The Graveyard...

The man stood in the shadows of the magnolia trees, waiting, watching, listening.

The stillness of midnight was filled with the sounds of the island.  Insects humming and chirping, night birds calling, tree frogs piping, and in the distance the sound of the sea.  The air was rich with the scents of the trees, the grass, the flowers and underlying it the salt of the ocean.  Men may sleep these hours, but the island does not.

The man had been waiting for hours, since just after sunset.  He had taken up his post as the traffic on the nearby road had dwindled to few and far between.  No one had noticed the man hop over the stonewall that bordered the old cemetery.  No one observed him take his post beneath the overhanging branches of the old magnolia tree.  And so he began his vigil.  One that would culminate in a moment he had long trained for and dreamed of even longer.

Several times he thought his quarry approached, but they were false alarms.  A drunk staggering home, a watchman making his rounds.  Each time he had tensed in anticipation, only to relax again when the truth was revealed.  But now the time approached.  The moon would soon set and the graveyard would be in total darkness.  The watcher knew that only then would 'He' come.  Patience would be rewarded.  Revenge would be sweet.

Darkness crept across the old graves.  The stones, which had shown white in the moonlight, faded to gray in the dark.  The man was but a shadow amongst shadows, motionless, patient, alert.

There!  The squeak of the rusted iron gate that opened into the graveyard.  A new shadow across the way.  Now flowing across the ground and coming to a halt by the grave.  It was Him!

The man had been told that this was where He would come and when.  That this is where He would perform the ritual and the man had been taught the correct moment to strike.  Into his palm slipped the hilt of the Knife.  It had rested inside his sleeve all the long hours he had waited and now the moment was at hand.  The blade had been Prepared, as had the man who held it, for the task at hand.  No ordinary blade would slay Him, but this was no ordinary blade.  A gift of Agassou, it had the power to lay to rest those who would not.

It was a risk to seek Him here, in this place of the dead.  He was strong with the Baron and the Baron was strong here.  But here, where He was reckoned strong, He would be the least wary and most vulnerable to surprise.  The man watched and waited his time.  Rehearsing the Words of Power he had been given, steeling himself to move when the time was right.

He stood before the grave for a moment, reading it perhaps?  The man knew what it said. 'Jonas Drury, 1713.'  The grave of a thief, a murderer, a poisoner.  Caught and hung for his crimes, buried here in Potter's Field, unconsecrated ground for one damned to Hell.

The man watched as He stooped and placed the objects on the grave.  A candle stub, which He lit with His finger.  A simple matter for a Kanzo.  Then a glass and a bottle of rum and a few coins.  Pouring the rum into the glass, then taking a swig.  He drew his sword and tapped the gravestone three times for attention.

The man stood, his muscles tensed like a wound cable.  An agent of vengeance, of justice, awaiting the moment that approached like a rush of wind.  The man's leg muscles contracted as he prepared to spring when the word was spoken.

Then He began to speak the words that would call the Duppy.

"Helom Sother Athantos Kalfu..."

Now! Like a great cat the man sprang...

NO!  The PAIN!  The shock!  He could not move, could not speak, could barely breath.  Opening his eyes he could see Him, standing by the grave, still speaking the words, not even looking this way, a pale wisp of vapor hovering above the grave. The horrible pounding in the man's ears kept him from hearing the words. 

There was a warmth, a wetness on his skin, on his belly.  Rolling his eyes, all he could move, the man looked down to see a blade.  Not the blade he held in his hand, but another.  Protruding outwards from his chest.  The steel black with blood, dripping into the darkness at his feet.  It was incomprehensible!  He had failed!  The monster would live!  How could it be?  Who's hand had struck him down?  He squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of pain passed through him, his scream a meer squeak.  Opening them again to see Him coming, striding through the knee high grass, a smile on His lips, a gleam in His eye.

He was speaking but the man could not hear the words or comprehend His meaning.  The pounding in his head was growing louder by the second.

He was in front of the man now and He held up a bottle for the man to see.  It was empty with a cork tied to the neck with a string.  His smile widened as he saw the man's eyes start with comprehension and terror.

NO! Not THAT! It cannot be! Better death then this!

Hands reached around from behind, grabbing his face, forcing his mouth open.  The bottle uncorked, the mouth placed against his mouth!

He spoke again and for a brief moment the man could hear.  Insects humming and chirping, night birds calling, tree frogs piping, and in the distance the sound of the sea.  The island never sleeps.  Then the last words he would ever hear, clear and cold, sealing his fate. 

"For all eternity."

A silent scream convulsed the man as the blade was given the final twist by an unseen hand and with a spasm of agony the man's spirit departed the body and was, in an instant, trapped by the monster the man had come to kill. 

Hachirou withdrew the blade, allowing the corpse to fall away to the side.   Stooping to wipe his steel on the dead man's shirt he saw something in the man's hand.   A knife. Hachirou sheathed his blade and reached the fallen weapon. 

"No!"

Hachirou looked up at his Liege who was examining the now corked bottle. 

"Let it be for now."   He said before turning towards the farside of the graveyard.  "Bhenga!"  He called.

A tall black man materialized from the shadows.  "Yes, my Captain."

"Bring it here."

Bhenga crossed the yard carrying a lidded bucket, such as was used for night waste.

The captain took from the bucket a piece of old sailcloth which he dropped across the fallen knife before picking it up.   Taking great care to never touch the blade with his fingers he examined the weapon for a moment before dropping it, cloth and all, into the bucket and closing the lid.   Handing the bucket to Hachirou he cautioned   “Do not loose this.â€�

"What will you do with it?"  Bhenga asked in his deep bass voice.

"When we are well out to sea, throw it  over board."  

"Captain Jhanos."  Another voice, an identical bass to Bhenga's, boomed from the graveyard gate.

"Yes, Mhmbokka?"

"The longboat is at the bottom of the bluff."

"Excellant."

Bhenga looked towards the grave where the candle still flickered.  "The Duppy?"

"Gone to teach Miles White not to break his word."   Jhanos pulled the bottle of rum from his pocket and handed it to Hachirou.  "Well struck."

"Thank you, Jhanos-san"  Hachirou drank then passed the bottle to Bhenga. 

The big black smiled, his teeth white in the dark. "And the body?"

"Take the head, throw it into the sea.   Leave the rest for his friends to find."   Jhanos held the newly corked bottle before the flame of the candle.  It was empty to all casual observation, but the captain could see otherwise and he smiled in anticipation. 

"Aye, Captain."  Bhenga drew his cutlass and Jhanos blew out the candle, putting the bottle back into his coat pocket.   It had been a good night.   An enemy taken, a danger neutralized and a traitor punished.