Chapter Nine
Author's notes: Inspired by 'Cypress Grove' by Clutch, a very visceral piece of music gifted by Muse. Vanille seemed a perfect Voodoo Priestess. Please note any recognizable paraphrased lyrics are Clutch; there is no intent of gain or profit, the story is for simple amusement; the scene is also inspired by the author's home, where a river runs through an appropriately spooky bottom land, and there is a legend of rebel gold in them thar hills...please forgive the phonetical spelling of the local twang; it is essential to get a feel for the culture. I hope the many international readers do not get confused; if you do, please write and a thorough explanation of southern accents and voodoo culture will be attempted for you.
"C'mon, walk faster."
"Whassa matter, boojums on yer back?"
"So get to punkin' an' doan look back." His voice lowered to a whisper: "One way ticket on a two way track."
"Ain't nothing a good gun and a blade can't handle, old man. Buncha wermin doan' excite me to a blaze of fear."
"If you a man, you doan' go to Cypress Grove at night. Remember sheriff Jackson? Noel fuckin' Kreiss Jackson? Wellll, he done go inna da bar, Lebreau's, ya know? He been chasin' some fine stink all up an' down da Gapra Whitewoods all summah long; it been said he been done gone crazy ovah his bounty, a pretty lil' thang gone wild, Serah Farro-hn. And you know dem Farrons is some mighty fine stink, faces like angels, hips like de devil's mistress, dandy with a blade or a bow…yep, you know, you seen her sistah, Miss Eh'Claire Farron at the last MardiGras, eh? An' da way she done cold cock m'suier Villers for layin' an improper hand on her sistah while dancin'? Anyways, dat man done show up at Lebreau's on a full moon night, drink missy Lebreau's 'shine, then threaten to close it down effen he doan' get his stink. They tell him go out back, she be there with Miss Vanille, its conjure night, they raising da Baron Samedi, but he never come back. Now his daughters, they all wearin' black, but they doan' know, ya see? There weren't nothing to find, not even a hair off his handsome Acadian head, nor a tassel offen his belt. Dat man done gone, boy. So get to punkin'. And doan look back. Evah. Hear me, Gadot?"
Gadot shrugged, but kept walking, kicking up little puffs of dust on the road. Sazh looked disgustedly behind him and ordered: "Stop dat. You is leavin' a trail. Tread lightly on Miss Vanille's doorstep, heah?"
"Oh for freakin' Etrossake, Sazh, Da wermin can't be everywhere at once; effen it's full moon, all dem in da Grove be at cemetery, wakin' up da Baron. They leaves a lookout onna da hill, I allas seen a jacked up Ford an' a mess o' pink hair stickin' out under a widebrim 'round sunset. Gots a mean dog, too. Bloodhoun'. So I say we is in da clear. Why, I bets we could just walk down from da crossroads to Lebreau's and waltz on in any o' dem shacks and find 'em empty."
Gadot gave an empty mirthless grin, somehow looking unpleasant, his full lips stretching to display an enormous set of teeth, slightly yellowed. He unlatched his weapon and carelessly threw it over a broad shoulder, a full 23 inch bicep flexing under the shirt, as he started to swagger down the road in the dusky moonrise.
"Sazh? You evah heah about da stash in Cypress Grove?"
Sazh grunted, not wanting to even talk now; the hill had eyes, it did; he always got nervous around the Grove, imagining dark shadows flitting from trunk to trunk in the gloom. The others in town laughed at him when he told them they were zombies of Miss Vanille's, or shadow boojums conjured by the women to watch over them.
Gadot blindly stumbled on: " Ah do believe there just might be a grain o' truth in that there fable, sirrah. I'se been setting traps up by da slew, where da crick crosses de road, and guess what dey netted?"
He dug in his pocket and threw a small dull object at Sazh, who caught it, and gaped as the object was recognized.
"Yup. Dem wermin done found da stash of rebel gold. Wanna go get us some, old man?"
Sazh shook his head and panicked, threw it back at the big man, and slapped him full on the face, raising a red welt mark on the sunburnt skin. He gasped: "Oh, sirrah! Youse in BIG trouble now! Go put it back! Before they sees it missing! They does the count every full moon, you damnfoolBohdumBoy! " He abruptly turned around and started back at a rapid shuffle, Gadot running to catch up. His face wore a look of dismay, half wanting to disbelieve Sazh, but tradition won out; he was Bohdum bred and raised, and knew there were things in the swamp you didn't mess with.
It took a good 30 minutes to get back to the crossroads, and they heard the beat and throb of the drums in the distance; the conjure time had already started, and they relaxed a bit, knowing Cypress Grove would be deserted. Gadot carefully pulled the trap line from under the bridge, but puzzled when it came up empty. Sazh groaned, knowing it had been pulled. They were already on the hunt for the missing gold. He decided to cut and run, leaving Gadot gaping at the crossroads.
He turned to follow, intending to use shank's mare to full advantage, but he walked into a blade held at throat level; a shotgun 44 was leveled at his gut, and a familiar widebrim hat jerked towards a decrepit Ford with the trunk open. He sullenly allowed himself to be marched to it, then night exploded in a thousand stars as the butt of the gunsaber landed with a solid thump on the back of his skull.
He awoke in the ruddy firelight, warming him in the cool crisp fall night; he quizzed at the puzzling scene of feet in front of him, until he realized he was lying on his side; the twin butterflies of pretty feet were bare, but wore extravagant ankle bangles and toe rings; then he slowly blanched as the scene of one foot perched on a human skull sank in. It was her, Miss Vanille.
Silently he took the mistress of Cypress Grove and her court in: a lovely fresh face, ageless, yet wise beyond her years with a hooded look of amused power glimpsed in emerald green eyes. She was exquisitely clad in a few pieces of cloth and fur, highlighting the voluptuousness of her figure; they had adorned her with yards upon yards of primitive beads until she was draped like an effigy of the goddess Etro herself. He sat himself up, then stood; he eyeballed her before inquiring with the friendliest of tones: "Y'all wouldn't have seen an old man, about as old as the hills, by the name of Sazh 'round here, would you? " His mirthless smile came up again, looking like the teeth of an Equus, the horse of the dead that pulled haunted carriages and such.
A velvety voice answered: "M'seiur Gadot, why you be looking for a man in Cypress Grove? Nothin' but us wimmen, as you can see. And y'all know the law 'round heah – no man in Cypress Grove after dark. So….pray do edify us fairer sex as to what extenuatin' circumstances allow you to go without being judged by the law 'round heah, suh."
Gadot swaggered a step or two forward, then gave his best courting bow and held out his massive hand before saying: "Why miz Vanille, just bein' poh-lite and returnin' something ya'll might have lost; an' heah it is, if you please, is it youhs, ma'am?" The fingers unfolded and in his sweaty palm lay a dirty and discolored piece of old coinage, pure gold underneath the debris.
Miss Vanille's face was impassive, as all the rest of the faces in firelight were; they damn well knew what it was, and they also knew if they admitted if they recognized it, Gadot would have something on them; up until now, the rumor of an enormous stash of rebel gold was just that: rumor. There was no way they'd ever let this Bodhum bumpkin in on the secret. Besides, he was a church-going man, and they hated the holy rollers and divers passionately; they always were calling them whores of the devil and burning down shacks when they got the courage. Miss Vanille decided they needed a lesson, a proper lesson to leave the devil's own to his own.
Gadot grinned, knowing by the lengthy silence they knew what was in his hand; his self-righteous soul burnt up any noble intentions, and he decided to play his upper hand immediately; when else would he ever have the chance to do so with these bitches?
Miss Vanille flicked her eyes to the side at her leftenant, a fine dark-haired swamp bred Acadian only known as Fang; they smiled and shrugged diffidently, the others following suit; a soft patter of drum beats began and slowly they went back to preparing for their feast with the baron. The gorgeous redhead motioned Gadot forward, and gracefully unfurled a narrow hand to her left, indicating he should take a seat there. He sat, still grinning with his over-large teeth and accepted a jar of 'shine from Fang, who twitched her blue sari a bit lower to give him a taste of the upcoming eye-candy that would be exposed during the height of the ceremony; everyone went into a frenzy after they witnessed the sacrifice to the Papa Loa and drank in the bowl to see.
An hour later and Gadot was king of the world; he had consumed an enormous amount of 'shine and enjoyed the women moving to the beat of the drums; they all seemed to have eyes for him and it excited him no end to see bared breasts and quaking bellies. Nothing mattered anymore, not Sazh, not his traps, not church, not even the bizarre glimpse of Jackson, looking stoned out of his mind and led about by a leash; they'd mockingly put him in a skirt, ostensibly to make a woman out of him after jumping up and down all summer to make his brass balls clank. No wonder no part of him was ever found. Gadot remembered what a complete and utter bastard he was, how intent he had been on finding the Farron minx, and laughed heartily at the sight of the proud sheriff's humiliation, served him right, it did; and it looked like the Farron minx, that Serah, was enjoying it a bit, too. Then his mouth went dry and his eyes clung as Miss Vanille slowly rose from her throne, sinuous as a snake.
She began to dance, to welcome the baron and prepare for the sacrifice, which Gadot had no idea about; she wove a subtle enchantment about him, her beads gently jingling, her sweet ageless face alight with wicked amusement. He clumsily gained his feet and began to stomp and howl, following the voodoo priestess around the bonfire to the altar. He was totally enthralled now; she held such promises in her eyes and how he wanted them to be fulfilled. He held out his arms to her, smiling, ready for his slice of heaven. The glance stayed a moment longer and held his; her bright green eyes were hypnotic and she smiled as if he were the answer to all her dreams.
She lifted her hand and blew, the fine powder concealed within was inhaled and he fell down dazed, but not before he saw the slim figure of sheriff Jackson, in his ragged blue skirt shuffle forward and mindlessly grin before squatting in front of him, driving the point of Miss Vanille's big sacrifice knife in the ground over and over again.
