“Good, then raise anchor, and let’s outrun these brigands before they get within range.”
When the quartermaster stalked away, barking orders to the crew, Captain Reardon turned to Finkle, and sighed. “I reckon, Mr. Finkle, you need to introduce me to this bokor of yours. We may need her juju ’fore journey’s end.”
6
Finkle led the captain down below deck, and into the crew’s quarters, where a series of hanging sheets closed off the bokor’s sleeping chamber from the rest of the crew. Cautiously, Finkle tapped on a wooden beam supporting one of the sheets.
“Oui?” came the soft voice of the mambo bokor.
“It’s Jim Brannan Finkle, madam. Along with Captain Reardon,” Finkle said. “We were hoping for a moment of your time.”
The ship shifted as it caught its headwind, came around and began tacking in a northwest direction. The scientist grabbed hold of the beam, readying himself for the sound of pursuing cannon fire, but it didn’t come. A moment later, the sheet was pulled back to reveal the beautiful Creole woman, now completely nude. Only her smile distracted Finkle’s eyes away from her sleek, taut frame.
“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain.” She held out her hand, palm down, in the fashion of a lady expecting a kiss.
Reardon blushed, then seemed to gather his wits. “For cryin’ out loud, put some clothes on, lass! If me crew were to see you this way, I’m not sure I could guarantee yer safety.”
Still smiling, she glanced down at her sweating skin, spread her arms out in a freeing gesture and sighed. “But mon Capitaine, it is necessary for da magicks I must do to raise up Lanme Wa. On land, I go barefoot, to draw closer to da earth. But on da sea…da sea is much more powerful than da land. Da sea elevates da l’was’ might a great deal…especially with the blood magick necessary for our needs. Even so, dere should be as few barriers between me and da sea as possible. Clothing only hinders da ritual.”
“Well, at least for now, please cover yourself with a sheet or something,” Finkle said, grabbing a sheer linen sheet resting on a nearby crate, and handing it to her. “We need to go visit our pirate friend at once, and the crew cannot see you in such a state of undress.”
With a slight shrug, she accepted the sheet, and wrapped herself in it, but she kept her shoulders to her collarbone bare. She then grabbed a leather bag, decorated with an assortment of bones and sea shells, stepped out from her makeshift bedchamber and nodded. “All right. So take me to Lanme Wa, and let’s get started.”
The trio slipped through the two rows of hammocks and bunks cluttering the sleeping quarters below deck. The ship seemed to be making good speed now, and they were forced, on more than one occasion, to grab hold of the nearest beam, rope or handle they could find, to keep from toppling over as they crashed through the waves. Ninety-three feet aft, they came to the hold, and Reardon unlocked the door with his key, before swinging it open and gesturing for them to enter. Once inside, he lit a candle on a table next to the door, and lifted it to light the room.
The entire space had been emptied, save for the wooden crate Reardon’s men had used to transport the mummified remains to the ship. The three walked over to it, and the captain handed Finkle the candle, then reached down to retrieve a crowbar leaning against the wall.
“Can I open it?” Reardon asked the bokor.
She nodded her assent, and he set to work loosening the nails that held the crate’s lid. A few minutes later, the lid was pulled aside and Reardon stared open-mouthed down into the box.
“By all that’s holy…” He glanced to Finkle, then to the woman. “You expect me to believe you can bring this…this thing back to life? You must think me daft!”
She looked up at him, with amused, gleaming eyes. “I never said I could bring ol’ Lanme Wa back from da dead.”
“What?” Finkle wheeled around to gape at her. “But you said…”
“I said he be only sleepin’, mon cher. He ain’t dead. Never has been, so far as I know.” She reached down into the crate, and brushed a long, stray hair from out of the body’s eyes. The gesture was tender. Almost loving. “No, he’s not dead a’tall. We merely need to coax him awake, and he’ll be as good as new in no time.”
Reardon glanced over at Finkle, a single eyebrow raised. “Ye told us the pirate is supposed to be immortal.”
Finkle nodded. “That’s what the legends say.”
“And that he was so feared that Blackbeard hisself turned tail and ran at the sight of his colors.”
“That’s true.” Finkle glanced down at the leathery figure laying prone in the crate. “What are you getting at, Captain?”
Reardon turned his attention back to the mambo bokor. “Well, I’m curious. If this man was truly as you say, what on Earth would compel him to climb into a sarcophagus and…and turn into that?” He pointed down at the body.
The bokor continued to stroke at Lanme Wa’s tangled beard. “Because he done lived too long. Was beginnin’ to lose himself. Beginning to forget da world he come from, and forget da kind of man he was, before all this happened to him.” She lovingly began straightening the corpse’s fraying cravat, then continued. “He lost too many friends. Lost too many battles not fought with powder or steel, but with da heart. He begun to grow cold. Indifferent to da world, and dere were only two things keepin’ him grounded to his old life…a woman and a daughter. But dey were just too far away to reach, so he chose to rest in da grave ’til he could draw closer to dem dat he loved. Dat’s why he sleepin’ now. Bidin’ his time.”
The scientist and the captain stood in silence for several long moments, reflecting on what she had just told them. Finally, Finkle spoke up. “Are you telling us the man had gone mad? If he awakens, will he be better suited for the lunatic asylum than an expedition?”
“Oh, make no mistake, cher…when he wakes, he’ll be none too happy. But he’s as sane as any man who ever did live. Though, perhaps, sadder. And bitter. But he’s an honorable man at heart, I can tell you. His wrath will be stirred, dere’s no doubt…but once he settles down…once he learns about your quest, he’ll calm down nice enough.” Then, without further preamble, she shucked off the sheet to reveal her finely-toned nakedness, opened up her medicine bag and pointed toward the door to the hold. “Now, let me do my work in private. He’ll be waking soon enough.”
7
“I don’t trust her,” Reardon said, as the two climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck.
“Neither do I.” Finkle had been growing even more uneasy about the female witch doctor with every given second. She still hadn’t explained to him the strange exchange she’d had with William before his death. Even more unsettling, Finkle wasn’t entirely sure why she had insisted on accompanying the crew on their expedition. She had made pitiful claims about the necessity of her presence in reviving Lanme Wa, but Finkle couldn’t help but feel it had all been a ruse of some kind. If the pirate was, as she claimed, alive and in some strange form of hibernation, Finkle couldn’t understand why she was needed at all. Surely there were more mundane ways to wake the pirate other than her so-called magic. “But right now, I don’t believe we have much choice. For better or worse, we’re stuck with her. The pirates’ sudden arrival saw to that.”
“Speaking of…” Reardon glanced up toward the rigging, and caught sight of the man he was looking for, nestled in the ship’s crow’s nest. “Needles!”
“Aye, Cap’n!” The man called Needles, the ship’s lookout, shouted down.
“Any sign of our pursuers?”
“Aye! They’re two miles northeast, and holdin’ steady. For some reason, they’ve reefed their sails.”
Reardon’s eyes narrowed. “Why would they possibly do that?” He suddenly bolted to the stern, pulled his glass from the pouch attached to his belt and looked out to the northeast horizon. “It makes no sense.”
“What? What’s wrong?” Finkle asked, huffing from chasing after the captain.
“The Mark is o
ne of the fastest ships around. Even armed as we are, we’re sitting at just under a hundred and fifty tons.” He nodded toward the Hound. “That frigate is easily four hundred. I’ve not been able to fathom how they’ve done it, but they’ve been keepin’ pace with us since we left that cursed island. Hardly put any effort into it, I’d wager. But Needles is right. They’ve reefed their sails. They could easily catch us up, but they’ve intentionally slowed themselves. They’re coming to a stop.”
“Why would they do that?”
The captain looked up at the sky and the purple-orange haze of the approaching dawn. Then he shrugged. “No idea. That’s what concerns me.” He eyed the ship through the glass again, and Finkle could sense the man’s muscles tensing underneath his frock coat. “No matter the reason, we need to take advantage of it and put as much distance between us and them as we can…before they change their mind.”
The mambo bokor had gone by many names throughout her short thirty-one years on Earth, but the name bestowed upon her by her grandmother was Asherah. It was a family name, passed down from mother to daughter for generations, and marking each name-bearer as a future mambo bokor. Only the daughters who had the gift of vodou could be called by this name, and she had worn it well since her grandmother’s death.
Now, however, she was on the verge of taking the name to levels not dreamed of since the Philistine goddess of her namesake, who the Arabs called Ishtar. The place these white men were taking her would ensure she would never want for anything again. Once more, the mention of her name would bring men to their knees, as it had in days long ago. Though the white men had been cautious with their tongues—had never verbally conveyed the object of their quest—she knew full well what they sought. Knew they had mistakenly believed Lanme Wa had already found it, and they hoped he would guide them to it.
But the pirate, though he had indeed searched for it in his travels, had never actually located it. Had, in fact, given up on it being real, and had turned his attentions to other pursuits. Asherah, however, knew better. She knew it existed, and she understood that the power to be gained from the expedition would bring nations crashing down in ruins. It would also set her up as the one true goddess of the New World.
This, of course, was why the poor slave, William, was so important. Why she’d influenced the Brave Ghede to take him, and not the bothersome Greer. Smiling, she reached into her medicine pouch and retrieved the vial of blood she’d scooped from Lanme Wa’s casket. She then placed the vial in the center of a circle of salt she’d poured onto the floor. Next she mumbled an indecipherable prayer.
When she finished, she turned to the box in which Lanme Wa lay, and sneered. “Don’t you be judgin’ me, pirate. For too long, my line has been servin’ you. Da service you gave my great-grandmother has long since been repaid, and now it be time we take our rightful place in dis world.”
She didn’t expect him to answer her challenge. She doubted he was even aware of what was going on. Asherah hadn’t lied to the funny old scientist and the ship’s captain, though.
Lanme Wa was most definitely alive.
Throughout the years, she’d seen the signs. From the age of six, her grandmother had charged her with the task of feeding the man once a year. The chore usually consisted of some arcane ritual she’d never fully understood. Then they would push back the sarcophagus’s lid, and she would toss in a single fruit—a mango, orange or even an apple, when they were available. A month later, Asherah was supposed to return to the crypt, open it and remove whatever was left. On every single occasion, the fruit showed signs of having been eaten—if only a bite or two. And since the casket was sealed airtight, she knew the food had not been co-opted by any scavenging rats. For even if they could have gotten inside, they would have quickly died from suffocation.
No, Asherah had no doubt that the pirate known as Lanme Wa was still alive, and capable, at least, of eating. She wasn’t entirely sure what else the desiccated living corpse was capable of… If he was aware of his surroundings… If he could hear the words being spoken around him. But there was one thing she knew all too well. She knew that once the immortal pirate awakened, he would pose the greatest threat to her plans, and she would need all the help she could get to overcome him.
That, of course, brought her thoughts around full circle to William. The young slave was the key. The l’wa, who she served, were territorial. Their influence and power could be felt only in the place where they were created. Once she had stepped onto the ship, and left the safety of the Caribbean islands she called home, the l’wa she knew so well were useless to her. A l’wa created in the turmoil of the raging sea, however, would have powers far beyond those of any she’d known her entire life. All she needed was a willing soul, and William had agreed enthusiastically.
She rifled through her medicine bag again, withdrew seven candles made of dolphin lard, and an assortment of herbs, shredded tobacco leaf, sugar cane stalks and a bottle of snake venom. She placed each on the floor. Satisfied all the ingredients were present, Asherah carefully set each candle around the circle of salt, then lit each of them in counterclockwise order.
Now, for the elements of life.
She sprinkled three small piles of the tobacco, representing the haze of the future, around the blood vial. Then, uncorking the snake venom, she poured the contents along the outline of the circle while reciting the necessary incantation to withdraw the veil of death. The stalks of sugar cane were arranged on the floor in the form of a cross, which was designed to give a newborn l’wa the sweet taste of wisdom and power. Finally, taking a pinch of the herbs, she dropped it into the wide-mouthed neck of the blood vial, before immediately going to each candle and blowing out the flames.
The sickly sweet aroma of the candle’s smoke wafted up toward her nostrils, and she inhaled deeply before swaying back and forth to an inaudible tune playing in the back of her mind. Unconsciously, she sung the words of the ancient song, focusing her will on the vial and imagining the thick, strong frame of William in her mind’s eye. Five minutes later, as the last vestiges of smoke had completely disappeared, she reached down, corked the vial of blood and smiled.
Now, all that was left was to reach their destination. She would have one of the most powerful l’was ever conjured, and it would be fully tied to American soil. It was only a matter of time, and there was nothing Lanme Wa could do to prevent it.
A sudden tap at the door startled her from her reverie.
“Oui?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” came a quivering voice from the other side of the hold’s door. “The cap’n was wonderin’ how much longer it’ll be. Them pirates is keepin’ a tight path on our stern, and he’s thinkin’ their cap’n might be needed come night fall.”
Asherah glanced back over at the crate, and rolled her eyes. As far as she was concerned, Lanme Wa could sleep til his heart’s content, but she knew Captain Reardon wasn’t going to allow her that luxury. On the other hand, she honestly did not know how to revive the pirate. It was a lesson never taught her by her grandmother.
When it be time for Lanme Wa to awaken, her grandmother had always told her, Lanme Wa will awaken. Not a minute sooner.
Asherah pulled the sheet around her once more, strode over to the door and opened it. The young cabin boy jumped back with a yelp, causing the mambo bokor to laugh. She cherished the power she had over these white men—both from fear, as well as from lust—and she savored every reminder of the awe they had for her.
“Tell mon Capitaine I need eight strong hands to carry Lanme Wa to da upper deck.”
With a curt salute, the boy scampered up the ladder and disappeared. Ten minutes later, four large sailors and Quartermaster Greer returned to the hold. The Englishman, whom Asherah could sense was not well-liked among his mostly Irish crew, directed the men to the wooden crate without so much as glancing at her. She then watched as the hatch above the hold was opened, and a crane hook was lowered down. The men carefully secured the crate, and with a serie
s of shouted commands from Greer, it was lifted up to the deck.
“Now, woman,” Greer said with a sneer. He refused to look her in the eye. “Please dress yourself in more civilized attire, and meet the Captain and Mr. Finkle topside, as soon as possible.”
With that, he motioned to his men to follow him, and they left her alone in the hold to reflect on her own amusement.
8
After changing back into her linen shift, Asherah made her way up on deck to see Captain Reardon, Jim Brannan Finkle and a handful of crew standing over the opened crate. Greer was nowhere to be seen. Three sailors were vigilantly watching the sea from the bow of the ship, while their compatriots tended to various other duties.
The ship rocked hard from side-to-side, as it was bombarded by choppy waves originating from dark skies to the west. She didn’t need to see the clouds beyond to know that a storm was approaching. She could taste it on the rush of wind brushing past her face, and she inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet tang of the rapidly cooling air.
Turning her attention back to the captain, she strode over to them, and greeted Reardon with a slight nod of her head. “Capitaine Reardon.”
“The time for pleasantries is long past, lassie,” he said, pointing to the crate. “Though I’m mightily vexed as to how a pirate’s crew can still be sailing more than a hundred years after their captain’s death…or whatever you call it. The sad fact o’ the matter is, they are. Though they’ve intentionally slowed their pursuit since daybreak, they’re still trackin’ us from the southeast. On top of that, we’re fast approachin’ a hell of a storm to the west, and so far, you’ve not earned your keep aboard me ship.”
“And how you think I should help, cher? More important, how you think Lanme Wa can help? He be immortal. Not a god. He can’t turn da weather ’round to go de other way.”
“But he may be able to call off his crew,” Finkle said. Of all the men she’d encountered so far on this expedition, he was the one that unnerved her the most. Though he was far advanced in years, he had a spirit about him stronger than any of the younger men on the crew. And a wisdom that might just see through her ruse, if she wasn’t more vigilant around him. On the other hand, he continued to show her nothing but the utmost kindness—not out of fear or desire, as with the other sailors, but from something more akin to respect. And it was this that worried her more than anything else. “This would allow us to sail around the storm, and avoid a possible catastrophe. As it stands, if our course changes even slightly, Lanme Wa’s crew could overtake us in minutes, and all would be lost anyway.”
Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) Page 4
