NIGHT CRUISING (37 page)

“If you break
your promise, I will kill you,” he said. “I will come in
the night like a shadow and kill you.”

She turned aside,
unable to look him in the face.

He left through the low
door and stood a moment staring up at the starry sky from whence he
derived part of his power. The sky, the earth, the sea, they all gave
him just a particle of their powers, but it was enough. Enough to
raise a human being he did not know yet, but enough to hope to raise
one.

“I’ll be
back as soon as I can. Keep away the family, let no one see her,
allow no ceremony for her spirit. Tell no one, ever, of what happens
here, good or bad, you understand? And while I'm gone keep the flies
away too,” he added. “She must be kept clean and free of
vermin.”

He hurried off into the
night, loping like a gazelle. His talismans were left behind,
discarded on the floor near the dead girl. For this he would not need
them, and in fact, they would play no part. He required special
plants that grew deep in the interior of the jungle, and water from
the sea, and earth from the foot of the great sacred rock where all
former witch doctors had been buried. Three times he had raised the
dead with the secret potion, but if he was successful this fourth
time it would be such a great accomplishment he might think himself a
king rather than a witch doctor.

And the little girl
would be his queen.

#

The island the witch
doctor searched in the dark for his magic ingredients had no name for
the people. Later in history it would be called Hispaniola. It was
home to a few hundred aborigines who did not remember how any of them
had come to be on the island and none of whom had ever tried to leave
it. The land was merely home, the place where they lived out their
lives. Centuries later the island would be conquered and ruled by the
Spanish, who changed the name to Santo Domingo. In 1697 a formal
division of the island occurred changing the name again into Santo
Domingo and Saint-Domingue. Finally, it was changed to Haiti, what an
ancient people used to call it. From that period the island was ruled
over by despots and dictators.

But in this time before
time was kept, it was nothing more than a jungle-encrusted plot of
land in the Atlantic, neglected and ignored, its people savage and
superstitious and alone, so very alone.

There were other witch
doctors, and other small tribes, on various parts of the island, but
Mujai knew he was the greatest of all. He had learned well everything
his father and his grandfather had taught him about the witch arts,
until he surpassed them and discovered, really by chance, the potion
that brought the dead back to life again.

His reputation had
spread and, after it was known he raised up a panther, some even
feared him so much they let themselves die of fevers and infections
rather than call for him. Others, however, knowing his value, came to
his door and kept him rich with food and weapons for his prized
wisdom. Perhaps, he thought, they were afraid, too, so they left him
bribes. They gave him feathers of the rare ni-ni bird that had tail
feathers of royal purple and emerald green. They brought beautiful
shells taken by skilled divers from the sea floor, shells radiant
with rainbow colors. And every fruit and every fish and every varmint
that walked the island had at one time or another been deposited
before his door as a gift.

He had never really
wanted for anything or worked to feed himself. Yet there was one gift
he had never been granted. Mujai had never had a woman. He was too
feared. He was not good marriage material, never even considered as a
mate for a father’s daughters. A man who could raise the dead
was a fearful being indeed. He expected to live a solitary existence
and die old and alone. Until tonight, with the little sleeping-dead
girl who he knew, some way, some how, he would be able to raise up.
She held a promise of the one thing he wanted and missed the most.

It was true the chicken
did not cluck after it was raised. And the dog did not bark. But the
panther, yes, it had been almost as before, roaring, leaping, hunting
prey. But it had seemed to Mujai, following the dead-before-now-alive
panther’s trail for several weeks out of curiosity, it had
seemed the big cat had turned into quite a voracious beast. Keeping
well-hidden and down wind, Mujai watched it many times take it’s
prey apart nearly on the very moment of impact, at the instant of its
death from the panther’s vicious long teeth. Flesh went flying
skyward, to the right and to the left, and still the beast attacked,
ripping and tearing in such a frenzy that its entire face and chest
was slathered with blood from its victim. It did not feed so much as
battle and destroy.

Mujai loped harder and
tapped on his chest for protection, thinking of the beast he had
raised and how dark the night still was, dawn some hours yet in the
distance. Where was that hungry beast now? And was it on the prowl
anywhere nearby for the fearful master who had raised it from the
dead?

And what of the child,
he wondered, suddenly, his lope faltering. Mujai was not a stupid
man, and could follow a line of logic as neatly as anyone. What if
when raised the little girl was changed? Was vicious? Was rapacious?
What if she became a beast who could not be satisfied?

Again Majai tapped his
chest for protection, for good luck, for help from the gods, for the
heavens to favor him, as they had done all his life. He possessed but
this one chance and he would take it, no matter what the outcome.

He took up his running
lope again, for he had to hurry. Many of the plants he needed for the
potion were scattered far and wide. He had much work to do, much
territory to cover. And already the child was cold, so cold.

The breeze from the
ocean wafted across his face, filling his nostrils until he could
taste the brine on his tongue. He could smell the fecund earth and
his nostrils flooded with the scent of various night-blooming flowers
whose perfume was so strong it could dull a weaker man. He
concentrated so the spirit gods would lead him to the plants he
needed. Once calm, it came again on the wind, the scent of the deep,
mysterious sea. He breathed in deeply and smiled. This is my island,
he boasted to himself. I am king here. I am a god here. No one can do
what I have done and what I am about to do. I am afraid of nothing,
nothing. If I fail, no one will know. If I succeed…

He went into a trot and
then into a true all-out run. He had to hurry, hurry, hurry.

He had a child bride to
save. He had a beautiful, innocent, perfectly proportioned queen to
raise up from the dead and to make his very own. She could not remain
dead too long or even the potion would not work.

Yet if it worked! He
would be alone no more. He swore it. Like his grandfather and father
before him, he had found a woman he could take and make his own. That
she was so young did not matter. He could teach her everything and be
patient until she was a few years older. He would spend those years
tutoring her how to work for him, bathe him, fetch and cook and climb
the trees for his honey. He would teach her how to behave. How to
love him as her king, as her Giver of Life. She would, after all, owe
him everything, forever. She would be his
Child-Lover-Mother-Companion-Inspiration, his alone, forever.

CHAPTER 3

COMING ALIVE

The instant the potion
was massaged down her throat so that it slid into her belly, the
magic began to work.

The potion mixed with
the contents of her stomach, permeated the cells of the stomach wall,
drifted into the silent blood stream. Like a horde of marauding ants,
the potion properties invaded the cells. Those cells twinkled to life
and began to move, invading the cells next to them. Within an hour
all the cells of the child’s body had been changed, replaced,
even down into the marrow of her bones. Human cells still, yes, but
the DNA had been tweaked into something beyond human and life now was
not like any life existing on the planet earth.

After waiting the
proper amount of time, Mujai said a wild prayer beneath his breath
and began to pound on the child’s chest. He must get the heart
moving again. This is what he had done with the animals. With each
mild thump he whispered wilder and more desperate prayers to the
gods, asking for this miracle, this one if no other ever again.

He had pushed the
mother from the hut and forbade her from speaking of this death and
this ritual to anyone. He promised to take her life if she did. This
was one raising he did not want to broadcast. In fact, if this
raising worked, he had promised himself he would never do it again.
Somewhere in the center of him where his man spirit resided, he felt
what he was doing was against all nature. Already he had broken the
very rules of the world by raising animals, but to raise a human
being was…well, it was a bad business. He knew that, sensed
it, even though he could not stop from trying to do it.

With each thump on the
girl’s dead chest, he prayed harder.
Do this for me
, he
prayed
. I want her. I need her. She is mine.
Sweat dripped
from his face. Outside the moon had slid around the edge of the world
and soon the sun would peak from over the lip of the blue sea. He
could not be found here in the day, performing this ritual on the
child. If others discovered he could raise a human being, they would
bring every death on the island to him. Corpses outside his hut would
rise higher than the thatched roof and drown the sky.

If they knew of it and
he failed, they would dismiss him as a charlatan. He’d be
thought of as someone who had cruelly made a grieving mother believe
in the impossible. Rather than a king, he would become a pariah. His
people knew no forgiveness. When you did a horribly wrong thing, you
were cast out.

He pounded. He prayed.
He feared defeat. And then life happened like a spark taking hold on
massed palm tree shavings.

Her eyes opened.

Mujai sank back onto
his heels in true astonishment, his hands frozen over her still body.
He had not really, in the heart of him, believed that this could
happen. He wanted success and now that he had it, he was mortified.

“Speak to me,”
he whispered in sudden fear. “If you can hear me, speak.”
Would she be mute like the chicken, the dog?

“My master,”
she said. “I have come back for you.”

Mujai nearly passed
out. He could not move even an eyelid. His mouth gaped.

She slowly sat up,
woodenly, like a doll made of sticks. The black irises of her eyes
were so enlarged they nearly covered the original mud brown color of
her eyes.

“I saw Death,”
she said. “I was lost in the dark.”

“Yes.” He
gasped the word, the air in his lungs so short he was on the verge of
fainting. “You were dead. I brought you back. You…you
will live with me now.”

The girl pulled her
legs beneath her woven palm skirt and she leaned forward on her hands
so that her perfect little face was mere inches from his.

“Of course I
will,” she said in a breathy voice that sounded nothing like a
child’s voice. “I will come live with you.”

It felt like a threat
to Mujai. At the very moment he knew he should feel exultant and
powerful, he was overwhelmed with the greatest fear he had ever
experienced.

What could he do? He
had brought the dead to life and now he owned her. He had bargained
for her life and she belonged to him, whether he feared her or not.

He rose shakily to his
feet and held out his hand. “Come with me, then,” he
said. “We will go.”

Her hand was shockingly
cold. He forced himself not to cringe from her touch. He wondered if
she would ever feel warm, feel
human
again.

Outside the hut the
girl’s mother fell to her knees, mewling like a newborn. Tears
ran down her face. “My baby, my baby, my baby lives,” she
cried.

“Goodbye,
Mother,” the girl said formally and without emotion. Then she
moved forward, pulling the witch doctor behind her.

It seemed she knew the
way home.

#

In the first days of
her second life, the girl gave herself a new name. “Call me
Angelique,” she instructed the witch doctor. “I do not
like my old name. Tell me now how you raised me up.”

The question caused him
to pause in the whittling he was doing on a bow. He looked up at her.
“I cannot tell you,” he said.

“You mean you
won’t.”

He shrugged and went
back to his whittling, shaving long slivers of green bark from the
limber wood.

“Tell me how you
raised me up,” she insisted.

Something told him the
girl wanted to know his secrets for reasons other than just to know
how she came to be alive again. She wanted to steal his power. With
his special knowledge, she could replace him as the village witch
doctor. She could perform miracles and demand the respect that was
reserved for him.

He looked up again. He
frowned at her, hoping to instill fear. “I will never tell you.
I will never do it again so you will never see how I do it, even if
you were to shadow me the rest of my life. The magic that made you
come back is now forgotten.” He tapped the side of his head and
shook it a little as if throwing out the recipe for the potion.

She smiled. He hadn’t
expected that response and he frowned harder. “I swear you will
never know how I did it! Get the idea out of your head, you hear me?
I will never tell and you will never know.”

She stood. She moved
now with more grace, almost the way any child might. She said,
“Mujai, my master, you are a silly, suspicious man.”

Smiling, she left him
sitting with his unfinished bow, wondering at how she could insult
him when he was the adult, he was her master, her king, her
life-giver. How dare a little child speak to him with such
disrespect. "Ungrateful little witch,” he muttered, and
went back to his work.