The Revelator

by D W Bell

  “Papa Koulèv is a powerful houngan, a sort of voodoo priest, and a sometimes bakor, one who deals in dark magic, hence his indentured servitude to Boudreaux. The spirits will reveal whatever knowledge he can coax out of them.”

  “He’s with Boudreaux?! Then why is he helping us?

  “I’m not certain he will, but sometimes old men reflect on the sins of their past and want to make things right…”

  The unanswered question of past transgression hung heavy in the humid air as the master’s voice trailed off into resigned reflection, John physically stumbling as his mind tripped over the thought. “Ack! Watch step! Splash me again and I’ll have pretty-boy there drug you and feed you to the gators! Then what, huh? Stupid monkey!”

  ―

  In his formerly private chambers on his usurped compound at his erstwhile place of solace the pastor sat red-faced, bloated, and drunk, as he always was now, in a messy bathrobe. The crustiness of the food stains attesting to the length of time since he had actually eaten, his formerly immaculately maintained lion’s mane of hair disheveled and unwashed. Despite his sporadic diet he had managed to pack at least thirty pounds of self-pitying corpulence onto his already pew-fattened frame since Boudreaux had taken over.

  The room was lit only by the massive television screen that played nothing but his own religious network, beamed all over the world by his own network satellite, at top volume, 24/7. Sometimes he laughed at his own naïveté during the midnight reruns of his old sermons. Sometimes he railed nonsensically against the raucous displays of faith-healing and live exorcisms that now dominated the programs in his primetime slots. But always he cried. He cried for what was and what could have been. All of it was gone. His reputation, his family, and now the very empire he had built from revivals in musty tents to a major television network broadcast from a crystal cathedral. All gone.

  Boudreaux had slithered seamlessly into the inner workings of his church and all had accepted him without question. Such was the power of the man’s seduction and subterfuge. Now all served him, in substance if not in title.

  Where had it all gone wrong? He hadn’t really wanted much. Just to be remembered as the soldier of God that brought his beloved country back from the brink of damnation and set it on the right path, God’s chosen path. He knew he could not purge the entire country at once, he was a practical man. So he had decided to start small, just the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area, and allow the movement to gain traction from there. Many of the godless trends the youths of today are so enamored with seemed to originate there, so why not his holy crusade?

  And what crusaders he had assembled! True White Knights in the service of the Lord. They had brought fire in the night to the backsliders and nonbelievers. It had been truly beautiful to behold. But they were all gone too, destroyed by an evil far greater than they had anticipated. There was only one thing left to do to try to set things right; cut off the head and the body will die.

  Although his absence from public life was being attributed to a period of solitary, pious bible study, he was still being portrayed as the figurehead of the network. In the pastor’s mind, were he to pass away suddenly, the whole corporation would collapse without his guidance and control. So, he had decided to fall on his sword for the greater good of all.

  He consoled himself that in the end it was really quite noble rather than selfish, and not cowardly at all to use pills to pass peacefully rather than something more destructive. Far less mess for the maids anyway.

  He had used powerful tranquilizers to wind down from sermons in his revival and missionary days. The inside joke was that he must rest whenever possible so that there would be no rest for the wicked, and he was certain there must be a forgotten bottle or two in the back of his crowded medicine cabinet. And there were.

  As if by divine providence the pastor’s fumbling fingers found that the faded label that read Nembutal, a powerful barbiturate, had found its own way to the front row. With a rattling shake the pastor saw the amber-colored plastic bottle was about three-quarters full. Even considering possible loss of potency due to age he reckoned that ought to be enough.

  Reinvigorated by the thought of his impending victory over Boudreaux, the slovenly man caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, “We’re not meeting our Maker looking like that…” With the giddiness of a school boy the fat pastor dropped his robe and prepared for his first shower in weeks. His final baptism.

  ―

  After what felt like hours slogging through treacherous swamp, and a short pirogue pole across a bayou, the trio arrived at their destination. A small island barely detectable under the canopy of the surrounding cypress trees and nearly inaccessible due to the profusion of their knees. An ancient clapboard shack with wraparound porch was the only sign of civilization. And on that porch, in a rocking chair, at this furthest outpost of humanity, sat a frail looking old man barefoot in faded overalls, sporting a faded top hat and puffing on a huge cigar.

  The beautiful boy, still immaculately clean and coifed despite their muddy journey, once again assumed his ceremonial composure and prepared to announce his guests, “Master, allow me to present…”

  The raspy voice that interrupted the young man’s speech croaked hollow, like some ghastly, zombie bullfrog, booming among the trees of the bayou with a resonance and power that was incongruous to the frame that produced it, “The illustrious old tiger, Grandmaster Fu, requires no introduction. His martial prowess, past and present, is renowned worldwide.”

  With a nearly audible eye-roll the clearly offended herald sought to reassert his place, and a modicum of gentility, back into the proceedings by clearing his throat and began again, “Very well, then. Master Fu, may I present my master…” only to be interrupted by his guest.

  “The name of your master must never be spoken. Even the loa fear it.” Both old men smiled pensively at each other, the introductions being at an end, and pondered what each thought the other had planned, and where loyalties truly lay. Only John picked up on the tension, the youth seemed oblivious in his huff at being excluded.

  Papa Koulèv let out a soft sigh of resignation, favored Master Fu with a half-hearted grin, tipped his hat to John, and spoke, this time with the careworn softness of a tired old man, “Ya’ll c’mon in. I think we got some fish left. Guillaume there is not a bad cook.”

  He rose slowly and turned to enter the shack, his companion rushing to his side to support his steps. “You never let me have any fun!” pouted Guillaume in an exaggerated whisper.

  “Not now, mon cher.” The houngan scolded his disciple playfully, “Go and see to supper. Master Fu and I have much to discuss, and ain’t no empty stomach never helped matters of any sort.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  ―

  Freshly showered, powdered, and combed the revitalized pastor sat excitedly at the coffee table in front of his massive television and watched a younger version of himself raining fire and brimstone from the pulpit, sound muted for once as he mumbled along.

  He had gotten “all gussied up” as his wife would have said it, but his recent increase in girth had made his favorite suit ill-fitting, he was no longer able to button his pants or his jacket over his belly, but a belt secured the slacks and one did not button one’s jacket while seated regardless. He sat sipping some very fine bourbon as the sacrament and was feeling absolutely beatific. He toasted his video self in honor of the journey that had brought him here.

  Knowing Boudreaux’s penchant for theatrical extravagances and symbols the pastor decided to use his own trick against him by sending a message with his final victorious act of righteous defiance. Unable to procure a proper communion bread tray to hold his barbiturate host without arousing suspicion, he had opted instead to scatter the pills in an old gilded and engraved offering plate he had been presented for his tireless fundraising as a young deacon in his father’s church.

  Despite the last-minute substitution, the pastor felt his final message would
be clear. Smiling apishly at his own cleverness the White Lion of the Lord, once more sporting his majestic mane, emptied the last of the bourbon into his glass and began to hum “Closer Walk” in preparation for his own Last Supper.

  ―

  “Cut off the head and the snake dies.” The two men had sat quietly contemplating each other throughout the meal served by their acolytes until Master Fu broke the silence.

  “Everyone knows this to be true, but does the tiger’s paw reach far enough? And is this particular snake even capable of death or something like it? I am not convinced.” Papa Koulèv’s retort was chiding but contained a tone of guarded hope.

  “I must respectfully bow to your much greater knowledge and experience with snakes of all types, but the problem has crossed my mind as well. Your dealings with him and his ilk go much deeper than mine. Can he be killed, or banished, or something like that?” Master Fu’s voice took on the tiniest tone of desperation as his question awaited answer. Both men curbed their emotions and returned to the shared calm, meditative state of the negotiations. Papa’s cigar smoke filled the tiny shack like temple incense as he sat deep in thought.

  “No,” the voice of a weary old man, not a powerful houngan.

  “That’s unfortunate,” Master Fu’s voice rumbled in a low, frustrated growl, “and this particular snake’s body has grown too long and strong for our attack as well. There must be a way. He threatens the balance of everything.”

  “HA!” The snorting laugh resounded through the bayou like the bellow of a thousand alligators. The green eyes of the old serpent suddenly flashed bright and his tobacco-yellowed teeth glowed in a massive smile. “You speak of The Way, but you do not see it! The snake cannot be killed because it mustn’t be killed, precisely for the balance of which you speak.”

  “What, then?” It was the tiger’s turn to roar in rage and vexation. “Spit it out, you treacherous old viper! Are we just to give up and keep supplying him with sharper fangs, as I do, and deadlier poison, as you do?” Master Fu furiously pawed at the air in front of him to clear it of the foul cigar smoke. “Balance… my ass.”

  Papa Koulèv smirked with genuine delight, “My apologies, venerable tiger, but you again miss the point. Truly only the existence of the snake is critical for the balance. The snake must remain, but it can be defanged.”

  “Defang? You mean like Master Lung?” The red of anger drained slowly from the old master’s face as he scoffed at the suggestion, “He probably believed his suicide would end the contribution of his lineage to this madness, and so it did, but the results I’m sure he thought his sacrifice would garner have been negligible. I do not believe this is The Way.”

  Papa rocked back in his chair thoughtfully and blew a heavy smoke ring into the heavier humidity, “Perhaps not the single, selfish act, but aren’t all things The Way? Steps along the path?”

  Master Fu grunted his agreement, “True, if it were not for the collapse of the Dragon line, we would not be discussing whatever we are discussing.”

  Papa winked at Master Fu with a twinkle in his eye, “Consider this, my ferocious friend. When a snake charmer defangs his cobra, the snake still appears dangerous to the audience. They react to their natural fear of the snake without realizing the charmer is in no real danger. The snake charmer’s act reaffirms their belief in the dangers of evil, but also the superiority of good. And, for this reassurance, they reward him.”

  “It is not the direct use of the fangs and poison of the snake that keeps the balance, but simply the instinctual fear of them.” The old man paused to take another puff from his cigar, “It is when the serpent goes rogue and begins to ply its unaltered fangs and unfiltered poison among the mortal audience unfettered, such as Boudreaux’s little crusade, that the balance is disturbed.”

  “Things have been turbulent since Master Lung passed, but I know his way is not mine. I will not go quietly or easily. Let the demon send who he wants. Motherfuckers will learn old tigers are the most ferocious.” Master Fu’s eyes flashed fury and the smoky air practically crackled with energy, “I look forward to yanking his fangs myself!”

  With another booming gator laugh, this one of encouragement, Papa slapped his hand on the rugged old kitchen table, “That’s the spirit! The Dragon of the Eastern Sky is gone until its next incarnation, so the Tiger of the Western Sky must subdue the snake and drive the wolves before him to restore order under Heaven!”

  “Shut up, asshole. You know that’s not me!” Both old men chortled and giggled like school boys as they motioned for their acolytes.

  “Guillaume, pour the tea!”

  “John, pour the whiskey!”

  With an almost simultaneous, “Yes, Master,” the younger men jumped to serve the older. As they brushed by each other going about their duties John whispered quizzically to Guillaume, “Wolves?” The youth threw his hands up, rolled his eyes, and sighed in explosive bewilderment.

  Chapter 26

  With his protruding belly full of booze and pills the reverend lounged comfortably in his favorite chair awaiting his blissful ascendance into Heaven. He had ceased humming, preferring to spend these last few moments in quiet contemplation. He fancied he could hear the first strains of the celestial choirs striking up for his arrival. It sounded oddly like someone whistling “Closer Walk,” the hymn he had just been humming.

  As the whistling drew closer or the pastor drew closer to the whistling, it was difficult to tell as the concrete boundaries of this world were beginning to go fuzzy, it was blasphemously punctuated by Boudreaux’s sulfurous cigar smoke assaulting the pastor’s nose, “For shame, reverend! Were you going to leave without even saying goodbye to your dear deacon Brother Boudreaux? I am truly hurt! I thought you and I had more mutual respect for each other than this.”

  “Respect!” The impaired but empowered preacher bellowed in the moment of his victory, “There can be no respect for a corrupt abomination such as you, only defeat at the hands of the righteous! Defeat at MY hands as you will soon see!”

  “Come now, reverend. Let us not resort to name-calling, it is unbecoming a man of your station. Nice suit by the way, do they make it in your size? May I?” Boudreaux gestured to the couch and sat without awaiting the pastor’s response. Eyeing the sacrilegious sacrament displayed on the table between them with a demonic grin his face and tone turned suddenly somber and respectful, “I see we don’t have much time together, so let me come right to the point. I want to sincerely thank you for this sacrifice you are making. I truly could not have planned it better myself.”

  Doubt crept into the preacher’s voice as he stammered, “Wh-what do you mean? I’ve beaten you at your own game! It’s me that puts the fear of God into America 24/7! Once I’m gone you have nothing! It all collapses!”

  “My my, reverend! Pride do goeth before a fall indeed. Don’t worry yourself though. Once I spin your death—I am thinking ‘the old lion roared for God to his last breath’ or something of that nature—new converts will flock to your banner and posthumous crusade in record numbers. The ratings of your funeral will be off the charts!” Boudreaux could scarcely contain his glee and let out an impish giggle.

  As his body began to shut down the pastor seemed to deflate like a fleshy balloon. With barely enough breath to speak the dying man gasped, “What are you?”

  Moving swiftly from his perch on the couch to kneel at the stricken man’s side, as if to comfort him, Boudreaux caught the glass of bourbon as it slipped from fingers releasing their grip on life, then stood to watch the pitiful blob expire. “Only my stylist knows for sure.”

  With a final gurgling sputter the pastor coughed, “Go to hell!” as his bowels released the stench of death.

  Crinkling his nose and stepping back from the spreading puddle of putrescence dripping onto the floor from the bygone Lion of God, Boudreaux raised his glass, “I’ll drink to that.”

  ―

  “Master Fu, shame on you! It seems your boy doesn’t know the tradition
he’s part of.” The host wagged a bony finger at his guest in mock reprimand.

  “He’s not ready yet.” In contrast to the levity of the houngan, Master Fu’s affect was very flat, clearly attempting to brush past the subject, but Papa Koulèv was having none of it.

  The wizened old face scrunched up around the stub of his cigar lit up with glee, “Story time! Come young ones and let me tell you a tale of dragons, tigers, and wolves…”

  “Oh my!” With a giggle, Guillaume had not been able to help himself, but now his hand flew up to his lips having realized he had ruined the magic.

  Master Fu broke the awkward silence by clucking his tongue and shaking his head in feigned disbelief, “You have always had a thing for the pretty and dumb ones.”

  With a low chuckle Papa assented, “He has other redeeming qualities.”

  “Besides you left a creature out of your intro, that of a wise, old, meddlesome snake.” Master Fu favored the ancient houngan with a wry smile.

  Papa agreed with a yellow-toothed grin, “True, but such is the subtlety of serpents, and that tale has not yet shed its last rattle. Let’s go out to the porch and my rocking chair. It’s a long story, so we might oughta set a while.”

  ―

  After mentally sifting through the mishmash of appropriated cultural references and pseudo-historical, weirdly mystical mumbo jumbo, John was left with this:

  Several generations ago, through guile and blackmail, Boudreaux’s organization usurped control over two ancient martial arts lineages, a tiger style and a dragon style.

  Initially conceived as a way to train the ultimate warrior-assassins in-house, the project gradually evolved into an actual breeding program.

  The old masters, foreseeing the corruption of their family arts, insisted the bai shi, or closed-door disciple, tradition be maintained thereby allowing for only one Tiger and one Dragon at any given time.