R. Stine: Red Rain

He gazed at them, blinking a few times. He didn’t answer.

What a great guide. I don’t think he speaks English.

A well-dressed, middle-aged woman with pink cheeks, short blond hair, and pale blue eyes turned to Lea. “They are called jelly palms, dear.”

Lea studied the very fat trunks topped by long, delicate leaves that looked like feathers. “Y’all can make jelly from the dates,” the woman said. She had a definite Southern accent. “The dates are big and juicy and very sweet.” Then her eyes went wide. “Are you Lea? From Long Island? I’m Martha Swann.”

Lea gasped. “Martha? Really? Hi. How did you recognize me?”

“From your Facebook photo. I feel like we’re old friends.”

“Wow! I mean, wow. How nice to meet you. See? I took your advice. I’m here. I always think these rituals are a hoot, don’t you? They’re almost always like from a bad horror movie. Hope I don’t burst out laughing.”

Martha pursed her lips. “I don’t think y’all will laugh at this one.” She glanced around. “My husband, James, and I come often. It’s. . really miraculous. We’ve even gotten to know the priest.” She raised a finger to her lips. “Look. I think it’s starting.”

Lea turned and stepped forward, into the circle of people. They had gathered around a fallen log, smooth-barked, about ten feet long. A sun-bleached skull was placed in the center. A human skull. No. It’s an animal head. A goat, maybe.

She turned to Jean-Carl to ask, but he had moved away to the other end of the log. She mopped her forehead with the back of one hand. The center of the island felt much steamier than the outer beach areas. She suddenly found it hard to breathe.

These weird ceremonies make me giddy.

She listened to the buzz of quiet conversations. Two older men in white robes and sandals appeared to be having an argument. A woman in a blue chiffon caftan stepped between them.

The crowd grew larger. Now there were maybe forty people standing in the circle around the log. Lea hadn’t seen them approaching. They seemed to have emerged from the trees.

She turned and saw five people striding quickly on the path. Four of them were obviously American tourists. The two men were paunchy and pale and wore blue-and-red Chicago Cubs baseball caps. One wore a Budweiser T-shirt with a beer can emblazoned across the front.

The two women with them were slender and dressed in shorts and flowery tank tops. They had cameras hanging around their necks and were being led by a tall, serious-looking guide, dressed in khaki cargo shorts and safari jacket, like Jean-Carl.

Lea was startled. Actual tourists on Cape Le Chat Noir! She had the urge to say hello. To interview them and ask how they came to be on the island and if they knew what this ritual was about. But their guide led them to the other side of the circle.

People talked quietly, but the conversations ended when the priest-a tall, bald man wearing a long red robe tied with a yellow sash-stepped out from behind a fat-trunked jelly palm. He had a red face and shocking white-blond eyebrows that moved up and down on his broad forehead like furry caterpillars. His eyes were silvery gray, metallic. He had a tattoo of a blue five-cornered star on the crown of his bald head, almost big enough to be a skullcap.

Weird-looking dude.

He stepped into the circle, carrying a long wooden tray. On the tray were coconut halves, flat side up. Without uttering a word, he stepped up to people and raised the tray to them, offering a coconut half. Lea quickly realized that he was approaching only the men in the circle.

He handed coconut halves to six men. She could see that the insides had been carved to form a cup, and each cup contained a dark liquid. It looked a lot like the Kill-Devil drink Macaw had given her when she arrived the day before.

Lea felt a chill as the priest eyed her for a long moment. She couldn’t read his expression. He flashed her an almost imperceptible smile. Then he moved to the center of the circle and gazed at the men holding the coconut cups.

“It’s the Black Drink,” Martha murmured in her ear. She leaned close and whispered surreptitiously, as if she was breaking a rule. “The Black Drink. Be grateful, dear. In the ceremony, the priest gives it only to the men.”

“Why?” Lea whispered back.

Again, Martha raised a finger to her lips. Her eyes flashed in the gray afternoon light. She returned her gaze to the priest.

Lea glanced down the line to the tourists. All four of them were busily snapping photos with their cameras and phones.

The red-robed priest gave a signal, and the six men raised their coconut cups high above their heads, as if offering them to the sun. They all chanted something. . in French?

Lea struggled to understand. She had studied French for two years at Northwestern. But this didn’t sound like any French she’d ever heard.

When the six men finished, the priest chanted for a long time, mumbling to himself and moving his hands slowly in a strange sign language. The sleeves of his robe swayed beneath his bone-slender arms.

Lea kept her eyes on his hands. They appeared to take on a life of their own, like small, pale animals floating in the air.

Birds uttered harsh cries in the rainforest behind them. A gust of hot wind made the feathery palm leaves slap and scrape.

We need pounding drums here. Ominous background music.

She scolded herself for being so cynical.

The skin on her arms tingled. She wiped sweat off the back of her neck.

The air is so heavy and wet. Perhaps we are feeling the first winds of the hurricane.

She crossed her arms tightly on her chest to steady her heartbeat. I certainly don’t want to be out here in the middle of the island if the damned hurricane hits.

The priest finally finished his low chant. He nodded. The six men lowered the cups to their mouths and drank the dark liquid down.

Lea heard soft cries in the crowd. Muttered words.

The men stood silently, swallowing even after lowering the cups to their sides. Palm leaves slapped loudly above their heads, as if clapping.

The sky darkened from pale gray to charcoal. The wind picked up, fluttering robes and skirts, lifting Lea’s hair behind her head, making a howling moan as it swirled through the shivering trees.

Special effects, Lea thought. The priest chants and the wind starts to howl. Very dramatic.

But she wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

As she squinted into the fading light, the six men all began to groan. They coughed and rolled their eyes. Their faces reddened. They bent their knees and knelt.

Bending low, faces purple, they uttered hideous choking sounds. Then rasping moans from deep in their throats. Their stomachs bubbled and heaved.

And they all began to vomit at once.

Groaning, moaning, bleating like sick sheep, all six men heaved together. At first they spewed a dark liquid and then the chunky orange and yellow of their undigested lunches.

Hands on their knees, heads bowed as if praying, they puked their guts out in a chorus of animal groans and splashing liquid.

Lea grabbed her throat. She felt her breakfast rise. Her stomach churned. She held her breath, swallowing hard, swallowing, struggling not to heave along with them.

This was no act. They weren’t faking it. No one could fake those ugly sounds, those horrified expressions. She covered her ears from their choked gasps and bleats and retching moans.

The sour smell rose into the humid air and swept over her. She stared at the thick piles of yellow-green vomit, spreading puddles on the sand. Still holding her breath, Lea started to turn away.