Death Warmed Up

by Christopher J Young

defeat him. But I want the talisman too. Bring it to me. You are dying, but I can keep you alive.”

  She leaned closer to me and I could smell her breath. She smelled like mint. Her face floated in front of my darkening eyes. It seemed as if her tattoos were moving and her eyes were on fire.

  “Bring the talisman of Ashtoreth to me, and you will not die. You will not die, lover.”

  The last thing I saw as darkness engulfed me was the demon licking its lips.

  The sound of my own mindless groaning brings me back to the present. I should be dead. Here I am, alive, and I should be dead. I find myself once again standing before the door of the witch Annie, and I remember that the talisman is in my pocket.

  I raise my hand limply and prepare to knock, but the door opens before me and there stands the smiling old hag. “Hello, white boy. Come to see old Annie again?”

  I form the word “Annie” and it sounds hollow in my ears.

  “Yes my love, I am. Your good friend Annie. Now you follow old Annie.” And she leads me inside and up the stairs through the beaded curtain.

  “You remember Stanley, don't you?”

  Ertrael.

  “Of course you do. Friends don't forget.” She pats the demon hound on the head and it seems oblivious to her, staring intently at me, hungry. “He remembers you. Oh yes, he does. The two of you had fun when last you were here, didn't you.”

  Curse you, Ertrael. Burn in hell.

  Annie walks toward the poteau-mitan and I see that a freshly sacrificed chicken is hanging from it on a string, its blood in a bowl beneath. She picks up the bowl and smells the blood.

  “Have you brought my gift?” she says. “Have you brought the talisman for old Annie?”

  I must subdue the demon. Name him. Burn him.

  Annie says, “the Autumn equinox is almost upon us.”

  I walk up to the small table where I see lying next to the tarot cards a small hand-made wooden doll. I pick it up, but she takes it from me. “No, my dear. That is not what you think it is. This doll is for contacting the spirits.” She passes the bowl to me and I stare stupidly at its contents. “Chicken blood for you, my love. Freshly taken. Drink up.”

  Blood. Life for me.

  I feel my thirst and lift the bowl to my lips, drinking deep and spilling it down either side of my mouth. The warm liquid trickles down my neck and under my shirt. It tastes good.

  Annie begins to talk again. “And I shall begin.” She takes the asson from the wall and picks up a lighted candle from the altar. “I learnt my art from a Bokor. You know what that is? A dark priest. I immersed myself in black magic and Hoodoo after leaving the island. Orleans was rich in knowledge. Houngans like your Mr Roberts call me a heretic. And I am boy, yes I am. I follow the Kreyol religion, but I know much more than that. And I am much more than the one known as Annie the witch, my poor, un-dead friend.”

  Why do I just stand here, docile? I drop the bowl and hear it bounce on the floor by my feet. Annie rattles the asson, holding the candle towards the altar. The asson mimics the serpent language of Damballa. She is calling the Loas.

  The Loas. I must listen to them. I go to the mirror and Ertrael growls. Annie does not notice as she begins her ceremony. “Salutations Legba, opener of the gates,” she says. I look into the mirror and there is my old friend, my guardian. My Met-Tet, master of the head. He stands amongst the dying spirits, giving them comfort.

  He speaks to me, telling me she needs the talisman in time for Alban-Elved. What is that? He tells me “Autumn equinox.” I hear the witch continue her ritual. “I call you, Marinette-Bwa-Chech. Come to me”

  This is bad. Marinette of the Dry Arms. Loa of the Petra rite. Bad news. Evil news.

  But my Met-Tet tells me Mr Roberts is coming soon.

  I have to subdue the demon, and name him.

  Fumbling through my pockets, I lay my hands upon the talisman and lose a thumbnail. As soon as the demon sees the silver emerge from my pockets, it cowers away from me, as far back as the pentagram will allow. I hold up the chain and the talisman dangles back and forth. Ashtoreth, one of the seventy-two spirits of Solomon.

  This demon is in fear, it slavers and whines and scratches at the floor, unable to escape. Name him.

  I begin to speak, “Ert...” and before I finish the name, my jaw is smashed by a brass candlestick. Teeth fall from my mouth, blood dribbles down my chin and into my throat.

  “I need him!” screams Annie, swinging the candlestick once more into the side of my head. Something cracks and I fall on the floor.

  I check to see that I still hold the talisman. Annie shouts at me, “Give me the talisman!” and Ertrael is brave once more, standing and snarling, baring his vicious fangs. Hell burns in his eyes again.

  I am hit in the mouth again and I feel my jaw separate from my face. It hangs limply, uselessly.

  “There'll be no naming if you have no mouth. Leave my Stanley alone.” She sounds hysterical, but is stopped in her tracks by a booming voice from the doorway.

  “Ertrael!”

  “What?” says Annie. She backs away.

  Mr Roberts enters the room and reaches towards my hand. “The talisman, Mr Hawes,” he says, and I hand it to him. But the old witch has regained herself and leaps at the priest, ready to scratch his eyes. She has nails like dirty claws.

  “Haitian swine!” she screams. “Tear your heart out, I will.”

  But the priest is younger and stronger. He pushes Annie aside and she falls against the wall. “Away from me, you hag.”

  I try to move but cannot get up. I put out my hand and notice the candlestick lying next to me. Amazingly, the flame is still lit. I find it small and fascinating. Something in my back moves in a way that it shouldn't move, and I wonder if it is broken. I look at the whimpering dog and it turns in circles, tail down between its legs as if it were a real animal. Pitiful. Roberts approaches it, holding the talisman before him and proclaiming, “Ertrael, I name you. Ashtoreth, giver of past and future knowledge, recalls you back into the void.”

  The dog-demon jumps up and down and then sits, shivering, as Roberts pushes the silver talisman against its forehead. “Ertrael, leave us.” Ertrael slobbers and howls in agony, squirming beneath the power.

  But Annie is on her feet again, and leaps upon the priest, brandishing the sacrifical knife still caked in dried chicken blood. “Leave Stanley alone. Leave him, Haitian!” She tries for his neck but as he moves aside she only manages to nick his cheek.

  I know I must do something, but what? I am unable to move, unable to speak.

  I look at the dog. Its body lies on the floor in the centre of the pentagram. It does not move and smoke appears to rise from its hide. Roberts didn't burn the demon. “I will tear out your heart and eat it, you son of a bokor's whore!” I hear Annie scream. She is on his back now, yelling and clawing like a mad woman, trying to stab him. But he grabs her wrist and they both fall onto the tarot table, sending its contents skittering across the floor. Cards and rune stones are all around. And the paraffin lamp.

  I grab the lamp and then the candle. Must burn the demon. I try to light the paraffin with the flame but cannot work out what to do.

  I look towards Roberts. He has Annie subdued now, his knee on her chest keeping her pinned to the floor. She screeches curses at him.

  “Quiet woman. Sleep,” he says, and touches her forehead with his palm. Instantly, she passes out. He takes the Aramaic necklace from her neck and turns to me, taking the lamp and tossing the paraffin onto the demon's body. I give him the candle and this follows the paraffin. Flames burst over the carcass and it burns ragingly, smoke billowing. He opens a window to let the smoke escape. “The baka's body will burn,” he says. “He is already gone, and the witch is subdued. I have placed her under deep hypnosis. I will take care of her and she will be no more trouble.”

  He kneels beside me and lifts my head, cradling it in the palm of his hand. He looks into my eyes with concern. The room around us begins to d
arken.

  He speaks quietly. “And what of you, Mr Hawes? How may I repay you for the injustice done?What is your wish?”

  I want only one thing, but cannot speak. I can only groan. I cannot move any of my limbs. Darkness descends. But Mr Roberts knows what it is I want. What I need.

  “You wish to die,” he says. “To be where you belong.”

  He touches my forehead and speaks to the gods. “Legba, I salute you and call upon Ghede, Loa of death and resurrection, benevolent and healing. Guide this man Jockson Hawes, who has aided our good work, as he departs this realm to meet his ancestors. Allow his soul to be complete at it leaves his earthly body.”

  He speaks to me again, but his voice seems faint and distant. I can barely see him in the darkness. “You are able to die now, Mr Hawes. I can only ask your forgiveness for causing this suffering. Go with God.”

  I close my eyes.

  At last.

  At last I die.

  Thanks: to Andrew Dodd for the cover, and to Laura Coles for her ideas.

  Coming soon: more stories featuring Jockson Hawes. Before he was dead.