Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) (2 page)

“Nichols, who, pray tell, is this?” Greer shouted, completely baffled by the presence of a lone female upon the uninhabited island.

But she continued before the cook could respond to the question. “A word o’ warning, gentlemen. When you come to da boneyard, you’ll be wantin’ to beware da
Brave Ghede
. He not be likin’ da livin’ amongst da dead.” She then laughed, winked at Greer and folded her arms across her chest defiantly. “But if you like, I’ll take you to see Lanme Wa right now. Makes no nevermind to me.”

2

With Nichols and Spratt still leveling their weapons at the Creole woman, Greer and the expedition had continued their trek further into the island’s interior. Fascinated, Finkle walked in step with her, barraging her with questions concerning her origins and her purpose upon the island.

“I am a
mambo bokor
of vodou,” she said with a laugh, the sound of rainwater against a window pane. “I serve da l’wa, just as my mothers and grandmothers did from before I was born. It was da l’wa who brought me here, to serve da house of da Ghede…da l’wa of da Dead.”

“Fascinating,” Finkle cooed, eyeing the feminine bokor. “Absolutely fascinating. So tell me…”

“I want to know if it was you who threw that paw-paw fruit at me earlier,” Greer said, catching up to them. “It nearly took my head off.”

The mambo bokor glanced over at him, her smile stretching coyly up one side of her face. “A paw-paw fruit? Here? On Kavo Zile?”

“That’s what I said. A paw-paw was hurled only seconds before you appeared. If it was you, I’ll see that you answer for your insolence.”

“John, come now,” Finkle said. “Don’t be rude to our gracious hostess.”

“I’m an officer of the Continental Navy.” It wasn’t entirely true. A quartermaster wasn’t considered an officer in the same way as his lieutenant rank while he had been in the Royal Navy. But he knew no one would argue the point. “And I am deserving of a modicum of respect, whether I’m in the official fleet, or on a privateer’s vessel. She
will
answer the question.”

“Sir?” The voice came from behind them, and belonged to Nichols. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but it couldn’t ‘ave been her. We found her during our scout, and she was with us until we returned, just after the paw-paw incident. We’d’a seen her throw it.”

“Besides,” the bokor added, “dere are no paw-paw trees on dis island. Dey do not grow here.”

Greer stopped walking, causing Spratt to nearly march into the back of him. The quartermaster recovered quickly, and jogged to catch up to the woman and Finkle. “I know what I saw. I tasted it. It was papaya. I have no doubt.”

“And I do not doubt you,
cher
,” she said with a giggle. “Da l’wa are crafty in deir mischief, and not limited to any one locale. You doubt deir existence, so dey merely wanted to convince you.” She held up a hand, bringing the entire company to a halt. “We are almost dere.” She turned around to face Greer and the others. “We are about to enter a most holy site. Da
Simityè Dyab la
.”

Greer glanced at Finkle, who shrugged. “‘Devil’s Cemetery’ or something like that, if I’m not mistaken.”

“A close enough translation,
cher
,” the bokor said. “It had been, at one time, a graveyard for a select few, dat da Catholic church deemed unsuited for consecrated ground. Pirates, bokor and at least one excommunicated priest had rested here, until about a hundred and twenty years ago. A hurricane swept through—da wrath of da Almighty, some said—and washed da graves out to sea. Da l’wa Ghede had protected dis place, and guarded dose who sleep wit’in from harm by da living, since time immemorial. After da loss of deir charges, da Ghede had nothing to guard…nothing to protect…and it nearly ended dem.

“Sixteen years later, a dashing white captain with a crew of…well, a very strange crew indeed…landed on da island after a valiant battle. Some of his crew were severely wounded. A few were even dead, oddly to da captain’s surprise. Da captain himself suffered from a fate far worse dan any other. He was, it seemed, weary. Of da world. Of life itself. He made a deal with da Ghede, and da mambo bokor at da time, who served dem. And he and his dead shipmates have rested here, ever since.” She pointed forward, past two withered weeping willows with roots jutting up from the rain-soaked soil. “Beyond da Willow Gate, lies da boneyard. Da one you seek lies wit’in, but so does da
Brave Ghede
…da Guardian of da Dead.”

Greer stepped forward with an irritated sneer. “Spare us the theatrics, woman. The loa are nothing more than a demonic lie. Christian men have nothing to fear from such things.” He gestured for the crew to follow him, and he moved toward the willows.

“Stop!” the bokor said. “Only three may approach da Brave Ghede and hope to appeal to his mercies. To dishonor dis command will bring death on all who enter.”

Greer barked out a berating laugh, and motioned once more for his men to follow. But Finkle was the one to stop the parade of men this time. “I will remind you, Mr. Greer, that I am in command of this expedition. I have put up with your abusive and intolerant behavior up to this point, but no more. You will respect this lady’s wishes. You and I will enter, along with another of your choosing.”

“But I must protest…”

“And
I
must insist. Or would you rather I choose another from your men to accompany me? I’m sure Captain Reardon would be interested to learn how you’ve second-guessed me at every turn.”

Greer glared at the old man, then sighed. Although it was the quartermaster’s job to hold the captain accountable in times when his decisions came into question—to protect the interest of the crew—he was only permitted to do so when not on the ‘hunt.’ Greer had harbored his doubts about Washington’s quest from the very beginning—and certainly questioned Josiah Reardon’s judgment in allowing this annoying old man to run command of his men—but now was definitely not the time to voice those doubts. “Very well.”

He turned to his men, and appraised each one. He already knew who he’d choose, though he wanted to make a bit of a show about it. Greer was convinced that they were walking into an elaborate trap, orchestrated by brigands or pirates. The woman obviously was part of some criminal enterprise, whose job was to lure them into an ambush. The theory explained so much, including the piece of fruit thrown at him earlier. It was all part of building the expedition’s apprehension, and the fool Finkle was falling for it.

So with that in mind, Greer had decided on the best possible choice to deter would-be thieves. The black man who’d been spouting the superstitious nonsense earlier. Though he was certain the man would quake in his boots from tales of evil spirits and the damned, buried within the graveyard, the slave’s immense size and foreboding countenance would intimidate any would-be cutthroats lying in wait for them on the other side of the willows. Yes, he would play along with the harlot’s games…for now. But he would most definitely be prepared.

“William!” he shouted, rather amused when the black man let out an involuntary squeal of apprehension. It served the oaf right for sowing the seeds of fancy among his men. “Come along, boy. Come along.”

Slowly, on massive, quivering legs, the black man stepped out from the cluster of sailors around him and walked over to Greer, Finkle and the woman. “Aye, sir.” His voice seemed to tremble in rhythm with his legs, eliciting a cruel smile from his quartermaster.

“I told you that you would be punished,” Greer whispered, before turning to Finkle. “Are you ready?”

The old scientist nodded, and in unison they stepped toward the two ancient willows only to stop when they realized the bokor was walking in step with them.

“Where do you think you are going, witch?” Greer asked.

Gracing the officer with her most haunting smile, she pointed toward the graveyard. “Wit’ you.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. My men, Nichols and Spratt will continue watching you while…”

“You don’ be seemin’ to understand your circumstances,” she said. “Dis ain’t no negotiation. Enter dat place wit’out me, and every one of you will be swept up to da un’erworld in seconds. Da gates of da boneyard be locked, and I’m da key.”

Greer glanced over at Finkle, who shrugged. “Makes sense. She does seem to be the caretaker here. I suggest taking her seriously.”

“More likely, she’s simply a brigand’s harlot.” The quartermaster withdrew his sword, and brushed past her as he ducked under the hanging limbs of the weeping willow. “But I’ll gladly acquiesce, if only to shut the two of you up.”

With her customary tinkling of laughter, the woman strode forward, passing under the drooping canopy and moving ahead of the three others.

Once on the other side of the arboreal gateway, the late afternoon seemed instantly to shift to the dead of night. Where the orange-red glow of the setting sun had cut through the dense foliage like rapiers outside the graveyard, now there was nothing but darkness. If not for the warm glow of firelight from a handful of torches staked into the damp soil around them, Greer was certain they wouldn’t have been able to see their hands in front of their faces.

William, towering behind him, let out a soft gasp. Greer turned to see the large man nervously giving the sign of the cross and then spitting on the ground beside his mud-caked boots.

“
Mon dieu
,” the man hissed, and for once, Greer could understand the simpleton’s trepidation.

“I highly doubt,” Greer said, “that God has anything to do with this.”

They were looking out over a circular clearing in the jungle, roughly two hundred yards in diameter. Dozens of enormous bones, sharpened at the tips, jutted up from the moist soil like the fangs of some monstrous burrowing creature digging its way up. The bones seemed to mark at least twelve distinct graves in a semi-circle around the northeast edge of the clearing. To Greer, a few of the bones appeared to be the shape of human phalanges, only the size of a tall man’s femur. In the center of the graveyard, completely surrounded by jagged-tipped yellowing bones, sat a sarcophagus made entirely of sea shell fragments. A relief carving was cut into its lid depicting a macabre visage of a gigantic skull with a hole bored into its forehead. The entire casket was covered in a strange script, painted in what looked like dried blood.

“When dey—Lanme Wa and his crew—came here a century ago, dey had been attacked,” the bokor said to no one in particular. She casually strode over to the sarcophagus and brushed the tips of her fingers intimately over its lid. “Attacked by creatures not seen in our world for thousands of years. Giants. Monsters wit’ a thirst for blood. Most of da Cap’n’s crew survived, but dese twelve didn’t. Lanme Wa brought dem to dis island to be laid to rest. Dis island be a sacred place reserved for dose what da church would deem unholy. As added contempt for da giants dat had done so much harm to da crew Lanme Wa had such deep affection for, da Cap’n used deir bones to mark da graves of men he knew history would never remember. Da forgotten few what had saved da world.”

There was a hissing growl from somewhere to their left, and each man turned to peer into the shadows beyond the torchlight. They paused, trying to identify the wild creature that had made the savage sound. After several moments, Greer caught the subtlest trace of movement. Three figures huddled in the shadows, dressed in what appeared to be tattered robes. The three robed creatures hissed at them, as tiny ember-red eyes burned underneath large hoods. Trembling, Greer reached for his cutlass, but the monstrous trio quickly melted once more into the jungle, before he could withdraw it.

“What in St. Peter’s beard was that?” the Quartermaster asked, turning to face the bokor.

She shrugged. “Only dose wanting to pay deir respects. Dere’s not’ing to fear from dem…unless you disturb dis holy ground.”

“So they’ll leave us alone?” Finkle asked.

When the witch nodded an affirmative, Finkle sighed and stepped toward the central sarcophagus, only to be stopped by the bokor’s extended hand. “Not just yet,
cher
. Remember da Brave Ghede. He not like dose creatures, and he won’t be takin’ lightly to da intrusion of da livin’. Least not wit’out da proper tribute anyway.”

Warily, Finkle stepped back. “You said Lanme Wa buried twelve men here. But there are thirteen graves,” he said. “The sarcophagus. Is that the Captain’s?”

She nodded, smiling. “It be he.”

“But I don’t understand. Legends suggest Lanme Wa was immortal. That he couldn’t be killed. It’s why we came here…to ask for his help.”

“And I told you all this was mad from the beginning, Mr. Finkle,” Greer spat. “We lost two good men on this unholy expedition. Men we’ll need against the British. Had I known you were searching for an ‘immortal’ pirate, I would have called to vote Captain Reardon out of his post immediately. I’m not sure in which lunatic asylum Washington found you, but he’d do well to send you back there.” Frustrated, the quartermaster kicked at the dirt under his feet, spun around to rejoin his men back in the jungle and screamed, as he stared into the jet black eyes of a giant, hissing python.