Dark Shadows: Angelique's Descent

by Lara Parker

  Then he bent and kissed the blade, placing the sword on the altar beside Angelique. Next he took up the porcelain dish. He turned to the congregation and moved among them, passing out small morsels of the bloody meat. She saw each dancer take a piece of the offering in his mouth.

  The chanting and drumming reached a frantic pitch, and the prancing slaves whirled and rocked as Angelique watched the ceremony through the veil of whatever opiate they had given her. The dancing bodies became apparitions of monsters. There were candles growing from the tops of their heads and from the backs of their hands and feet. The bouncing lights spun and traced arcs of fire in the dark. Several men leapt high in the air and cried out as though struck.

  Vaguely she realized that she was at the center of the ceremony. All the eyes of the men were on her; they were bowing to her, circling her. Their teeth gleamed, and their tongues were scarlet.

  One man in front of the crowd entered a trance; he uttered a sharp cry, then fell at the foot of the altar, babbling a stream of incomprehensible language. Angelique knew he was possessed. She had seen these things at ceremonies in the village, but her mother had always pulled her away. “Couchon Gris,” she had whispered. “Petro! Don’t look. It is evil.” The man’s eyes were riveted on her until they rolled back into his head, and she could see only the whites. His back arched, and he lunged toward her, stomach first, as he flailed and jerked.

  Her head was thick with smoke, and a swimming miasma flooded her thoughts. She felt as though she were falling from a great height, and she stopped herself with a violent jerk, placing her palms on the platform. Some liquid, wet and warm, was spilled there, and she lifted her hand and recoiled at the sour smell. She looked down. She was sitting in a pool of drying blood that flowed across the altar and dripped off the side of the platform onto the floor, where it collected in a dull, crimson puddle.

  She looked at the dark blotch for a long moment, wondering what it could mean, and her gaze traveled to a round mass lying beside it, slick with congealed gore, like a bruised sea anemone, broken loose and washed up on the beach. But the tendrils were more like tangled seaweed, or eelgrass, and beneath what she realized was not seaweed at all, but matted, human hair, glinted the glassy eyes of a dead girl! It was then that she lost consciousness.

  Five

  When Angelique awoke, she was back in the tower room, alone, lying on the velvet cover of the bed. It was daylight, but the rain was falling again, and she lay listening to the pounding on the roof above her head. Violent bursts of staccato drumming brightened or faded with the whim of the wind, and the continuous rumble of the water spilling down the parapets growled underneath. A creaking and shivering vibrated through the walls. Beneath all these sounds, she heard the noise that she knew had waked her. It was a female slave screaming.

  She pulled aside the lace canopy of the bed and looked around. Rough-hewn benches lined the walls, and the white-enamel tub where she had bathed was still filled with oily water. Her satchel of books and clothes lay on the floor of wide, stained planks, and at her feet was a faded carpet.

  She heard the voice again, “No, Massa, please don’t. I couldn’t stop her. Her too fast! Please, Massa, please.” Angelique leapt up, ran to the window, and looked down.

  The top of the tower was about twenty feet above the earth. The courtyard was empty. Rain silvered the cobblestones, and rivulets of water poured down the gutters to splash into small pools. She could see a stone well, and there were two posts set in the earth, one with three nervous goats tethered to it.

  Then her father and another man appeared out from beneath the tower, dragging the slave Suzette. The strange man was dressed in field clothes, but he was strong and a blanc. Angelique knew he must be the overseer of the plantation, for he carried a heavy whip and had Suzette by the wrist. Suzette dug in her heels, and with her one free hand clawed at his arm until he caught that wrist as well. He jerked her to the empty post, ripped her ragged scarf from her head, and wrapped it around her wrists, tying her there.

  “Oh, please, Massa, don’t beat a poor slave. It were not my fault. She run like a rat, and I catch her, you know I did. It never happen again. Never! Never! Oh, please, Massa, no! NO!”

  Angelique clung to the bars of the window trembling. The heat rose to her face. She had never seen a slave beaten, and she had never believed such cruelty ever happened.

  For a moment the whip writhed on the ground like a snake in hot sand, then it rose, hovered, and sang in the air. Suzette gasped and, when the lash struck, arched and screamed as if her voice had been ripped from her body.

  Angelique closed her eyes and turned away. But she could still hear the cracks of the lash and the pitiful wails until the cries became whimpers, then silence, and there was only the hollow hiss and thwack of the whip. When it was finally quiet, Angelique summoned the courage to look out again. She saw the overseer reach for the rag and pull it loose, and Suzette’s body slumped to the wet ground.

  Angelique’s father walked over and stared down at the slave, and then, as if he knew she would be there, he looked up to where Angelique stood at the bars of the tower window.

  She realized with a shock that he had wanted her to see everything, and her heart froze. Images flashed in her mind of the night before, moments of what must have been a dream: slaves filing up to the sanctuary in the dark, silently and doggedly, each one stopping a moment at the great front portal. There, a black-cloaked priest, and yes, it had been her father, administered a sacrament, touching each forehead with holy water and placing something in each mouth. Then the door had swung shut, and the long line of men had trudged off into the night.

  Angelique waited to see if Suzette would rise, but she lay limp and motionless. Finally, Thais crept out, gathered the slave woman in her arms, and carried her inside. After that the courtyard was empty again except for the three goats who bleated from time to time and jostled one another like fish caught on a line. The dreary rain still pounded upon the earth.

  Angelique moved back toward the bed in a daze. She realized she had bitten into her lip and it was bleeding and swelling. Her body was sticky with sweat, and she was suddenly aware of how hot it was in the tower room, away from the breeze off the sea. She stopped and placed her hand on a post of enormous size that penetrated through the floor.

  Looking up, she saw that the post was capped by a spoked wheel that meshed with the huge gears of a horizontal beam protruding through the wall. She realized the windmill was attached to this post, and that the continuous grinding sound was the windmill straining to turn the crushers, which must lie beneath the floor. But the sails were so torn that only the lattice framework offered any resistance to the wind, and the windmill floundered helplessly.

  She looked around the room. On the dresser she saw a tray with tempting pieces of pineapple and mango, and pastries with cream and strawberries arranged on a dish with a cup of chocolate. But her stomach felt sour when she thought of eating.

  Suddenly, she heard the latch lift at her door, and she turned to see her father. His tall boots were soaked with mud, his black trousers worn, and his coat drenched with rain. He stood staring at her, and under his shapeless hat his face seemed more villainous than ever. He glanced at the tray of food and frowned.

  “You haven’t eaten your breakfast.”

  “I don’t want it,” she said in a voice that was barely a whisper. “I don’t want to stay here anymore. Take me back to my mother.” She was startled by her own brashness.

  She was standing behind a chair, and she closed her hands around the wooden rails and squeezed them tight. She felt prickling in her armpits, and her upper arms stuck to her sides.

  Her father shrugged and shook his head as though he didn’t understand. “Aren’t you tired of living in that shack with your poor mother and never having enough to eat?”

  “We are not poor,” Angelique said. The garden and the sea provided everything she and her mother needed. She never thought of being hungry.


  “Wouldn’t you prefer to live here? You can have everything you desire, and the slaves will take good care of you. You will live like a princess.”

  “And will you beat the slaves that care for me?” she asked, flushed with spite. He hesitated only a moment before he answered.

  “Yes. If you try to run away.”

  She felt a wave of panic. He had tricked her. Her mother’s dreams were all her father’s lies. She clung to the chair to steady herself as she fought the heat rising in her and the tears. But her father seemed oblivious, and a twisted smile broke through his scowl when he looked at her.

  “If only you could have seen yourself last night,” he said in a voice that was almost reverent. “They were enthralled. I myself could not believe it. I really think you are a treasure—”

  “You promised a school!” she cried. “And that I would have the life of a planter’s daughter. You lied!”

  Her father sighed deeply again and walked to the window. “I am … a planter,” he said, looking out.

  “Where are your fields? Where is your fine house?”

  He laughed then, a mirthless laugh, more like a cough. “Every morning I myself wake wondering exactly that.” He ran his hand across his mouth and rubbed his eyes as if they pained him. “It’s a wretched business,” he said, as he leaned against the bars. He spoke now in a low voice as though he were talking to himself. “It’s been a hard struggle, and several times I thought I was ruined. Last year the hurricane destroyed the crop. Twice the slaves have risen up and staged revolts—futile—but revolts nonetheless. There have been many … situations … well, let’s just say they have their ways with poison.… Some kill themselves by eating dirt. Some escape, leap from the point into the sea, to be free.…” His voice trailed off as though he thought of something he could not say. Although she did not understand much of what he did say, Angelique felt a surge of pride that he was confiding in her.

  “There are things you have no knowledge of,” he said, still staring out. “The slaves are savage and bitter. We have tried to convert them to Christianity, but they have ancient practices brought with them from Africa. They worship gods who take on many forms, and are all superstition—by that, I mean they are not real—”

  “Loas are real,” whispered Angelique softly.

  Her father glanced at her quickly. “What do you know about them?” he said roughly.

  “They come into your head.”

  He frowned, and placed his hand across his chest staring at her.

  “Do you know of a loa called … Erzulie?”

  “The love goddess.”

  “Ah, so you do. Hm-m-m-m … amazing. I can only think your mother … well, there is a depraved sort of worship of Erzulie at the plantation. Many slaves there are devoted to her. You—how can I say this—they believe you are her human form—this goddess come to life.”

  “Me? But she is a woman with many husbands.…”

  “I know—a kind of baby Erzulie—and that you appear by magic, late in the ceremony, and they bring you gifts, and you grant wishes. It’s all foolishness, of course, I realize that. But as long as they believe you will appear to them, I think they will be content in their work and remain … tractable.…”

  “Why would they believe such a thing?”

  “Because I told them it was so.”

  “But won’t they find out?”

  “That is the difficulty. In order to perform this ritual, you must remain hidden. If they were to see you, out in the world, or with your mother, they would know they had been tricked. They would be even more inclined to plot against me. And as for you, well, they would probably slit your throat. It’s very important for them to believe you are … a spirit.”

  “But it’s all lies. I am not a spirit.”

  He began to pace. He stopped in front of the mirror and glared at his image for a moment, grimacing, his eyes narrowing. He rubbed his hands over his face.

  “Come and see yourself,” he said, and grabbed her roughly, pulling her to the glass. The touch of his fingers made her shiver. “Is that girl you see there not … a goddess?”

  Her hair had dried into masses of pale ringlets which even in the muted daylight shone about her face. Her features were delicate but overshadowed by her startling eyes, huge and gray. She felt trickles of sweat running down her body. She reached her hand to her throat and brushed her mother’s charm, which still hung beneath her dress, and she trembled, for her father’s face hovered behind hers. His eyes glittered as he stared at her.

  “What you see,” he said, breathing hard, “is a kind of beauty. And beauty is rare, but it is a frivolous talisman. You have a gift that is rarer still. There is something bewitching about you. You are lit by a fire I have never seen, and I need to use it for my own ends. If you refuse, I shall have to find a way to … force you.”

  She felt a wave of helplessness and she could hardly breathe. “But there was blood where I was on that platform. What happened there?”

  Her father sighed again, reached into the pocket of his coat, and removed a flask. “It was nothing,” he said. “They sacrificed a goat.” He took a long swig of rum and sat heavily on the bench nearest the wall. His bones seemed to crumble inside his coat. Angelique felt a stab of pity for him.

  “How long would I have to stay?” she asked.

  He coughed and took out a large soiled handkerchief and spit into it. The answer was muffled as he wiped his lips. “Not for long,” he muttered. “Only a little while.” He stuffed the handkerchief in his vest pocket.

  Her fingers squeezed the ouanga and she had a sudden flash of hope. “Can my mother come and live here, too?” Her father rose and began to pace again, his agitation evident.

  “Your mother has her own life.”

  “Does she know?”

  “Yes, of course she knows.”

  “She wants me to do this?” It was a moment before he answered, and when he did, the words he said turned her heart to stone.

  “Your time with your mother has ended, Angelique.”

  “But why? Why do you say that?” Despair tumbled through her, and suddenly she began to feel stupid, as though the shock of his statement prevented her from comprehending.

  “She knows it is your destiny. That she must agree to it.”

  “That’s not true! She would never have sent me away if you had not lied to her! This is not what she wanted for me! This is not what you promised her!”

  He leaned forward, grabbed her hair, and jerked her to him. She could feel his hot breath as he bent her face up to his. There was a desperation to his anger, as though vying emotions drove him close to madness, and his voice was furious and hard.

  “Do not defy me, Angelique! You have seen my wrath and my method of punishment. The same fate awaits you if you insist on being stubborn!” He threw her away from him with such force that she fell to the floor. His eyes flew wide as he stared down at her, his fingertips quivering.

  “Listen, my girl, and listen well! You are no longer your mother’s daughter, or my daughter either, for that matter! Living in Martinique is hard for us all. Why should you escape these difficulties? Now…” and he took a deep breath and evened his tone “… I need you here. Desperately. You have a new role in life, which you can fulfill with pride. I suggest you do so. I beg you to do so.”

  He walked to the door and closed it behind him. She saw the bolt fall and heard the iron clang as it dropped into place.

  Six

  She did not know how long she wept, and how long she slept afterward because she had been drugged. The slaves woke her and gave her food, and she slept again. There were times when the moon rose over her window and she crept to the casement and saw it glimmer on the curve of the sea. There were times when the sun streamed in and turned the stone wall beside her bed to a muted gold. But mostly she hovered in a gray twilight, too desolate to force herself awake when the opiates wore off, and more than willing to fall back into a fitful dozing rather
than suffer the pain of separation from her mother.

  There were times when the slaves carried her, or prodded her, down the tower stairway and into the sanctuary, where they placed her on the altar and she sat in a stupor while the men danced and chanted around her. Sometimes she felt she was not alone on the platform, that some unseen presence sat beside her. She remembered being dressed and adorned with chains and shells, like a statue decked out for a celebration. She did vaguely remember seeing her father, a look of displeasure on his face, but she was barely affected, having no idea why he would give her such a look.

  There were times when her mind cleared, and she felt less like a ghost sitting in the chair by her bed, or in the bath, or before the mirror, but these moments floated past and disappeared in the flow of days.

  She dreamed of the sea. She remembered how different it was beneath the surface, near the reef where she would swim for hours. She dreamed of the sea creatures hovering in their dappled world, heedless of changes in light or weather, rocked in the irregular rhythm by the dip and push of the surge, their colors gleaming, their bright eyes staring. She dreamed that she was one of them, her rounded body and limp legs forced into the shape of a fish. She would flutter gently as she slept.

  She dreamed of her mother. In her dream, her mother was always moving, her body lithe as a palm tree danced by the wind. Different expressions flickered over her face, like sunlight sparkling on the surface of the lagoon. She was as happy as she was beautiful; love and deep joy flowed out of her. Angelique dreamed of the feel of her mother’s hand stroking her, and her fingers combing through her hair.

  There were days when they pinned flowers in her hair, blackened the rims of her eyes, and placed her in a curtained chaise which was carried by four black men through the slave quarters. Tucked in her tent, she could see gaping faces with eyes wide, wonder in them, as children and their mothers gazed upon her in amazement. On the floor of her carrier were bits of fruit and candy, which she tossed listlessly to the throng, vaguely aware of the commotion her presence caused. But she always watched the hubbub in a trance.