horror but with definite disapproval. They both started shaking their heads, as if it would persuade me to drop the idea.
“It’s all a fake,” Macaw insisted. “They put on a show. The priest-he performs it every week.”
“It’s bad for the island,” Pierre agreed. His eyes took on a sadness. “These magic rituals, they make us look foolish. Primitive.”
“Why scare the people away?” Macaw said. “Why not talk about the beauty here? The natural beauty. Not the
“I know it isn’t real,” I said. “I’m not going to write that it’s real. But I think my readers will find it interesting. You know. It’s all about life and death, right? It’s been practiced for hundreds of years. It’s so. . colorful.”
“We don’t want to be colorful,” Macaw said in her red-and-fuchsia dress.
After a lot of begging and pleading and explaining, they finally agreed to find a guide to take me to the ceremony.
He turned out to be a sandy-haired, boyish, tanned young man in khaki cargo shorts and safari jacket, who seemed so shy and spoke so softly I never did figure out what language he was using. I believe his name was Jean-Carl. He always looked away when he spoke to me, as if he was ashamed of his job or where he was taking me.
He drove me in an open jeep over the one single-lane paved road that leads to the center of the island. The road was lined on both sides by amazing cabbage palmettos. Their clusters of long leaves gleamed, even in the darkening light of the sky. Talk about magic! The trees were flowering, the yellow-white blossoms flashing by like tiny lights.
I didn’t see any other car traffic. Jean-Carl parked the jeep in the shade of a clump of palms at the edge of a sandy path, and we began to walk, the soft sand tickling my feet as it flowed over my open sandals.
I tried to ask Jean-Carl questions about what I could expect to see. But again, he seemed embarrassed or else just painfully unsuited to his job. He kept repeating the word
Of course, that only heightened my anticipation. And when we reached a small crowd of people-men and women of indeterminate age in colorful beach caftans and robes-I was ready for my
4
Lea estimated twenty people in the crowd, mostly men. They stood at the edge of the thick rain forest, inside a circle of the strangest palm trees she’d ever seen. “What are those trees called?” she asked Jean-Carl.
He gazed at them, blinking a few times. He didn’t answer.
A well-dressed, middle-aged woman with pink cheeks, short blond hair, and pale blue eyes turned to Lea. “They are called jelly palms, dear.”
Lea studied the very fat trunks topped by long, delicate leaves that looked like feathers. “Y’all can make jelly from the dates,” the woman said. She had a definite Southern accent. “The dates are big and juicy and very sweet.” Then her eyes went wide. “Are you Lea? From Long Island? I’m Martha Swann.”
Lea gasped. “Martha? Really? Hi. How did you recognize me?”
“From your Facebook photo. I feel like we’re old friends.”
“Wow! I mean, wow. How nice to meet you. See? I took your advice. I’m here. I always think these rituals are a hoot, don’t you? They’re almost always like from a bad horror movie. Hope I don’t burst out laughing.”
Martha pursed her lips. “I don’t think y’all will laugh at this one.” She glanced around. “My husband, James, and I come often. It’s. . really miraculous. We’ve even gotten to know the priest.” She raised a finger to her lips. “Look. I think it’s starting.”
Lea turned and stepped forward, into the circle of people. They had gathered around a fallen log, smooth- barked, about ten feet long. A sun-bleached skull was placed in the center.
She turned to Jean-Carl to ask, but he had moved away to the other end of the log. She mopped her forehead with the back of one hand. The center of the island felt much steamier than the outer beach areas. She suddenly found it hard to breathe.
She listened to the buzz of quiet conversations. Two older men in white robes and sandals appeared to be having an argument. A woman in a blue chiffon caftan stepped between them.
The crowd grew larger. Now there were maybe forty people standing in the circle around the log. Lea hadn’t seen them approaching. They seemed to have emerged from the trees.
She turned and saw five people striding quickly on the path. Four of them were obviously American tourists. The two men were paunchy and pale and wore blue-and-red Chicago Cubs baseball caps. One wore a Budweiser T-shirt with a beer can emblazoned across the front.
The two women with them were slender and dressed in shorts and flowery tank tops. They had cameras hanging around their necks and were being led by a tall, serious-looking guide, dressed in khaki cargo shorts and safari jacket, like Jean-Carl.
Lea was startled. Actual tourists on Cape Le Chat Noir! She had the urge to say hello. To interview them and ask how they came to be on the island and if they knew what this ritual was about. But their guide led them to the other side of the circle.
People talked quietly, but the conversations ended when the priest-a tall, bald man wearing a long red robe tied with a yellow sash-stepped out from behind a fat-trunked jelly palm. He had a red face and shocking white- blond eyebrows that moved up and down on his broad forehead like furry caterpillars. His eyes were silvery gray, metallic. He had a tattoo of a blue five-cornered star on the crown of his bald head, almost big enough to be a skullcap.
He stepped into the circle, carrying a long wooden tray. On the tray were coconut halves, flat side up. Without uttering a word, he stepped up to people and raised the tray to them, offering a coconut half. Lea quickly realized that he was approaching only the men in the circle.
He handed coconut halves to six men. She could see that the insides had been carved to form a cup, and each cup contained a dark liquid. It looked a lot like the Kill-Devil drink Macaw had given her when she arrived the day before.
Lea felt a chill as the priest eyed her for a long moment. She couldn’t read his expression. He flashed her an almost imperceptible smile. Then he moved to the center of the circle and gazed at the men holding the coconut cups.
“It’s the Black Drink,” Martha murmured in her ear. She leaned close and whispered surreptitiously, as if she was breaking a rule. “The Black Drink. Be grateful, dear. In the ceremony, the priest gives it only to the men.”
“Why?” Lea whispered back.
Again, Martha raised a finger to her lips. Her eyes flashed in the gray afternoon light. She returned her gaze to the priest.
Lea glanced down the line to the tourists. All four of them were busily snapping photos with their cameras and phones.
The red-robed priest gave a signal, and the six men raised their coconut cups high above their heads, as if offering them to the sun. They all chanted something. . in French?
Lea struggled to understand. She had studied French for two years at Northwestern. But this didn’t sound like any French she’d ever heard.
When the six men finished, the priest chanted for a long time, mumbling to himself and moving his hands slowly in a strange sign language. The sleeves of his robe swayed beneath his bone-slender arms.
Lea kept her eyes on his hands. They appeared to take on a life of their own, like small, pale animals floating
