I have been up since one in the god damn morning. Not because of the delightful thunderstorm that shook the foundations of the house overnight. No, that was a lullaby for me. Because the other occupants of the house had lost their everlasting mind upon being reminded just how loud weather can be for the first time all calendar year.
About three in the afternoon, I finally was able to sneak away for a nap. Immediately upon descending into sleep, I felt desperate hands gripping me while my shoulders shuddered from uncontrollable spasms. Something wet and foul was squirming in my mind and I was crying out from the pain of the possession.
Wait.
Possession?
I was able to separate my wits from the dream long enough to establish that I was neither the possessed nor the possessor. I had come close enough to the struggles of someone else to feel their anguish and was wearing it as my own until I gathered myself.
Right. Time for work.
The phone rings, snapping me back to the Waking. I hurl a few dozen obscenities at the offending source of sound and deal with those Waking world matters that could not be settled later.
As I finish the day’s work, I keep remembering the victim’s feelings of despair. I have been through some shit myself, and I would not want such trauma upon the undeserving. (I am not a kind person.) I have to go back.
The day’s work completed, I isolate myself from possible interruptions and go back to sleep. It does not take long for me to find her again. I step through the mists of hypnagogia and into the light cast by a roaring fire in the deep woods. The woman is struggling feebly with a man that is trying to keep her from throwing herself into the fire. Two other men are playing hand drums nearby but their efforts are uncoordinated, creating more noise than rhythm. All four of them are wearing white from head to toe. The three men turn and look at me in desperate fright.
I’m wearing my black raven-feather cloak and have a tight afro from which small black feathers emerged. I’m sure to them, I probably appeared as an agent of evil than someone to help.
“Is it just you three to help her? No priest? No cunning woman? No wise elder with a handful of tricks?”
The two men with drums shook their head. The third had a time keeping the woman from harming herself.
She broke out of his grip and tried to run into the fire. I grabbed her and pulled her a safe distance away before forcing her to the ground. “You. I want fresh water, a white rag, salt, and unbroken eggs.” The man I directed my demands at dropped the drum and ran to get the items. “You two. Tell me all you know about how she wound up in this state, her name, and what gods she prays to, if any.”
The woman alternated between panicked crying and terrifying laughter. Neither her nor what was on her was familiar to me. I tried talking calmly to her and could reach her when she was crying. Then the thing would pull her awareness away and try to twist herself out of my grip.
They barely knew each other and only had nicknames to refer to each other by. No one was related. No two of them even lived on the same street. They were walking together for the comfort of strangers’ company. The woman came across what she thought was a food stash. She took just enough to keep her sated until they reached the town and left most of the food behind. The men did not eat any of the food with her for fear they had come across an offering. They came across something, alright.
“I have everything, and paper plates for breaking the eggs.” Excellent. Wish I had thought of that. I shift my cloak into wings, and from wings into feathered arms. The men shout in fear that instead of a savior coming out of the darkness, I was another demon come to torment the woman.
“If I came here to cause trouble, I would not compromise myself by holding her. My back is to you. I am in a vulnerable position.” They murmured in agreement.
I took one of the eggs and held it to my face. Some instinct was directing me. I blew on the egg to “clear” it and started rolling it across her face and neck. As I did, strange words came to my lips that I did not understand. In a singing lilt, I repeated the syllables and felt the spirit on the woman actively trying to avoid the pull of the spiritually empty egg.
The egg suddenly grew heavy. I called for one of the paper plates. I smashed the egg into the plate and a rotten white with a black streaked yolk oozed out. I commanded the man to throw the plate into the fire then bring me the bucket of salted water and the rag.
Still holding her with my human hands, I washed her down with my feathered hands. Each time I touched her, I was half-singing, half-chanting those same syllables again. They had a lilt and a dip to them, as if these same sounds could curse as well as heal. I was not sure if I was doing the right thing, but the instinct was too strong for me to ignore.
I rolled another egg across her face and chest. She squirmed a little less, and I felt the thing within her struggle a little weaker. The broken egg was still rotten and foul, but not as much as before.
Right. This is going to take a while. Let’s go.
Wash with salt water. Check with the egg. This repeated several times as the singing chant of the syllables became stronger each time. I knew I wasn’t doing anything by my own power. I could feel a second spirit assisting the cleansing of the woman. Somehow I had called it into the woman with the chant, and it was pushing the unclean spirit out with each repeat of the ritual.
The egg cracked clean. The woman was afraid but her eyes were clear. I felt the second spirit shoring her up from within, restoring what the first spirit had devoured. When the woman started chanting the syllables back to me, my instinct led me to lean forward and kiss her on the lips. I pulled the air out of her lungs, and with it, the second spirit transferred from her to me.
“She will be okay now. You should take her home and have her family bathe her one last time. She should eat bread tonight, but no meat. And she should drink water, but no milk or alcohol. Let her sleep off what has happened, and she will be herself in the morning.” I pulled her to her feet and after making sure she was steady, released her from my grip.
I transformed the feathered arms back into wings, and then back into the black cloak. She watched my transformation with wide eyes and a small amount of fear. The men bowed as they thanked me and took her into their arms to lead her away. I left the fire as well, but in the opposite direction as they. The second spirit was still within me, and it was not going to be so easy to shift.
The mists of the dream embraced me, taking me away from that scene, to another somewhere in a swamp. The lilting syllables returned to my lips again, and as I half sang, half chanted them, I swayed as I moved. On one syllable, I would dip as if my hip was feeble. On another syllable, I would swing the opposite hip in a sexually suggestive manner. My gait alternated between barely mobile and wantonly suggestive. My movements were not of my own. My voice was singing the syllables now, with a strong timbre that both announced what was on me and warned all that heard to stay clear.
Laughter brought my prancing to a halt. “That’s a dangerous game you are playing. I’d never thought I see you voluntarily ridden, girl.” Rummer John stepped forward to block my path. He tilted his tattered top hat in both greeting and a warning of his own. “I take it what is riding you had helped you earlier this night?”
I tried to answer that he was correct, but all I could do was tilt my head back and laugh with loud peals in a timbre that was obviously not mine. He reached forward and tugged gently on the deep purple satin cord tied around my neck. It was a reassuring gesture as I knew what he was referring to. “Maybe you should go pay the help, don’t you think, girl?”
He has a point. I meant to ask the spirit what it wanted in payment, but instead it flooded my mind with the memory of how I felt on seeing the woman freed from her tormentor. The joy of seeing a job well done and the satisfaction of knowing I helped her. I pushed the memory away twice before realizing what the spirit wanted from me.
It wanted to share in that joy with me. To take equal delight in the satisfaction because it was just as responsible for her release as I. To know that we worked together as a team, it pushing from within, me pulling from without.
I embraced the memory and the emotions that came with it. It sang those chanting syllables over and over as it danced in my body in a tight circle. I had become accustomed to the rhythm of it, and was enjoying the music of movement.
It took me a moment to realize it wasn’t moving my body from the inside anymore. The spirit had left me and was leading me in a gaudy type of waltz by holding my hand and waist. The same feeble dips and suggestive swings made for a unique dance that I would not be forgetting anytime soon. Our voices sang the chanting syllables in harmony for several rounds.
Its payment complete, it spun me into Rummer John’s arms and left us both. Dipping and swinging, it laughed itself out of the swamp.
“Well then. I sure do come across many a strange thing in the swamp, don’t I, girl!” He laughs his deep booming laughter and slaps me roughly on the ass. “Do you know who that is?”
“No, Sir.” I rubbed my hip where he popped me. That wasn’t just rough play. He was checking my hip to see if the spirit had left an enfeebling mark.
“You sang his name!”
“I did? I thought that was just babbling to keep me focused and shit!”
“Oh no, girl! That is his name. And now that he has made himself known to you, expect to see him again. He won’t be shy about inserting himself when he thinks you need him there.” He checked the satin cord, making sure it wasn’t tied too tight. “Do not be afraid of him, girl. He is a respecter of boundaries even though he specializes in breaking them himself. He knows what you are. He knows what you do. And he is alright with that if you are. Are you?”
“… I guess I am. He helped me with that woman. He did not harm me as payment, and I kinda like that jig of his. Who is he?”
“So I hear you got that pot for Mxtl. About damn time.” I gave him stink eye for changing the subject so abruptly, but I knew better than to try and control the flow of conversation. “Go talk to her directly about how to put things together. And don’t be surprised if [that spirit] has a request with the pot himself.” He spun me around to face away from him. “And I can’t force you to include [a certain person’s gift to me], but I sure would like it if you did.”
He swatted me on the ass with unnecessary force. I stumbled forward and lost my footing. Instead of falling into the greedy muck of the swamp, I fell out of the dream entirely.
After reviewing the events of the dream in my mind and confirming it wasn’t a mere daydream, I looked up the only clue I had. The syllables that my instinct led me to sing over the woman. I found them quickly, and found they were indeed the name of an Orisha. I sucked on a tooth as I found certain details in the writings of accepted authorities on Orisha lore that were reflected in those parts of the dream I have not written here.
By itself, this means very little. But in light of other events, this is part of a very interesting, and very involved trend.