R. Stine - Red Rain

I glanced down at my empty teacup. The tea leaves on the bottom appeared to form an X. Of course I didn’t believe Marguerite’s story. But it left me feeling strange, kind of cold and tingly.

She smiled for the first time. Her smile cracked the powder on her cheeks. Placing both hands on the table, she pushed herself to her feet. “I see you are thinking about my story.”

I nodded. “Yes. It’s. . frightening.”

Her smile faded. “Not that frightening, dear. I died ten years ago, but I’m doing pretty well. Can I bring you another cup of tea?”

My mouth dropped open.

A dry laugh, more like a cough, escaped her throat. “I’m only teasing you. I see your ride is outside. Enjoy your stay on our beautiful island.”

Lea sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing her hands over the tropical-colored, flowery quilt, letting the warm sea breezes tickle her face. The lace curtains fluttered at the open window of the rooming house. White and yellow daisies floated in a glass bowl of water on the bed table beside her.

The small, second-floor room was bright with afternoon sunlight spreading across the blond-wood floor, and spotlessly crisp and clean with a vague aroma of coconut in the air. Red and blue starfish dotted the wallpapered walls, appropriate since the place was called Starfish House.

The two-story, shingled house with a sloping red-tile roof stood on a low, grassy dune overlooking the Eastern shore beach and a row of white fishing huts along the water.

Is this the calm before the storm? Lea wondered. Or has Hurricane Ernesto changed its course?

She didn’t want to check. She didn’t want to spoil her first day.

She could hear the hushed voices of her hosts drift upstairs from the front desk. An hour before, when the jeep-taxi dropped her off at the front door, they had both come bursting out, clapping their hands and speaking rapidly and excitedly in French, almost dancing around Lea and her two bags.

Maybe they are just warm, excitable people, she thought. But they’re really acting as if I’m their first guest.

Macaw Henders and her husband, Pierre. They owned the six-room inn. She was a big woman, Spanish-looking, with cocoa skin, round, black eyes and straight black bangs across a broad forehead.

She wore an expansive red-and-fuchsia housedress with feathery sleeves and collar and a red bandanna over her hair. Lea had to suppress a laugh since it really did look like bird plumage.

In contrast, Pierre was as thin as a pencil, balding, with brown eyes deep-set in a serious face. One of those people who always looks worried, Lea figured. No way to determine how old he was. He could be thirty or fifty.

A soft knock at the doorway startled Lea from her thoughts. She stood up as Macaw appeared, holding a tray with a white china cup. She handed the cup to Lea. Lea gazed down at a foamy, dark brown drink. She expected the cup to be hot, but it was cold.

Macaw smiled, revealing a gold cap on one front tooth. “Go ahead, Madame Sutter. A welcome drink. Take a small sip to start.” She spoke in a lilting singsong.

Lea took a small sip, then another. Coffee with vodka? No. But definitely potent and sour. She could feel the warmth slide down her throat, into her chest.

“Macaw, what is this drink called?”

The woman hesitated. She ruffled her feathery housedress, much like a preening macaw. “Kill-Devil,” she said finally, lowering her eyes.

Lea laughed and gazed into the cup. “Kill-Devil? Do you know why?”

“Because it’s powerful enough to kill the Devil?”

Lea took another sip. She was starting to like the bitter taste. “This is a lovely room,” she said, gesturing with her free hand. And then blurted out without really thinking about it, “Am I the only one staying here?”

The woman nodded.

“But, why?”

Macaw’s smile faded. She pretended to be interested in something on the tray. “I guess they have their reasons, Madame Sutter.”

BLOG POST

BY LEA HARMON SUTTER

Travel_Adventures.com

(April 11) The bad news is that Ernesto still has its sights on Le Chat Noir. The hurricane is slow-moving, about fourteen miles per hour, which is even more bad news, because the longer it stays in one place, the more damage it does.

The only good news is that it gives me a little time to find some kind of adventure to write about before I have to duck and hide.

I’m writing this post on my iPad. I can feel the emergency vibes. People are boarding up their windows and pulling their boats onshore. The sky has turned an ugly lead color, and the wind feels heavy and damp.

My hosts, Macaw and Pierre, were reluctant to let me leave the house. I’m not sure they understood that my job is to go out and do risky things so I can write about them.

I’d been in touch (by email) with a woman who lives on Le Chat Noir, named Martha Swann. Martha told me about an island ceremony called Revenir, which is French for “to come back.” She explained that the Revenir ritual is part of a practice called Mains Magiques -Magic Hands. She believed the French traders picked it up somewhere and brought it here with them. Martha wrote that it is a must-see.

I told my hosts I wanted to attend a Revenir ceremony, and they reacted not with horror but with definite disapproval. They both started shaking their heads, as if it would persuade me to drop the idea.

“It’s all a fake,” Macaw insisted. “They put on a show. The priest-he performs it every week.”

“It’s bad for the island,” Pierre agreed. His eyes took on a sadness. “These magic rituals, they make us look foolish. Primitive.”

“Why scare the people away?” Macaw said. “Why not talk about the beauty here? The natural beauty. Not the unnatural .”

“I know it isn’t real,” I said. “I’m not going to write that it’s real. But I think my readers will find it interesting. You know. It’s all about life and death, right? It’s been practiced for hundreds of years. It’s so. . colorful.”

“We don’t want to be colorful,” Macaw said in her red-and-fuchsia dress.

After a lot of begging and pleading and explaining, they finally agreed to find a guide to take me to the ceremony.

He turned out to be a sandy-haired, boyish, tanned young man in khaki cargo shorts and safari jacket, who seemed so shy and spoke so softly I never did figure out what language he was using. I believe his name was Jean-Carl. He always looked away when he spoke to me, as if he was ashamed of his job or where he was taking me.

He drove me in an open jeep over the one single-lane paved road that leads to the center of the island. The road was lined on both sides by amazing cabbage palmettos. Their clusters of long leaves gleamed, even in the darkening light of the sky. Talk about magic! The trees were flowering, the yellow-white blossoms flashing by like tiny lights.

I didn’t see any other car traffic. Jean-Carl parked the jeep in the shade of a clump of palms at the edge of a sandy path, and we began to walk, the soft sand tickling my feet as it flowed over my open sandals.

I tried to ask Jean-Carl questions about what I could expect to see. But again, he seemed embarrassed or else just painfully unsuited to his job. He kept repeating the word scary and shaking his head.

Of course, that only heightened my anticipation. And when we reached a small crowd of people-men and women of indeterminate age in colorful beach caftans and robes-I was ready for my Mains Magiques adventure.

Lea estimated twenty people in the crowd, mostly men. They stood at the edge of the thick rain forest, inside a circle of the strangest palm trees she’d ever seen. “What are those trees called?” she asked Jean-Carl.