Unsympathetic Magic

by Laura Resnick

  “I haven’t had time to change,” I snapped.

  Jeff said, “You two know each other?”

  “No,” we said in unison.

  The boy in Max’s grip said impatiently to the young man, “Biko, will you tell this dude to let me go?”

  To the boy, Biko said, “We do not refer to elders as ‘dudes.’ ” And to Max he said, “Take your hands off this boy right now.” Biko looked about eighteen years old, but he had the presence and gravitas of someone twice that age.

  Max immediately released the boy. “Oh, I do beg your pardon.”

  Biko looked at the kid and nodded his head toward the open door. The boy obeyed the silent command and, with a look over his shoulder that indicated he thought we were all crazy, went into the room from which Biko had just emerged.

  “A fencing class,” I said, realizing what the sound of clashing swords and the white jackets meant.

  Biko frowned at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is most embarrassing,” Max said. “I fear we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. And I am to blame.”

  “I’ll say,” Jeff muttered.

  Biko looked at him. “Are these people with you, Jeff?”

  Jeff sighed. “Yes.” He made brief introductions. “Esther Diamond, actress. Dr. Max Zadok, madman. Biko Garland, fencing instructor.”

  “Why are they here?” Biko asked him, ignoring the introduction.

  “I’m filling in for Jeff,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s right.” Biko nodded. “The gladiator gig. Scheduling conflicts.”

  I looked at Jeff, too. “Gladiator? That’s the kind of ‘athlete’ you’re playing?”

  “Biko helped me prepare for the audition,” Jeff said. “I needed some sword fighting moves.”

  “Gladiators didn’t fight with rapiers,” I said.

  “The rapier is the weapon I’m best with,” Biko said calmly, “but it’s not the only one I know how to use.”

  “Is that why you took it hunting with you last night?” I said. “Because it’s the one you use best?”

  He looked at me, then at the two men, then back at me. His face didn’t give away anything, and I wondered what he was thinking. Then he said, “Class isn’t over. These kids need my attention.”

  He turned to reenter the training room.

  Max said, “Were you hunting a zombie, by chance?”

  Biko froze, and all three of us looked at Max in surprise.

  “A what?” Jeff said.

  “A zombie?” I said.

  Biko just stared at him, frowning.

  “Well?” Max said. “Was that what you were hunting last night?”

  “Biko, man,” Jeff said. “I’m sorry about this. I don’t really know these people. I’ll get them out of here now, and we won’t even talk about this again. Okay?”

  Jeff took my elbow in a firm grasp and tugged. I jerked my arm away from him, looking from Max to Biko. I repeated, “A zombie?”

  “Reanimation of the dead,” Max said. “Exactly what we were talking about this morning.”

  “Holy shit,” Jeff said. “You really are a madman.”

  “I don’t like people cursing around these kids,” Biko said absently, still staring at Max.

  Jeff ignored that. “Max? Esther? Shall we go now?

  I said to Max, “Now you’re saying I saw a zombie last night?”

  Biko’s gaze flashed to me.

  “Are zombies a sign of the apocalypse?” I asked, feeling confused.

  “God, what are you into these days?” Jeff asked me in horror.

  Biko said to me, “You saw something last night?”

  I looked at Max. He nodded.

  I looked at Jeff. He was staring at me as if seriously rethinking the wisdom of letting me spend time with his students.

  Then I looked at Biko and said, “I saw Darius Phelps last night. About a block past where I saw you.”

  Biko look puzzled. “You mean you saw his body?”

  “No, I mean I saw him. Walking and talking.” I added, “Sort of.”

  “You didn’t see Darius,” Jeff said firmly. “He’s dead.”

  “Jeff’s right.” Biko nodded. “It couldn’t have been Mr. Phelps. He’s . . .” His gaze shifted to Max, and he drew in a sharp breath through his nostrils. “No.” He shook his head. “No way.”

  Max said to him, “Wait a moment. If you weren’t looking for Darius Phelps, then what were—”

  Jeff said impatiently, “Darius is dead, I’m telling you. I was at the funeral.”

  “What was he buried in?” I asked suddenly, turning to Jeff.

  “A coffin, Esther. Like most people.”

  “No, what was he wearing?”

  “How should I know?” Jeff said.

  Biko said, “It was closed-casket funeral. But I heard Dr. Livingston saying that he’d asked to be buried in his tuxedo.”

  I gasped and clasped my hand over my mouth.

  “Figures,” Jeff muttered. “He was a pretentious bastard.”

  “Oh, my God,” I choked out, feeling cold again.

  “I know, I know,” Jeff said. “Don’t speak ill of the dead and all that. And, yes, it’s too bad the guy died young. Even so, I don’t see why I should have to start pretending I liked him, just because he’s dead now. I never pretended when he was alive, after all.”

  “Max,” I said. “A tuxedo!”

  “Yes, my dear.” He patted my arm.

  “A zombie?” I said, trying not to think too hard about the fact that I had been alone in the dark with him. It. Whatever. “You really think so?”

  “As soon as I saw those drapeaux upstairs,” Max said, “it seemed an inescapable conclusion.”

  “Whoa, time out,” Jeff said. “How does gaudy folk art lead you inescapably to the conclusion that—that—that . . . Christ, I can’t even say it, it’s so crazy.”

  “That Darius Phelps is a zombie now?” Max concluded for him. “Well, it is, of course, possible that he was reanimated by some other means—”

  “Oh, like what?” Jeff said. “Who the hell goes around reanimating corpses?”

  “Various cultures throughout the ages, Jeffrey,” Max said patiently. He was accustomed to being disbelieved. “Whether seeking immortality or using the dead to terrorize others, reanimation has been the study of many mystical practitioners. It has also been the solace of billions who have believed in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and of those who believe that they themselves will be resurrected on Judgment Day.”

  “Or when the Messiah comes,” I added, not wanting my team to be left out of the discussion.

  “But you’re not talking about someone who’s been resurrected by God Almighty,” Jeff pointed out.

  “No, indeed,” Max said. “I believe a much lesser—but nonetheless formidable—power is behind the reanimation of Darius Phelps. And although many possibilities exist for explaining this phenomenon, it seems rather foolish to ignore the one staring us in the face. Mr. Phelps, after all, worked in a community where Vodou is practiced.”

  “Watch it,” Biko said. “You’re stepping on dangerous ground now. My sister is a servant of the loa.”

  “I am most respectful of her faith,” Max said. “But every power may be used for evil ends, when in the hands of the wrong person. And since there is a tradition, on the dark side of Vodou, of raising zombies from the grave . . . My hypothesis is that this is the fate of the unfortunate Darius Phelps.”

  Jeff asked with somewhat malicious interest, “Are you accusing Mambo Celeste of doing it?”

  “Traditionally, such a thing would be abhorrent to a mambo,” Max said. “More to the point, we are far from being able to accuse anyone, Jeffrey. We have very little information at the moment. But it does occur to me, all things considered, that we are probably looking for a bokor.”

  Biko made a startled sound. He was gazing wide-eyed at Max.

  “A what?” I said.

  “A bokor,” said Max
.

  “A dark sorcerer,” said Biko, nodding slowly. “Someone who practices black magic.”

  Max eyed him. “I gather I am not the only one to whom this possibility has occurred?”

  “No,” Biko said. “Not the only one.”

  “But you were not aware of Darius Phelps’ transformation. So what led you—and your sister, I presume—to this suspicion?” Max paused before asking, “What exactly you were hunting with deadly intent last night, Mr. Garland?”

  The young man let out his breath. “I think you’d better call me Biko.”

  “You were hunting last night?” Jeff said. “In Harlem?”

  Biko nodded. “Yes.” He looked from Jeff to me, and then to Max. “I was hunting baka.”

  After a moment of puzzled silence, Jeff said, “Back of what? Back of where?”

  “No,” Biko said. “Baka.” He enunciated slowly. “Baka.”

  I gasped so hard that I choked. All three men looked at me. “That’s what he said!”

  Looking at me with an expression that I remembered well from our days as a couple, Jeff said, “Yes. Just now. He said ‘baka.’ So what, Esther?”

  “No! I mean Darius! That’s what he said. Ba . . . ka . . .” I looked at Biko. “I thought it was just nonsense syllables. He wasn’t coherent at the time. But it’s a word? Baka?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not familiar with it,” Max said.

  “The baka are the deadly tools of a dark sorcerer—of a bokor,” said Biko. “They’re evil spirits. They can take the form of small monsters or of—”

  “Gargoyles!” I said.

  “Oh, come on,” said Jeff.

  Biko considered my comment. “Yes, I suppose you could say the baka look a bit like gargoyles. Or, at least, some of them do.”

  “Wait, you were out hunting gargoyles last night?” Jeff shook his head. “Okay. That’s it. All three of you are insane.”

  “That must be what I saw!” I said to Max. “That must be what attacked Darius. Baka!”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Biko said.

  “Oh, you think?” said Jeff.

  Biko ignored him. “If a bokor raised Darius from the dead—”

  “Are you listening to yourself?” Jeff said.

  “Then why would he—or she—send baka to attack him? Er, it? Um—”

  “Whatever,” I said. “I don’t know. Could there be two bokors? At odds with each other?”

  “Oh, dear.” Max looked alarmed. “Two warring bokors? That could be very messy.”

  “Oh, Harlem has survived worse,” Jeff said philosophically.

  Biko gave him a contemptuous look. “You only say that because you don’t know what a bokor can do.”

  “Why were you hunting the baka?” Max asked curiously.

  “What on earth makes you think these things exist?” Jeff asked him.

  “How did you get involved in this?” I asked.

  Biko’s expression was a mixture of anger, sadness, and revulsion. “My sister Puma and I . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well . . .” He looked at all three of us. “The baka ate our dog.”

  “I find pet death very disturbing,” I said.

  “I find the idea that you’re buying into this crazy bullshit very disturbing,” Jeff said.

  “Here we are,” said Max. “I believe this is the place.”

  Biko had to finish teaching his class, but there was clearly a lot that we needed to discuss. So he had advised us to go to his sister’s nearby shop, on West 123rd Street, and wait for him there. He called her on his cell phone and told her to expect us, then he went back to his students while we left the building.

  Jeff, who was appalled by this whole business, had not intended to accompany us. But Max wanted to question him about Darius and also about Frank. So, aware of Max’s silent glances imploring me to convince him to join us, I asked Jeff if he’d like to go to the hospital with me, after we were done meeting with the Garland siblings, to visit Michael Nolan. I conscientiously did not imply that if he made a good impression, Nolan might help him get an audition for the show. (In fact, I thought there was a better chance of Fiorello LaGuardia being turned into a zombie than of Mike Nolan helping another actor get work.) But, as expected, Jeff leaped to the conclusion that he wanted to reach; and, for the sake of the greater good, I didn’t correct his optimistic assumptions. So he walked with us to Puma Garland’s shop.

  Now Max read aloud the sign in the window of the small storefront. “Puma’s Vodou Emporium.”

  “So I guess I can understand where Biko’s getting his crazy ideas,” Jeff said, looking at the shop window without enthusiasm. “But as for you two . . .” He shook his head.

  “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ ” I quoted.

  “Whatever.”

  Alerted by her brother, Puma Garland was waiting for us inside the shop. An attractive young woman with a robust, hourglass figure, she was dressed in blue jeans and a flowing shirt of brightly patterned material. Puma wore her chin-length black hair in bouncy curls, and she accented her look with gold hoop earrings and beaded bracelets. She was obviously older than Biko, probably in her mid-twenties.

  And the moment he saw her, Jeff’s whole attitude about this venture changed. He took her hand when she introduced herself to us, looked into her eyes, and said, “We’ve come to help you.”

  “Oh, good grief,” I muttered.

  Puma flashed straight white teeth in a pretty smile, then turned to Max. “You must be Dr. Zadok?” She shook his hand. “And you’re Esther Diamond?” She blinked a little at my outfit, but she was welcoming, even so.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m really sorry about your dog.”

  Her face fell.

  “Oh, nicely played.” Jeff gave me a quelling look.

  Puma rallied quickly. “Biko says you’ve seen the baka?”

  “Yes. Last night.”

  She took my hands and squeezed them in sympathy. “You’re lucky to be alive. They’re very dangerous.”

  Recalling the dismemberment I’d witnessed, I said, “Yeah, that was my impression.”

  The shop’s telephone rang. “I’m sorry, I’d better get that,” she said. “Make yourselves comfortable, and when I’m done with this call, we’ll talk.”

  The caller turned out to be a supplier evidently trying to resolve a shipping error, and the conversation lasted for a while. Trying to ignore the rumbling of my empty stomach, I looked around the shop. It was small and crowded with merchandise, but well-ordered and appealing.

  There was a display of charms and potions for attracting love, luck, and money, as well as for protecting oneself against negative forces, enemies, and evildoers. There were colorful drapeaux for sale on the walls, similar to the ones I had seen at the Livingston Foundation. The items available for a worshipper’s personal voodoo altar included candles, offering bowls, crystals, incense, and spirit bottles.

  “What’s a spirit bottle?” I asked Max.

  “It’s a tool for communicating with the loa.” He picked up a pretty bottle decorated with beads and delicate paint. “A mambo or a houngan has the power to call a spirit down into the bottle, where it will converse with worshippers who wish to question it. Or an experienced worshipper who prepares mentally and spiritually may call a loa into the bottle and commune with it there.”

  “That seems very accommodating of the loa,” I said.

  “They can be called into other objects, too.” Max pointed to some masks that were decorated with shells, paint, feathers, jewelry, and sequins. “You can hang such a mask in a room that you wish to protect. If you want to shield a child from illness and harm, for example, you might hang a spirit mask in his bedroom and call the appropriate loa into the mask.”

  “You were right,” I noted. “This is a practical religion.”

  The Catholic influence on Vodou was evident in the many pictures of Cath
olic saints for sale in the shop, as well vials of holy water, crucifixes, and rosary beads.

  There was a bulletin board near the front door with flyers and notices pinned to it. Patrons of the shop were invited to attend traditional rituals, as well classes and lectures about Vodou. A calendar of the Livingston Foundation’s activities for the month of August was posted. And various mambos and houngans in the tristate area offered their services: divination, healing, casting spells, consulting the spirits, constructing charms, concocting potions, helping people find happiness and ward off evil, and spiritual cleansing.

  Elsewhere in the shop, I examined a prepackaged ritual kit for beginners, but decided I wasn’t that interested when I saw the price tag; I’m a working actress, and I live on a tight budget. I also looked at some divination tools (including animal bones), spell kits, and protective amulets. There was a big gourd rattle decorated with cowry shells. I enjoyed playing with it until I read on the label that its rattling noise was not made by beads, beans, or pebbles, as I had supposed, but by snake vertebrae.

  “What is it with voodoo and snakes?” I said, putting the rattle down quickly.

  “In many faiths of the world, dating back far into prehistory, snakes represent wisdom, strength, and fertility.” Max added, “But there is no denying the negative reaction to snakes that our distant primate past instills in many of us.”

  I poked around a large selection of whole and powdered herbs—some common, some exotic. Wondering what Jeff was studying so intently, I wandered over to him. He was looking at a machete and some ritual knives that were displayed inside a locked glass case.

  “Do you suppose these are for slaughtering animals?” he asked me.

  “Sacrificing animals,” Puma corrected him. She had just gotten off the phone. “Like us, the Vodou loa must eat and drink to stay strong. And if they are strong, then they guide us, protect us, and bring us good fortune. So we must nourish them.”

  “How often does this nourishing occur?” Jeff asked cautiously.

  “Around here, animal sacrifices are only made on special occasions. Most of the time, we offer grain, rum, tobacco, produce, and that sort of thing.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Jeff relaxed and smiled.

  “But I think we’ll have to offer an animal sacrifice soon,” Puma said with a worried look.