Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (2 page)

Keeping straight, Malcolm remained silent as the men brought devotees up one at a time before them. Each time, Ulises held his palm out before ushering them in. After what he guessed was half an hour, a few of the drummers began warming up, their beats echoing though the yard. Turning his head a little, Malcolm watched through the corner of his eye as they played while others milled around. His feet ached from standing so long, and he shifted his weight. The heat from the afternoon sun left him slick with sweat. He barely noticed as the two men brought a round-faced woman before them, her hair hidden beneath a white headscarf. Ulises raised his palm. Malcolm jumped as the woman suddenly let out a hiss. She turned away, shielding her eyes as if from a spotlight. Ulises whipped the machete from its sheath as the two men grappled her arms.

"No!" the woman screamed. "Please. Please don't hurt me!"

The old man gestured with the blade, and the men led the woman, fighting and wailing, to a small, fenced pen not far from the main circle. A ring of mirrors and wooden masks surrounded the little corral, facing inward. Long strands of colored beads draped the wooden fence. People stopped and watched as Seymour opened the sagging gate and the men pushed her inside.

"Please!" she cried. "Please, no!"

Without a word, Ulises tied the gate shut. He dipped his fingers into a shallow dish of white powder and drew a line across the threshold.

"No. There's been a mistake," the woman cried as they turned and walked back toward the entrance. Seymour remained beside the corral gate, his hand gripping his own plastic-handled machete.

"What was that about?" Malcolm demanded.

"Shh," the old man hissed. "No questions. Observe."

Malcolm clenched his jaw, standing silent as Ulises continued his strange ritual, the woman's pleading wails echoing behind them.

Hundreds more passed the old man's test, unfazed at the tattooed hand. Malcolm watched each one, his attention unwavering. Eventually, a bald man with tight, rope-like muscles was presented before them. He stood straight, confident. Then recoiled away the instant he saw the bokor's palm.

Again, the machete slid from its sheath, and the two guards dragged the man, kicking and fighting to the corral. Two more men rushed to help, and together, they pushed the terrified prisoner into the pen. He fell to his knees, sobbing. Once Ulises had redrawn the white powder line, the two strangers stayed behind to watch over the captives.

Time crawled as he stood there, watching the old man work, the drums and laughter increasing behind him. Finally, after the line outside had nearly completed, a small, white van and pickup stopped on the street outside.

Several police officers crawled out of the vehicles. Malcolm looked around, expecting some reaction from the priest. Instead, several of the white-shirted officers stepped in line. When the first of the policemen was presented before Ulises, he stood straight, hands at his sides, aviator sunglasses hanging from his open collar.

Once he'd passed Ulises' test, the officer walked back to the gate as another policeman was brought forward. Afterward, he returned to the yard entrance.

A cluster of policemen circled behind the van, pistols and shotguns drawn. They pulled a man in filthy green shorts out of the back and pushed him into the yard. Once cleansed, the two officers dragged the haggard prisoner forward. Steel cuffs bound the man's wrists and ankles. Swollen bruises and scabby cuts marred his hollow-cheeked face, likely remnants of some terrible beating. Judging by the officers' treatment of him, Malcolm could guess the handiwork was theirs.

Ulises displayed his palm, and the prisoner let out a high, terrible scream. He struggled to pull away, but the officers held him firm. Hounacier out, Ulises marched the cuffed man to the yard and locked him inside with the others.

"Who was that?" Malcolm asked as they walked back to the front.

"The man they caught," Ulises said.

"The killer?" Malcolm glanced back. The man stood, shoulders slumped inside the corral, the two policemen beside it. "You said he was innocent."

"No," Ulises corrected. "I said he wasn't the real murderer, but he did kill those people."

Confused, Malcolm opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it.
Just go along with him. Don't ruin your chance of the interview.

After several more minutes, the last of the attendees were admitted, and the priests made their way toward the erect post at the yard's center. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Malcolm located a food-cluttered table and fetched some lukewarm water from a white-haired woman. He gulped it down, refilled the cup, then carried it and a fresh one to Ulises.

"I had hoped for more," the old bokor said to Father Tavel. The two men stood beside a row of wooden trunks.

Tavel frowned. "You said you only needed three."

"Three is the minimum for an anchor. Four is preferred."

"Can you still do your magic?"

Ulises pursed his lips. "It will be difficult. The beast will fight. If it is strong enough, it may resist."

Tavel met Ulises' eye. "Then fight it harder," he said, his tone hard, almost threatening. He picked up a brown bottle from a trunk and joined the other priests gathered near the pole.

Ulises let out a long breath then picked up a grimy brown duffel from behind one of the boxes and set it on the lid.

Malcolm offered one of the cups. "I brought you some water."

The bokor accepted it and downed it in three gulps. He dug through the canvas bag and removed a long necklace of tiny shells. A graven bone hung from the end, its curved shape resembling a claw or crescent. Ulises kissed the bone then pulled the necklace over his head. He removed a rolled leather bundle from the duffel and continued to dig. "Here," he said, pulling out a second necklace, a single-strand rather than three. He kissed the bone amulet at the end. "Wear this."

Malcolm lowered his head, and Ulises put it around his neck. "Thank you."

A brief smile tugged the edge of the old man's mouth then was gone. "I am sword-bearer, but a laplas should be armed." He untied the lace around the bundle and unrolled it.

Malcolm swallowed, seeing the ancient, sawed-off Remington. The wooden stock had been sanded down into a curved grip.

"You are to carry this." Ulises drew the weapon from a long, stitched holster and thumbed the lever on the back, opening it. "Do not fire it unless I tell you. There will be many people around, and the spray might hurt someone if you aren't close to the beast."

"Beast?"

Ulises removed a green cartridge from a loop inside the roll and loaded it into the right barrel. "This one is bronze. I suspect it will work." He loaded the second barrel with a red one, a black stripe drawn around its end. "If not, this is a general load. Something in here may hurt it." He snapped the shotgun closed and slid it back into the holster. "Safety is on the back."

"I can't shoot that," Malcolm said, stepping back. "It might kill someone."

The old man gave him a hard glare. "If the time comes to fire it, people will already be dead. You do as I tell you." He offered the weapon. "Put it on."

Malcolm clenched his teeth. He drew a breath then accepted the shotgun. It had a long shoulder strap that crossed his chest and hung at his hip.

"Good." Ulises shoved the roll back into the duffel and cinched it closed. "It's time."

The two men circled around to the far edge of the open ring surrounding the painted pole. Mambos and houngans moved to the music, drawing swirling chalk and cornmeal patterns around the tall post. Malcolm found himself bobbing his head to the beat as he mentally noted as much of the ceremony as he could. Priests blew mouthfuls of liquor onto the pole. The chickens were fed before their heads were twisted from their bodies. The sword-bearers danced in the circle, twirling their blades in mock, rhythmic combat.

The congregation's energy rolled higher. Chanting grew faster, hundreds of voices merging in song. More dancers trickled into the ring, seeming drunk within the moment. Dust swirled in the air from dancing feet, only adding to the stink of sweat and smoke.

Eventually, one of the dancers, an elderly man, began to shake, his eyes rolling up into his head. He stumbled and bumped into one of the priests. The other dancers moved around him, singing and chanting, and the man suddenly moved with an energy and vigor he hadn't had before. He hopped and shimmied in a unique rhythm.

The first of the loa had arrived.

The priests gathered around the possessed man. One hurried to one of the nearby trunks and fetched a straw hat and a twisted cane, which the old man graciously took.

Malcolm watched the man saunter and dance as Legba, the Gatekeeper. Of course, he knew there was no spirit, no Legba. But obviously, the old man believed it, and so did the others. He wondered what made the old man
believe
the spirit had taken him. Could he have moved in those rhythms before? How much of his new vigor was psychosomatic?

More dancers moved inside the ring, their fervor fueled by the loa's appearance. Others began to shake and twitch as the spirits mounted them. Each time, the priests moved in to greet them, verify the loa's identity, then fetch their signifying totems. Erzulie, Sogbo, and a half-dozen more appeared within the congregation. In his observations, Malcolm had witnessed possessions before but rarely more than three at the same time. Still, more arrived with rolling eyes and sporadic convulsions.

He watched a young man with a wisp of a goatee wearing a pair of sunglasses with only one lens and clutching a rum bottle. The teenager groped several of the women, posing as Ghede. Malcolm grinned to himself, seeing the boy swig the liquor and get away with much more than he could probably ever do otherwise. He had no doubt the boy was enjoying his absolute, if temporary, freedom.

A stocky man leaped past, swinging a black machete. Malcolm scooted away, allowing the man more room. He recognized him as Ogoun, the warrior. Ogoun danced before Ulises then stopped and began speaking to him.

Curious what
wisdom
the
spirit
was imparting, Malcolm started toward them. Then the rum-swilling youth in the one-eyed glasses stepped in his way.

"How you doin', white-boy?" he bellowed. "Enjoyin' yourself?" His breath reeked of alcohol.

Malcolm forced a smile. He'd known it was only time before the
spirits
harassed the outsider. They never failed to. "I'm fine."

"Of course you're fine," the boy said through a wide, toothy grin. "You got yourself a lady. Just need to impress her papa."

"No," Malcolm said, bemused. "Sorry. I don't have a lady." He tried to step around the drunk teen, but the boy gripped his shoulder firmly.

"Don't you be fibbin' to Papa Ghede," he laughed. "I see you eyein' her. You goin' to watch her dance. See if you can learn the steps."

Malcolm shook his head. "So which lady is it?"

The teen laughed again then pointed the hand holding the bottle toward Ulises. "That one right there. You've been followin' her all day."

"You caught me," Malcolm said, playing along as he tried to slip out of the boy's grip.

"Don't you worry, Milky. I won't tell her husband."

Malcolm froze, his brain reeling in complete surprise. "What?"

"Her man."

"No," Malcolm said. "What did you call me?"

The boy swigged his bottle and grinned. "Milky. That's what your baby sister called you when she was little. Couldn't pronounce your name. Mama thought it was cute. Started callin' you that. She said it in front of your friends one day when you were eleven, and they laughed. Kept callin' you that because it made your ears turn red." He cocked his head a little. "Aren't red now. You look pale, Milky."

Malcolm just stared at him, his mouth open.

The boy offered the bottle. "You look like you need a drink."

Malcolm started for the bottle when the youth slapped his hand away and laughed.

"You can't have Papa Ghede's rum. Get your own."

"How…did you know that?" Malcolm asked.

The boy's one visible eye squinted mischievously. "Papa Ghede's been watchin' you for a long time. Watched you take you first step, your kiss, first fuck. Now, I'll watch you fall in love." He turned and grinned at Ulises then back at Malcolm. "And she is a beautiful lady."

"Who?" Malcolm asked, genuinely creeped out and curious.

"Hounacier," the boy breathed, the sour stink washing over Malcolm's face.

"The…machete?'

The boy cocked his head and giggled. "She's no more a machete than I am a seventeen-year-old named Toussaint who abuses himself every mornin'."

"So it's a loa?"

"No, she's something else. Something…" he lifted his hand like trying to catch a delicate, unseen bubble on his fingertips, "beautiful." He poked Malcolm in the chest with his finger. "You'll see, Milky. You just keep impressin' daddy before you court his woman." He knocked back the bottle then offered it. "To love."

Malcolm raised a tentative hand, and the boy snatched the bottle away. Without a word, the teen sauntered back into the ring, laughing. Malcolm stood dumfounded by the whole encounter. He shook his head. He'd once seen a street psychic dazzle people by revealing things to audience members he couldn't have possibly known. It was a trick, a mentalist hustle. Tavel was too reputable a houngan to have set it up. He was a believer. Ulises? Malcolm didn't know why Mama Ritha had disliked the old bokor. Maybe he was a scam artist.