Grave Sacrifice

by Russ Linton

  Dude was cracking jokes on me, but hiding things too. The walking mystery who was Atofo. Not sure why he and Araceli didn’t get along better.

  I thought one more time through the plan I’d been piecing together since Caleb’s closet. Removing the long wool coat, I stripped off my shirt and slung it over the boardwalk railing. I’d been roasting alive in the damn coat and the crisp air on damp skin felt good. Soon, the early evening sun was baking through the thin layer of sweat and the momentary chill and soaking into the golden breastplate.

  This would be a ritual of my own making. One I’d thrown together from all sources — Atofo’s teachings, the far-flung stops across the rural South, and the powers of Kibaga plus a touch of Araceli’s correspondence course.

  It would cost me. No sticker with the amount. But I felt ready to roll the dice.

  What did I have left?

  A burning column of power from Above collected in my ragged chest through the heating breastplate. I drew the Shaw Sword and some blood then began a circle of power. Inside, I inscribed the symbols of the planets, starting with a straight line to Jupiter and ending with Mercury, that hubris Araceli had warned me about.

  Time for the hard part.

  Starting from a crouch, I called on Atofo’s ancestor spirits. I invoked the name of Kibaga. I poured out an apology to Keandra for ever thinking I could replace her. I circled and gave my praise to the east and the west and when I finished, I started all over again.

  The mixed-up energies made it hard to remember how easily I used to slip into the Below. It used to be hungry for me. This built-up necromantic power made you numb to that hunger. It shifted your entire spiritual focus to the material world. These dead soldiers ran wild because they had nowhere to rest. Jabir and his crew hadn’t been conquering the afterlife, they’d been imprisoning the living, chaining them to the material world. That wasn’t the way of any shaman I knew.

  With every circuit I completed, I rose a little higher. Every turn, I added more motion. They were the jerky twists of a Timucuan berserker transformation and the creeping strut of the old hoodoo conjurer. The steps of Fortune’s vulture lope came on like a seizure. In his version, he’d stand tall and proud. As the dance went on, he’d curl into the stoop. I did that shit backwards. Atofo watched cautiously, head set at a crooked angle.

  I wasn’t plucking spirits from the other realms. I wasn’t dragging their bodies up from the mud. No, I was gonna rise up to join them.

  I continued. On and on. Power building. A rhythm growing. I watched for changes. When those changes didn’t happen, I didn’t give up, I tuned out the noise. I would make this happen. Here, on this patch of almost forgotten soil where slaves had dared to be free, I’d offer up a deal they couldn’t resist. Give them power over those who’d tried to determine their fate. Over the ones who’d shipped them off in chains, who’d called them free but told them where to live, who to worship, decided the value of their lives — I would offer them the Castillo for eternity. The fortress that had never fallen. The fortress they’d sacrificed their lives to protect.

  Sun beating down, sweat came on strong. My world collapsed into a narrow line from east to west. Beyond the trees, over the ocean, the sun dipped. I felt my chest tighten, my thoughts go fuzzy.

  Atofo sat cross-legged on the boardwalk, arm slung against the railing. He yawned and got to his feet with a stretch. I tried to put him out of mind. I struggled to find the same concentration. Frustrated, a curse slipped into my chant and I coughed, tasting blood.

  Atofo placed his hand on my back. Gentle, but enough to interrupt the flow of my cuttin’ up. It was like that touch released a wave of exhaustion and I bent forward, gasping.

  “I don’t think it worked,” he said.

  I looked off the end of the walkway into the featureless mudflat. I wanted to say the view had changed, but I couldn’t say how. Something so subtle, you could put it down to the difference in light.

  Wait. The boardwalk extended east, toward the ocean. And I was looking at the sun. It hadn’t set, it had risen.

  I turned around. Inland the trees had thinned. A clearing filled a spit surrounded by an earthen wall. Conical grass roofs spiked over the top. Toward the middle, the tall steeple of a wooden church caught the first rays of the sun.

  I had to forcibly spin Atofo around.

  “Oh. Shit.” His face was a mixture of awe and apprehension.

  I snatched up my coat and threw it on, my Timbs clomping on the walk. Each step sounded less certain, softer. The wooden planks aged as I moved, going from straight and whole to rough cut lumber. I got halfway before I realized Atofo wasn’t following.

  “You coming?”

  He held off, deep in thought. I threw up my hands like come on! He seemed to have an internal struggle before setting after me with a grumpy stomp. When he caught up, he just kept going, grumbling in Timucuan. I shook my head and followed.

  Men appeared along the dirt fortification which couldn’t have been more than six feet high. They were black men wearing uniforms with blue coats like the Spanish wore, not like the one I’d found in Caleb’s closest.

  Muskets got aimed our way. I slowed up. Ghost guns, real guns, you had to show respect.

  Atofo plowed on. He grumpily swatted his hand their way and shouted a phrase. The soldiers looked at each other and disappeared. I got the feeling they could’ve unloaded on him and he’d have kept walking.

  We entered through a gatehouse which was just two raised platforms. One of the guards posted there waved at the dour shaman, who ignored him. I tried to make up for it with a nod and the guard frowned.

  “Atofo!” A man called out, joyous, proud.

  He wore a white uniform like mine over deep ebony skin. He had on the goofy breeches but had skipped the tight socks, calves rippling with each step. He walked with a swagger and a confidence that made the men around him stand straighter.

  When he reached Atofo, they gave dap and brought it in.

  No, for real.

  “How goes the hunt?” the man asked.

  Atofo returned the man’s easy smile. “Scalps got too easy to collect with all the wigs. So I got new prey.”

  “That you did.” The man’s bright hazel eyes turned to me. “You bring your strays in all commissioned and ready to take charge now do you?”

  As soon as he escaped the officer’s stare, Atofo set to scanning the village. “Eustace here could use some help,” he muttered.

  “Captain Francisco Menéndez,” said the officer and extended his hand. “We’re glad to have you, Eustace.”

  “Ace,” I said.

  “Like the card? I like it.” He looked me up and down, taking my measure. “You officer material then?”

  I scrubbed the back of my neck and uneasily looked around. I hadn’t planned this far ahead. This whole ritual had been a mid-court shot. What felt strangest was any lack of presence of the boundaries between realms.

  The sun had frozen in an eternal rise. People went about their business like they’d never died. There were men in colonial outfits like the soldier’s uniforms and ladies wearing dresses and bonnets mixed in with people in traditional African garb. Bare breasted women strolled proudly through the crowds, one nursing an infant. Tattooed natives, kin to Atofo’s tribes, lived here too, many holding hands with African brothers and sisters.

  Strange spirit loop maybe? Like the Civil War hospital scene I’d stumbled into before. But this place had none of the hidden danger. It felt...comfortable.

  Atofo watched the crowd. Wasn’t sure what had him geekin’ but if he was tight with this Captain, help with negotiations would’ve been good.

  “Captain, I need your garrison here to help fight a battle.”

  Francisco pursed his lips and smiled again. “So you are here to take over.” He put a friendly arm around me. “Some advice then. I just lead the people, I don’t tell them what to do. They’re free men and women. You got to ask them yourself. Who would you have them fig
ht?”

  Tough question to answer. How much loyalty did they have toward the Spanish? Could I ask spirit soldiers to attack a city they’d sworn to defend? Or were they under some kind of supernatural obligation?

  “The Spanish garrison at the Castillo.”

  His smile disappeared. “You’re definitely going to have to sell that one.” From the village center, a bell rang. “And you’re just in time! I’d call it a coincidence, but—”

  “There are no coincidences?” I said.

  Francisco laughed.

  “What exactly am I in time for?” I asked as he guided us through the streets.

  “Communion,” Atofo grumbled, his voice low and ominous.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Walking through the fortified town, I saw a mix of buildings as diverse as the people. Timucuan palm huts stood next to mud brick buildings built with thatch porches sagging over their stoops. There were wooden buildings too, frontier-style made from raw timbers.

  The church had been raised by other hands. There was that gentrification Atofo had been going on about. Built like a barn, a steeple capped the entrance where a hayloft should’ve been. The shiny brass bell inside looked smaller than I’d guess from the sound it made — a joyful ring sharing wavelengths with Araceli’s hammer.

  Townsfolk jostled through the church’s open doors. A white man wearing a brown monk’s robe greeted everyone who entered. He had a bowl cut and a cleanly shaved head, the only smooth part of his sharp features. His peacefully folded hands tightened the minute he saw Atofo.

  No doubt, we were going to get bounced. Then a woman rushed toward us. She was black with a pretty, round face set off by a blazing orange headwrap. Her dress was the same color, patterned with saffron lines. Or maybe you called that a skirt. The top ended right below her breasts.

  Francisco greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and let the crowd pull him away. Not even us aliens from Mars or whatever could distract the people from his charisma. He gave one last apologetic glance before being pulled into the church by the flow of people.

  “Baby! Where have you been?” the woman asked, rushing up to Atofo. “I thought you’d never make it home.”

  This time, I put aside the surprise and sat back to watch the show. Soon, he was so uncomfortable, I thought he might start digging a fresh grave and crawl inside.

  Atofo saw how much I was living for this moment and took his frustration out on his woman. “That had been the plan.”

  She ignored the comment, kind of like she knew what he was all about, and gave him a peck on his cheek before turning to me. I’m not used to seeing the goods displayed in public. But even the move from Baltimore to Florida had opened my eyes to how broad the spectrum of public decency was. I kept my eyes up and smiled.

  She quirked her head and paced a tight circle around me. Lightly taking my arm, she turned it over and eyed the scars. “You’re Jola,” she said.

  “Ace,” I corrected.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ace of the Jola,” she said with a small curtsy.

  I looked to Atofo for any clue. He’d gone back to his head on a swivel. Friendly with an almost overpowering kindness, the woman’s gaze hadn’t wavered. If this was his girl, he’d done well for himself, if my peripheral vision was still on point. He didn’t seem to care. All of his attention was elsewhere, like he was waiting to get yoked.

  “Jola?” I asked her.

  “You aren’t Mandinka.” She kept hold of my arm and slipped hers through it. “But you are Catholic at least?”

  Catholic? She’d already started walking me toward the church. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the church was about to be desecrated. The other villagers had piled inside where they settled onto benches spread over a sandy floor. The monk finished closing one of the great double doors and rushed to the other, throwing hurried glances our way.

  “What’s your name?” I asked as we got closer to the open doors.

  “Sarjo,” she said, eyes forward and smiling.

  “You’re Atofo’s girl?”

  “Girl?” She looked more confused than offended. “We are husband and wife if that’s what you mean.” I craned my neck all the way around to stare. Unwilling to move, Atofo was muttering to himself, to spirits, whatever. “Sweetheart,” Sarjo called behind her, “don’t hold up the friar.” She swiveled to look back as we reached the door. “Or tie up the friar.”

  Balding white dude gulped. He hadn’t quite gotten the second door closed and Sarjo blocked the gap. I thought I heard a muttered prayer from him too.

  “Aye sweetheart,” I called out to Atofo. “Come get some religion.”

  Atofo kicked the dirt like an angry kid and trudged inside. Sarjo gave the Friar her thanks. He accepted it like he’d just got hold of spoiled communion wine. The three of us took an open bench near the back.

  Inside looked even more like a barn with the dirt floors and raw lumber. A young boy scampered up a ladder to join a row of dangling legs and eager eyes in the loft. Two candelabras with fat, ivory candles hung from a central beam over the main aisle.

  The simple altar at the front was a raised wooden floor with a railing. The friar did his thing up there with a quick kneel and moved to a table at the back where a stand held an open book. An altar boy, I guess, followed him, plain white smock draped over his dark body. While the priest read out loud, the boy sat mostly still, his head bowed.

  “You never told me you were married!” I tried to whisper but it came out all hyped. The friar glared as he went toward the altar.

  “I’m dead. I can’t be married,” Atofo spat. “Til death! Then you part.” He’d leaned forward to glare across me at his wife and she blissfully ignored him.

  “No, I’m dead! This alone was worth the trip!”

  Sarjo put a finger to her lips. I knew she wanted the conversation to stop, but I had to get in one more question before the sermon started. I leaned in to whisper.

  “Why Jola? What does that mean?”

  She frowned, caught between being annoyed and the need to spread some truth. “Your tribe,” she whispered. “You seem the type.”

  “Type?”

  “The do unto others type,” she said quickly, then shushed me with another finger to her lips.

  The friar had asked the room to repeat some words he’d read. I’d talked over the recitation, but Sarjo spit the words like it wasn’t a thing. I mumbled quietly, glancing around, and noticed Atofo keeping up. “Lord have mercy upon us...”

  What? Maybe this wasn’t a door to the Above or some time portal. Maybe I’d opened the Twilight Zone.

  Congregation and priest continued their conversation. He’d speak and they’d all respond in unison. Nothing like the Baptist church I’d gone to growing up. If you felt the urge to give praise during a sermon, you gave it. That passion was the Lord bubbling up out of your soul. Without any of that were you really praying? Or were you just numbly doing what you’d been told? Participating in a ritual meant not for you but for some institution. Some other purpose.

  I gave up trying to fake it and fell into staring at my mentor. Atofo and his wife followed along, word for word. How could this ever have been a thing with him? The answer hit me hard while the first row stood and formed a line to receive communion.

  The video playing in the burial exhibit had been burned into my brain like these Catholic recitations. Those bodies had been buried in a Catholic grave. I’d always assumed the reason was ignorant folk putting their customs on the natives. That cruddy act, I thought, had wounded him, trapped him spiritually. He’d been a victim.

  Naw, this clown had been Catholic the whole time.

  We got in line and I crept up to Atofo’s shoulder. “This why the Deer Woman is so hard on you?”

  His jaw flexed, but he stayed facing the front of the line, walking the aisle like he carried a grudge, not a cross. When he reached the altar, he knelt. Atofo opened that predatory mouth of his and the friar’s shoulders tightened. The priest
offered a wafer between shaking fingers, held as close to the edge as he could.

  The shaman struck like a snake. His jaw snapped closed and the friar gasped. Sarjo hissed Atofo’s name. He rose and turned into my shocked expression, still chewing.

  “What?” he said, on his way by. “I eat white meat.”

  I checked the friar, both of us looking to see he still had all his fingers. No blood, baldy got testy, recovered his wits, and prepared my wafer. I heard Sarjo discreetly smack Atofo on his backside as he went back to his seat. That’s definitely not going to discourage him. Maybe she didn’t intend to.

  I didn’t kneel, I just lowered my head. Confession time. I wasn’t sure how this would go over with the people I needed to sway.

  “Preacher, this isn’t my church, know what I’m saying?”

  “Trust in da Lord, Eustace. Dis here isn’t da church ya think it is.”

  I raised my eyes, slow and steady. Brown robes still but the Friar’s face had gone from white to ashen pale, a skull painted over a familiar face. A battered top hat covered the shaved pate.

  “Evens?”

  “Baron Samedi,” he said. “Ya friend, Evens, da voodoo priest is a conduit for us loa. Big difference.” He popped the communion wafer into his mouth and took another. He held their holy bread plate out to like he was offering up chips and dip. “Partake. You’re witnessing an origin story. Could be mine. Could be yours. Damned interesting piece of magic dat brought you here.”

  “What are you saying?” I whispered.

  Eyes of the congregation burned on the nape of my neck. Holding up the line. Preventing God from giving up his blessing. But which god?

  “What do ya get when you mix da saints and loa? Priests and shamans?” Samedi asked. He swiped the cup from the table and knocked back the whole thing. “Voodoo. Dat bastard half breed of a ritual dat doesn’t know to be dead or alive.” The skull on his face parted, painted teeth framing his real ones. “Releejon,” he said, drawing out the word, “is a powerful thing. Dese people could use reminding.”

  I expected to see the congregation mean muggin’ the clown holding up the services. Not a suspicious eye out there. Sarjo smiled. Turning back to the altar, the friar was back, a wafer between his fingers. He gave me a look that said, ‘you going to take this or do we have a problem?’ Problem. Most definitely.