Black, Red, and Eshoo

Before bed, I had made a toast to Black, Red, & Toothy (BRT), formally welcoming him to the house and laying down House Rule #1: “Bring peace, have peace.”. As is my usual, his pouring of rum went down a gopher hole in the back yard. I abstained from having a drink myself, in abiding by a friend’s request.

Laying myself down, I found I fell asleep at once. I closed my eyes and felt the world subtly shift around me. I opened them to find I was still in my room but now BRT sitting on the bed. He had his bag with him, still closed. He held a glass in his hand, and in that glass was a finger of amber liquid.

He swirled it around, sniffed it, peered at it, then drank the rum in one gulp. “Eh. That’s good. More would be better. And needs more taste to it. Wouldn’t think you would drink soft liquor.” He put the glass on my dresser.

I sit up in bed. “Sailor Jerry is all I have for drinking and sharing. The medicinal quality stuff is out of my budget. And I haven’t the gear to make my own.” He laughs.

“This is from your personal bottle? Then I’m being crass. It’s rude to complain about receiving such things.” He nods. Such formality surprises me even though I expected it. “You gave of yourself to welcome me. Thank you.”

I lean forward and stretch my hand forward, completely forgetting I’m in my pajamas. “Hi. I’m Keri.”

He takes my hand. The strength in his grip reminds me of what I’m dealing with. “Keri? And not Weaver?”

“I’m at home. Which is pretty much the last place you’ll hear anyone verbally call me Weaver. If you wish to call me Keri or Weaver, you may. By what name may I call you?” Neither one of us has let go.

He smiles. Triangular shark-like teeth gleam in the ambient light. The unnaturally large mouth splits nearly from ear to ear. I think about what a friend said about fear triggers. But I am not afraid. I have a ‘puppy’ that has desensitized me to such presentations. I smile politely in return, instead.

His smile wavers when I don’t react. I wonder if the teeth are a glamour over a more human appearance. But the way his face sags in unspoken disappointment holds true. “Eh. Call me what you will, Keri. I’ve been given so many names, I’ve forgotten most of them.” He releases my hand.

Dammit. I’m trying to behave here. “I’m known to give snarky names. Sure you want to risk that?” Horatio laughs from the pouch where his physical anchor is kept. I glance over and tell Horatio to behave.

BRT laughs. I note he is always grinning, always showing off those teeth of his. “Yea, sure! Give me a name!”

“Okay. Unless you object, then I shall call you ‘Eshoo’.” His laughter stops. His face becomes somber. He stares at me but I am staring at Horatio’s trinket. Horatio is taking the hint and remaining quiet.

“Shouldn’t that be ‘Exu’?” All mirth is gone from his face. He knows what I’ve done.

I face him again. “I don’t know. You see, I encounter a lot of folk that try to be something they are not. I’ve had my fill of counterfeits that take advantage of my ignorance and allow me to jump to erroneous conclusions. You are outside my knowledge base. I’m relying on what my more knowledgeable friends have told me. I’ve been warned of tricksters and counterfeits both. Been warned to be respectful and formal. And been warned not to concede even an inch of advantage. So, now I speak plain. Are you Exu?”

He sat still and silent on the bed for a moment. I knew better than to think him a simpleton because of his appearance. He sat still and silent and stared intensely at me. Then suddenly erupted into laughter.

“I knew you would challenge me! But so direct!” More laughter. I held my gaze. His toothy grin returned with increased subtle menace. “Trying to hang me with my own words. Good. Good. If I am not Exu, and I claim to be, I mark myself. If I am Exu, and I claim not to be, I will owe you for the deception. If I am not Exu, and am trying to trick you, then I would take offense at the intentional mis-naming because I know you’re on to me. If I am Exu, then it would not matter because you are not trying to belittle or insult me. I know what you’re up to. Weaver.” I nod, but I still say nothing. He leans forward. “I am not the Exu. But I am a Exu. And I will not be offended to be called ‘Eshoo’ by you.” He laughs again and I allow myself to relax a bit. “What else did your friends tell you of me?”

“Enough to know I won’t be able to do the whole nine yards of formal offerings and such. Will that be a problem?” I wonder why he is still staring at me and grinning, then I realize I’m wearing my thin camisole top and shorty shorts. He’s getting quite the eyeful. Oh well.

I must have thought too loud again, as he slowly looked me over, lingering his sight here and there. When his gaze returned to my face, I did not hide my mocking of him. I wasn’t offended. To be honest, I enjoyed watching his response. This unnerved him again provoking my laughter.

“You’re too young to be that jaded!” We both laugh. “And I came to you. It would be different if you were seeking me out. I do appreciate you taking the time to learn about me.” I nod in appreciation. “I did not come here to play games though. Weaver [redacted], I have a [do not remember] for you. Do you accept?”

Fuck. Interesting epithet there. The house looms around me, suddenly feeling like a cage.

The only way out, is through.

“I accept, Eshoo.”

Eshoo offers his hand to me again. This time with formal severity. I take it and he leans backwards, falling off the bed. He pulls me off the bed with him. As I pitch forward, I see a Gate has opened on the floor in a very familiar place. Time for my reckoning. He falls backwards into the Gate, pulling me into it. Darkness overwhelms me.

I open my eyes. I’m sweating profusely and trembling. I’m outside in bright daylight. There is sand under most of me. My head and shoulders are in someone’s rough clothed lap. I look up to see Eshoo smiling down at me. “You are doing well, Weaver. Very well indeed.” His sharp nails lightly rake against the skin on my face.

“Eshoo. What happened?” I feel hot and feverish. I try to lift my hand but I am completely weakened.

“You do not remember? Ah. Perhaps for the best then.” He looks up at someone approaching. A black skinned woman in a sweeping and flouncy red dress kneels next to us. Her face is skeletal, but the rest of her body is whole. Long animate curls of intensely red hair move on their own accord around her head and bare shoulders. She is covering me with red flowers. Some are roses, the others are hibiscus blooms.

She notices I am watching her. She is surprised I am not frightened by her face. Eshoo tells her, “This one has forgotten to be afraid, it seems.”. I chuckle at his words. She leans over me so I can see her face clearly. She has no eyes.

“Do you know who I am?” Her question was a challenge.

“Pomba Gira.” I heard music in the distance as I spoke her name. The scent of black pepper, chilies, and flowers poured over me. I closed my eyes and surrendered, allowing my awareness to fall into darkness.

***

I gasp like a drowning man breaking the surface. I flail weakly before I realize I’m covered by my bedsheets and not… and not… Fuck. I don’t remember. There were flowers, and then there was… there was… I can’t remember.

The room is cool, my fan is on, but I’m sweating and shivering as if from a fever. I feel a cold hand on my chest, pressing gently. A harsh voice in my ear. “Not yet, Weaver. Not yet.” The force on my chest increases, pushing me back into the darkness of sleep.

***

The sound of drums caught my attention. A cadre of voices singing in a language I do not recognize. I felt an urge to sing with them, but I was too weak to even follow the rhythm, much less actually make any movements. The refrain was part pleading, part mourning, part praising, part fearing, and all for Pomba Gira.

There is hard ground under me. The stench of warmed asphalt. Random pebbles stick rudely into my legs and back. My head and shoulders are in someone’s smooth clothed lap. I open my eyes. It is deepest night around me. Torches and drum fires burn nearby. Soft hands sweep my face. I look up to see I am in the lap of the Pomba Gira I saw earlier. Her face is skeletal, beautiful, and eye-less. I smile to see it.

“He’s right. You have no fear.” I wanted to tell her that there are things that scare me, but I was too exhausted to do anything more than smile and sigh. “We are going to kill you tonight.” Another smile and sigh. “We are going to cut you into pieces and burn them into ashes.” I nodded, accepted my fate, and closed my eyes in resignation. “This isn’t the first time for you, is it?” I opened my eyes and smiled as broadly as I could. She laughed deeply, exposing her black tongue and toothless mouth. “He’s right. You have no fear! None!”

Hard and cold things clatter as they fall on the ground near me. Eshoo and others kneel next to me, and arrange crude machetes and daggers over my body. “Is she trying to seduce you with pain? I already told her you have enough pain in life already.” He grins, shark teeth placing the machetes to shame. There is a voice from behind him, and he stops grinning. He nods in compliance and moves his hand over my eyes. The barest touch pushes my awareness into a deeper state, pushing what followed from my memory.

***

The sheets feel like sandpaper against my skin. My senses are completely scrambled. The house should be quiet, but I still hear the drums and the singing. I stumble to my feet to check if a sound source is on in the house, but all is quiet. Outside, the street slumbers with only the occasional vehicle engine in the distance.

I’m trembling and sweating. I feel hot. I turn up the fan to maximum and lie back in bed. No sooner had my head hit the pillow, do I hear Eshoo once more. “Not yet. Weaver. Not yet.” A hand grips my face and pulls me into oblivion.

***

It is bright day. Eshoo is sitting on the sand, holding me by my shoulders against him. I hear an ocean nearby. We are watching the Pomba Gira women dance in the sunlight. Great swirls of flowing skirts throwing sand and flowers everywhere.

“I missed something.” I’m so tired. Something seems off. I thought the Pomba Gira were of the night. Right?

“No. You missed nothing. The memory of it has been taken from you.” Eshoo shifts me so I am sitting up but still leaning on him.

“Then why show me if I’m not to remember?”

“We did more than show you. And it had to be done. But your memory is taken, because you tell stories. And this story is not for others.”

Well. Fuck. “I don’t tell all my stories, Eshoo. And what stories I do tell, are always incomplete.”

He chuckles under me. It feels like cannonballs rolling in a barrel. “In time, Weaver. In time.”

The women swirl and disappear into roses and hibiscus blooms that fly in all directions. Along with them came the scent of black pepper, chilies, other spices, and flowers. A hot combination. I broke out in a sweat again as the scent overwhelmed me.

“Now, Weaver. Now.”

***

I feel rough hands lay me down into the embrace of strange softness. As their presence recedes, my awareness of my surroundings increases. I open my eyes. I’m in my bed. Sunlight is warming the window. There is a scent of black pepper and chili still around me. I’m exhausted. I take notes of what happened, and see the large blocks of missing information.

“So much for learning something new. Why does all the interesting parts get blocked out?”

I remember the epithet Eshoo called me. I put the Moka Pot on and get started writing the formal entry.

Along the way I catch myself humming “Pomba Giiiraaaaaa… Pomba Gira…”.

Make of that, what you may.