As Penelope half fell into her mother’s arms, another assistant led the little goat to the altar. The assistant knelt before it, rubbed its small hooves with oil, and traced a cross and circle on its forehead with blood from the cocks. Then he bowed low and held out some green leaves for the little goat to eat. Adrienne, meanwhile, was hugging Penelope, moaning and weeping as though they were to be parted forever. The altar assistant forced them apart, pushed the girl to her knees and held a bottle of rum to her lips. Her mother, once again the high priestess, her face a rigid mask, began to pour oil and wine over Penelope, working it into her hair and smearing her face and bare shoulders with it.
Penelope was on all fours, the palms of her hands flat on the ground, facing the goat. Adrienne, her arms outstretched, stood over them chanting over and over, “Damballa calls you. Damballa calls you.” Gradually the girl and the young goat grew quiet, staring into each other’s eyes, their foreheads almost touching, while red ribbons were tied on the goat’s horns and woven into the girl’s hair. As the priestess continued her monotonous chant the girl began a low, piteous bleating and the goat cried with a voice that was eerily human. The goat’s penis slipped its sheath and became fully erect and the girl’s nipples hardened under the thin cotton of her shift. She raised her eyes heavenward, exposing the curving line of her neck. A long, oblong bowl was slipped between the two heads and an assistant squatted on his heels and held out a branch covered with tender green leaves. He jiggled it slightly as if to attract their attention and a long sigh went up from the congregation as the girl began to nibble the leaves.
The mambo, holding a machete honed to a glistening edge, turned from the altar. The goat didn’t flinch as she touched its neck with the razor sharp blade, nor did it cry out as she deftly slit its throat. As the blood gushed into the wooden bowl, the girl, her body as taut and tight as a bowstring, leapt into the air with a strangled cry of agony, then sprawled senseless before the altar.
Skye left the shelter of the trees and sprinted across the clearing in a crouching run. A sacrifice such as this was intended to invoke a truly powerful god and he knew who it would be. Papa Legba had abandoned his keeping of the gate; he had turned his chair around to stare into the temple. Skye knelt by the chest-high wall and cautiously raised his head to peer over the top. His nostrils were immediately assailed with a rich miasma of smells—blood, human sweat, smoke from the oil lamps and other less identifiable odours.
The substitution sacrifice, so close to that most powerful of rituals, the dread sacrifice of the “goat with no horns,” had unleashed a frenzy of religious ecstasy. Two elderly women were carrying the unconscious Penelope off to one side where they would tend to her. Swarms of loas descended from the roof and sought out their favourite mounts. Nearly half the people were “possessed,” rolling on the ground, or prancing through the audience with up-stretched arms and rapt, trance-like expressions. One of the young acolytes stood up and began to rip off her bloodstained gown, shredding the flimsy cloth with frantic fingers. A muscular youth, bare to the waist, slipped out of the crowd and began to dance with her.
The Rada drums spoke in a rolling tattoo like muted thunder, and the frantic activity within the temple ceased as though time had stopped. Eyes rolled heavenward as the drums beat out an imperious summons. Would the great god come to them? A sibilant whisper of indrawn breath swept through the crowd of worshippers as Baron Samedi appeared before them. As always the loa was wearing a top hat, a long black frock coat, and tattered striped pants. He also wore dark sunglasses to signify that death was blind. Adrienne bowed low in obeisance to the god, her plumed headdress almost touching the ground. Kneeling, eyes fixed on the ground, she held out the gleaming black case to the “keeper of cemeteries.”
Skye vaulted over the wall and dashed toward the altar, jumping over the bodies that lay moaning and writhing on the earthen floor, avoiding an acolyte and her partner masturbating each other, and pushed aside a man who staggered into his path, his eyes glazed either with rum or a trance of possession. No one tried to stop him; their dazed minds were incapable of reacting to his sudden appearance. But an ominous growl went up when he tore the case from the god’s grasp. A quick glance at Baron Samedi’s face told Skye that he had never seen the man before. Undoubtedly he would be a high-ranking houngan from one of the other islands. It was impossible to see his eyes behind the dark glasses, but his deeply lined face was expressionless and he reeked of rum. As a god, he would have been stuffed with rum and food before being summoned. He offered no resistance as Skye grabbed the case from him. Out of the corner of his eye Skye saw Adrienne’s hand stealthily reaching for the bloody machete lying on the altar. He was closer to it, and picked it up before she could reach it. “Snap out of it, Adrienne!” he barked. “You’re in over your head.” But she seemed not to hear him.
Holding the machete down at his side, he turned to face the crowd. The sacrilege he had committed against Baron Samedi had shocked some of them back into consciousness. Skye noted grimly that most of those who had regained their senses were men. Scowling, muscular men. He stole a quick sideways glance at Adrienne. The hard lines of her face were beginning to soften. Standing next to her, Baron Samedi seemed scarcely aware of his surroundings. Skye lowered the machete to the ground and began to walk toward the exit. Two men, field workers from the look of them, moved to block his path. Holding the case in both hands, he pointed it at them and they fell back, crossing themselves. Other members of the congregation also hastily crossed themselves and recoiled from the dread object, leaving Skye an unimpeded path to the exit.
“Stay under cover, Overfine!” he hissed as he saw a movement in the trees. Overfine, who had been about to leave the protection of the casuarinas to join his boss, immediately recognized the wisdom of this advice and remained where he was. There was no point in letting his friends and neighbours know he had played any part in this night’s business.
“What you gonna do with that thing, Master Skye?” Overfine finally mustered the courage to ask as he parked the jeep in the driveway. “It be powerful bad medicine.”
“Mistress Jocelyn loved this place more than any other in the world. She once said that when she died she wanted her ashes scattered on the ocean. That’s what I am going to do. Tomorrow night.” He walked around the hood of the jeep to stand beside his servant. “I want you to come with me, Overfine. So you can tell the people what has been done and that the ashes are gone. Will you do that? For her? I know it would comfort her to know that you were there.”
Overfine swallowed, then straightened his shoulders. “You can count on me, Mister Skye.” He looked at the case Skye was holding with an expression that was no longer fearful, but filled with tenderness. “And so can she.”
“Thank you, Overfine. Tomorrow I want you to spread the word about what we are going to do. That way people will know her ashes are no longer on the island.”
Chapter Four
God, the thought of his Jocelyn being made a part of that obscene ritual! Skye examined the outside of the case. It was unmarked. He twirled the dial of the combination lock that wouldn’t have lasted thirty seconds against someone with a hammer, and lifted the cover. The bronze urn rested in its bed of styrofoam. Skye took a deep breath and unscrewed the top of the urn. The grey-white ash and bits of bone were undisturbed. As always, he winced at the sight of some of her teeth mixed in with the ashes. But the important thing was that her remains had not been tampered with. He had not failed her completely. What would they have done if he had not intervened? What devilish purpose did they have in mind for the urn and its contents? Skye shuddered and pushed the thought away.
In its place came memories of the traumatic days after the accident on the ski slope. Unconscious, Jocelyn had been flown to Calgary in a helicopter ambulance and placed on a life-support system in the intensive care ward. At first, he had refused to admit the possibility that she would