by Dale Lucas
Going through the Guinee Door was like going through the Looking Glass. The world on the other side was not so unlike the world that Doc hailed from—except that it was completely different. Time and space were collapsed, so that seemingly large spaces could be covered in moments, while passage across seemingly short distances could feel like a long, slow slog through a swamp. The colors of the bricks, the walls, the streets, the buildings, the sky… they all seemed muted and dulled, like an old, faded painting or photograph. Nonetheless, amid those faded colors and darkened shadows, there were strange pools of light or color that seemed to bleed-through from the world of the living: a puddle of light below a certain streetlamp; the lamp glow and moving silhouettes behind a certain curtained window; a specific shopkeeper's sign; a lone car parked on the Otherworldly streets.
But the strangest addition were the strollers. Spirits moved up and down these twilit streets, spirits that had forms and faces, but no substance, like the spirit of Mambo Rae Rae. They wandered like towers of vapor loosed from a sewer grate or a subway vent, appearing only as wispy apparitions without form or feature one moment, as ghostly people with sorrowful faces and wide, staring eyes the next. Most, he knew, would wander here in the borderlands for a time before they were naturally drawn to the last gateway between this pocket plane and the next, to return to the Source or to be cast into the Abyss. What went on beyond those borders, Doc could not say. No one ever moved beyond those borders and returned. These apparitions that surrounded him—they were just the last remnants of the dead. When their essence passed on, some measure of their ectoplasmic forms would remain here, like the warm spot a hand left after long idling on a cold table, or an old box of precious artifacts stored in an attic, awaiting discovery.
Okay, then, Doc said, once again chilled by the distance of his own voice in his ears, where do we begin?
Draw out your pendants, Legba suggested.
Doc did so. He held up the neck chain and let the knot of veve pendants dangle freely. For a moment, they seemed to hang still, straight down, but after a time, the pendants began to rise up, gently tugging on the chain they hung from, drawn away from Doc as if by a magnet.
On the other side, Legba said, their polarity shifts and they're drawn to life-force—the kind possessed by a living being.
It's not reading me? Doc asked. Or Debbs here?
You're both at the center of the veves' power, Legba said. They'll never read you.
Doc nodded and followed the angle of the dangling veve pendants.
The projection of Harlem that lay beyond the Guinee Door was like the one he knew from the other side, yet different as well. The wrong streets crossed the wrong avenues. Distances were alternately longer than their real-world counterparts, or shorter. Straight streets curved. Flat streets rose like hills or fell like valleys. Sometimes, the buildings on either side of the street seemed to loom, as though they were in danger of toppling and falling right on top of him.
All the while as he followed the gentle tug of the pendants, he passed the denizens of this Otherworldly way station: disembodied spirits, personified hopes and fears wandering like stray or abandoned animals, fonts of etheric energy that would manifest in the real world as thin membranes in the fabric of reality; low-level lwa, locative spirits and demons lingering in the doorways, on the stoops of the strange, otherworldly brownstones, or in the shadows. He was truly in another neighborhood here. On someone else's turf.
He didn't care for it.
Then, someone or something laughed. It was a low, rumbling, throaty sound, and it came not to Doc's ears but sounded right in the center of his brain and even seemed to pass through the strange silver and indigo night clouds that tumbled across the etheric sky above him. It was laughter, but a laughter manifested as thunder, and when that sound filled his own mortal mind and rolled across the sky, all the spirits and demons in his vicinity, large and small, scattered and ran for cover like scared mice.
The Dread Baron froze where he stood.
Even Debbs stopped grunting and struggling.
What was that? he asked.
I don't think you want to know, Ogou said.
Why would he be here? Erzulie asked. Just waiting for us?
Why would who be here? Doc demanded.
Could be this is his turf, Legba offered. It's the ultimate crossroads, after all. Butts right up against his Big Black plane.
Or it could be we've gotten on his bad side, Ogou added, seeing as we hustled his soldier out of that Holy Man and all.
Who are we talking about here? Doc asked. Kalfou?
The laughter came again, the sound of a storm approaching—a storm that was malevolent, and sentient, and eager to shower its rage and hatred and vitriol upon the world.
He haunts the crossroads, Legba said.
I thought you haunted the crossroads? Doc asked.
I facilitate crossings, Legba corrected. I give aid to those at places of determination, places of chance and opportunity. I point the way at the crossroads, to see the petitioner safely guided to a good end… but Kalfou, he owns the crossroad. He owns the random disaster, the one bad choice, the obsession that leads to total damnation.
But it's more than that, Ogou said. This isn't just about Kalfou being on the make. This is about the fact that you—that we—deliberately crossed him and undid his plans. Kalfou doesn't take kindly to such interference.
We can stand against him, right? Doc asked. I'm a living man, so I've got more potency here than some lost soul or low-level infernal. Hell, I even brought an offering. And the three of you—
We're on Kalfou's turf, Erzulie said sternly. That means we're stuck playing by Kalfou's rules.
Find the reverend, Ogou ordered.
Get us out of here, Legba added.
The Dread Baron drew a deep, shuddering breath. Fine. Let's do this.
He studied the bend of the pendant chain and followed it around a corner.
The street unraveled before them, bending and undulating in ways that its worldly counterpart never would or could, but still providing a more or less clear view down its wobbly length into the distance. The forced perspective of the misaligned, looming buildings focused Doc's sight on what lay far ahead. He squinted under the harsh blue light of the big, bilious moon that hung in the sky above and thought that what he saw in the distance was the Park Avenue Bridge… or rather, a twin of the Park Avenue Bridge that only resembled its real world counterpart in the most superficial ways. For one thing, it seemed to arc across the Harlem River instead of lying flat. For another, that arc seemed much longer than the length of the real bridge. There seemed to be another strange factor at work, but from this distance and with his senses scrambled, Doc couldn't be sure of just what it was.
Somewhere, a hound bayed. The sounds echoed down the canyons of the ghost plane around him, weaving this way and that like winds shaped by the lay of the land and the walls of architecture hemming them in. In the midst of the first bay still sounding, Doc heard another hound bay in answer. They were both off to his right, one further uptown, one seemingly downtown. But, as he stood and listened and the bays wove and sparred and tumbled around one another in the fetid air, he realized something.
They were getting closer.
Move, Ogou snarled.
The Dread Baron broke into a run. It wasn't easy, with Debbs's bulk perched on his shoulder. With his free hand he still held the pendant chain out before him, and he still let them determine his path. Their gentle tug led him onward up the strange and winding Park Avenue that he moved upon, noting how the ground would rise and fall in soft, curved waves like a frozen concrete ocean, how the empty, dark windows of the buildings around him seemed to glower and stare, or even how lights would sometimes switch on in those dark windows, like eyes opening to assay his passage and glare their disapproval. Doc did his best to push these realizations aside. All he was interested in now was the reverend. Retrieving him, guiding him, seeing him safely back on the other
side of the Guinee Door.
The hounds bayed again. They were close now… closer than Doc dared imagine.
I know those sounds, Doc offered. Those are the same sounds I heard when I conjured Mambo Rae Rae's spirit and the hellhounds came for her.
They're common as curs on this side, Legba said. Although they don't tend to hunt the living when the living move here.
Not unless they belong to someone, Ogou said, and someone set them on us.
Doc realized what Ogou was suggesting: the hounds he heard baying might be a brace owned by Kalfou. If so, they'd been set loose specifically to hunt him down or flush him out.
Doc did his best to shut out the noises that assailed him from all sides, but it wasn't easy. He was vulnerable here… trapped… isolated. One wrong move, one enemy stronger than the maji supporting him, and he'd be done for. And who knew—dying while trespassing in the borderlands could have a stiffer penalty than dying on the material plane. Maybe here, your spirit couldn't be loosed to its final rest at all, and you just sat out eternity, floating aimless and free like all the apparitions that Doc had seen upon his first arrival. Worse, maybe over here one never truly died at all if one came in his physical body. He shuddered to think what could happen to him if his patrons were forced to unhorse him… if he ended up mortal, but stranded on this in-between plane.
On he ran. Like a dream, the street stretched out before him and frustrated his forward progress. The faster he went, the farther away the bridge and his quarry seemed to get.
Debbs bucked and made a guttural, insistent sound.
Hold still, Doc growled. I'll deal with you soon enough.
The bays sounded again, followed by the low sound of throaty snarls. Doc thought he could hear the panting of great beasts rising in his ears now; the sound of their obsidian claws scraping the pavement as they hurried on; smell the brimstone on their breath and the feel the ambient temperature of the air around him rise, increment by increment.
I need a plan, Doc said, stopping in the middle of an intersection. The fat man bucked again but the scarf still held fast on his eyes, mouth and hands. The Dread Baron scanned all sides, dropped the pendant chain back around his neck to free his hands.
No plan, Legba countered. On the other side, we could offer suggestions, but here—
We don't know what'll work on this side, Ogou interrupted. You best keep moving.
The hounds bayed. The sound was close and shot infernal cold through Doc's being like a subcutaneous injection of frozen silver.
Debbs huffed and mumbled. He bucked like a fish drowning in air.
Stay quiet, Doc growled, and they might ignore you.
Debbs didn't seem to get the message. Doc resolved to ignore him.
If he walked, the street stretched. If he ran, it stretched farther and faster.
So I won't run, Doc decided. Hell, I won't even walk.
He stopped where he stood. The bridge still seemed to be at least a mile away.
What's this about? Ogou asked.
Playing a hunch, Doc replied, and closed his eyes.
He waited. He wasn't precisely sure what he was waiting for. All he knew was that he would stand for a time, eyes closed, and just wait. The baying of the hounds grew uncomfortably close, their throaty snarls now as little as a block away.
Doc struggled to keep his eyes shut, to will himself where he wanted to go. This wasn't real, physical space, after all. There wasn't real movement on this side, only will… intent. A fast march hadn't gotten him where he was going; neither had a hearty sprint. Maybe just standing here, eyes shut, and expecting that bridge to be right in front of him when he opened his eyes would work.
He opened his eyes.
It had worked. He was right at the entrance to the bridge—right where he'd willed himself to be.
Then he heard the hellhounds and turned.
It was a good plan, Legba said. Just a moment too late, is all.
Shit, Doc said.
There were two of them—big as horses—and they were so black that they almost looked like wells of shadow punched right out of the world around them—pockets of nothingness shaped like hounds, with only two fiery pin-pricks for eyes. Their snarling was deep and guttural—the sound of bull alligators mating or lions preparing for a kill.
They each stood less than a block away, and they were closing.
Their fire-ball eyes settled on Doc. For the first time since he'd been taken under the wing of his three lwa patrons—for the first time since discovering that the old gods still held power in the world—he knew the fear of death.
So the Dread Baron did what he always did when Death stared him down: he threw Jebediah Debbs off his shoulder to free his hands and went for his guns. In a breath, the twin .45s were ready to spark and bark when his fingers tensed on their triggers.
The hounds charged.
Doc opened fire. Flossy tongues of flame spat from the pistol muzzles and shells flew from the ejection ports, but the shots were muffled in his ears and sounded like little more than firecrackers popping under cotton wadding. Still the hellhounds charged. They'd be on him in moments.
Not working, Ogou said.
No shit, Doc countered. Though it flew in the face of logic and defied his instincts, he did the only thing he imagined that could save him. He holstered his pistols, reached under the length of his coat, and drew out the Machette d'Ogou. When the blade was freed, it burst into flame and he held it in two hands before him like a fairy tale knight on guard with his sword against a charging dragon.
Although in this case, there were two dragons.
The hellhounds leapt.
Doc lunged.
The flaming machete split the air in a long, fierce arc, biting deep into the flank of one of the leaping hounds, then smoothly rising on his trajectory to slash crosswise over the belly of the other.
Doc's lunge carried him forward. Both hounds screamed, roared and thrashed as they hit the pavement where he'd been standing just moments before. They bent against their wounds, both slashes smoking and hissing, bleeding soot and flame and cinders instead of blood or entrails. Each turned their lamplight eyes on him, snarled, and rounded for another pounce.
Don't wait, Ogou barked. Take the fight to them! Now!
Doc did as he was told.
The hellhounds may have looked like a pair of shadows punched out of a starless sky, but they had a terrifying mass and weight when they pounced, just as they spat noxious fumes redolent of burning flesh and brimstone when they snapped and snarled and slashed with their stony black claws. The Dread Baron sparred and grappled with them. More than once he felt their teeth—burning, charring, like red hot brands against his flesh. Once or twice they got in deep slashes with their claws—burning, smoldering, like a quartet of cigarette burns that cut right through his clothing and raked across his skin. Little matter. Doc gave as good as he got and better. He slashed and hacked and thrust with the flamingMachette d'Ogou, reveling in how deep it bit into the infernal beasts as they tried to double-team him and take him down.
But he wouldn't go down. He just kept fighting, eager to see if the machete could spill whatever guts these nasty curs from the depths of Hell might have, eager to kill them both or die trying.
Finally, he had them. One went down, a torn and discorporated mess, bleeding sulfurous smoke and cinders as its fellow turned and ran, howling and snarling as it went, trailing an Orcal vapor and a trail of swirling cinders in its wake.
Doc struggled for breath. His clothes were burned and torn, as though he'd passed through a fire. Here and there his bare, brown flesh showed through, replete with cauterized slash-marks and gouges and dried rivulets of blood.
Well done, Ogou said.
Doc didn't even answer. He looked to Debbs's trussed-up bulk on the sidewalk. The demagogue was still grunting and thrashing.
Let's get this done, Doc said, and get the hell out of here.
He turned. There before him was the Otherworl
d's reflection of the Park Avenue Bridge, arcing and stretching across a vast gulf of windy darkness that bordered this phantasmal Harlem just as the Harlem River did, but that seemed to be no river at all. The Dread Baron, finding himself in the intersection of Park Avenue and Harlem River Drive, moved forward to the shoulder of the road, where there would normally be a slope and some bare stone and dying grass and a lot of detritus and garbage in a broad carpet all the way down to where the river lapped at the bank. But here, there was no river. There was just a deep, abyssal darkness that seemed to having no source and no bottom.
He looked left. He looked right. The void occupied the river's space, as far as his eye could see, and far off to his right, where the East River would normally separate Manhattan from Brooklyn, he saw just another gulf of darkness, and nothing on the far side. If there was a phantom Brooklyn over there, he couldn't see it.
Doc reached into his shirt and lifted out his veve pendants. He held them up, let them dangle. The chain slowly bent sideward, lifted by invisible hands. They now bent backward, to a point just over his left shoulder. Had he passed his quarry?
He turned.
The man he sought—and the beast he didn't—waited in an empty lot veiled in mist and shadows behind the last looming brownstone on the corner of Park Avenue. When Doc saw the Reverend Barnabus Farnes—and the thing that held him—he felt a fear deeper, surer, and more unendurable than he had ever known. It shot right to the core of his being, seeming to freeze his beating heart in his chest and turn the blood in his veins to winter currents from the Hudson locked beneath glacial, wintery ice.
Kalfou held the Reverend Barnabus Farnes in his his arms like a doll, the old man's mouth covered and his cries choked by one great skeletal hand. The reverend bucked and struggled in Kalfou's grip, and his eyes were wide and frightened, but there was still life in him—still fight.
What can you do for me? Doc asked, planting his feet wide, letting go the pendants.
His patrons didn't answer.
Kalfou stepped from the shadows and Doc got a better look at him. He was vaguely human in shape, but stood over ten feet tall and was skeletally thin, like some titanic scarecrow meant for prehistoric birds. The clothes that the great apparition wore were a ragged patchwork made from old clothes and the flayed skins of men, and ended well short of the creature's long, thin forearms and tapering, bony calves and ankles. A slouching, wide-brimmed hat lay askew on thelwa's large, leathery, rotten-apple head and shadowed the upper part of its face save for the deeply recessed glitter of its eyes.
