Its opposite. Its ultimate negation, its Antichrist. Failure. The ultimate Failure of all …
You can’t argue with success …
You can’t argue with …
You can’t argue with …
Ogoun …
I drew a breath so deep it howled in my ears, threw my head back and slamming my chin down hard on my chest I bit –
And just for one instant the shadows flew back from me, and left me gasping on the ground, pouring blood from my mouth. My tongue hurt horribly, but all I’d done was bite the side of it. I was in no danger of choking. I saw Jyp staring at me, and Mall’s glazed eyes, and at the line’s end Clare, wide-eyed with horror; that I couldn’t bear.
‘S’okay!’ I mumbled thickly, trying fuzzily to find a reassuring reason for threshing about like that. ‘S’nothing. Just like the bastard said – my balls are freezing! I could …’
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.
I was startled to find I understood them – only too well.
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.
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.
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 –
I needed a drink – badly. In the worst possible way. I didn’t like bottles, but the thirst had me gulping greedily for the sickly bite of it. The dancers milled around us now, catcalling, spitting; but all I could see were those bloody bottles. Them swigging and spilling it like that when I didn’t have any, that made me suddenly furious. I yelled at them, and when they only howled and jeered all the louder I felt myself boil up like a kettle. In red rage I demanded my share, I pounded on the ground with my bound fists and roared out ‘Rhum, merd’e’chienne! D’rhum –’
I was a bit startled at how it came out, so loudly it drowned out crowd and drums together. I saw the advancing acolytes hesitate, the crowd sway back.
There went the rum!
I snatched out after the nearest bottle, and found that somehow my wrists had come free, though the broken bindings still dangled from them. My feet were still tied – I couldn’t think why, so I kicked them free with a joyous whoop, tried a flying grab for that bottle – and fell sprawling on my face in the mud.
Of course! There was this bloody iron collar and chain round my neck – and the others, too! What were we – spaniels or something?
I tapped the iron indignantly. I heard myself demand in aggrieved tones why my old friend, my faithful old servant was treating me like this. Didn’t it know me? Didn’t it recognize its master? I caressed the worn old surface agreeably – and felt the joy that leaped and shivered in the living iron, like an eager dog greeting its master. I heard the bolt squeal in delight as it squirmed and wormed its way to freedom, and the singing clang of wild liberation as the collar burst from my neck.
The laughter faltered. With one great gasping breath the crowd shrank back. I leapt up into a tense crouch, like a cat ready to spring. Beside me Le Stryge kicked violently at his diagram, then with an exhausted groan he collapsed. One acolyte caught sight of it, and his eyes bulged. He jabbed a finger and shrilled out ‘Li vever! Ogoun! Ogoun Ferraille!’