"I call down the Spirit—ache!—of the god of the earth! Praise be! I call down the Spirit—yes sir!—of the Lord of the skies! Amen! I call down the Spirit—ache—of the god of all Spirits! Amen! Come down! I call the Spirit—praise God!—to fill our hearts. Come down! Fill us now! Ache!"
The hypnotic litany gained speed. Mother Love equally thanked the wind and sun and rain, ancestors, spirits and saints. Her followers joined in, shouting, "Amen!" and "Ache!"
Frank watched one of the old men touch his drum. He listened intently between pats, his eye following the Mother. He tapped to her rhythm, hesitant until he'd captured it, then he beat the skin firmly. Another man followed him, then one drummer after another picked up the beat. Deep boomings rolled under lighter, faster notes. It sounded like raindrops falling into puddles while thunder rumbled in from an ugly horizon.
The rhythm was hypnotic and Frank had to force her concentration. At the front of the church, the Mother whirled round and around. Ropes of beads on her neck whirled in the same orbit, dizzyingly red and white. The Mother chanted half in English, half in a foreign language. Like Spanish, but not quite, Frank thought. Maybe Portuguese. She whipped her crowd with the mysterious words. They knew the refrain, joyfully shouting it in time. Standing, clapping, they danced and twirled in the aisles. One old man pounded his cane to the beat. His wife wiggled next to him, her arms waving in the air like thick snakes. A young girl writhed in the aisle, her eyes white where there should have been pupils.
The Mother danced and Frank watched. Seeing but not believing. The Mother carried almost sixty years on her wiry frame, yet she whirled with the force of a small tornado. Her red and white skirt blurred to pink. She turned faster than Frank's eye could follow. Bending her head to her toes, the Mother hurled herself backward with inhuman force. Frank was certain bone must have bent and muscle snapped, but the Mother whirled on.
The hair rose on Frank's skin.
The drummers pounded in glassy-eyed fury. Their hands galloped like headless horsemen across the plains of their drums. The Mother twirled faster, arching brutally and impossibly. She leapt like a jungle cat, landing on hands and knees. Then she twisted and rose, continuing the dance, all the while calling down her dark gods.
The faithful fell about in fits. They screamed for Jesus or Saint Jerome to come into them. Some yelled names Frank didn't recognize. The din was mesmerizing. The drums sang an old song, as old as the first moon, and the crowd responded convulsively.
Frank sought Mother Love.
She stood at the pulpit, staring back. A grin twisted her sweating face. Recognition hit Frank like a sledgehammer. Memory replaced present time. She'd already been here. She relived the Mother's triumphal grin, the drums calling her to an ancient home, the rolling eyes and writhing bodies. The incense mingled with sweat, the leafy church, and cries to heaven—it all played in Frank's head with a familiarity that made her dizzy.
The chimera passed as quickly as it had come. Frank drew a hand over her face, unable to look at the Mother. It was enough to hear her keening in the crowd, a wolfish howling that made Frank's blood tingle. Frank stood, clutching the pew in front of her.
The drummers began to slow. The Mother walked among her followers making sure none had hurt themselves in the frenzy. Frank watched the Mother soothe her faithful, bringing them up, down, or wherever they needed to be. The drumming ebbed to a single instrument beating the time of a resting heart. The Mother worked her way to the back of the church.
After drying her tears, Frank's father had taught her how to place a chokehold and lay a chop at the back of the knees. How to roll and block and land a double chin shot. How to jab and hook. Watching the Mother come down the aisle, Frank doubted any of that would help her now.
"I knew you'd come," the Mother said. Her voice was smoky and sweet. "You couldn't resist. You're like a child after candy."
She leaned closer. Frank smelled the flowery bodega scent and sweat and the dust of dry places.
"My church is open," she whispered. "Come join us."
The invitation was sensual and erotic, a lover's desire. Frank had an urge to get up and follow the Mother, to dance with her around a blood-red fire in a place where beasts still stirred beyond the pale. She wanted to cry at the moon then bow low to receive the warm sacrament. . .
Frank was surprised to hear herself say, "Never."
The Mother's wolfish eyes almost closed. In a voice like snakes slithering over each other, she warned, "Don't be so sure, child. Never's a very long time."
29
Darcy leaned in after the briefing.
"Can I talk to you?"
"Sure."
He closed the door and perched on one of her chairs.
"Marguerite called last night. She says she's worried about you."
"Me?"
He nodded.
"She says you don't know what you're into, but that it's bigger than you can handle. She wants you to go see her."
"What for?"
Darcy shrugged.
"She says you need a cleansing and some serious protection. She sees bad juju all over you."
"Bad juju, huh?"
Frank grinned, partly out of condescension and partly to convince herself the Mother's malevolence last night had been routine good guy-bad guy antagonism. Ignoring the reptilian voice asking, then why were you so scared, she concentrated on Darcy and how much money he made. She knew he couldn't foot too much for alimony and child support and wondered if Marguerite thought she had a fish on the line.
"How much she gonna charge me?"
"I don't know. That's irrelevant. The thing is, she wouldn't call like that unless she had a good reason. Marguerite's very selective about who she works with. New clients all have to be recommended by established clients. She doesn't deal with dabblers."
Her logic crippled, Frank admitted, "Look. I just don't get any of this hocus-pocus, mumbo-jumbo shit."
Darcy shot back, "You don't have to get it. It'll happen whether you believe in it or not."
The only sign of Frank's annoyance was the slight jump in her jaw.
"What'll happen?"
"I mean if Marguerite sees the Mother's influence around you, then it's there. It's like radon. Just because we can't see it, that doesn't mean it's not there doing damage."
"Everybody keeps saying you have to believe in this shit to make it work. How can the Mother hurt me if I don't believe in her?"
Darcy hunched forward. He was about to speak but stopped. Frank gave him the time he needed to pull his words together.
"Remember when you asked me if I believed in voodoo?"
The question wasn't rhetorical, so Frank nodded.
"And what did I say?"
"Somewhat."
"And I told you not to underestimate the Mother, right?"
Frank tapped her watch.
"Where we going, Darcy?"
"To a place you don't know anything about. I know you've got no reason to believe me, but all I can tell you is that I've seen situations that defy practical explanation. Marguerite's cousin was my best friend. I practically lived with him and I spent a lot of time with his family. We used to stay out at his uncle's in Simmesport, go hunting and get drunk, just being boys. This was in the back country, where the old ways are still pretty common. Jeff had a couple, three-four aunts and uncles up there. Understand, the LaCourts had been there a long time. They were part of a pretty tightly knit community. A lot of the women called themselves root workers. Some were better at it than others because they had a talent for it. A gift. Jeff’s grandmother, Pearl LaCourt, she was one of those women. All the other root workers came to Pearl when they needed advice or couldn't help themselves. She was tremendously respected. And feared. Hell, even I was afraid of her, and I was too young and stupid to be afraid of anything."