Wayne Patrick

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Chapter 23 con't

​“Did you see what cut you?”

“Again," McKenna said, "I was facing into the sun and maybe I just imagined it. It was sort of like a talon, like a hawk talon or bobcat claw. It might have even been a scythe. It looked like something very sharp and pointy, anyway. You could see through it, too. But, it was mostly just a blur."

Poulet sat back in his chair and took a long draw on his cigar. He’d heard every kind of story in his time as a Voodoo bokor and had the ability to decipher a true story from a tall tale. McKenna’s story seemed plausible. Poulet put his glasses back on and found a quivering McKenna, his eyes locked on the floor. “Are you okay, Jeb?” Poulet asked.

“I guess. I’ll be better in a few minutes.”

“Take your time. Can I offer you some coffee or something?”

“Got anything stronger?”

Poulet grinned. “I certainly do," he said. "I stock an exquisite twenty year-old Napoleon brandy in my cabinet. Care for a snifter?"

“Yes, thank you," McKenna said. He took out his handkerchief and wiped away the perspiration on his forehead. "Liquor is the only thing that keeps my nerves intact these last few days.”

Poulet went to the cabinet next to his desk, took out two brandy snifters and the bottle of expensive brandy. He blew dust off the top, uncorked it and poured out two healthy doses. 

McKenna took the snifter with shaking hands and tipped the rim to his lips. He took a long swallow and groaned as the liquor burned its way down his esophagus. He turned to Poulet. “What do you think?”

“To be honest with you, Jeb," Poulet replied, "I don’t know what to think. I believe your story and there’s no reason to doubt you. I’ve had my fair share of visitations from dark spirits, only they were more in the form of possessed humans. He took a sip of his brandy. “So, Jeb, have you seen this spirit again?”

“No, but I know when it’s around. I know it’s around from hearing about Stuart DuChamp and Ben Jordan. There’s no doubt in my mind that this . . . whatever it is, killed them.”

“Interesting," Poulet said. "Most people I’ve talked to concerning these murders or killings of late, say Doctor Foster has it figured out. Whether it was a bear or a man, people are not resting easy at night. If it’s something else, as you say, well then, this sheds a completely different light.”

The druggist took another long sip of the brandy. “So, Mr. Poulet, I’m asking for a kind of protection. I don’t think a gun's gonna help me any.”

“I would say you're probably correct in that assumption, Jeb.”

Poulet took another swallow of his brandy. "Do you have something with you that you have fond memories of, preferably memories that would evoke the emotion of love?”

McKenna reached into his front trouser pocket. He pulled out a string of well-worn wooden beads with a crucifix of silver. He handed the rosary to Poulet.

Poulet rolled the smooth time-worn beads between his fingers. “Why does this carry a significant meaning for you, Jeb?”

“My mother gave it to me for my First Communion and I’ve had it ever since. I prayed the rosary every day at my mother’s bedside when she took sick twenty years ago. She passed away as we were reciting it one night. I was reciting a Hail Mary as she breathed her last.”

Poulet shifted to the edge of the chair, took another sip of brandy and then stood up. “This will be fine, Jeb. I’ll take it for only a few minutes and when I return, I’ll hand it back to you to keep on your person at all times. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Help yourself to more brandy while I’m gone.”

“Thanks. I may do just that.” McKenna relaxed, slumped back in his chair and guzzled the brandy.

Poulet stepped into the altar room. He rolled up a blanket, laid it in front of the driftwood altar and knelt down. He took a burning taper from a lamp and held the flame to the candles anchored in a pair of human skulls, their hollow sockets and barred teeth dripping with trickles of long-ago melted wax. 

He placed McKenna's rosary respectfully on the altar between the skulls, reached over and picked up a miniature painting. The painting was of Saint Patrick with his staff crushing a writhing serpent at his feet. He set the painting behind the rosary and then took a cake of incense and held it to one of the candle flames. The incense started to smolder and then burn. He placed it in a brass incense box and closed the perforated lid. The smoke wafted up in thin wisps of potent-smelling frankincense.

One of the glass jars on the shelf above the altar contained the herb he needed. He lifted it delicately and set it on the altar, took a silver spoon and scooped up some of the fine powder. As he sprinkled the substance over the incense, it flared into a flame. The flame sputtered with blue sparks, spiting and popping over the altar. He bowed his head and said a prayer to Baron La Croix, St. Patrick and Mary, Mother of God.

He opened another jar and found what he was searching for: a rattlesnake vertebrae. Opening a coin pouch, he placed the rosary inside along with the vertebrae and a tuft of down feather from an owl. A fervid Hail Mary left his lips as he tightening the bag's strings. He made the sign of the cross, stood up and walked back into the parlor. McKenna stood pouring another healthy snifter of brandy.

"Here," Poulet said, handing the pouch to McKenna. "This is your mojo."

McKenna set his snifter down. "My mojo? What is it?"

"It's to protect you from evil. You may prefer to call it your gris-gris. Besides your rosary, there's a few, uh . . . magical things inside. Pray your rosary every night before you go to sleep and you should dream only but pleasant dreams. Keep it close at all times. No evil should be able to come near you."

McKenna put the mojo in his front pocket and gulped the last of his brandy. He stood up to leave. "Please remember to keep our conversation confidential."

"It's only between the two of us, Jeb."

McKenna reached into his pocket "How much do I owe you?"

Poulet waved a dismissive hand. "Not a penny. Consider it a gift."

"Thanks, Antoine," he said. He shook Poulet's hand and said good day.

Poulet showed McKenna to the door and moved back into the altar room. His hands shook as he placed a rattlesnake vertebrae in his own mojo and slipped it in his pants pocket. He looked out the window to the tree-studded slopping hill behind his house. Everything appeared to be in order. 

He stepped back into the parlor, fell back into a chair and stared at his empty bookcases, wishing they were full. McKenna's story needed validation and research was called for. Anxious of the long wait for his library of books to arrive, he poured another brandy.

Chapter 24

Jake Duncan's eyes opened and he found the quiet cabin's walls bathed in the early morning sun. Shifting sunbeams fell from the opening in the roof and danced on the ashes of the fire pit. He glanced down and found his hand still clutching the Colt revolver, but his hand was steady, unlike the night before.

He collected his thoughts, set the revolver down and reached for the jug. He took a long pull of the Kentucky bourbon and picked up the revolver again. He unbolted the latch on the door and cautiously swung it open. Accustomed to the darkness of night, his sensitive eyes stung as morning light flooded the cabin. He crawled out, stood up and inspected the surroundings. Nothing had changed. His horse and mule were still tethered and grazing on grass. The beaver pelts were still tied to the mule. He walked the perimeter of the cabin and found nothing unusual. No tracks of any kind. The ground around him was undisturbed. He told himself it had only been a dream, but deep in his being he knew it had been all too real.

He stepped back inside the cabin, got a tin of hardtack biscuits and decided it was time to leave for home. He kicked the ashes in the fireplace and finding no surviving embers, crawled back out.

When he closed the door and secured the latch his heart stopped. The outside of the door was covered with a display of deep gouges in random patterns. Someone had been scratching at the door. 

He cocked the Colt and walked through the stand of sycamore.

*     *     *

"He is sick, Nidawi. I'm so afraid of losing him." Tears filled her eyes.

"Lay him on my bed," she told her.

A woman from town, Mabel Winfield, had made the trek to Nidawi's home with her ailing four-year old child. "He's had this fever for a week now," she said. "Doc Foster can't seem to fix him up." 

Nidawi sat next to the child lying on her bed and put her hand on his head and then poked around his abdomen. The boy was unresponsive. "Does he take nourishment?"

"I cannot get him to eat anything. Only sips of broth."

Water splashed into a copper kettle as Nidawi filled it from her bucket of well water. She set it on a hook over the glowing coals of her hearth and shuffled back. "Leave him with me," she said.

"Leave him? Well, I don’t . . . For how long?"

"Until tomorrow."

"Well, I . . . I guess. If you can help him, that is." She looked down at her son and nodded. "Then yes, yes I could."

"You must trust me. This boy has bad spirits in him. The kind of spirits that make him sick. He has been near the river?"

"Only briefly with his father. They went fishing last week."

"The river spirits." Nidawi shook her head. "They cling to children."

"What do you mean?'"

"Children are innocent," Nidawi said. "They cannot fight back." She picked the steaming kettle up with a rag and set it on the lip of the limestone hearth. The cupboard door squeaked open as she retrieved a jar of yellow leaves. She placed a few leaves in a cup and poured the hot water over them.

"What is that awful smell?" Mrs. Winfield said. "Is it tea?"

"It is not. It is medicine."

Nidawi took a spoon and stirred the cup and picked up her medicine bundle. She pulled out a leather pouch and opened it. A dried flower fell out. She added it to the cup of steeping leaves. "Leave us now," she told Mrs. Winfield.

Mrs. Winfield hesitated, but bent down and kissed her son's forehead. "She will help you, Joshua," she told him as she stroked his hair. "I'll be back tomorrow." She turned away with tears in her eyes and made a hasty exit.

Nidawi helped the boy sit up and he sipped at the cup of her brew. "Drink," she told him. He sipped at it slowly, but drank all of it. She helped him settle back in the bed.

The aroma of sage filled the room as a medicine stick burned in her hand. She walked around the bed and chanted as she waved the smoking bundle of bound branches over the sick boy and under the bed. Two hours later, she brewed a different medicine and had him drink it. The boy fell asleep.

The earthen floor was not comfortable sleeping for an old woman like Nidawi. She stayed by the boy’s side and helped him up once to urinate in a bottle. The urine was dark yellow. They both fell back asleep.

Sunup came and Nidawi heard the boy sniffling. He cried, "Where's my mama?"

Nidawi pulled her aching bones up from the floor and sat beside him on the bed. She put her hand on the boy’s forehead. The fever had left.

"She will be here soon," she said. "You must be patient."

The boy urinated again and this time the urine was clear. "Can I have a drink of water?" he said. He threw the covers back and Nidawi handed him a cup of water. The water disappeared in three gulps. She poured him another. He wiped his mouth with his nightshirt sleeve.

The bubbling pot hanging over the fire imparted a hungering scent to the cabin. Nidawi spooned cornmeal and rabbit stew into a bowel and handed it to the boy. He finished it and asked for more.

"You must rest again," she told him. "There will be more later."

The boy went back to sleep. 

 A few hours later, a knock came to Nidawi's door and Mrs. Winfield rushed in and to the boy's side. The smiling boy sat up and wrapped his arms around his mother. "You're well, you're well," she said, clutching him to her bosom. "I thought I was going to lose you." She began to sob.

Nidawi handed her a cup of water and Mrs. Winfield held it to her son's lips. He drank all of it.

"What did you do?” she asked. “He seems to be well again."

"The bad spirits are not with him,” Nidawi answered. “I drew them out and they have left. You may take him home now."

Mrs. Winfield relaxed the hold on her son. "How can I ever thank you?" She opened her purse and searched for a coin.

"I have no need for money," Nidawi said. "I want only that you have him wear this." She handed the sniffling mother a leather thong with an iridescent feather of purple and two green glass beads tied to it. "He must wear this when he is near the river until he becomes a man." 

The elated mother put it in her purse and followed her son out of Nidawi's house. 

Nidawi stood at her doorstep and watched them fade into the woods.

Chapter 25

Doc Foster's findings didn't sit comfortable with Sheriff Stiles. It was difficult for him to believe that a killer bear was on the loose. There's more to this story. A bear, indeed, he thought.

The front door flew open. Abraham Emerson marched into the jail's office in an Irish tweed suit. He grabbed a chair, dragged it across the floor and slammed it down in front of Stiles' desk. He sat down without even a "hello" and barked, "Who killed Stuart?"

"Well, Mr. Emerson," the sheriff said, "we're working on that at this very minute."

"Doesn't look like you're working very hard at it, Stiles." Emerson turned his attention to Deputy Barada who sat whittling a piece of pine with a wicked-looking knife. "And neither does your worthless half-breed injun deputy."

Deputy Barada stopped in mid-whittle. "Mr. Emerson," he said as he stood up, "let me get this straight. You want only one law man around here instead of one and a half?" The deputy raised his arm and with a commanding grunt, launched the knife at the floor. The keenly honed tip made a loud thwang as it drove deep into the wood planking floor. It rocked side-to-side from the force of the impact.

Stiles gave Barada a scolding glare. "Sit . . . down, Dale."

The deputy jerked the knife out of the floor and sat back down. He picked up a chunk of whetstone and spit on it. He commenced honing the knife blade with a lazy circular scraping motion, the grinding of metal adding to the room's tense air. 

Emerson pulled his eyes away from Barada and cautiously turned back to the sheriff. He gripped the lapels of his suit jacket and tapped the tweed furiously with his fingers. "So, what are you gonna do?" His eyes darted back to Barada and then back to Stiles.

"It's a complicated chain of events. There's more to the story than just an animal attack or--"

"You realize, sheriff, how distraught and depressed my daughter is about losing her husband? She is beside herself and so is my wife. I cannot endure this never ending bleeding wound of my daughter's heart."

"Uh, Mr. Emerson--"

Emerson raised his hand. "Yes, yes, I know. It wasn't a big secret that I didn't care for Stuart, but he made my daughter happy and that's all I ever wanted for her."

"I realize that," the sheriff said, "and I believe everyone else in town does, too. Believe me, Mr. Emerson, I will use all the tools at my disposal to pursue justice. I may not have a lot to do most of time, but believe me, I have a lot to do now. Please be patient."

Abraham Emerson's body relaxed but his jaw was grinding side to side.

"We will get to the bottom of this, Mr. Emerson," Stiles continued. "The best thing you can do for me and the community is to let me do my job.”

"I want results, Stiles!" he shouted. "Not tomorrow, but today!" He slammed his fist on Stiles' desk with a mighty thwack, jarring the pencil into a rolling drift across the desk.

Stiles found it increasingly difficult to remain professional, but said calmly, "Unfortunately, Mr. Emerson, I can't supply you with any results today. Perhaps tomorrow."

"Today's almost over, sheriff," Emerson said, "and tomorrow never arrives. Remember that."

Emerson glanced over at Deputy Barada, stood up and kicked his chair over. He stormed out of the jailhouse with the crash of the door following in his wake.

*    *    *

Aleix's Coffee House

New Orleans

Trudeau lit a fresh cigar as the bartender served another absinthe. The crystal glass dripped with condensed perspiration as he tipped it to his mouth. The strong liquor blazed down his gullet.

He unbuckled the strap on his travel bag and reached in, feeling for his jar of black tar opium, or what his Chinese friends called "The Big Smoke," or ‘da yen’. The jar of the gummy narcotic rested peacefully next to his jade pipe.

The smoking of opium had become a favorite pastime: that, and absinthe consumption. He weighed the heft of the jar in his hand again and made a calculated guess as to the length of time before he would need to refill it again. He found he had enough for fifteen to sixteen days away from the opium dens he frequented in New Orleans. Although he was aware that there would be plenty of places to replenish his supply in St. Louis and Kansas City, he wasn't so certain about Kansas Territory. If he ran out, his chronic tubercular cough would worsen and the shakes would return.

Across and down the street, two men in a horse-drawn wagon had pulled up in front of Poulet's old shop. The placard on the side of the wagon, in bright yellow lettering, read: "J.M. Converse Steamboat Company."

Trudeau watched patiently as the driver and another man jumped from the wagon and knocked on the door. The Creole woman let them in. 

In a few minutes, the men were carrying out crates and loading them on the wagon. Trudeau counted seven large crates stacked in the back of the steamboat company's transport. As the men finished their task, he quickly downed his drink and left a silver dollar on the table. He picked up his cane and traveling bag and followed the wagon to the river dock. He bought a one-way ticket to Big Cloud, Kansas.