The Drought (41 page)

We stood there, just the two of us looking down at a hole in the ground, the hot sun burning our shoulders and he told me all about Brunache, Johanne, Gaille and Christine and the unholy heat that signaled the relics had been desecrated. It’s hard to explain how the absence of something could prove its existence. But I stared at the empty space in the ground and bile churned in my stomach. I accepted every word he told me, including his assertion one day I would help return Brunache’s soul to the Govi.”

Narried paused, understanding that most if not all of what she had to say would be met with skepticism “I suspect Ninon told your mother these stories and that’s why she moved away.” She stopped talking. Silence filled the small space.

Narried’s words registered with Nathan. Lost snippets of conversation triggered memories and he flipped through these like he would an old rolodex until he found the one he needed. Ten years old, his back pressed against the wall in the living room. Inside the kitchen his mother paced the length of the counter. He knew her well enough to know she had the phone cord twisted nervously around her arm. She spoke in a hushed angry voice, ‘
Mother if you breathe one word of this horrific fantasy to my son—I swear you’ll never see him again.’
A half dozen memories of his grandmother starting to say something, only to stop and wave it away like a pesky mosquito followed. Nathan’s mouth went dry. “I think she tried. She just never found the right opportunity.”

A mirthless chuckle escaped Narried. “There is no right time to tell this story.” She struck a match and held it to the end of a cigarillo. The sharp scent of sulfur mingled with the exotic scent of her tobacco. Waving away the plume of smoke she said, “The Govi and the machete were buried with your grandmother.”

This confession startled Nathan. He said, “I don’t recall anything like that going in the mausoleum with her.”

“No I imagine you wouldn’t. We gave her a proper vodun ceremony hours later.” She took another long drag off her cigarillo before continuing. “We felt good about dis location but someone in our society betrayed us.”

Nathan recalled feeling a stab of satisfaction at the thought of the grave robbers going away unhappy. His grandmother had never been one for extravagant jewelry. Her ring had no value. It had been a worthless piece of metal his grandfather had given her. When he could afford a gold band she wouldn’t have it, insisting the ring he’d given her represented their unity and couldn’t be replaced—
and that was the ring he’d found next to the corpse in the marsh.
Everything was coming full circle.

Narried interrupted his thoughts. She said, “I don’t know what all you learned from those books on voodoo at the library—but they all kind who practice the craft. Not all do it for healing the sick or protecting from evil. A certain kind serve the Loa with both hands. Others come from Haiti, some know the story of Brunache some don’t. And some believe to possess the govi bring unlimited power and immortality.” She sighed deeply. “This the kind we dealing with tonight.”

Nathan leaned closer, the earlier fatigue replaced by an earnest expression. “With all due respect Narried, I’d like to hear what my grandmother could have done to make her daughter never set foot in Louisiana again.”

Outside the window, darkness slid by. Narried stared into it, the half smoked cigarillo forgotten between her fingers. Ash crumbled and fell into her lap. She brushed it away. “One of the gypsies come back five years later—a beautiful girl, with long dark hair. Somehow she figured the heat and the items her family took from the ground were connected. Brunache use her to come home, to finish off what he started all those years ago in Haiti. The energy contained in the machete and the govi are like live electrical wires—touch one maybe you all right. Touch both and the current run right through you, until ain’t nothing left except a smoking husk.

By the time that gypsy girl reach Reserve, the evil of Brunache was coursing through her like an electrical current. She lived in the marshes and began to feed. Weren’t long before they found the first child; a small boy disemboweled. Each week maybe two, another child was found. When the search party finally found the gypsy girl she was gnawing on a rope of intestines. It took six full-grown men to subdue her. She half animal an’ wild from feeding off human blood. Of course it wasn’t a case ever destined for trial.

Johanne, Gaille and Christina’s descendants formed a mob and took her from the steps of the courthouse. They needn’t have bothered. Roger Dupier would have handed her over for a price. He had the machete and the govi in his possession and he used the relics to barter for a front row seat at a genuine voodoo ceremony.

They took the gypsy girl to a hountford in the woods to forcefully remove Brunaches’ spirit. My père, one of the most powerful Houngans in Louisiana led the ceremony. He selected three young members from our society to participate in the ritual, one descendent from each of the bloodlines. I represented the Druins, Ninon represented the Sansericq and Nute came to stand for the Villedrouin family.”

Narried’s voice dragged as she continued her story, each word a heavy burden. “It was a great honor to be selected but we were naïve. We expected a traditional ceremony—we expected my père to call on the Loa and banish Brunache once and for all. It was not to be. Brunache’s corrupted spirit would not let her loose.

I’ll never forget the tempo of the drums rising to a frenzy, or my père chanting and shaking the
Ascon
calling on
the Loa, begging for their guidance—or the moment someone thrust Brunache’s machete into my hand and pushed me forward. The instant the handle touched my hand, I felt Brunache’s presence. I heard him jabbering in my ear trying to turn me from my people and my duty. My père whispered in my other ear.
Listen to the Loa—do as they instruct.
All sound faded away and profound silence encased me. My spiritual ancestors spoke and I knew what to do. I lifted the machete. I brought it down twice; first across her right wrist and then across her left. Père rattled the
Ascon
and said to the room, ‘so evil may never touch innocence.’

Blood gushed from the severed limbs and a horrific scream filled the room. It was not the scream of a woman—it was the scream of a man; a man who knew this pain in another life. The gypsy strained against the ropes screaming profanities in Haitian.

Père removed the machete from my hands and passed it to Ninon. I watched her stagger as the jolt of electricity went through her and I knew Brunache was with her, jabbering away—she approached the writhing figure with a vacant stare. Her blank eyes moved around the room seeking a reprieve from the horror before her and then the Loa spoke to her. Her eyes snapped wide in surprise, she lifted the machete and brought it down across the gypsy’s feet. The machete sliced through the bones like butter. Père shook the rattle
even harder than before and shouted to the room, ‘To prevent de spirit from walking among de living.’

Again the guttural screams of a man emitted from those beautiful lips. The girl did not die. Nor did she lose consciousness. Her face contorted in rage, not pain. She thrashed against her restraints and blood spurted from her butchered limbs. Warm blood sprayed across the room, misting us, corrupting us.

Nute stepped forward and gently removed the machete from Ninon’s frozen fingers. He nudged her away from the grisly scene. The houtford thrummed with energy, the chanting grew louder, the rada drum rose in tempo. Nute lifted the machete above the writhing figure. The drums stopped, the chanting stopped, the hut went silent—a collective breath held in anticipation. The machete descended, its swift passage displaced the air. Candles flickered. The blade sliced through the straining cords of the girl’s neck. They gypsy girl’s head fell away and blood gushed from the raw stump of her neck—it wasn’t over. An impossible scream filled the silent hut—a scream emanating from a dismembered head.”

Narried was not finished with her story.

“After,” she said, “amidst those horrific screams and a body dat still strained against its restraints, we burned each body part, first the hands and then the feet and last the head. Nute grabbed the head by the long black hair and when the face appeared, the teeth be snapping, trying to get a’hold of anything it could. The only thing blessed about those snapping teeth was the awful screaming had stopped. Nute held the head over the fire. The lips moved and a guttural chant emitted from the mouth. They were Haitian words spoken in an inhuman voice, “I will return, I will return.”

Narried stopped. Her mouth had gone dry.

Nathan remained quiet. His eyes fixed on the back of Nute’s unmoving head. The grisly images were so real he could smell the blood, hear the tempo of the drums and rising above the beat, haunting, impossible screams. When he looked out the window of the car he was surprised to see his own house. Opening the car door, he said, “I’ve got to go check on the boy.”

Narried’s next words stopped him cold. “When sometin’ like dat touches you. When its blood has burned a path across your face and your arms, you never forget. You never forget its smell or how it came in an innocent body.”

“No.” Nathan shook his head in denial, pushing the door open as if by putting distance between himself and Narried he could make her next words less true.

“He’s in the boy Nathan.”

Nathan shook his head vigorously. “No. No, he’s not.”

“I felt him at the diner, as soon as I saw the boy. He’s lurking down in there trying to find an angle, trying to find a way out. He’s not strong yet but given time he will be. You mark me the carnage that’s comin’ will be unholy.

The image of Angelina Dupier hanging naked from the tree flashed through Nathan’s mind. The carnage wasn’t coming, it was already here. When he spoke his voice was rough. He gestured toward Nute.“He’s just waiting for the signal. Waiting for you to give the word so you can come into my home and dismember an innocent boy.”

“It ain’t that easy.”

He walked to his front door, the handcuff still dangling from his wrist thumped against his leg. Behind him the old tan Cadillac sat in his front yard, the harbinger of bad news. Narried’s son and Nute sat motionless behind the windshield. Nathan walked to the front door and tested the knob. It was unlocked. He opened the door and let out a sharp whistle. “Agador! Jar!” No response came from the dark interior of the house.

He walked into the kitchen, rummaged through a drawer and came up with a small key. He inserted into the handcuff. The metal bracelet let go.

Rubbing his chaffed wrist he returned to the porch and yelled at the car. “What about the animals? It’s all related right? Who’s slicing and dicing up the animals? You? Nute?” He didn’t want this news, he didn’t want to hear about Voodoo or ancient spirits who fed on human flesh and he didn’t want to think about Jared Riley being one of their victims.

Narried got out of the car. She was infused with anger. “You tink this is about choice, Nayton? Sometimes the Loa choose you. I am only a vessel. You are only a vessel. You think life is full of coincidence? You coming home after Ninon died? A stray boy finding his way to your door?” She tried to step past him and enter the house.

He stopped her. “You’re crazy. I’m not cutting off some little boy’s hands.”

She sighed deeply. “Nayton, I didn’t say we had to dismember the boy. I say we have to stop Brunache before he get strong.” She pointed in the direction of his house. “There is an old text, somewhere inside, entrusted to Ninon before she died. Together we can save the boy.”

He punctuated each word with a jab of his finger. “You just told me the girl couldn’t be saved. How do I know you won’t hurt the boy?”

She stepped closer, touched his hand. “I promise you I’ll do my best to make sure the boy don’ get hurt.” It wasn’t the gypsy girl killing the children. But her soul was in there when it happen. Do you want this boy to experience that horror?”

“Where is this script?”

“Ninon say she give the book to you for safe-keepin’.”

He shook his head. “You’re wrong. She never gave anything to me.”

“Tink, Nayton, why does Elise come here to care for your grandmere? What does she want? What did she not get?”

It was the first time Narried had shown her hand, the first time she had named her adversary. The implication was mind numbing. If Elise was the one serving the Loa with both hands then she was the one who sacrificed a child—her own child.

Nathan couldn’t breathe. It felt as if someone had taken a knife and twisted the blade in his stomach. He sat down heavily, unable to fathom the mind of a person, a mother capable of an act so monstrous. “I held her in my arms.” The words were choked. He looked at his traitorous limbs as if they alone were responsible for harboring the enemy, keeping her so close he had been incapable of seeing her. His stomach heaved and vomit spewed from him and splattered against the planks. It tasted like burnt wood. Wiping his mouth of the bitter residue, he asked in a quavering voice. “Why? How could she?”