The Portal Opens (Vodou Princess)
Original: Fiction
I’m indie writer Teague de La Plaine, author of the bestselling Sea at Sunrise and other stories. This is my weekly newsletter, where I talk about writing and self-publishing in addition to my own life. I keep the newsletter free, because I prefer you spend your money on my books.
The following is from the opening pages of Vodou Princess—enjoy!
The sun finally dipped below the horizon, dropping the field into darkness. Trees running around the area in a rough rectangle cast long shadows and rose like ghosts from the rugged terrain. Little Crook took a deep breath, taking in the mixture of smells. Dusty clay permeated everything, but the scent of the young Haitian boy’s blood, pouring out of his opened neck, took over.
A Vodou black arts caplata priestess tossed the large butchering knife aside and held the boy’s shoulders as his feet kicked, shuffling up more clay dust. She eased him onto his back, positioning his pulsing neck over a metal pail, the blood running thickly down the rough sides and filling it.
It shined in the darkness.
Little Crook slowly unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it off and folding it neatly before setting it on the ground by his feet. He removed his shoes, socks, and trousers and placed them in a tidy pile on top of the shirt. Standing in his underwear, the man shivered slightly, wrapping his arms protectively around his torso. Though he was forty years old, Little Crook looked not unlike the bleeding boy a few feet away. Malnutrition in Little Crook’s own childhood had rendered him forever thin, emaciated, and his face looked too young. It always bothered him; others treated him as a child. After tonight, those who had taunted him would beg for their lives. And Little Crook would not spare them.
He took a few steps toward the caplata and the boy (Was he dead now?), but she waved him away, motioning for him to go over to the circle of smooth stones behind him.
“Lie down,” the caplata said. Lost in thought, Little Crook looked over, thinking that the boy might still be alive, trying to sit up. But the caplata was walking toward Little Crook, the bucket in both hands, heavy with its liquid. She was talking to him.
He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up onto his nose and turned. He stood in the center of the stone spiral and lowered himself to the hard surface, lying flat on his back, angling his arms and legs out like the Vitruvian Man. Little Crook knew his proportions were just as humanly perfect, but he winced, imagining the greater perfection Leonardo da Vinci had drawn. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.
The caplata stepped into the space between his splayed legs and set the metal bucket down, its bottom rasping on the stones. She bent down and tugged at Little Crook’s underwear, and he lifted his hips, bringing his legs together quickly so she could pull them off. Completely naked, Little Crook stared up at the clear sky and the stars stared back. Speaking in a quiet but forceful voice, the caplata began her incantations as Little Crook closed his eyes and relaxed his body. He whispered his required responses to her verses, and he felt the stones beneath his body grow warm.
A light was pushing at the edges of his eyelids. Still, he only squeezed his eyes tighter and concentrated on the caplata’s voice. The hot splash on his stomach caused him to inhale sharply between his clenched teeth. He hadn’t expected the blood to be so warm.
The caplata poured more of the thick blood onto Little Crook’s body, its smell heavy and dark but not unpleasant to his nose. It made him think of wet clay and old rusted frying pans, a powerful metallic smell. Some of the blood splashed onto his face, and he tasted the liquid iron on his lips. It was the taste of his childhood, lips bloodied by bullies, the taste of bitter humiliation a reminder of his frailty. His heart beat faster, and the surface beneath him grew even warmer.
The caplata bent over Little Crook’s body and smeared the blood with the palms of her hands, her voice rising. Drops rolled off his body and hit the stones below him and hissed as wet, cloying steam rose into the air. The blood on Little Crook’s body bubbled and boiled, wisps of gray-black smoke coming off in waves. His back burned from the hot rock, and he heard a grumble from somewhere beneath him.
Backing away, the woman continued to speak in a language even Little Crook did not fully understand. He, too, was a houngan, a Vodou priest, but his studies had been more for show and less for purpose than the caplata’s; she a faithful priestess of black magic. Without her, this wouldn’t be happening. As her voice grew more distant, and the rumbling beneath him more pronounced, Little Crook opened his eyes.
He could see the caplata standing by the dead boy, her bloodied hands held in front of her protectively. Her eyes opened wide as the grumbling grew to a violent crescendo, and the stones beneath Little Crook shook. He could feel the spaces between them widening as they cracked and moved apart.
Suddenly, the rocks near his feet descended, and Little Crook scrambled to his feet, jumping off the stone circle, blood dripping down his body. The sound of the stones grinding against one another drove into Little Crook’s head. It was overpowering, mixing with the smell of blood, shifting to the scent of death and decay, bringing on a writhing headache and nausea.
The portal was opening.
The perfect spiral dropped following its shape, the stones forming steps that twisted down into the earth in an ever-darkening circle. Some unseen force sucked the black smoke from the air and pulled it down the steps into the darkness. The grumbling and grinding stopped as quickly as it had begun, and a sun-bright white light shot up from the ground, blinding Little Crook. He dropped to the ground, resting on his hands and knees, and vomited. His whole body shook, and he shivered again now that the heat was gone.
He heard heavy footfalls as something pounded up the steps from the earth below. He raised his head to look. The rancid smell of decay bellowed out of the hole ahead of the thing that was coming.
Little Crook trembled in fear, struggling to get ahold of himself. This was the whole reason he had come here—had lured the boy with the promise of God’s salvation for his dying mother—had allowed the caplata to practice the Rites of Blood and call this thing forth from the Underworld. He didn’t want to look—he wanted to run. The smell was overpowering, and he retched as he tried to stand, finally getting to his feet. A draft of cold air filled the space within the circle of stones, the icy touch of death showing Little Crook’s breath in tight puffs.
He shivered.
The air was redolent with the stench of death, and Little Crook had to stifle the gagging sensation in the back of his throat.
When he looked again, he saw a battered black silk top hat bounce up from the hole, followed by something darker than the shadow of the surrounding night. The trees that surrounded them darkened and disappeared as blackness swallowed everything except the circle of stones. The footsteps slapped flatly on the rock, sounding like a wet mop whacked against a wooden rail.
Little Crook heard a sobbing sound, and he realized it had come from himself.
The thing kept coming, impossibly tall—at least twice as tall as Little Crook. In the darkness, he could make out a morning coat, all rotten through its gray and black stripes. Blood had smeared Little Crook’s glasses, but he could see the thing’s arms were very long, as were its legs, wrapped in tattered black trousers ending in bare feet, only white-washed leather over skeletal bones. The toes ended in broken, sharp nails that looked like the jagged remnants of a dead body that had continued to sprout hair and nails long after being buried.
Little Crook lifted his gaze and stared into the face of a monster of a man. Pale white skin pulled tight over the bones, broad nose, its lips curled into a smile, its teeth filed sharp and almost black, slick with something foul that could be blood or the liquefied tissue of a decayed corpse. And soot black Ray-Ban sunglasses hiding its eyes. It stopped at the top of the stairs and turned in a full circle, arms out wide, looking up at the sky.
“It’s been so long!” it cried, followed by a rasping laugh that sent Little Crook’s headache into high gear. Then the monster stopped, facing Little Crook, and stared, its smile fading. Little Crook felt his skin itch and crawl like a thousand ravèts were scrabbling all over his body. He fought the urge to scratch, bringing his hands together to cover his naked crotch.
“Ah, Ti Vòlè!” said the monster, naming Little Crook in Creole. Its voice, too, rasped like the grinding of the portal stones, deep and throbbing, vibrating up through Little Crook’s feet and rattling his skull. It was smiling again.
His chin trembling, Little Crook could barely whisper.
“Baron Samedi,” he said.
Baron Samedi took a step forward, and Little Crook instinctively stepped backward. The monster gasped and turned its head to the side, curious.
“Where is your sweet friend, Ti Vòlè? Where has she gone?” The monster tsk-tsked. Little Crook snuck a glance in the direction of the caplata, but she was gone, and he was alone with the monster.
Turning to gaze back at Little Crook and taking another step, Baron Samedi came to the edge of the stone circle and stopped. Its smile dropped at the corners of its mouth. It tried to take another step, but its foot didn’t move beyond the circle of stones. It stared down at its foot and swung it back, then kicked forward. Its toes slammed silently into the air as though hitting a wall, and it screamed, sending Little Crook into another fit of nausea and retching. The scream was not one of pain but of fury. The sound echoed across the field. Little Crook brought his hands back down from his ears, where he had fought futilely to keep out the sound.
He looked up at Baron Samedi and watched as the monster put a long, black cigar in its mouth and puffed on it. The end burst into flame and then settled to a glowing ember as big-around as Little Crook’s wrist. Baron Samedi sucked in the smoke and blew it into the air. The smell, that same scent of death and decay which wafted up from below, overpowered Little Crook.
“You have failed me, Ti Vòlè.” Baron Samedi spoke quietly now, its voice low and sinister. Little Crook was still afraid, but that the monster could not step beyond the stones made him feel a little safer.
“We are alone,” Little Crook said. “And I need something from you.”
“You are asking for something?” Baron Samedi spat. “You are nothing, houngan. And we are not alone.” Baron Samedi smiled, and Little Crook heard a scraping sound and turned to see the dead boy slowly rise to its feet, its eyes milky white and lifeless.
The boy raised his chin and moaned, and as he did, his neck opened up, and Little Crook could see the ripped tendons and sinew of the boy’s throat covered with pasty blood thickened to a black jelly. As the moaning breath came out, a small bubble grew in the blood and popped like a tiny pudding balloon. Little Crook felt the fear return to his belly, a surge of adrenalin overpowering him. He trembled more forcefully. The boy took a step and started an awkward shuffling walk toward Little Crook.
“You have more work to do, Ti Vòlè. You must open the way for me! They trapped us here long ago; we just want to be free. All of us want to experience the world as you do.”
The boy stopped in front of Little Crook. He could not see the boy breathing. The boy just stood there, swaying slightly.
“Bring more blood,” Baron Samedi said. Its voice softened. “Bring more blood, and I will help you.”
Little Crook backed away, thankful the dead boy didn’t follow. When he was far enough, he turned and started running, forgetting about his clothes.
“Bring more blood!” Baron Samedi yelled after him. “Bring more blood!”
Little Crook risked a glance back over his shoulder, slowing to a jog. He watched as Baron Samedi took a craving glance at the sky and then started walking back down the stairs, the dead boy shuffling after it. Little Crook turned back around, slowing now to a brisk walk. He felt less afraid, thinking again of what he planned to do, how much power he would have. He would make his enemies suffer, watch them twist in pain as he wielded that power against them. Not much longer now.
He just needed more blood.
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