The Drought (42 page)

Following his thoughts, she intuited the link he had made. Lowering her eyes in empathy she splayed her hands indicating her own inability to comprehend the act. “I don’ know Nayton. I guess she believe a personal sacrifice of this magnitude will bring favor from the Petra Loa. She channeling de energy of a mighty, mighty spirit. No tellin’ what she might do.”

Sickened by how gullible he’d been and the fact Elise had so easily lured him into a male state of stupidity with sex, he rose. “She might have this script you’re talking about. He waved toward the house. She’s had ample opportunity to search my house.”

She tsked him. Waggling her finger she said, “Naïve mon. The script is safe.” She laughed now, confident. “The Loa are strong in dis point.” Uninvited she walked into the kitchen to resume Elise’s failed hunt.

A quick look through the house confirmed Nathan’s earlier suspicions. Jar and Agador were both gone. He was about to exit his bedroom when the backpack caught his eye. The boy had carried the bag with him everywhere since he’d come to Reserve. Nathan found it difficult to believe the kid took off and forgot it. He dumped the pack onto the bed. A baseball fell out, along with a dirty bandana, an old rusted pocketknife and an empty bottle of water.

Exhausted, Nathan closed his eyes and sat down on the bed. He would have liked to have curled up and gone to sleep. He would have liked to have ordered Narried from his house and pretended everything in the past twenty-four hours had been a nightmare. He couldn’t because he was holding a priceless ball signed by Carlton Fisk, and he could hear Jared Riley’s voice describing his friend Luke as he climbed into the drainage pipe.
Luke didn’t come back.

He opened his eyes and tossed the ball into the air. The ball returned to his waiting hand, landing snuggly against his weathered palm. He examined the scrawled signature and an image of the drainage pipe appeared to him as if he were standing in Junction. He could see Flatrock Bridge, the evaporating water of the Llano River and the gaping maw of the drainage pipe. Whatever Jared had brought out, it hungered. It hadn’t destroyed Jared yet, but before it was through Nathan felt certain it would.

Reserve, Louisiana

Almost every memory of Nathan’s granny Ninon started and ended in the kitchen. He searched there first. The smell of spilt cinnamon conjured an image of her chasing the men from the kitchen, her easy laughter following them into the next room. The kitchen had been her domain. He took each recipe book off the shelf, thumbing through the binders, anticipating pages, filled with ancient words, inserted in place of a recipe.

Climbing up onto the counter he searched the shelves for anything they might have missed. On the highest shelf, in a place a woman would not have been able to easily reach he found her oldest recipe book. He recalled the letter from the lawyer and the package he’d received in Atlanta. “Your grandmother asked me to send a few personal effects in the case of her passing.”

To celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary, his grandfather had gathered all of his grandmother’s loose recipes; some handed down over three generations and had them bound. He had hand-tooled the leather cover himself. A giant oak draped with Spanish moss was etched into the cover. In the center he had branded a single word: Ninon.

The lawyer had sent the book to Nathan. Narried’s words, spoken in confidence whispered through his mind.
She give de book to you for safe-keepin.
He had brought it back with him when he moved into her house. Breath held in anticipation he opened it. He thumbed through the recipes. The smell of cooking grease wafted off the yellowed pages.

Nothing.

He shook his head in disbelief and jumped down from the counter. He had been certain pages from the sacred script would be inside the recipe book. Frustrated he slammed his fist on the book.

Narried peered through the door. “Patience Nayton.”

“Damn it, we’ve got to go find the boy, we’re wasting time here!” He walked toward her with the intention of passing her by, and heading out the door and into the night in search of the boy and Agador. He was almost out of the kitchen when the smell of cinnamon overwhelmed him.

Narried whispered, “Look Nayton, look.”

He turned slowly, not knowing what to expect. On the counter, his grandmother’s book of recipes was open. The pages fluttered as if someone were flipping through them. Several months ago he would have tried to find a rational explanation for the phenomenon. A draft, or perhaps he would have blamed it on warped counters. Now, however he stared at the book with a mixture of fear and love. In his heart he knew only one person could be flipping those pages. He could feel the presence of his granny emanating from the very walls of the small kitchen.

The pages stopped moving.

He stepped back into the kitchen approaching the book with caution. The invisible presence had flipped through each page. The book lay open with all the pages turned to the left. He ran his fingers across the last, empty page. A fine seam, almost invisible, ran the full length of the inside cover. He pulled a sharp knife from the drawer and ran it lightly down the seam. A note was written on the inside flap of paper.

Nathan, I promised your mother years ago I would never mention the Sansericq bloodline to you or the obligation that goes with it. In return for my sworn silence your mother permitted you to visit me each summer—it is a bargain I have never regretted. If you are reading this, Narried has come for your help. Do what you can and try not to judge too harshly the things that are difficult to understand. The script is under the floorboards near the fireplace.

Be careful, love Granny Ninon.

The script along with bottles of rum, pictures of saints a bag of flour, smaller bags with unidentifiable contents and several clay pitchers were all beneath the floorboards. The items brought a smile to Narried’s face. Once the area beneath the floor had been cleared she sent Nathan to the kitchen to retrieve two eggs.

He left mumbling, “We better not be baking a goddamn rum cake.” When he returned, the car and driver were gone and Narried was outside dragging a large stick through the dirt. A deep line extended from each corner of the porch. She connected them creating a large rectangle.

She pointed with the stick. “This is a peristyle.”

Holding the eggs out to her he asked, “Where’s your car?”

She accepted the eggs. “I sent my son to fetch his family before de town burns.”

In the distance the rhythmic sound of drums floated through the night, the tempo feverish and sexual. Nathan looked toward the dark woods and found himself resisting the urge to follow the drums. Nute appeared, walking from the shadows. In one hand he carried two chickens by the feet, in the other a green snake. Sensing Nathan’s weakness, Nute smirked. “Elise be calling on Ayida-Weddo, tonight.” He lifted the snake toward the sky. “De Loa of fertility.”

Nathan took a step away from the wiggling snake.

Narried called out, “The Loa keep they own hours. She have to abide by they schedule. Come Nayton.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward a small fire in the center of the peristyle she created. “I’ve got things to show you.”

She opened a bottle of rum, saluted the four corners and the four faces of the world, tilted the bottle and splashed the rum into the fire. Next she picked up a gourd and began to shake it rhythmically. She closed her eyes and began to sing. Her lilting voice floated in the darkness.

While she sang, Nute pulled a knife from his belt. He cut a line across his palm and let his blood drip over the flames. He spoke a few words in Creole and Narried extended her hand toward him. He gently sliced her palm, tipped her hand and let the drops of blood drip into the dancing flames. His eyes came to rest on Nathan. Fighting the urge to run away, Nathan extended his hand. He winced as the blade slid across his palm and watched as Nute turned his hand. His blood joined theirs in the fire.

Narried unrolled the first sheet of parchment. It crackled beneath her fingertips. Her index finger moved quickly from left to right, her lips moving as she read. She flipped to the next sheet and studied the words. The only indication she had found something of interest was the slight nod of her head. It looked as if someone was talking to her and she was agreeing. She rerolled the script, and tucked it away inside a deep pocket in the fold of her skirt.

She tossed a small bottle into the flames. The smell of cinnamon exploded into the air, an invitation for Ninon’s spirit to join the living by the fire. Closing her eyes she extended her hand over the fire and began to chant. The flames leapt up like an excited pup, licking eagerly at her hand. She passed her hand over the fire in a circular motion; the flames followed the movement of her hand twisting into a vortex. Above the roiling vortex of flames, the smoke shifted, transforming itself into hazy images.

The scene unfolding in the smoke was at his grandmother’s house. His grandmother sat on the porch, in the exact chair where he watched the sunrise each morning. Elise Dupier stepped through the doorway carrying a tray of drinks.

The smoke shifted.

Clutching at her heart his grandmother fell against the wood deck. Elise stepped over the prone figure and sauntered back into the house.

Nathan strained forward trying to reach his dying grandmother. Nute and Narried held him tight. She murmured, “Let it go, Naytan. Let the pain go.”

He sagged between them, unable to fight his grief.

A low keening emanated from Narried as she called on Papa Legba the god of the crossroads and keeper of the gates. This time she picked up Jared Riley’s backpack. She took each item and dropped them into the fire. The water bottle buckled and began to melt, blue flames leapt up releasing images of Jar in the sand storm. The pocket knife turned red hot and an old truck, very similar to Nathan’s left a dirt road and sank into a river. The Carlton Fisk ball started to smoke and for a moment the green monster at Fenway Park was visible in the haze.

The flames climbed higher and once again the images shifted. The boy appeared again, this time looking nervous. He was standing at the center of a large crowd clasping the Govi. Elise appeared, moving toward the boy like a predator. Her eyes however were not lowered with malice, they had a sensual gleam.

Nathan recognized the look. He turned toward Narried. “What…?”

She gave him a tight smile. “She will channel the spirit away from the boy - in the oldest ritual known to mon.”

“What happens to the boy?”

“If the ceremony is successful the spirit will exit the boy and enter Elise,” Narried hesitated before finishing, “after, the boy will be sacrificed to appease the Petra Loa.”

An image of Angelina’s body hanging from the tree in the woods flashed through Nathan’s mind. “We have to stop her. How do we stop her?”

This time, Nute responded. “coup n’ ame - a soul spell. We will steal Brunache’s ti-bon-ange, trap it once again in the Govi and then we must burn the clay vessel and dispatch the soul to its final abode.”

Narried continued where Nute left off. “We must bide our time. Let Elise lure the spirit away from the boy—If she is successful we will have our chance to destroy her and Brunache in the moments of weakness following the transfer.” She didn’t wink when she finished but she may as well have. The silence followed her words was loaded with possibilities.

Nathan stared at Narried. She served him lunch every day at the diner and they bantered like friends but he had never known her until this moment. There was no doubt in his mind she and Nute could have taken Jared the minute he walked into Reserve. The boy had merely been bait, an opportunity to lure Elise into action. Nathan felt like a simple pawn, maneuvered expertly across the board until the more important pieces were in position. Now they were poised to strike and she was giving him the opportunity to avenge his grandmother’s death: a pawn for a queen.

He had never killed anyone, not even in the line of duty. Now he looked into his heart and wondered if it was in him. As much as he loved his grandmother, it was not the memory of her death that answered the question for him. It was the image of Angelina’s mutilated body hanging in the woods. How many children would die if Brunache existed in a willing vessel? It was a question he didn’t want to answer. He said, “We’re wasting time.”

Narried knelt down by the fire, uncorked a small vial and filled it with ashes. When she finished she plucked the slightly charred but intact Carlton Fisk ball out of the edge of the fire. She massaged the ashes into the skin of the ball, mumbling in Haitian.

Handing the ball to Nathan she said, “You never ask me how it is three women could kill Brunache when an army of men failed.”