The high thick branches of the strangler fig tree made a ceiling over the fenced-in yard, so it was like stepping into a massive room. The branches of the tree completely obscured the sky, but it was the trunk of the tree that startled me most. Strangler figs start as vines that surround and eventually kill the host tree, leaving a trunk that looks like dozens of roots all tangled and woven together. This tree had been painted with colorful designs that used the natural shape of the twisted roots to form pictures and patterns. There was one especially thick root that twisted around the rest of the trunk, and this root had been painted to look like a rainbow-colored snake climbing the tree. As we stepped down from the back door, I looked up and saw the head of the snake, his tongue and fangs painted on a large gnarled stump of wood in the branches just over our heads. Bits of ribbon and rags were tied among the upper branches of the tree, and other strange artifacts like gourds and beads and dried flowers dangled there on strings. A low, foot-high wooden bench had been built around the base of the tree, and it, too, was painted with vivid designs.
The light in the yard was dim, just one small spotlight at the base of the tree. Beyond the tree, at the very back of the yard, I could make out two smaller buildings, and it looked as though one had designs and human figures painted on its side. The other with its thatched roof looked more like a Seminole Indian chickee hut.
The air was pungent with the smell of wood smoke, though I didn’t see the fire anywhere. A group of three musicians pounded on different-size handmade drums, and the drumming seemed to drive the crowd to laugh and talk louder and louder. Everything in the whole tableau moved to the rhythm of the drums.
“Max ...” I turned to ask him where Racine was, but he had gone. The back door to the house was closed.
I knelt next to Solange and watched her face. “Solange.” I stroked the side of her face and moved my lips close to her ear. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing. She stared straight ahead, her body even more rigid than before.
A hand touched my shoulder and I jumped, nearly falling on my butt in the dirt. When I stood and turned around, I was facing a woman who was taller than me. She had to be more than six feet tall, though from the look of her sharp, jutting elbows I probably outweighed her significantly. Her skin was exceptionally dark, a match in hue to Max’s, but she was so thin that her cheekbones protruded above deep hollows. She wore a bright red dress and an elaborately embroidered straw hat.
“You are Seychelle Sullivan?” she asked, grasping my fingers in her dry, bony hand and shaking it vigorously. Her voice was deep and raspy, as though she had smoked cigarettes her entire life, but she spoke so low I could barely hear her over the pounding drums. “I am Racine Toussaint. I understand you have come here to speak to me.” Her English revealed only the mere hint of an accent.
“Yes, I brought this child,” I said, wrapping my arm around Solange and pulling her close to me.
“I know about the child. Follow me.”
She led us through the crowd. Many of the people had started dancing. Those not dancing were moving off to the perimeter of the yard, while the dancers marched slowly around the tree, undulating to the rhythm of the drums.
We passed a man who was kneeling on the ground, drawing curly designs with sand in the dirt yard. The fine white grains trailed from his fist as he added a final flourish to what looked to me like a large, stylized, compass rose.
Racine stopped in front of a door to one of the outbuildings. Up close, I could see that the paintings on the walls were far more elaborate than I had originally thought. The style was unusual, what fancy art critics called primitif, but the subject matter was clearly religious—from the black Madonna and child on the right of the door to the intricate black cross adorning the door itself.
“Miss Sullivan,” she said, “I understand this must all seem very strange to you.”
I nodded and smiled. While it was easier to speak out here farther from the drums, I still found myself overwhelmed and not sure what to say.
“We Haitians practice a form of Christianity that has blended with the African religions of our ancestors. We call this religion Vodou." She directed her gaze over my shoulder at the dancers back in the yard and smiled. “Most Americans, when they hear that word, they think of black magic. They have all those images of zombies, curses, and Voodoo dolls from their films. In reality, Vodou is a way of seeing the universe, of being connected to our ancestors, of using nature to heal. I hope you can keep a more open mind.”
I nodded. “I’ll try. But I’ve got to tell you, all this”—I swung my hand in an arc toward the drummers and the people who were starting to dance—“I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s very beautiful, but a little frightening as well.”
She smiled. “I appreciate your honesty. But there is no reason to be afraid. One of our rituals is a sacred cleansing ritual called a lave tete," she said, pronouncing the words lavay tet with a beautiful French accent, “because we wash the hair several times with special herbs. This clears the consciousness of the individual. This will help the child wash away her fears and bring her back to us. Can you trust me?”
“You’re just going to wash her hair?”
Racine took my hand in hers. Her skin was cool and dry, and her palms felt almost like crepe paper. As she spoke, her dark eyes locked on mine. “I would never do anything to hurt this child.”
I believed her. “Okay. I just want her to get better. I don’t know what else to try.”
“When we are inside,” she said, “I don’t want you to say anything. You may watch, but I ask you not to speak.”
Racine took Solange’s hand and led her into the small room. An involuntary shudder shook my shoulders as I watched Solange pass through that doorway without me. I was seized by an overwhelming urge to grab her, run for the Jeep, and get the hell out of there. Instead, I followed them inside.
The only light inside the room came from dozens of candles on an altar that ran along the right side wall. Scraps of cloth bearing a variety of patterns covered the base of the altar. It was difficult to make out all the paraphernalia that crowded the shelf. There were bottles and jars made of colored glass, a big wooden cross, a stone bowl, terra-cotta pots, and what looked like little packages wrapped in colored paper with ribbons tied round the paper to form long necks. Two low chairs had been placed directly in front of the cross in the center of the room, one in front of the other.
Racine led Solange to one of the chairs and began to undress her. When she pulled the T-shirt over the child’s head, her arms flopped down and dangled loose at her sides. The term rag doll popped into my mind. Solange was flesh and bone, but she seemed to have lost all control of her body. She was wearing only her new white underwear, and I realized again just how skinny she was. She looked so small and vulnerable.
I held my breath, and I was certain my hands would shake if I held them in front of me. What was I doing here?
A woman in white entered the room carrying a small white dress. Racine pulled it over Solange’s head. The skirt nearly touched the dirt floor, and I thought of the white dress Solange had been wearing the day I pulled her from the sea. Racine eased Solange into the front chair, then sat in the chair behind. She gently removed the beaded bands and combed out the braids in the girl’s hair. Two more women dressed in white came in, carrying between them what looked like a huge galvanized soup pot and ladle. As they placed the pot behind the chairs, gentle steam rose from the water inside. The smell was earthy, almost musky. It reminded me of when, as kids, my brother Pit and I used to make “tea” by mixing sticks and leaves from all over our yard.