CHAPTER 1: Olomenos
ANs:
Story title, tehom, is Hebrew for deep or abyss and refers to the great deep of the primordial waters of creation.
Chapter title, olomenos, means destructive or ruinous in Ancient Greek. Transliteration is my own.
POVs change and are noted.
Beginning of this chapter has passages from "The Tell-Tale Heart" (1843) by Edgar Allan Poe rephrased.
Biblical sacrifice reference, see Leviticus 16: 1-34 .
The Addams Family facts: the show aired in the UK on ITV in 1965, then on Sky 1 in 1991, then BBC Two from Feb 1992 to Aug 1996. The film was released in the UK on 13 Dec 1991.
-ISAIAH'S POV-
Dhakdhak, dhakdhak, dhakdhak.
The drums stop.
The crowd quiets.
The horrendous endless bleating resounds.
The sound of mortal terror.
It is the sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged.
Not of pain.
Of desperation.
I know that sound.
Sometimes, when the world sleeps, it wells up within my own chest, a dreadful deepening echo.
Terrors that bind.
I know it well.
His suffering will end.
Will mine?
Quietly, I laugh to myself startling the stranger that appears beside me.
We're pressed together. Amassed. To witness. All in vain. The goat's cry.
Death is approaching. Stalking. In blurred shadows. It consumes him.
BOOM.
Many in the crowd jump as the drums announce the swipe of the knife. The sacrifice.
Blood flows into a receptacle.
I mourn.
I don't see the shadows anymore but their presence is still within the room.
The stuttering goat's heart.
Dhakdhak, dhakdhak, dhakdhak.
The drums are back, beating, faster, harder, animated. Stimulating the mass. Giving them life.
"One marked for the Lord. Sin offering," I mumble. Trying to calm down. Trying not to shed tears.
"Is that what this is?" the stranger beside me asks.
"No."
"Then why did you say it?"
"You'll see." I don't turn to look at him. I look forward. To witness.
I feel his stare linger. After several seconds of his dark eyes burning into me, he turns back to watch. The goat has been trussed upside down, hanging by the door frame. The blood rush has slowed.
"It's too bad, this one was learning to play fetch," I mumbled again to myself. I'm gutted.I hear the stranger also speak quietly, not to me but to himself.
"Wonder if I can get the bezoar."
I look at him with a raised eyebrow. No one else is paying attention to us. Then again we are at the back of the crowd, closest to the exit. "Will you honor it's life by using it?" I ask him, hoping.
"Yes. A bezoar can save lives. What better remembrance for it."
I search his face for signs of mocking. He's sincere. "Him," I correct the stranger.
"Pardon?"
"Not an it. A him. Abami. I named him. He's a cross between a Nigerian Dwarf and a Barbados Blackbelly. He was, anyway." I look sadly at the now skinned carcass. "They weren't able to get a pure Blackbelly. And a Dwarf is too small to feed a crowd." I close my eyes. "He's been here for a couple days. I was teaching him to play fetch. He got the hang of using a puppy pad. Clever animals, goats. Smarter than many people I've known."
"You named him? What does it mean?"
"It's Yoruba. For monster."
"Monster? You named a sacrificial goat, monster?"
"Yes, after us. Humans. Monsters. Everything needs a name." I finally open my eyes. We stare at each other. "I'll get you the bezoar." I don't say anything else and look back towards the front.
I watch the Priest dip his hand in and out of the receptacle and press bloody fingers to the lips of the lined congregants. They move eagerly, all wanting to partake. As he draws closer he brings with him clouds of rum, tobacco and incense. It's nauseating. The line moves quickly.
I watch, disgusted, as the person to my right tilts their head up in full acceptance. In a blink, he's standing in front of me. He dips his hand.
The blood has coagulated. He breaks off a gelatinous clot and presents it to me. My face is clear of emotions. I shake my head as I stare unblinking at his leathery face. He moves slightly forward and I shift my head back. Away. "No." I am firm. He glares at me. Disappointed. He moves on.
The stranger to my left shakes his head as well. The Priest doesn't press him. He moves on. I feel the crowd shift and we have more room to breathe. No longer pressed in like cattle.
"You should have taken it." A new voice speaks to my right. I look. It's Ben. He's naive. Though loveable.
"I don't drink the blood of my friends," I say. That's true.
"The goat was your friend?" he laughs at me. Not mocking. He knows me too well.
"Yes. My friend. Abami was smart. Full of life. So young." I'm back to being sad.
"He will be delicious." Now he is definitely mocking me. Gormless. Less lovable. "You're not going to eat either?"
I shake my head. "I don't eat my friends."
"You're not a vegetarian." He knows this. It's not a question.
"No."
"If Mother finds out…" but I interrupt.
"You won't tell." I know he won't. He loves me. Or loves Mother enough not to cause her worry with news of my defiance.
"No. But what about the Priest." His eyes search out leather-face.
"He won't either." Ben looks at me, and smiles, blood stained lips. Licks them slowly and walks away.
The stranger is still there. To my left. Watching. "A friend?" he asks.
"No at the moment. I'd drink his blood without a problem right now. Sic Gorgiamus Allos Subjectatos Nunc."
"So we'll eat those that subject us," the stranger translates slowly letting the words roll carefully off his tongue. "You know latin?" he asks me, surprised.
"We gladly feast on those who would subdue us. It's from the wonderful Morticia in The Addams Family. Have you seen it?" I'm staring at him, taking in all his features. Trying to take apart his life by the shadows on his face.
"The television program from the 60s?" his brow creases in thought, "I haven't had the pleasure."
"No, I meant the film. I saw it around Christmas when it was released in theaters. I have seen the show though. It's actually been on a lot since the film was released. Carolyn Jones was a babe."
"I'll take your word for it."
"Come on, the kitchen is this way."
He follows. I watch him move to an empty corner of the kitchen, back to the wall, near the exit. Rigid shoulders. Cautious man. I like him. Shadows and all.
I tend to my assigned duties. I check the huge metal pots on the stove top, turning over mounds of rice and peas. I get handed a large platter of smoked herring and gag. I hear him laugh from his corner. "I hate this stuff. Who in their right mind would eat this?" I'm speaking to him but someone else answers.
"Tradition. Don't turn your nose up at perfectly good food." It's one of Mother's pets. I hate most of them.
"Yes, Auntie," I reply in a monotone voice and before I have to deal with the smelly fish, several women enter the kitchen carrying platters of fresh meat. It's goat.
- SEVERUS' POV -
The young man looks sadly at the meat as the procession finishes. He speaks to one of the women in a whisper in what I think is Spanish. At that moment another woman enters the kitchen carrying a plastic pail. He looks in it, murmurs something under his breath, sticks his hands in and moves it about. He removes it and in his hand is a lumpy fleshy mass. He turns to me and holds it up. It's the stomach of the goat, which holds the bezoar. I dip my head in acknowledgement.
The woman holding the pail clicks her tongue at him and the youngman smiles at her. Like magic, she smiles back at him, her disapproval gone.
With his clean hand he rummages around a cupboard, dripping blood on the floor. After a minute he gives up. He grabs a small empty red and white striped plastic shopping bag wedged between the small refrigerator and the faux wood cabinet encasing it. He puts the stomach inside it. He drops the bag on the countertop above the refrigerator and moves to the sink. He washes his hands for thirty seconds, I count, all the while his lips move, quickly, a prayer perhaps. He dries his hands on a dish towel and turns back to the bag which he ties and stores it in the small freezer compartment.
"You can grab it on your way out," he instructs me. He seems to steal himself before turning back to the womenfolk. He never touches the goat again but continues to help with the food. He stands in one section, away from the meat, chopping mounds of onions, peppers, chillies, and herbs.
I do offer to help, I'm good at chopping thanks to my trade but he shakes his head, thanks me, and smiles at me like I'm the only one in existence. Like I'm special. Like I matter. It warms me.
He moves on to another section. Scrubbing and cutting endless piles of peeled root vegetables, plantain, malanga, taro, yam, all before putting them in vats of salted boiling water.
I stand there, and watch him for almost twenty minutes. He's beautiful. And competent in the kitchen. I do notice that there are no other men around cooking. Once the women start frying the goat, he excuses himself and turns to me.
"If you're staying for the feast, it's going to be at least another hour." Bright green eyes bore into mine.
"I did not plan to partake. You?" I already know the answer of course but ask anyway..
"No. Come on, I'll give you the penny tour." He holds out his hand and I take it. Because he's beautiful. Because he's offering.
The crowd has spread out thankfully but there are still a lot of people about. Dancing, singing, drinking. We pass a room that has a long queue outside. "What's in there?" I ask in a whisper, my breath grazing his ear. I want to get closer.
"You'd think it was the loo," he laughs. I'm enthralled. "It's the consulting room."
"Consulting room?" What did that even mean? This entire place is confusing.
"Yes, there is a host who is a vessel for the spirits. They," he points to the queue, "ask their questions. Get answers. Converse with those on the other side of the veil that separates life and death."
I observe as the next person is called up. It's a middle aged man, tidily dressed, very calm. He exudes happiness. He gives the guard at the door some money and is let into the room. "They pay for that?"
"Nothing in this world is free, not even talking to the dead."
He takes me into a room further down a corridor. No one is here but the room is packed. There are seven levels, like giant steps, against the longest wall. Rows of statues and lit candles. Platters of food. Legumes, yams, coconuts, vases of pink roses, dried fish, sweets, bottles of rum, stacks of cigars. Bundles of herbs and plants that I easily recognize. Sage, cotton, onion, tamarind, amaranth, Marvel of Peru, Andira, hyssop, white willow, burdock, yarrow, lotus, chamomile, kelp, aloe, cohosh, dandelion, eucalyptus, hawthorn, bloodroot, comfrey, hibiscus, nettles. Scorched chicken eggs, different size seashells. A sand-like substance in mounds near a skull shaped stone on the floor. He notices me looking at the last with curiosity.
"It's ground maize, like polenta. Mixed with coconut sugar. It's called axoxo. Sacred food for the gods."
"What is all this?" At this point I'm not sure how I got here. This man. This room. This house. This sacrificial conveyance.
"This is the Altar Room. This outlines the entire Yoruba pantheon. Light spirits on the top level and they descend to the floor, where the dark spirits are represented." He's looking at me as he explains. Observing. We're still holding hands.
"I've never seen anything like it. Can you tell me more?"
"A bit. Many things aren't shared unless you have been baptized and then more when you're an initiate."
"Are you either?"
"No. Not that most of them," his chin points to the door "know that little fact. I've learned from attending events like this, interviewing practitioners, and reading books." He walks over to a small, round, wooden table with two chairs at the other end of the room. The table is by one of two large windows without curtains or covering of any sort. The slight light of the waning moon filters into the space adding to it's already eerie atmosphere. He beckons and I sit across from him. "Hold your questions until the end." I nod and become entranced in his explanation
-ISAIAH'S POV-
He's pale. Paler than anyone I've ever met. Large nose. Long pitch black hair. Everything he is wearing is black. He's not cookie-cutter handsome, but I like him. I see the shadows of death cling to him. I give him my best smile, the one that draws everyone in. The one that has saved me.
"I'm not sure how you got invited to this shindig, but if you didn't already know, this is a celebration in honour of Oggun. He is a deity of the Yoruba religion. In Santeria, a Christianized version of said religion that has its roots in the Carribean, he is known as many things. In this community, Oggun is syncretized with St Michael. Thus, today being Michaelmas, a feast is held. And I can see the question in your eyes."
He looks surprised and raises an eyebrow in challenge.
"Yes, today is September 28th and technically tomorrow is the 29th, his feast day. But days begin at sundown. 'And there was evening and there was morning,' that's how days are counted. It says so in the Bible in Genesis. Sundown today was at 6:45pm."
He nods in understanding and I continue.
"Oggun is the deity of warriors. He has an irascible and violent character towards his enemies."
I pause to stand and lead him toward a blond statue in roman robes and point to it.
"His symbol in this Christianized version is a sword. Just look at him, strong, vicious, his foot on the neck of the devil himself. His main symbol is actually a machete, not a sword, with which he uses to fight. He is a warrior himself of course. He has dominion over the roads. He is the direct messenger to Obatala, the supreme divine force, who is the creator of humans. He has a temper, he is hard, vigorous. You could almost say he is inflexible. He has the resistance of the metal that makes up his weapon. It is he who takes justice into his hands without caring what the other gods will say. Prayers are said to him to protect the entrances of houses and temples. To protect soldiers, workers, farmers, surgeons, all and any who work with metal. He is like a god of war. He gives strength to the warrior, courage and of course, final victory. Only Obatala, the father in the sky, can calm him when he is angry and desires for combat."
Still holding hands, we stare at the statue for several minutes in silence. I pull his hand and lead him back to the table. We sit again. I'm knackered. I need sleep. But he's intriguing so I continue. He's a great audience. Attentive.
"There is one legend, popular in Brazil, that says that he killed a dragon for terrorizing a village. Like St Tiro or St George. I like that he does what he wants and seeks vengeance on behalf of those that can't defend themselves." I tilt my head to the side, elongating my neck, his eyes follow my every movement. "I'm sure you have questions." I've given him so much to think about.
"Several." He finally takes his eyes off my neck and trails them up to my eyes. "How did you come to learn about all this? You said you weren't baptized, and can conclude from your reaction to the sacrifice that you were not raised to follow this religion." I nod in agreement. "I wasn't aware of many White English people knowing much about African based religions. Let alone be involved as much as you seem to be." He's very observant.
I straighten my posture and smile at him. He's smart. I like that a lot. "You've seen all those chanting people at major intersections, bus stations, airports? They chant one thing over and over. Wearing orange robes, wooden beaded bracelets? Giving out colorful prayer cards?"
"The Hare Krishna's?"
"Yes." I nod. "They're so happy. So jubilant. So noisy. So very White. At least, a lot of them are White. White men and women leaving their homes. Going to foreign lands, searching for peace, for the meaning of life. They eat the local food, pray in a language they don't understand and bob's your uncle, they love themselves. They love everyone and everything. Returning home to spread the gospel, the true path, enlightenment, the meaning of life. You too can be happy if you only, X,Y,Z. Three easy steps to inner peace."
"You aren't promoting the practices here so that means that whoever introduced you to all this went to some wellness resort abroad and came back as a guru? Is that it?"
"Something like that." It's too complicated to recount at the moment.
"Right."
"Anything else?" I start massaging the hand I'm still holding. I can feel his temperature rise in reaction, see the slight blush he's fighting back. He has good hands, slightly rough. Strong, long fingers. Clean, trimmed fingernails. He's used to manual labor. I can feel more scars than I can see. He's known pain.
"You don't seem to believe all this or at least you don't seem…"
I interrupt him and lightly drum my fingers over his knuckles. "As enthusiastic as the blood jelly eaters out there?" He nods. I laugh. I go back to light, feathery touches that draw more blushes. "No, I'm not into it. I like the stories, the legends, and the history. The rules and constructs. I'm more of a religious anthropologist, observing, documenting, hands on at times."
"I see," but I'm not sure he actually does.
"How did you learn about today?" He's obviously new to all this. Probably not even raised C or E.
"It was accidental."
"You're crashing?" I ask with a smirk.
"I was invited," he objects.
I can tell by that reaction that he has integrity. "Yeah right." I tease because I can.
"I was passing by." He defends. "The music was intriguing so I paused to listen. I was about to leave when I saw an old man step out. He was friendly and greeted me. I didn't want to be rude so I responded in kind."
"Such a British reaction," I laughed.
"Manners maketh the man." He pauses and I'm pursing my lips to stop laughing even more. His eyes are bright so I know he's in on the joke. "I complimented the choice of music and he asked that I come in. He seemed harmless, so I did. I still don't know why."
"Didn't your parents tell you not to go off with strangers?"
"I have good instincts. I knew I wasn't in danger."
"Well, no one knows you better than you. You still have your kidneys so I guess you were right. You waltzed in just like that?"
"I followed the music and happened upon a huge crowd as the knife was drawn. I was surprised. The man at the door should warn people. Not everyone has my strong constitution."
"True but Simon is really harmless. He makes for a great, welcoming, sentinel. Old, kind, like a grandpa. Tells everyone to come in. Last year he even made friends with some coppers that were called in for a noise complaint. It was hilarious. They came in too. Didn't break it up. Good-old Simon."
"Sentinel?"
"A guard at the entrance. Traditional homes invoke spirits for the job. You can tell because they always leave out a glass of water with a chunk of camphor in it. They keep those with harmful intentions out."
"Why aren't the spirits watching the entrance here? Is this not a traditional home?"
"Oh it is. But with so many people during feasts the glass can easily be tipped over. Instead, someone is anointed and they act as the guard. The spirits hover over their shoulders telling them what to do. I'm told it's like a mental poke when someone is bad news."
"They just stand there and assess if a person is going to be a problem?"
"That is correct. I actually haven't seen anyone get rejected at the door, but I've seen people get booted for getting too drunk and violent. Those are not welcome. Plus some events are private and that's when it actually helps to have a sentinel. This one isn't it. Though, it's rare that complete strangers come. Even if someone is new, they've at least heard about this from someone they know. Word of mouth. So, you were actually passing by?"
"Yes."
"Why were you in this neck of the woods?"
"I was at the Road Market, it's not too far from here. I wandered about after leaving and heard the drums."
"Buy anything at the market?"
"Not today."
"That's too bad."
"Indeed. So, why are you here? You didn't stumble off the street like me. You seem well versed in this feast so I don't see what else there is to document in your anthropological endeavours."
"That's simple. I live here."
His eyes widened just a smidge. This surprised him. I like that. Taking him off guard. His eyes take in the room again. "You live here?"
"In this house. Not this room. No one sleeps here."
"Right."
"I doubt it would be comfortable, with all the eyes on you and let's not forget the fire hazard. " I say sarcastically, gesturing to all the candles.
Before he replies we are interrupted.
"There you are. Your mother is asking for you." It's a happy reveler. At least this one I recognize.
I curse under my breath. "Toilet?" I ask her and she nods then leaves. I turn to the stranger. "I gotta go. I've been summoned." I slowly remove my hand from his. ''This has been fun, talking to an outsider."
"Outsider?"
"Of course. I could tell by your clothes and accent that you are a mint, even before you told me that Simon dragged you in from the street. No friend, relative, or ex-girlfriend's neighbor's third cousin told you about this. You are an outsider. You did well. No chucking bits when they killed the goat. I've seen that happen when they kill chickens."
"I've seen worse." He's eyes are not lying.
"Haven't we all." I pull out a card from my back pocket, write on it and as I stand, I hand it to him.
"What is this?" He is forever curious.
"The next feast is for Eleggua. St Jude. His feast day is October 28th, which is a Monday, so the party is on the Saturday before. Someone else is hosting but I'll be there. You should come. It will be different from this one. You won't get in without the card."
"Because of the sentinel."
I nod. "I can tell you more about the pantheon."
He nods while looking at the card. "Who's Eleggua?"
"I love how curious you are. It's very attractive." I get a blush in response. "He is the deity honored at the beginning and end of all ceremonies. He is said to be the force in nature which makes communication possible between humans and the gods. He who brings magic into this realm."
"Magic?" he says with what I think is incredulity. Perhaps not.
"Magic. We can't be friends if you don't believe in magic," I smirk at him and he looks startled. "Anyway, she'll send someone else for me if I don't go." But before I leave the room he grabs my hand. He's gentle but firm.
"I never got your name." And he is right. We never made introductions.
"Is that a question?" I flirt and lean closer.
"Can you please tell me your name?" I like that he does as I say, no need to train him.
"Isaiah. Yours?" I hold out my hand to shake his as if we're just meeting. He takes it.
"Severus."
He's still holding my hand. I remove it from his hold and place it on his cheek. He's taller than me but not overbearing. I look into his dark eyes. Almost black. Like onyx. They are beautiful. "It's nice to meet you, Severus. Don't forget your bezoar." I kiss him lightly on the corner of his mouth. I hear his sharp intake of breath. Feel his cheek flood with warmth. I want to stay and see what other noises I can get out of him. See how far the blush reaches. My hand moves slowly down to his neck and chest as I lean away. I have to go. I've been summoned. I don't want to. "I hope to see you next month." I let go.
-SEVERUS' POV-
He leaves me standing there. I watch him walk away. Confident, silent steps. I feel remnants of the kiss burning me. I welcome the heat. I pocket the card and make my way to the kitchen before leaving altogether. A frozen, bloody, goat stomach. It's one of the nicest gifts I've ever received.
For the next four weeks I think of him. I dream of him. This beautiful mysterious man. His bright green eyes, his long lashes, his plump lips. Touching my face, my neck, my chest. His spicy scent. His sexy voice. Utterly enchanting. Calling me. Luring me. Towards the unknown. And I choose to follow.