by Cave, Hugh
When the affair was over, a young woman who was now only a hounsi bossale, a neophyte, would have been raised to the rank of hounsi kanzo through purification by fire.
While Micheline was talking, the drummers beat on their instruments and the white-clad hounsis, seated on a bench behind the drums, sang the traditional chant to Legba, imploring him to "open the gate" so that the mystères might come to the service.
"Papa Legba, ouvri barriere pour nous! Ago ye!"
It was beautiful chanting, Barry thought. Not loud, but clear and melodious, it soared to the roof of the great chamber and from there seemed to fall like gentle rain. Through the rain the drums rolled out their thunder. Over and over he heard the name Legba in varied melodies, and then the names of other loa. "We salute them all," Micheline said, "but Legba is always first. Papa Legba loves us and intercedes for us. He is a kind old man. We adore him."
St. Peter at the gates of heaven, Barry thought. Who could have told the people about young Toto? Who could have known? Catus, followed from the hounfor by men Barry did not know, walked slowly about the chamber scattering water from a jug. "Some houngans have come from the mainland to assist him," Micheline said.
The jug was passed from one man to another. The hounsis rose and began a slow, dignified yanvalou dance about the post, still chanting. It was very impressive, a little like being in church, Barry thought, except that in church one didn't fall to one's knees and kiss the ground every few minutes.
There was much kneeling. "They salute the drums and the Poteau-mitan," Micheline said. "They show their respect to my brother and the visiting houngans. The chanting is for the loa." Her brother was raising the right hand of each white-robed hounsi and twirling her about in a graceful little pirouette, but the chanting never stopped.
Suddenly one of the women began to dance more rapidly. Her bare feet flew over the rough floor. Her body spun like a spinning top. She threw her arms out for balance and went around and around the post in ever widening circles.
The drummers quickened their tempo. The other women stopped dancing and fell back to make room for the possessed one. Catus and his helpers intently watched her.
She whirled until she lost her balance and fell among the spectators. They helped her to her feet. Reeling, with arms now extended before her and head thrown back, she made her way to the post, sank to her knees and kissed the ground at the base of it. Catus went to her and took her hand, lifting her up.
He looked into her face and spoke to her, his voice so low that Barry could not hear the words even though the drums were now silent. He spoke to the drummers and they bent to a new rhythm, slow in beat. An assisting houngan came forward with a rum bottle and the possessed hounsi raised it to her lips.
Beside Barry, Micheline frowned. "Guedé?" she said. "This is strange. Perhaps because of young Toto—" She leaned forward, staring. Guedé, Barry knew, was their god of death, their guardian of the cemetery.
With Catus at her side the girl walked about the chamber, halting before the other houngans, taking rum into her mouth and spraying it into their faces. "Guedé salutes them," Micheline whispered. Suddenly the bottle itself was thrust at Catus. He put it to his lips and sipped, handed it back with his gaze fixed on the girl's face. The girl turned abruptly and strode across the room to the bench.
The bottle was thrust at Barry. "Take it!" Micheline whispered. "Drink some!"
He rose, accepted the bottle and put it to his mouth. The rum touched his tongue. It was liquid fire. He passed the bottle back and abruptly sat down, feeling that a hot iron had been thrust into his mouth. The girl, gazing down at him, tipped the bottle to her own lips and drank slowly for a full minute, then let the bottle fall. It was empty. It had been almost full when Barry held it; now it was empty. The girl turned away and began dancing. The drums throbbed. The other hounsis joined in the dance.
"What—what in heaven's name was that?" Barry whispered to his companion. "It wasn't rum!"
"A trempé that Guedé is fond of, made of hot peppers and clairin."
"But she drank it all!"
"Guedé is able to do that."
Barry watched the girl. Clairin, raw rum, taken in such quantity could kill an ordinary person. Spiked with the wickedly hot peppers of St. Joseph, it must do irreparable damage. But the girl was dancing as though nothing had happened.
Catus spoke to her. She stopped dancing and looked across the chamber at Barry, shrugged her shoulders, allowed Catus to take her hand and lead her to the bench. Again Barry rose to his feet.
"Papa Guedé will speak to you if you wish," Catus said.
Barry studied the girl's face. It was not normal. There was an emptiness in the eyes, a telltale slackness to the mouth. This was the face of a god? He didn't believe it. She was in a trance of some sort. Under the spell of the drumming and chanting she had hypnotized herself. Questioning her would be ridiculous. What could he ask her? He shook his head. "I'm afraid I—" He caught himself, remembering his manners. "I greet you, Papa Guedé," he forced himself to say. After all, he was a guest here. "I bid you good evening."
"I greet you," the girl said. Her voice in the dark would have been mistaken for a man's. "In the name of the spirits I greet you. I bring you greetings from the boy who died."
She turned away. Now what the devil was that supposed to mean? Barry asked himself.
THERE WERE SEVERAL OTHER POSSESSIONS in the next hour or so, all of them induced, he was certain, by the incessant throbbing of the drums. Micheline told him the names of the loa involved, but he recognized none of them. Apparently they were minor mystères important only to the persons possessed. Catus did not bring any of them over to talk to him.
Then from the tunnel where the pé, or altar, stood, two girls in white robes marched forth bearing handsomely colored flags, to be led briskly about the chamber by a young man with a machete. The chanting was to Papa Sobo, who, it seemed, was the flags' special guardian.
The drums thundered again. Catus, a gourd rattle in hand, performed a graceful dance about the post and the hounsis lifted their beautifully blended voices in song after song. At the end of each song, big Louis Cesar brought his wooden hammer crashing down on the largest of the three drums and the congregations shouted "Abobo!"
This would never do for Christians, Barry told himself wryly; it takes too long. He looked at his watch. It was after eleven.
Someone brought a plate of cornmeal to Catus and he began drawing designs on the floor around the poteau-mitan. Bending from the waist, knees straight, he held the dish in his left hand and created the patterns by letting the cornmeal dribble between the thumb and forefinger of his right. Barry watched, astonished by the houngan's artistry.
Catus drew an elaborate steamship with smoking funnels. "For Agué," Micheline whispered. He moved to the right and created an intricate heart—"For Maîtresse Erzulie"—and then the writhing serpents of Damballa and Aida Ouedo, the machete and flags of Ogoun Badagry, the elaborate crosses of the Guedés. Micheline supplied the gods' names in a whisper.
By now the assisting houngans had stepped forward. With their own plates of cornmeal they added to the designs, blending them all into one great picture that completely encircled the post. If vodun did nothing else, Barry mused, it certainly brought out the artistic in its followers. The drawings were magnificent.
Catus walked about, sprinkling the designs with water. The hounsis fell to their knees and kissed them. Seven small chairs were produced, and Catus lifted each one in salute before placing it on the ground. The drummers played softly as though in a trance. From the altar in the tunnel the white-robed hounsis brought bundles of pine sticks and placed them beside a lighted candle at the foot of the post. Then they followed Catus back to the hounfor.
Barry had been watching the girl who had consumed the bottle of clairin. She was no longer possessed. Nor was she drunk. But how could she not be drunk, he asked himself. His own tongue and lips were still burning, and he had only sipped the
stuff. He turned to Micheline.
"The girl who was Guedé —does she remember what she did when she was possessed?"
"No. Of course not."
"If I spoke to her now, would she remember what she said to me?"
Micheline shook her head. "It was not she who said it. It was Guedé."
I don't believe it, Barry told himself. I can't.
Something was about to happen. The people were watching the little tunnel where stood the altar, a large flat stone partly covered with a white cloth. Suddenly the drums boomed. Out of the tunnel came a procession of priests and hounsis. Catus Laroche clutched the yellow legs of two live chickens.
Catus danced about the post, slowly at first, then more and more rapidly as the tempo of the drums quickened. The others followed. The sound of the drums filled the cavern and pressed against Barry's ears. He felt the rhythm inside him stirring his arms and legs to action. The drums, the dancing figures, the flickering light of the kerosene lanterns transformed the cavern into a world of fantasy.
Leaning forward on the bench, he watched the dance become a chase. Catus swung the two chickens wildly about his head as he pursued the hounsis. One after another he caught and embraced them, after which they retired to the chairs set out for them.
The drums were still. The hounsis were seated. Before each girl lay an iron cook-pot and a plate. The two chickens lay at the foot of the post. Catus stood with his eyes shut while a woman carefully wiped the sweat from his face with a white cloth.
Silence. Barry took in a long slow breath and felt the rhythm of the drums ooze out of him. What a relief after twenty minutes of pure din!
Catus sat down. The chairs, placed in a circle about the vevé, were now occupied by six white-robed hounsis and the houngan. Catus took his gourd rattle in one hand and shook it. His other hand covered his eyes. He stared at the ground. His voice, low, unhurried, rolled out through the chamber.
"Notre Père, qui es aux cieux . . ."
It was impressive.
IT WAS HERE, Barry saw, that Catholicism had penetrated most deeply into the vodun ritual. In a strange mixture of Creole and French were recited the Hail Marys, canticles, creeds and prayers which the ancestors of the present congregation had borrowed from the only religion they were permitted to practice. Did the words have any meaning for these people? Did the long list of Catholic saints mean anything? He wondered. The atmosphere was reverent enough. There was no noticeable change when the salutation to the saints ended and the service became vodun again. Still . . .
The drummers produced a slow, gentle rhythm from their instruments. "Lis adolé zo," Catus intoned softly. "Lis adolé zo—zo—zo," the hounsis repeated. Barry turned to his companion.
"What does that mean?"
"It is langage, old African talk. No one knows what it means any more.”
Endlessly, one after another, the mystères of vodun were saluted in prayer. How many gods could there be? It was after midnight and the recitation went on and on, the drums gently throbbing, the little bell affixed to the houngan's gourd asson softly tinkling. First the voice of Catus, murmuring a loa's name and a few words in his honor, then the combined voices of the hounsis, hypnotic, like a low humming of bees, and after each invocation the inevitable "Lis adolé zo—zo—zo—zo." The hounsis bent to kiss the ground. They touched their fingers to the ground and kissed those. The hundred or more members of the congregation were still as death in the presence of a thing sacred to them. Now and then the ring on Catus' finger caught a glint of lantern light and seemed to glow.
They believe, Barry told himself. But what do they believe?
When it ended at last, Catus was scarcely able to rise from the tiny chair on which he had sat for so long. He seemed exhausted. The spectators awoke as from a trance and began moving about. Cigarettes glowed. But the hounsis, still seated, were not finished.
Each of them took three iron spikes from the cook-pot under her chair and with a stone for a hammer pounded them into the ground before her, forming a triangle. When they had finished, Catus poured into each triangle a little water from a jug, adding bits of food from dishes at the base of the post. "Food for the loa," Micheline murmured to Barry. Having constructed a similar triangle before his own chair, her brother repeated the ritual there.
The drumming was more vigorous. Barry raised his head to glance at Louis, on the maman drum. Did he never tire? He seemed very tired indeed. His eyes were closed. His ugly-gentle face was oily with sweat.
Again Catus distributed offerings to the gods. Then while he intoned other chants, the six women built fires of pine sticks within their triangles of spikes, and the visiting houngans moved about the cavern extinguishing the lanterns. Only the light of the fires remained, feeble and flickering. Only Catus and the white-clad hounsis could be seen, and the iron pots on their iron spikes, and the painted central post rising from the decorated floor seemed to disappear in darkness.
I am in a grotto in the bowels of a mountain, Barry reminded himself. I am on Ile du Vent. I am an Episcopalian missionary. This is not the heart of Africa and these people are not savages. They are my people. I am here to teach them.
He became aware of a new sound in the chamber, or rather in the depths of the tunnel behind the bench he sat on. It was the sound of the sea crashing against the cliff and pouring into the passage. He looked at his watch. Three o'clock. The tide was high. Panic clutched at him for a moment as he realized that he and the others were trapped in the cave.
But the service was far from finished. No one wished to leave now.
Catus rose, clutching the two chickens. They were still alive. They had recovered from the shock of being whirled about his head earlier. Before each of the fires he knelt and held the birds close to the little piles of food, waiting patiently for them to brave the heat and peck at the offerings. "The chickens must eat," Micheline said, "or the loa will not accept them." The sacrifice must indicate its willingness to be sacrificed? Barry shook his head, mystified.
Both chickens ate, and the watchers' murmur of approval was a sound like a soft wind blowing through the cavern. Catus handed one of the birds to an assistant. Together the two houngans passed along the line of smoking fires, plucking the birds' necks and letting the feathers fall into the flames.
Catus' strong black fingers closed over the naked necks of the chickens and twisted their heads from their bodies. The hounsis leaned back on their little chairs, thrust their bare feet forward, picked up the iron cook-pots between their feet and set them on the spikes. Catus and his helpers poured water and oil into the pots. The drumming became thunder again.
Dancers came forward. They were neophytes, Micheline explained hurriedly; those tending the fires were all kanzo, graduates of this very ritual. The learners began a slow yanvalou about the post, blurring the handsome cornmeal drawings with their shuffling feet. The kanzos added pine sticks to their already blazing fires.
"The chickens will be cooked in the zins," Micheline said. "Then—but you will see."
The pots bubbled and smoked and the drums thundered and spectators joined the servitors in a rapid shuffling dance that seemed to bring on possessions. One by one a dozen or more dancers fell out of line. Some threw up their arms and shouted. Some dropped writhing to the ground. Some danced more furiously, clearing a space around them with the speed and violence of their movements.
"Many loa are present tonight," Micheline said calmly. "It is always so when Catus draws the vevés and Louis beats the maman drum."
So these were the gods of vodun, these men and women throwing themselves about, waving their arms, squirming on the ground. Barry watched and frowned. Did the gods do nothing else but demonstrate their presence? Did they never talk to their devotees calmly?
He studied faces he knew. Daure Cesar's was the mask of a sleepwalker. Catus' was old with fatigue. The face of Micheline, who had risen to take part in the dance, was that of a passionate young animal who found in dancing a release for
stored-up urges.
I don't know these people, Barry told himself. I only thought I did.
AT A SIGNAL FROM CATUS the sacrificial chickens, now thoroughly cooked, were lifted from the pots and transferred to plates. Into the boiling oil went cornmeal and herbs, to be vigorously stirred by the hounsis until once more the pots bubbled and smoked. The drums were only a mutter in the darkness. The dancing had ceased. Micheline, on the bench again, found Barry's knee with her fingers.
"Now," she said.
Catus had disappeared into the hounfor tunnel. He came into the light again, leading by the hand a young woman. The girl walked as though unaware of where she was. She wore a sleeveless white dress that came to her knees. Her eyes were open but unseeing. She was about eighteen.
Catus led her to the iron pot in front of his vacant chair. He spoke to her and she knelt. Micheline, leaning toward Barry, said quietly, "On the mainland the initiate is always covered with a white cloth. Here we do it this way."
Catus knelt at the girl's left. Another houngan came and knelt at her right. At a signal from Catus the six hounsis reached into the bubbling iron pots before them and took out handfuls of the cornmeal mixture. Barry caught his breath.
Had he seen it or imagined it? Had they actually put their hands into the boiling oil?
"It is nothing," Micheline said. "My brother, when possessed, is able to take a red-hot bar of iron in his hands."
Her brother accepted the small cakes of cornmeal passed along to him by the women. He handed them to his assistant, who fed them one by one to the kneeling initiate. Then the two houngans stood up and led the girl back to the tunnel. The cakes, Barry supposed, were some sort of god-food. There was no denying the impressiveness of the ceremony or the sincerity of the participants.
The six hounsis held his attention now. The iron pots before them glowed red with imprisoned heat. The girls leaned forward, lifted the shimmering containers in their bare hands, and emptied them.
My brother, when possessed, is able to take a red-hot bar of iron in his hands. These pots were red hot and these girls were not possessed. Or were they? I can't believe this, Barry told himself. I won't. But the hounsis calmly finished pouring the mixture of cornmeal, herbs and oil out of the pots, cleaned the vessels with handfuls of green leaves, and replaced them on the spikes.
