Dead Man's Walk (The Shell Scott Mysteries), page 13
I could see that the taller of the two men standing was Mordieux. The other was facing away from me, but then he turned, shaking something in his right hand—and the sight of his face sent a small shock through my nerves.
It was the man who'd met me at the dock the other night, the spook who'd tried to freeze my blood or perform something equally unpleasant upon me. But more: In that moment I finally put the face I'd seen above the Sunrise's second-floor rail this morning with the man to whom it belonged. The guy who'd searched my room—and, of course, stolen the blue shirt, some of which later appeared on my little doll—was also the spook who'd shaken his rattle at me when I arrived on Verde. The same bushy hair and brows, the same sharp-featured face. And he was, I had been told—and now could see for myself—Count Mordieux’ confiance, Michel, the man who'd taken the place of the dead Paul Yuré.
Mordieux, and Michel—and was the third man, the one lying flat, and very still on the ground, Paul Yuré? The body of Paul Yuré? I could just barely see the man's face, but I couldn't tell who it was, or even if the man was alive or dead. But he lay there as still, as unmoving and apparently lifeless, as a dead man.
The main fire burned in a pit, which was, from where I lay, beyond all three men; there were several torches ringing the area, adding their wavering reddish glow to the scene. The men and women gathered here watching the ceremony, or participating in it, stood three or four deep in two lines, one on either side of the area where Mordieux and the others were. I'd chosen a spot from which I could look straight ahead at Mordieux and Michel and the one I assumed was the dead man, and between the two groups of men and women to my left and right.
Michel moved to one side and Mordieux walked closer to the man lying on the ground. It was very quiet. On my left I could see three men with different-sized drums before them, but they weren't beating on them, and none of the natives made a sound.
I looked over both groups but couldn't see anyone even remotely resembling Vanessa. I hadn't really expected her to be here, but there certainly wasn't a blonde white woman in this gathering. All of those here were dark-skinned, most of them simply and even drably dressed, but a few of them, especially among the women, wore brightly colored outfits that looked as if they were made of shiny silk or satin.
All eyes were on Mordieux.
He stood at the feet of the man under the white sheet, facing away from him and looking straight ahead between the two lines of people—looking, it appeared, straight at me. And I started wondering seriously what these people would do if they spotted me.
Mordieux raised his hands and called out something in a strong voice, half-singing in a kind of rolling chant. When he stopped it was quiet for a second or two, then the three men simultaneously pounded on their drums. Each man struck his drum with a different beat, but all three sounds blended into an odd rhythmic pattern I'd never heard before. It was strange, compelling, pulse-stirring but eerie at the same time.
Then a strong clear voice sang out, and in response all the other people gathered here joined in, chanting in unison, the hundred voices rising and falling in an impressive cadence that seemed to mimic the previous rhythm of the drums. And I noticed who it was that had begun the singing, taken the lead. Chicha. Of course. Mordieux’ hungenikon. She who led the choir, started and stopped the songs.
Twice more that was repeated, Mordieux speaking, then the drums talking, a strong rippling phrase from the hungenikon, followed by the chanting of the crowd. But when all the voices stopped for the third time there was a kind of finality to it, and the silence seemed suddenly heavy, deeper and more still. In the silence Mordieux spoke softly, but I clearly heard the name Paul Yuré. Dria had been right about this much; so she was undoubtedly right about the rest of it, what was to happen now.
I could see Count Mordieux clearly enough in the light from the fire and torches—and that brilliant moon over us. Near the corpse was a small group of items to which Mordieux now moved. He picked up something—a chicken. A dead chicken. It hung from his hand, head swinging limply as Mordieux moved back to the corpse and kneeled by it again. He passed the dead bird over the man's head several times, chanting in a low voice, then pulled a handful of feathers from it.
In total and almost oppressive silence, Mordieux took, from a little bag or box, a white powder. With the powder he made a cross on the man's head, and then plucked a bit of hair from the head of the corpse. He placed the bit of hair in a small white pot, added the chicken feathers and some other things I couldn't see. He held the pot in both hands, raised it up and down before him, and spoke solemnly for a full minute.
I almost forgot that I was an uninvited, and unwanted, guest at a secret voodoo ceremony, forgot what the special significance of Mordieux’ actions might be to me. I became simply a spectator, just as rapt in attention as the others now silently standing, staring at Mordieux. I don't know what I expected to happen. But clearly the men and women here assembled were now at a peak not only of attention but of emotion. I could feel the emotion that held them and moved through their minds and bodies, and maybe in a strange way some of what they felt was transmitted to me.
Mordieux stood with the little pot in his hands and spoke into the night, and I heard the name “Paul Yuré” again, and the word “loa,” and several other names, some of which were familiar to me and some of which were strange. Then he placed the pot to one side and turned to the corpse. In his right hand he held a rattle, the asson, and with his left he made sweeping passes over the body. He leaned over the corpse, then bent and got under the white sheet with it.
As he crouched over the dead man he shook his rattle and called out again the names of the loa, calling upon them, invoking them. Then be bent forward and with his mouth to the dead man's ear whispered something I couldn't hear. I heard only the sibilant rustle of his voice. Then he raised himself erect and moved back toward the feet of the corpse.
I could see the hump of Mordieux’ back, the sheet over him and the dead man, and beyond Mordieux the dim blur of the man's face. I was breathing through my mouth, and my lips and tongue were a little dry.
Suddenly Mordieux called out, in a voice shockingly loud, “Paul Yuré!'
And an awful thing happened.
I couldn't believe my eyes. The dead man moved. A shudder ran through the body. I saw the arms twitch and the shoulders heave. The head lifted from the ground. I could see the face, the oddly shaped scar, the flattened nose of Paul Yuré. There was no sound. Mordieux and the crowd were completely silent. No sound—except the faint rustling movements of the corpse. Those shudders still moved the body's arms and shoulders. The head lifted a little more, even more. And the corpse sat up.
My God, I thought, is he alive? Alive now—or still alive? Was he never dead? Was I imagining all this? Was it the silver moonlight, the drumming and chanting, the eeriness of this place and the almost hypnotic ritual?
I was standing.
I hadn't been aware of getting to my feet, but in the moment when the corpse moved and sat up I must have risen from the ground. I had not only seen the dead man move but I had seen his face. And it was the same face I'd seen in the funeral parlor last night. It was Paul Yuré. And he had sure as fate been dead then or I've never seen a dead man. The shock must have made me stand, or maybe jump, to my feet.
Whatever I did, it was seen.
Michel, standing near the group on my left, moved his hands suddenly, as if clapping them, but didn't make a sound. Then he pointed. At me. The corpse fell back, suddenly. I heard the head hit with a dull thump. It didn't move any more.
But Mordieux did. He got out from under the sheet, stood erect, turned and faced me.
And there was a low sigh from the crowd.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
All the men and women had seen me, were looking at me now.
I felt like running. But if I turned and ran, if I even tried to get away, I knew they'd all come after me. And if they once started chasing me they wouldn't be individual men and women but a mob—a mob, moreover, with Mordieux at its head.
No, this was not a time to run. At least not yet
So I walked forward. Toward the now still and silent corpse. Toward Count Mordieux. And the hundred men and women around him.
The silence was total, unreal. It seemed I was the only thing in this whole valley that moved. The men and women stood like dark statues silvered by the moonlight. Mordieux too was unmoving, staring at me, as if frozen in shock. In that strange and unnatural silence I moved forward and I could hear only the sound of my footsteps, and my breathing. It was as if the earth itself was hushed, as if the winds had died. I felt as though I were the only living thing in this dark valley, as if I walked among the dead, one man moving in a clearing filled with silvered corpses standing in silent rows.
But then Mordieux spoke.
He raised a long arm toward me, extended finger pointing, and cried something that sounded harsh and vicious. I could see his steel teeth gleam and glitter as he spat the words at me—at me, but to the crowd. They heard, and there was a sigh from them, a rising and falling whisper from the hundred throats or more.
And then Mordieux spoke again—to me, and so that I could understand him. But it was clear he not only wanted me to understand, but wanted his followers to understand as well.
He said, “You have come to a sacred place, of your own will, and alive. But you will not leave alive. You will not leave to speak profane words of what you have seen."
He spoke in a rhythmic chant that had a truly hypnotic quality. And there were words from the others now, words of anger. There was violence in the sound of the voices, the sharp crack and guttural rumble of the words.
“You will be killed,” Mordieux called in a loud voice. “It is right that you be killed! Killed!"
I didn't like his saying that word over and over. These characters had already been worked up into a kind of cold lather, and in another second or two the Count would have them jumping up and down on me. But I wasn't exactly sure what I could do about it.
My arms were at my sides, and I squeezed my hands into fists, pressing them against my thighs—and I felt against my right forearm the lump of something in my coat pocket. As soon as I felt it I realized what it was. The little white-haired death doll.
So before Mordieux could say anything else—like more of that “Killed! Killed!” bit, I said, “It won't work, Mordieux. You're a fraud, a fake hungan—and I'm here to prove it."
I spoke very loud, too; in fact, I shouted, because I wanted all these people to hear me clearly. I pulled the little doll from my pocket and held it over my head. Looking from one group of men and women to the other, I shouted, “Some of you were at Count Mordieux’ sanctuary this past morning. There you hear Mordieux say I was to die, and you heard me say he lied, that he is a bad hungan, a boko, a false and evil one who works with both hands and uses bought loa."
I was only three or four feet from Mordieux and I could see anger twist his features. He cried something I couldn't understand, and there was more muttering from the crowd. But I got in just as many shouts during the next minute as he did.
I yelled, “Your hungan wishes to kill me—that is true. He sends the dead to eat upon the living, he works black magic and makes wanga to harm and kill. But because his roots are in the petro loa and he works evil, the good loa, and even his own, are deserting him. This night he has tried to kill me—but not as would a true hungan. No, with the method of a common murderer, with poison...."
Right then the fuzziness which had been floating in my head earlier congealed into an idea. Maybe not the best I'd ever had, but something that just might help get a few of these people on my side. Mordieux had interrupted my spiel a couple of times and was still yelling, but when he stopped for breath I moved in again.
“He did poison me,” I shouted. “But the poison did not work on me. It was poison to kill, but it did not kill! I am here to show Mordieux—and all of you—that his poison is too weak to kill, that he is the one who will be destroyed when his loa turn upon him."
The two lines of men and women had moved closer and now surrounded Mordieux and me and the corpse on the ground. I could see the firelight flicker on the dark, almost expressionless faces. I could smell them. I could literally feel their heavy and ominous presence. They hemmed me in now; I'd have no chance of getting through those massed bodies—unless they let me through.
And that idea, which had just congealed, was something that couldn't be done now. It would take planning, a lot of planning. Tomorrow I could do it. If I could manage to stay alive till tomorrow.
A few feet from me I saw two men standing together, big men with barrel chests and plenty of muscles. They were the same two I'd noticed this past morning, bare-chested and wearing faded blue trousers, at Mordieux’ sanctuary.
I looked at them and said, “You were there, at the humfo.” I tossed the small doll toward them and one of the men caught it. “That is your hungan's work. He—” I looked around till I spotted Michel—"and your hungan's confiance, Michel, made this to work magic upon me, that I would die. But you see I live. And Mordieux will not—he cannot—kill me. All of his work is for nothing. To me this wanga is like salt to the living dead."
When I mentioned the salt there were mumblings and soft ejaculations from many near me. They knew what that meant. Perhaps some were even wondering if what I said was true.
Mordieux was yelling—almost raving. He didn't quite come out and say that some of these husky guys should throttle me or stomp me to death. Not in so many words. But his implication was transparent, and when two or three men moved toward me I held a hand out toward them and said, “Is Count Mordieux so weak he must have men do his work for him? Perhaps he would like the women to do his work?"
I looked at Mordieux. “Is that your power, Mordieux? To have women do the things your weak loa cannot do? Ah, you are a fine hungan. A fine weak hungan who hides behind the skirts of women."
That got him. He clanked his choppers together several times, as if in a toothy little anvil chorus—and suddenly I had another idea. Again, however, it was something that would have to wait till tomorrow.
I glanced around, looking at the women this time, and my eyes stopped on a familiar face. The woman was in a baggy, shapeless dress that fell to the ground like a Hawaiian muumuu, but I'd seen her leading the songs here. And dancing earlier. Chicha.
The black eyes blinked.
Directly to her I said, “Let us hear from the women themselves. Should you, or your men, do for Mordieux what his loa cannot do? He speaks of my death, of killing me. I say he cannot. I say your hungan is weak and has no powers that can harm me. His magic is weaker than my magic; his power is less than my power."
I was almost starting to enjoy it—getting corrupted by power, I guess—and was going on, but decided to cut it off there. A hint was enough.
I was still looking at Chicha. She pressed her lips together, then looked at Mordieux. She said something in that combination of French-based Creole and Spanish and what sounded like pure African, and when she finished several others, both men and women, commented in what sounded, even though I couldn't be sure, like agreement. Judging by the sour and unjoyous expression on Mordieux’ face he wasn't happy with the comments. But he was on a spot now, too. His authority had been challenged, he'd been called unpleasant names; it was up to him to make me waste away and die, or vanish, or whatever he had in mind.
So I said to him, “I say you can do nothing to me, Mordieux. I say before the members of your humfo that you tried to kill me tonight—with the common murderer's poison—and failed. I say not you nor all your bought loa can bring harm to me."
Of course, if he tried to stick me with a stiletto, or strangle me, or anything like that, I intended to haul out my gat and plug him. But I figured he would—later—try more devious ways.
At least he then spoke not to me but to the people, waving his arms and even striking his chest a couple of times. I couldn't understand a word of it, but it seemed clear he was giving them the big-man bit, telling them he was the greatest and such. And, of course, would fix my wagon.
I let him say it all. And when it seemed likely the gang wasn't going to attack me and pull off my arms and legs I interrupted him. “Where is Vanessa Gayle, Mordieux?"
I let my eyes fall on Chicha's face as I went on, “The woman I was with at Joe's tonight. Then—when I was given the poison which did not kill—she left, or was taken away. If harm comes to her, greater harm will come to those who are responsible.” I paused. “And if anyone knows of her, knows where she is, there would be much reward for telling me."
Well, nothing happened; but at least I'd gotten that message in, too. I still didn't think any of these people were on my side enough so they'd tell me anything. Not yet. But maybe they would tomorrow.
And with that thought in my mind I looked around and said—with as much confidence and as casual an air as I could muster, which wasn't as much as I'd have liked—"I have said many things of your hungan, Count Mordieux. And I have said his power is less than mine. This I will prove to you. This I will prove—tomorrow."
Then I turned and walked toward the mass of men and women seven or eight feet away on my right. If they didn't move, I was going to be pretty well deflated.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I didn't move with real speed, just slow, even steps. Perhaps two dozen men formed a clump of flesh I had to get through.
I took the first step, the second, the third. One more step and I'd bump into a thick guy with a very sour expression, but I didn't slow down. I took the step—and at the last moment he was out of my way.
There was a little bumping and shoving as the people edged to one side or the other. But I didn't have to touch any of them. They formed an open space, a path about three feet wide, and I walked through. I felt some very creepy sensations up and down my spine, and in my tightly coiled gut, and even in my extremely dry mouth. But I got through.
