Evil Unearthed: Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Stephen paced angrily back and forth from door to window in his small hotel room and cursed his decision to come down here. Why had Barrett summoned him so urgently and then just left him to languish without so much as a word? Never mind that the past seven days in this so-called tropical paradise had poured with rain, but to top everything, Barrett's promised journey into the unknown had been delayed and delayed for reasons known only to himself.

Though it was true that life here had not been altogether solitary, for he had during this last week become further acquainted with Miss Kathleen O'Dell. She it seemed had been banished for a time from Maljardin to work here, and in payment for his occasional companionship she had shown him the various repositories of historical information on the island and had even spent many hours combing through newspapers yellowed with age and microfilms of birth and death registries at his side.

"Why are you helping me, Kathleen?" he had asked her one day.

"Because strange changes have begun to take place on Maljardin, and if I can't confront them myself, I can help you to confront what might be their cause."

"But I'm not trying to confront anything. I just want to solve the mystery of my uncle's disappearance."

"And I want to solve the mystery of Julia Desmond's sudden demand that I stay away from a project that she herself committed to me six months ago. All I know is that she sent me here on the evening of the day you and I met, and by the next morning, I had received a singularly cryptic email stating in so many words that I was free to stay here and work but that Julia herself would be taking over the project from now on."

"Are you saying that my uncle's disappearance and Julia's odd change of attitude are somehow connected?"

"I don't know," Kathleen had said, "but there was something about being in that place that affected her deeply. There was a portrait that we found of an ancient ancestor of the Desmonds and it was somehow unhurt by the fire. She hated it and wanted it removed, but I could see nothing wrong with it. She actually wanted it destroyed, a peace of vintage art like that, but I just couldn't do it, so I hid it in an unused and undamaged room. She's been under a lot of stress lately. I'm afraid she might be going mad or something! I think I'll go mad too if I think about all this, so I decided to put my considerable mental acuity to use by helping you." She had laughed as she had said this, but he had seen true concern in her eyes which had touched him deeply.

"Kathleen," he had found himself saying almost without thinking, "if I can help you in any way, please let me know," and the two had clasped hands in token of their mutual promise.

Thus had the last few days passed, but the nights had been something else again. Never, since he had come to this place, had he truly had a good night's sleep. Dreams had disturbed him: dreams of bonfires and leaping worshippers, of drums and dancing, and over all these images had loomed the shadow of the curse-haunted garden of evil. He supposed that his days of culling scraps of Maljardin lore and legend from the recesses of the local library had been the source of these visions of the night, but he wished that they would stop. He wished that he could find the answers he had come here for, but apart from eye-strain and a persistent kink in his neck, he had gained nothing substantial, until this afternoon, that is, when an email from Barrett, and as cryptic as the one that Kathleen had described receiving some days ago, had flashed across the screen of his Blackberry.

"Stephen," it had read, "tonight is the night. Be ready when I come for you. R. B."

So here he was, long after any sane person would have been in bed, pacing his room in impatient anger. He knew the absurdity of this annoyance, since finally he was going to do what he had come here to do, but he felt it nonetheless, and resolved to give Barrett a piece of his mind when he saw him. Finally he heard a slow step coming along the hallway outside his room, and turning the handle of his door so as not to disturb the other hotel guests, he watched Barrett's approach, and the expression on his face as he came closer put all thoughts of angry remonstrance from his mind. Barrett looked as though even more years had fallen upon his already venerable head, and all Stephen could do was reach out a hand and usher him carefully into the room and sit him on a chair.

"You look like you could use something," he said, going to the mini-bar and finding a small bottle of scotch.

"Thank you," said Barrett, taking the offered whisky. "It's not as easy for me to go without sleep as it was in the past. This will help me a great deal. We have a rather long journey to take."

"Can you not tell me anything about this person even now?"

"I'm sorry, old man, but I just can't. But why don't you tell me how you've spent these past few rain-sodden days."

"I've been keeping myself busy with futile research," Stephen said shortly. "Still, I had Miss O'Dell for company, so I suppose it wasn't all a waste of my time."

"I'm sorry, Stephen," said Barrett. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting. I just--just couldn't come till now."

"Well, I suppose what's done is done," said Stephen, upending the remainder of the tiny bottle of scotch and swallowing the contents. "Drink up, and we'll get going whenever you're ready."

Barrett finished his drink and got to his feet, leaning on his strangely-carven staff for support, and the two of them made their way quietly out of the hotel and into the darkened streets of the little island town. The sky was clear and absent of cloud for once, and the stars shone brightly, adorning a perfectly round and full moon which sat among them like a silver jewel among sparkling chips of diamond. Stephen saw Barrett's old truck parked in front of the hotel, but to his surprise, Barrett did not make for it. Instead, he walked around the back of the hotel and searched for some time until he found an overgrown dirt track leading away from the town and into the dense jungle of vines and creepers which festooned the less populated areas of the island.

"Did you bring a machete?" Stephen was being quite serious, but Barrett turned to him and smiled.

"There's no need of such things here. This may look like a disused path through the forest primeval, but I promise you that it is quite navigable."

As Stephen set foot on the track, he understood what Barrett had meant. Though the vines seemed to engulf the whole area, there was a path picked out among them where they had been carefully kept at bay by practiced hands. As he walked on behind his mentor, he suddenly felt the need for silence, and though he had many questions, he instinctively bit them back and locked them behind a wall of awe and reverence. This, he thought, must be an ancient and processional way for the worshippers of the god that in these islands was known as The Great Serpent. He wondered how many feet had trodden it and had gone to dust centuries ago, and he was further amazed to see that it had recently been used. Vague footprints were still visible in the dewy earth, and he knew that some of the people he had passed in the street during the past week as they went about their mundane and workaday affairs had traversed this ancient road at night and had come to some sacred and holy place to dance the dances of a people who had lived here for years beyond the count of written history.

These thoughts were interrupted by the rapid beating of a drum. He thought it to be a signal or a warning, for Barrett stopped dead at the sound and listened. Suddenly a tall shape loomed before them on the path and a deep voice said menacingly:

"Who comes here?"

"It is I, Robert Barrett, and I bring Stephen Dawson. We are expected."

"Very well," said the tall man. Stephen noticed that he was ornately tattooed on arms and chest and that he carried a long knife which looked to be made of the bone of an animal.

"You may pass," he finally said after a pause which seemed interminable, and he faded into the surrounding undergrowth as though he had never been there.

Barrett didn't move, however, until the drums had passed the guard's message on ahead. When the echoes of the drums had ceased, Stephen watched as Barrett reverently bowed three times and touched some of the earth to his forehead and then removed his shoes and socks. Stephen followed suit and they both moved on, Barrett still leaning on his staff and Stephen leaning metaphorically on him, for as they went forward, the sense of ancient holiness began almost to overpower him. He found that he now feared to meet the person they sought, though there was in fact nothing ominous in his surroundings to warrant that emotion. Still, the tall man had unnerved him. Why did this person need to be guarded? What if this ancient faith that Barrett seemed to revere so highly was something dark and evil? He knew that most faiths of this kind were not concerned with spreading harm and destruction throughout the world, and despite the fact that he was a Catholic priest, he didn't hold with the prejudices which had dogged his calling throughout history; he was too much of an anthropologist to do that, but he couldn't help being human, and it was human nature to fear the unknown until it was known. Still, as he moved along the path which was considerably wider at this point than it had been, he reproached himself for his childish doubts and resolved to trust Barrett as he had always trusted him, even if that trust led him into a circle of challenging spears.

"Now we must go off the path," said Barrett. "You can put your shoes on again here. It's not safe for you to go barefoot where the path isn't tended."

"This isn't holy ground off the path?"

"No, but it should be treated with reverence. We are nearing the place we seek now," and without another word he dawned his shoes and so did Stephen, and they walked off the left-hand edge of the path into the tangle of interlaced undergrowth. Yet here too was a track for one who knew how to find it, and by the light of the moon Barrett went deftly on, threading his way purposefully between the stems and trunks of tropical plants and taking Stephen with him.

They soon came to a cleared plot of ground in which little or nothing grew, and in the centre of this space stood a stone cabin. It was well-built of massive and irregularly shaped blocks and was strongly thatched with closely-woven palm-leaves, and it looked to Stephen like the perfect representation of the gingerbread house that belonged to the witch in the tale of Hansel and Gretel.

"What's the matter?" Barrett must have noticed his suspicious glance.

"Nothing," he said, trying to laugh but failing. "Nothing's the matter at all."

"This may look like a strange little house," said Barrett, "but I promise you that no evil is here. You'll feel better when you're inside. Come on now," and he knocked quietly on the wooden door.

"Come in, Robert," said a musical female voice. "Come in!"

Stephen stood back to let Barrett open the door, and when he did so, he revealed a low-ceilinged room with a fireplace and various pieces of wicker furniture placed here and there. On a low stool near to the fire sat a woman who looked to be in her early thirties with rich, brown hair and deep, brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with something unnamable when their gaze fell on Stephen. For an instant he thought that the sparkle was due to tears, and this suspicion was confirmed when he saw her blink furiously before rising and coming toward them.

"Come in and be welcome, both of you," she said now as she held out her hand to them. Stephen let Barrett go in first so he could watch how he approached her, for he saw that she was dressed in a ceremonial robe and he figured that she held a very high position in the island faith. Barrett came forward and bowed his head. At the same moment, the woman raised her hand and made a gesture over him.

"May you be blessed, Robert Barrett," she said quietly, and Stephen felt tears in his own eyes as he watched her sure and strong command of the rituals of her faith.

When Barrett had moved to a chair in the corner, Stephen felt instinctively that he should follow his movements in approaching this woman, so he too bowed his head as he came before her.

"I will bless you, Fr. Stephen Dawson," she said softly to him, "if you will bless me."

"Alright," he said, standing still and waiting for her to speak the words she had spoken to Barrett.

"May you be blessed, Stephen Dawson," she said, and with her own hand raised his head and then, to his utter surprise, knelt in front of him as meekly as any nun. In fact, the monastic image was so strong that he found himself speaking Latin words of blessing which he had never spoken in his life while signing the bowed head with the sign of the cross.

"Benedicite," he said, and offered her his hand. She took it firmly in both of hers and stood, and immediately pulled him into an embrace as they exchanged the kiss of peace. Again he felt the Latin words rise to his lips and he said:

"Pax vobiscum," and without much surprise he heard her respond:

"Et come spiritu tuam, Pater."

Then the two moved apart and he saw her eyes lingering on his face again, and after avoiding another flood of tears, she conducted him to a seat across from her own at the fire.

"Make yourself comfortable," she said now. "I'll be back in a moment with some things to make us some energizing tea. It's going to be a long night for all of us," and she disappeared into an inner room from which came the sounds of clinking bottles and the pounding of a pestle in a mortar.

"What was that at the door?" Stephen asked Barrett when she had gone, "some kind of test?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you must have told her I was a priest, right? Perhaps seeing me out of uniform made her suspicious."

"I didn't tell her you were a priest," said Barrett. "I swear to you that I didn't. However, I suppose that it was a test of sorts."

"Yes," said the woman as she came in with some fragrant herbs in a small bowl, "and I hope I passed it."

"What?" Stephen was confused.

"I wanted you to know that I am what I seem to be," she said, "even though my looks may belie my station. I bear the mantle of power in our faith. I am called the Conjure Woman. I also wanted you to know that though you pretend not to be what you in fact are, I can sense your nature in spite of yourself."

"And you think my nature is that of a priest?"

"You are as much a man of God as your uncle was," she said, and again the tears stood in her eyes for a moment so that to hide them she soon busied herself putting a kettle to heat and brewing the tea.

"So," said Stephen when she had set the tea to steep and had taken her stool again, "you knew my uncle? That seems highly unlikely somehow."

"Nevertheless," she said gravely, "it is the truth, whether you believe it or not."

"I came here because a man I respect told me that here I would find the answers which have eluded me. It's his word I trust."

"That is wise," said the Conjure Woman as she poured the tea. "I do not ask you to trust me now, but only to listen. Will you grant me that courtesy?"

"Yes," said Stephen after a pause.

"Robert," said the Conjure Woman as she saw his hand shaking with the effort of holding the earthenware mug she had just handed him, "tonight's journey was taxing for you, wasn't it? I think you should lie down in the bedroom." Stephen saw a look pass between them that had an unmistakably conspiratorial quality, so he was not surprised to see Barrett place his untasted tea on the small table near his chair and go, after a few words of courteous leave-taking, through another door and into a neatly-kept bedroom.

"Surely he could have slept in his chair," Stephen said now.

"Yes, but what I have to say is not for his ears. You, of course, may tell it to him, but since it concerns your family, it is to you that I must speak. I have been the custodian of secrets which were not rightfully mine to keep, and now it is my duty to give them up at last."

With that, she stood up and went to a chest which stood against the wall near the door, and taking a key from around her neck, unlocked it and lifted the heavy-looking lid and rummaged inside for a moment. When she was finished, she returned to the fire and handed Stephen a Bible, a small, blue notebook and a gold chain from which hung a simple cross.

"These belonged to your uncle," she said simply.

"And how did you come to possess them?"

"They were given to me after he died."

At these words, Stephen felt a shock for which he was totally unprepared. In his logical mind, he had quite accepted the probability that his uncle was in fact dead, but to hear it said aloud in such a stark and final way made him feel a sense of utter failure, and as a result, he became defensive.

"How do you know he's dead? Did you see his body? Tell me everything!"

"I saw him fall from one of the towers of the mansion at Maljardin," said the woman, evidently sensing his distress and trying to soothe it. "I never saw him buried, but there is a crypt under that mansion, so it may be that his body rests well despite the unnatural and untimely manner of his death."

"Are you saying that he was murdered?"

"I'm afraid so," she said, looking for a moment into the heart of the fire as though to summon a sight of what she was about to describe.

"When I first met your uncle," she began slowly, "I felt instinctively his goodness and his strength."

"But he had run away from his pulpit to follow some girl!" Stephen didn't like to disparage his uncle's memory, but this point had always troubled him greatly.

"If you had med Holly Marshall as I did, you would have understood why. It is true that he did love her as a man loves a woman, but he knew that she didn't love him and he never pressed his suit further than friendship would permit. Now, as I was saying, I knew him as a strong person, but he was also in a state of doubt about his calling and even about his faith. His love for Holly had shaken him to the very soul, but his sojourn on Maljardin was full of strange portents and terrors about which you will read if you peruse the book I gave you. It is a journal he kept."

"So how did you get these things? You didn't murder him, did you?" He hated himself for asking the question, but he knew it had to be asked no matter how odious it seemed to him to think of this simple and lovely woman as a murderess.

"I most certainly had no hand in his death," she said now, "except perhaps by an act of omission."

"Then who did it? Can we tell the police?"

"The woman who murdered Reverend Matthew Dawson is far beyond the long arm of the law, I'm afraid. Again, the journal will tell you what you need to know about his interactions with her."

"Have you read it then? My uncle's private thoughts?"

"For informational purposes only," she said. "I had to piece some things together about the events that occurred on Maljardin when I was not present. It was necessary that I do so in order for me to fulfill my destiny. Please read this journal, and please don't leave here until you've read it."

"As to leaving," he said, "I am on an indefinite sabbatical from both my priestly and my professorial duties, so I needn't leave any time soon, but now that I have these things of my uncle's, tell me why I should stay!"

"There's Robert for one thing. I trust you've seen a change in him."

"I have indeed, but he is some years older than he was since I last saw him, and most of us do not have your gift of seemingly perpetual youth."

"Well, leaving me aside for the moment," she said sadly, "you must admit that he looks weak."

"Are you saying that he's dying?"

"I'm only saying that you should make the most of your time with him while you have it. Besides, I think that after reading your uncle's words, you will have more questions for me."

"Then," said Stephen, rising to his feet, "I suppose we have nothing more to say to each other at this time."

"I have one thing to say before you leave. I want you to know that your uncle died in a noble cause, fighting evil that he had never even imagined existing before he came to Maljardin."

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, "though like most things I've heard concerning this business, your saying is annoyingly cryptic."

"I'm sorry that it must be so now," she said, and she seemed genuinely apologetic, "but I promise that you will understand more after you've read the journal. Now, let us go. I'll guide you to your hotel."

"What about Barrett?"

"He should sleep," she said. "Don't worry. He knows this house well. You saw him follow the sacred path. Could you have done it on your own?"

"No. I understand that he has learned many secrets of your faith."

"More than many know nowadays. Now, come with me."

A thick blanket of cloud had fallen over the sky by the time the two of them exited the Conjure Woman's abode, so Stephen was grateful, if a little surprised, when his guide took his hand. As they walked along the cabin path, he heard the sound of neither snapping twig or falling stone, and it was only when she paused to allow him to remove his shoes in order that he should tread the processional way with due reverence that he realized that she herself was already unshod. He felt her beside him in the pitch darkness and he knew her to be flesh and blood, but there was something otherworldly about the lightness of her step and the utter silence in which she seemed to cocoon herself. Yet for all her silence, her presence seemed to be well known to the unseen sentinels who seemed to guard this most sacred of roads, for no guards assailed their progress and no drums rang out in the still air.

"Your hotel isn't far from here," she said as they reached the narrower end of the dirt track. "Can you find it yourself?"

"Yes," he said, peering through the vines that screened the entrance of the path from the hotel grounds. "I hope Robert will be alright."

"Don't worry," she said, giving him a radiant smile. "I'll see to it that he is. Now, I'll say goodbye for the moment. If you want me, call me."

"Call you? How?" But before he had finished his question, she had moved silently away, melting into the night like smoke into smoke.