by Sandra Cox
“How old do you think you are?” I ask, hoping the question will divert us both.
“I don’t know. I thought mentally around twelve, but sometimes it feels like every morning I wake up, I know more than I did the day before.”
I fight back the fear, not wanting her to hear my thoughts.
“It’s okay, Momma. Daddy was right. Each day is a blessing.”
I grab her and hold her tight, putting all my love in that hug. Pulling breath from deep in my belly and trying to lighten the emotion, I dunk her and take off.
“Not fair,” she calls and sails past me. I shake off my hormonal crisis and head back to shore. When Joel arrives a bit later, we both act as if the wild, tempestuous kiss had never been. But I can’t help wondering if it’s in the back of his mind like it is in mine. I try my best to set it aside.
We spend our afternoon settling into the cottage and, with the help of Molita and her aunt’s friends, docking the boat. The day passes quickly, the evening more so.
* * * *
It’s nearly midnight. The sky is black and the moon full. Angel’s hand creeps into mine. Her other encircles her daddy’s. “It’s the hour of the dead,” she whispers. “The half hour before is for doing good. The half hour after is for evil. I know Molita will be here soon.”
“Where do you…” I start to ask where she gets this stuff then shut up. It’s a stupid question. She can pick it out of the air or someone’s brain.
Tree leaves writhe as the wind moans through them. I trust we’re in the right spot. All the terrain on the island looks pretty much the same, except this clearing has a huge, flat-surfaced stump about waist high at its center. There are dark stains on it that I don’t dare think about.
Angel frowns at me, perplexed.
A tropical screech owl gives a jagged disgruntled cry. The hairs on my arms rise and Angel’s hand tightens in mine. “It’s just an owl. He’s calling for his mate.”
“Aren’t I supposed to be saying that to you?” I tease.
“You can’t understand what he’s saying.”
“And what is he saying, Little Miss Inquisitive?”
“He’s saying ‘Where are you, Swe? I have a big juicy mouse for you.’”
A moment later, a screech sounds from the other side of the clearing followed by a swish of wings overhead.
“Wining and dining her,” I whisper.
Angel giggles. My tight muscles loosen.
Atmosphere abounds in the clearing where we stand, as if the spirits are alive and moving. The huge stump in the center of the clearing creates a natural altar. A dark clay dish sits in the middle of nature’s table. The wind’s keening increases in intensity and Molita appears. She’s dressed in a loose white gown that’s iridescent in the dark. Her face is painted white and her skin glistens with oil that has a heavy scent of coconut, jojoba, and almond. She holds two large sacks.
I lean towards Joel and experience a surge of electricity as his warm shoulder brushes mine. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“As long as nothing is harmed, we need any and all protection we can get from any quarter. Molita assured me this was a protection ritual.”
“It’s the nothing being harmed, I’m concerned about.” Nerves are skittering under my skin.
The moment the words are out of my mouth, I hear an agitated squawk. Crap. Quivering, Angel stiffens beside me like a pointer. For the first time, I notice the dagger sheathed to Molita’s waist.
The young priestess sets the silk bag she holds in her right hand on the ground and opens the gunnysack she carries in her left. She picks up a hapless, squawking chicken by its scrawny legs, pulls out her knife, and positions the fowl over the bowl in the center. I stand frozen to the spot. I should have expected this. I knew this wasn’t going to work out.
Joel seems as frozen as I. Before we can react, Angel leaps forward. As Molita chants and draws back the knife, Angel plucks the chicken from her hand and races back to us.
Molita’s hand drops and she stares at the child. “Why did you do that, little one?”
“You were going to kill her.” She makes soothing noises to the chicken who has buried her head in Angel’s arm, clucking monotonously.
“Of course, Manman, you know we must have a sacrifice.”
How those thoughts have escaped our daughter is beyond me, unless the vodou itself somehow masked it.
“We do not believe in killing animals,” my daughter tells her, still clutching the chicken.
“But, Manman, you eat them.”
“Yes, but that’s not senseless slaughter.”
“It’s not slaughter; it’s sacrifice. In this instance the killing is food for the spirit instead of the body.”
“No. You can’t have this chicken.” The chicken continues to squawk. Angel replies in kind.
I put my arm around my daughter and draw her close. “She’s right, Molita. It goes against our beliefs.”
Molita shakes her head and raises her palms, her expression beneath the white face paint she’s wearing perplexed. “But these are her beliefs.”
“I’m not convinced she’s your manman,” I say as diplomatically as possible instead of the Hell no she’s not your reincarnated mother I want to hurl at her.
“Be that as it may, I need to offer a sacrifice for the protection ritual. And she needs protection, does she not?” The light wind ruffles the young priestess’s hair and the moon haloes her. She looks like a pagan goddess in an ancient setting.
“We can’t condone killing the chicken,” I say firmly, tightening my arms around my daughter.
Angel gives me a quick, blinding smile. “Here, her name is Clara.” Before I realize what is happening, she hands me the chicken and runs to the altar.
“Angel, you come back here this minute.” I have no idea what she intends to do.
“I’ll get her.” Joel races after her.
When Angel reaches the stump, she takes off her necklace and places it in the bowl sitting in the middle of the table. “Here. Offer this.”
“But that’s a gift from your earth father, little one. You said you’d never take it off.” Molita sheathes the knife, picks up the blue beads, and allows them to slide through her fingers and back into the bowl, where they land with a light thunk.
Angel turns to her father. “You understand, don’t you?”
Joel clears his throat. “Of course I do.”
“It’s a great sacrifice that you are willing to make, my manman, but it’s not alive.”
“It’s filled with energy. That’s a form of life.”
Pride rises in my throat and chest, and surfaces in the form of a huge smile. That’s my daughter.
Molita studies her for a long moment. Her features soften. “Your logic is insurmountable. We will begin the ritual.”
She moves the bowl to the side of the altar then pulls a black silk scarf from her bag, lays it on the stump, and replaces the bowl. She pulls out two more black ceramic bowls and places one at the southern point of the table and one at the western point. She reaches her hand in the bowl at the southern point and lifts a handful of dirt that sifts through her fingers. “Graveyard dirt,” she explains, “Where life begins and where our ancestors make their home. This came from your grave, my manman.”
Creepy.
Next she places a black candle on the eastern tip of the stump. “This is where your transformation begins.”
The silk bag rustles as she pulls out incense and places it in the northern corner. “This represents your intellectual power.” Her hand circles over the bowls, candle, and incense. “All points of nature are now represented.”
Interested in spite of myself, I step closer as she pulls out a small leather pouch that appears to be no larger than two by three inches. The chicken immediately begins to complain. “You’re safe,” I whisper, but the little fowl doesn’t settle until Angel makes clucking noises in its direct
ion. Then it nestles closer, its feathers brushing my arms.
“This is your gris-gris bag. When I’m done with the protection spell, you must wear it always and you will stay safe.”
“What about one for my parents?” Angel inquires, studying the leather bag.
“Spoken like a true leader. We will do that another night and you can take part in making the bags.”
Angel nods.
The young priestess pulls out her knife. Both the chicken and I become upset, but she merely picks up the necklace and, with a deft motion, slices the string that holds the beads together. The round gems bounce against the side of the bowl. She holds the bowl overhead and intones, “Spirits of our loved ones, accept this gift that your new daughter, an old soul, has brought. The life in these stones is endless and constantly honors you.”
She pulls out oil and sprinkles it on the beads. “The oil is protective.” From there she places one of the shiny blue stones in the bag. “Your father’s gift will be with you always.”
Angel nods and smiles.
Molita sprinkles the graveside dirt with protective oil, pinches a bit between her fingers then rubs them together over the open bag. “Now your ancestors will be with you to protect you.”
She reaches inside the silk bag then opens her hand over the bowl. Rose petals flutter out that she anoints with oil. “Their delicate beauty hides great strength. They will make you strong.” She plucks three out of the bowl and places them in the tiny bag.
From the bowl facing west, she sprinkles a powder-like substance into the bag. “Ground up snakeskin and cayenne to remove your enemies.”
“Give her plenty of that,” Joel adds in a low voice.
Molita nods her approval and adds more.
“The gardenia is for spirituality, healing, love, and peace.” Ground petals float into the gris-gris bag.
“Hyacinth for happiness.”
By now, I’ve moved to stand beside Joel and Angel. The chicken appears as interested in the contents of the sack as I. I catch the sharp pungent scent of vanilla as Molita places a slice of a vanilla bean in the bag.
“For mental power.”
“She doesn’t need that,” Joel inserts dryly.
Molita pulls a tiny, dripping plant spear from the silk sack, sprinkles it with oil, and places it in the bag. “Aloe for luck and healing.”
She pulls the strings shut and places the gris-gris in the bowl then raises her hand and speaks to the night. “Hear my voice loved ones, and God of all. Preserve the life of Mambo Bronte Angel against the evil that seeks to take her body and soul. Keep her righteous and protected, as pure in heart as she is now. And when the time comes, destroy the evil that seeks her.” She pulls what looks like a large wooden rattle out of the bag and begins to shake it and chant.
“It’s called an asson,” Angel whispers.
Wings flap. A great white owl flies overhead, a snake writhing in its mouth. In spite of myself, a superstitious chill runs down my spine. My breath whooshes out in an audible gasp. Molita looked at me gravely. “Just so.”
“Now for the anointing. To enhance your power, I will anoint you with blessing oil.” She pours oil into her hands. “Lean forward, Mambo Bronte Angel.”
She massages the oil into the base of my child’s head with an upward kneading motion, cradling Angel’s delicate skull in her palm. From there she takes the gris-gris bag, kisses it, and lowers the leather string around Angel’s neck. “Wear it always, dear one, and you will be protected.”
“Thank you,” Angel replies gravely.
Once again, Molita lifts her arms to the dark night. She stands with her head thrown back and her arms wide, as if listening. After a moment, she shudders and draws a deep breath. “It is done.”
Joel steps forward and holds out his hand. “Thank you for the protection you have given our daughter.”
“And for not killing the chicken,” I add.
Molita grins, and for a moment she looks like any other teenager. “Since you saved her life, she is now yours. May she lay you many eggs.”
Joel and I looked at each other. A twinkle in his eyes, he shrugs. I pass her to Angel, where the two of them cluck happily to each other.
“A kitten or puppy is more traditional,” Joel says, “but what the hey.”
“Do you wish me to show you the way back?” Molita asks as she carefully packs up her sacraments.
“Just follow the path, right? But we’ll wait for you and walk you back to your house.”
“It’s not necessary, the spirits walk with me.”
“Maybe we’re the protection your spirits have in mind,” Joel responds.
She gives him a quick smile of approval. “You have a warrior’s heart.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
I’m curious too.
She folds the silk scarf and places it in her bag before turning to him. “It means you can be a man and still show kindness. A man who will not run from a difficult situation but will stand his ground and fight when necessary.”
“Hmm. Warrior’s heart. I like it.” His beautiful eyes twinkle in the dark. “What about you, Angel. Do you like it?”
She nods her head vigorously. Clara clucks. “Clara likes it too.”
We all laugh.
Then Angel stiffens, clutching her chicken.
They step out of the shadows, three men blocking the path. A closer look and I decide they are teenagers, probably younger than I am but with aggressive attitudes, dangerous. The center youth steps forward. “What have we here? A chicken for your maw’s stew pot, Braer. And a couple of pretty girls to keep us company.” The other two laugh as the ringleader draws a switchblade and snaps it open. His friends snicker.
Clara starts to squawk, her feathers ruffled and standing on end.
He takes a step forward and reaches for the chicken. In one quick movement, Joel steps in front of us. “Don’t even think about touching the girls or the chicken.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll shove that knife down your throat.”
“Maybe you better take the child and leave while you’ve got the chance. In case you haven’t noticed, big man, there’re three of us.” He stands with legs splayed, tossing the knife back and forth. The other two move in, posturing in a threatening manner. One is black and short, but powerfully built. The other is multi-racial of medium height with a scar on his left cheek.
“If you want to even the odds you better go home and come back with three more.”
The boys spread out and inch forward.
“Your left, Daddy,” Angel says quietly.
Joel spins as the other male charges. Crack. His fist catches the youth in the face. The would-be attacker goes down without a sound. Joel wheels around and kicks out, catching Braer in the thigh. As Braer crumples, Joel twists the knife out of his hand. He turns, barely winded, to the third. “Do you want a piece of me too?”
I can’t see Joel’s face, but testosterone is pumping off of him in waves, the fierce desire for battle in his voice.
“No, man.” The other punk throws up his hands and backs off.
“Then get your friends and get out.”
He pulls his confederates to their feet and they all start moving backward. Braer holds out his hand. “Give me my knife.”
“Like that’s going to happen,” Joel scoffs.
“Maybe I’ll just take it.” Braer steps forward and winces, favoring the leg that has been kicked.
“You’re a slow learner aren’t you, punk?”
“Come on, Braer.” The boy who has been smart enough to stay out of the fight grabs him by the arm.
Braer shakes him off but begins backing up. “Another time.”
“I’ll be around.”
“You better watch your back.”
“That’s about what I’d expect from a punk.”
Braer lurches forward again, and again his buddy pu
lls him back. “Come on, Braer.”
He shrugs him off. “Next time.”
“Next time,” Joel echoes.
The three stumble off.
“Did I help, Daddy?”
Joel pockets the knife, plucks her and Clara up, and spins them around. “You were amazing. My little secret weapon.”
Angel giggles. Clara squawks.
Molita watches them, her expression disgusted. “I’ve never seen those guys before and hopefully won’t again. They must be from one of the other islands.
“They’re punks. They won’t be back. Compared to some people I’ve had dealings with, they’re no more than dust motes.”
She shakes her head. “Then you must have dealt with some seriously bad people.”
“Seriously bad pretty much sums it up.”
“Warrior’s heart,” Molita repeats.
As we start walking again, my racing pulse settles. We soon reach the cottage and stop at the white picket fence.
“We’ll wait till you get in,” Joel says.
Molita shakes her head and laughs. “I appreciate the chivalry, even if it’s not necessary.” He stands waiting, his hand on the gatepost. Crickets chirp nearby and the night smells of loam and sensual florals. The moon, full and bright, shines overhead. It’s a night filled for romance—if you discount Clara’s clucking and images of vodou.
Joel waits until Molita reaches her gate then opens ours. We walk up the steps then wave to Molita as she disappears inside. As Joel opens the cottage door, I turn to our daughter. “Clara has to stay outside.”
Clucking passes between Angel and Clara. “She’s afraid of the dark, Momma.”
I roll my eyes. I glance at Joel and see I’ll get no support from that quarter. “Tell her to roost in a tree.”
More clucking ensues.
“She can’t fly.” Angel turns her concerned gaze on me. Weakening, I say, “It’s either a tree or a box with holes cut in it, lined with newspaper.”
When Angel transmits the message, Clara squawks and flaps her wings. After throwing me a reproachful look, Angel sets her on the ground. Grumbling, Clara waddles to a small tree with a low-hanging branch. She flaps her wings awkwardly.
Angel hurries to her side and places her in the tree. “Don’t worry, Clara. As soon as we make gris-gris bags for Momma and Daddy, we’ll make one for you too.”
