The Drought (35 page)

Jar blinked and stared at the man in dumb silence.

The man gave him a shake and asked the question again.

This time Jar responded.
“I never like to lose, but I’m proud to have played in this ballgame.”
And that was it, the game was lost. Suzy was gone and the game was lost.

Jar collapsed on the bridge.

Reserve, Louisiana

It would have been better if the black water of the Mississippi had claimed her. There were things worse than death along the river. The current grabbed the body and tugged at the long hair. Dark water entered through the nose and filled her mouth but the drowning was incidental; the impact had broken her neck. The body floated just below the surface, bumped against debris, shifted. It wouldn’t stay buoyant for long. Red, scuffed shoes weighted the legs, made them heavy. They dipped down, caught and dragged a branch. The body slowed. Water swirled around the girl caught on the drift wood—it tugged, cajoled pulled relentlessly. The branch caught against the shoals, slid and gave way. It, along with the girl, floated on a current destined for the sea.

A strong hand reached out from the reeds that lined the bank. It grabbed the girl by the hair, changing her destiny by dragging her to shore. Her face was pale, lips blue, her neck cocked at an odd angle.

Nute let his eyes drift slowly along her young body. He reached out a tentative hand and lifted her soaked shirt. Her summer tan looked faded, like a distant memory but the girl was lucky. Her body was intact, her intestines still in the cavity where God had placed them. Brunache had not fed. Nute stared hard at the metal bridge in the distance. Was it possible the boy had not touched the machete? Or had the girl felt the darkness coming from her traveling companion and thrown herself from the bridge? In this area he was like a blind man groping in the dark. The Loa could not see the machete, so he could not see it either.

He knelt and scooped the dead girl into his arms. As he carried her along the bank of the Mississippi, the river water soaked into his shirt and his body heat bled into hers, giving the false illusion of warmth and life. His thoughts went to Brunache’s machete, a corrupt instrument thrumming with the life and energy of a djab—a malevolent spirit not governed by the rules of the Loa. In battle the machete had made Brunache invincible but the spirit world did not give dark gifts without exacting a price.

The djab hungered. Each time Brunache lifted the machete the djab jabbered in his ear, seducing him with his corrupt needs until Brunache believed it was his hunger, his cravings. After the raid on the town of Petit-Goave, a raw, insatiable need overcame Brunache. He ordered his men to bring the surviving children to him.

The first night he selected one of the girls, the second night a boy. Many children were raped during the Haitian civil war. It was a crime most of Brunache’s men were guilty of. This act alone would not have caused the men to speak in hushed tones, to cross themselves or for some to flee the camp in the middle of the night never to return. It was the condition of the bodies when he finished. They were slit open and eviscerated. Bite marks on their flesh and missing organs were evidence Brunache had fed on them.

Nute adjusted the girl in his arms. If the boy did not have the machete they still had time. Ahead, fingers of light shifted across the shroud of darkness. An open fire burned brightly, its soft glow outlined a figure waiting in the dark.

From her perch on a crate of chickens, Narried watched Nute emerge from the darkness. As he approached she saw the limp body in his arms. The sight of the body neither surprised her nor pleased her. She had been working with the Loa long enough to trust their signs and they had sent her a vision of the girl slipping from the bridge earlier that night. She felt resigned to her task, as she often did, understanding that she could not fight the will of the Loa anymore than a twig could fight the current of the great Mississippi river.

Behind Narried, long strips of cloth hung down from a branch in the tree and draped across a table. Pictures representing the saints Erzulie, St. Joseph and Loco and John the Baptist rested against the bottom of the table and a red ribbon snaked between them.

A white plate, fork, spoon and knife were arranged on the table along with bouquets of flowers and different perfumes, rum and eggs. A bag filled with roasted corn, bananas, chicken, a pipe, and tobacco was tied in another limb of the tree— nearby a pig snorted and pulled at the tether holding it.

She pointed to a clear area on the ground surrounded by two dozen candles. “Put her der.”

Nute cradled the wet girl as if she merely slept and with great reverence he lowered her gently to the ground. He said, “I don’ think the boy has the machete.”

Narried’s eyes instinctively dropped to the girl’s midsection. Her shirt had rolled up and her smooth skin was visible—and intact. She pulled at the rolled cloth, tugged it down over the pale sliver of skin in a demure gesture. She tsked, “So young.” Had the girl not touched the Govi, Narried would not have known of her presence or felt the special tie between the girl and boy. They would not be here on the bank of the Mississippi preparing to do what she must do.

Narried stroked the girl’s damp hair and sighed deeply. Without the Sansericg line they were weakened and she and Nute had to play a game of subterfuge to align all the pieces and all the players—only with luck and the blessing of the Loa would they defeat Brunache this time.

She left the girl and approached the altar. Kneeling she picked up a calabash bowl filled with a mixture of ashes and gunpowder. She poured the mixture on the ground, swiped her hand through and the spread the ashes. Chanting to the Petro Loa she drew a symbol in the ash. She lifted the
Ascon
—a hollowed out gourd with a human bone inside and called on Papa Legba guardian of the gates. “Papa Legba, ouvirier barrier pour moi agoe.” Nute lifted the lid of the crate and removed a speckled black and white rooster. At Narried’s signal, he swiftly wrung the neck of the chicken and laid it at the altar.

Narried did not usually serve the loa with both hands—she did not like to make promises to the Petro Loa, their price was usually steep. Tonight they needed strong magic, swift magic so she called on the red-eyed ones, Damballa ge-rouge, Erzulle ge-rouge, Ogoun ge-rouge. When they asked who was asking for the favor, she answered in a trembling voice, “Narried Savoi.” She pricked her finger, signed her name in blood and put the piece of paper in a jar of water.

Nute walked the pig in a circle around the fire, around the dead girl and the altar and for a moment disappeared behind the tree. He came back into the light of the fire and withdrew a dagger. Narried removed the white plate from the altar and came forward. She kneeled before the pig and the pig stared at her entranced. Nute jabbed the dagger into the pig’s neck just deep enough to make it bleed.

The pig let out a grunt and pulled at the tether. Nute held the pig in place while Narried leaned forward and caught the beast’s blood on the white plate. Carrying the plate of blood, Narried returned to the altar and knelt down once again. She brought forth five silver dollars from a pocket in her skirt and placed the coins on the plate filled with pig’s blood.

Behind her Nute brought his blade silently across the pig’s throat. A large dark slit opened in the pig’s neck and blood poured out. The pig’s front legs buckled and it fell forward into the dirt without making a sound. (It was a flawless death. one that would have impressed Maple McManus.) Nute dropped down next to the dying pig and sucked from the flowing wound.

At the altar Narried lifted the plate of pig’s blood and drank from it. She crossed herself, dipped her fingers in the blood and made a bloody crucifix on her forehead. She kissed the ground three times and asked the Petro Loa for her favor.

The world went silent while she cocked her head and waited for their response. When the Petro Loa spoke, their words were agreeable. Narried lifted a bottle of rum and saluted the four corners of the earth. She said, “Papa Loa Merci, Merci.” She dipped her fingers into the calabash, grabbed a handful of ash and swirled it into the blood. To this she added cemetery dirt, and several other ingredients she had brought in small vials. She rubbed the pungent poultice across her lips, stood and entered the circle of flickering candles.

She knelt down beside the lifeless girl and touched her warm lips to the girl’s cold lips in a long kiss. The force of Narried’s breath entered the girl and created an illusion of movement. The girl’s lungs expanded, her chest moved, signs of life that should not exist. Narried kissed the girl again, filling her lungs with her own breath.

Dark eyelashes fluttered against pale skin.

Reserve, Louisiana

Something in the boy’s eyes right before he collapsed made Nathan buck procedure. He didn’t take the boy to the station or to the medical clinic in town, he took him home. Agador looked up with interest when Nathan walked through the door carrying the unconscious child. The hound thumped his tail twice as the man stepped past. Curious he lumbered up and followed the odd duo into the back bedroom to investigate the new smell in the house.

Nathan laid the boy gently on the bed. He removed the kid’s shoes and socks and a stream of sand spilled onto the wood floor. A solid dirt line marked the boy’s ankles where his socks ended and a foul odor drifted up from the boy’s bare feet. Agador pushed his large head onto the bed. His black nose quivered as he sniffed at the boy. Finding the new scent to his liking, his long tongue emerged next and he licked the boy’s arm.

“You like him?” He gave Agador’s head an affectionate scrub. “Well maybe after we get him cleaned up he won’t be so bad.” He walked to the door. “Come on Aggie, let’s give the boy some rest.”

The dog turned as if to follow but stopped. Groaning with resistance he repositioned himself at the side of the bed, his head resting near the boy.

“Oh is that how it is? Well all right, but you stay off the bed.” He pointed an admonishing finger.

The hound groaned again, a truculent teenager to the end and dropped down on the floor next to the bed.

Nathan shut off the light and left the room.

The dog waited until the retreating footsteps faded. He rose up from his place on the floor, tested the bed with his front paws and climbed up. He settled down next to the boy and slept.

*

Nathan awoke to the sound of the boy screaming and Agador howling. He rushed down the hall and flipped on the lights. The boy was sitting straight up in bed. Agador, looking guilty, was beside him. Nathan could tell the boy was not completely awake but none the less, the words he spoke gave him the chills: “Run Suzy run, it’s the tonton macoute.” The boy laid back down mumbling, “My fault, all my fault.” Then he started to cry. With the moisture still on his cheeks, he fell back asleep.

Eyeing Nathan guardedly, Agador eased back down next to the boy. The boy, sensing the large hound’s warmth, curled up into it. The dog thumped his tail and cast a soulful look at his owner.

Whipped, Nathan said, “The only reason he can’t smell you is because he smells worse than you.” He shut off the lights and went back out to the living room prepared to spend a sleepless night in his recliner.

The boy’s scream rang in his ears echoed by the words, tonton macoute. He cast a nervous glance at the deep shadows that filled the corners of the room. He had been a victim of those tales, the same as any other boy and girl who had grown up in the River Parish. There was no easier way to keep children in line and out of the woods than a story about a man who could melt into the shadows and had an appetite for small children. Laughing at himself, Nathan settled into the recliner remembering how he and Sammy Turner had spent an entire summer scaring the shit out of each other by hiding in the woods and jumping out at unexpected moments. The game had gotten out of hand and the two of them had gotten to the point where they were walking on eggshells and ready to have a nervous breakdown when they finally called a truce.

Nathan fell asleep dreaming about Sammy Turner but the dream shifted into dark, moving shadows and transformed into the swift current of the Mississippi. In the dream he was being swept away by the current, out of control and at the mercy of the dark waters.

Morning came without incident. Nathan performed his usual routine. He was on the front porch drinking a cup of coffee when the boy appeared with Agador at his side.

The screen door squeaked open. The dirty boy, hair tousled with sleep, stepped outside onto the porch, remaining half hidden behind the screen he asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Sheriff Nathan Singer. What’s your name?”