Voodoo Revenge

     It was him. Pierre would have bet his life on it. Luckner Cambronne, the Vampire of the Caribbean, was eating a Big Mac and fries at McDonalds on Ocean Drive. Pierre's eyes flicked about the restaurant. Not only was he the only Haitian, he was the only black at all beside Cambronne. He quickly ducked away and ended up hiding behind a clump of bushes that gave him a good view through the window of the man who had stolen everything from him nearly fifteen years before.

     Luckner Cambronne wasn't just a Tonton Macoutes, he was Tonton Macoute himself; the Uncle Gunnysack; the bogeyman who roamed the streets at night and made people disappear by stuffing them in his bag. This was Francois Duvalier's right hand man; Minister of Defense as well as Interior for most of the 60's in the impoverished country of Haiti. This was the man responsible for the death of everyone in Pierre's family. As he thought about it, their faces raced through his mind; father, mother, aunt Guylene, Uncle Yuet, grandpapa, grandmere, sisters Marguerite, Louise, Aniyens, brothers, Louis, Herven. Even Herven's friend Joseph who was visiting from Port-au-Prince. All dead. One of the Tonton Macoutes had counted the heads of his family members and stopped at a dozen which was his sister Louise. "There's one left", he told Cambronne, "Shall we take him too?" Cambronne had leaned down and put his face so close to Pierre's their noses almost touched and said, "No, you baba, they're only paying for twelve. You think I'd give them one for free?" He stood up and added, "He'll be around for the next batch."

     Just like that, Pierre's entire family was loaded on a truck and he was alone. That was 1972. Pierre was ten years old. The people who had taken him in had used a homemade wooden raft to travel the nearly seven hundred miles to Florida less then a year later. They took Pierre with them even though he was terrified of the water and kicked and screamed until they were far out enough for him to realize that the ruckus he was making could only help to tip over their makeshift boat and nothing else. The coast guard had picked them up four days later almost a hundred miles from their destination and then it had been nine months in a detention camp before they were allowed access to the United States of America.

     That was a dozen years ago and Pierre's life had taken no turns for the better. The beginning of the Reagan era, though prosperous for many was not helping him. He lived in squalor in Miami struggling to learn English and make his way in the new land where people despised him. His one piece of luck being able to secure employment scrubbing floors in a wealthy area of Miami Beach, which was why he was even in that neighborhood to begin with.

     Cambronne had finished his meal and was on the move. Luckily he was on foot for Pierre only had his bicycle. He left it locked up and trailed the Haitian exile at a distance as he treaded inland a few blocks and entered a huge corner house, slamming the door behind him. Pierre committed the address to memory and then made his way back to his bike.

     Tonton Macoute sure had a big enough house, thought Pierre. He should. He'd made a fortune off the blood of the Haitian people. Literally! Because of the country's high rate of disease and high infant mortality, the blood of Haitians who made it to adulthood became extremely rich in antibodies and was thus, highly coveted by American hospitals and laboratories. During the year and a half after President Duvalier's death in 1971 and before his exile, Cambronne's company, Hemocaribien sold not only blood abroad, but also cadavers to universities and medical schools. It was whispered that many of those bodies sold were still alive when they were chosen for export. Pierre could attest to the validity of those whispers and so could every member of his family including his brother's friend Joseph.

     But, what to do?

     Pierre pedaled his bike into the deepest, darkest part of La Petite Haiti in the poorest section of the inner city of Miami. At a wooden shack beside a derelict building he lay his bike on the dead grass and made for the door. There was nothing to padlock his transportation to, but it hardly mattered. Nobody would dare steal anything from the lawn of Manman Soliel. In fact, few had the courage to come to her abode at all.

     Pierre raised his hand to knock when she called out, "Come in Pierre. I've been expecting you." He was too terrified by being there in the first place to be more frightened by the troubling questions her words brought. He entered the ramshackle dwelling. It was dark despite the fact that he'd come at noon and fairly cool though the Florida heat and humidity was stifling on the other side of the wall. Candles provided the only light and Pierre saw no fans anywhere. In fact, he would have bet his last cent that there was no electricity at all in Manman Soliel's house. Shelves lined every inch of wall space and they held intricately made fetish dolls. There must have been a thousand of them, each unique.

     "You have murder in your heart, young man", she said ominously. Manman Soliel was much younger looking then Pierre had expected. She sat in the middle of her parlor rocking slowly back and forth on a chair made for such a purpose. Her dark skin was smooth, her hair long and silky.

     "How do you know who I am?" he asked her simply.

     "There is not much Manman Soliel does not know." She paused and turned her face to the side while taking a deep breath. For the briefest moment Pierre saw a woman more ancient then the grim reaper. The illusion dispelled when she faced him again. "You seek forbidden knowledge." It was an accusation.

     "He killed everyone I loved for money."

     "Still, what you desire can be known only by bokor. Are you bokor?"

     A bokor was a sorcerer who served the loa spirits with both hands and thus could practice white and black magic. In the Haitian Voodoo religion bokor were basically mercenaries. Of course Pierre was not bokor. Truth be told, he didn't really believe in Voodoo at all. Still, from all the stories he'd heard of Manman Soliel, if anyone had supernatural powers that could accomplish what he wanted it was her. He told her so.

     "Humph", a delicate and graceful hand reached up to stroke an amulet that hung at her neck, "Much that is Vaudou comes from faith. How do you expect the magic to work if you don't believe."

     Pierre reached into his knapsack and withdrew every dollar he'd saved up in the twelve years he'd lived in America. He held it out toward the witch. "I have money", he coaxed.

     Was it a trick of the dim light or did Manman Soliel's eyes flicker to the black slit pupils on gold irises of a serpent before returning to normal? Whatever it was, her attitude changed abruptly.

     "Do you have pencil and paper?" she asked.

     Pierre did. The old black mambo invited him to sit at her feet while she relayed to him the information he had purchased.

     It took Pierre nearly a month to acquire all the components to create the potion. Then another two weeks to practice and enact the rituals properly. Finally he'd had to wait for the next full moon before it was completed. But eventually it was done. Manman Soliel had warned him that forbidden knowledge in the hands of an unbeliever could never come to any good. Would the potion work, he'd demanded. Yes, she stated in no uncertain terms. That was good enough for him.

     He stuffed the vile of nkisi powder and the ouangas doll in his pack and made his way back to the McDonalds on Ocean Drive. It wasn't difficult to locate Cambronne's corner house again and ferret out an unlocked window on the side from which he could gain entrance. Now it was a matter of finding his prey in this immense palatial estate. Pierre put his hand in the sack and came out with a fistful of powder. Then he crept from room to room with the stealth of a viper, searching.

     Near the rear of the house Pierre heard the sound of a television and he made his way toward it. There was Cambronne reclining in an easy chair watching a French film with his VCR. Pierre had heard of these new machines that let a man view whatever he wanted from a small black box with a magic tape inside of it. He probably has cable on his television too, thought Pierre with jealousy. Pierre had never seen cable TV in his whole miserable life.

     Anger and revenge for the happy life stolen from him drove Pierre as he snuck up behind Cambronne completely unnoticed and tapped the older man on the shoulder. Tonton Macoute's head whipped around, startled and Pierre blew his handful of powder directly into the man's face. Cambronne coughed once, then sneezed, and finally gripped the arms of his chair and froze, an expression of pure horror on his face.

     Pierre had him! But he was far from finished. He retrieved the ouangas doll from his pouch and clutching it in his right hand began the incantation and ritual dance that would snatch Luckner Cambronne's soul and place it in the totem for Pierre to keep and do with as he pleased for all eternity.

     For the next fifty-three minutes Pierre whirled and jumped, chanted and intoned while Cambronne sat immobile emitting tiny choking noises, his hands minutely squeezing and releasing, that look of terror never leaving his face. And when it was done Pierre dropped, drenched in sweat to the floor and closed his eyes. When they opened he gazed up at Cambronne.

     There was a knock at the door. Cambronne stood and left the room. He returned looking almost as terrified as previously. The old crone trailed him. Manman Soliel bent at the waist to peer down at Pierre.

     "What is this, woman?", asked Cambronne with restrained anger, "You told me I would not die until the next century; in aught six. You said my death would be clean, my soul would be my own. I paid you a lot of money for that knowledge."

     "And you live still, do you not? Your soul is still your own, is it not?"

     "I can't imagine how", said Cambronne slowly calming himself. "I have seen this spell enacted before. I don't understand why it didn't work."

     "But, it did work", Manman Soliel cackled, "It worked exactly the way it should when performed by one who is not bokor."

     Pierre watched as Cambronne sidled up to him and stared down, his eyes widening. He made the sign of the forked devil and then quickly backed away. Suddenly, rage overtook him and he spat out, "This is your doing, caplata! He could only have learned this from you!"

     Manman Soliel, merely laughed again, placing her hands on her hips and stared at Cambronne who was easily twice her size.

     "My business is my own", she stated by way of explanation, "But if you want to pay me, I can tell you all you need to know about the future so you won't need to worry your pretty little head about things that might otherwise upset you."

     "You said before that was forbidden knowledge", Cambronne fired back.

     "Aye."

     "You think I'm crazy caplata? Only a fool would accept forbidden knowledge."

     Manman Soliel gazed directly at Pierre, "Yes, that is exactly so." She bent over and grabbed the ouangas doll which held Pierre's soul trapped within and took it back to her lair to add it to her collection.