by Layton Green
“It was as you described, and more. I was on high ground, out of sight, with binoculars. During the ceremony a woman ran straight at the N’anga—I believe the captive for the evening was her son. The N’anga’s bodyguards caught the woman, and the N’anga walked to her and performed a quick incantation. The woman’s entire body erupted in boils.”
Grey made a choking sound. “Could he have staged it?”
“For whom? No one knew I was watching. Staged for the worshippers, I suppose. But her horrified reaction, the appearance of the boils—no, it wasn’t faked. I believe it was spontaneous corporeal manifestation—the most remarkable example I’ve ever come across.”
“But how did he do it? You can’t just make boils erupt on someone.”
“I told you about this type of power. It’s the belief, Grey—the worshipper’s belief in the power of the priest that causes the physical effect. Think of the result of everyday stress on the body, the appearance of a pimple or an ulcer, and magnify it by a thousand. The babalawo’s hold on his followers’ minds is so complete, so terrifyingly real, that it in fact becomes real. The effect is psychosomatic and instantaneous, making it appear magical.”
Grey didn’t respond. What was he supposed to do with that information? He wasn’t one of the babalawo’s followers, and what he was going to do to the N’anga required no suspension of disbelief.
“I saw an experiment once, at the Sorbonne. A control group was told their empty cots were ridden with bed bugs. To a man, they squirmed the entire night and swore the cots were infested.”
“Bed bugs are a long ways from spontaneous boils,” Grey said.
“In 2007, a meteorite fell near a Peruvian village. Within weeks 600 residents of the village claimed affliction by a mysterious disease. They had symptoms of headaches, nausea and fever. Doctors traced the illness to a story in the local media that ran the day after the meteor hit. The story told of a mysterious disease, with symptoms identical to the ones in the village, connected to meteor landings. The story was a hoax: a journalist admitted he’d fabricated it to sell papers.
“Psychosomatic conditions are very real, Grey. A garden-variety hypnotist can raise welts on the skin by suggesting the patient has touched something hot. A more skilled one can induce blindness, and even paralysis. The same principle applies to faith healers: I posit that in cases of miraculous recoveries, science should look not to the power of the healer, but to the amount of faith of the healed. A final, more serious example: do you realize the cause of death of most people who fall from great heights? They have heart attacks—before they reach the ground. They die of fear. Instantly.”
Grey pushed air through his teeth and looked away, uneasy. “So as long as you don’t believe in the power of the babalawo, you should be fine.”
“Strictly speaking.”
“And if you’re wrong, and the babalawo truly is able to work magic?”
“You mustn’t allow yourself to even consider that possibility, or you’re already subject to his power.”
“Fine. I’ll leave the magic tricks to you. If you think he knows how to stop a knife from slicing an artery, let me know. Fangwa’s Juju didn’t stop you from putting some steel in his gut.”
“I caught him unawares, and away from his potions.”
“But you don’t believe in Juju, right? So he wouldn’t have been able to affect you anyway.”
Viktor rose and opened the French doors to the balcony. He stood, arms folded, watching the city. “I’ve seen things the greatest skeptics would swear are magical. I saw some of them last night. Magic,” he continued quietly, “or in this case Juju, is a name we put to things we don’t understand—from parlor tricks to Juju spells to the powers of the mind to the nature of the universe. Magic is thus by definition real, until the mysteries are revealed, by science or knowledge, and their magic dispelled. But there are many mysteries in the world, including the grandest of all, which remain unexplained.”
Grey found himself engrossed by Viktor’s words for the briefest of moments, found his mind wandering to places he’d never cared to explore. He berated himself for his lack of concentration. “I don’t care about mysteries. I care about Nya.”
“You need only be aware of the danger. Regardless of the true answers, there is no doubt this man’s mind is remarkable. You must be very, very careful with him. You mustn’t let your guard down, or allow him to influence you.”
“Points taken. Now—I have some questions.”
“Of course.”
“Do you think Nya’s still alive?”
“I do,” Viktor replied, and Grey’s stomach fluttered. He’d wanted to hear it from Viktor’s lips, not just from the duplicitous Doctor. “What he said about the N’anga’s plans for her ring true with my knowledge of Juju.”
“Meaning?”
“You might not want to hear this.”
“I need to know everything I can, whether I like it or not.”
“You remember Doctor Fangwa mentioned the N’anga likes to perform the two hundred cuts?” Grey’s face tightened. “It’s rumored some babalawos use the ritual for… other… purposes.”
“I didn’t follow that. Fangwa said Nya has three days to live. But if the N’anga performed the two hundred cuts, wouldn’t she already be dead? Or is he saving that for last?”
“The two hundred cuts can be performed in an hour, or extended for as long as the babalawo desires. It’s reputed that three days maximizes the suffering of the victim. I believe that’s the time frame to which Fangwa was referring.”
Grey stilled. “Are you telling me that bastard’s going to do that to Nya for three days straight?”
“He’ll break to rest and to allow her to recover just enough to continue. Just enough to perfect the pain. I’m sorry.”
Grey squeezed his eyes shut. “This isn’t happening. Why, Viktor?” He whispered. “For the love of God, why?”
“The ritual is thought to bring enormous power to the babalawo. The Yoruba believe the two hundred cuts brings the sacrifice to a state of such agony that when it dies and enters the spirit world, crying out in pain and terror, the Orisas cannot help but hear the offering. You might guess which Orisa is believed to be most pleased by ritual suffering.”
Grey listened with a dead expression.
“And you can imagine, if it’s believed the agony of an animal garners favor from Esu, how much more the pain of the highest animal would please him—the only one able to feel spiritual pain.”
“Fangwa mentioned something about another ritual,” Grey mumbled, his voice hollow. He had to get through this. “Something about iko…”
“An iko-awo. It means spirit-slave. Fangwa believes the N’anga wants to make an iko-awo out of Nya, which is what he wanted her for himself. And which he believed he’ll still be able to accomplish from the spirit world, in an altered version—if the N’anga doesn’t get to her first.”
“So then the N’anga might do that first? It’s possible he hasn’t started the two hundred cuts yet? That’s good—”
Viktor laid a hand on his shoulder. “The iko-awo procedure isn’t a lengthy one. At the end of the two hundred cuts, just before death, a powerful babalawo may choose to perform a ritual—iko-awo—believed to bind the victim’s spirit to the babalawo. After the ritual, the babalawo removes the victim’s head and preserves it in a ceremonial vessel called a nganga. As long as the nganga exists, it’s believed the spirit of the iko-awo will remain bound to this world, wracked and tortured, in unholy service to the babalawo.”
52
Grey reeled. His mouth opened, but he choked on what he’d just heard. This was so unreal, so unbelievably godforsaken, he thought for a moment it was a joke. That it couldn’t be happening.
Then Viktor’s narrowed mouth and somber brow drew him back to reality, and Grey paced, fists clenching and unclenching. “All this for a name?” He said finally. “A goddamned name?”
“When a child is born in a Yoruba vi
llage, the babalawo divines the true name of the child—the name believed to be the spoken manifestation of the child’s essence, or spirit. This name is never revealed to anyone, not even to the parents. The Yoruba believe that knowledge of an individual’s true name gives absolute power over that individual, and a babalawo uses names to influence and control his followers. Think of it as a sort of permanent voodoo doll.”
“It sounds so primitive.”
“To those who believe in the power of Juju, such a threat would terrify them. If what Fangwa said is true, and the prime minister’s from a small village once under the sway of a babalawo, then despite what he might publicly proclaim his religious beliefs to be, I have no doubt he fears with all of his being that the N’anga might learn his true name.”
Grey threw his hands up. “How can someone that educated, a prime minister, be so…”
“Superstitious? It’s my experience that religious beliefs and superstitions, especially in a society as intricately linked to religion as a Yoruba village, are usually ingrained for life. I could startle you with stories of the effect of superstition in your own culture, but the only thing you need understand right now is the gravity of the danger Nya’s in.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Grey started pacing again. “That place Fangwa was talking about, some place the N’anga might be.”
“The igbo-awo. Translated literally, it means “the secret forest.” We discussed this as well, the shrine where the babalawo performs the dirty work of Juju, far from prying eyes. You saw Fangwa’s igbo-awo.”
“And that’s where Nya will be? At the N’anga’s shrine?”
“I believe so. But this place,” he said, “could be anywhere. It will be impossible to find in time. Lucky has to lead us to the N’anga.”
Grey didn’t reply. He continued pacing, hands in constant movement, and glanced at his watch.
Two more hours.
• • •
A gossamer violet twilight faded to black soon after Grey left Viktor at the bar across the street from Club Lucky. The Club showed no signs of life; then again, it rarely did from the outside.
Grey crept to the far end of the alley behind Club Lucky. He scurried up a rusted balcony to a rooftop that provided an unobstructed view of the rear entrance. He flattened and waited.
Lucky might have already arrived, or he might have never left from the night before. Grey wasn’t worried about either option. He only needed to see him leave. He had no illusions about the perfection of his plan; he felt ill just thinking about it. Perhaps Lucky would make a few stops, or decide to sleep somewhere before he left for the ceremony. Was Lucky nocturnal? Diurnal? How early would he leave for the ceremony?
None of it mattered. No matter what it took, or where Lucky went, or what he did—Grey could not lose him. And if he thought Lucky was about to escape, then he’d have to force him to disclose the location of the ceremony.
An hour later, perhaps two, Grey heard the rough purr of an engine. He willed his body to flatten even further, even though he knew he was as good as invisible. There were no working streetlights, and his clothing blended into the night.
A car pulled into the alley, and he tensed—it was the same Peugeot that had chased Nya and him. Five thugs stepped out. Grey scanned the group and recognized a few of the men.
No Lucky.
The men entered the club through the back door, exposing the alley to a few frenetic moments of throbbing club music. The door swung shut and Grey returned to silence and waiting. He didn’t allow thoughts of Nya to enter his mind; he focused on the present, his body and mind brittle with preparatory tension. He ached to begin following Lucky, to take the first step down the path that would lead him to Nya.
More time passed, and he checked the time. Two a.m. Lucky must have arrived sometime in the afternoon.
His cell vibrated. Viktor’s number. Grey checked the alleyway and scrambled to his feet. Lucky must have used the front entrance.
He popped the phone open. “Is he leaving?”
“There’s something you need to see,” Viktor said.
“I can’t leave my post. What if-”
“He’s not here.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Just come.”
Grey hurried out of the alley, nervous about leaving. Viktor was wrong. He had to be.
Grey lowered his head, crossed empty Bank Street and ducked into the bar. He saw Viktor sitting by himself in the front, staring out of a grime-streaked window. The bartender kept his eyes on Grey for a moment, then returned to cleaning the bar.
Viktor turned, and Grey didn’t like Viktor’s condolent expression.
Viktor handed him an envelope with Grey’s name printed on the outside. He opened it and drew out a neatly folded, typed note.
“I called upon our mutual friend today, but it was the doctor who was not feeling so well. It appears his visit with you left him feeling rather expired.
Harbor no illusions of finding your mockingbird. She is singing for her master, and has reached the end of her journey.
I will deal with you when I return.”
Grey let the note fall to the floor.
53
“Kill me,” Nya said. Her voice crackled with hysteria, hoarse after hours of screaming. She had gone beyond desperation and into the realm of wonder—wonder at the capacity of human suffering, at the cruelty of another human being.
If the thing torturing her could even be called human. She closed her eyes as the N’anga peeled off a long strip of her skin, this time on her thigh, and then poured a clear liquid onto the wound that burned like acid. Nya arched against her bonds, her scream a wracked parody of a sound. The N’anga shoved an ammonia-saturated rag under her nose, denying her the bliss of unconsciousness.
“Think upon your pain. It is the only thing you will know before you die.”
His mask distorted his voice, but there was something about it, something familiar. Her head lolled as she moaned. “Just kill me.”
“You will soon die, but death is just the beginning. You will serve me for many years. I preferred to have your father serve me, but seeing his daughter as my iko-awo will cause him more pain. He cries his shame and horror to the spirit world even now. My power increases with each cut of your flesh.”
“My father,” Nya whispered. “He’ll save me. In this life or the next.”
“Your father chose a different path long ago. A path of weakness. He is here with us, but he trembles at my presence and dares not interfere.”
She sobbed. “You’re wrong.”
“Has he saved you yet? Has he stopped a single stroke of my knife?” He hovered over the fine surface of her stomach. “I’m going to tell you how your father died. We have things to discuss before the ritual is complete—things that will increase your pain before you enter the spirit world.”
She didn’t respond. Her lips quivered and her head moved side to side. The N’anga lowered his knife and reached for his mask with his other hand. “You will also know me before you die. My iko-awo must recognize her master.”
He bent forward and removed the terrible mask, holding it at his side as he straightened. Nya was uncertain for a split-second who she was looking at, until the knowledge arrived as a blow. She gasped and thought she must be hallucinating from the pain.
For she would have bet her very life that the person standing before her couldn’t be the N’anga.
• • •
Grey croaked out a response. “Who brought you this?”
“One of his girls.”
“Lucky knows about Fangwa. He’s gone, and so is Nya.” Grey put his head in his hands. “This isn’t happening.” He moved towards the door. “I’m going in.”
Viktor grabbed him. “He knows that’s the first thing you’d think of. No one in there knows where she is, and they’ll be waiting for you. If you’re taken, her hope ends now.”
Grey cursed and slammed his fist into the door, then
leaned on the door with both hands, head down.
“There’s still Nigel,” Viktor said. “I know you have reservations—”
“Forget my reservations. Let’s go.” Grey crumpled the note and held it in his fist as they left the bar. “If Nigel knows something,” he said, “he’ll use our desperation to his advantage. Now that I’m not with the Embassy, I don’t exactly have…”
“Nigel will receive what he asks for.”
• • •
They sped through the slumbering city. The wall concealing Nigel’s compound sat squat and shadowy, the moon a crystal ball hovering above, and Grey prayed the heavenly augur would spill a secret down upon them.
The gate opened and they pulled up to the guardhouse. A grizzled man stepped out, slid one hand under his shirt and held it still.
“Nigel,” Grey said. “We need to see him. It’s an emergency.”
The guard’s face screwed into a quizzical frown, and he backed into the guardhouse and picked up a phone. After a few gesticulated words he motioned for Grey to approach. Grey walked inside. The guard took a few steps back, keeping his hand under his shirt.
Grey took the receiver. “Nigel?”
“Who’s this?”
The voice wasn’t Nigel’s, but Grey recognized it as Nigel’s bodyguard.
“Dominic Grey. I have to see Nigel immediately.”
“That might prove difficult.”
“You don’t understand. I’ll do anything-”
“I’m afraid you’re the one who doesn’t understand. Nigel’s dead.”
Silence.
“When?” Grey said. “How?”
“That’s our business.”
“Was it the N’anga?”
“Voetsake,” the man muttered.
“Look. I can help. We’re looking for this man. Just tell me where he is and we’ll deal with-”
“Nigel’s dead, mate. I’m running the business now, but I don’t do information. That was Nigel’s affair. I can get what you need from the black market.”
