All the Dead Are Here (14 page)

As we approached, the settlement looked sparsely populated. Several old men and women sat in groups and I was unsettled by the rotting carcass of a cow that seemed to have been dumped not far from the village. As I gazed, I thought I saw figures in the trees behind moving away. I tried to use my book to shield my eyes and thought, just for a second, that one of the figures moved with a deportment different to the others but then they had gone. At this point I distinctly remember having butterflies in my stomach and the urge to jump overboard and swim for my life was nigh overwhelming. Perchance it was the heat and lack of sustenance for the voyage but I remember feeling nothing but foreboding as we landed the sloop on the beach.

The captain jumped from the ship and bade me follow him. I considered asking him to take my trunk, however pride meant that I merely hefted it onto the beach and proceeded to drag it behind me. I made slow progress up the beach but rather than offer to help he merely stopped every few feet and waited. This was quite intolerable and I muttered so under my breath. It occurred to me then that the Negroes of this island looked different to those of Montserrat. Their skin was darker they themselves seemed skinnier and wiry perhaps. From photographs I had seen, I surmised that they could be African in origin. With a great show of effort I dragged my trunk through the village lest the locals felt compelled to help me, but none did. Eventually, I came upon a large wooden hut some way along a small track outside the main settlement. It was of Western construction and I deduced that this was the house of Dr Baker. My erstwhile Captain wandered off without a word and, being an Englishman, I felt obliged to thank him. However, the combination of his surliness and rudeness meant that, to my shame, I merely poked my tongue out at him when he turned his back. When in Rome and all that.

I dropped the trunk and removed my sodden kerchief from my trousers, discovering it was possibly wetter than the perspiration of my face. Exasperated, I left my baggage where it lay and proceeded inside. The shack, if you could grace it with such a title, was dark inside and the floorboards creaked as I entered. A musky, chemical smell, was omnipresent in the room, despite being open to the elements by means of shuttered windows. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, for the shack was deep within the palm trees of the island, I saw that it was simply furnished with two dining chairs.

“Ah. Mr Smith, is it?” his eyes cleared as he drew the logical conclusion.

“And you must be Dr Baker,” I said with all the heartiness I could muster.

“I am. I am. I am,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers and stepping forward to shake mine vigorously. I distinctly remember how slick he felt, like freshly caught Trout or such like. His eyes were dark with lack of sleep and he seemed restless, the tone of his voice monotone and dour, yet filled with gusto.

“Pray sir, was your journey a pleasant one?” he asked enthusiastically, still shaking my hand.

Distracted by his slickness, I replied, “Well no, not really.”

“Oh.” He stopped shaking my hand.

Regaining my composure I answered, “Actually, some water would cure all my ails.”

“Of course, of course.” He darted out of the room.

I flopped onto one of the chairs as he returned, bearing a pitcher of water. I drank long and deeply as he sat opposite, just staring at me.

“The fact you have arrived today fills me with joy, Mr Smith,” he said. I looked quizzically at him whilst drawing more water from the pitcher. “Yes. Yes. For this very evening I come to the zenith of my experimentation.”

“It was not clear from your letter what the nature of your studies are,” said I.

“Ah well. I am a chemist by training and an anthropologist by chance. I did not want to enter into too much detail for fear my letter might be intercepted by my rivals.” I struggled to see that this little man would have any rivals but I let this point pass. “I suggest that we eat and then perhaps I can show you what it is that I have been doing with my time here.”

I smiled, though my heart was dreaming of nice ale and perhaps some roasted venison.

Baker left the shack for several minutes while he fetched a meal from the villagers and I took this time to take in my luggage. I changed clothes and for reasons I still do not understand to this day, tucked my loaded service revolver into the inside of my jacket. I could not shake a feeling of horror that seeped into my soul, in the same way London fog soaks through the sturdiest woollen clothing even when the evening was warm and pleasant.

It was then that I noticed that the portrait of the couple on the wall showed Dr Baker and, I surmised, his wife. She was a fine beauty, taller than Baker perhaps, with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. I realised then that this small shack had indeed at one time showed the touch of a lady: the placement of the furniture, the antimacassars, the china oddities on a shelf; the touch of a woman of taste trying to make the best of a poor lot. Yet, the grubby shack had not been cleaned in some considerable time. As I pondered this, Baker returned with a wooden platter of fish and vegetables and we dined whilst he caught up on news of the Empire. The vegetables were nothing to speak of but I must admit I enjoyed the fish; it was moist and succulent, with a fresh flavour and must have been grilled over an open fire. I don’t know why I remember this so clearly; even now many years later in London I can still taste it. Memory is a strange thing. With a full stomach I plucked up the courage to ask about his wife.

“I’m afraid she died of a fever a few weeks after coming to the Island,” was all he would say on the matter before hurriedly changing the subject and looking away.

Over a glass of Rum I asked Baker to expand on the reason for my visit.

“Well,” he said, “several years ago, my wife and I were travelling around Africa, it was our Honeymoon if truth be told, and I found myself stricken with the most dreadful sickness. I could not eat nor keep my stomach contents. Our guide, concerned for my welfare, recommended I consult a local ‘Bokor’, or sorcerer for a cure. Good Christian teaching warned me against this but I must confess that the pains in my stomach were such that I acquiesced and saw the man. After a ritual of some length and complexity I was handed a small bag of powder to consume with water over the following few days. This I did and to my amazement, the following day I ate a hearty meal and felt fully recovered. In awe of this powder, I completed a chemical analysis of it and found the most amazing interplay of chemicals and compounds I had ever seen. In order to learn more about the origin of this remarkable chemistry, I stayed in Africa for several months until I learned that the most accomplished Bokor in Voodou, the religion of the area, actually lived here on this island.”

“So this remarkable discovery is a cure for illness of the digestive system?” I enquired.

“No, no. Not at all. I was interested in the chemistry of the cures, not the mumbo jumbo they associate with Voodou,” he sighed. “Tell me, have you ever considered what will happen to the Empire now that we have to rely on European workers and not slaves?”

“No, not really,” I said, for if truth be told, I failed to see how anything could affect the Empire.

“The way it appears to me is that the Europeans will require a fair wage. That will require more expense for the simple tasks one requires which will inflate the economy, which in turn will bankrupt us all. What we need is a way of creating a labour force that requires no wages and little or no costs to maintain.”

“Well surely that would be slaves, and I don’t think your grasp of economics is quite accurate.”

“Nevertheless, a free labour source would allow the Empire to flourish, would it not?” I nodded, now thoroughly lost to the man’s point. “Come with me,” he said.

We went outside and walked through an overgrown path, deeper into the undergrowth of the jungle. The light was fading into darkness and I was already struggling to keep my footing in the dense underbrush. Eventually, we came to a reed hut built in a small clearing. Outside, there were a variety of glass bottles and canisters, smashed and broken, and an ungodly smell of rotting meat. I was also shocked to see a crudely made coffin lying on the ground by the entrance to the hut. Resting one foot on the coffin stood a black man of tiny stature, dressed in rags that smelt of fish and once may have resembled a black suit as he smoked a tiny hand rolled cigarette. Around his neck was a garland of what appeared to be bones, hair, ribbons and carved wooden effigies. His rheumy eyes looked me up and down and he smiled at me with rotten teeth. I realised the fish smell was most probably his breath.

Baker and this man had a short conversation, in a language I didn’t recognise, where my name was mentioned and
‘The Times’
newspaper. The gentleman raised his eyes and shook my hand.

“This is Papa Badalou, the Bokor I mentioned previously,” said Baker.

“Charmed, sir,” I said, perhaps a little ungraciously. I tried to smile but I’m afraid it would have been false, for the sense of foreboding in my soul had risen to a crescendo of fear. I did not like this gentleman one bit.

They had a further conversation before Baker turned to me and said, “Bear in mind that what I am about to show you is an automaton, nothing more than a shell, equipped to do one's bidding: lifting, carrying and such like, but without complaint nor rest. It is, to all intents and purposes, the perfect employee.”

As Baker lit a rough torch that had been left on the ground at his feet, Papa Badalou shouted something at the hut. From inside I heard a terrible, low moan. A huge hulking figure stooped through the doorway before emerging into the evening gloom. Unconsciously, I stepped back in fright and as Baker raised the torch I saw the full countenance of the creature that emerged. It was a man. ‘Was’ being the operative word. It was a corpse. Its eyes were grey as its skin, no blood coloured its lips and it appeared to have a hole in its chest. It... he had been buried a time for there was mould on his suit which had the shirt unbuttoned. It must have been his burial suit.

“Good God!” I exclaimed.

“God has nothing to do with it dear boy. This is pure science, with perhaps a little touch of Voodou,” said Baker, apparently rather pleased with himself.

“But it’s inhuman,” I continued, barely able to form the words. “Did you kill him?” I asked.

“No, no, no. Nothing unnatural happened. He was in an accident, a boat’s oar punctured his thorax.” With this he put his fist into the hole in the creature’s chest. I felt the humours rise in my stomach.

“He was buried a good Christian burial, I am merely using the chemical components of his body before they are absorbed into the earth. Can you imagine Sir, cleaned up and perhaps with some sort of mask to make their countenance more pleasing, one in every house in the Empire, a servant for every home?” He looked the creature up and down. I stood agog. The full horror seemed to reflect off me, I couldn’t speak; I just stared at this thing.

“Let me demonstrate,” he continued, now clearly excited. “Jacob!” he said in a loud clear voice. The thing turned and gazed at him. “Take the body from the coffin and place it on the workbench, please.” The creature stared at him for a second then bent and opened the coffin. The smell was horrendous as the creature reached inside and hoisted the black suited corpse onto his shoulder. Baker wrinkled his nose.

“Fresh, Papa Badalou, they must always be fresh! How many times must I tell you?” The tiny Negro shrugged his shoulders and muttered something.

“Yes, yes,” said Baker. “It’s always the heat, isn’t it? See how obedient he is Mr Smith, quite pliable to all but the most complex requests.”

I did not answer but just stared as Jacob entered the hut and placed the corpse on the workbench. Baker lit several more torches inside the hut and I could see flasks and rubber tubing, oil burners and a small cooking stove, it looked like a small laboratory or pharmacy. Baker busied himself lighting oil burners and checking chemicals. As he worked he ushered me in. Morbid curiosity carried my legs forward but my mind reeled.

As he readied the process he continued, “Now Jacob there was made with a mixture of chemicals, and Voodou. What I intend to do now is the same process but without the mumbo jumbo. If the Zombification can be easily achieved I intend to set up a factory in the North of England where the weather will be kinder to the materials involved until reanimation is complete. At that point, Mr Smith, their decomposition ceases and one can eliminate the smell. What do you think? I was toying with ‘Bakers Zombie Automatons Ltd’ as a name. What do you think? Eh?”

I wanted to call him a madman and run, flee this place and return to England forthwith but I just stood there, unable to process the macabre scene before me. Papa Badalou obviously understood some English because he began to query Baker. I do not understand what was said but it quickly became an argument. Jacob and I stood there as they raged at each other, until Papa Badalou stormed out of the hut back towards the village.

“Oh dear,” he said as he continued to run around, placing tubes into the corpse and removing stoppers from flasks.

“It appears the good Bokor is convinced that his ritual is as important as the chemical processes. I’ve tried to persuade him that it is just science but he is not convinced. Apparently the spirits must be appeased.”

Baker paused, and waved his hands in a mock expression of a magician doing a trick.