He did not know what island this was, knew only his general location, somewhere in the Caribbean. Behind him, he could hear a few other sailors following in his soggy footsteps, shouting and calling to one another. Sanchez remained quiet for now, terrified that he would lose his fix on the tree line and end up walking to a watery grave.
The sea grew shallower as he made his way, and then it became apparent to Sanchez that others had made the shore before him. He could see people walking in front of the trees. They staggered, no doubt exhausted and injured from their trying ordeal, as was he. He headed for them, pleased that at least some of his shipmates had survived, that he would not face the trials and tribulations of this strange new land, no doubt populated by savages, alone.
“Hey! It’s me, Alonso!” He stepped from the waves onto the coral shore and walked up the beach until dry sand caked his wet feet. “Carlos? Is that you?”
No one answered him. The wind must be carrying my voice away, Sanchez thought. He stepped closer to the trees, beyond which he could make out nothing but impenetrable darkness. One of the figures turned toward him and began to walk away from the trees, an ungainly ambling.
“Let me help.” Sanchez ran to his shipmate’s aid. He reached out for him to lend support, but his hand froze when a bolt of lightning cast the man’s face in an otherworldly glow.
“My God, what happened to you?” Sanchez withdrew his hand, wondering if this man had some sort of communicable disease. But before he could arrive at an answer, the castaway swiped at Sanchez aggressively. Sanchez reached for his blunderbuss only to pass a hand over an empty scabbard. The gun had been ripped away during his escape from the ship.
The assailant lunged at Sanchez, mouth open, eyes wide. His grimy fingers passed through the sailor’s hair and Sanchez spun away from his attacker. He made up his mind right then that flight, rather than fight, was the preferable option here.
Sanchez dashed into the woods, outpacing his strange pursuer, but aware that other figures lurked in the shadows.
Chapter 1
The priest sat alone in his church. David Abbe had performed a modest service that morning and then spent quiet time tidying up the place. A small but very old building, the weight of history lay on its two short rows of pews, altar, and simple lectern. An unadorned wooden cross hung on the wall. The decor was functional rather than ornate. The people served by this house of worship were poor, close to the earth, and required no ostentatious displays to feel close to their god.
Though he sometimes longed for a more prestigious appointment in a finer setting, there were some advantages to his current position, Abbe reflected. His current appointment required comparatively little of his time, given that his congregation was so small. This afforded him the luxury of regular rest and reflection, and permitted him time to pursue his other interests. He gazed up at his own podium, trying to see things as his parishioners did, to gain perspective. He had begun to imagine himself delivering a sermon, to let his thoughts drift, when he heard footsteps on the church stairs.
A visitor.
Taking a deep breath, Abbe rose and faced the door. The person who darkened the doorway was tall and slender. He looked as though he could be local, a Haitian black man, like Abbe himself, but the priest did not recognize him. Perhaps this visitor hailed from another village. He addressed the man in Haitian Creole, a French-based language with Portuguese, Spanish, and West African influences that reflected the nation’s diverse history.
“Welcome to this house of God. You are free to sit.” He motioned toward a nearby chair.
The newcomer entered the building but did not take a seat. “Father Abbe,” he replied in English, “I come here not to pray, but to speak with you personally.”
Abbe raised his eyebrows in surprise. This man knew him by name. “Oh? What about?” His best guess was that he wanted money, or perhaps the help of the church for some sort of community fund raiser or charitable act. Or perhaps personal counseling, though that was rare in a place where people were too busy surviving to reflect on things like whether or not they were happy. If it wasn’t one of those three, he had absolutely no idea.
“I would like you to tell me about an exorcism performed by a priest, here in Jacmel.”
“Oh, performed by whom? Father Paulin?” Paulin was a friend of Abbe’s, the priest for the next parish over, and was known to do an exorcism now and again. Contrary to popular belief spawned by Hollywood horror movies, the practice as it was done in Haiti was fairly routine and sometimes little more than easing a tormented soul, a form of therapy, really.
“No, Father Abbe, this particular exorcism was performed in the year 1715.” The visitor paused to let this sink in.
The hairs on Father Abbe’s arms began to stand on end. He told himself to stay calm, that he was getting ahead of himself. He cleared his throat and said, “For historical matters, you would do well to consult the village librarian. I do believe the library is open today.”
“Think hard, Father Abbe. 1715. Exorcism. Tell me what comes to mind.”
The only sound while the two men made eye contact was that of a bird fluttering its wings high in the church’s rafters. Something about the visitor, and not only his odd request, was putting Abbe extremely off balance.
The priest shook his head and held his hands up in a show of emptiness. “Nothing comes to mind, I’m afraid. As I suggested, the librarian might…”
The visitor held up a hand. “Please. There is no need to waste both of our time, not to mention that of the librarian. I am aware of your research into lost treasures. Perhaps if you think about the exorcism in that context, we can enjoy an amicable conversation. If not…”
He let his words hang while watching the invisible noose tighten around Abbe’s neck. This man knows, somehow he knows… But Abbe composed himself and maintained the lie.
“Yes, I have been conducting research for a historical book I’m writing, but I am aware of no connection to an exorcism during that time period, or any exorcism, for that matter.”
The visitor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I will give you a moment to reconsider your answer. Think carefully.”
Abbe did his best to feign indignation and exasperation. He exhaled heavily before saying, “This consultation will have to conclude, sir. I have other duties to attend, and repeating myself over and over is not productive.”
The visitor stared at Abbe for a second, as if considering something, but then said, “I suppose we have no more business. I will be back when you’ve had time to contemplate.”
“I’ve already told you…”
The man held up a big hand, palm facing outward. “Not the exorcism. Take time to reflect upon your own mortality.”
He turned and walked out of the church without so much as a glance back, but something about the way the man spoke the words unnerved Abbe. The voice was very cold, brimming with a negative energy the priest was unable to place yet at the same time was unable to deny.
He waited for a couple of minutes to be sure the man had truly left, that he was not loitering outside the church, composing his thoughts only to return with a new angle of attack. When Abbe felt certain the visitor had departed the premises, he turned and strode to the front of the church. He climbed the short stairway to the elevated platform on which the podium was situated. A woven mat covered the platform behind the podium. He slid it aside, revealing a handle set into a cutout section of wood.