It’s a lovely summer day. That lazy moment between morning and high day. The river burbles at me, gossiping of all the fish I’m supposed to be catching. The hook was set, the line was cast, and the pole is wedged between rocks along the bank. The bait was nibbled off long ago. I’m too busy laying under a shade tree to notice. I have a few fish already, I don’t need anymore. Let the river have my bait. The river has fed me, let the river feed.
An odd noise pokes at my ear. Thinking it to be another inquisitive fly, I absentmindedly swat at it before turning over. But the noise persists. As the noise gets louder, it becomes clearer. Human voices. Some male, some female. A variety of accents.
Oh hell, I really don’t want to be bothered. It’s such a nice day.
“There she is!” Oh, bloody bother. “She’s sleeping, we shouldn’t bother her.” Yes, yes, yes please. “No, if we weren’t meant to find her, she wouldn’t be there!” No! I pull my straw hat over my face. They are quite close now, but they are arguing amongst themselves in whispers.
One gentleman doesn’t want to wake me, but is willing to wait for me to finish my nap. One brash woman wants to come over and shake me awake. One other woman is afraid of my reply if the brash woman does manhandle me. The last man tells the others, “Considering what we are wanting, I suggest we wait for her. I wouldn’t want to put on a bad footing, you think?” The silence that falls over the group is deafening, maddening, and stokes my curiosity past the flash point.
I turn over to face them and lift the straw hat off my face. “So then, what’s worth scaring off all the fish?” The four of them, previously all brass as trumpets, are now nervously quiet. They are a motley group, but at least they are dressed for the weather. Light clothes and light shoes. At least I know I’m not going spelunking. I hope.
One of the men is carrying a bag. I can hear the clink of glass as he shuffles a little nervously.
The smallest of the lot steps forward. “Excuse me.” A light accent, lilty and delicate. From the Isles, perhaps? “Are you, *******?” I blink a few times, trying to understand her. The name she speaks, I know it refers to me, but it is unintelligible. I get a hint, that this is a dream. But I don’t push things.
“I might be. It depends on what you want from her.” I stretch out, apparently lazy. I was getting ready to make a run for it really. The name I was called has set me on edge.
“We need her help.” I eye the four of them closely. They are standing close enough to be heard clearly, far enough to have a head start for a run. I realize they are as nervous of me, as I am of them.
I stand up, picking up my hat. I dump the container of bait into the river, much to the delight of the fish crowded around my impotent hook. I start to pull up the fish I have caught. “How long will this take?” I look up at them for answer.
Realizing I’m going to help them, they jiggle with excitement. “It shouldn’t take too long.” I hum in slight mockery of the answer. Finding a rocky part under the water, I bury my catch. The cool water should keep them for a bit. If not, well, I’ve fed the river more.
Standing up, I rub my hands on my denim skirt. “Okay. What kind of trouble are we getting into, and why the hell am I leading the way?” The short woman squeals in delight and the four of them come over to me.
“We heard you can talk to gods and spirits.” I maintain my wary smile. “We need to keep a promise, but we don’t know how to do it.” I pull on the bag, the carrier opens it for me to inspect.
Mason jars filled with homebrew alcohol. Butcher paper wrapped lumps. Some knives of various size and length. “Moonshine, raw meat, and blades.” I wrinkle my nose at the implication. “I specialize in none of the pantheons, you know. I won’t even claim to know more than you. If this is to be done today, everything will be by the seat of my pants. And there is a high risk of pissing off the deity because of my ignorance.”
I look up at four solemn faces. The other woman speaks. A little taller than me, a little darker than me, a lot of New York in her voice. “If we don’t, then it is guaranteed we will piss Him off. And I’d rather make an attempt in keeping our promise, than blow Him off entirely. We need a voice He is sure to hear.”
“Just remember shit rolls downhill, and you four are pushing me uphill.” Four heads nod in what I hope is understanding. “So, what did you promise, and to who?”
“An offering of alcohol, and a toast in His honor.” I look at the tall slender man. Despite the summer clothes, he has an prim, chilled air about him. “Is that it? Then what is the meat and the knives for?”
The bag carrier speaks. A large Hispanic, with dark curls that keep distracting me. “Actually, the steaks are for you.” An eyebrow attempts to launch from my face. He clears his throat. “We have no money to pay you with, so… is ribeye okay?” “I’ll think about it.”
“And the knives?”
“We weren’t sure if anything else would be required of us… so…” Nervous glances ricochet around me.
“You still haven’t told me Who this is for.” A pause.
“Papa Legba.”
I explode in profanities and vicious expletives. The two women duck behind the men as the bag is pulled out of my reach.
“A LWA?! You came to ME to call on A FUCKING LWA?! You call on ME by THAT! FUCKING! NAME! to pay your debt to A LWA!” I continue to vent for several more minutes. They give me space to rage, watching guiltily as the rage leaves me on my knees, pounding the damp dirt in consigned frustration.
All the warnings I have been given in my Waking life, rushes over me in snips of half-remembered memories. Do not approach the Lwa unless the Lwa bid me to. Do not attend any ceremony, no matter who is escorting me. Touch no item devoted to the Lwa unless the Lwa themselves tell me to. A faint remembrance of blades on my face. This is one pantheon that is forbidden to me, unless they call me themselves. What is the likelihood of that, considering I have turned to the Norse pantheon?
One would think that I would have learned my lesson about agreeing to things before finding the depths of the request. I still owe Loki one final debt, after all.
I shake the tears from my eyes. I had agreed to help them. I will help them make their offering, I’m bound by my word. I stand up, spent from the raging. The four of them look at me nervously. A deep breath, and I smile a cocksure grin. “Ok. My temper tantrum is done. We need to gather some rocks from here, to set up a quick altar at the road.”
“You… you sure? I mean… you okay with this?” Such a large man. Such a nervous voice. Was my temper tantrum that dramatic? I chuckled to myself. Hell ya, it was. I pick up several large rocks and hand them to him to carry.
“Yes. I’m sure. And no, I’m not okay, but I said I would help you. And you do have a point. If you do nothing, then it will be far worse for you, than what would happen to me for trying to help.” I lied. I know I lied. At least, I think I lied. I was scared for myself. But if I did not help them, they would catch it far worse than me. The women are also handed rocks. The bag is handed to the prim man to carry. I myself carry the largest of the rocks. A smooth, almost egg shape, rounded rock the size of my head.
They follow me to a dirt path, several steps behind. They are muttering to themselves, but I pay them no mind. We follow the dirt path for a while. I hear a rock fall from someone’s grasp behind me. “Hey, here’s a good spot. Let’s set it up here.” Ms. New York sets down the other rock she was carrying beside the one that fell.
“Pick it up.” My voice is as heavy as the rock.
“But these rocks are heavy. You said we were getting to the road, here we are.”
“Do you want me to help you?” I don’t wait for an answer. “Pick it up. We need to get to a crossroad, an intersection. I’m leading you to the closest one. Two dirt paths intersect not far up ahead. If you don’t want me to help you, then, go ahead. But I’m going to the crossroads.” I turn and continue down the road. Behind me, I hear Ms. New York speaking that delicate I-♥-N-Y verbiage behind my back. A grunt, and the shuffling of her feet.
Over the hill, around the bend, and half-hidden by thick trees is the crossing of two well worn dirt paths. In the distance, the river is still audible. But the chirping of birds and alarm barks of squirrels attempt to drown out the water. As I step onto the intersection, my vision fades for a second. It returns as fast as it had went. I look around, but see no difference to the surroundings or the people with me. But I know, this is the place.
On one corner of the intersection is a cleared small area. I dig a hole, just large enough for the smaller stones to sit in evenly. On top of those are the four larger stones. I try to arrange them with the compass points, but I realize I am suddenly out of touch with the cardinal directions. I don’t know which way is North. The sun is high overhead, of course there is no compass. I arrange the four the best I can and align them to point in line with the road directions. The long, egg shaped stone is placed last. Wedged between the four pointers, the long stone is standing upright.
I have no idea if I’m doing this right. I have no idea if this will be received well. I only hope, that Papa Legba understands that I’m just trying to help these four. By taking charge of the construction of the rough altar, I know that any displeasure regarding the altar will fall on me, heavily. But, hey, I’m already in deep shit just for approaching the Lwa. What’s one more ass-whipping?
A deep breath. The five of us are silent. I kneel before the makeshift altar, searching my scant knowledge for guidance of what to do. “Okay, tell me again. What did you promise to Papa Legba. Exactly. Word for word. I don’t want to know what He has done for you. I want to know your end of the bargain.”
“An offering of my uncle’s brew, and a toast in His honor. That’s it. Really.” The small woman speaks up with odd solemnity.
I look over the altar, facing the center of the intersection. I see a shadow swirling in the dust. Is that a cane tracing lines in the dirt? The wind shifts, a canine scent crosses my nose. “How many steaks did you bring?” “Two.” “Take the knives and cut those steaks in half. I want four pieces.”
“Now? But…” My glare cuts off the complaining voice. Quietly, they unwrap the steaks and do as I had said. I turn back to the intersection. Directly across from me, is a mongrel dog. He wasn’t there before. He lays on the cool grass, just off the road. Watching me in a mock not-interesting manner.
Mr. Hispanic follows my line of sight. “What do you see? I don’t see anything.” “Nothing?” “Just grass.”
I take a piece of meat, whistle at the dog, and hold it out. The dog looks at me oddly.
I laugh. “Papa Legba! May I feed Your dog?” I place the piece on the side of the rock altar, that corresponds with the corner where the dog is laying. The women gasp as the meat disappears off the rocks. I look up, and see the dog still laying in the cool grass, chewing heartily on the offered meat.
“So, still see only grass?” Mr. Hispanic peers and peers. “Only grass.”
I ask for, and am handed, the mason jars of the homebrew. It looks, and swirls, as thick as Guinness. “The hell kinda brew is this?” I make the mistake of lifting the lid and sniffing. My eyes spring to tears.
“My uncle claims it is a beer, and it is bubbly like a beer. But it has a very strong alcoholic content to it.”
Still gasping, “Are you sure humans actually drink this stuff? I’m not offering jet fuel!” She laughs and takes one of the jars. She opens it, sniffs it lovingly, and sips it delicately. “It takes getting used to.”
“Did you bring cups?” “What would we need cups for?” *sigh*
“You said you had to offer Him homebrew, and a toast in His honor. How are you going to toast Him without cups?” Blank stares settle on me. Then grimaces as I see they had not thought of this.
There are three jars of the stuff. I take the unopened jar and put it aside. I take the jar I am holding and call out His name loudly. “Papa Legba!” *deep breath* “Papa Legba, these four have a promise to keep! We are not sure if we are doing this right, but we are going to keep the promise made!”
The scene explodes into acidic swirls of color and sound. The only thing that doesn’t change is the makeshift rock altar before me, the four people with me, and the dog across the intersection. I lose all sense of gravity, extreme vertigo overwhelms me.
“I pour this out for You, Papa Legba, let no man drink of what is given to You!” I pour out the jar of homebrew over the upright stone. Making sure to coat the stone completely on all sides, leaving no spot dry. The stench of the brew adds to my vertigo. There is a little bit left in the jar. Suddenly inspired, I take a second piece of meat, coat it thoroughly with the last of the brew, and place it on the altar where I had placed the first.
An old man’s laughter floats across the intersection. I look up, and see the dog licking the piece of meat completely. The dog’s tail wagging in pleasure.
I take the unopened jar, and prop it on the rocks of the make shift altar. “Another jar for you, Papa Legba. Your’s as You please.” The fumes have made me quite heady.
I tell all to cup their hands, and for Ms. Isles to pour homebrew from her jar into everyone’s hands, including mine. If I’m going to get my ass kicked for approaching the Lwa, at least I won’t feel pain for the first hour.
“Gentlemen and Ladies, I do propose a toast. To Papa Legba!”
“To Papa Legba!” We cheer in unison and down the handful of brew. Well, except for Ms. Isles, who chugged heartily from her jar, much to my surprise. She pours out another handful of brew, and cheerily offers a toast of her own to Papa Legba. “To Papa Legba!” Another gulp of omg-wtf-will-i-go-blind-it-buuurrrnnnsnsss brew.
I am suddenly shifted in space. Instead of sitting on bare dirt, I am sitting on grass. I put my hand down to steady myself, and wind up leaning against the black mongrel dog. He turns and licks my hand in greeting. A old man laughs above me. I look up into a face the color of charcoal, and the brightest eyes I have ever seen. Papa Legba taps my head with his hand carved cane. “It’s a start.” He chuckles as he speaks.
I hear the foursome across the intersection, making another toast to Papa Legba heartily and without fear. My disappearance is unnoticed.
The alcohol in the brew finally kicks in, and I pass out at Papa Legba’s feet.
*fin*
Yes, I did wake up with a hangover. No, I did not have any alcohol last night. Make of that, what you may.