They merged together, the way lovers did, riding and wiggling, overcome by passion, until he exploded in an ecstatic orgasm.
Odette’s eyes fluttered with the vivid memory. Her hand rubbed the inside of her thigh through the soft fabric of her nightgown. Something in the house fell over; it made a loud crashing noise, startling her. Her cheeks burned with excitement and shame, and she pulled her nightgown straight. Soft noises came from the house and Odette could hear the raspy old voice of Grandmè, the grandmother who raised her when her mother ran away, coming from the shadows of the house.
Erzulie Freda, embrace my heart, keep my love close
And let no one ever steal the light from my eyes.
Keep me safe from foolish passion
Keep me grounded, keep me sane.
Erzulie Freda, hear my plea, may no man break my heart again.
The words to the song stung, and Odette fought tears of shame and guilt. Her throat burned with the effort and despite the heat of the night, her skin felt cold.
“Are you ready for the ritual, child?” Grandmè called.
Odette stood frozen on the porch. What we are about to do is wrong, she thought. I will be a murderer if I go through with this. A mosquito landed on her arm and she looked at it. But I will have Jack. She slapped at the mosquito and squashed it. With a sweep of her hand, she rubbed its remains and the small blood splatter from her skin.
“Odette, petit, you keep me waiting.” The voice was stern now, and Odette felt the pull to obey. No one ignored the call of her grandmè, not even Odette. Her grandmother was known for her explosive personality. The old woman was the only Bokor, or Vodou sorceress, on the island, which gained her the respect of the people as well as their fear. The natives whispered of the dark magic that the Bokor used to get what she wanted.
I’m doing this. I am. And there is no way back. Her fingers trembled, and she pulled at the cord around her nightgown, unhooked the thick knot and cast the thin fabric off like a snake shedding its skin. I am embracing the darkness of my grandmother. I am embracing Vodoun. The thought of using the black magic of the Haitian voodoo tore at her heartstrings. She longed for the innocence she had lost when she gave away her maidenhood. Her life was simple then; she did not have to make choices about life and death.
The men called her beautiful; she believed them and liked to taunt them with her looks. Never more than taunt, she was too afraid of her grandmè, too afraid to sully her reputation. Yet she wanted to believe that beauty was a gateway to a life of romance and pleasure. Each day she gave careful consideration to how her long brown hair sprinkled with golden streaks was combed and groomed. She rubbed coconut oil on her light brown skin to keep it supple and fragrant. Her beauty was her weapon, and she used it to snare Jack.
And now she was going to kill him.
“There is doubt in your heart, petit.” The voice of her grandmother was sharp. Odette looked into the eyes that lay sunken in the wizened face, black irises surrounded by yellowed whites. Her grandmother’s skin was as dark as coal, and when the light hit it just right the skin almost looked gray. The old woman wore a white dress adorned with beads and jewels. Odette was naked; no cloth would inhibit her skin while she cast this curse.
“This plan feels wrong,” Odette whispered.
“Any more wrong than what he did to you?”
Her mind reeled back to earlier that evening when Jack had told her good-bye.
They had spent two glorious weeks together and made love each night in a different location until they were too tired to move. Odette loved Jack with all her heart. She knew she was his from the moment their lips touched; she wanted no other man. He, in turn, told her he loved her, and he whispered sweet promises of eternal devotion in her ear. She believed he would stay with her or come back to her; they belonged together.
“I’m going home tomorrow,” he said one night seconds after he had his orgasm. He pulled away and tears stung in her eyes. This moment was inevitable, but it still hurt. She wasn’t ready to speak of his departure, not so soon after they made love; his words made her feel cheap.
“When will you be back?” she said. She saw an expression on his face that worried her.
“I don’t know. I don’t know if I will be back. Île-à-Vache is beautiful, but it’s not the sort of place you would visit twice. There is still so much of the world to see.”
“Then I will come with you,” she said. Her hand touched his naked skin; her fingers drew circles on his chest. He grabbed her fingers tightly, her bones pushed together in a painful way, and she winced.
“I don’t think that is a good idea, Odette.”
“But then I would never see you again.” The tears ran down her dark cheeks; they glistened in the light of the moon that shone on the lagoon. The crickets hummed softly in the high grass, singing a wordless song of romance and heartache.
Jack leaned over and placed his index finger under her chin. “We had such a wonderful time together, Odette,” he said, and he kissed her gently on her lips. “Let’s not spoil it with tears.”
“You said you loved me,” she cried. “I gave myself to you.”
“And I am grateful you did,” he said with warmth in his voice. “It was the most precious gift anyone could ever give me.”
“Then why can’t I come with you?” And then it dawned on her. She could see it on his face. “There is someone else.” Her voice was little more than a gasp. In his eyes the guilt was clear and he looked away. Horror appeared on her face; her mouth was twisted with disgust. The man who sat before her now—this man who had another woman in a land that was far from this island and who had lied to her all this time—was not the same man she had spent two weeks making love to. The Jack she knew professed his love to her, told her that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Once, before he slipped his penis between her wet, waiting labia, he told her he wanted to run away with her. There was nothing left of his promises of love and affection now. That Jack was dead.
“Why are you acting like this?” she asked, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “What has come over you?”
“I am leaving tomorrow,” he answered, his voice cold. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Odette scrambled to her feet, her emotional world attacked by the vicious harpies of reality. She wanted to say something, to make him take back his words, to hear him say there was no one but her. She wanted to hurt him, to push her weight on his body and force his face into the sand. He would be too strong for her, so instead she kicked the ground, which caused grains of sand and pebbles to fly in his direction. He shielded himself with his arm. Then she turned on her heel and walked off, hurt and insulted, feeling the sting of rejection. I gave myself to you, she thought with a painful bitterness.
“Come on, Odette,” he called. “How did you think this would end?”
She didn’t turn to him no matter how angry she felt. Odette kept her dignity; she would never beg him to love her. The women in her family were too proud. She barely felt the sharp little rocks and pointy twigs that crunched under her bare feet as she made her way through the mangroves. Her mind was too tormented for her body to suffer. Only when she reached her grandmè’s house did she relent and give in to the pain. With a loud sob, she dropped to her knees on the rickety porch that connected the house to the swamp. She lay down, her soft cheek against the rough wood while tears streamed down her face in uncontrollable rivers of pain.
“Petit, what has happened to you?” a familiar voice asked. Odette did not have the strength to sit up and look at her grandmè. If she looked the old woman in the eye, she might see that Odette had gone against her wishes. She had let a man inside of her.
“A broken heart,” the wise woman said. Odette looked up, surprised at the kindness in her voice. Gnarled hands stroked her moist face. “Come inside, petit, where it is cooler. Come now.” The touch of her grandmother felt as hard as the wood of the porch, but Odette let the woman pull
her up. Relief flooded through her mind and limbs. She’s not mad at me.
“Tell your grandmè about your suffering,” the old woman said as she ushered Odette into the cool of the wooden hut.
“He said he loved me,” she said, her voice flat; her eyes stared dead at the floor. “But he is leaving. He is leaving and he doesn’t love me. He used me. And I let him. Oh, Grandmè, I let him touch me.” She sobbed for a few minutes; she felt the sting of grief in her throat before she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her arms were covered in sand and she could feel the grains against her skin. When she looked at her grandmother’s face, she saw darkness. Odette knew she spoke to the Bokor, not her grandmother.
“You were foolish, petit,” her grandmè scolded, but her anger was not turned to Odette. “Giving your flower to a stranger only because you loved him. You are like the other women in our family; we love too easily and get lost.” Her face was gentler now.
“Were you ever lost?” Odette asked the old woman. Sadness appeared on the wrinkled face.
“I was lost with your grandfather; he was a beautiful man, full of pride. He lacked the ability to love and I lost him almost as soon as I found him. Your mother was the same, bore you in her belly because of it. The same way I bore her before that. It is the curse of our women.”
“You never married my grandfather?” Odette said. She knew her grandfather died many years before she was born, and her grandmother never spoke of him.
“No, petit,” she said, her voice grave. “He left me with a child in my belly the same way your father left your mother.” A malicious twinkle shone in the yellowing eyes of the old woman. “I took away his choice and made him mine.”
“How did you do that?” Odette was intrigued now; her pain called for vengeance too. It screamed out like a dark spirit waiting to be released.
“I killed him, petit.” There was no remorse in the old face. The wrinkled mouth was a thin line of determination and the dark eyes with the yellowed whites looked at her resolutely.
“You killed him?” Odette let her hand slide over her heart. She could feel the rapid palpitations under her skin. “How?”
“Vodoun, petit, with Vodoun.” The old woman waved at the interior of the house. Everywhere around them was the evidence of Vodoun, the Haitian voodoo. There were candles that dripped thick wax on the large wooden table. Small wood and stone carvings of deities were gathered in between the candles, some covered in the same wax. Dolls sewn from burlap with thick coarse thread were scattered around the room, each staring up into the nothingness with stitched dead eyes. Even the scent betrayed her grandmother’s craft. The air was heavy with spices and the smell of extinguished fire.
“I could not kill Jack, Grandmè,” she argued. “I love him.”
“Death is just a gateway, petit,” her grandmother said. She waved her hand in the air with nonchalance. “Nothing is final.” There was a spark in the yellowed eyes of the woman that sent a shiver down Odette’s spine. Her grandmè had taught her in the ways of Vodoun, but Odette was a stubborn student. She cared little for the dark magic and the sacrifices it required. Vodoun always asked for blood, and Odette was squeamish.
“I can’t kill him,” she said again, but there was doubt in her voice this time. Her grandmother leaned in closer. Odette could smell the coconut oil on her tough old skin.
“You can let him go now or hold on to him for a long time still.” She wrinkled her forehead and if the old black face had had eyebrows, they would have been raised. “Once you bring him back, you can’t have him forever…only a few years. Then the spell will need to be broken or it will go rotten.”
“But it is not what I want,” Odette protested. “I wanted a lover, not a zombie.”
“Does it have to be one or the other?” Grandmè asked. Odette wanted to say: Yes it does. I want him to love me and date me and eventually ask me to marry him. I want a man who is alive and will give me children, not a zombie. Instead she shook her head.
“If you want him, this is the way. Otherwise just let him go,” her grandmother said. She threw her hands in the air. “But at least give him syphilis for breaking your heart.”
Odette laughed, but she felt a pull at her heart. Should she just let Jack go? Her whole body protested against the thought of it. But Jack obviously did not love her, he only used her; how could she force someone who did not love her to stay? And then again…she could make him love her. The dark irises, set in yellowing whites, peered at Odette from the old woman’s face.
“It wouldn’t be right,” Odette said, but she knew her resolve was weakening. Her grandmother had a dark spirit and Odette wondered if she, perhaps, shared that inner darkness. “Murder is wrong.”
“Not murder.” The old woman smiled. “Never murder. Just a simple curse. We let nature murder him.”
Something pushed at Odette’s mind, a deep and twisted longing. She would have Jack, and that was all she wanted. No one would know and he would be hers. The voice of reason screamed at her to realize what she was doing; she wanted to take the life of another human being, but the serpentine voice of want covered her reasoning. Vodoun is my destiny, she told herself. I see that now. The thought of performing the ritual aroused her in a strange way. Her conscience begged her to reconsider, but she turned to her grandmè and said: “What do I do?”
The darkness in her soul spread like a deep shadow. The inside of the little house was even warmer from the heat of the lit candles. Her grandmother looked taller in the candlelight, as if the shadows somehow elongated her small body.
“This man has done you wrong, Odette,” her grandmother said. “And he will pay for that. Tonight we curse him to his grave; soon after we will raise him from the earth.” The woman handed Odette a bowl of pig’s blood, which she poured over her naked skin. Odette threw back her head and embraced the Vodoun. Tonight Jack, you will die.
Nature didn’t take care of her problem, Odette observed; another tourist took Jack’s life. The tourist, who was said to be high on drugs, stabbed him in the abdomen after a heated argument. The wound was fatal; one of the policemen, pale-faced with shock, told Odette it only took a few hours for Jack to die. The people of the island whispered softly about the incident, but Odette heard their stories. They said that the man who killed Jack never understood why he did it. He told the police that it felt as if another force had driven him to do it.
The body of Jack was buried on the island. Odette oversaw the funeral plans herself. Jack had no living relatives, no one to claim his remains, so Odette claimed them. She cared little for the other woman who lived across the sea; Jack was hers now. I embrace the darkness, she thought.
The funeral was simple; only a few came, and Odette realized they came more out of respect for her and her grandmè than they did for the fallen tourist.
That night on top of Jack’s grave a ritual was performed. She dressed in white. Rituals of life and death should always be performed in white. Her grandmother wore a black dress. Odette performed the ritual; Grandmè only showed her how to do it. Between them stood a fat chicken, who pecked at the ground peacefully, unaware of the sacrifice that needed to be made.
Grandmè built a small fire in front of the grave. With her hands she pulled a handful of strongly scented spices from a large cow-skin satchel. Her voice was low as she chanted the words to the ritual used by many ancient Bokor before her. At the end of each chant she poured the herbs onto the fire, which sparked and burned and created a thick noxious gas that was slightly pinkish in hue. Odette joined her young high voice with the deep voice of the old woman and the chanting grew louder, a haunting melody that sent shivers down her spine. First there was silence around them, but then the crickets and the other creatures of the graveyard joined in with the Vodoun song. The chicken between them clucked weakly; it lost all interest in pecking.
Then Odette drew a knife from the pleats of her skirt and while Grandmè held on to the chicken, with the strength of a grown man she quickly kill
ed the creature. The warm blood poured over her hands and arms, her white dress soaked in the thick crimson liquid. She dipped her hands into the chicken blood and covered the skin of her arms and her face with it. Her grandmother followed her lead. Odette walked around the grave and let the chicken blood drip onto the ground. Softly she chanted while her grandmother stood at the edge of the grave. The old woman’s eyes rolled back in her head and she went into a trance.
Odette sank to her knees on top of the grave. She rubbed the fresh earth on her bloodstained body. Then she lay down on the grave and rolled back and forth while she chanted and prayed. Her consciousness was somewhere else now; she felt as if her spirit were on the outside looking in. Her fingers rubbed her body, her breasts and between her thighs. She slipped the grainy fingers, slippery with blood, between the lips of her vagina and rubbed her clitoris until she moaned with pleasure.
Jack, she thought while her mouth screamed the words of the ritual. Jack, come back to me.
Two days after the ritual was performed, Jack’s corpse dug its way out of his grave and came to the call of the granddaughter of the Bokor. She waited for him on the porch of the little wooden house. She was anxious to see what he looked like. Images of Hollywood movies flashed before her eyes, but when she saw him walking in the light of the moon, she knew he was nothing like the rotting undead of the silver screen.
Dressed in the suit he was buried in, he came to her. The Haitians would call him a Zonbi. His skin was unnaturally pale, a slightly gray color that looked almost luminescent in the moonlight, his hair a waxen version of his golden locks. He looked very human; in the darkness it was difficult to see the death. The only thing that looked really dead was his eyes. A milky skin covered the irises; it made them look white. Can he still see the world with those pale eyes?
Love, Lust, and Zombies Page 15
