Land of a Thousand Dreams (58 page)

Instead, he simply gave a heavy sigh and, resigned, said quietly, “I will tell you what I know of hell. Perhaps then you will understand what I tried to tell you once before, that there is nothing in this world so wicked that God cannot redeem it.” He paused. “Perhaps then you will finally understand that all the legions of evil cannot stand against the army of heaven.”

Then he turned and started for the kitchen, the woman following him.

37

Dark Dragons

I see black dragons mount the sky,
I see earth yawn beneath my feet—

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803–1849)

I
n the kitchen, Lucy sat down at the table. The black man, however, went to the window and stood, unmoving, bracing the palm of each hand on either side of the window frame as he stared out into the night.

A storm had blown up over the past hour, and now the wind howled and whipped the rain against the house with a vengeance. Lightning streaked across the window, flaring and leaping in a frenzied, eerie dance to the night.

Always nervous in a storm, Lucy jumped as a chain of thunderbolts seemed to tear the heavens open, pummeling the house and rattling the windows. The familiar sense of confusion and intimidation the black man evoked in her only added to her growing anxiety.

Without turning, he finally began to speak. The ease of his posture, his calm demeanor and quiet voice struck a direct contrast to the wildness of the stormy night and the darkness of his words.

“You spoke of memories—‘memories of hell' you called them.” He paused. “I think you cannot imagine the reality of such words, of a life lived altogether in the shadow of hell.”

A roll of thunder silenced him for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was so low it seemed to shudder and vibrate with the storm. “For years I spoke of my past to no one—you will see why. So hideous, so painful, are the memories that lie buried deep inside me that, to this day, I cannot call them forth without a most deadly anguish.

“The
Seanchai
knows, of course,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Lucy. “It seemed…deceitful, somehow, not to tell him the truth. But apart from him—and, now, you—I keep silent about my yesterdays. It was a very long time ago, and God has given me a new life. The old one is best forgotten, as much as possible. I tell you this only so you will understand what I was, where I came from—and the supreme act of deliverance it took to rescue me.”

He turned back to the window. “I am a freed slave,” he said. “My people were slaves—generations of them—taken from Africa to Barbados to work on the sugar plantations. As is so often the case with an oppressed people, we sought solace in superstition and magic. Our religion was
vodun—
voodoo. Do you know of it?”

Again he looked at her. Lucy was bewildered by the raw pain…and something else, something that looked very much like dread…in his eyes. She nodded. “The sailors sometimes talked of it.”

Lowering his head, he turned back to the window. “Followers of
vodun
believe our world is filled with demons. Demons and gods and spirits of the dead. There is much magic—dark magic—in
vodun.
Charms and spells, sacrifices, secret ceremonies—all these make up the magic,” he explained.

“Many years ago, when I was still a young man, I became the
houngan—
a
vodun
priest, a person with the magic, and of great influence among the people.”

Lucy caught her breath in astonishment. As she watched, the black man's entire countenance seemed to go taut, as if set in marble. A muscle at the base of his jaw tightened, and his shoulders visibly tensed.

“The
houngan
is a person of great power…and of great evil. He is looked upon as a kind of physician, but he is much, much more. At times he acts as a kind of intermediary between his people…and the Evil One. Among other things, he supervises ceremonies whereby they become possessed by demons of darkness—or in which they make pacts with Satan.”

He stopped, drawing in a long breath. When he continued, his words were tinged with unmistakable sorrow and much pain. “I did terrible things, dark, evil things—demonic mysteries—which seemed only to increase my powers. I applied the secret poison that turns the living into the walking dead—
zombies.
I presided over brutal animal—and human—sacrifices. I participated in the secret chants and strategies whereby the demons are called forth to possess beasts and human beings. And, perhaps most damning of all, I initiated any number of young people into the rites.”

Unexpectedly, he turned and faced Lucy full on. She put a hand to her mouth to stop a gasp of dismay at the bleak anguish burning from his eyes.

“Know this,” he said in a terrible voice, “your worst nightmares could never hold even a part of the evil which consumed my life! I could tell you things…that would drive you mad, things so vile and unbelievable your mind could not begin to take them in.”

Once more he turned away from her, and Lucy found herself relieved to escape the torment in his eyes. He went on then, his words drumming out in a dull, plodding monotone, as if he were merely repeating a sequence of memories and images that had come, unbidden, to his mind.

In a voice so low Lucy had to strain to hear, he resumed his story. And even though his eyes were turned away from her, Lucy shivered under the conviction that she was hearing things—hidden things, secret things—which were best left concealed by the darkness….

His mind followed the dark path back to the past…back to that night, just after the priests came, when he had been forced to look upon the reality of his own evil….

Like a brief, terror-filled moment, when something vile rises up out of the darkness to be suddenly and brutally revealed by a flash of lightning, that night he had looked in horror upon a scene emblazoned by firelight…and beheld things depraved, an evil that seemed to permeate his brain, his senses, his entire body.

It had been a night very much like this one, without rain, but with a savage storm gathering in, preparing to assault the island. Thunder threatened to rend the earth, and dangerous lightning seared the darkness.

Around the fire on the beach, the people were dancing and chanting to the beat of the drums. The drums. Always, the incessant, bewitching seduction of the drums. Enticing the people, calling forth the powers of darkness, the rulers of the night. Sounding the ancient rhythm of the dance of hell.

His power had been very great that night. Many of his people had become hosts or had received new visions; countless pacts had been made, and the Prince of Darkness was pleased.

But suddenly, as if borne on a mighty gust of wind, the fire had blazed up, furious and out of control. Startled, Sandemon whirled around, looking up to the gentle rise only a short distance away. Two black-cassocked priests stood, unmoving, framed against the horizon by the glow from the raging fire.

One, a small man with a sorrowful countenance, turned his face toward Sandemon, impaling him with his piercing priest's eyes.

Sandemon stood, breathless, feeling himself stripped, not only of his outward clothing, but of his pride—which was great—and his deceits—which were many. His feet, bare upon the sand, felt as if he were treading on hot coals, yet so violent was the chill that shook him that his entire body began to tremble.

When he finally managed to tear his gaze away from the priest, he saw in the angry red flames what appeared to be a vast number of faceless shadows, monstrous silhouettes, writhing and snaking upward from the blaze. A blood-tinted glow sprayed the beach, where his people crouched and rolled, danced and wailed. And in their midst, two little girls…so small…lay dead. Slaughtered…mutilated…sacrificed by their own friends and families. An offering…to the Prince of Devils.

The rhythm of the drums went on, louder and faster, more frenzied and demanding, as the people swayed and leaped and screamed.

Again Sandemon traced the ascent of the shadows, the dark dragons rising and mounting the air, then swooping down, their loathsome forms mingling among the people, transforming familiar faces into the heads of beasts or hideous demons. Unable to stop himself, he turned once more to look at the mournful-eyed priest. And suddenly, he felt his evil self wracked and torn asunder as if the very armies of darkness and light were deadlocked in a battle for his soul.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. The fire flickered and waned to a struggling flame. Rain began to fall. The sacrifices were disposed of, and, finally exhausted and depleted, the people groaned and slowly began to creep away. Some went on all fours like weary animals, others stumbled, dazed and drugged from the magic.

Sandemon was left alone, standing in the rain on the darkened beach, staring out at the sea. For the first time in his life, he questioned the magic, wondering what he had seen and what it meant.

From then on, things began to change—at first in subtle ways, then more dramatically. The priests—Father Ben and Father Eric—came among the people, teaching and ministering, healing and loving. Rumors circulated of powerful prayer meetings, meetings where people were delivered from possession and spirits were bound and banished.

Sandemon began to feel his own powers blocked, as if some unseen, unknown presence were tying his hands. Some followers fell away; others
ran
away—and disappeared entirely.

He knew that extraordinary powers were at work, that something exceptional was happening. And he knew it had to do with the priests. So he went to them, angrily confronting them with his accusations that they were interfering with the people—his people—and with his magic.

The reply had shaken him, badly. The quiet-voiced Father Ben, a man scarcely half Sandemon's size, simply gave him a steady look, saying, “Indeed, we are,
houngan.
We are doing just that. We are binding the evil source of your powers through prayer and the intervention of God's holy angels. And we will keep right on doing so, for your wickedness is plunging these people into the very pit of hell!”

Furious, Sandemon swore to circumvent their claims of “binding.” Yet every attempt he made to remove these priestly obstacles availed him nothing. He began to feel impotent, a failure.

One day, his owner came looking for him in the stables with astonishing news. He had been hired out—to the priests! Trained in blacksmithing and carpentry, he would be of great assistance, his owner explained, in helping to build a new chapel.