by Lara Parker
He fell to his knees and, nearly collapsing from weakness, searched beneath the bed, then back through the sheets and the quilt. It was gone!
He staggered across the room, the pain crying out against movement, and desperately explored the dresser, the table by the window, the chair, the desk. Nowhere! Furious that he could not find it, he ripped the sheets from the bed, piling them on the floor. How could it have disappeared? Julia. Of course. Julia had taken it! He made for the door and shouted into the hall.
“Julia!” He shouted again. “Julia!”
She came from her room, a worried expression on her face, but he knew her too well, and could easily perceive guilt flickering beneath the concern.
“What is it, Barnabas? Are you all right?”
“Julia, what happened to the diary? What did you do with it?”
“Pardon?”
“Angelique’s diary. Where is it?”
“I thought—but you said you didn’t care about it and I-I didn’t want it there in your room, so I—”
“You what?” he demanded.
“I removed it.”
“Where is it?”
She hesitated a moment, looking at him with a mixture of anxiety and censure. “So you were reading it,” she said.
“Yes, yes,” he responded irritably. “What if I was.”
“Barnabas … the diary is evil—”
“Nonsense—”
“Angelique’s hatred, and her jealousy, motivated the curse almost two hundred years ago. You yourself have admitted that to me. Tonight you were attacked—by a vampire. I cannot imagine that you would want any force of evil near you, influencing you—”
“How dare you—”
“Barnabas, listen—”
“How dare you intrude where you are not wanted—take it upon yourself to choose what I read and don’t read. Can’t you see that it’s a violation of my privacy!”
“But you said—”
“Don’t you think I am capable of determining whether a child’s journal has power over me? Don’t you think I know, by now, what evil is?”
“I only think you are vulnerable in your present condition. Remember, I am your doctor, and I decide—”
“You decide nothing! You are my doctor, yes, but you are not my mother!” He saw her flinch at his words.
“Did you burn it?”
“No. I was afraid to burn it.”
“Where is it?” He was barely able to keep himself in check. Incredibly, she stood her ground.
“I do not intend to tell you—”
“Don’t you understand? I must know!” His frustration, all out of proportion to the situation, overcame him. He was suddenly so enraged he found himself standing over her with his fingers dug into her shoulders, shaking her, squeezing hard. “Where is it!”
“Barnabas, stop! Please…”
Abruptly he let go and backed away, astounded at himself. What was happening to him? He stared at his hands in bewilderment.
“Julia,” he said in a quivering voice, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me—why I became so angry.” He walked to the bed and sat down, lowering his face into his hands. When he looked at her again his expression was drawn and miserable. “It’s just that I—please understand—I must have it back. Please … forgive me.”
Julia sighed. “All right,” she said. “If you must know, I’ll tell you. I buried it—in the graveyard—under her tombstone.”
* * *
His mind blurred by pain, Barnabas staggered across the lawn. The rain had been falling for hours, a steady downpour. He had left without an umbrella and was soon drenched. He walked, hunched over, the spark of determination the only bright fire within him.
He was desperate to read Angelique’s account of the battle. She would describe him, reveal his actions and how he had been valiant, generous of heart. Her words would restore him, bring back his vigor and courage. He would be able to see himself again, through her eyes, youthful, optimistic, “merry” she had called him, and “courtly,” the young man he had been so long ago before his decades of depravity. His heart ached. Damn Julia!
His clothes were now wet to the skin, but there was a certain comfort in no longer resisting the rain and letting it have its way with him. The exertion had eased the stiffness of his wounds, and the deluge of falling drops had grown pleasurable. He thought of Angelique.
Their first passion had been in the rain, the warm tropical rain that fell like silk in Martinique. He remembered her face as he kissed it, soft and wet, her lips full of sweet water. He had held her against him, feeling her bones beneath her dripping garment, and she was all liquid flesh enveloping him. He remembered lying with her in the falling water, a stream flowing beneath them and the sky opening above. Her breasts were slick, the nipples taut as swelling seeds, and his hands swam in her warm wetness, as their bodies floated into a river of currents, their limbs slipping together. He could still feel the rain pounding against his back, as a whirlpool sucked him in and their bodies and the rain and the river were all one.
He reached the gate to the cemetery. At that instant the sky was rent by a great bolt of lightning, and a rumbling clap of thunder shook the ground at his feet. The statue of the angel was illuminated in that split second, hovering over her tomb on the other side of the graveyard. A heartbeat later Barnabas stood beneath her supplicating figure, and in the drenched earth, he could make out the spot where the sod had been disturbed.
He fell to his knees and dug with his fingers, pulling back a loose mound of grass and some easily dislodged debris. Then he felt it; the diary was there. He wanted to weep when he saw it lying in the mud, a pool of water collecting around it as the rain fell upon it, the pages soaked through, and the leather cover blackened and ruined.
A flicker of hope offered the chance that some of the pages could still be saved, and he reached for the book. But at that instant, he saw what he had become. His resolution and fortitude, his devotion to his new life, had given way as easily as the mud beneath his knees, and he was staggered to realize he had fallen prey to his detestable obsession. Once more, she had him! He was caught in the spell of an irresistible liaison, and once again he was willing to sacrifice all virtue, even the generous heart of a woman who loved him, for his contemptible desires.
Julia had freed him of all that. What in God’s name was he doing? At the very instant he had the opportunity to live as a man of integrity, he was willing to throw it all away? Had he not been tortured enough? What could he possibly gain from the diary other than one more fantasy of illicit pleasure? Julia had been trying to tell him that, and he had been unwilling to listen.
Angelique’s childhood had been tragic, but she was evil, there was no denying that, and he had always fought against her. He had always struggled, in utter self-loathing, against what she had made him. How could he have considered any other path? Resisting her had been the only source of goodness within him, and it was goodness he now craved with all his being—the peace that only a guilt-free heart could bestow.
Leave it there! Suddenly a feeling of great relief rushed over him, and a swelling of pure happiness flooded his breast. Trembling from his decision, grimacing from the feel of the cold, slimy sod, he placed the dirt and muddy grasses back on top of the book. Then he stood, pressed the earth down with his boot, turned, and, with an unsteady but determined step, walked away from the graveyard.
Seventeen
Port-au-Prince! The loas hover over the city as though the very air were the breath of spirits. They whisper, Freedom. The city swarms with blacks, maroons, quadroons, mulattoes, men and women of splendid, glossy colors, their hearts high with rage. Rage gallops through the streets and down the back alleys. There is no Christian God here. Africa reigns with her pulsing power, avenging ancestors, gods of blood. At every doorway there is a wrinkled charm, on every sweating chest a trinket of bones hung from a thong of flesh. Altars with blood on the stones, feathers, and fur dried on the wal
ls, guard every courtyard.
I saw him on the dock, Negroes swarming around him. I moved closer, as though drawn by a magnet. He was making fire. He danced, his black body gleaming wet, and where he stomped there was smoke, and when he turned and hurled his fist at the ground, the flame sprang up as he bid it to do. I was envious. I stayed with him the whole day.
That night they lit the sacrificial fires, and he began the ceremony I thought I knew so well. But it was not the same. He is a true channel for the spirits. They come to him instantly. After he was in deep trance, he took up the sword. The drums were like thunder in the sky. He quivered where he stood. His long grass skirt swayed and lifted, like seaweed under the surge. When the sword was red-hot from the coals, he pulled its razor edge against one arm, then the other. He carved with delicate precision upon his chest, his neck, his tongue. He lifted the blade and sliced his open eye. No blood flowed. No welts, no scars. His eye remained whole.
The pages were separating now, under the gentle warmth of the hair dryer. Julia had let the book dry for several days, wrapped in towels, and then at last she had begun to pull the pages apart. It was slow, tedious, frustrating work. Much of the diary was lost. The ink had faded into watery rivulets as tears on a love letter would streak the words written there. Some of the pages were like tissue, limp and fragile, tearing easily into ragged strips like bindings for wounds. But there were other sections she could read clearly.
Abruptly, he leapt into the fire. I watched as he pranced on the coals, digging his feet into the bright embers, while the drums raged. He spun and cavorted, riding a burning broom, for he was the horse now, and he galloped in the firebrands in a mad frenzy, until I was certain his feet must be burned, and all the while my own body crawled with a stinging rash. Then, at last, he collapsed, exhausted, his chest heaving, sitting with his legs crossed under him. The soles of his feet were gray from the ash but firm and unblistered. Unable to resist, I touched one foot, and found that the skin was cool and dry. I offered him water and he took it in his cupped hands and smiled at me.
Julia shuddered. But she did not doubt the veracity of what she read. Simply, she feared it. Nothing in her nature craved this magic or responded to the powers that brought it into being. She was more fascinated by the medical explanations. Skin was thick. Sweat repulsed the heat. Faith and speed were strong allies. Sleight of hand was always possible. Witch doctors were clever.
I followed him to his home, for I had nowhere else to go, because I wanted to be his slave, and because he led me there. He lives in a hovel among hovels, built into the side of a hill, with a dirt floor, and a ragged rug for his cot. He has no food or water. Others feed him because he is a great houngan. And because he is a renowned Bokor, I knew they would not question a white girl living in his house, if only I could convince him to let me stay.
I said to him, “Teach me to make fire.”
He asked me why I thought he should teach me. What I had seen. And I told him everything I knew. I told him of Chloe and of Erzulie and of the last ceremony, when I had turned the knife in my father’s hand. I recited the chants from the book of runes, and I told him of the spells I had mastered. And he listened quietly until I had finished. Then he said, “You know nothing, my child. Your knowledge is only of the mind, you have no intuitive skills. I cannot waste my time with you.”
He said I could remain one night, and then I would have to leave. I asked him where I should sleep, and he pointed to the ground near the back wall. I asked for water, and he shook his head. No water, he said. The Negroes were not allowed to use the well in the square. They must walk several miles for water, out of the slums and into the country.
I woke just after midnight because I heard the sound of a stream flowing. At first it was muted, but then it became distinct.
When the day came, I told the houngan I had found water. He said that was not possible, that they had tried to dig several wells, but had no success. I said, “The water is here, behind this wall, where you had me sleep. Dig here.”
He called several men, and they started to dig. They found the underground stream the first day. The water poured out like a silver flame, and the houngan said, “All right then, tonight you come with us.”
The meeting place was at a crossroads, at a small village in the country. There were several thatched huts, and thousands of candles lined the cross in four directions. People came swiftly, like shadows on little paths through the cane, or over the trees. They wore bright costumes of the Soukougnan, who shed its skin, and Loup-Garou, the werewolf. The Bokor said, “This ceremony is Bizango—blood sacrifice.” Each man danced in the motions of his animal, strutting cocks, barking dogs, grunting pigs, even demons with tails and horns. I do not know how they transformed themselves. They called Carrefour, not Legba, and after he was fed, Baron Cimetière.
I was pulled to the center of the circle with a frightened little goat and thought he was the sacrifice. I began to bleat with him and fed him leaves with my own lips to calm him, but his eyes were wild. The drums stopped, and they all drifted away stealthily, like leopards. They had long cords in their hands, cords the Bokor said were cured intestines and very strong. When the victim was brought back he was a man, but he was turned into a cow before they killed him.
Page after page Julia carefully, skillfully, peeled back. Her tools were her surgeon’s scalpel, scissors, and small tweezers, all taken from her medicine bag. But so much of the book was gone. She wondered whether returning the diary to Barnabas in this ruined condition would only disturb him more. Sometimes she could save only a phrase.
The Bokor has glittering eyes, and he likes a joke. He is a little wisp of a man, very black and scarcely five feet tall. He is thin and small-boned, with tiny hands and feet, and his face is as wrinkled as a sea cucumber in the sand.
Julia’s shoulders ached from her efforts, and her eyes were stinging from trying to read the blurred words. She had hoped she could save more. Perhaps if she let it dry a few more days, more pages would come apart.
He told me voodoo comes from Africa but the French call it voir—to see, and Dieu—God, “to see God,” but I said I have heard it means voir dans, “to see within.” I thought it mattered a great deal which was the proper meaning, but he said it did not matter in the least. He asked me why I had memorized African invocations.
“You are not a Negro girl.”
“I have some of the blood in me.”
“Use your own language. The words don’t matter. Magic comes from the soul.”
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog.
Vampire, ghoul, bloodsucker, parasite.
Drums, rum, blood.
“Tell me the three drums.”
“Cata, Seconde, Maman.”
“Why are they called those names?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cata is mischievous, naughty, an unruly child. Seconde is in the middle, the whole human spectrum. That is the ordinary life. Maman is voudun.”
Julia was deeply ashamed that she had taken the diary. She felt the very least she could do was retrieve it and return it to Barnabas in the hope that he would forgive her. Also, the very next morning, as she lay in bed before rising, she began to ponder the scientific explanations for witchcraft—even as she had immersed herself in the investigation and discovery of the final solution for vampirism. A peculiar curiosity teased her mind. She had to admit to herself she was fascinated with the supernatural and its antithesis, its “natural” explanations.
I said to him, “Can you kill someone?” and he said, “Killin’ is easy, but it is against the law.” And I asked him, “Can you make someone love you?” and he said, “You pays your money and you takes the consequence.” Then I said, “Can you call back the dead?” and he said, “Yes, if they be feelin’ mischievous. The dead love to be called. Unless, of course, they are zombies. Then you have yourself a slave.”
Zombies! Now that was an interesting phenom
enon. The living dead. Caskets opened and the body not decayed. Hair and fingernails had grown. Skin still flushed, rosier than in life, signs of rejuvenation, erect penis. Why had they used the headstone since ancient times? To prevent the corpse from rising. And why the multitude of ceremonies for the dead? That they might rest in peace in their graves. With the requisite objects, they might be willing to stay put: wine in jars, grains in bowls, coins for Charon in the mouth, poppy seeds for dreamless slumber.
A plantation owner came to the Bokor to buy some laborers, and the Bokor took the money. Then, with his face in a contorted mask, he mounted a horse backwards and rode it to the victim’s door. He placed his lips over a crack in the door and sucked the soul of the victim out. After a few days the victim died. The Bokor took me to the graveyard at midnight, where the dead man lay in his tomb. He had the victim’s soul in an earthen jar, and when he called out his name the dead man was obliged to answer because the Bokor had his soul. Then he passed the jar beneath the dead man’s nose so that he could smell his soul, and the man rose up and followed him. At the Bokor’s house he was given the red elixir that is the secret formula and became a zombie. Now he will work tirelessly for the lucky planter.
ZOMBIE POWDER:
Secure an entire afterbirth, the bag intact with part of the navel cord still attached. Wrap it in manchineel leaves.
Grind with a pestle:
bouga toad or unleached manioc
millipedes or tarantulas
seeds and leaves from poisonous plants
puffer fish stingers
human remains from a new corpse
A man who stole the secret of the Zombie Powder was killed by the Bokor’s hounci. He never knew they had found his hidden little bag. They took him in a boat, then, far from shore, they tied his hands behind his back and struck his neck with a rock, making a raw spot. Into the wound they rubbed a quick poison. He knew he was dead before he hit the water.
The Bokor said he made the Zombie Powder because it was easier than sucking souls through keyholes.
