God, it was good to be here on this beach, Jenny thought, to feel the wind on her skin and the heat of the sun and the coldness of the bottle of Prestige beer in her hand. She didn't even want to open her eyes in case it wasn't true, and she found herself back in the office. They both loved this island. It was their first time here but she knew it would be wonderful. The old town was so interesting with the quaint buildings and churches and marketplace.
She frowned briefly into her beach towel, remembering. They had gone to the market earlier, in the morning before the heat of the day. John wanted to see the fish catch brought in and they both had made the effort to get up early. It was fascinating, the reef fish spilled onto the rough wooden tables, restaurant owners and island housewives pushing and vying to buy the biggest and best. On the way back, however, winding their way through the alleys, she had looked down a crooked, dark lane and noticed an old woman swinging a machete, lopping the heads off chickens that hung from a wooden beam. The strung up fowl flapped and struggled after being beheaded, and bright red blood splattered and sprayed on the cobbles. It was a third world market. People did things differently here than they did back home, but the sight had left her disturbed. The callousness of the old woman, the careless way she cut the heads from the birds and ignored their death throes, and that look in the crone's eyes when she glanced up and saw her watching...
A dark skinned waiter was moving around through the beach chairs taking orders for drinks and she waved him over to ask for two more bottles of the frosty cold beer. Drinking in the afternoon was such a sinful thing to do but they were on vacation, and she needed to decompress from the city left far behind.
"Okay dear?" John asked.
They knew each other well enough that a shorthand form of speech usually was sufficient for communication between them. What he really was asking was if she was content to sunbathe the afternoon away, or was she ready to go back to their room and shower.
"Of course, John."
Her husband took a long pull on the beer and relaxed back into the towel covered beach chair. With his Bulgari sunglasses and board shorts he looked about as comfortable as a man could get on a beach crawling with gorgeous young women in tiny bathing suits. Well, most of them had bathing suits. That German girl they met on the plane evidently had decided that the top part of her bikini was superfluous.
They had been so lucky when checking in. The reservations were lost and the hotel people had to scramble to find them a room. The only thing available was a beachside bungalow, which they had been given. It was lovely with two queen size beds, a stocked bar, and a clear view down the beach to the ocean. It was also very private, surrounded by flowering hibiscus shrubs. The black waiter arrived back with their drinks and she looked through her bag for tip money. Oddly he seemed more interested in her than the US five dollar bill she dropped on his tray. He appeared almost startled by the money and turned quickly away. After another hour in the hot sun Jenny was starting to crave a cold shower. Apparently John had enough of ogling the other women so they wandered up to the hotel room together.
After long showers they both felt refreshed and decided to go out to a good restaurant. Jenny slipped into a slinky red dress and added a rope of pearls while John pulled on a new polo shirt and white tropical pants. The Cafe des Artistes was interesting and crowded and spilled wonderful smells of cooking seafood onto the street. As they were sitting down inside, however, a girl at the next table jumped up excitedly and pointed at Jenny. She was saying the same words over and over: "C'est Erzulie de loa. C'est Erzulie de loa."
A small crowd of diners gathered and there was much excited talking and gesticulating before the manager came and shooed them away. He apologized profusely for the disturbance. John, however, wanted to know what the girl had been saying.
"Erzulie, it is the name of the Goddess," the manager said with some difficulty, "she thinks you are the loa Erzulie."
"Erzulie?" asked Jenny.
"Yes the Erzulie Freda."
"What is that?"
"The Erzulie Freda is a Goddess of love in the Vodou, Madam, a powerful and aggressive Goddess for these people, and they believe she often takes the form of a wealthy white woman."
"But why do they think its me?"
"I cannot say Madam. She is usually pictured wearing a red dress... like the one you wear."
"And Madam? She wears the three rings as do you."
The manager bustled off and the restaurant returned to normal, or a semblance of normal, because Jenny could feel eyes on her now, people glancing over to their table a bit too often, stares from across the room and from outside on the street where people lingered yet, looking in through the open windows at her. John took her hand in his and examined it. She did wear three rings, her wedding ring, an beautiful antique emerald dinner ring that her mother had passed on to her, and a square cut ruby ring in platinum that she had bought for herself last year when she got that raise. She always wore them. But many people wore more than one ring. It was silly.
After dinner they walked home through the warm tropical night. Surprisingly many people were on the streets. As they neared the hotel they noticed the sound of rada drums, a driving island rhythm. On the beach in front of the hotel something was going on, black island girls in exotic and colorful costumes, some of them very erotic, were dancing is the light of a driftwood bonfire. Guests were watching, bright eyed and excited by the show, swaying with the hypnotic pounding of the drums. John led her down the beach to join the other guests. He seemed quite taken with the dancers, especially one dressed in a particularly provocative costume, frilly and bright and showing glimpses of her naked breasts. The girl was pretty in an overblown way, her eyes dark and smoldering, full red lips, good legs. She had one of those faces that would look homely in the harsh light of the day, but at night, in the flickering firelight, manifested a sensual beauty that was captivating, verging on the sublime. The girl moved to the drums. More. She was the drums, floating in a world of her own. The other dancers danced but she was the music, the wild and miasmatic island beat, her arms allure, her legs enticement, her movements pure sex.
Jenny could feel the heat from where she stood. She shot a sideways glance at her husband and could see he was mesmerized by the dark siren. She pushed him gently and he turned, startled, as if from a dream to look at her and she smiled, an intimate smile full of knowing. The drums meanwhile changed their meter, drawing their attention back to the performers. The girl was gone.
They watched a while longer but somehow the magic was gone with her, that strange enchantment of island drums and exotic beauty had lifted. Suddenly it seemed late and the bungalow seemed like a good place to be. They were waiting inside. As John came in he was grabbed by two of them, large men, black, and she was taken also as she turned to run. John was dragged to a chair and held down while his mouth was wrapped in tape, effectively silencing him. Her mouth was wrapped in tape in a similar fashion but she was carried to the bed and laid on it by several big black men. Jenny struggled, but they held her down. They worked her tight dress up over her hips, roughly pulling it off leaving her naked except for a black thong. The men were all around her, their hands on her, her arms and her legs, holding her spread-eagled on the bed. Then the girl came out of the shadows of the room, the dancer from the show. She came to the bed and looked down on Jenny for a long moment, then nodded to the men and said something to one of them in curt tones. He left the room. She looked once more at Jenny's face and began to take off her costume, slipping the frilly dress over her head and tossing it in a corner of the room. She was naked underneath, naked and black with high breasts, a virginal belly and a full round ass.
The man came back bringing a basket and a long knife and set them on the floor beside the girl. She bent down and came up holding something in each of her hands, a live and flapping chicken in one, the knife in the other. Without pausing she lifted the bird high over Jenny and cut its head off. The chicken flapped madly, crimson blood spraying from its neck, and she held the bird against Jenny's belly. The bird bled out quickly and the black girl sliced once more at it before laying the dead bird on the sheets beside Jenny. She began to mutter, unintelligible words in the Haitian patois. She was holding something in her hand and as she leaned over the bed Jenny could see it was a severed chicken foot, yellow and scaly. The girl continued to mutter in a low voice, her eyes wide in an unfocused stare. She dipped the chicken foot in the blood pooled on Jenny's belly, then carefully drew a symbol on her naked outstretched form, a heart shape outlined around her breasts with a bisecting line that extended from her forehead down to her pubic hair.
"Sortie Erzulie, présentez-moi."
The black girl was chanting, leaning over Jenny, her eyes glazed, calling on that name over and over. Her voice was rising and becoming more imperative, more demanding, and strangely hypnotic. Jenny felt herself slipping from terror into...a feeling of disassociation, like she was floating, watching herself and the people in the room from a position above them. She still felt frightened, but that fear that was buried beneath something, something that was at odds with the situation, seemingly focused on the chanting siren. She saw herself lying on the bed, white, naked, that strange design painted in blood on her helpless body, the half naked black men hunched over her, holding her arms and legs outstretched, the girl working over her, chanting. It was so erotic, so wild. She felt like she was someone else, someone who had been trapped for centuries with all her desires and needs building inside her, waiting for this day, this moment of release... and in an instant she was inundated by lust, her spirit pulled back into her body as an orgasm swept unstoppable through her! Not just one but waves of orgasms, rolling over her, dragging her under and under again leaving her gasping for breath.
The black girl closed her eyes and moved with her, jerking as each orgasm hit and swaying as each spasm passed through her. She moaned loudly and the men in the room moaned with her, their eyes wild and showing white in the semi-darkness of the room. She reached for the nearest man and pushed him against the wall, pulling at his shorts. He was already erect, and as soon as his manhood was freed she pushed onto him, climbing him. The rest of the men left Jenny then, and crowded around the girl. Their hands were on her, caressing, fondling. One by one the frantic dancer took each man, rode him wildly, insatiable. None of them lasted long. There was something pervasive driving them on, something compelling and unstoppable... lust was unchained in the room, unleashed on their willing bodies. Jenny pushed back against the headboard but could not take her eyes off the sight before her, staring, still short of breath from the series of orgasms that had ripped through her. The black dancer moaned loudly and shook and her hips jerked convulsively as she rode the last man down to the floor. There she rose and fell on him, that full ass quivering as she moved on him, taking him recklessly, ruthlessly, on the floor in front of John, Jenny's John, who was as caught up as anyone in the encompassing lust that engulfed the room. John, who had his dick out and was furiously jerking himself off in the chair, staring intently at the scene before him.
Then, it was over, the powerful presence was gone, and like men waking from a collective dream, the men shook their heads and looked around. They found and pulled on their shorts and they left. The girl took longer, looking stunned. She rose from the floor shakily, struggled into her dress and stumbled out into the night. Jenny jumped then as arms went around her but it was John, lifting her from the bed and carrying her into the shower. He scrubbed her down under steaming hot water, rinsing the blood from her, and buffing her dry with thick towels. He didn't say a word. Nor did she. The events of the night were too fresh, too stupefying for words. He laid her in the other bed, the one not stained with blood, and slipped in beside her, moving very slowly, caught with her in a terrible torpidity, an aftereffect, no doubt, of the visitation of the goddess Erzulie. Set kout kouto, set kout pwenyad, Prete m dedin a, pou m vomi san mwen, Prete m dedin a, pou m vomi san mwen, San mwen ape koule.