Mile Zero (46 page)

Justo had not taken St. Cloud to meet Aunt Oris because he thought the man was simply confused with desperate desire for a younger woman, he took St. Cloud because he thought Aunt Oris might save his life. There were many things that occurred on the island best left unexplained, these were the things Aunt Oris understood, she worked both sides of the spiritual street, calling upon deities from two cultures. In her nearly century-old body, with its twig thin bones and small skull pulled tight with dark luminescent skin, there resided a presence transcending merely human endeavors. Aunt Oris possessed a prescient practicality of survival, embracing religiosity unencumbered by formal teachings, inspired by pragmatism in a world not ruled by doctrine, but dominated by sheer force of individual will. The net of Aunt Oris cast far and wide, gathering in young and old across the island, yet her powers remained unspoken to outsiders, were never referred to directly by insiders. To conjoin Aunt Oris’ beliefs with one’s own desire for healing and protection offered a powerful bonding unto itself. Hers was power not predicated solely on obeisance and
ceremony, rather it was rooted in that most simplistic of all faiths, faith in oneself, then faith to step outside oneself.

Aunt Oris was blind, but even if she could see it would make no difference that St. Cloud was white, she recognized no color. She saw not into people, but through things. She did not need to be told of toads in the cemetery with mouths nailed shut, of hanging goats in the bat tower with ears slashed off, nor be informed of a connecting line of bizarre poetry which inexplicably ran through her great-nephew Justo and the outsider he brought to her house. She needed no reminder that the shadow of fear was rapidly filling, that Justo sensed deep in his soul something far more sinister than Colombian cowboys loose in the streets, preparing to strike. Justo need not explain he wanted St. Cloud kept alive because he was more than a close
compañero
, he was a touched soul, with the gift of tongues. That gift, if directed, could touch others. Justo still intended it to touch Voltaire. He had not sent prior word of his visit to Aunt Oris. She always knew Justo was going to appear, and lit perfumed candles at her bedroom altar to Santa Barbara days before he arrived. She was more than a blood relation, she was his spiritual Godmother, protector in this life and guide into the next world, the one who placed Saints in his path to guide the way. If he betrayed the Saints she would be aware of it. He had to prove his faith continually, only the faithful could battle spirits from beyond. With the Saints on his side Justo could fight Zobop, but for St. Cloud to survive he must prove his faith. Zobop was not one thing, but many, a magical gangster who changed victims into beasts before slaughtering them. This Justo learned from Aunt Oris; her eyes, which could not see the present, still saw the past. She spoke to Justo and St. Cloud of a time in the old land, before even Slavers came, in villages where people feared to venture from safety of mudded huts, because beyond in dark bush was Zobop, who was not to be denied. “And what about this?” Justo asked Aunt Oris, rising from a chair in her kitchen where he had been listening, placing between the polished whites of her palms the old glass jar filled with rusted fishhooks, bent coins and twisted nails, which had been mysteriously left on St. Cloud’s doorstep. He sat back down and winked reassuringly at St. Cloud, who had no idea what was going on. The kitchen was cluttered with bundled herbs and dried flowers of every scent and color, faded photographs of black Saints torn from faith-healing magazines papered the walls. On top
of the refrigerator a bronzed cross writhing with a plastic crucified Christ was illuminated by flickering red votive candles. The blade of a severely sharpened machete gleamed in one corner. Curious youngsters peered through an open window at St. Cloud, behind them muscular men stood watch over the old woman who lived in the little shack longer than anyone remembered, who spent freely from her treasure trove of generous spirit, a woman they would lay down their lives for. Chickens in the yard cackled as a white fan-tail pigeon landed in a jacaranda tree blooming purple. Aunt Oris shook the jar Justo had handed her, listening intently to the rattle of hooks, coins and nails within. She raised the jar to her ear, bending to its rounded cool shape, as if divining the roar of the sea within a conch shell. Her white hair fell across her face, covering the jar. Her knees came up beneath the simple cotton of her dress as she pushed back in a cane rocker and hummed, not sounding a tune or hymn, but a distant, private incantation, building momentum. The creaking rocker swept her near weightless being to and fro across the plank board floor. Over the heads of curious children at the window the white fan-tail pigeon appeared in a flurry of outstretched wings, catching a precarious perch on Aunt Oris’ shoulder. The sudden apparition surprised St. Cloud, he’d seen his share of park pigeons swoop and drop their splatter of white poop on many a statue, but he had never seen a wild pigeon land on a person’s shoulder. Quickly as the fan-tail achieved its balanced purpose, it lifted from Aunt Oris’ shoulder, fluttering around the room, a trapped spirit in dim sunlight, finally finding the open window and winging away over the heads of the incredulous children, who jumped back at the sudden voice coming from Aunt Oris. Shouted words drowned out the loudly creaking rocker, words reverberating with the nervous intensity of a young bride testifying to eternal fidelity before a church full of strangers. “Aint seen no bad as dis since we wer’n de times of Mistah Roozvelt. Durin de Big Wind, de times of de Big Breath of O comes blowin o’er dis islind. Lordee laud, de peoples deyblowin way’n yonder inta de ocin’s graves. Go’n comin agin, yah yah, comin agin. It wer’n de year de Flaglir fella’s rayroad done blow’n down, an de sponges, dey all die in de ocin’s bed. An my husbin cry’n cause all de fishins in de ocins be dy’n too. I sez husbin, hushin now honie, be mo bettah by’n bye, ya’ll sees. Jes pray to de O. O makin show yo gits de pay.” Aunt Oris stopped rocking, holding the old jar in quivering hands, her molten gray eyes going through Justo across from her, her forehead folded in wrinkles
of concern, her voice swiftly changing to that of a terrified small girl calling down a narrow alley at phantom shapes moving violently in darkness. “Oh Mistah Filor sly as de mouse, but he doan be what dey thinkin he be. Ya’ll lookin in dis here bottle from de sea. Ya’ll thinkin yo see Jay-sis in dis here glass prisin. Ya’ll thinkin dese nails be from de Jay-sis cross, dat dese hooks from Saint Petrie’s boat in de sea of Gal-o-lee, n dese coins be from Jewel-yes Seizure’s purse. NO. Ya’ll bin thinkin wrong. Dis jar no sign Jay-sis a comin. Dis here be Filor’s work, he be a bufo toad talkin through sewed up lips. Filor’s like de crab, what is mo bettah den de man, cause crab doan need no helpin hand makin his palace in de sand. Dis here be no
Guede Ni Bo
, ain’t no Jay-sis desendin. Dis be
Ti Puce lan d’ L’eau
, a lil flea in water. Dis be hissin an kissin
Danbhalah
his many selfs. Y’all bewares he doan gits no drum to makes a Big Wind a’comin. Serpent man
Danbhalah
gots no ears. God takes em long agos, stretched em on de temple drums so only Priests can talk to
Danbhalah
. Sometimes
Danbhalah
go in disguises, lookin to makin a false drum to fool de peoples he is a Great Papa drum talkin from de temples.
Danbhalah
takin de ears from de goat to makes his false sound ring true, mislead peoples from de righteous crossroads.” Aunt Oris’ frail body collapsed in the rocker. Sunlight through the window above the children’s silhouetted heads was almost gone, the candles atop the refrigerator flickered down, throwing shadows across the walls of sainted black faces. Aunt Oris’ eyes did not close. She sat in almost complete stillness, her shallow breathing barely perceptible, as if in deep yet wide-eyed sleep, dreaming an upright dream while sunlight melted. Murmurs from the muscular men in the yard grew lower, then stopped. A clouded sense of foreboding gathered in the small shack. Justo lit a beeswax candle in a coconut shell atop a high bureau of drawers. A moaning came from Aunt Oris. Her body heaved in a shudder, anxious words sputtering anew from her lips, catching Justo up with a start. “Oh migh divine Horseman! Doan let dem trap yo! Run migh man! Pray to de Great Papa before de boat sink!” The words hurled at Justo as Aunt Oris bolted to the edge of her rocker, trembling hands reaching out in darkness, running over Justo’s face as tears flowed down her own. “Oh migh sweet blood, migh soul, migh mighty Horseman!” The words rasped in near breathless sobs. “Doan yo let Zobop cut his yellow X on yo chest! Doan be fool to step into Zobop’s yellow circle!” Aunt Oris slumped, her sobs quieting as worried murmurs from muscular men in the yard started again. Justo sat back down next to
St. Cloud. Aunt Oris’ cotton dress appeared to be a simple shroud draped on the fragile outline of her body, her lower legs seemed invisible, her shoes empty of feet. A detached voice emerged from her with disconcerting strength, unwavering, its intentions directed straight at St. Cloud. “Yo be bad luck! A hex man! Born wit de name
Saint
. Only Saints be
Saints
, born wit out sins. Saints sins later, when dey doubts de holy truths. Yo gots to believe to be de Saint. Uproot doubts. I see doubts follow yo like clouds of rain. I sees arrows in yo heart from Queen Erzulie, Mistress of Water. Yo gots deep water in yo brain. Erzulie is drowning yo in her swamp of kisses. The Queen be laughin at yo, cause yo no Saint. Her kisses be wet but her hearts be dry. Cause yo doubt, Erzulie go drown yo. Zobop’s go’n put his yellow X on yo, less yo wake up. Yo got to believe. Here yo go, boy!” Aunt Oris’ hands dipped into the folds of her cotton dress. St. Cloud could not see what she was doing. The motion of her hands finally came up in dim light, flinging an object at him. It struck his cheek and fell to the floor. “Yo put’n de magic on,” Aunt Oris’ voice urged. “Keep de magic round yo neck so Zobop can’t git it in his noose.” St. Cloud felt on the floor for the object. His fingers traced over a wishbone on a braided string necklace, dried pieces of fowl meat still clung to the bone. “Dat magic keep yo safe, be good as Justo’s chicken bone, only doan be gold. Justo believe, he touch gold, den de loa gods feel him callin. Yo must touch bone to believe. Even den loa Saints may no feel yo callin.” St. Cloud looped the wishbone charm around his neck in darkness. After a while he heard the creaking of Aunt Oris’ rocker again. She cooed in a pigeon contented voice. “Dat mo bettah. Now yo doan doubts so much. Believes what I tells yo bout de Queen. Yo no gits Erzulie like a regular Saint. Gots to feed her specials. Not wit prayers ’n candles. Not wit monies ’n male perfumes. She is sea, pearl of de ocins. De pearl of fish be its eye. Pearl of turtle be its foot. Pearl of octopus be her belly. Gots to feed de Queen differents if yo wants journey to
Zi let En Bas De L’Ea
, de islind way down yondah under de sea. Gots to go down dere where de souls wid no eyes livin. Gots to go dere if yo is de Saint.”

Aunt Oris instructed St. Cloud on matters of cunning and survival which surprised even Justo, who brought him to her seeking protection against an evil operating by ancient rules and perverted ritual. St. Cloud did not leave Aunt Oris a true believer, but with a recipe to entrap his personal Erzulie in the most improbable manner imaginable. He was determined to unlock the door into Lila’s good graces,
insinuate himself by any means into her youthful heart. Aunt Oris did not give him the key to Lila’s door, she gave him the key to a sea of green banana chutney and sweet yam meringue. When a woman asks a man if he loves her, she is not expecting an answer, she is seeking reassurance. When a man cooks for a woman, he is not providing a meal for her belly, he is denuding the soul of his male mystery. If there is one thing common to most women it is, given time to discover, they will always choose a man of substance over mystery. A clever man divests himself of mystery, knowing that when it comes to matters of cohabiting with the opposite sex, the predictable bread of daily sustenance prevails over a salad of promised tomorrows. Thus St. Cloud’s new credo, his secret weapon in the duel for Lila. It was not a mere cook he became, nor a chef of exemplary culinary audacity, on that score Lila herself was not to be undone; instead he stirred up a storm of possessive passion, utilizing herb extracts and root powders to win his cause. Verbena oil was employed to lure his love, rosemary to encourage devotion once love was lured to bed, a smattering of ground coral powder to ensure time with love in bed was harmonious and sustained, passion flower, so love leavened passionately, mustard seed to elicit beautiful children, black snake root to make love’s heart soft, basil to keep her body supple, orange blossoms so love’s secrets would be left beneath her bed pillow each morning. These elements were tossed into the nightly parade of dishes St. Cloud prepared for Lila, an exotic, ever changing fare with origins in the Caribbean and West Indies, all the way back to Africa, straight from Aunt Oris’ lips to St. Cloud’s ears. He haunted the local Cuban
botànica
shops for hard to procure substances of both natural and suspicious origins. He presented himself each morning at the open stalls of the two greengrocers on the island, stalking between mounds of tangerines, tangelos and tamarinds. Afternoons he haunted the charter boat anchorage, in hopes some unsuspecting angler from the Midwest had reeled from the depths an ugly fish rife with prickly scales and ripe with gluey eggs, which could be panfried in guinea cornmeal and jellied shark fins, the odoriferous result free to swim into Lila’s soul. When they dined in his small house at the end of Catholic Lane next to the cemetery, a charm lamp always burned between them. The lamp was a half coconut shell filled with crystallized maple syrup and blackstrap molasses; beneath the goo was a black magnet, above it was stuck a lone beeswax candle, just like the one glowing atop the bureau of drawers through the long night when
Aunt Oris tutored St. Cloud on the ways and wiles of Erzulie, instructing how a mere mortal man could protect himself when setting sail across the Queen’s perilous sea.