Bacchanal

by Veronica Henry

  Efe offered, “A soldier is but a tool, trained by habit, practice. To take that away would change the nature of what we are, of why you brought us here to you. Is that what you want?”

  “Far be it for me to change your nature,” Ahiku said. Her hair was uncovered, the radio on the small stand next to her chair tuned in to an Orson Welles show. There were things of this world that she did enjoy. The afterlife offered none of them, so living between both worlds was something she would not give up.

  Ahiku cupped her hands together in front of her mouth and whispered something inaudible. “Take this.” She handed Zinsa a small bone so highly polished it looked like ivory. “The Fifth Ward smells like the perfect place for my enemy to hide, do you not agree? So many of Africa’s children are here.” The women concurred. “This will tell you if she is here. Go.”

  The soldiers turned to leave, and Ahiku said, “My carnies are in need, and it seems the good Officer Anderson is the greedy type, pressing our Mr. Kennel for extra money, so that leaves it to us to teach him a few lessons. Go into town and secure supplies, expertly and discreetly.”

  They exchanged a glance laced with barely suppressed conflict.

  “What you ask is beneath us,” Efe protested.

  “We are not thieves,” Zinsa added.

  Ahiku’s eyes flashed a murderous glint; she was sick of their foot-dragging whenever she asked them to carry out a simple raid. She laughed. “You fool yourselves. Pillaging for war spoils is much the same, no?”

  The pair had become hers near the end of the Second Franco-Dahomean War. Their unit had suffered a resounding defeat, their last. Hunted because they had chosen to fight and not stand aside, they had gone into hiding and called on the spirits for help. Ahiku cared little about such mundane matters of tradition and had an unflappable admiration for the women soldiers. She readily answered.

  “Do you want us to stick to stores or homes?” Efe asked, but she wouldn’t look at Ahiku.

  “Not the businesses, besides one for staples. These people can’t shop anyplace else, and those stores will be their future. Take what you must from anyplace else, deliver food to Mabel, and give everything else to Clay to distribute as he sees fit. Workers in the G. B. Bacchanal Carnival will never go without.”

  The women tensed. “We will not be here for protection . . . ,” Zinsa began.

  “I will be taking a trip to the other side,” Ahiku said. “Things are arguably more dangerous there. But unless you would like to change the nature of our relationship, I’ll rely on my own devices for defense in my realm.”

  Zinsa and Efe touched fists to palms and made a quick exit. They would get someone to drive them into town, hit as many spots as they could, load up the truck, and return like African Santas, bearing a bounty of food, fabrics, and treats.

  As most of the townsfolk would be at the carnival, this provided perfect cover. They would start first with the general store. It always surprised them how shop owners sometimes left their doors unprotected. And in the rare instances when they didn’t, entering was as simple as breaking a window or knocking off the often unstable door handles.

  They would grab staples first: meal, flour, sugar, butter. Next they’d get treats like candy, drinks, and chips. If whiskey was available, though they hated it, they would snatch that too. Sometimes they broke into houses to get clothes. The shops had little on display, usually opting to sew and tailor to suit. Homes provided good clothes, shoes, and, often, comforts of home: new pillows, blankets, sheets.

  As Ahiku had said, all in the name of supporting the army. The people they protected had changed, the carnival workers not of their homeland, but still they were their charges. With an occasional reminder, they would see what they did as a necessary part of the job and take it seriously.

  Clay had given Ahiku a description of the boy, one whom he’d lured under the guise of helping out around the carnival. No matter the town, there was always an ample supply of abandoned kids. Parents would not forgo the acts that yielded such discards. No, it had become morally more acceptable to leave the children to their own devices. To perhaps copulate that night to soothe their anguished hearts, to create another child, that the cycle may continue.

  Such were the complexities or, rather, the unfathomable nature of humans. Though Ahiku had been saddled with an uneasy conscience when she’d first committed her soul to the demon, it was quickly eased by the fact that her irresponsible parents had brought their deaths and hers upon themselves.

  The witchcraft rumors that swirled around her own mother had begun well before she decided to birth a child in the midst of the talk. Ahiku had yet to see her tenth name day before the village elders came for her reckless parents, leaving her outcast. Grief stole her innocence but gifted her a plan. Slinking back into the compound under the cover of night was easy enough, setting fire to the chief’s hut more fretful. She hadn’t run away but had sat nearby, flames licking at her back. When they came for her, she’d stood and walked, slowly at first, then set off at a trot into the flames and the viperous arms of a demonic dignitary.

  Her gift from the afterlife was invisibility. Like angels, demons walked the earth unseen, unless they chose to reveal themselves. Given to the dramatic, she was indeed an Orson Welles fan, so rather than the mundane act of opening the door and simply walking down the stairs, Ahiku dissolved into black smoke and propelled herself through the open window. Outside, she materialized into her human form.

  It was a form she’d taken from a woman in New Orleans, one of the few times she’d had to consume an adult soul—a wholly dissatisfactory endeavor. Adults left a horrible taste in her mouth, slithering around in her mind and stomach, fighting and clinging to life long after it was over. This was before the carnival, before Clay and her cover story, with her, in afterlife terms, still a newly dead demon, trying to find her way after Queenie—the illustrious Madame Stephanie St. Clair—had unleashed her on American soil.

  She had wandered the streets of the French Quarter, blindly hunting. Needing to feed, she’d snatched at a child, but its mother had fought tooth and claw. Ahiku had vanquished the woman in front of her shrieking child and had so liked the look of her that she’d continued to use the form, and the woman’s name, ever since.

  But someone powerful had been there as well and had spirited the child away as Ahiku unleashed her nascent power at her retreating form. Pursuit proved fruitless, though she was certain (or hoped) she’d injured or maimed the rescuer. The meddlesome Oya was probably behind the escape. The smell had lingered, and Ahiku had followed its trail ever since.

  The boy, Clay had told her, would be wearing a red cap, and she found him easily. He was wide eyed, excited, and looking forward to the ice cream and five-cent piece he’d been promised. Though his family lived on the street, and the money wouldn’t get them a place to live, it sure would help get them something to eat.

  When Ahiku, under the guise of a pretty lady as colorful as a clown, approached, he was all too eager to help her with her special project. He followed her easily, trust as complete as a full circuit of the moon around the earth. He was held motionless in the chair that Ahiku reserved for her most special guests, watching unblinking as she turned, changed, disappeared. Settled onto him.

  Ahiku had promised him ice cream, and she supposed that his last thought was whether the ice cream would have been chocolate or vanilla.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE HOUSE OF WAX

  Officer Anderson was one of the last remaining patrons strolling around on the final night. He felt sorry that the show was leaving; not all the good shows stopped in their little town. More likely, it was the fleabags—the shows with rigged games, cheap food, and hoaxes for acts. He didn’t let some of them even set up.

  Of course, no sooner had he allowed this show to set up than a string of thefts had followed. He nodded to himself; he would haul the carnival owner in for a chat. A hint of foot-tapping drums brushed against his ears, and he suddenly was
n’t quite so sure. Was he mistaken? Hadn’t the robberies been the month before? He let the matter drop and strolled onward.

  He nibbled on a candy apple. Anna, his wife, would have his hide if she caught him. Sweets always upset his stomach, but that hadn’t stopped him from sneaking them from time to time, or from stockpiling them in his desk drawers at the office.

  The officer considered the game of strength where you had to ring the bell with the hammer. A big man stood there, flexing for a few folks. He passed but then stopped in front of the house of wax to peer at the banners lining the tent. They advertised real-life-looking statues and busts of everybody from movie stars to Indian warriors and famous outlaws.

  “There’s still time!” the pitchman called out. “Step right up, sir. Take your time—there’s no rush. See all there is to see. If you don’t have any stories to tell your grandchildren, you will.”

  The officer looked around, thinking he should get on home. Anna would be waiting for him. But it was his duty to make sure everybody got home safe, and maybe if he killed some time in the museum, things would be wrapping up by the time he came out.

  “Law-and-order discount,” the pitchman coaxed. “Only a nickel, ’specially seeing as how this is our last night and all.”

  Anderson grinned, flipped the pitchman a nickel, and moved the front tent flap aside.

  The inside was dimly lit, a naked, lone bulb hanging from the ceiling and oil lamps strategically placed to highlight certain figures. As the officer moved through the space, cordoned off like a maze, its walls lined with what looked like sheets of black velvet, he came to the first exhibit: a full-size statue of an Indian man. The statue stood a full head shorter than himself, his massive mane of a headdress giving him the look of a peacock. His dead eyes gazed at an unknown point. Officer Anderson wondered what the sculptor was trying to capture with that look. The statue was bare chested and wore a fine pair of animal-skin pants. Splashes of paint covered the cheeks and chest. The warrior stood holding a spear. The sign beneath the exhibit read: TECUMSEH.

  As he moved past a few other exhibits of characters he didn’t recognize or care about, the maze curved, and from the corner of his eye, a shadow.

  “Somebody in here?” The officer furrowed his brow. When nobody answered, he turned back to the next wax figure. He pegged this one right off. It was the lady who’d gotten lost flying that plane somewhere she shouldn’t have been anyway. “Uh-ME-lee-uh Air-haart,” he said, sounding out the name aloud from the tag on the right side of the wall. It said that she was the first woman to fly across the Atlantic by herself.

  “Never get me on one a them fool things,” he mumbled aloud and then moved on.

  The maze shuffled him along farther: a bust of Jesse Owens, the track star who’d shamed them Germans real good. Full-size figures of Max Schmeling and Joe Louis—facing each other, boxing gloves at the ready.

  The officer then came to a wax statue that was so real he had to blink once or twice to believe his eyes. It was the woman from that movie poster, Gone with the Wind. The white lady and the maid—Hattie McDaniel was her name. Officer Anderson tilted his head, peered this way and that at the statue. The skin, even the hair, looked so lifelike. The woman even smelled of a fresh-baked pound cake.

  “What the . . .” He moved closer. It looked, sounded as if the maid had actually, well, inhaled.

  Despite the warnings posted all over the display to not touch them, Officer Anderson cautiously reached out his hand to touch the statue. Again, the shadow. He jerked around and called out again; nobody answered. “I’m letting my mind get the best of me in here.”

  He turned back to the figures and brushed his fingertips, ever so lightly at first, across Hattie’s supple cheek. Warm. What in God’s name? He poked an index finger, and the skin dimpled and sprang back. Anderson’s heart pounded in his chest, and a mischievous grin split his face in two. His hand traveled down her face and neck, flattened against her collarbone, and settled on her right breast.

  Emboldened, the officer lifted his other hand and gave her impressive bosom a solid squeeze, caressing. He couldn’t believe how real she felt. For a moment, a split hair of a moment that he would forever be ashamed of, he considered undoing the blouse, taking a closer look, perhaps planting his lips on what he envisioned as a set of bold, dark nipples.

  An image of his beautiful wife passed before his eyes. And yes, Anna was still beautiful. Smooth caramel skin, not a sign of a wrinkle, which she attributed to the steady, ardent use of Vaseline. A sturdy-built woman like Ms. McDaniel—he didn’t like them skinny. They’d had three children and were grandparents now. They had a good life, more than their parents, slaves, could have hoped for.

  A wave of guilt passed over him. He covered his eyes with his hands and backed away. He wanted to go home now. As he turned, he could have sworn the eyes on that Hattie McDaniel statue narrowed, seething at his retreating back. The officer wove through the maze, expecting to find the end at every turn. But the maze had him perfectly trapped, every turn leading to another set of too-lifelike statues.

  He’d begun to sweat. He plunged behind a statue and tore at the black velvet wall, expecting to lift it up and escape back to his life. But the wall wouldn’t give at first, and when it finally did, he exhaled an exasperated yelp, stepped under the curtain, and found himself back in another wing of the wax museum.

  “Hey!” he screamed. “Which way is outta here? Get me out!”

  The officer raced through the maze, passing statues he swore he’d passed before. Even Tecumseh, who sat where the exit had been, only the exit was no longer there.

  He wound his way through, desperate sweat soaking his back and crotch, pouring down his face. He drew and raised his gun as he came into an opening and found a group of the statues standing before him. Arrayed behind Hattie McDaniel were “Bugsy” Siegel, Amelia Earhart, Tecumseh, and more. They advanced, and the officer hollered curses and fired his weapon into the flock of waxed death moving toward him.

  Anderson emptied his pistol, unable to affect the horde coming at him. He turned to run, only to come face-to-face with more figures.

  They converged on him. He fought valiantly, tearing off an arm here, scratching out an eye there. Wax body parts pooled around him as he lay on his back on the ground, still fighting. But he grew tired; he was no longer a young man. His shrieks died out eventually, like the wail of a dying beast, carried on the wind.

  When the scuffle and air cleared, the G. B. Bacchanal Wax Museum stood in complete order. Tecumseh near the entrance. Amelia, the boxers, the movie stars all perfect, still. Beside Hattie McDaniel and Greta Garbo, a new bust stood on a high podium. A light bulb shone above it.

  The head of Officer Harley Anderson sat flawlessly preserved, even wearing his favorite hat. His brown skin looked real, his beard, trimmed that morning, would be forever in place. The gray speckles gleamed in the light. The eyes that looked out from his face contained a desperately aware look for those who cared to see it. Beneath his bust, a new plaque, freshly minted, hung.

  It read: HARLEY J. ANDERSON, FIRST NEGRO AMERICAN OFFICER OF HOUSTON’S PROSPEROUS ALL-NEGRO FIFTH WARD, HOUSTON, TEXAS.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PROSPECTING

  Clay rode along in the truck with the windows down, hot wind whipping his red hair all around his head like a band of ruptured veins. The heat had dissipated from a rolling boil to a low simmer as the sun sank below the horizon. He was on a scouting mission to check out another performer Geneva had set her sights on. She had an eerie knack for sniffing out talent. Well, not too eerie, he amended; she was a damn demon, after all. But if all went well, he’d have a passenger on the trip back.

  Only he should have reached his destination long ago. He peered out the front window, searching for a landmark of some kind. The road was well paved, but he hadn’t seen a streetlight for at least a mile, and there wasn’t a single sign to suggest he was headed in the right direction. All he had was an outda
ted map and faded memories.

  After a few more nondescript miles, mercy came in the form of a gas-station diner. Clay told the attendant to fill up the truck and tossed a few coins into his outstretched hand. A sturdy, clean-faced young man who looked about as out of place in the run-down station as one of them Italian opera singers in a southern carnival.

  “It would be my pleasure, dear sir,” the boy said. Clay did a double take and walked the few steps to the dilapidated diner. The only word he could find to describe the smell inside was “old,” from the grizzled man slumped behind a long, empty counter to the grease that must have been reused since the day the place opened. It was like the diner had been built in the last century, and nobody had bothered to open a window and let a little fresh air in.

  There was one lone patron, mumbling to himself in the last of the four booths lined up against the cloudy windows.

  Clay extended a hand to the man behind the counter. “Evenin’. Does this road lead to Cleveland, Texas?”

  “Today’s special is the meatloaf.” The old man gave Clay a limp handshake. “Come with a side of taters and beans.”

  Clay imagined himself pulled over on the side of the dark road, puking his guts out. His stomach might fare better snatching a live coon from the side of the road and roasting that up. But it didn’t take a genius to see that he wasn’t going to get so much as the next day’s weather forecast without paying one way or another.

  “Give the meal to my buddy over there.” Clay gestured toward the mumbling man, now rocking back and forth in the booth. “And I’ll take a bottle of Coke if you got it.”

  The old man smiled, revealing a surprising set of good pearly whites, minus one front tooth.

  Clay had escaped the diner with a full tank of gas, the Coke he now sipped on, and what he hoped were good directions. Being lost ain’t all bad. Few were the moments he had to himself. Truth was, he savored the quiet.