Chase the Morning

I was stunned at the way they reacted. Even Le Stryge pulled away from me in sheer fright, jerking me half off the ground by my collar, which was not the nicest way; and the others shrank back with expressions I couldn’t read.

‘Hey!’ I said, struggling to speak more clearly as I spat out the gore. ‘S’okay! I was just saying I could use some of that bloody rum now, because my –’

‘Yeah!’ croaked Jyp. I’d only once seen his face that pale, and that was after the dupiah. ‘But how come you said it in Creole?’

‘In Creole?’ My turn to be astonished. ‘I don’t speak Creole! A bit of French, but –’ I tried to say it again. And I actually heard my own voice change, felt the muscles in my throat slacken and change, and the sound they formed go impossibly deep and gravelly, felt the tongue that shaped it form new sounds, new shades of tone – another word, another language, another voice altogether.

‘Graine moaine ’fret! Don’moa d’rhum!’

And by damn, it was Creole all right.

The shadows swayed before me, and just as suddenly my throat tightened and I knew my voice would be my own again.

But before I could force out a word Le Stryge, staring at me, suddenly hissed ‘Go on! Go on! Don’t fight it!’ And with his bound legs he began to thrash about in the spilled meal-flour that by now covered the whole ground before us, grunting with his efforts, struggling to form a shape. A complex one – no wonder he struggled; like a fantastic piece of wrought ironwork, a hatched portcullis or gate …

Without warning the beating of the iron rose in a crescendo, the drums thundered madly to keep up – and broke off on the off-beat. The sudden lack of sound was worse than just silence. More like a pistol hanging fire, a match poised above a fuse. I looked up – and across the space I met the distant eyes of Don Pedro, unreadable as the gaze of Night itself. With the dripping sword he gestured, and two of his bokor acolytes sprang down off the altar and strode towards us. In their hands were rope halters, that must have come from the animals. The drumbeat began again, a slow solemn roll. As they walked they began to chant in time with it, intoning the words with businesslike, confident urgency.

Si ou mander poule, me bai ou.
Si ou mander cabrit, me bai ou.
Si ou mander chien, me bai ou.
Si ou mander bef, me bai ou …

I was startled to find I understood them – only too well.

If you ask me for a chicken, I can find it …

I just bet they could. The crowd parted before them, then fell in behind. One or two began to jeer and howl, waving their bottles, but most joined the chant. Their twisted faces showed a strange inhuman mix of greed and awe.

Si ou mander cabrit sans cor
Coté me pren’pr bai ou?
Ou a mangé viande moins,
Ou à quitter zos pour demain?

If you ask me for a goat without horns,
Where do I go for that?
Will you eat the meat off me,
And leave the bones for tomorrow?

This was it, at last. The minor sacrifices – the animals, those were done. The loas were here in the persons of their riders. And I hadn’t given in the easy way. Now, as Le Stryge had predicted, Don Pedro would have to bend them to his will, make them take me by force. That would need more blood, stronger blood – mangés majeurs. Human blood. Ours.

They were coming to this end of the line, starting with Stryge himself probably. He paid them no attention, just went on scraping with his heels in the mud and soggy flour, gasping to himself with the effort. I realized suddenly that he was chanting too, to the same drumbeat – a stranger, spikier invocation of his own.

Par pouvoir St. Jacques Majeur,
Ogoun Ferraille, negre fer, negre feraille,
negre tagnifer tago,
Ogoun Badagris,
negre Baguido Bago,
Ogoun Batala …

The rhythm seemed to drive the words home into my head like so many nails. I felt them, with a force that went beyond understanding. And I felt something more, something that made me forget danger, humiliation and everything else besides. I needed –