than Oriental subtlety. Less inscrutable, too. Because your life often depends on the answer, and the kallikanzaros generally wants you to lose.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Ask the next kallikanzaros you meet, if you get the chance. They’re mean spirits.”

  We struck the proper avenue and turned up it.

  “Why are you suddenly concerned with the Radpol again?” he asked. “It’s been a long time since you left.”

  “I left at the proper time, and all I’m concerned with is whether it’s coming alive again—like in the old days. Hasan comes high because he always delivers, and I want to know what’s in the package.”