***
The fourth time it happened was two days later. Today. Thursday.
Charles really was not expecting it again so soon.
He is at the point of complete exasperation. It isn’t fair. He’s still bruised and gimpy from the last time. This has to stop. He can’t keep doing this. Over and over again. No more. He’s going to end up in the hospital. Or the morgue. He’s going to lose his job. He’s going to lose his mind. Assuming he hasn’t already.
He trudges into the kitchen and rummages through the lower drawers until he finds what he is looking for. Duct tape.
He thinks about having a good breakfast first, but figures there’s a good chance he’ll just be barfing it up again later, so why bother.
Might as well get it over with.
He exits through the back door this time, applying a strip of duct tape to prevent the lock from engaging. He scans the immediate area outside carefully.
Keeping the house at his back, he slides down to the southeast corner. The house has no windows on its east face, therefore he has not yet seen what that direction offers.
Cautiously, he slips around the corner and pauses.
Mostly, the view offers more jungle. However, through a small gap in the trees, he sees a plume of dark smoke rising in the distance. Almost certainly of human origin.
Interesting.
Charles makes a conscious decision not to have an ah,ha moment.
But he does allow himself a good idea. Go back inside, gather up all the paper and any other flammables he can spare, get a lighter, and bring it all outside. Start a fire. A big bonfire. Someone will either see the smoke and come, or maybe he’ll just burn the damn jungle down.
Something stings the side of his neck. A fingertip examination produces a slender one inch long thorn coated with a dark, sticky substance.
Probably not a good thing.
A tall black man, barefoot and resplendent in colorful animal skins and bone jewelry, emerges from the foliage. He is smiling cheerfully. White teeth shining bright in contrast to his dark skin.
Charles hesitates. The smile seems friendly. That’s good. But then he notices what appears to be a blowpipe in the man’s hand. Not so good.
“Greetings,” the man calls out in a booming baritone voice. “Is good day.”
“Uh, huh,” Charles says, raising the thorn-like dart. “Did you… blow..?” he begins, and then shifts gears. “Is this yours?” he asks.
“Yes, it is,” the man replies with pride. “I, Khaana,” he proclaims, slapping a hand against his bare chest, “prepare chosen one to appease great god Hwantu in sacrifice.”
Oh, definitely not good.
“You what?” Charles says, dropping the small dart and wiping his sticky fingers on his pants leg. “You poisoned me?”
“No, not poison,” the man assures. “Sweat from Red Mato frog. Make a body relax. Very relax. Soon, you fall down. Not get up. But you still alive. You still see and hear and feel everyt’ing. But no move.” His smile widens. “When I slit you belly open, you feel a blade slice t’rough one’s flesh. You see one’s insides pulled out for a feast. If gods smile, a heart still beats when I rip it from one’s breast. It is very good.” He cocks his head and shrugs. “You do die. But not now. Later, after much pain. A deat’ worse from fate, yes?”
Charles is teetering, struggling to remain upright. “But…” his slack tongue is barely able to form words, “why… me?” he asks.
“But why not, Chuck?” Khaana says. “You totally unremarkable. You really t’ink you got somet’ing better to do today but appease a god?”
Articulate response is no longer an option for Charles. His spaghetti legs now past al dente, he sinks, slow motion, into an awkward heap on the ground.
Khaana approaches, lifts the body like it was no more than a sleeping toddler and carries it, still twitching, to the stone altar.
He lays the body upon the altar, face up, head toward the icon. Charles’ eyes, powered by fear, blink open and ease shut on an almost rhythmic schedule. Khaana positions the body. Arms to the side, palms up. Legs straight, feet spread one hand span apart.
Removing a small bladder tied to his waistband, Khaana squeezes a glob of white manja root paste onto a vine leaf and spreads it over half of the chosen one’s face.
He rips open the shirt to fully expose the chest, presses his hand against it and grins. The heart beats slow but steady. It is good.
He uses the bladder directly on the chosen’s chest now, drawing an intricate pattern of five circles (two big and three small), three squiggly lines, and one triangle.
From a concealed recess near the base of the icon he draws forth the ceremonial dagger. Handle wrapped with skin from a gaboon viper, and a long, double edged blade carved from the thigh bone of a ten year old virgin boy-child. (Victim of an unfortunate non-industrial accident.)
Grasping the dagger with both hands, Khaana extends his arms so the point of the blade hovers just inches above the chosen body. He closes his eyes and raises his face toward the sky. As he quietly intones the ritual incantations he feels the spirits gather near. His body begins to sway from side to side in hypnotic harmony. His chanting grows louder.
Khaana’s concentration is suddenly disturbed by an annoying yapping sound.
He opens his eyes and looks down… not at the altar and the ready to be sacrificial chosen one, but at the front hood of a metallic silver, midsize, Japanese sedan. He looks around at the asphalt paved street, and the endless row of stucco boxes, and the short grass fields dotted with but a few small, sickly trees. And all the noise. He turns and snarls at the miniature poodle yapping at his heels and nipping at his furs, and sends it scurrying away toward the house next door.
Khaana’s chin sinks to his chest as he shakes his head slowly.
“Oh, no,” he says. “Not again.”
***
**
*
Author’s note: As soon as he was done puking, Charles read the novel “APRIL 33” by my wife’s second favorite writer. Please find a copy for yourself and enjoy it. Consider it an act of community service, because if you don’t read it some other less deserving soul may have to.
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