“I cannot be bothered to concern myself with the effects I have on regular mortals. And neither should you,” Sabnack said. “You have been granted a gift from the gods. The ability to transfer your soul to another and dominate it. You don’t belong here. You deserve more. I can give you more.”
“But I have to kill somebody first.”
“You’ll have to do more than that,” said the old man. “You will have to swear fealty to him and to Lamia, the Grand Duchess of the East, whom he serves.”
“The east of what?” I asked.
“Hell,” said the old man.
“What?” I said. “You’re kidding!”
“I’m not,” he said. “It’s actually not all bad. Hell isn’t quite what most people think it is.”
“And you are not quite as good as you pretend,” said Sabnack. “Tell him what you are, and we will see if he still trusts your word over mine.”
The old man nodded. “My name is Poujean and I am a bokur, or what you might call a voodoo priest or witch doctor. And I make no claims of being good. I commune with powerful spirits, called loa, who grant me certain abilities. Some of these loa can be just as cruel as Sabnack. But ultimately, I am, like you, a mortal, often forced to make hard choices like the one you must make now.”
“So what’s my choice?” I asked. “Get out of this place and have everything I’ve ever wanted but become a killer who gets bossed around by demons? What’s the other option? Stick around here and watch my mom get beat by her boyfriend until he dies of lung cancer?”
“That’s not the only other option,” said Poujean. “If you want, you may come with me on my travels. I can’t show you magical lands, but I can show you the magic of your own land. Not a luxurious life, but a vibrant one. Perhaps together we can help you learn to master your own special abilities. And though my means are humble, I still have my humanity. I will never ask you to do something you feel is wrong.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s good enough for me.”
Poujean held out his hand and I shook it. It felt dry and warm and strong. Handshakes are important to me, and his felt good.
“Stupid mortals, both of you,” said Sabnack, his lion face curling into a snarl. “Her Grace told me to bring him back alive if I could, but dead was an acceptable alternative.” Then he drew his sword.
But Poujean smiled and drew a small glass bottle from beneath his robes. “We have never met before, Sabnack, so you do not know that before I became a bokur, I was a priest. I still remember all the rites of exorcism, and it just so happens that I learned them from the best.” He popped the lid off the bottle with his thumb and flicked it so that water splashed on Sabnack. “In the name of Jesus, Moses, and Abraham, I command you to return from where you came!”
Sabnack hissed and his horse creature screamed. They stumbled backward, then the creature threw him. He landed in a clatter of metal. He stabbed his spear into the ground and pulled himself up with it. His legs looked too skinny and weak to hold him up by themselves.
“Shall we continue or was there somewhere else you had to be?” asked Poujean as he pulled a silver crucifix and rosary beads from his bag.
Sabnack roared at him; then both he and his hellsteed disappeared in a smelly, brown gas cloud. The spear he had buried in the ground remained, sticking up from the grass like a little tree without branches.
“Could you have really destroyed him?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I’ve seen my friend Paul do it, but I’ve never had an occasion to try it myself before.”
“What if he’d called your bluff?”
Poujean shrugged. “Then we would have found out if I could really destroy a demon.” Then he put his hand on my shoulder. “Do you still want to come with me? It won’t always be an easy life. Or a safe one.”
“I’ve always felt like this wasn’t quite right for me. I want to go with you.”
“But?”
“My mom. This guy.” I touched Bill’s big belly. “He’s gonna hurt her again if I’m not around to stop him.”
“Ah, well, if that’s all,” he said, and smiled. “Stopping a man from beating his wife or girlfriend is something I am very good at. Come, I will need to gather a few ingredients. Then before you release his body, we will give him a potion that will make him violently ill whenever he tries to harm your mother.”
“You can do that?”
His smile grew mischievous. “That and many other things, little nightwalker. Watch and learn.”
“What about that?” I asked, pointing to the spear sticking out of the ground.
“See if you can take it,” he said.
I walked over and tried to pull it out of the ground.
“It won’t budge,” I said.
“It must be for someone else then,” he said. “Come—let’s take care of this man and his violence problem before the sun rises and you lose control of him.”
Are You Kidding? I Don’t Even Know What Day It Is Anymore
We were at a rest stop outside Chicago. I think a few days after I left home, or maybe a week. I’d left a note for my mom, but Poujean said it might make her feel better if I called. I wasn’t looking forward to her freaking out on me on the phone, but I figured he was probably right.
Luck was on my side, though. Or maybe Poujean’s loa. Because she didn’t pick up her cell. I just leaned back against the side of the pay phone and talked into her voice mail. And I have to say, it felt really good.
“Hey, Mom, it’s Sebastian. Just wanted to let you know that I’m doing great. Eating healthy, taking care of myself, getting sleep, all that stuff you’re always fussing about. So don’t worry about that. I hope your face is healing. Keep putting that cream on that I left for you. I know it smells a little funky, but my friend tells me it’ll do the trick. Also, I don’t think Bill will be beating on you anymore, so you don’t have to worry about that, either. I’ll try to make it home at some point, but it probably won’t be for a while. I’ve got some stuff I have to learn, places I want to visit. That kind of thing.
“One thing I want you to know, Mom. You were wrong about there not being anywhere else. There are other places. Amazing places. And amazing people, too. There’s a lot more to the world than you think. I’m seeing it now. I hope maybe someday I can show it to you.”
Myra McEntire
Naughty or Nice
When I was seven and he was eight, I broke all of the crayons in Henry Bishop’s supply box. He didn’t tell on me.
When I was eleven and he was twelve, he tried to give me my first kiss. I laughed so hard I peed in my pants, which would’ve killed the moment had it not already been really, really dead.
When I was seventeen and he was eighteen, we went on a school trip to Bavaria. I learned to believe in monsters, and in Henry.
After thirty hours of traveling and a scant amount of sleep, we finally circle W. A. Mozart airport.
“Get off me.” I push Henry’s head off my shoulder. “You’re drooling.”
Semi–sleep state or not, my best friend is ready with a comeback. As always. “No, honey, that’s you. Tell me what did it. Was it the smell of my shampoo or my close proximity?”
I groan and return my seat to its upright position. Ignoring Henry, I lean my forehead against the cold window and look down.
Nature has spilled a sugar bowl over a gathering of Baroque gingerbread castles, the snow so white it’s blue. Purple mountaintops are haloed by clouds, and the hills that remain green year-round seem too lush for the cold temperatures.