The Awakening

by McBean, Brett

  Like a replay of the night Toby found out the truth about his neighbor, Toby slipped through the kitchen, out the back door and into the cover of night.

  It was an intensely clear, starry night, with hardly a breath of wind—the kind of night that made you realize how truly small you were in the scheme of things, how mammoth the earth and beyond was.

  Toby’s sneakers squeaked as he crossed the street. When he arrived at Mr. Joseph’s house, he stepped onto the straw-like grass and started down the side, towards the backyard. The kitchen window curtain was drawn, a light glowed within. As he reached the backyard, he noticed light inside the shed as well, shining from beneath the door. He heard muttering coming from inside the shed. Toby headed towards it, winding around the piles of junk.

  At the shed, he raised a hand to knock, but he paused.

  What if it isn’t Mr. Joseph in there?

  Toby didn’t know why he would think such a thing.

  Who else would it be?

  Toby rapped gently on the door. “Mr. Joseph?” he whispered. “It’s Toby.”

  “Come in.”

  Toby turned the handle and pulled open the door.

  Mr. Joseph was sitting cross-legged on the ground.

  Toby stepped into the make-shift hounfor, closing the door behind him. There was no longer the stench of urine and excrement, but a rich, smoky aroma of incense. The temple had been cleaned, though it was now a lot emptier than when Toby had first seen it. The graffiti on the wall was still there, and the center-post was still broken.

  Toby gazed down at Mr. Joseph. His eyes were closed, there was a half-empty bottle of Rhum Barbancourt beside him. Toby waited for instruction, but when a minute ticked by without any, Toby shrugged and sat on the ground opposite Mr. Joseph.

  “Guédé Nimbo, behind the cross... Today I am troubled... call Guédé... I am troubled,” the old man sung. He opened his eyes. “Remember when I told you about the Guédé, about how they are the spirits of the dead? That Guédé Nimbo is the master of the cemetery and is a special protector of the children?”

  Toby nodded.

  “He is a powerful loa, Toby. He can be mischievous, even crude, but when you ask him for help, he will grant you your wish, though at a price. I never told you the whole truth about the night of the attack. I never told anyone. I want to tell you the truth now.”

  Staring at the twisted, scarred zombi sitting opposite, Toby felt the air sucked from his lungs. Tears stung his eyes. “What truth?”

  “When I found you that night, you were badly injured. Very badly injured. I don’t know how you managed to stumble from the field to your street, the way you were hurt. You were close to death. You would’ve died, of that I’m sure, if I hadn’t found you when I did.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Toby said, mouth dry. He swallowed.

  Mr. Joseph shook his head. “No, you don’t. You were collapsed in the street, slipping in and out of consciousness. I knew that if I didn’t attend to you straightaway, you would’ve died right there in the street. No ambulance would’ve been able to get to you in time. I didn’t go straight to your parents like everyone thinks. I took you here, into my hounfor. I laid you on the ground, under the post, and invoked Guédé Nimbo for help. I asked him to save you. I pleaded with him to let you live, and to look after you. Well, he came to me. Though I didn’t have time to procure all the traditional offerings, he came. He knows me well, Toby, because his brother, Baron Lakwa, is responsible for supervising all zombis, and his father, Baron Samedi—the head of all the Guédé—presides over the dead. It is the Baron whom the bocor must invoke and get permission from to make a zombi. So, Guédé Nimbo came and though I had no black goat to offer for sacrifice, I did have rum, and he was happy with that. He granted my request to save you. He healed your most life-threatening wounds, leaving you with some serious injuries and some not-so-serious; for he knew that healing you fully would’ve looked too suspicious. After the Guédé helped you—and helped himself to my rum—I placed you back in the street and then went to your parents.”

  Mr. Joseph looked at Toby. His glassy stare was penetrating. “You understand, Monsieur Fairchild?”

  Toby nodded.

  No wonder this shed felt familiar that day, Toby thought.

  “You’re saying I was saved by a spirit?”

  Mr. Joseph nodded. “The Guédé is in you, protecting you, looking after you, making sure you find peace. I wanted to tell you so many times, but the time never seemed right.”

  Toby took a deep, quivering breath. To hear how truly close he was to death, to learn that a vodou spirit had helped him—he was scarcely able to comprehend these things. “Wow,” he breathed. “I guess I really do owe you my life.”

  “And Guédé Nimbo.”

  “Right. And Guédé Nimbo. So, how do I thank it... him?”

  “You don’t have to. He’s getting what he wants, and in return he is looking after you, which is what he does.” Mr. Joseph grabbed the bottle of rum and took a quick swill.

  “In my dreams I’ve sometimes seen a strange person wearing dark sunglasses, hat and clothes. Is that...?”

  “Oui,” Mr. Joseph said. “Like I said, he’s looking out for you. Most of the time he visits in dreams. Usually, when he wants to communicate, he’ll adopt the form of a human, one close to you, like a friend or a relative. The Guédé have powers you or I can only imagine. They are as much feared in Haiti as they are loved. For instance, they can bring out the souls of the dead and use them for their service. They can send expedition morts, in which the Guédé takes the souls of the dead and sends them to enemies to seek revenge. The souls attach themselves to the person and makes them crazy. Sometimes they grow ill, and even die. Even Baron Lakwa, the idiot brother, can kill or zombify a person—for a price, of course.”

  “What kind of price?”

  “Well, money for one thing. Or goods. If it’s a poor farmer who hasn’t a lot of money, he may offer the loa his produce, if the loa desires it. Alcohol is another popular offering, or the person asking the loa for a service may have to alter their lifestyle, stop smoking for instance, or... leave, if the loa feels that it’s for the best.”

  “Is that why you’re leaving? Is that what the loa asked in exchange for saving my life?”

  “Well, yes. Sort of. It’s complex, Toby. I believe the loa had a hand in bringing us together. I’m not saying he orchestrated things—even the most powerful loa can’t do that—but he did tell me, on that fateful night, that we will have a connection. The loa don’t always tell you everything; often they talk in riddles, mostly appearing in dreams and revealing only parts of the truth. Since I can’t dream, I’m limited in what the loa can show me. So I don’t know what it all means, why he wants me to leave, but I have to do what the loa tells me, trust that it’s for the best.”

  “So you knew you would be leaving all this time?”

  “Yes, and no. I only knew for certain a few days ago.”

  Toby remembered. “Is that what you were doing in the shed?”

  Mr. Joseph nodded. “I invoked the loa again to see if anything could be done about our problem, and to ask advice for which course of action to take. The Guédé had already told me that time a month ago that I would have to leave soon; but when I invoked the loa a few days ago, he told me that if I want to help, if I want to put an end to all these troubles, now is the time to leave. Guédé Nimbo told me not to be scared, that things will work out. The loa said he would give me a sign when I was to leave. And that sign has come.” Mr. Joseph paused to gaze around at his ruined hounfor. “I have to honor my end of the agreement. So you understand now why I have to leave?”

  Toby nodded. “It doesn’t seem fair, though. You save my life, and in return you have to leave.”

  “Like I said, it’s not the loa’s doing, not really. I would’ve left soon anyway—it was time, I think. The loa knew this. He just gave me a nudge, that’s all.”

  It still didn’t seem fair, but at leas
t Toby understood why Mr. Joseph was leaving.

  “I hope you’re not too upset with me for keeping these things from you.”

  “No, I’m not upset.”

  “Good. I’m glad. I can’t imagine how I would’ve explained all this to you in a letter. This way was much better.”

  Looking at the old man, Toby couldn’t help but feel that Mr. Joseph was still holding some things back. He looked troubled, like he had grave concerns pressing on his mind. Did the loa show him something else, something that Mr. Joseph didn’t want to, or couldn’t, share?

  “Maybe it’s best you head home, now. I’ve kept you up far too late already. You need rest, Monsieur Fairchild.”

  “So that’s it? This is goodbye?”

  Mr. Joseph stared long and hard at the cold concrete floor. “Yes, I’m afraid it is.” He looked up. “Goodbye, Toby.”

  Toby got to his feet. “Will you send me a letter when you get to wherever you’re going?”

  “If I can, I will. But I can’t promise anything.”

  Toby smiled thinly; tears stained his eyes. “Thanks for everything. I... I’m gonna miss you.”

  “And me, you. Don’t worry about me, Toby. I’ll be okay. Things happen for a reason, I’ve always believed that. Take care of yourself, and remember, the Guédé is looking after you.”

  Remember...

  Toby opened the shed door.

  As he stepped outside, he thought he heard Mr. Joseph start to speak, but there was only silence, so Toby closed the door and headed home.

  After the boy left, the old man went for a walk.

  Usually he walked around aimlessly, simply intent to enjoy the freedom, of being able to go wherever he liked without fear of ridicule or staring eyes. He must’ve walked every inch of this town over the years, always under the cloak of darkness, always without purpose, other than the simple freedom of the act.

  Not tonight.

  Tonight, for his last ever walk around Belford, he had a place in mind. A goal. As he walked, suitcase in hand, he thought of the boy and what was to come.

  The old man had wanted so much to tell him everything, all of what the loa had shown him. Despite what the Guédé had said, he thought the boy deserved to know the truth, then and there, and he was so close to letting it all spill from his lips. But he kept quiet.

  The boy would learn the truth in time, the loa had said. It was every person’s right to be in charge of their own lives, make their own decisions, be responsible for their own actions. The boy had to make that decision, he had to learn about life and death, maturity and responsibility on his own. The old man could only take him so far—the rest was up to him.

  The old man understood all that, yet he was still afraid for the boy. The Guédé had assured the old man that the boy would be okay, that he would see to it that the boy would find peace and would come to no harm.

  The old man had no choice but to trust the loa—after all, they never lied. They may do things in an unorthodox manner, but they never lied. They always held true to their promise. And Guédé Nimbo was a protector of children, so the old man had to believe the Guédé would do just that.

  Which brought the old man to his own promise.

  When the old man had invoked the loa a month ago, the Guédé had asked him for one very important offering. Not to leave, as he had told the boy—well, that was part of it, sure, the Guédé explained to him he would need to leave in order for things to work out; but more importantly, he asked the old man to finish what had been started so long ago, in another time, in another place. Along with copious amounts of rum, that was his payment; in lieu of a black goat, he would be the sacrifice.

  The old man fingered the revolver, his old master’s revolver, sitting deep in his pants pocket.

  Once the old man had carried out this act, only then would the boy learn the truth and finally find his peace. That was the deal.

  The old man was okay with that—he wasn’t scared of death, or, more accurately, no longer existing on this earth. He was simply afraid for the boy. He wanted to be here for the boy, but he knew that was not possible.

  But what was possible was saving the boy from potential harm. He wanted to see the bastards responsible for the destruction of his hounfor, responsible for all the pain this past month, pay for their crimes, which was why he stopped off at the house on his way out of town.

  Because when he had invoked the loa the second time, to ask for guidance, the loa had felt it fitting that the old man know the truth, the truth the boy had for so long wanted to discover, for he had become a part of the boy’s life when he had saved the boy that night. And as payment for learning such secrets, the loa had told him it was time to leave; time to fulfill his end of the deal.

  But not before I do this last deed.

  The house was in darkness, a sleeping giant, and standing in front of it, the old man set his suitcase down.

  It would be so easy, the old man knew. No one locked their doors in Belford. He just had to walk in, find the appropriate room, rest the barrel against the sleeping murderer’s head, and pull the trigger.

  Or maybe he would wake the murderer first, tell him that he was going to die for all the pain he had caused an innocent boy, and the needless deaths of two more. The old man liked the idea of seeing the murderer’s eyes, the fear in them, before he sent the bullet home.

  The old man knew it wasn’t his place to carry out such a deed. He knew what the Guédé had said, but damn it, the boy needed closure, and the sooner the better, in his opinion.

  He took out the gun, his grip tight on the revolver. He took a step forward. Suddenly a strong wind gushed over him, like the hand of Le Bon Dieu Himself was reaching out. The wind whispered, “Not yet; it will be done, but not by your doing,” and then blew away as suddenly as it had appeared. When the old man looked down, he saw he was holding nothing but the sultry night air.

  He blinked, looked down to the ground, but knew there was no point in searching—the wind hadn’t knocked the gun out of his hand, it had taken it. To where, the old man could only guess.

  I’m sorry, he said to the invisible wind. I should know not to disobey you. I should learn to take my own advice. With shoulder’s slumped, he picked up his suitcase.

  He took one last look at the murderer’s house, spat a curse to the one spared death, and continued his journey out of town.

  Now without a gun, the old man wondered how he was going to hold up his end of the deal.

  The Guédé will provide, he thought.

  He guessed the time wasn’t right for the old man to find peace, either. It looked like the Guédé had plans for him, too.

  As he started on the road out of town, he thought about where he was going to go—to the south? Back to Florida? To the west coast?

  No. He had already made up his mind about where he was going.

  He hadn’t been honest with the boy when the boy had asked him earlier where he was going. He did know; he just didn’t want to give the boy false hope, in case he never arrived.

  He had thought a lot about what he and the boy had talked about during their time spent together; had given much thought to the boy’s willingness to accept him, to remain loyal to him even in the face of resistance and humiliation. Certain things the boy had said to him hit home and they rolled around in his mind now as he arrived at the sign telling him he was now leaving Belford, and please, come again.

  Despite his reluctance, despite his fear, he knew, as sure as if the Guédé himself had spoken to him, that it was the right thing to do.

  He had to face his fears.

  Thank you, the old man said to the boy.

  It would be a long journey, the destination of which he may very well never reach, but he knew the boy would want him to at least try.

  The old man left the town behind and was soon swallowed up by the night.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Toby awoke to early morning sunlight streaming through the window.


  He sat up, looked at the clock. It was just past seven.

  He wiped sleep from his eyes, swung his legs out of bed and placed his feet on the carpet.

  He sat there a while, feeling the emptiness in his gut.

  He knew. Somehow, he just knew. Mr. Joseph was gone.

  Toby stood, slipped on the shorts and shirt he had worn yesterday and sauntered downstairs, trying not to wake his parents. He downed a glass of orange juice and then headed outside.

  The sun was glaring, the morning air promising another hot summer’s day. He walked down Pineview and when he arrived at the old man’s house, stood staring at the chipped clapboard. The people of this town had driven Mr. Joseph away, no matter what he had said about loas and destiny. The people of Belford drove away a kind old man, and Toby felt sick to his stomach at the thought.

  Toby knew the house was empty, yet he felt compelled to go inside and confirm what his gut was telling him. So he trekked down to the back of the house, to the kitchen door.

  He noticed the shed was closed, the door padlocked.

  Toby wasn’t surprised to find the back door unlocked. Nobody would ever willingly enter this house—not unless it was a teenager on a dare. Even if someone did come in unannounced, there was nothing in here worth stealing.

  Toby stepped into the kitchen. It was intensely quiet, for the life that imbues a house, gives it its heartbeat, didn’t exist in here. Not for twenty years. A body lived here, but not a soul.

  Toby wandered through the house. The books were still here—Mr. Joseph had taken nothing with him, only his clothes and his memories.

  Back in the kitchen, Toby sat down at the table. There was no bottle of rum, no goodbye note, just an old, scratched wooden table.

  Toby sat there for a long time. When he was ready to go, he got up, turned towards the back door—and stopped.

  One of the kitchen drawers, the top one, was slightly open.

  Toby stepped towards it. He pulled the drawer fully open and gazed inside. Three items lay within. Toby picked up the first: a key. A small, boringly normal key—the kind one might use to open a shed door.