The Demon Curse (7 page)

Billie leaped out of the boat even as it glided up to the jetty. Harry tied up the ropes, jumped out with Arthur, and ran after her. Everywhere, he saw the Islanders shouting and waving their arms, their faces tight with fear. He ran on, following Billie toward the smoking remains of one of the huts.

It was one of the smaller ones, out on the edge of the village. Its roof had collapsed and smoke still billowed from it, thick and black. Some of the Islanders were throwing buckets of water onto the wreckage, and Billie ran to help them, only to stop and turn toward Auntie May, who was running toward her, arms outstretched.

“I saw them, Billie! I saw them!”

“Who?” Billie embraced her old friend, even as she glared at the blackened remains of the hut.

“Men from the town! Members of Oscar Dupont's mob.” Auntie May shook her head. “I was near the jetty when I saw them. They were running down it and then leaped into their boat. Taunted me, they did, and waved one of their placards too. I thought they were blustering at first, just trying to frighten us—but then I saw the smoke! Their work was done.”

“Anyone hurt?” Harry grabbed a bucket and hurled water onto the smoking ruins.

“No, thank heaven! And the hut can be rebuilt—although I fear there may be little to gain from that.” Auntie May pointed back toward the river and the city across it. “They will be back, I am sure. The more Dupont's mob rages, the braver they become! They will be back, and in greater numbers.” She gestured to everyone nearby. “That is what we must prepare for, as best we can. Follow me, my fellow Islanders! To Brother Jacques's hut! He will do for us what he can. Billie, you and your friends must come too. Follow!”

She hurried off, and the Islanders did as she asked, following her toward a dark, looming shape nearby, the large hut that Harry recognized as the one he had visited the day before. He heard chanting coming from it, the sound of hundreds of voices, and then he noticed a familiar figure standing by it too, just by the doorway.

“A calamity!
Une
catastrophe
!
”

It was Madame Melrose. She was shaking her head and walking forward to comfort Auntie May. Harry saw that the elegantly dressed lady's face was flushed and that she too was holding a bucket of water, like the Islanders dousing the flames. Her voice was broken and distressed.

“I know, Auntie May! I saw them too, as they fled from their vile act. How can it be? I come to help you, as acting head of the council, but I have no sooner arrived than I find myself standing powerless while you deal with this outrage! Unbearable!”

“You must not blame yourself, Madame.” Auntie May placed an arm on the lady's sleeve.

“But I do! I do—why,
mes
enfants
! We meet again!” Madame Melrose had noticed Harry and his friends drawing near. She peered at them. “What brings you to Fisherman's Point at this terrible time? Do you not have to set off for Tobermory Swamp?”

“One of us has friends living here.” Harry gestured at Billie.
No
need
to
lie; the truth can do just as well.
“Thought we'd stop here and say hello before going back.”

“Friends with the Islanders?” Madame Melrose wiped away a tear. “You choose your friends most wisely. These are fine people—Mayor Monticelso was not the only one to think so. I too have taken a great interest in them, have I not, Auntie May?”

“Yes indeed! A great help to us over the years! Now if you'll excuse me, ma'am—” Auntie May curtsied and headed toward the hut's doorway.

“Yes, of course.” Madame Melrose curtsied back and turned to the children. “I believe I told you that I was coming for a meeting here? And I did not come alone! For all its hopelessness, no one can say I have not done what I can to help these noble citizens. Come, let me introduce you to these gentlemen here…”

Clutching her bucket of water, she set off toward the burned hut. Harry saw that a small group of men had gathered there, dressed in coats and top hats. Several of them had grabbed buckets and were pouring water on the ruins, rain dripping from them as they worked. Madame Melrose walked up to them and emptied her own bucket onto the smoking timbers.

“I asked these gentlemen to come down here several days ago, as soon as this business broke,” Madame Melrose continued. “They are
professeurs
d'anthropologie sociale
, that is to say, professors of social anthropology, the study of human culture. From the University of Chicago. My plan was to use their expert opinions to construct a defense of the Islanders—a clear explanation of why their practices are in no way deserving of these accusations!”

She gestured at the men, who nodded at Harry and his friends. Some carried on dousing the fire, and others were writing in notebooks as they stared around at the Islanders' huts. All had grim expressions, and Madame Melrose's face was troubled too.

“Terrible, that such a plan is even necessary. The Islanders are strong, intelligent people and are perfectly capable of making a defense themselves, but no one, in these terrible times, will listen to them, will they? Indeed, I wonder if anyone will even listen to my anthropological friends. The mob does more than make accusations now,
mes
professeurs
! Attacks on the Islanders' homes indeed! Where will it end?”

“An unfortunate business, ma'am.” One of the gentlemen tipped his hat; the others shook their heads.

“I am powerless! I see the criminals flee in their boat and can do nothing. That Oscar Dupont and his inflammatory speeches—I can do nothing about him either. What hope do we have of stopping this fury, the anthropologists and I?” She turned toward the main hut, from which the chanting could still be heard. “They are at their rituals, the Islanders. I fear that may be the only hope that remains for them…but I shall continue to do what I can. Come gentlemen, we must fetch more water…”

She hurried off with her bucket, and the top-hatted gentlemen followed. Harry watched them go, Madame Melrose stopping to comfort Islanders as they passed. The anthropologists were doing the same. Harry felt Billie tug at his hand.

“Come on.” She started walking toward the main hut. The chanting kept drifting. “Madame Melrose is right—they're doing one of their rituals. We should see it. Might even be useful to take part.”

“How do you mean?” Arthur looked at her curiously.

“They let me take part before, when I lived with them.” Billie shrugged. “Said it would protect me. I can't be sure, but I reckon it might have. That journey all the way up to New York, all those scrapes I managed to get out of—do you really think I could have pulled that off on my own?”

“That's what you've always told us,” said Harry.

“Who knows?” Billie shrugged again. “It won't do us any harm, that's for sure. Might even do a bit of good.” She looked back at the blackened remains and shook her head. “And I'd say we need all the help we can get, wouldn't you?”

They ducked through the doorway. It took Harry's eyes even longer to adjust to the darkness this time, because only the murkiest light filtered through the hut's windows, and that was blocked by the bodies gathered inside. Harry made out new odors, of burning oil, herbs. He saw that Billie and Arthur had sat down among the Islanders, and he sat down too, just by the door. Brother Jacques sat at the center of the hut, staring straight at him.

“You have come among us again, I see. You are no longer so suspicious of our ways.” The old man lowered his face, and it disappeared into shadow. “Indeed, I hear from Auntie May that you, Billie, and Arthur seek to help us Islanders, to investigate this business, to clear our name. If so, then it is right you all join us now. You will have need of our spirits' magic. Great need, I believe.”

There was a scraping sound. Harry looked down to see Brother Jacques opening one of the engraved brass jars, his voice softer, just a whisper.

“There is great evil abroad in New Orleans—no one can deny it. And so we call upon the spirits to help us, to protect us. Let us hope that they protect you too, as you delve into these dark matters…”

“Let us hope,” said Auntie May, leaning out of the shadows. Her eyes shone, and Harry saw a small brass amulet swinging by a chain from her hand, on which birds' wings and snakes were engraved.

“The spirit of the earth.” Brother Jacques reached into the jar. “Let it move among us.”

Auntie May held up a brand from the fire, and the rim of the jar danced with light. Brother Jacques lifted out the dried snakeskin, the coiled-up shape rotating in his grip. Auntie May leaned the brand closer, its flames just brushing the snakeskin. Only the very edge of it started to burn, but thick plumes of smoke spiraled. Harry blinked and saw Billie and Arthur were blinking too, as Brother Jacques reached into the jar a second time.

“The spirit of the sky,” he said. “It descends and is with us.”

He took out the hawk feathers. The flames brushed them, and more smoke spilled in the darkness, mingling with the smoke from the skin. Harry's eyes stung harder, and his vision blurred, but he carried on looking as Brother Jacques reached into the jar again.

“The spirit of the trees,” he said. “It grows within us.”

He held up the branches. He took just one of the dried pods and tossed it into the flames, which shot up and turned bright green.
Interesting
, thought Harry as the smoke swept up around him, thick and swirling.
An
impossible
amount
for
such
a
small
seed.
The plumes sprawled in different directions, and whatever had been making his eyes sting was far more powerful now, because the pain had become quite intense, and he could see nothing at all. But he could hear, and he sat in the swirling gloom, listening to the Islanders' chanting.

“The spirits will protect us… The spirits will protect us…”

Maybe
, thought Harry.
But
me, Artie, and Billie need to help too—and the sooner the better.

Silently he gathered his legs underneath him. The hut's door was just a few feet away, and his hand groped through the door and found its frame. He pulled himself up and stepped out into the fine rain that was still falling from the murky gray sky. He waited, blinking, while the stinging faded from his eyes and his vision returned. Then he walked away from the hut, smoke curling from his clothes, the Islanders' chanting growing fainter. But something Brother Jacques had said lingered in his thoughts:

There
is
great
evil
abroad
in
New
Orleans.

He walked past the remains of the hut and down to the end of the jetty. He stood there as the rain fell from the swollen clouds. He made out the buildings on the other side of the river. He turned and stared in the direction of where he knew the old boathouse waited, where he knew two men—one with a daggerlike beard, the other with yellowed eyes—would be found. He thought of all he had seen in New Orleans in the short time since he and his friends had arrived.

The
mob, their hate-filled placards thrust into the air.

Mayor
Monticelso's face, stretched wide with terror.

A
man
searching
a
room
with
a
hook
in
his
hand, its barbs catching the light…

Once again, he felt his heart quicken. Pulses twitched, and he felt those flickering sensations creeping all over his skin.
Just
like
before
a
trick—but I've never felt them quite like this before
, he thought. His heart throbbed almost painfully, and the flickers were more powerful too, like little electrical jolts. He could feel trickles of perspiration making their way down his back, across his chest, down the backs of his legs.

A
little
nervousness
is
a
good
thing
, he told himself.
Use
it
to
focus. Use it to concentrate.

And his heart kept throbbing, those flickering sensations kept gathering strength, the droplets of sweat kept gliding, as he stood there in the rain, staring at the city, and trying to work out what might lie ahead.

The boat sailed through the darkening water. Billie gripped the rudder, and Arthur sat up in the prow, Harry crouched beside him. As the wharfs of the city drew near, Harry could still smell the scent of smoke in his friend's clothes.

“It was pretty much as I expected, that ritual,” Arthur was saying. “I told you, I've read about this voodoo business, and about all other kinds of magic too. All over the world, people use spells and charms to help people, to heal them, and sometimes it really does seem as if they have genuine power—people get better, their troubles vanish. Scientific proof or not.” He lifted the sleeve of his coat and breathed in the scent. “Anyway, it was good of the Islanders to offer us protection.”

“They're good people.” Billie narrowed her eyes as she guided the boat up to the wharf. “Here's your stop, Artie.”

“Ah, yes.” Arthur put one hand on the ladder at the wharf's side. “I have to say, as far as protection goes, you're the ones who are going to need it, far more than me. Are you sure you don't want me to come with you? Seems wrong, me heading off to the library when I think where you're going. Back to that boathouse where—”

“We'll just spy on them. A quick look and we'll be gone.” Billie cut him off. “And we've just agreed, haven't we? The more we learn about demons and magic, the better. If it turns out that the men at the boathouse really
are
working some kind of evil curse on the mayor, well, we'll need to know everything we can.”

“It's the only way we can clear the Islanders—by finding out the truth, every last bit of it.” Harry nodded. “And no one finds stuff out quicker than you, Artie.”

He exchanged glances with Billie. Neither of them had said anything to each other, but he knew she felt the same about their younger friend taking part in their return to the boathouse.
Anyway, it's true
, he thought.
Artie
really
is
good
at
finding
things
out.

“If you're sure.” Arthur clambered up the ladder and stood on the wharf. Gas lamps stood all along its length, making the misty rain glow. “I've got permission to enter the library after opening hours; it's part of my special membership. I'll start off in the magic and folklore section—that'll have lots about curses and demons and the like.”

“That's the idea, Artie.” Billie pushed the boat off. “We'll meet you there in a couple of hours.”

“I'll have gone through half the section by then.” Arthur took out his notebook and pen and waved them at his friends. “I'm already familiar with the cataloging system, remember?”

Arthur headed up the wharf while Harry grabbed hold of an oar and stirred the water, swinging the boat around. Rope whispered, the sail billowed, and Billie pushed out the rudder, her gaze fixed ahead. Harry glanced back at Arthur, quite a small shape in the distance already, clambering up the steps at the end of the wharf.

The boat caught the current. The next time Harry looked back, Arthur was gone, and so was the wharf. He concentrated on helping Billie, following her instructions as she guided the boat on. Then he sat back and held up his hand and watched the water gather on it, carefully trying to keep it so still that the droplets didn't move at all. He glanced back at Billie, who sat in the stern, one hand clutching a rope, the other the boat's rudder. Both her hands, he noticed, were trembling slightly.

Ten minutes later, they saw the boathouse, a dark shape in the rain.

“You can just drop me off, if you like,” Harry whispered. “Wait for me out here on the river. Might be easier if I went alone.”

“Alone?” Billie's hands tightened their grip. “I don't think so, Harry. Who's going to help you out if something goes wrong, eh?”

“I'm just saying—”

“This is the Islanders we're talking about. They're my friends.” Billie pushed out the rudder. “Come on.”

The boat curved up to the shore; the prow buried itself silently in the mud. Harry and Billie leaped out and ran along the beach to the rickety steps leading up to the boathouse. Harry stared up at the old, broken-down building and saw that the windows were dark.

“No one's in there,” he whispered. “Let's go in. Maybe there'll be something inside that'll tell us who they are, or what they're doing—”

Harry stopped. He grabbed Billie's arm and pulled her back behind the steps. He had seen something further down the beach—several tiny points of red light. Crouched in the shadows, he watched them brighten and fade and brighten again.
Tobacco
pipes.
Keeping a hand on Billie's arm, he pulled her after him, dodging between the boats that lay along the water's edge, breathing in odors of fish and tar. One boat was turned over, and they hid behind it, peering around its stern. Harry breathed in the stench of tobacco as he made out the small group of figures gathered around another overturned boat.

“It's them, Billie. Right ahead,” Harry whispered.

Daggerbeard and Yelloweyes stood nearest, sucking on their pipes, with bottles in their fists. Yelloweyes was almost motionless, but Daggerbeard stared about in the gloom. Other men, about five of them, were gathered around, and Harry saw two more hurrying out of the mist. Harry edged forward, trying to hear scraps of conversation, but then Daggerbeard's stare turned in his direction, and he pushed himself back, angling his arms and legs so that they fit into the darkest shadows, his teeth biting into his lip.

The
hook, glinting in the light.
Harry remembered it and Daggerbeard's stare as he struggled in the dumbwaiter shaft. But he heard the mutterings of conversation continue, and he peered back around the stern to see that Daggerbeard was looking away again, concentrating on his pipe.

“Come on,” he whispered to Billie.

They dodged back along the beach, keeping to the shadows. Reaching the boathouse steps, Harry looked back at the glowing pipes again, making sure they hadn't moved, before leading Billie up the steps. Together, they reached the door at the top. Harry tested the handle, found it was unlocked, and pushed the door open, pulling Billie in after him.

It was dark inside, but Harry's eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom. He edged forward. Nets hung on the walls, and he made out spears and jagged harpoons dangling from the rafters, their edges glinting. The smell of fish guts curled up his nose.

“I was right. Definitely fishermen,” Billie muttered.

Harry nodded and edged further into the room. He noticed a table on the far side with a small, bulging shape on it.

It was the sack.

“Don't touch it.” Billie reached for him, but Harry only felt the tips of her fingers brush his shoulder, because he was already moving forward. “Maybe it's a trap, leaving it out like that,” she hissed.

“Maybe.” Harry crouched over it.

“Even if it isn't—careful!” Billie grabbed his shoulder properly. “If it's something to do with what happened to Mayor Monticelso… Remember what a state he's in. Taken over by a demonic force!”

“How else are we going to find out what's going on?”

Harry couldn't help noticing that he was trembling a little. He steadied his hand, moving it smoothly to the sack's neck. His finger and thumb took hold of the cloth and pulled it. He heard Billie's breathing, just next to his ear. The sack was slightly open, and he peered in but could see only darkness. He pulled again and then stumbled back as the sack fell open, its contents spilling onto the table.

Billie had stopped breathing. Harry realized that he wasn't breathing either, and he forced himself to suck in air. He leaned forward, inspecting what lay there.

A bushel of dried branches crowded with blackened seeds. Three withered, coiled-up snakeskins. Five hawks' feathers tied with a cord.

“That's impossible,” Billie spluttered. “The Islanders…that's what they use for their magic…their good magic… We saw them use it just now.”

“I don't understand.”

Harry reached forward and touched the feathers. His fingers moved across, brushing against the seeds, the snakeskins, and back to the feathers again.
Work
it
out.
He closed his eyes, saw the objects hanging in the darkness, and moved them about in his mind, as if they were the pieces of some kind of puzzle…

“Harry!”

His eyes flicked open. Billie was staring at him in alarm. He heard the voices and the tread of boots up the steps. He saw the handle of the boathouse door, turning.

Harry grabbed the sack and scooped the objects back into it, positioning it on the table just where it had been. He whirled around, checking for another way out, but there wasn't time.

The door was already opening. Boots thudded and voices muttered as Daggerbeard and Yelloweyes led the men in.