Does Black Shuck control the River? Does it use it? Is it part of the River, or does it flow from it, like a stream of blood, flaming like the River burning straight through the two mountain peaks and down into the Laotian jungle?
Floor planks begin to soften, and I’m sinking. Falling back into the current, wondering where it will take me this time. Back in the jungle. No matter where I started, I’d always end up back in the jungle.
I reach out for the girl before being swept away, and a firm hand finds mine. It belongs to Clotilde, and she leads me up from the swamp in the hallway, away from the buzz and noise of the River, and into the room with the open door. The girl is beside me. My feet find firm floor as soon as I cross the threshold.
“Welcome back to dry land,” Clotilde says.
I sob for some reason. Maybe relief. Maybe resignation. There’s so little difference between the two these days, even on a day where a human hand doesn’t let the water take me. I now realize that sob was shock.
“I almost…” I begin, not sure how to finish, dazed. “I was almost gone.”
“I know,” Clotilde says. “We will not let you get away this time.”
I look around the room, noting the low table on the rug, the pillows, the pastoral artwork on the walls. In a corner, four musicians are prepping what appear to be instruments. I don’t recognize any of them except for the flute. The tiny woman is gone.
“Before we begin, I will need whatever money you have,” Clotilde says.
“I don’t have…” I don’t know what I have on me at this point.
“You do not need much. But we will need certain…des offres.”
I reach into my pocket and dig around for bill, coins, anything.
“I will need your shirt also.”
I look at her, suspicious.
“And boots.”
I’m starting to not like this, exposing myself in this way. “Why?”
She holds out her hand. “S’il vous plaît?”
I place whatever baht I have in my pocket into her palm. She hands the money to the girl, says a few words in Vietnamese, and the girl quickly leaves the room.
I look around, and see that everyone is watching me. I shouldn’t be surprised, or suspicious. I’d watch me, too. I begin to unbutton my shirt. “Where’s the… person that’s going to do this?”
“She is coming,” Clotilde says. “She is preparing.”
I remove my shirt and hand it to her.
“You need to prepare, as well.”
23. The Furious One
My palms have been pressed together for so long that my arms shake. Could be sore muscles, the wound in my side, or the dope sickness, as I’ve been away from the cave for what seems like weeks. Lazy tendrils of sweet incense smoke weave through the space between my hands and face, making shapes of things I almost recognize, before dancing away into nothingness.
I’m seated in front of a table where offerings have been laid out, all my pockets could afford, which wasn’t much. A bowl of noodles, a glass of whiskey. A small paper pig rests next to an empty Coke can, surrounded by flowers. A cheap bracelet laden with such an array of rhinestones that it could only be priceless or worthless, depending on who owned it. The four musicians sit cross-legged in the corner, waiting to begin.
The medium finally entered the room after an hour wait, which was about an hour ago. Her age was hard to determine, as she was wearing stage makeup, alabaster base with red and black accents, creating the effect of a mask. Her body was covered in a long, flowing robe of brightly colored silks. She sat in front of me, her palms out, holding thin candles between each finger. Her eyes rested on me, her painted lips a tight red line. I didn’t need to be a psychic to know that she didn’t want me here.
“We will be in contact with the Mother Goddesses of the three realms,” Clotilde said before we began, pointing to the three framed pictures on the wall depicting a divine female figure in each scene of forest, water, and heaven. “They do not like to be interrupted.” Her tone told me everything I needed to know without asking. She then retreated to a corner of the room at my left, where I couldn’t see her from my position on the floor in front of the table, dressed in my trousers and undershirt, feet bare.
Now, after this long wait, the musicians begin to play a simple, beautiful folk melody. The medium’s expressionless face changes, lighting up with a smile. Eyes wide, she rises gently to her feet and performs a series of small, precise dance steps. She speaks in three different voices, her face animated, taking on characters, the mask changing with each, forming her into an entirely different person, as she implores the Mother Goddesses to grant her access to the spirit realm. She repeats this several times, as the music changes tempo and pitch. She laughs, asking again, this time trying a new character, and holds up my shirt and one of my boots. I can’t imagine that any of this is going to work.
As I contemplate getting up and getting out of this place, getting back to the cave to fend for myself in a way that makes sense to me, the boot falls from the medium’s hand and the cheery voice catches in her throat, staggering her. A hiss escapes her mouth as all of the air is pressed out of her lungs. The musicians continue playing, exchanging quick glances with wide eyes. I look for Clotilde but can’t find her. I look for the girl, and locate her across the room, the mask of dread on her face fading from view as the candles dip and gutter in their liquid wax, swallowing the light and sending more smoke into the room. Black smoke.
The medium’s sudden scream cuts the smoky air, chopping off the music, and she falls to the floor, writhing as she hits the soft rug, the many layers and colors of her robe billowing around her like the release of ink from a rainbow octopus. Her lips pull back over clenched teeth, a buzzing growl building deep in her throat.
The medium rises from her shed silk, naked and twisting at the waist like a broken music-box ballerina. Her ribs and sternum swell and pulsate, as if not connected to her spine. Things crack inside her small body, then pop, as joints detach from their sockets.
She then slowly attempts to straighten, rising up with her body slightly out of order, everything crooked and misaligned. Sweat, tears, and sticky saliva carve rivulets through her makeup, streaking her face, dripping red, white, and black down the front of her pale body.
The musicians scramble out of the room, mouthing oaths of protection. The door slams shut behind them.
I get to my feet and find Clotilde in the gloom. She has moved somehow, and is on the opposite side of me than when we began, and much further away than the room should allow.
“What’s happening?” I whisper.
She shakes her head, stunned. “Je ne sais pas.”
The medium’s mouth begins to move, but only harsh whispers slither out. Her eyes roll back in her head, and seem to come back around as solid black orbs, too large for her sockets, like those of a fly. Behind her, something large and dark, blacker than the shadows cast by the struggling candles, rises up to the ceiling. The medium flings her arms out straight from her sides. The black presence issues a thrumming vibration of sound, like a roar underwater, the low register splitting the atoms in the air and the brains of everyone in the room, bringing a chill to the air. This thing is huge and shapeless and composed of rage. I don’t know if it’s Black Shuck, as it doesn’t look like a hound, but it also looks like nothing I’ve ever seen. It roars again, that weird, horrible sound, and is pushed back into the corner of the room by the medium, who stands upright, her entire body so rigid I can hear tendons creak, muscles knot and rip. She is standing on her tiptoes, but doesn’t sway, as if held up by a wire looped through the top of her head.