Amazon Slaughter and Curse of the Ninja Piers Anthony

by Piers Anthony

  But he broke into a smile. "Do you not recognize me?" He removed his hat-and lo, it was a girl, with a freckled face and thick curly red hair. In fact, it was—

  "Ester Behar, whom you tried to help," she said, poking one finger into her mouth to draw the lip aside and reveal the clotted socket of the back tooth that had been extracted. "I saw you when Mirabal the butcher tried to make you recognize me, and I heard you fight him and get knocked down. I heard your screams as they tortured you, and when they stopped I thought you were dead, and I was very sorry. Then the explosion, and my friends from MR-8 came to free me, and I learned it was because of you. I owe you my freedom, perhaps even my life. I came here to seek peace for my soul, and only now entered the mass. I am Jewish, but so many of my friends come here that I—" She paused, embarrassed.

  I understood that her rabbi would frown on her attendance here, but she had been through a truly horrible experience, and perhaps her faith had been shaken. In times of severe stress, beliefs can change. I knew! "And lo, you are here, as if the gods summoned you," she concluded. "Now maybe I can repay you personally."

  "Thanks," I said, relieved. "It's enough that you're free. But I doubt you can do much about a god's curse."

  "So? I regret I was not on hand to see what happened. Which god—?"

  "Exu," I said. "My best friend will kill me, because I robbed the god's offerings."

  Ester made a silent whistle. "Exu's like that! He is Satan in our pantheon, you know. The literal devil. Another god might have shrugged it off, comprehending your need, but not Exu. He'll have your hide, if not your very soul."

  "So I'm told. But I was hungry, and my pants were falling down. The things were just going to waste, or so it seemed at the time. I used the money to help this girl buy something at a voodoo store, and she brought me here." I spread my hands.

  Now Oba spoke in Portuguese. Apparently she had grasped enough of the exchange so that she was able to verify my story. The pai-de-Santo nodded. "She says she lost strength suddenly after dancing six hours, and you helped her, and then she bought an elixir of strength so as to dance some more, but was moved instead to bring you here. She does not know why she decided this, but it is evident the god cast his net for you. Does this not seem beyond coincidence, even to a skeptic?"

  "The god could have punished me better by poisoning the food I took," I said.

  "Strange that Exu should punish this man," Ester remarked to the pai-de-Santo. "We know that sometimes ignorant foreigners rob the gods, especially with things of value for their museums, yet they are not punished."

  "They are punished by being foreigners," the pai-de-Santo said.

  Ester nodded dubiously. "This man has already been punished much. He is marked, because he resisted the torture and helped us all get free. He is a friend to the freedom fighters and an enemy to Mirabal the butcher. He did not mean to insult the god. We were all so desperate to get away before the army came—"

  The pai-de-Santo raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender—curiously modern, in this setting—and nodded. "Enough. It is evident that Exu's wrath is poorly chosen. Perhaps another god will abate the spell."

  He gave directions, and the dance changed. Six of the girls retired to the sidelines, and one took the floor alone. She wore white, with white beads, and carried a little white cotton flag, and to my eyes was the most elegant of the group.

  Ester sat down beside me on the right, while Oba remained on the left, seemingly oblivious to our dialogue. The pai-de-Santo moved back to the center tables.

  "That is the dancer for Oxala, called Obatala in the Spanishl-anguage regions," she said. "I was raised across the border, and this really isn't my religion, so sometimes I get the forms confused, but the essence is the same." She hardly needed to make such apology; I would never know the difference, and I was glad to have her explanations. "Oxala is the chief of the gods, and his color is white, signifying purity. If he helps you, you are saved, for he alone is stronger than Exu."

  "I had no idea there was such a hierarchy," I murmured. "It's almost like an ancient religion."

  She snorted. "Almost? Umbanda is a modern religion! It's one of the Brazilian forms of Santeria, which is an amalgam of Black African voodoo and Roman Catholicism." As I had recollected on my own—but she evidently had much more specific information. "The very term 'Santeria' means the worship of Saints. The voodoo gods are really the same as the Saints. Santeria as a whole has more actual devotees than any other religion in the Western Hemisphere. Many people profess Christianity, but they practice Santeria." She said this with a certain smug emphasis. She, of Jewish background, could afford to sneer at the Christian foibles, of course. Yet she herself was a kind of devotee, and she had evidently studied this Santeria, or Umbanda, more than merely casually.

  "But black magic—" I protested, upset that someone as intelligent as Ester was should believe such nonsense.

  "It is more than magic," she assured me. Then: "Look—Oxala has rejected the appeal. It is not wise to express skepticism when making such an appeal for help from the god."

  Good point! Either I wanted voodoo help, or I didn't. A bad attitude would get me nowhere. I couldn't see that any signal had been made by the god, but maybe that was the point. No action on an appeal is the same as negative action. Had I thrown away my best chance?

  Now the second dancer came forth. Her gown was red, and her necklace was red and white. While Oxala's girl had been serene and pure, this one was passionate. She carried a small double-edged axe in her right hand, and she waved it about with such animation that I was afraid it would fly loose and hurt someone.

  "That's Xango," Ester said. "Known in Spanish as Chango, the most popular and colorful god of fire and thunder. There are many fascinating legends about him; he is quite a lady's god, with one wife and two mistresses for a start, and a roving eye. Perhaps that is why he is known in the Catholic system as Saint Barbara."

  "Saint Barbara!" I exclaimed. "A female saint?"

  "Xango sometimes dresses as a woman," Ester said with a smile. "It is to honor his sister and mistress Oya, who saved him from prison. Actually, a number of men dress as women during festivals. Haven't you seen them?"

  I had, but that was not my immediate concern. "But a legitimate Catholic saint," I protested. "And female, at that! Is nothing sacred?"

  "All is sacred," she assured me. "Haven't you noticed that Saint Barbara has a small castle at her feet, and in her hands holds a sword and cup? All these objects are sacred to Xango. And red is the color of both saint and god. They say the castle is where Saint Barbara was killed for her Christian belief, but still—"

  "But a saint—" the enormity of it overwhelmed me.

  "I see you still do not understand. The gods of Santeria came with the slaves from Africa. At first these were suppressed by the Christian masters, but then the slaves recognized behind the facades of the saints their true identities, the ancient and venerable voodoo pantheon of gods. And so their faith was restored, stronger than before. They had the best of both religions. Is it any wonder they have such conviction?"

  "I suppose not," I said, shaking my head. Voodoo and Catholic saints! Then something else occurred to me. "A castle." For I remembered the Black Castle that Fu Antos was building deep in the Amazon jungle; my mission was surely intimately linked with this. Xango-Saint Barbara-Fu Antos-I knew so little, yet already the network of intrigue embraced gods and saints.

  The sound of the drums rolled forth like thunder, deafening in this hall, and the candles flared high like flickers of lightning. God of thunder, yes!

  But like a storm that passes over with no more than gusts of cold air, the dance crescendoed without response from the god. Xango would not help.

  The third girl came out, garbed in green with a brown and black beaded necklace. She wore bright metal bracelets, anklets, and headdress, with a polished steel girdle. Knives flashed in her hands. The first dancer had been serene, the second passionate; this one wa
s militant, like an Amazon in her armor.

  "Oggun, god of war and metals, especially iron," Ester said. "He is Saint Peter in the Catholic pantheon. Very powerful in the hunt. But he is a very close friend of Elegguo, whose aspect Exu you angered."

  "So he won't help me either," I said, disappointed.

  "That is not certain. He is a bitter enemy of Xango, who took away his wife Oya to be a concubine, and was not even faithful to her. Thus his metal iron is a constant target of Xango's lightning bolts."

  "You really have these things worked out!" I exclaimed. "Adultery and quarrels between gods."

  But Oggun, too, declined to help. No one, it seemed, wanted to go against the terrible Exu. Not for a mere gringo. I was getting worried. Sure I was a skeptic, but I didn't want that curse hanging over my head if I could avoid it.

  The dancer retired, and the next came forth. She wore a yellow and green costume with a golden necklace. She carried a mirror in one hand and an elegant comb made of shells in the other, and as she danced she ran that comb constantly through her flowing blond tresses.

  "Oshun, goddess of love, marriage, and gold—your Venus," Ester murmured. "She controls river waters, so if you plan to sail on fresh water, her blessing would be invaluable. She loves to dance, and is always much fun."

  I could believe it. Despite her manifest vanity, preening and combing her hair and constantly checking her face in the mirror, this dancer exuded pure sex appeal. She had hips of perfect rondure and she flung them about in a manner calculated to inflame the masculine passion. Her large breasts seemed about to pop out of her halter, and her gaze, seemed to fix directly on me with a "come hither" appeal. She flirted shamelessly with the audience.

  "Do not expect too much of her," Ester warned me. "She is Xango's sister and his mistress. She once freed Xango from confinement by flirting with the skeleton that stood guard. While she aroused it, Xango escaped."

  "She aroused a skeleton? Sex—uh, romantically?"

  "That she did. She is remarkably desirable. But she is terrible when angry."

  "Women are," I agreed, remembering certain experiences.

  "She is the goddess of money and all things yellow. If you need money, do not eat a pumpkin, for that is sacred to Oshun. She made the first lamp by hollowing out a pumpkin and placing a candle inside it."

  "A jack-o-lantern!" I exclaimed.

  She shrugged. "At any rate, she also declines."

  "Too bad," I agreed as the dancer retired. I was really disappointed, and not just because of her beauty. My inconsequential remarks were only glossing over my deepening conviction that there was, indeed, something to this voodoo. Those people were too serious, their ceremonies too well worked out. Their gods were too-human.

  The next dancer wore green and yellow, and her beads were the same. She was neither serene nor passionate, neither warlike nor sexy. She was intense, with staring eyes that seemed to see entirely through me. My nervousness increased.

  "Orunla, god of divination," Ester said. "Master of the past, present, and future, owner of the Table of Ifa."

  "The Table of Ifa," I repeated. "The shells—"

  "Yes, the caracoles apply to the Table of Ifa. Orunla governs all time. He alone can tell you your fate, and thereby enable you to ameliorate the curse."

  "Orunla, give me a sign!" I breathed prayerfully.

  "That is the first step," Ester said approvingly. "When you begin to believe in the gods, the gods begin to believe in you. Perhaps it is your North American arrogance of skepticism that really bothers Exu. When he has humbled you, he will be merciful."

  "In a pig's eye!" I snapped, abruptly revolted at my descent into superstition.

  And the dancer returned, without any signal of aid. And I felt sudden loss, as though salvation had been near at hand, but lost because of my foolish obstinacy.

  "Exu will never forgive you now," Ester said sadly. "When will you Americans learn? There is more to life than hot dogs and big new cars. The almighty dollar is powerless against the wrath of a god."

  "Sorry," I said contritely. This was these people's religion, and I owed it the same respect I had for any religion. A little respect could certainly do me no harm.

  The sixth dancer came forth. She wore a blue robe, with a blue and white necklace. She was older than the others, mature, yet possessed of such sheer beauty and aplomb that all the others seemed like mere children in comparison. They were girls; this was a woman.

  "Yemanja," Ester said appreciatively. "Goddess of the moon, and of the sea. See how she moves her canoe."

  Indeed, the dancer's hips swayed like rolling waves, the blue of her costume rippling with a frill of white, like whitecaps. She was a stately queen.

  "Pray to her," Ester suggested. "In your heart as well as your head. Abase yourself before her. She is your last hope; the minor gods can not help you against Exu."

  And I believed her. "Help me, Queen-Goddess Yemanja!" I whispered.

  The dance continued, and I knew with a sinking certainty that my plea had not been heard. There was no way to balk the curse of Exu. But it was almost worth a curse to watch the unearthly beauty of Yemanja's ritual.

  Then something dark crept out from under the table. It was a huge black roach. It moved toward the dancing woman. I lurched to my feet with an inarticulate cry like a kiai! yell. I dived for that roach as if it were Mirabal himself, seeking to crush it before it brought its hideous ugliness to soil the elegance of the Queen. But the thing skittered sidewise, perhaps blown by the force of my rush, and I rolled ignominiously on the floor. I was aware that my antic had probably wiped out my last chance for godly aid; I heard the shocked murmuring of the crowd. At that moment the drums stopped.

  In the sudden silence I lay on my back, looking up. It was quite an experience, for my head was almost under the dancer's skirts where she stood frozen, and I saw her marvelously well-formed legs right up to their juncture, and that wondrous bush of golden curls. I stiffened—and I don't mean sexually, though maybe that was also the cause—for the roach was now climbing her left leg. She stooped, reached around and under with one hand, and caught the roach neatly between her fingers. She brought it struggling to her round face, peered at it with her large, long-lashed eyes-and popped it into her expressive mouth. She chewed, savoring it.

  There was a gasp from the audience. "It is the sign!" the pai-de-Santo cried, in what language I knew not, cared not. "Yemanja grants her favor!"

  Suddenly the drums resumed. The dancer stepped out again. I rolled giddily to my feet, my mind's eye still seeing that lovely mouth consuming that horrible cockroach, but also seeing those magnificent thighs beneath the skirt—no panties. What horror melded to what bliss!

  "The cockroach is sacred to the goddess, you see," Ester explained as I approached the bench. She acted as if nothing special had happened, which should have given me pause for thought. Just what did they expect at these shindigs? "A person possessed by the goddess will consume any roaches she finds, and they are considered to be messengers."

  The dancer whirled and gestured, and swooped near to me as I started to sit, a bit dazed. She wiggled her fingers in a little "Come hither" gesture, and I had to respond. I stepped toward her again, and now the beat caught hold of my soul as though I had stepped into the strong central current of a deep river, not a river of carnival celebrants, but something much more vital and subtle. I danced too, spinning and raising my bare feet in a crude approximation of her movements. I could not help myself, though a part of me felt like a complete buffoon. In her devious, horrible fashion a goddess had smiled on me, showing me heaven where I expected hell and vice versa, and I had to worship her.

  Yet it was only the beginning. There was a cry, and the girl I had dubbed Oba jumped to her feet, chanting. After her followed others, until it seemed the whole congregation was dancing to that compelling beat. Like the ponderous waves of the ocean it swelled and faded, making us twitch in harmony with its devious syncopations. On and on we dan
ced, tirelessly, now in silence, now crying out.

  Again, how much later I do not know, the drums stopped. The dance subsided. The pai-de-Santo occupied the center of the floor. "Yemanja, mother of gods, shows her favor to this man," he announced. "But we must ascertain the nature of that favor." He brought out the divination shells again, and cast them. After several throws he announced. "Yemanja will accept sacrifice. But we must learn what type."

  He brought out a coconut, set it on the table, and broke the hard shell with one strike of a special hammer. There was no milk; the coconut had evidently been dried so that the pulp was hard and white. He broke it into four equal parts, inspected them carefully, washed them in water, and tore seven bits off each. He sprinkled these bits over the image of Our Lady of Regla. "Seven bits, to invoke Yemanja," Ester explained. "It is different for each god."

  How nice: like dialing a telephone. Each god had his number. The pai-de-Santo chanted strange words as he did this. Talking to the operator? Then he held the four pieces of coconut in his left hand. With his right hand he touched the floor three times, and the image three times. Then he prayed, and the congregation spoke in unison at certain intervals, as in a responsive reading. He made the sign of the cross and finished the invocation. Finally he threw the four pieces on the floor.

  Each piece was white on the inside and brown outside, so when they fell they showed white or brown. In this case, three were brown and one white.

  There was an immediate reaction among the spectators. All around, people pulled at the lobes of their ears and opened their eyes wide.

  "Ocana-Sode, that cast is called, where I come from," Ester said. "In any language, it means evil for you. The people are trying to dispel that evil—but this is a bad sign." And she pulled delicately at her own lobe.

  "The goddess changed her mind?" I asked worriedly, and caught my own hand going to my ear.

  "Perhaps. Or maybe she is powerless to abate the spell of Exu, who is stronger than she."