Amazon Slaughter & Curse of the Ninja

by Piers Anthony

  I looked around the circle of faces, actually an oblong of faces, as the people sat on benches near the walls. They were mixed, ranging from white to black, and solemn: neither hostile nor happy. They shared a common passive intensity, as though in meditation. Many wore gaudily colored medals with mystic inscriptions, and bright plastic-beaded necklaces of the sort I had seen at the store. Some wore jewelry made of shells, animal teeth, tusks and ornately carved wood.

  Pottery burners set around the room contained fragrant incense; some of it merely charred, but some of it sported color-changing flames.

  Now I became aware of sound: weird chanting with an indefinable melody and strong tom-tom beat. It was soft, not loud, but the base harmonies had a compelling effect, like the massed heartbeat of a sleeping giant. I spied the source of it: an old-fashioned phonograph. Was this a fancy dance, after all?

  Around the room, set in alcoves, and on tables in the center, were painted plaster figurines—many strange, some shockingly familiar. I recognized St. George on a white horse, a Buddha, and Jesus Christ himself. But then I remembered: modern Latin mysticism combined voodoo with Roman Catholicism, using the Saints and conventions of both.

  I had been brought to something very like a Black Mass.

  Oba led me around the edge to a gap in the seating, and we sat down on the end of a bench. Now I saw hooded objects in the center, on the tables, hazy behind smoking incense. These shapes were somehow menacing in their somber outlines, like malignant ghosts. I don't consider myself superstitious, but there are times when I get distinctly nervous about the supernatural, and this was such a time. Something was brooding, menacing, unnatural, in this room.

  I don't know how long we sat there, with me trying to get up nerve to walk out and never quite making it. Probably only a few minutes, though even that was far too long for comfort. Why had Oba brought me here? I had only tried to help her when she fell. That damned music kept insinuating itself into the crevices in my civilized armor, undermining my certainty that black magic had gone out with the onset of the twentieth century. My eyes darted guiltily around as if seeking some escape. Now it seemed that we sat in some kind of pavilion, with hand-hewn poles supporting a palm-thatched canopy. I had not noticed that when we entered, but it must have been here, perhaps concealed by the gloom. It now seemed as though we were in an isolated jungle temple rather than a city building. I was reminded vaguely of Halloween. I counted some fifty or sixty people and knew there were more I could not see without making myself too obvious. All silent, all somber.

  The music stopped. Apparently that had been merely the introductory piece; now the live show was to begin. A figure entered and marched to the center. It was obviously the man in charge. He wore a white suit, white shoes, white socks, white hat, and looked like a businessman, except for the multiple rattling bone and shell necklaces he sported. He was dark-skinned. Actually, three quarters of the people in Brazil were some shade of dark, ranging from off-white to solid black. He had short, dark, greasy hair that looked as though it wanted to curl but couldn't. His face was pockmarked from acne or smallpox and he had a gold tooth in front, but his eyes were bright and compelling. He was neither tall nor young, being forty-five or fifty and standing about five-two, and he was thin—yet he had the subtle mannerisms of good breeding and education. I was struck again by the contrast the largest necklace made: it had a large crystal bead, followed by white, blue, red, yellow, black, green and brown beads. Tasteless—I thought then.

  The man spoke, and now seven young women traipsed in, scantily clad in robes of many colors. So there was after all to be entertainment of some sort; every time I thought I had it straight, something happened to change the picture.

  The girls formed a circle around the man. He went to the tables and struck a wooden match. The sulfurous flare of light was eye-stabbing in the gloom, making me wince. The master-of-ceremonies touched it to a candle on the main table, pronouncing strange-sounding words. I mean these didn't even sound like Portuguese, but some litany from the hidden heart of the Dark Continent. Then he brought out from a cabinet below another hooded object and set it on the table beside the candle. He took a small pitcher of water and poured some on the floor before the table, three times.

  Suddenly the candle was snuffed out as if by an unseen hand. I jumped, though of course this was merely some magic trick or a random draft of air. There was a general murmur of alarm; evidently the spectators did not view this as coincidence.

  The man lit the candle again, bowed his head reverently before the covered figure, and spoke in that strange tongue again: Ala le ele cupas ofago meco Eleggua ake boro ake boye, tori toru la ya fi yoroure. Or something like that; I really did not catch it. And the candle went out again.

  Now there was a fair commotion in the room. Something was definitely wrong.

  The master-of-ceremonies seemed to realize it too. He whipped off the hood—and there was the cement head of the god whose offerings I had raided.

  "Eleggua," the girl beside me murmured.

  So that was the name of the god, my nemesis. I had misunderstood when she said "Umbanda" before; the one was the cult, the other the god. This was no entertainment, it was a genuine voodoo ceremony. And why did that make me so nervous?

  The witch doctor—for so I knew him to be now, despite his mostly modern dress—spoke to the idol. He brought out a fat cigar, lit it, puffed, and blew the smoke at the head. No insult, I realized; evidently the god liked good cigars, and this was its way of experiencing them. Then the man set the cigar still burning, down beside the image as an offering.

  Once more he lit the candle. But somehow his sleeve caught it, and the candle tipped over to fail against the head. The grease flared up, producing copious smoke, while the witch doctor stepped back in alarm. Ignorant as I was, I knew that this was entirely unorthodox, in fact, a sacrilege.

  The blazing head exploded. Fragments of pottery, cement and hard dirt fell to the floor. And underneath that heat-shattered visage was revealed—a human skull.

  "Exu!" many voices cried, shocked. And somehow I understood that this was a new and terrible aspect of the god. This was, in fact, Satan.

  And the awful square hollows of those two eye-sockets stared straight at me.

  The witch doctor was quick to notice this fact. He pointed to me. "Who are you?" he cried, whether in Portuguese, African or English I could not tell in my confusion, but I understood him well enough. "Who are you who has enraged our God?"

  Now Oba was staring at me with horror. She had never suspected she was harboring such a criminal.

  There was nothing for it but to face the music. I stood up. "I am Jason Striker of America. I took food and clothing and money from this god's shrine in the city because I needed them. I faced death otherwise, and did not know he would object so strongly." I was really saying I did not know I would get caught.

  Now all the people were staring at me as though I had broken wind in church—as perhaps I had.

  Suddenly I was on trial. Yet the witch doctor was fair. "Evidently you do not know our customs," he said in English. "You have insulted the most savage aspect of one of our most powerful gods, and he will have his reckoning. Thieves are legion in Rio; nothing is safe, especially during the carnival. But no one, no one steals from the gods! Especially not savage Exu." And he looked grim.

  So that was why those items had remained untouched beside the idol. I should have known that anything stealable would have been stolen long before I got there. I looked around, bracing myself for action, going down instinctively into a basic defensive position: legs slightly spread for good balance, one arm high and the other low for defense or attack. I was sorry I had offended these people, but I wasn't going to submit myself to primitive voodoo vengeance without a fight. I had already had my fill of Brazilian custom in prison.

  "Peace," the witch doctor said. "We shall not hurt you. Exu himself will secure his reckoning in his own fashion. You cannot escape it."


  Oh. They believed, of course. Primitivism extended right into the present, here in Brazil. Yet I was nervous. The way the god had seemed to reject the offering, and changed its aspect to orient on me—the witch doctor could not have known beforehand.

  "I must ask the god what he wishes," the witch doctor said. "We cannot proceed with our mass without the despacho, the ritual offering to Exu. He must accept it, or we are lost. We must appease him."

  I didn't want any more trouble if I could avoid it. There were too many people here for me to overcome; certainly I could not escape without hurting someone. Besides that, I was in the wrong. If the witch doctor was willing to be reasonable, I would have to go along.

  "I shall use the shells," he said. "The Table of Ifa is infallible." He took sixteen small shells in both hands, rubbed them together, then threw them on a straw mat. He studied the configuration, then threw them again. Some landed on their "top", sides, the serrations like little mouths, while others showed their hollows. I was reminded of the I Ching of the Chinese, in which yarrow sticks are thrown into patterns and interpreted by the books; my friend Kobi Chija had used that method on occasion. Kobi, the father of Chiyako, my lost fiancée.

  That memory was painful, as always, and I concentrated on what the witch doctor was doing. He threw the shells four times, then looked at me.

  "On the first throw of the caracoles only two shells were upright," he said. "This would be Exu speaking, and the proverb he invokes is 'There is an arrow between brothers.' It is possible that this is a warning, a curse he has placed on you, fomenting trouble between you and—"

  "I have no brother," I said.

  "Or one close to you. The god does not choose to express his sentiment in a single phrase, and we would not understand it if he did, for we are merely mortals. The second throw showed nine shells upright; this is a clarification by one of the other gods: 'Your best friend is your worst enemy.' This strengthens the first warning."

  "If that's the curse, it's a bad one," I agreed, uncertain how to react. The man seemed perfectly sincere, explaining this to me as I would explain a fundamental judo point to a new student. Why did he bother? He could hardly have any good feeling for me.

  Later I was to learn that in fact Santerios, as they are known in Spanish, often do maintain a doctor-patient relationship, having genuine interest in the welfare of their clients. A few are avaricious and some are frauds, as with any profession, but most are honest and competent. So this was in character for the man. This adventure was to give me a lot more respect for the witch doctor. Once I would have sneered at the very notion of voodoo. Not any more.

  "You could not have chosen a worse god to offend," he agreed. "I have been pai-de-Santo for many years, and I have never before seen Exu so angry. We must resolve this crisis, or there will be terrible trouble."

  "For you as well as me?" I inquired, perplexed. I had the growing feeling that I was dealing with a sincere man; he had a manner about him that compelled respect.

  "For us all," he said. "Your offense was from ignorance, but it can be no accident that you came here. Exu summoned you, to call you to account. Therefore we are obliged to work with you, to help you expiate his anger. If we fail, that wrath will fall on us, for we are not ignorant."

  I felt more and more like a heel. At the same time I wondered: Oba had fallen at precisely the time I was there to catch her; could the god have stricken her at his convenience? Then Oba had changed her mind, as though guided by some voice in her head, and brought me here, and that decision had happened under the eye of the god, in the store. I preferred to call my presence coincidence, but I had to admit there was a pretty strong case to be made the other way. The way Eleggua had refused the candle and manifested as Exu—well, there's a bit of the primitive in every man, and the primitive in me was ready to believe. "I don't suppose just apologizing and giving back the things I took would suffice?"

  "I do not know," he said. "But I suspect it would not suffice, for then others might have the notion that they could take Exu's things and return them only when challenged. More likely he seeks to make an example of you, so that never again will his chapels be profaned. Exu may even have directed your initial offense with that in mind; we can not yet know." If this complication upset him, he gave no sign. "The third throw showed eleven shells upright. This is Exu speaking again: 'Be distrustful; carry water in a straw basket.'"

  "Can't carry much water that way," I remarked. "Even I know that!"

  "Precisely. Do not depend on what you see, for it will slip away like water through straw. The fourth throw showed twelve shells upright: 'You are defeated through your own fault.'"

  "But why should Exu curse me?" I asked. "I'm ready to make amends. In fact, I planned to return the things when I had a chance; I'm sure I said as much at the time. I never sought any quarrel with him. It doesn't make much sense."

  "Not immediately; not to you," he said. "Let us see whether Exu's ire has abated."

  I sat down again, and the ceremony resumed. This time there were no hitches. Exu accepted the cigar and candy. There was a sigh of relief through the hail. My own sigh was among the others. Now the three drums started, making an intricate syncopation. The seven girls danced. Their movements were symbolic, not erotic; I soon felt myself swept up in the ascending beat of it. My feet moved; my hands tapped. But I kept my seat, not wanting any more trouble. Oba, beside me, had relaxed; I was no longer an albatross.

  On and on it went, the beat louder, more insistent, the girls moving faster, their beads and shell-necklaces rattling rhythmically. The others in the mass were as rapt as I. Voodoo this might be, but it had its compulsion.

  Suddenly one of the girls screamed and fell. She writhed on the floor, but the others kept on dancing, as if hypnotized by the drums. The fallen one wore black, and her necklace had triplets of red beads alternating with triplets of black ones. From her mouth poured a chanting stream of unintelligible sounds, out of which leaped the electrifying words "Jason Striker!"

  The witch doctor—or more correctly, pai-de-Santo—when in Brazil, speak as the Brazilians do, I always say—listened intently. I realized that the dancer had been possessed by the god she represented, Exu, and that that god was not finished with me. And in the throbbing pulse of the dance and the flow of the girl's words, I felt an awful chill. I had entered this place an innocent skeptic; now I was becoming a guilty believer. What a mouthful the god had to say about me!

  At last it stopped. The girl lay still for perhaps thirty seconds, then climbed to her feet a bit shakily and resumed her dance. I was sorry for her, for the brutish possession she had had to suffer on my account; it had surely not been pleasant for her. Now flecks of blood were on her costume where the spittle of her seizure had landed.

  The pai-de-Santo came to me, frowning. "It is very bad," he said. "Exu accepted the dispacho only to enable the ceremony to proceed, that he might make his ire properly known."

  "Uh-oh," I said, and I was not being facetious.

  "He has put a terrible curse on you. You will be slain by your best friend, at the time you least suspect. Exu has spoken, and will not be appeased."

  So it was only a voodoo curse, by a god I didn't believe in. Nothing to alarm me, yet I was alarmed. The drums, the dance, the divination by shells, the speaking with tongues-there was an authenticity and authority about all this that forced my unwilling acceptance. I knew voodoo had an appalling hold over illiterate superstitious peasants, yet this was a bustling big city, and many in the audience wore expensive clothing. This Umbanda evidently had an aducated clientele. They believed, but I was a more civilized modern man—wasn't I?

  "You may not believe," the pai-de-Santo said without rancor. "But Exu is all-powerful. He can strike you anywhere in Brazil; only by returning quickly to your homeland, where your own god is strong, can you hope to escape him."

  "I'd like to," I said. "But I couldn't stay out of Brazil. I have a mission here."

  "Then perform it quickly,
if you value your life," he said. "Dead men accomplish few missions."

  "I can't promise to do it quickly," I said. "I'll just have to take my chances."

  "Chance is not a factor, with Exu," he warned. "He will manifest his will despite all you can do."

  I shrugged. "I appreciate your sincerity. But I must do what I must do." Even though I had no idea what I had to do.

  He shook his head. "You are like the man who does not believe a car can hurt him, so he walks without regard to traffic. He is a fool."

  "I'd like nothing better than to leave Brazil forever," I said, nettled. "But I have unfinished business, people I can not abandon. I have never run from anybody, and I'm not starting now."

  Not quite true, as I was fleeing from the Death Squad-but that was a special situation. I could have doubled back and ambushed the Squad any time—but what point, more killing?

  He shook his head. "I admire your courage."

  A small man came over. "Pardon my interruption," he said in a husky voice. "But are you not, under all that dirt, Jason Striker, who broke from prison?"

  Trouble already! I tensed, ready to move the moment he did. "Yes. And I know the Death Squad is after me. And now Exu has cursed me, but I'm going to hell in my own fashion, if you please."