He wanted only to get out of here, to find someone else to serve Lonigan’s and Mondoun’s purpose.
The woman, however, crawled after him as far as her shackles would permit. She clanked her chains and spoke to him in a hoarse, cracked voice, using a language he did not comprehend.
Noel had the translator, of course. Noel had everything. But Leon had telepathy, and although he tried to shut off the link he had inadvertently established with the woman, her thoughts still came to him. They were broken and incomprehensible at first, then clearer, supporting the African dialect she spoke.
“…pale god…power…make Hana live…please make my son Hana to live again. Thou hath power to return the light to his small body. Have mercy, O great pale one. Have mercy upon this woman and her son.”
Around her other slaves had sat up; some listened and others watched. Leon could feel their intensity. Anger, fear, savage thoughts of revenge, and supplication mingled in his mind. He sipped the emotions, trying to distract himself and escape the woman’s mind. But her thoughts beat at his with a desperation he could not evade.
“Please, baba. Please have mercy on Hana. The elder witches prophesied he would be a great warrior one day. He would lead nations. He would have many riches and many wives. Thou art great, pale god. Thou hath the power to restore light to his eyes. Make him laugh again, baba. O holy one, have mercy upon this woman and her son.”
Kneeling, she held out the child in supplication. Leon backed away still farther. The pathetic stillness of that small face tore at him. He wanted to gag. He wanted to yell at the woman to leave him alone. He wanted to run yet remained rooted there among them, held by the force of their desperation and suffering. He felt overwhelmed by the injustice of their plight.
A man raised a chant, an eerie, ululating cry that made Leon’s heart contract. Their minds beat at him like bats swooping from a cave. He instinctively raised his arms, until he realized that he was physically cringing from these chained prisoners. Then he stiffened his spine and tried to force his feet to carry him out of there. Yet their thoughts and passions held him trapped.
“What the bloody hell is all this racket?” shouted a voice from the ladder leading out from the hold. “Leon, be ye still down here then?”
Leon tried to answer; his voice lacked enough air.
“Leon!”
He swallowed and succeeded in making sound. “Yes?”
“What be takin’ ye all day? Lonigan’s raisin’ hell on deck. Unchain one of the damned darkies and bring ’im up.”
Leon looked down and saw the ring of skeleton keys dangling from his nerveless fingers. He forced his mind to work. “There are dead ones down here. They need to be cleaned out.”
“What? Oh, hell.”
Footsteps clumped down the ladder. One of the pirates, a short, bandy-legged man named Walter Griffin, entered the amber lantern light. He stood there with his feet braced wide apart, balancing against the heave and toss of the groaning ship, and glared about him.
“Gad, they’re chained down too tight amongst each other. No wonder part of ’em is dead. There’ll be disease next. The filthy greedy blighters what run these slave ships, crammin’ too much in, and no ballast trim to make a proper run, hell! Small wonder they be easy pickin’s fer us, eh? Which is it, then? Lonigan’s witch doctor’s got to make one of his dances for the darkies in the crew.” The man rolled his eyes and winked. “You know how they get on a raw night like this. Get to wantin’ their religion, eh?” He laughed. “And Lonigan’s more superstitious than any of ’em.”
Leon managed only a sickly grin. Griffin’s presence had broken the spell. Glancing around, Leon noticed the mother’s pleading gaze again.
He gestured at her. “She can’t hold that child. She—”
“Aye, we’ll take her up,” Griffin said. Plucking the keys from Leon’s hand, he unlocked the woman’s shackles. “Come on, lass. Time to give your poor heathen babe a decent burial.”
Leon glanced around for the second victim. He swung the lantern in a high arc, sending the light across the slaves’ dark bodies. They writhed away from the light, murmuring in their own tongues. An image of venomous black mambo snakes, wriggling furiously, entered Leon’s mind. He shivered and blanked the image from his thoughts.
Only one individual did not cringe from the light. He was a half-grown boy, scrawny, with awkward arms and legs too long for the rest of him. His features were thin-lipped and chiseled. Although he was as filthy and skinned-up as the other prisoners, he still carried himself with pride. His wide eyes gazed steadily at Leon with far too much intelligence.
One corner of his mouth curved up slightly as though he had seen how his companions held Leon captive for a few moments. Leon’s resentment flared. He pointed at the boy. “That one, too.”
Griffin was busy wrapping the dead child in a scrap of sailcloth. He tossed Leon the keys. Seething at his impudence, Leon unshackled the youth himself.
“Get up,” Leon said, pushing with his mind to reinforce the order. He saw the boy flinch, and some of his anger cooled off. Satisfied, he prodded the boy to his feet and gestured for him to climb the ladder.
Topside, the wind gusted so fiercely Leon feared he would be blown off deck and into the raging water. He caught a glimpse of the Medusa, close reefed, heading out to sea. He gripped the railing in panic. Lonigan had abandoned him, had left him aboard a ship destined to sink. It wasn’t fair.
One of the black pirates seized the two slaves and hustled them toward the poop. Another plucked at Leon’s arm. “Hurry, hurry!” he said. “Until the gods are happy again, this storm will blow us all to pieces.”
The once Spartan but comfortable captain’s quarters of the Plentitude had been reduced to a shambles. Walking in, Leon blinked at the dazzling amount of light coming from dozens of thick tallow candles burning from every available corner.
The furniture had been shoved aside, and as many of the skeleton crew as could be spared from manning the ship and could fit inside were crammed along the walls and perched on the narrow bunk. With the exception of a few sunburned or freckled faces, most of them were black. Their faces were shiny with sweat. They reminded Leon of ravens perched over carrion. Lonigan, the coward, was not present. Leon’s fury grew.
In the center of the room, Noel lay on a plank stretched between two chairs. The pitch of the ship made it likely that his unconscious form would tumble off at any moment. Around them the ship groaned, and the wind was a howling beast clawing to get inside. Leon could smell the fear, could almost put out his tongue and taste the fear.
But there was more than fright inside this stuffy, crowded room. There was a current of anticipation as hot as fire, crackling like the lightning outside.
The two slaves were shoved forward, bringing with them the stench of the hold. They crouched on the floor, the woman moaning to herself, the boy wide-eyed.
A fire built in a brazier over a bucket of sand flared brightly. Several pirates cried out in island patois. One man began to beat a drum.
The door opened, bringing the lash of rain inside and a welcome gust of coolness. Several candles blew out, then the door slammed shut and Lady Pamela and the small boy Neddie Sinclair stood dripping before them. The little boy was rubbing sleep from his eyes and whimpering. Lady Pamela, her brown hair soaked and wind-whipped to a tangle, pressed him against her wide skirts. Her green eyes blazed defiance at everyone, and the cabin fell silent.
When she finally stopped looking around at the crowd of pirates and let her gaze fall on Noel, she gasped aloud and pressed her hand to her mouth. Much of the defiance sagged from her shoulders, and she grew ordinary and bedraggled.
She started toward Noel, but stopped. Leon pushed her aside and bent over his twin. In the flickering candlelight, Noel’s face looked bruised and scratched. One of his eyes was swollen with a red welt across it. His clothes were torn and filthy with mud and leaf bits. There were numerous small puncture wounds on his neck and ar
ms as though he’d been repeatedly bitten.
His face was as pale as cotton. Despite the oppressive heat, he wasn’t sweating.
Frowning, Leon touched him and found Noel’s skin cold. Yet he wasn’t dead. Leon reached out with his mind across the link and pushed.
Nothing.
Noel’s mind remained impervious to his control. Leon had never been able to manipulate his twin that way. But he needed Noel to regain consciousness and help him if his plan was to work.
He touched Noel’s shoulder hesitantly, then gave him a rough shake. “Noel!” he whispered.
“Get back from him!” yelled a furious pirate.
“Don’t touch him!”
“He is sacred!”
The yells came from all sides. Leon hesitated, wary of their anger, and lost his chance. Two burly pirates seized him and dragged him away from Noel. He struggled, but one knotted a short length of rope into a noose and tether and slipped it over Leon’s head.
He glared at Leon and gave the rope a slight tug. At once Leon felt the noose pull tight against his throat. His breathing shortened, and he glared back at the pirate, seeking to command the man’s mind. Nothing. His thoughts bounced off the pirate as though the man was sheathed in glass.
“You interfere again in the captain’s doings, and I’ll snap your neck,” said the pirate.
He tugged again, and the rope burned Leon’s skin. He got the message. Disgusted and helpless, he wished he’d never helped Lonigan bring Noel here. Somehow, he and Noel had to get away, destroy the LOC once and for all, and find Lonigan’s treasure. Then they could stay in this place and time. They could build a life for themselves. They would have enough wealth to do whatever they pleased. They were smarter than the barbaric buffoons of this backward century. They were bound to succeed.
But first Noel had to wake up.
Leon pushed at his twin with his mind. Noel! Wake up, damn you!
Noel’s eyelids flickered. He stirred slightly.
Encouraged, Leon tried again. Noel, listen to me. Wake up. Mondoun is going to make a zombie out of you if you don’t wake up.
Noel moaned. He was coming around. Leon reached out in one last push, but just then a trapdoor in the floor burst open, and a skeleton levitated into the room from below.
Several men cried out in fear. Leon stood rooted, trying to disbelieve the apparition, trying to probe into the mind controlling this image, trying to dispel it.
He failed.
The skeleton rose higher and higher into the air, until the naked skull bobbed mere inches below the ceiling beams. The bones were bleached clean, gleaming white in the candlelight. They even rattled—a dry, disturbing sound—as the thing bobbed and swayed. The skull wavered on the stacked neck vertebrae, making the lower jaw chatter. Smoke curled out through the empty eye sockets and began to swirl in intricate patterns.
“Mother of God, what is this thing?” asked Lady Pamela. She gripped Neddie close, turning his head away so that he might not see what was happening.
Excitement gripped the room, overriding the men’s fear. The pirates were leaning forward, eyes gleaming and teeth bared. The drum beats quickened, pulsing and pounding, throbbing like the rush of blood through Leon’s veins.
“Yabo, baba. Yabo, baba.”
The chant started soft and grew in volume. Leon felt the hypnotic pull of it. The words flowed through him like warm liquid. Glancing around, he saw everyone except Lady Pamela chanting; even the frightened slaves on the floor added their voices. The urge to join in swelled Leon’s throat, but he held back. He manipulated others when he could. He didn’t let them manipulate him.
Lady Pamela’s face was so white she looked as though she might swoon. Her eyes darted with fear. Leon caught her gaze with his own and probed her mind lightly. He discovered a maelstrom of disgust, horror, fear for the child, fascination, a touch of contempt, and raging curiosity for why she and the little boy were present.
Turning his head, Leon swept his mind cautiously around the room and tuned in to the drummer. This man’s skin was a light dusky color, revealing his mulatto origins. Whippet-thin, he sat with his legs coiled around his drum and swayed eagerly to the tempo his hands beat out. His mind lusted for Baba Mondoun’s appearance. He could barely contain his impatience to see the dark gods summoned. He craved the excitement of watching loas possess a body, of seeing it dance and writhe. Even more, he hoped the good loas would come too, possessing the body of another in an effort to quell the power of the Congo. The danger of sacrificing a child to the dark gods could be seen by the lashing fury of the storm around them, but the drummer only threw back his head with maniacal laughter, enjoying the thrill of braving the Rada’s anger.
Leon withdrew his mind and pushed at Noel.
No response. He had lost whatever tiny contact he’d had previously with Noel’s subconscious.
Frustrated, increasingly alarmed, Leon glanced at Lady Pamela.
She was staring at the skeleton, now almost obscured by the smoke trails swirling into an elaborate vèvè in midair. Men moaned, and the sound sent shivers up Leon’s spine. They were running out of time. The smoke vèvè was almost complete. Leon suspected that when it was finished, Mondoun was going to appear and make real trouble.
Leon pushed Lady Pamela’s mind with his. She was resistant, but her rising fear made her susceptible, and he captured control.
Knock Noel off the board, he commanded. Now.
She hesitated, her face slack, the fierceness now blanked from her green eyes. She took one small step toward Noel, then paused. Her head turned back to gaze at the suspended skeleton.
The smoke curled down near the floor. The pattern was complete. Leon felt a burst of completely irrational fear.
Now, he screamed at her.
Pushing Neddie aside, she walked toward Noel, but before she reached him, there came a tremendous bang and crash as though lightning had struck the ship. White light flared in the room, dazzling Leon’s eyes and causing many to yell, then all the candles went out, plunging them into darkness. The oxygen in the air seemed to vanish, and for a moment Leon felt as though he was being sucked back into the awful vacuum of the time vortex.
He was dissolving, losing cohesion. He screamed and fought to hold himself within reality.
Then air rushed back into the room. With it came light, but not the amber candlelight of before. No, now the room was lit by a strange orange glow spilling up from the open trapdoor.
It was a kind of light that belonged neither to this century nor to this world. Leon stared at it, fighting to cling to his twenty-sixth-century beliefs and sophistication, but goose bumps rose all over him.
The smoke vèvè dissipated slowly, its intricate curls spreading through the room as though to contaminate the air with the spell. As the smoke thinned, and the lambent light glowed more brightly, Leon squinted at the skeleton levitating in the air. He realized that it was no longer a skeleton but a man, a black man with white bones painted crudely on his chest, arms, and legs. Leon blinked. It was Mondoun, wearing nothing but a loincloth, a frizzy, powdered wig, and an absurd tricorne hat. His face was painted skull white also, with dark sockets left around his eyes.
Those eyes snapped open, and there were screams.
“Baba!” cried several voices.
The drumbeats started again, and Baba Mondoun raised one long arm and threw a handful of powder through the trapdoor into the source of the orange light. Smoke belched forth, stinking of sulfur and something Leon could not identify. In his other hand, Mondoun held the carcass of a macaw, headless, its bright blue and gold plumage bedraggled. He cried out a word that made his worshippers moan, and swung the dead bird through the air.
Droplets of blood splattered the room. Some landed on Noel, still unconscious. Some landed on Leon, burning his skin. He cried out and slapped at himself. The heat in the room intensified suddenly, and the slave woman screamed.
Jumping to her feet, she began to dance wildly
to the throbbing tempo of the drumbeats. Holding her arms high in the air, she gyrated around Mondoun as he walked slowly forward to the room’s center. He towered over Noel’s helpless form. Drawing a handful of flour from a leather pouch, he drew a vèvè upon Noel’s bare chest.
Some of the other pirates joined in the dance with the slave woman, leaping like crazy men and howling with an insanity that made Leon’s head ring.
The tempation to dance rose through his body. Heat coiled inside his limbs. The drumming vibrated his chest; his heart kept rhythm with it. Ordinarily he would have joined them in any evil they wanted to do without a qualm. He thrived on the darkness within others; he sipped it like nectar.
But this was different. This darkness overtaking the room tonight was not mankind’s wickedness or the base weaknesses of greed, lust, and cowardice. It came from something alien, something not human, something ancient and rotted, like damnation personified.
Leon could not accept it. He didn’t know whether he had too much of Noel in him, or whether it was his own pride in his abilities, but he could feel it pressed against his mind, seeking entry. It was a thing oily and cold, its touch so repugnant he shuddered. He would not be manipulated. He would not be controlled.
With a gasp, he repelled the loa. For an instant he saw a dim outline of an ethereal shape dart from him to Lady Pamela, recoil, and slam into a bearded, one-legged pirate. Howling, the man began whirling on his good leg like a dervish, holding his wooden leg out like a scythe.
Mondoun sang, using old words, power words, words Leon did not want to comprehend from fear that he might succumb to them.
“Noel, damn you! Wake up!” Leon yelled.
Mondoun’s eyes sought Leon’s. He curled back his lips to bare his filed teeth. They looked black in this light. Smoke curled slightly from his mouth.
“He cannot hear you. My little ones did their work well.” Mondoun held up a small stoppered vial. “They brought me his blood.”
Leon’s mouth went bone-dry.
Mondoun hissed and held up another vial. “This is the blood of rats taken from the ship’s hold. This is the blood of a chicken. This is poison milked from the venom sacks of a toad. These are the special herbs, grown on Hispaniola, dried and ground to fine powder. This is the bowl for the boy’s heart. I shall burn it over the fire.” He pointed at the dead coals on the brazier, and fire burst to sudden life.
Pieces of Eight Page 9
