Cross Current - Kling Christine - Страница 43
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“I heard her scream, Racine. Then this huge man in a black suit and hat ran out. He had a skull and crossbones on his hat.”
The look on her face changed to one of concern. “Bawon?"
“I’ve seen that skull before. On dark glasses I found on the Miss Agnes."
“Come,” she said, nodding her head. “We will see.” She put her hand in the small of my back and pushed me toward the door.
We crossed the yard at a pace that required me to trot to keep up. She walked past the bloody chair without concern and led me to the back of the room. There on the floor, a small mattress and bedding had been laid out. The white sheets were streaked with bloodstains. “We left her here, asleep. She must sleep after the lave tete." She shook her head. “It was the bokor."
“Bokor? What’s that? I don’t understand. Where’s Solange?” The sound of breaking glass caused us both to turn. One of the bottles had fallen off the altar, and the smell of rum filled the room. Then a section of the curtain beneath the altar moved, and a small hand poked out.
“Solange,” I yelled. The broken glass crunched beneath my sneakers as I reached her side. Her eyes looked huge beneath the white scarf that wrapped her head, and I slid my arms under her and lifted her up so her bare feet would not touch the glass. Her white dress was splattered with blood. Until I felt the tears on my cheeks, I had not been aware I was crying.
I set her down on the bed to check her wounds.
Racine, who was standing behind me, said, “She is fine. She is not hurt.”
“But the blood.”
“It is part of the lave tete. We kill a white chicken. It is a gift for the lwa. The blood is not hers.”
Then Solange pushed her head back and looked up at me, her brown eyes focused. “We go now?” she asked.
My whole body sagged, limp with relief. She was talking again. I wrapped my arms around her and held her. I looked at Racine over the top of her head and mouthed, “Thank you.” She smiled and nodded as though she had never had a doubt that things would turn out this way.
Most of the time I’d felt so awkward not knowing what to do for this child, but hugging her skinny little frame at that moment felt just right. I didn’t care if they had used dead chickens, magic herbs, visiting spirits, or whatever. Solange was back from that place deep inside herself.
“Sure, kiddo,” I said. “We’ll go now.”
Racine accompanied us across the yard, which was still filled with dancers. I carried Solange on my hip, afraid to let her go. Inside the house, Racine put her cool hand on my arm.
“Wait one moment, please,” she said. She motioned toward the couch. “Set the child down a moment. We need to speak.”
“Racine, I just want to get her home.”
“You are looking for this child’s father, non?”
“Yes.” I sat Solange down on the couch and joined her. “Can you help me find him?”
“Perhaps. We are both searching for the same answers, you and I.”
“I don’t understand.”
She took my hand in hers again. “Now it is my turn to trust you.” She paused, as though trying to decide whether to continue. “Many Haitians try to come to the United States. Some make a cooperative and build their own boats. They work together for their freedom, but it can take many years. Others, they pay the smugglers, money-hungry men who sometimes dump their human cargo rather than be captured. People go with smugglers because they feel they cannot wait any longer.”
“But Racine, what does this have to do with Solange?”
“There are people here who get word when a boat has left Haiti. A watch is kept and when the boat comes ashore, people drive down to help any make it safely ashore. I was there that night, waiting for someone, when the Miss Agnes sank.”
“You were there? Can you put me in touch with anyone who might know her father?”
“No. And Haitians will not be willing to talk to you, but perhaps they will speak to me. I will see what I can learn. People are very frightened now. It is the bokor. It is very dangerous for you to be asking these questions.” She squeezed my hand, then let go. “I have something for you.”
She stood and walked into a room at the back of the house. Solange had fallen asleep leaning against my arm. The house was quiet, though the sound of the drums outside grew ever louder. I wanted to get out of there, and I was tempted to just get up and leave. Finally, Racine returned with a small sachet-like bag on a leather thong. She placed it over my head.
“Do not take this off. This is from La Sirene. She will help you, protect you from the bokor."
I held the bag to my nose and sniffed. It smelled like old seaweed, and I made a face. “What’s in this?”
“Just wear it, and La Sirene will be watching.”
I shook my head. “Who is La Sirene?”
Racine smiled. “La Sirene is the spirit in the sea, and she watches over you. She will protect you from the bokor."
“And what the heck is a bokor?"
“Americans think Vodou is about black magic. This is not so for mambos and hougans. We are healers. But the bokor...” She looked away and lowered her head. She spoke very softly. “He is not a healer.”
I rubbed my hand over my eyes and then thought about Racine’s kindness and concern. “It’s a lot to digest in one night, you know,” I said. “People possessed by spirits, animal sacrifice”—I held up the pouch—“and magic seaweed.” I shook my head and attempted to smile.
She pointed to a painting filled with bright-colored animals standing around a large wooden cross. “Many years ago, when the missionaries in Haiti asked the African slaves to worship the cross that Christ died on, the Africans saw it as symbolic of the Crossroads—the divider between the spirit world and ours. The Europeans were pleased when the Africans accepted the cross, but what they did not realize was that though they and the Africans were looking at the same cross, each was seeing something profoundly different.” She stroked my hair, as if I were a child like the one sleeping between us. “Always remember, Seychelle, you will see what your experience has prepared you to see.”
All the way to the car, Racine kept insisting that Solange was supposed to sleep in the peristil overnight, that the child needed to stay for the full benefit of the lave tete ceremony. The lwa would protect her, Racine said, and she argued it was too dangerous to take her away.
I thanked her profusely for helping the girl, buckled Solange into the Jeep, then turned back to face her.
“Racine, you said you were going to meet someone on board the Miss Agnes. What happened?”
I could barely make out her features in the dark yard, but I could sense how her body tensed. After several seconds of quiet, I thought she wasn’t going to answer my question. When she spoke, finally, her voice was tight with emotion. “It was my sister. She never made it to shore.”
At the stoplight, waiting to turn onto 1-95, I saw Solange staring into the darkness, the fear raw on her face.
“What happened back there?” I asked. “Why did you scream?”
She turned to face me. “I saw him,” she said.
“Who?”
“Le Capitaine.” She turned her head to stare out into the night as the light turned green.
XVIII
As I pulled the Jeep into Jeannie’s yard, I cursed at the sight of the white Suburban with the green lettering. I checked my watch, then winced. It was after ten. I didn’t want to give Rusty Elliot any reason to think I wasn’t taking care of Solange properly, any reason for him to take her away. How the hell was I going to explain bringing her home in a dress splattered with blood?
Racine had handed me a plastic bag with Solange’s shorts and T-shirt as we had passed through the house on our way out, and now I dug around in the back of the Jeep to find them. I figured I would change her clothes before taking her upstairs. It wasn’t only that Rusty was here; Jeannie hadn’t been all that thrilled at my taking the child off to that Voodoo house at night, either. She’d go ballistic, too, if she saw her now.
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