Read Online The Lower Deep by Hugh B. Cave - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hugh B. Cave
Tags: Horror
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in the activities, he went to his hut and stretched out for a while on a sleeping mat there. And was to regret that later—at least, was to regret having taken off his shoes—because in addition to all the other horrors brought on by his attendance at La Souvenance, he had to remove chigres from under four of his toenails. Those nasty little beasties dwelt in the soil of such places, it seemed, and invariably felt an urge to burrow under one's toenails to lay their eggs. And the victim had damned well better get them out in a hurry or he could lose a toe or two to infection.
That day, in response to the throbbing of the assotor, many of the summoned loa arrived and possessed the minds of chosen celebrants—or so it seemed. At least, the chosen ones underwent striking alterations in personality and appearance, speaking and behaving as the loa were known to. Services were held in their honor in the peristyles scattered throughout the village. Steve went from one to another, sweltering under roofs of banana thatch to watch the proceedings.
There was chanting. There was more drumming. There was dancing of the incredibly skilled kind that, years ago, had led the famed Katherine Dunham to recruit dancers of that other voodoo country, Haiti, for her international troupe.
Not once did he meet with anything but politeness. Never an ugly word or an ugly question concerning the reason for his presence. The old houngan who had invited him had prepared them, it seemed. Almost everyone knew he was a doctor from that hospital in Fond des Pintards that did so much for the barefoot ones of this poor country. As for the old houngan himself, he became possessed at a service early in the day and thereafter wandered about the compound talking to people in a strange tongue that no one understood. By way of explanation he would add in Creole, "Mwen Moise! (I am Moses!) I bring you greetings from the old days."
Could the foreign tongue be Hebrew? Steve knew no words in that language with which to test the man.
When the time drew near for Nadine Palmer to return for him, Steve would have said good-bye to many of those he had met, but it was out of the question. The evening ceremonies had begun. With regret that he would not be able to see more of the rituals, he placed his still nearly full bottle of rum where someone in need would be sure to find it, and reluctantly made his way across the compound to the gate.
The same gatekeeper who had let him in stepped forward with a scowl to confront him.
"Yes, m'sié?"
"I have to leave now, compère."
The fellow did not step aside. Did not, in fact, even budge, except to take in a whistling breath and place his big, long-fingered hands on his hips.
"You cannot leave, m'sié. It is forbidden."
Though tired from the long ordeal, Steve felt his pulse race. What was this? To be sure, the old houngan had made some remark about there being rules that must be obeyed, and the fellow with the unfamiliar Creole might have mentioned something similar, but for this to be happening now . . .
"What are you talking about, friend? I have to get back to the hospital. I'm a doctor there."
The guard, sentry, whatever he was, only shook his head more vehemently. "It is not permitted to depart before the week of La Souvenance is over, m'sié. Everyone knows that!"
"What? You expect me to stay here the whole week?"
"You must."
It was no joke, Steve suddenly realized. In fact, it could be a very big problem. "Let me talk to someone in authority, please." He kept his voice level because it would be a shame to make anyone angry now, when surely a few words to someone higher up would bring about a relaxing of the rules. "Who is in charge of the comings and goings? Get him, will you? Or no—just take me to him."
"M'sié—" A note of sadness had crept into the fellow's voice, as though ignorance in a learned man caused him great unhappiness. "M'sié, it is not we who make the rules here. It is the loa."
"The loa. I
That day, in response to the throbbing of the assotor, many of the summoned loa arrived and possessed the minds of chosen celebrants—or so it seemed. At least, the chosen ones underwent striking alterations in personality and appearance, speaking and behaving as the loa were known to. Services were held in their honor in the peristyles scattered throughout the village. Steve went from one to another, sweltering under roofs of banana thatch to watch the proceedings.
There was chanting. There was more drumming. There was dancing of the incredibly skilled kind that, years ago, had led the famed Katherine Dunham to recruit dancers of that other voodoo country, Haiti, for her international troupe.
Not once did he meet with anything but politeness. Never an ugly word or an ugly question concerning the reason for his presence. The old houngan who had invited him had prepared them, it seemed. Almost everyone knew he was a doctor from that hospital in Fond des Pintards that did so much for the barefoot ones of this poor country. As for the old houngan himself, he became possessed at a service early in the day and thereafter wandered about the compound talking to people in a strange tongue that no one understood. By way of explanation he would add in Creole, "Mwen Moise! (I am Moses!) I bring you greetings from the old days."
Could the foreign tongue be Hebrew? Steve knew no words in that language with which to test the man.
When the time drew near for Nadine Palmer to return for him, Steve would have said good-bye to many of those he had met, but it was out of the question. The evening ceremonies had begun. With regret that he would not be able to see more of the rituals, he placed his still nearly full bottle of rum where someone in need would be sure to find it, and reluctantly made his way across the compound to the gate.
The same gatekeeper who had let him in stepped forward with a scowl to confront him.
"Yes, m'sié?"
"I have to leave now, compère."
The fellow did not step aside. Did not, in fact, even budge, except to take in a whistling breath and place his big, long-fingered hands on his hips.
"You cannot leave, m'sié. It is forbidden."
Though tired from the long ordeal, Steve felt his pulse race. What was this? To be sure, the old houngan had made some remark about there being rules that must be obeyed, and the fellow with the unfamiliar Creole might have mentioned something similar, but for this to be happening now . . .
"What are you talking about, friend? I have to get back to the hospital. I'm a doctor there."
The guard, sentry, whatever he was, only shook his head more vehemently. "It is not permitted to depart before the week of La Souvenance is over, m'sié. Everyone knows that!"
"What? You expect me to stay here the whole week?"
"You must."
It was no joke, Steve suddenly realized. In fact, it could be a very big problem. "Let me talk to someone in authority, please." He kept his voice level because it would be a shame to make anyone angry now, when surely a few words to someone higher up would bring about a relaxing of the rules. "Who is in charge of the comings and goings? Get him, will you? Or no—just take me to him."
"M'sié—" A note of sadness had crept into the fellow's voice, as though ignorance in a learned man caused him great unhappiness. "M'sié, it is not we who make the rules here. It is the loa."
"The loa. I
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