“Police? I’m very busy just now. But as you’ve come all this way, I assume it’s something that can’t wait?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“All right. Let’s go in the trailer. You’re getting eaten alive.”
The trailer was an office on wheels. The table inside was covered with maps, notebooks, cameras and survey equipment. A large Thermos sat beside a super-sized can of bug spray.
“Coffee?”
“Sure. That would be nice.”
Dr. Wasserstein removed her bug protection and shook out her bobbed dark hair. Delorme had been expecting grey hair and spectacles, but the curator was no older than Delorme, possibly a year or two younger, with dark eyes and perfect skin. Underneath the bug shirt she wore a striped T-shirt of the type favoured by French fishermen.
Coffee was poured, and Delorme explained why she was there.
“You have two murders? And you think they are connected to Native Canadians in some way?”
“There’s some possible involvement of a First Nations person. But Frank Izzard at OPP thinks these symbols are connected to Voodoo.”
“I know Frank. That’s all he told you?”
“He said you’d be the one to narrow it down.”
Dr. Wasserstein looked out the trailer window. Outside, her colleagues went about their work, still figures in the tranquil light. Delorme envied them, and felt a twinge of sadness at bringing thoughts of murder into this place of quiet study. Dr. Wasserstein turned back to face her, dark eyes intense.
“You know, people are always labouring under the misconception that Voodoo is a violent religion. It isn’t. I mean, yes, they kill goats and chickens and so on, and use the blood in their rituals, but the animals are not treated any worse than the ones we eat every day. Probably a good deal better. Did you find animal bones near the bodies?”
“I’d rather not tell you anything about the bodies until you look at something else. I don’t want to prejudice your opinion.” Delorme pulled out the photographs of the hieroglyphics. “Can you tell me anything about these?”
Dr. Wasserstein took the photos and examined them in the window light.
“Oh, these are interesting. I haven’t seen any of these, except in the journals. You found these in Algonquin Bay?”
“In the woods just outside town. We know they’re not old.”
“No, they wouldn’t be. Not in this hemisphere.”
“What can you tell us about them?”
“Well, they’re not Native, I can tell you that right off. I’m sure Frank Izzard told you the same thing.”
“He did.”
“Did you find any shells near these markings? Tiny shells? Multicoloured?”
“Yes, we did. What makes you say that?”
“They’re not hieroglyphics at all, these markings. What they are is a record of divining the future. Fortune-telling. A witch or priest or shaman—whatever term you prefer—tells the future by tossing cowrie shells and reading their patterns. These marks, the arrows pointing in different directions and so on, are a recording of particular throws of the shells. Different coloured shells get different representations—the hammer for the green ones, for example, the hatchet for the red. They look a little sinister, especially if they’re connected to a crime, but in themselves they’re actually quite harmless. They answer all the usual questions, you know—is there money coming? Romance? A promotion? They’re no worse than astrology. But tell me something else: Did you find any longish sticks nearby? Sticks that look like they had been cut to one length?”
“Yes, we found a few. They were all discoloured at one end. We’re still waiting to hear back from forensics on what they were discoloured with.”
“Probably blood. Palos, they’re called.”
“Are you telling me it’s Voodoo, after all?”
“It’s Palo Mayombe.”
“What did you call it?”
“Palo Mayombe.” Dr. Wasserstein spelled it for her. “It’s a relative of Santeria and Voodoo. Much more mysterious, maybe more frightening. We don’t actually know too much about it. Like Voodoo, it is used primarily to read the future, and then to adjust the future by invoking the help of particular orishas—these are conflations of African spirits with Christian saints. They have different spheres of influence. Ellegua for crossroads, Oggun for iron or metal, that sort of thing.”
“How do you invoke them?”
“You make offerings. Offerings related to their jurisdiction. Ellegua likes sweet things, for example. Oggun wants iron, metal.”
“Would a railway spike fit the bill?”
“Definitely. Railway spike, horseshoe … anything like that.”
“Who practises this stuff?”
“In Canada? No one. This is the first I’ve heard of it here. It comes originally from the Ibo, the Bantu and the Kikongo, tribes primarily found in Nigeria and Congo. We know that it was widely practised in the nineteenth century. Many members of those tribes were brought over to the western hemisphere as slaves, and they brought their religion with them.”
“Where in the western hemisphere?”
“Cuba, almost entirely. So, if I were looking for someone deep into Palo Mayombe, I’d be looking for someone from Cuba—or maybe Miami, for obvious reasons. You might find traces of it in Mexico, but really Cuba’s the current cauldron for this stuff.”
“Cuba. And you’re certain this has nothing to do with Native Canadians.”
“Nothing whatsoever.”
There was a silence. Dr. Wasserstein said, “What? You’re looking perplexed.”
“You said this Palo Mayombe is more mysterious than Voodoo. Maybe more frightening. Why did you say that?”
“Well, like Voodoo, it involves the usual animal sacrifices. But when it comes to Palo Mayombe, there are many references to human sacrifice. Tales of people mutilated before they were killed.”
“One of our murder victims had his hands and feet cut off. And we haven’t found his head, either.”
“Oh, dear God.” Dr. Wasserstein placed a palm on her chest. “How terrifying.”
“Yeah. We want to stop him before he does this to anyone else.”
“Well, for the sake of accuracy, I should tell you that these days, when it comes to Palo Mayombe, there is a lot of discussion about what is the truth. Defenders of Mayombe make a number of points: First, all of the references to human sacrifice come from missionaries. People whose sole motivation for being in Africa was to convert the populace to Christianity. Historically, the method of choice was to frighten people—thus, you get the pagan gods of old being transformed into devils, figures of pure evil.
“Second point. There’s nothing wrong with human sacrifice per se. Jesus Christ was a human sacrifice, sanctioned by God himself. Also, we honour soldiers who give their lives in the cause of defending their country. What are they, if not human sacrifices?
“Three. They say if there was human sacrifice, it was—as in the cases I’ve just cited—completely voluntary.”
Delorme regarded the curator. Despite the bobbed hair and the hip T-shirt, the discussion of violence seemed to have aged her.
“You’re very pale,” Delorme said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit—well, what you told me …” Dr. Wasserstein shook her head as if she could fling the brutal images away.
“What I was saying—it’s all very well for defenders of Mayombe to say the witnesses of such things were prejudiced, or had something to gain by making it up. That’s true, as far as it goes. But these were Jesuits, most of them, and their references are not in tracts or the texts of sermons. They occur in their relations of events they sent back to their superiors in the order—in other words, there was no need to frighten anyone. They were just reporting to head office what they were up against.