The Forbidden Page 2

  Tavernier’s expression was enigmatic. ‘What a peculiar child you must have been, to have found the idea of vanquishing death appealing: such vanity in one so young!’

  I had never thought of myself as a proud person and was quite offended by the remark. ‘You are being unfair, Georges,’ I protested. ‘I merely wanted to help others, to save lives.’

  Tavernier smiled and said, ‘Paul, you are such a romantic!’ Then, taking a swig of rum straight from the bottle, he added, ‘No good will come of it!’

  Most Sundays, Tavernier and I made an effort to attend Mass – it was judicious to keep up appearances. One week, as the nuns were departing with their charges, we noticed that the priest had been delayed by one of the villagers, a short, wiry man, who was becoming increasingly agitated. Tavernier loitered and tilted his head. ‘That’s interesting,’ he muttered.

  ‘What is?’ I asked.

  Tavernier silenced me with a gesture and continued to eavesdrop. The exchange we observed was short-lived and ended when the priest issued a severe reprimand. He then climbed onto the open carriage, made the sign of the cross and set off down the Port Basieux road. Tavernier went over to the villager and struck up a conversation. I tried to follow the patois, but, as usual, found it incomprehensible. When Tavernier returned, he said, ‘A young man passed away last week, his name was Aristide, do you remember?’ It was custom for the recently bereaved to walk the local byways, proclaiming their loss like a town crier, and I did indeed remember a woman calling out that name. ‘Well,’ continued Tavernier, ‘that fellow there,’ he pointed to the receding figure, ‘is Aristide’s father. He came to ask Father Baubigny to pray for the release of his son’s spirit.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘He believes that Aristide’s soul is still trapped in his body. His son has become one of the living dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘A spell was put on the boy and the day after his funeral, he was spotted in the forests below Piton-Noir.’

  ‘How absurd,’ I said. ‘No wonder Father Baubigny was angry.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must disagree,’ said Tavernier. ‘The people of this island believe many stupid things; however, the existence of the living dead is something that I would not dispute. Father Baubigny was wrong to castigate Aristide’s father, who will now have to seek another solution – not that Baubigny’s prayers would have done any good. Funeral rites, as practised by the villagers, consist almost entirely of efforts to make death real and lasting. In my opinion, they have good reason.’

  I assumed, of course, that Tavernier was joking, but there was no light of humour in his eyes. Indeed, he spoke with uncharacteristic gravity. One of the nuns reappeared and called out to us. A patient had collapsed. Tavernier and I ran to assist, and our conversation was brought to a premature close.

  The following evening, Tavernier returned to the subject while we were eating. ‘That man who came to see Baubigny yesterday – Aristide’s father – he’s been down to Port Basieux. He consulted a bokor, who has agreed to lead a search party tomorrow night. They’re going to find the boy and release his soul.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ I asked.

  ‘Pompée told me. He’s related to the family and intends to join them. They’re meeting in the village at sunset.’

  ‘Why don’t they just look in the grave?’

  ‘They have. The coffin was empty.’

  ‘Then the body has been stolen?’

  ‘Yes, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘In which case, the family should inform the police. If a crime has been committed, then the perpetrator should be identified and arrested.’

  ‘Someone removed the soil and opened the coffin. But that was the full extent of their grave-robbing: the thing that Aristide has become emerged from the ground without further assistance.’

  ‘Come now, Georges,’ I said. ‘This joke is wearing thin.’

  Tavernier looked at me in earnest. ‘I know that there is nothing I can say that will persuade you. I was sceptical too, once.’ He paused to light a cigar. ‘But you don’t have to accept my word. We could join the search party.’ He blew a smoke ring which expanded to encircle his face. ‘Then you could see for yourself.’

  I was beginning to wonder whether he was not merely eccentric, but slightly mad. Even so, the intensity of his expression made me enquire: ‘You’re being serious?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tavernier. His eyes glittered.

  Removing a handkerchief from my pocket, I wiped the perspiration from the back of my neck. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll go.’

  Something like a smile played around Tavernier’s lips. He flicked some ash from his cigar and nodded once.

  The next day, I began to have second thoughts. Tavernier had not, on reflection, been a very good influence. Although he had taught me a great deal about tropical medicine, he had also introduced me to the brothels of Port Basieux and now I too shared his proclivities: his appetite for dusky flesh and depravity. I did not like to degrade women in this way, to use them as objects of pleasure, and I frequently resolved never to return. But I discovered that I was weak and the prospect of gratification was a siren call that I could not resist. Thus it seemed to me that I was about to take another step down a headlong path. Even so, as the hours passed, I did not make my excuses. Instead, I met Tavernier at the appointed time, and as the sun was setting, we accompanied Pompée to the nearest village. On our arrival, I saw men carrying torches, mothers and children huddled in doorways and a nimble man wearing a straw hat, cravat and ragged trousers posturing as he danced around a green and red pole. He was rattling something in his hand and anointing the points of the compass with water. I noticed the carcasses of two chickens at his feet.

  Tavernier leaned towards me and whispered, ‘The bokor from Port Basieux.’

  Pompée marched over to the village elders, among whom stood Aristide’s father. When Pompée spoke, they all turned at once and looked in our direction. Their expressions were not hostile exactly, but neither were they welcoming. Tavernier responded by raising his arm.

  ‘Are you sure we should be here?’ I asked.

  ‘I took Pompée in as a child,’ said Tavernier. ‘He was only eleven years old. The people of this village know that I can be trusted.’ His allusion to ‘trust’ made me feel uneasy and I wondered what confidences I would be expected to keep. The burden of complicity would weigh heavily on my conscience. I regretted not having acted on my earlier misgivings. Pompée returned and spoke a few words to Tavernier, who then said: ‘We’ll walk a short distance behind the party. We are guests and must show respect.’ The bokor picked up a bamboo trumpet and honked out three notes, the last being extended until his breath failed. This signalled his readiness to begin the search, and when all the men were assembled, he led them down the road. Pompée, Tavernier and I fell in at the rear. A hulking, muscular giant stopped walking and stared back at us. There was something about his general attitude that I did not like, and I was not surprised when he spat on the ground. Pompée said something to Tavernier.

  ‘Georges?’ I asked, anxiously.

  ‘Keep walking,’ Tavernier replied.

  As we drew closer, the man spat again.

  ‘Georges? Why is he doing this?’

  ‘Just keep walking!’ said Tavernier, impatiently. The giant shook his great head, turned on his heels and loped away, quickly catching up with the other villagers. ‘There, you see?’ Tavernier added, forcing a laugh. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  I was not convinced.

  After travelling only a short distance, the bokor took a pathway which branched off into a forest. Our noisy arrival disturbed the sleeping birds. There was squawking, the beat of wings and a general impression of flight overhead. When the fluttering died down, the night filled with other sounds: frogs, insects and the rustle of larger animals in the undergrowth. We seemed to be heading across country in the direction of Piton-Noir, and
in due course, when we finally emerged from the trees, we were presented with an awesome spectacle. The summit of La Cheminée was emitting a baleful red light, which rose up to illuminate the underside of some low-lying clouds. A sparkling fountain erupted into the sky, climbing to a great height before dropping back into the wide vent: at once both beautiful and terrible.

  The bokor was not distracted by the eruption. He sniffed the sulphurous air and led us into another forest, so dense with convolvulus and wild vine that the men had to hack their way through with cutlasses. The heat was intolerable and my clothes were drenched with perspiration. Eventually, we came to a clearing. The bokor signalled that we were to be quiet and, crouching low, he crept across to the other side. I could hear what I imagined was a beast making noises, but as the sound continued I realized that the source was human. It reminded me of the glottal grunts and groans of a cretin. The bokor let out a shrill cry and the men sprang forward. We chased after them, through a line of trees, and then out into a second, smaller clearing, where we discovered a young man, not much older than sixteen, chained to a stake. He was naked but for a soiled loincloth, and his eyes were opaque – like pieces of pink coral. He held his arms out, horizontally, and began to walk. His legs did not bend at the knee and he achieved locomotion by swinging his upper body from one side to the other. After he had taken only a few steps, the chain was stretched to its limit and he was prevented from proceeding any further. His head rotated and he seemed to register each member of the search party. When his gaze found me, his body became rigid. I will never forget that face, those hideous, clouded eyes and the fiendish smile that suddenly appeared. It was as if he had recognized an old friend. I willed him to look away, but his fixed stare was unyielding. A low muttering started up and quickly spread around the clearing. There was something in its sonorous tremor that suggested unease.

  ‘Why is he looking at me like that?’ I said to Tavernier through clenched teeth.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  The bokor shouted, waved his hands and succeeded in capturing the young man’s attention. His head swivelled round and I sighed with relief. The bokor then began to chant and shake his rattle while performing a ballet comprising of sudden leaps and awkward pirouettes. While he was doing this, I heard him say the name ‘Aristide’ several times. There seemed to be no question as to who this captive creature was. The boy bellowed like a bullock and, as he did so, his father fell to the ground, releasing a plangent cry of his own. My intellect recoiled, unable to reconcile the evidence of my senses with what I understood to be impossible. I was overcome by a feeling of vertigo and feared that I might pass out.

  When the bokor had completed his ritual he was given a cutlass. I saw reflected fire on the curved blade. There was a sudden silence, a flash of light and the sound of steel slicing through air. Aristide’s head dropped to the ground and his open arteries produced a shower of blood that fell around us like heavy rain. The decapitated body remained erect for a few seconds before toppling over and hitting the ground with a dull thud. I watched in dumb amazement as a gleaming black pool formed around the truncated neck. The men descended on the remains of Aristide like vultures. There was more chopping as the body was cut up into parts small enough to bundle into hemp sacks. When the butchering was complete, the men began to disperse, leaving no evidence of their handiwork, except for an oval stain.

  ‘My God!’ I exclaimed, grabbing Tavernier’s arm. ‘They’ve killed him.’

  ‘No. He was already dead, or as good as.’

  ‘But he was breathing, standing up – walking!’

  ‘I can assure you, he wasn’t alive in any meaningful sense of the word.’

  ‘Georges, what have we been party to!’

  Tavernier grabbed my sopping jacket and gave me a firm shake. ‘Pull yourself together, Paul. Now isn’t the time to lose your nerve.’

  I was about to say more but he shook me again, this time more violently. His expression was threatening. I spluttered an apology and struggling to regain my composure, said, ‘Let’s get away from here!’

  We set off at a quick pace, stumbling through the undergrowth. I had not taken the trouble to get my bearings, and assumed that Pompée would negotiate our safe return. Eventually, we came to the location overlooked by La Cheminée, and once again our progress was arrested by its infernal magnificence. The low-lying cloud was now fretted with purple and gold, and a thin rivulet of fire trickled down the mountain’s steep slope. There was a sound, like the crump of distant artillery, and a halo of orange light flickered around the summit. Some burning rocks rolled down the leeward slope and a column of billowing ash climbed into the sky.

  There was some movement in the vegetation and, when I turned, I found myself looking into the crazed face of the bokor. He jumped forward, brandishing a knife, and at that same moment I was seized from behind.

  ‘Georges?’ I cried out.

  Tavernier raised his finger to his mouth. ‘Be quiet. And whatever you do, don’t try to escape.’

  I could sense the size of the man standing behind me, and guessed that it was the giant who had demonstrated his contempt for us by spitting on the ground as we were leaving the village. The bokor rose up on his toes and pressed his nose against mine. His stinking breath made me want to retch. Out of the corner of my eye I saw glinting metal and was fully expecting to be stabbed. But instead I felt a sharp pain on my scalp as the bokor grabbed a tuft of my hair. He then brought the blade up and deftly cut it off. Still keeping his face close to mine, he hissed something incomprehensible and then barked at Tavernier.

  ‘He wants you to know,’ said Tavernier, ‘that if you tell anyone what transpired tonight, you will die.’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, I understand. I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘He wants you to swear,’ Tavernier continued. ‘I would suggest that you invoke the Saviour and name some familiar saints.’

  ‘I swear. I swear in the name of Our Lord, Jesus Christ, Saint Peter and Saint John, and the Blessed Virgin Mary. I swear, I will tell no one.’

  The bokor withdrew, taking a few steps backwards, then, pointing a wrinkled, thick-boned finger at my chest, he suddenly screamed. His cry was so loud, and chilling, that even the giant flinched. The bokor’s eyes rolled upwards until only the discoloured whites were exposed, and he began muttering the same phrase, over and over again.

  ‘What is he saying?’ I asked Tavernier.

  Tavernier sighed. ‘He’s says that if you break your oath, you will be damned – and that you will go to hell.’

  The muttering abated and the bokor fell silent. His irises reappeared and he drew his hand across his mouth in order to remove some foamy saliva. For a few seconds, he seemed disorientated, but he quickly took possession of himself and signed to his accomplice. The powerful arms that were restraining me relaxed, and a few seconds later the bokor and the giant were gone.

  Anger welled up in me. ‘What in God’s name . . . ?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Tavernier.

  ‘“Sorry”? You said that there was nothing to worry about! You could have got us both killed tonight!’

  ‘No,’ said Tavernier shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so. You are not known to these people, and what happened back there . . .’ Tavernier gestured into the trees and then shrugged. ‘The bokor was simply anxious to be assured of your discretion. Please, my friend, I have no wish to argue. We are both tired and the sooner we get back, the better.’ He then instructed Pompée to proceed, and reluctantly I followed. When we reached the church, Tavernier said, ‘You look like you could do with a drink.’ His face was flecked with dried blood. ‘You’d better come with me.’ I wanted to storm off into the night, but I also felt a pressing need to make some sense of what I had witnessed, and Tavernier was the only person I could talk to.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, swallowing my pride. ‘I think you’re right.’

  Seated on Tavernier’s terrace we gazed out over the balustr
ade at a swarm of fireflies. The trembling points of lights were strangely calming. Even so, it took several glasses of rum to restore my customary disposition.

  ‘Well,’ said Tavernier. ‘You can’t say I didn’t warn you. I did tell you that such things existed.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You have always said that their religion was nonsense.’

  ‘Gibberish! Of course it is.’

  ‘Then how . . . ?’

  ‘Allow me to explain.’ Tavernier handed me a cigar, and then, after lighting one for himself, he leaned back in his chair and exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘A feud has existed for many years between Pompée’s relations and another family who live in one of the Piton-Noir villages. Aristide was accused of stealing one of their goats and, shortly after, he became very ill. A rumour quickly spread that he had been bewitched by the Piton-Noir bokor and, sure enough, the boy became very ill and died. But his death was – how can I put this? – an imposture. In fact, he had been given a poison which paralyses the diaphragm and retards respiration. Under its influence, the heart slows and the pulse cannot be detected.’

  ‘An asphyxiant?’

  ‘Indeed. It can be derived from many sources: the skin of the puffer fish, certain lizards and toads, the venom of the small octopus, and it is many times more potent than cyanide.’ Tavernier poured himself another glass of rum. ‘The anaesthetic ointment I invented uses the same substance. In very small quantities, applied topically, it has a numbing effect. The bokors have been using it to engender a death-like state in their victims for nearly two centuries. Of course, they pretend that they have achieved their ends by sorcery, that they can kill by sticking pins into effigies and that they can raise the dead, but the truth is more commonplace. Their magic is chemical, not supernatural. Needless to say, more often than not, they miscalculate dosages and when they open a coffin they find only a rotting corpse inside; however, very occasionally they meet with success. The victim has survived and the poison has begun to wear off. The bokor can then command the occupant to climb out and he, or she, will obey. Living dead are remarkably docile, having suffered significant brain damage due to lack of oxygen.’