Post by Press1269 on Jan 29, 2016 21:42:33 GMT
*****March 16th, 2006 – New Orleans, LA. – 8:30p.m.*****
Press’ boot thundered against the heavy wooden door that led into the kitchen of The Emporium. He was standing in a long alley that ran behind the row of buildings that lined Bourbon Street on the front, and was doing his best to stay to the shadows, out of the few lights that were positioned to shine on the various dumpsters for each establishment.
He had good reason to want to conceal himself in the darkness. He was covered in blood, though most of it was not his own, and his features were unkempt and disheveled. He had run into trouble tonight, big trouble, the kind of trouble that you’re lucky to walk away from at all. But that was just it. He had walked, but his partner hadn’t.
Youth lay motionless in Press’ arms, the big man cradling the smaller as if he were a child. Blood pumped out of a wound that was covered by a soiled towel that was held in place by a leather belt fastened over it. His face was pale in the Louisiana moonlight that barely shone through a haze of mist and fog, and he already looked like one of the famed apparitions that haunted the area. A sheen of sweat pursed his brow, and his skin was already cold and clammy to the touch.
Press was just about to kick at the door again, but the portal suddenly opened, expelling a myriad of light, smells, and sound. Jazz could be heard echoing around them as a large ebony behemoth stuck his head out the door to find out who was banging around out here. His eyes went wide at the sight of Press, who wore his own desperate, panicked, expression. When he looked down to find a bloody Youth in his arms, his eyes went wider still, and he clutched at a gator tooth talisman that hung from around his neck.
“De say a prayer for da unlucky one.” He whispered, his eyes glancing back up to Press.
“Bobby, I…” Press paused, tears welling in his tortured eyes. “I need your help.” He managed to croak, fighting the fear and the pain back with every bit of willpower he could muster.
Bobby’s eyes flashed resolute, and he pushed the door completely open so that Press could pass through with his limp cargo. “Take him through to the pantry, I go get Sam.” The large Cajun said, passing through the kitchen and out into the noisy front room as soon as Press had made it inside.
He got several shocked stares from the staff, which were all Creole, in one way or another, and not accustomed to a white man in their kitchen. Especially a white man covered in another white man’s blood, and worse, one that was still carrying the one who was bleeding out. He ignored their gawks as he rushed past them for the door that would take him into the storage closet that sometimes doubled as Samedi’s work shop. He stole through the opening, standing there for a moment just to take in the scene before putting foot to action. There was a table dead center of the room with various items on it. A few books, a doll, and several candles. The walls were lined with makeshift floor to ceiling bookshelves with all sorts of materials, ranging from everyday household cleansers to the strange and macabre.
He stepped forward, using his forearm to clear the table of its contents with one swipe, while at the same time gently laying Youth down onto its surface. He stretched the young man out, reaching over and taking an apron down off of a hook, and rolling it up into a pillow to lay beneath his head. He checked the soiled towel, grimaced, and began undoing the belt when the door exploded open behind him.
When he turned to look over his shoulder, Samedi stood there for a moment, his obsidian face a mask of stoicism. He stepped around the room to the opposite side from Press, and stared down at the body that had been laid upon his table. When Press was done with the belt, he slowly peeled back the towel, and a wet splotchy sound accompanied its removal. There was a gash in Youth’s side about a foot long, and four inches deep, and pieces of flesh could be seen protruding from the wound. Parts. Important parts.
Samedi placed his palm across the young man’s forehead, and shook his head, before looking over at Press. “What happened?”
“Letiche. Just like you said, except there was more than one, Sam. A whole god damn den of the little bastards.”
Sam winced, shaking his head. “Dat’s not what my man said.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you’re man’s full of shit, or maybe he’s just inept. Either way, it damn near got us killed.” Press spat, his panic and fear giving over to anger.
The Cajun only nodded, and continued with his examination. He had already determined that Youth had passed on, but he was at a loss as to how he was going to explain that to his large friend. He had met the two around a year ago, when they had blown into town on a breeze. They were hunters, dispatchers of bad spirits, and it didn’t take them long to seek out the Emporium, and their special clientele. This place was neutral ground, for hunter, clerics, and demon’s alike. Samedi not only provided the best bourbon and cigars in town, but also the finest supernatural ingredients and relics.
He had recognized them right off, Redeemers, ‘God Touched’. They weren’t like some of the other hunters that passed through the City of Saint’s, had a good natured quality about them that made it easy to like them. The three had become friends, so much so that Sam had even invited them over to the old homestead in Lafayette for supper and to meet his mother. She had approved of the boys, happy to have fresh stomachs in which to test her immaculate cooking skills. They weren’t quite on the echelon of ‘family’ just yet, but he liked them both, and would give them leads at times if a spirit had gotten to naughty even for his tastes.
Letiche were an old Cajun myth, one that stretched back all the way to the colonial days. Young mothers, slave girls, who felt death was a better alternative than the cruelties of bondage, would leave their newborn children out in the swamp, unable to bring themselves to fulfill the killing blow themselves. The child would undoubtedly cry out into the murky dark waters, and gators would come. But they didn’t kill the children, no. They took them, fed them, raised them, until there was nothing left of the child, but a savage beast of the swamp. The white bosses called them lizard men, but the slaves knew. There was a dark spirit around the Letiche that had perverted the innocence of the child and allowed for it to take on the qualities of the serpent.
Several days ago some of the back country natives, the swamp people, had come to him, talking of sightings of a Letiche in the area killing chickens, and taking their gator hauls. ‘A’ Letiche. Not plural. He had sent one of his staff, who also doubled as one of his apprentices, to confirm the information, and he found it to be truth. So when Press and Youth came by for some of his Mama’s gumbo, he saw no reason why not to kill two birds with one stone. Give the hunters something to hunt, and help the swamp people rid themselves of an evil. Win, win.
The dead boy on the table in front of him said otherwise. He removed his hand from Youth’s throat, and looked up at the large man standing on the other side of the table. He was disheveled, coming unglued, and the next bit of news would probably threaten to push him over the edge.
Carefully Samedi stepped around the table, and placed his hands on Press’ shoulders. He forced the big man to look him in the eyes, and in a quiet, almost remorseful, voice, he said, “I’m sorry, Press. He’s gone.”
Press let out a painful moan as if a knife had just been twisted in his gut, and he shrugged the Cajun’s hands from his shoulder as he stepped over into the corner. He reached up and hid his face beneath his palms, soft sobs escaping from his lips. Samedi lowered his head, and reached over to close the young man’s eyes.
As suddenly as the grief came on, it disappeared, replaced with a vicious tint as the big man whirled around to face the Cajun. He pointed in Samedi’s direction, and spat out in a commanding voice, “You’re going to fix this.”
Samedi solemnly shook his head, and held his hands out at his sides in a non-threatening manner. “What is done, is done. There is nothing left of us to do but to pray, and send his spirit to the afterlife.”
“Bullshit!” Press exclaimed, stalking right up to the Cajun, and getting in his face. “I know you got some sort of magic that can restore this boy, and you’re going to use it, or so help me God I’m going to burn this entire Quarter to the ground.”
Samedi allowed the words to slide off of him, realizing the grief riddled threat for what it was. He lowered his eyes in deference, and shook his head once more. “You know not what you ask.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking for! I want him back, and I know your people can do it. I’ve seen enough to know what goes on here, Samedi, and it’s not all talismans of protection and wart removal. You owe me this! You owe HIM this!”
Samedi flashed the big man a dangerous glance, and took a step back to keep from punching him where he stood. “I owe you an apology, but you don’t know what this entails. Bringing a spirit back from the other side ain’t no easy task, and that boy has passed on. Ain’t no guarantee that it would even be him!”
“But there is a chance.” Press breathed, hope and resolve blending together and hardening in his eyes.
Samedi sighed in defeat, realizing there was no turning the man back at this conjecture. He had seen that look before, and if he wasn’t the one to perform the task, then he would find someone else. Someone less inclined to have his best interests at heart if they were willing to perform something so risky.
He shook his head indignantly, and nodded. “Alright, alright. But if we do this, you follow my instruction to the letter. No deviation. Understood?”
Press nodded his head with enthusiasm, the hope burning a new energy into his soul. Samedi shook his head once more, and then stepped over to one of the many shelves that occupied the room. The first item he grabbed was a pair of surgical sheers, the second a bottle filled with a mixture of oils and some foreboding dark substance. Finally, he reached down, and brought out a bucket and a few fresh rags, and set them on the table next to the body.
He handed the surgical sheers to Press, who hesitantly took them, unsure what he was meant to do. “Remove his clothes, and bathe him with water, and once clean, bathe him again. Finally, bathe him a third time, but with the contents of this bottle, and then wait for me to return.”
Press’ eyes went wide, and he stepped forward anxiously. “You’re leaving?”
Samedi nodded, taking up a cloak hanging from a peg hook, and whirling it around his body until it settled over his broad shoulders. “I am going to need assistance. Someone who’s done this ritual before. Just make sure the body is ready for when we return.” With that, Samedi turned, and walked through the door back into the kitchen.
Press just stood there for a minute, his mind tumbling through the past few moments over and over. He cast a glance over at the body on the table, and for the first time questioned whether this is what his partner would want, but pushed that thought from his mind as quickly as it formed. His partner wasn’t here, but he was. By hook or by crook, he was going to make sure that was no longer the case by morning. He shut the door to the kitchen, closing off the room, and set upon the tasks he had been given.
*****March 16th, 2006 – New Orleans, LA. – 11:30p.m.*****
Bobby had brought Press a chair at some point in the night, and he was sitting now, staring at the wall in contemplation. Patience was not his virtue, and with every second that ticked by he could feel himself getting more and more agitated. Youth’s body lay sprawled out before him, completely nude, the open gash cleaned of all its refuse. His body gleaned in a bright sheen, the contents of the bottle from earlier having been some sort of burial preparation. He had followed Sademi’s instructions to the letter, and now all that was left to him was silence, the dead, and his thoughts, and he didn’t particularly care for any of them.
Suddenly the door to the pantry burst open, and he bolted upright as Samedi rushed into the room. He had an oddly misshapen bowl in one hand, a wooden cage with a live rooster in the other, and a leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
Samedi sat the cage over in the corner, and the rooster made hostile noises as it fluttered under the sudden movements. He then placed the bowl on the counter, and for the first time Press could see into its center. Covering the interior of the bowl was a layer of crust that had the appearance of red clay or mud, and he couldn’t be sure what the residue was, but there seemed to be a lot of it. When he looked back over at Samedi, the Cajun was pulling items out of the leather satchel. There was a flask with some sort of liquid, two jars with unidentifiable powders, and the last item gleamed in the lamp light as he set it on the table. An ancient looking curved knife.
He laid everything out where he appeared to want it, and then took in a heavy breath. For the first time he looked up at Press with a quizzical expression, and placed his hands behind his back before speaking. “Are you sure you still want to do this. In a moment, there won’t be any turning back.”
Press stared at the Cajun for a moment, and then allowed his eyes to drift down to the boy laid out on the table. There was an inner turmoil going on there, churning up from the depths of somewhere he had been before. He had seen the other side, lived there as a guest, watched the march of souls towards the great waiting room in the sky. They had served the Arch-Angel, Redemption, been his puppets in a game to fulfill ancient prophecies. Was that where Youth was marching now? Is it where he wanted to be? Was it where he belonged?
Or was he going to the other place? Was he on his way down the rabbit hole, down into the bowls of the earth where the dark things dwell? Things that he very well may have sent back there at some point or another, just biding their time till they got another shot. Gnashing their teeth on the revenge that served as their morning, noon, and night. He couldn’t take that chance. Not yet, anyways. They had come too far, and had farther still to go, and if he were being honest. Totally truthful. In the end it was selfishness, because he didn’t want to travel those roads alone.
Press’ eyes rose to meet Samedi’s, and this time they were cold and resolute. “Yes.”
The Cajun nodded once, and then moved to the end of the room, staring at the opposite side intently. Press joined him, confused, but stared at the same spot all the same. There was nothing there that he could see out of place at first, but the longer he stared, the more he realized that there was a haze filling up the room. The spot that they were staring at began to shimmer, or at least that’s the only way of describing it, as it appeared that time and space in that corner of the pantry began to fold and bend.
Then a woman appeared, just as if she had always been standing there but was being seen for the first time. Press blinked, and then opened his eyes again, and she was still there. She was around five foot four, portly, and quite a bit older. He couldn’t pinpoint her age, but if he were to guess, she was old. Long tightly braided silver hair framed her face, and hung down her midsection, the ends tucked into the plaid apron she wore around her waist. She had a faded burgundy bandana tied around her head, and many gold adornments jingled about her ears. Around her neck were a few talismans held up by hemp necklaces, and a row of gator teeth that fit close to her thick, black neck.
Her eyes drifted around the room, taking in everything that she saw, and then finally settled on Press and Samedi. She gave a knowing look to the Cajun, and pointed at the big man. “Dis da one. Dis da one dat wans Minerva’s magic’s? Wans her ta bring back da dead?”
Samedi nodded, and went to speak, but she held up a hand decorated by several rings, and fingernails that could have doubled as claws. “No, iff’n he da one dat wans it, he da one who needs ta speak it.”
Press looked from the woman, who in this light looked almost comical, and then over at Samedi. “Are you fucking kidding me? Who the fuck is this?”
Samedi shook his head, and held his finger up to his lips for silence, before placing a reassuring hand on Press’ shoulder. “This is Minerva. She’s a friend from over there, in Savannah. She knows more about communing with the dead than any of our order, so I asked her to come and take the lead in this case. She owes me a favor.”
Minerva clucked her tongue, and pointed a bony finger at Sam which almost had him cowering. “Dat be true, Samedi. Ole’ Minerva owes you a favor, but don’ memba owing nuttin to no white man. If he can’t get out with what he wants, den I got nottin for him. I go.”
She turned as if she were about to leave, but a gentle prod from Samedi sent Press forward before she could disappear back into the haze. “Wait! No, I….” He paused, a crack in his voice. “I just want my friend back.”
Minerva came to a halt, and looked over her shoulder at the big man. Her eye twitched as she assessed him, and he could feel his skin crawl under her gaze, causing him to hold his breath. She gave a low rumble deep in her throat in response to his discomfort, but eventually turned back to face him.
“You sure’n dis wat you want? Sam explain everytin?”
Press nodded, still unable to break the invisible hold the old woman had cast over him. She eyed him a few moments more, and then nodded, breaking her gaze, and finally allowing the big man to take in much needed air. She assessed the body, and then the items that Samedi had brought, allowing him the chance to recover before proceeding.
“Sam telt me you have a birfday tomorrow? Yes?”
Press nodded, watching her as she took the old bowl, moved over to the table, and began to mix the jars of spices together.
“Dat’s good. Birth is a powerful talisman, just as powerful as death. We use some o’ dat spirit here, see if we can’t bring da boy back over to dis side.”
Minerva seemed satisfied with the mixture she had created, and she reached into her apron, producing a jug that didn’t seem like it could fit in the space she pulled it from, and then poured some of its liquid in with the herbs. There was a fizzle, and a spicy aroma wafted into the air, a calming affect coming over all those nearby. She then carried the bowl over, and sat it dead center of Youth’s chest, ignoring the wound that threatened to open back up.
She then took up the dagger, holding it close to her chest, and said a brief prayer under her breath. She looked over at Press, who hadn’t taken his eyes off her for a second, and commanded, “Once dis starts, I don’ care wha you see, or wha you think you see, don’ interfere. Dere ain’t no going back after da work begin. You unnerstan?”
Press nodded once again, glancing over to Samedi who gave him a reassuring smile. It didn’t reassure him though. He had a sick feeling in his stomach that what he was about to see was something he wasn’t meant to see. That no one was meant to see. Not unless you were in league with the devil himself, and even then you had better have the stomach for the dance he weaves.
Minerva reached out to Samedi, and pointed at the rooster in the corner. He reached into the cage, pulling the animal out by its feet. It squawked and fluttered it’s wings violently, before Sam reached up and took it by its neck. He held the bird out over the bowl, and with one swift and precise cut Minerva took its head from its body. Beak and all fell down into the bowl, along with large splashes of blood as it sputtered from the still fluttering beast, dying in Samedi’s grasp.
The voodoo priestess’ eyes rolled into the back of her head as she began to convulse and seize, throaty chants escaping from her mouth. She no longer looked like a portly old lady, but like death herself, come forth to take up the burden from man. The voice she chanted with wasn’t her own, but many, like the voices of the dead calling up from hell. The groans and chants grew louder, and Press could feel real terror in every beat of his heart, which was thumping hard behind his ears.
When he looked over to Samedi his eyes were white as well, his own chant calling out into the darkness. It was constant, insistent, as if they were demanding that some nether force hark their call. A light began to form in the room directly over the bowl, and it reached out to caress their skin with its heatless radiance. Press could feel his knees begin to buckle, and he reached out, taking hold of the table for support. Something was syphoning off of him, taking some of his life force away. He imagined this was what the vampire’s victims must feel like when they are being fed on, and he wished the experience away.
But it didn’t stop. It kept on going, the chanting, the light, the spicy smell of herbs and the iron smell of blood. The room began to spin around him, and he could feel his stomach churning, this morning’s breakfast preparing to revisit. He shut his eyes as the pounding noises and smells continued to assault him mind, body, and soul, until finally the chanting came to an abrupt stop.
He felt a firm grip on his shoulder, and he forced his eyes open to look. Minerva was there, and she gave him a toothy grin, pointing over to the body that lay on the table. When Press turned in that direction he saw that the light had taken shape. Two shapes, actually. One male, one female, both made of light. One was Youth, his luminous orbs searching around the room till he found Press’ face.
He wasn’t able to speak, but he didn’t have to. Press could feel the emotion pouring out of the entity before him, and it was that of reassurance and peace. Tears fell freely from the big man’s eyes, and he gripped at Minerva’s hand for strength. She patted him, and nodded to the other spirit, the female.
“That is my girl. She help ta guide da boy back from the no-no place. She gon’ help him back into his ole’ body, just like slippin on a robe.”
Press nodded dumbly, unable to take his eyes off the spectacle before him. The female spirit reached up and touched Youth on his cheek, directing his gaze from Press to hers. She smiled faintly, and then turned his cheek until he was looking down at himself, laying naked upon the table. For a moment he hovered there, as if he didn’t understand, and then his gaze drifted back over to Press, realization being omitted from his being.
Press shook his head, tears continuing down his face. “I didn’t know what else to do, kid. I…..I can’t do this on my own.”
Many emotions came from the spirit at once. First, disappointment, and it threatened to unhinge the big man at his seams. Second, anger, anger at having had his peace disturbed for such selfishness, anger at not allowing him to move on. Third, understanding. It was the final feeling, and was as close to forgiveness that Press figured he was going to get from his lifelong friend. Press, when he felt that he could recover on his own, pulled away from Minerva, and nodded towards the spirit.
“I see that now. If you want to go, then go. I’m sorry, kid.”
The spirit just stared at him for a long time, and then looked at the girl and nodded. She hugged him around the neck, and then brightness filled the room once more, blinding everyone. Press brought his hands up in front of his eyes, and watched for as long as he could as the two spirits merged, until finally he had to look away for fear he would go blind.
And as quickly as it had all seemed to happen, it stopped. Press gingerly opened one eye, and when it came into focus, he tested the other. When he was sure that he would be able to see, he turned towards the table.
Youth lay there, his hands cradling his nether regions in an attempt to hide the jewels, and his eyes wide open, flicking from one end of the room to the other. “Uh….dude…..what the fuck’s going on? Who’s the old chick, and why am I naked?”
Press let out a burst of laughter, and rushed over to the table, throwing himself onto Youth’s chest. The younger man squirmed, and kicked with his feet to get out from under the big man’s embrace. “Dude, what the fuck? Too close! TOO CLOSE!!”
Press took a step back, a wide grin on his face, as Samedi threw his cloak over the naked man. Minerva watched the reunion with a ‘Hrmph’, which brought all eyes back to her. She waddled over to the dark corner where she first appeared, and turned to eye Samedi.
“Our business is concluded. We even. Next favor gonna cost ya.” She cackled wildly before stepping forward and disappearing into nothing.
Youth’s eyes went wide at the magic show, and he turned back towards the two men hovering over him. “Trippy broad. Now, will someone tell me what the hell is going on?”
Over the next few hours, Youth changed into some clothes, which were far too large for him, that Bobby had stashed in the kitchen, ate Sam’s gumbo, and listened as Press related everything that happened.
When the tale was complete, Youth just stared dumbfoundedly at Press and Samedi. “I died?”
“Fraid so, kid.” Press replied.
“And I was put back into my body by a spirit chick conjured up by this Minerva?” Youth raised an incredulous eyebrow.
“Uh, yeah, that too.”
Youth whistled, and put his hands behind his head, leaning back into his seat. “Well, was she at least a hot spirit chick?” He asked with a grin.
Press shook his head, and threw a dirty bar towel at his partner’s head. The two laughed, ate, and drank for the rest of the night, trying not to dwell on any of what they had heard of seen. Sometimes it was easier to pretend that it never happened rather than dwell on the unexplained, for the unexplained had a way of driving one to madness if left unexplained.
*****Present Day*****
Youth stood in his bathroom and stared into the mirror for a long moment, as if in a trance. He wasn’t sure how long he had been doing this, and even more confused at why he felt like he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he felt like there was something in the mirror. Something looking back at him, but oddly enough, it was just his own reflection.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asked himself, staring straight ahead into the mirror.
“Wha’s wrong with you?” The reflection answered back in a female voice, carried on a slight french accent.
“Who are you?” He demanded, anger building in his voice.
Female laughter could be heard echoing around the room like wind chimes twinkling in the autumn air. “I think you know….” Was the only reply, whispered directly into his ear.
Youth continued to stare into the mirror.
