Then Comes the Child Read online

  THEN COMES THE CHILD

  by Christopher Fulbright & Angeline Hawkes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with other people, please use the legal lending method. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please consider purchasing your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Then Comes the Child was previously published in a trade paperback edition by Carnifex Press in 2006. This edition contains minor corrections to the original text.

  Then Comes the Child

  Kindle Edition | Published by ND3 Press

  Copyright © 2012 by Fulbright & Hawkes

  All rights reserved.

  1.

  It was Voodoo Day in Benin.

  Dennis used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, pausing as he walked through the seaside city of Ouidah. Tents flapped on the golden beach below, where children had gathered to watch horses race through the surf. Colorful flags lined the waterfront streets where loudspeakers boomed and blasted Congolese music, almost drowning the sound of traditional drummers. The world was an explosion of color and sound around him.

  Putting on his hat to shield his eyes from the sun, he peered through the clapping, dancing crowds and spotted a few men selling alcohol. Fine, he thought. This is what it’s come to. Drunk in Africa, and there’s still three days to go before we head back into Ghana and get on a plane to go home.

  Dennis pushed his way past one of the voodoo priests who wore a conical hat, gold earrings and a black scarf around his neck. A senior priestess draped in a colorful dress of a native weave followed him. She was black as ebony and drew the hungry stares of young men’s eyes. They were lured by the sway of the priestess’ hips as she walked in the steps of the voodoo priest. Dennis smiled. He knew the exhilaration of such a stare.

  All around him the air hummed with the energy of lust and emotion. Drums beat in unison with the multitudes of hearts around him, adding to the frenzy of the festival. Despite the excitement of the surroundings, being here was a bittersweet moment; his wife Alison had been waiting for him at home for weeks now, and as much as he loved his job, being away from her this trip was killing him.

  The voodoo festivities that ensued around him added to his inner turmoil. He wished he could say he didn’t really believe in the manifestations of voodoo, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t afraid of them. Something told him to be wary. To guard his soul from the yawning jaws of darkness that threatened to swallow him like the crowd of black bodies that swarmed the streets. Dusty old scriptures that he’d once memorized surfaced in his mind and then faded before he could fully remember the exact phrases. Words that had once held as much power to him as the words of the voodoo priests did to those who believed in them. But the words only collided in his mind, none fully materializing for him to use to find a source of strength or comfort. It had been too long. A past life. Back then, everything had gone to hell.

  But that was then. He had a new life now. With Alison.

  Four thousand miles away.

  Damn it.

  Dennis tracked down one of the alcohol vendors and paid for a beer. It was African beer and damn if he could read the label, but it had a kick and that’s what counted. He found a shady table with an umbrella and watched the festivities.

  About the time the sun had begun to sink below the rooftops of the inland rows of buildings and circular huts, Wesley appeared through the crowd looking blatantly American in jeans, Adidas, and an Old Navy t-shirt. If not for his bag of camera equipment, he would have looked like a lost college student. In fact, Dennis thought with a grin, he kind of looked like that anyway.

  “What the hell took you so long?”

  “Hey man, I’m the one who’s got to bring back the pictures. All you’ve got to do is interview a few folks along the way. Without me, you’ve got nothin’, man. Nothin’! Just words on a page. Nobody’s gonna look at that. You think people buy Travel & Leisure to look at the words?”

  “Hey now—”

  “I’m just sayin’.” Wes ordered a beer for both of them and took a seat.

  “So did you get what you needed?” Dennis asked.

  “I think so. I’ll shoot a few more rolls tonight, at the sacrifice.”

  “Ah yes, the sacrifice.”

  “You know you want to see it.”

  Dennis laughed. “Oh, I’ll be there. My story wouldn’t be complete without it. Maybe there’ll be a blood orgy afterward and you’ll get lucky.”

  “Okay, now who’s aiming below the belt, huh?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  They headed up the street to an outdoor café. It was half a block down from where two of the most magnificent buildings in the area faced each other the street—a python temple and catholic cathedral.

  They ate and commented on the activity around the front of the python temple. Snake dancers lost in hypnotic states undulated to the steady throb of drums and the chaotic jangle of tambourines at the steps of the temple. Priests and villagers offered up prayers and drank special libations while tourists milled nearby casting furtive glances at the topless women dancing as though possessed by the unquenchable spirits of harlots.

  Dennis finished his dinner in silence. The cacophony of noise from the celebration was enough to fill the void of no conversation. He was thousands of miles away.

  Wes picked up on it. “Missing Alison, huh?”

  Dennis glanced over at him and took a drink from his glass. He’d switched to margaritas. “Don’t start.”

  “Naw, man. I understand. She’s a beautiful woman. You don’t want to leave a girl that hot alone for too long.”

  “Wes, my friend, you have no idea.”

  Wesley took a more serious tone. “Still no luck, eh?”

  The last time they’d taken a trip to the Caribbean for Travel & Leisure they sat up late drinking one night and Dennis had confided in him. Sometimes he regretted it, but Wes was a good enough kid. He was like a little brother in a way. They’d been on the same assignments together for the past year. Spend that much time alone with someone, you either love them or hate them after a while. Luckily for Dennis, Wes proved to be wiser than he let others perceive, and his cunning and verve for photography combined to win Dennis over.

  “No. Still trying. Hope’s always one month away.” Dennis quickly changed the subject. “How about we head back to the hotel to change after dinner?”

  “You know,” Wesley said, being deliberately obstinate. “You ought to try one of these voodoo priests for a fertility charm, or something. Like a prayer, or a little doll thing, you know.”

  “A fertility fetish?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “Hey, don’t get sore at me, pa.”

  Dennis shook his head.

  “Really, man. I know you said you guys had tried a lot of stuff, I’m just saying it might be worth a try.”

  “Sure,” Dennis said, “or maybe we could wave a magic wand or slit the throat of a chicken at the foot of our bed.”

  Wes put his hands up in front of him.

  “Eat your dinner already. I’m ready to go.”

  They headed back to the hotel through the streets of the city. The Afro-Portuguese architecture gave the place an ancient, mystic feel.

  Dennis recalled his earlier interview with Baderinwa, the chief of travel. She’d told him how the city of Ouidah had risen to prominence in the 17th century as a prominent exporter of slaves until they fell to the inland kingdom of Dahomey in 1728. The Dahomian ki
ng organized Ouidah into the principal port and commercial capital of the kingdom, which is the way it stayed until all of Benin was transformed into a French colony in the late 1800’s. Benin gained its full independence from France in 1960, and officially adopted its name in 1975. Through the centuries all of the indigenous religions had endured, especially in the coastal town of Ouidah, which eventually became known as a spiritual capital of voodoo.

  The hotel where they stayed was a leftover from the French influence—a small renovated building that looked like a miniature château, which boasted eight rooms for rent. They went upstairs so Wes could drop off his spent rolls of film and roll fresh ones for tonight’s ritual sacrifice. Dennis changed into something more comfortable. Most of his work was already done. Now he was soaking up the ambiance of the place, getting a feel for the people, their way of life. Mainly he’d report on what he saw here tonight and blow off the rest of the interviews. To hell with it, anyway. He was ready to go home.

  But he had to admit, the closer the time grew nigh, the more curious he became about the ritual. Knowing he was going to witness a sacrifice stirred something primal within him. Touched a part of him that as a civilized man he tried to repress. Even admitting he was curious seemed somehow vile and twisted. He was glad for the excuse his job provided. He was watching to satisfy his journalistic curiosities, yeah, that was it.

  2.

  The sun was down by the time they left the hotel. The streets were lit by great braziers of fire that licked the night and glowed like madness on the faces of revelers. This was one of the final events before the festivities culminated in Sogbadji, the official residence of the voodoo chief.

  Voodoo drums echoed through the streets from the python temple—enveloping all in their pulsating rhythm. Entranced and glistening black-skinned women writhed in what seemed like contortions of agony and ecstasy with flailing arms and kicking feet. The head voodoo leader, the houngan, stood at the center of the commotion and the priestess was nearby, swaying and casting fevered glances up at the sky, intoning a chant to the voodoo gods.

  A calf was led into the oscillating throng and the voodoo priest moved forward, a gleaming silver knife whose edge was etched fiery orange by nearby torches. While two half-naked painted men held the calf by the chin, extending its neck, others restrained it. Within seconds many men had the calf surrounded.

  The houngan’s knife was swift. He cut deep into the jugular vein and opened the tawny throat, spilling the creature’s blood in a crimson flow upon the sacrificial cloth beneath. The men held the creature until its thrashing stopped and the pool of blood at their feet covered the cloth.

  The fresh blood on the ground was a deep port color in the dim torchlight. At the site of it, the masses nearby began offering fervent prayers and heated ministrations to the gods. This was their awaited sacrifice for protection.

  “I’m going to go see if I can get some shots,” said Wes.

  Dennis nodded.

  3.

  Wes slung the strap of his camera over his shoulder and picked up his black leather bag. He headed quickly through the crowd to the nearby souvenir vendors hawking their wares from rickety stalls hastily constructed for the festival. Wherever there was an opportunity for locals to fleece the tourists, Wes thought with a grin.

  He wandered between the wood tables and stalls, perusing the wares for that special something. At the end of the road, beyond the main concentration of street hawkers, a small building stood at the corner of an alleyway. In the dimly lit archway, stooped an ancient looking man as black as the sky above them, face shadowed by night. He had a bone through his nose and his hair looked unwashed and uncombed.

  This would make a good picture, Wes thought, but resisted the urge to snap a shot.

  He stared at Wes with a penetrating gaze that made Wes nervous.

  “What’re you selling?” Wes asked the old man.

  “You come in and look, maybe find something you like.”

  Wes glanced around them, situated the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder, and then followed the old man through the door into a room lit by dingy oil lamps. Herbs and dried things hung in clumps from the ceiling on hooks. The walls were full of baskets of feathers and bones. A low, crudely built wood table held an array of stone statues and clay pots.

  “What’s all this?” Wes asked.

  “What you looking for?”

  Wes thought for a moment and his mind meandered back to the conversation he and Dennis had over dinner. He smiled with a hint of mischief. It might make for a good joke if nothing else. “You have something that will make a woman have a baby? My friend, his wife, she can’t get pregnant.”

  The old man’s stoic face wrinkled up and then burst into a large grin, stark white teeth contrasting with the ebony of his skin. “You want to make a baby?” He chuckled.

  “No, no, not me, man. It’s for my friend and his wife.”

  The ancient man pulled out a wood box and sat on it. He studied Wes for a moment. “There are many things that can help a woman have a baby.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Many things, but the woman must want this baby very very bad. She must want nothing but this child. Forsaking all things for this child. Is your friend’s wife who has something wrong with her insides, is she wanting this baby very bad?”

  Wes nodded, overcome by the seriousness of the old man. He looked around the room and realized, slowly, that this man wasn’t an ordinary souvenir seller. “Are you...is this place...?” he didn’t know how to finish his question without sounding like a stupid American, so he didn’t bother.

  “I am very old man. I know much of the voodoo. I can help this friend of yours.”

  Wes smiled. “That would be great. You got some sort of powder they mix in their drinks or something?” His mind raced back to what Dennis had said. “Maybe a statue?”

  “I have statue, as you say.” The old man bent over the table, chanting steadily as he ran his hands over the stone figurines that lay in rows. He picked one up, caressed it and laid it back where it had been. He moved to another and then one more, before he selected the one he held before Wes. “This is Kokumuo.”

  “Kokomo?” Wes asked.

  “No, Ko-ku-mu-o.”

  “Kokumuo,” Wes repeated.

  “Very good. Kokumuo plants his seed in the barren womb. Kokumuo provides the womb for the hungry seed.”

  Wes nodded. “As long as it gets the job done, man. How much do I owe you?” He pulled a roll of dollars from his shirt pocket.

  The old man backed away from the money as if Wes had pulled a poisonous snake from his pocket. “No. No. Put that away. Kokumuo will be offended. He is not to be bought and sold with the dirty money of man. He aids the barren for his own price.”

  “Uh, okay. What’s his price?”

  “Kokumuo is a breeder. The blood of birth is his price.”

  Wes recoiled involuntarily. “Well, I have a slight problem here then. You see, I’m fresh out of birth blood. Got lots of these nice green things we call US dollars though.”

  The old man’s nose quivered, the bone thrust through the flesh twitching. He waved his hands around, Kokumuo in one of them. “You take Kokumuo. He will take his price with the child.”

  Wes laughed. “Sounds like some sort of African Rumplestiltskin.”

  The old one frowned.

  “Nothing, just a joke. Sorry. Okay. So, you’re giving this to me then? You’re sure you don’t want anything in return? I can buy you some nice chickens or something if you won’t take my money.”

  “No. No. You take Kokumuo. You give it to this friend. There will be a baby.”

  Wes shook his head. The old man’s English was difficult to understand. “Okay. Well, thank you very much. Really. Thank you.” Wes took the statue, and the length of fabric the man handed him, and wrapped it securely before putting it in his camera bag. He left the little shop; feeling like he had cheated the poor native and wished the man would t
ake something, anything in return. But, he didn’t wish to offend the old one, so he chalked it up to good luck and made his way back through the thrashing crowds to get a few photos before it was all said and done.

  4.

  Dennis watched the sacrifice detached from the scene around him, not quite able to put it in terms because of the surrealness of it all. He realized he was light-headed. Perhaps from the sheer energy of the ceremony, perhaps from the five drinks he’d consumed earlier to ease some of his anxiety about getting home. Where the hell had Wes gone? It didn’t take that damn long to take pictures. Dennis peered anxiously through the waves of people looking for the photographer. Then he spotted him.

  Wes made his way up from the back of the crowd smiling like a loon. “I got some damn fine shots.”

  “Great man.”

  “And I got something else, too.”

  “Syphilis?”

  Wes smirked, eyebrows knit in mock disapproval. “No, man, it’s for you. I’ll give it to you later.”

  “Let’s get back to the hotel and come out later for a few drinks,” Dennis suggested. Mostly, he wanted to get away from the crowd and the rituals and just relax somewhere. The sacrifice had left him with a bad vibe he was eager to shake. What he had witnessed wasn’t exactly evil, but it left him with a feeling he wasn’t able to assign words to or neatly compartmentalize in his modern world kind of way. The hairs on his arms still were standing, and his heart still beat in synch with the primitive drums. He just wanted to get away from it for a while.

  “Now that,” Wes said, “sounds like a plan.”

  5.

  Three days later, on the plane home, Wes gave Dennis the gift.

  “What the hell is this?” Dennis said, taking the rough-hewn fabric-wrapped bundle from Wes’ hand.

  “I got it from this old voodoo dude. It’s for you and Alison, man.”

  He unfurled the length of fabric, revealing the gift inside. He stared at the small black fetish that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. It was an elongated egg shape of a man with an oversized head with a mouth and jutting lips. There were small fangs carved into the mouth, and the eyes were angled down as if in anger. A single horn protruded from the middle of the thing’s head, and a long thin penis jutted out prominently a half inch from the statue. Dennis turned it over, examining the back of the stone talisman. The reverse side featured a tail and roughly carved wings. It definitely didn’t look like some trinket you’d just pick up at the voodoo gift shop. It looked and felt like an authentic piece, not something churned out for hawking to spendthrift tourists.