Swaying on his feet, Sir George repeated his thanks for Skye’s help that afternoon. Skye scarcely heard him, his thoughts were on the implications of what Edwina had said. He had to get back to the Whistling Frog. Turning on his heel, he strode across the sand to thank his hostess and make his excuses to the Princess. To everyone’s relief, she decided to leave as well. “That damn drumming is really too barbaric.”
Downing-Harris hastily finished his drink and draped a fur wrap around her bare shoulders as she stood up.
Chapter Three
The black case was no longer on the top shelf of the closet. Skye cursed his stupidity in not realizing that the case and its precious contents would be irresistible to voodooists. Adrienne. Damn her black heart! He had to retrieve the case before all that was left of Jocelyn was subjected to some hellish ritual. Maybe it was already too late. Probably not. Jocelyn’s ashes would be destined to play a starring role in tonight’s obscene ceremony and the climax wouldn’t come for some time yet.
Cursing Adrienne and his own stupidity under his breath, Skye raced across the lawn to the staff quarters. Although the night was warm and the breeze had died away, the windows were closed and tightly shuttered to keep out any spirits that might be roaming the night. Could Overfine have been in on it? No way. He and Agatha were both from St. Vincent and would have nothing to do with what Agatha scornfully called “them heathen orgies.” Rubbing his eyes, Overfine cautiously opened the door to Skye’s insistent pounding.
Skye told him to get dressed and explained what had happened. Overfine paused with one foot in his right pant leg and looked over his shoulder in wide-eyed disbelief.
“You ain’t planning on goin’ down to that place, are you, boss?”
“I am. And I would like you to come with me. But you don’t have to. Not if you don’t feel up to it. But I can’t let them do this to Mistress Jocelyn’s memory.”
That was the clincher, as Skye knew it would be. Overfine finished pulling on his pants.
“Don’t use the lights,” Skye said as Overfine’s hand reached for the switch on the jeep’s dash.
The native village sprawled down the far side of a hill. Ironically, it commanded the best view on the entire island. The Company had once considered moving it, but that came to naught because no one could agree on where it should be moved to. At the foot of the hill, Skye told Overfine to pull over to the side of the road and cut the engine. The sound of the three Rada drums was much louder now and grew steadily louder as Skye and Overfine walked up the hill, keeping well clear of the narrow asphalted road. Reaching the top, they skirted the darkened village. By Company decree, all the small wooden houses were identical. They were all painted white with green trim and were built on stilts to counteract the steep slope and to permit air to circulate underneath the floor. All were tightly shuttered. Those belonging to believers and non-believers alike. There were no non-believers, just non-practitioners. All believed completely and fearfully in the power of the voodoo gods.
The path branched off into a grove of casuarina trees, their jointed, leafless branches hanging motionless in the still air. Skye touched Overfine’s elbow and they stepped off the path and into the trees as they saw lights up ahead. A few yards further on, Skye whispered that Overfine was to remain there, out of sight. Overfine made as if to protest, then, seeing the determined look on Skye’s face, a look he knew well, nodded a reluctant acceptance.
“If things start getting out of control, you can run in and take the case from me,” Skye said as he moved away.
Reaching the edge of the clearing, Skye crouched behind a tree. There was little need of concealment. The worshippers were transfixed, intent only on what was taking place within the temple. Nor would there be any sentries. White people never ventured near the village after dark, and those natives who were not voodoo worshippers could be counted on to remain indoors, no doubt praying to their own god. The temple was a thatch-roofed shed with walls that extended half-way to the roof. Ostensibly it was a storage shed, but the items it stored, wheelbarrows, carts and wagons, were all designed to be easily removed when it was time for it to serve its true function as a tonnelle.
Skye nodded to himself as he spotted the old man with a pipe between his teeth, sitting on a chair outside the entrance to the temple. That was Papa Legba, keeper of gates and crossroads. Papa Legba was summoned early in the proceedings since his presence made it easier for the other gods to enter the temple.
The scene was lit with the harsh, baleful light of two gas lanterns, leaving large areas in shadow. Some fifty worshippers sat on the earthen floor, chanting in unison. Closer to the altar, young women dressed in white sat cross-legged. One of their number lay on her back, twitching and moaning. Those next to her stroked her as if praising her and seeking to share in her trance.
The altar was crowded with bottles of rum and wine, mounds of cornmeal, chunks of raw meat and cakes. Candles burned with clear, straight flames and wicks floated in coconut shells filled with oil. Adrienne, resplendent in a scarlet robe and feather headdress, traced a pentagram and other cabalistic signs in front of the altar with cornmeal poured from a bottle. Skye focused his binoculars on her as she straightened up and faced the audience. If he had not witnessed it before, he would have been shocked at the transformation. Her attractive, rather youthful face, with its air of good-humoured sensuality, was now a rigid mask beneath the black and scarlet plumes, lips drawn back in a ferocious snarling grin. The chanting rose and fell, interspersed with voices that soared above it in ululating solos. A shape in the semi-darkness to the right of the altar caught Skye’s eye and he zeroed in on it with the binoculars. It was Penelope dressed in a white tube top, rocking gently from side to side, her eyes closed. She seemed to be crooning to herself.
With the co-operation of Adrienne, Skye, who had a restlessly enquiring mind, had been an unseen witness to a number of voodoo rites. But tonight was different from the others. Tonight there was a palpable current of ecstatic fear, of deeper and darker mysteries that would unfold if the gods were willing. Skye knew only too well what would be used to tempt the most powerful of gods. He swept the area around the altar with the glasses. There was no sign of the plastic case. He knew it was there somewhere and tensed himself for action as soon as it appeared.
A man with a seamed, stubbly face approached the altar, holding a black cock out to Adrienne. While the altar servants held it, she drew a cross on its back with white flour. Another assistant crumbled a cake into the palm of her hand and she held it out to the cock. A moan of ecstasy went up as the cock pecked at the food. Adrienne stroked the fowl gently, then snatched it up and began a wild dance, whirling, holding the bird high over her head, its wings frantically fluttering, while the Rada drums beat an insistent tattoo. Then in one swift motion, she bit off its head and danced through the crowd, spraying the acolytes with the blood spurting from its neck, splattering their spotless white gowns with crimson.
Another black cock was brought in, and after a long suspenseful wait for it to peck at the food, was similarly sacrificed. This time Adrienne collected some of the spurting blood in a small bowl which she handed to a blood-splattered acolyte crawling on her belly across the floor. The girl took the bowl, drank from it, and slithered across the floor, offering it to the supplicating hands reaching out for the bowl. Damballa, the great serpent god, had arrived and mounted his “horse.”
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