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Outside New Orleans, Louisiana
United States
The older man, who introduced himself as Manuel, set a steaming pot on a dock-side table of wobbly wood slats. “Still gotta clean de crayfish from dis morn’n. Hopin y’all like berled shrimp.” He gave the contents a stir with a wire-mesh ladle, then scooped shrimp, sausage, onions, and small red potatoes into a large bowl. “Help yerself,” he said as he sat down on an upturned crate.
Richard didn’t hesitate to do so, looking comical in a blue checkered shirt which was two sizes too large for him and denim overalls that did little to hide his bare hips beneath. Wilkins would have laughed were he not adorned in similar attire. They had rinsed their own clothes in a bucket of fresh water and hung them out to dry on a nearby clothesline.
Their unusual appearance aside, Wilkins was happy to be rid of the grime. Richard especially must have been relieved to wash Gretchen’s blood from his own clothes. Luckily, enough mud from the swampy embankment covered them that Louis had not taken one look at him and run screaming bloody murder.
As Wilkins served himself a portion, he couldn’t help but feel this was all wrong. Washing clothes, bathing, and sitting down to a quiet meal with new acquaintances in the idyllic waterside neighborhood should have been ordinary tasks; but after what they had been through, he wasn’t sure what was ordinary anymore. He spared a lingering glance at Richard, and beyond the polite cheerfulness he extended to their hosts, Wilkins could see the same unease just under the surface.
“So, how ya two come by da bayou wit no boat? I say y’all in a heap o’ trouble,” Manuel paused and pointed a fork at each of them in turn, “an’ don’ ya no sez otherwise.”
It was Richard’s turn to pay Wilkins a searching glance, and the anthropologist simply nodded. The treasure hunter cleared his throat and took a sip of water before laying out the vagaries of their predicament. “We were actually on our way here. Well, not here, but New Orleans. Something of ours was taken from us—something very important—and in trying to get it back, we were waylaid. We disembarked from our train and got lost, and that’s when young Louis found us.”
“Wait...” Manuel leaned in closer. “Did y’all say train?” There was an ominous emphasis on the last word, which sent shudders up Wilkins’s spine.
“Yes,” Richard said, glancing at Wilkins in surprise.
“Wuld’na be dat train come by Laws Angelees? One o’ dem fancy new fast ones?” Louis asked, his own interest apparently piqued by the turn of the story.
“It would be. Why?” Wilkins said.
“Woo-ee. But what y’all two got der’s a story ta tell, dat’s f’true!” Manuel said, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing as a broad grin lit his face. “An now, ole Manuel do too. So, tells us, where y’all been by for da last week?”
“Week?” Wilkins stammered.
“Yeah,” Louis said, “If y’all come by dat train dat vanished a week ago, where y’all been?”
Wilkins couldn’t hide his confusion. “Why, we were on the train only last night. This must be another one. We were only aboard for three days. It left Los Angeles on the tenth of September.”
Manuel and Louis locked eyes this time, shock on both their faces. The younger man spoke again. “Dat’s de one der. Left Laws Angelees on de tenth, missed a stop on de tirteenth morn, and ain’t nobody nowhere seen nor heard heads nor tails of it since.”
At the mention of the word tails, Richard almost choked on a shrimp.
“He okay?” Manuel asked.
Wilkins slapped Richard on the back a bit harder than necessary. “Quite, thank you. He’ll be fine. So, this train has been missing how long? What is the date today, may I ask?”
“Y’all jus’ did, but yeah,” Louis laughed. “It be de twenty-second.”
Wilkins felt all the blood drain from his face. Nine days? They had only been in the other place for an hour at the most, but they had lost nine days? He couldn’t fathom how that could even be possible. He looked over and saw Richard tallying up the math of it on his fingers, and the same realization dawned on his face.
“Y’all in some deep trouble, huh?” Louis asked.
Wilkins looked up and met the knowing eyes of the young fisherman’s father. Despite Manuel’s regional vernacular and simple lifestyle, he could tell this man knew more of the world than he could find in a hundred books or more. Those eyes said the old man already knew the answer to his son’s question, so there was no use in denying it. “Yes... Yes, we are.”
* * *
Wilkins wasn’t sure why he felt he could trust the men, but over the course of the next hour, he described to Manuel and Louis almost every facet of their adventures since discovering the idol in the ruins in Peru. He described the ruin itself, with its carvings of supplicant forms surrounding the idol and the thousands of sightless eyes and writhing tentacles. He recalled the book he found in the National Library in Lima, along with Eduardo’s translation of the folk tale referring to a doorway to the underworld.
He told them about the inhuman dwarves and disemboweled children in Puerto Ocapa, the strange swamp-like land full of strange creatures they visited from Lima, the Selkie aboard the Sun Angel while at sea, and the strange journey to the other place which led them to the bayou of Louisiana and that very table.
By the time he was done, Louis was clearing the dishes while Richard leaned back to light a cigarette.
The younger fisherman brought Manuel a cigar and a lighter. After lighting the broad shaft of hand-rolled leaves and taking a few puffs, the older man leaned back and proclaimed, “Y’all got de gree put on ya, dat’s f’true.”
Wilkins looked to Richard for help with the uncertain terms and received only a shrug in reply.
“Bad mojo,” Louis chimed in as he returned to the table with a damp cloth and wiped it off. “Gree be old as de voodoo. It be like a... evil spell.”
Richard nodded. “Sounds about right.”
Manuel leaned in, his voice hushed despite the nearest cabin being a dozen meters or more distant. “Y’all deep in de voodoo, an no mattah dis French done git yer prize. De gree be on ya, an’ t’aint gonna leave.”
Richard met the man’s eyes. “What should we do?”
Wilkins scoffed, blowing out his mustaches with a huff of air. “Richard, with all respect, this man won’t know anything about a Peruvian cult—or whatever it is.”
Louis drew back, concern in his eyes.
Manuel cocked his head and arched an eyebrow. “Ol’ Manuel know more ‘an y’all tink.” He tapped a single finger against his temple. “More, likes to be, dan you.”
Wilkins moved as if to protest, but Richard laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Please, what can you tell us?”
The old fisherman leaned back and took another puff of his cigar while Louis took a seat next to him. “Der be ole tell like dat whut y’all come by. Same ding as y’all say, f’true as de watah be same er’where it go.” He made a swirling gesture toward the nearby swamp to illustrate the point. “An right der,” he pointed toward the waters, “der be bad voodoo from before de white man pass by dis heyah land. I seen it wit mine eyes, same as mah boy Lew-ee has. Strange dings in de swamp, jus undah de watah, wit writin’ same as what y’all says you seen.”
Wilkins’s eyes grew wide. How could it be? Could the same civilization have built something so far from the ruins in Peru? Even the Inca Empire itself hadn’t reached so far. What lost civilization had they unearthed the dark secrets of, and how wide had it spread? Stammering, barely able to form the words, he asked, “Can you take us there?”
“Well—” Manuel began, but was cut off by Richard.
“Are you crazy? We’ve nearly been killed how many times and gone through... Well, I can’t even put words to it. And here, the first sign of more trouble, and you want to go chasing it down?”
“This could be an amazing discovery, and might tell us more about what’s going on,” Wilkins argued.
“Or it could get us killed, or worse! I say we go home and forget all this ever happened.”
“Too late fer dat,” Manuel said somberly.
Both men turned to meet a gaze as serious as death.
“Told y’all one time, now I tell yah two. Da bad voodoo be on yah, an’ won’ be comin’ off so easy. Y’all set to see dis drough, or it will find y’all and end ya both.”
“There’s udder dings, too,” Louis spoke up. “Strange dings seen in de swamp, an’ even in de city. New Awlins be a right mess now, what wit all de crazy goin’ on in de world.”
“What crazy?” Wilkins asked. “The war in Poland?”
Louis shook his head. “Not just dat. Dings like you seen. Monsters and bad voodoo errywhere. What dis Frenchie done did, it’s gettin’ worse a’fore it be gettin’ bettah.”
Richard sighed and rubbed his temples. “I just want to go home and drink until I forget the whole thing.”
Wilkins turned and met Richard’s eyes. “We started this. If this Henri is letting these horrors loose on the world, we must do something about it. We can’t simply walk away and let it happen. What if this is only the beginning? What if it gets worse?”
Manuel puffed on his cigar. “Oh, it will.”
