Jean Thomas - Lethal Affair

Casey spoke his approval in her ear. “It doesn’t disappoint, does it?”

She shook her head, marveling at the sight. She understood why it was called Braided Falls. There was no single stream of water tumbling over the ledge high above them on their right, but three distinctly separate ones. Several feet along their descent, the projecting rocks of the cliff face squeezed them together into one cascade. A little lower, and they separated again, then still lower joined once more, like strands of hair twined into a fat braid.

A pool at the bottom rimmed with moss and banks of ferns finally received the waters. From here they rushed through the ravine they had carved, their course taking them beneath a sturdy, hanging bridge that faced the falls.

“I’m going out on the bridge,” Brenna announced. “I should get some great shots from there.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t safe,” Casey agreed.

By the time he’d followed her to the center of the bridge, she was busy with her Nikon compact, adjusting it for color, sharpness and clarity. She was ready to record a series of photographs when she heard it.

“Listen!”

“What?” Casey questioned. “All I can hear is the roar of the falls.”

“Not that. It’s the sound of drums coming from somewhere off the other side of the bridge.”

“You’re imagining it.”

She shook her head in denial. “I don’t think so. There’s a path there. I’m going to follow it and see what I can learn about those drums. I don’t think they can be the usual steel ones. Could be really interesting.”

Before he could stop her, she was off the bridge and hurrying along the path.

“Brenna, come back here!” he yelled after her. “Damn it, now who’s being reckless?”

She ignored him, knowing he would catch up with her. He did, muttering, “You’re going to get into trouble with this appetite of yours for local color.”

“You should talk. You weren’t worried about trouble when you took us over that rotten road.”

“So we’re even.”

They left it there, the drums growing louder as they proceeded on through the forest. Sunlight ahead of them poured down into what promised to be a large clearing. When the path widened, Brenna could see a collection of small houses. More like shacks really, their peeling wooden walls painted in the rainbow hues favored by the natives everywhere on the island. Vibrant colors that had faded but which she still admired.

“It’s a village.”

“A poor one, from the looks of it,” Casey said.

Brenna could make out garden plots devoted to vegetables, banana plants at the sides of the houses and scrawny chickens scratching in the dust, but nowhere was there a sign of human life that would explain the drums. It was odd.

The path divided here, the branch on the right curving around a blind corner. Casey nodded in that direction. “It’s coming from around there.”

They followed the sound, turning with the path that brought them to the edge of another clearing, the origin of the drums and probably the strangest sight Brenna had ever seen.

Kneeling on the ground in a wide circle was a collection of women, none of them old and none of them probably younger than their upper teens. There were only three men present. Two of them were seated back to back in the center of the clearing, slapping out an alternating rhythm on a pair of hip drums.

Added to the beat was a shaking rattle in the hand of the third, older man wearing a fantastic headdress, his dark face streaked with white paint. In his other hand was a pot. Progressing slowly, regally around the circle from woman to woman, his forefinger dipping into the pot, he smeared a careful symbol on the forehead of each, his lips moving in what Brenna convinced herself was an incantation.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Casey mumbled, “I’d say what we’re seeing here is an episode from Survivor.”

“It isn’t funny, Casey. I think we’ve wandered into a private, and probably very sacred, ceremony of some kind, and maybe we’d better—”

She got no further. There was a sudden, somber silence. The two men had abruptly stopped smacking their drums and were staring at the pair of intruders. The entire gathering had discovered them, including their leader, who was plainly unhappy with their presence.

Glaring at them across the clearing, he stretched out his hand that gripped the rattle and shook it at them menacingly. Shouting out some dire threat Brenna didn’t understand, he started toward them.

Casey didn’t wait. His hand closing on her wrist, he started to thrust Brenna protectively behind him. Another shout from a different source stopped him in midaction. The witch doctor, or whatever he was, never reached them. That second shout effectively halted him, too, in the middle of the clearing.

Brenna was as startled as the rest of them when an attractive young woman, with skin the color of smooth milk chocolate, charged into the clearing from the direction of the village.

“I’m guessing that’s our shouter,” Casey said.

Whoever she was, she was fearless, Brenna thought. Without the least hesitation and no evidence of intimidation, she approached the glowering witch doctor.

She had to stop thinking of him as that. Other than the apparent leader of this group, she didn’t know what he was exactly.

As she and Casey watched, their savior began to lecture the fellow. Or so it seemed from the tone of her voice, because from their position they couldn’t make out her words. But whatever they were, her target was actually listening to them.

“I knew it,” Casey insisted. “I just knew it. It’s a reality TV series. Has to be.”

She wished he’d be serious. This was a serious situation. On the other hand, she had no right to complain about his attitude when he’d tried to prevent her from coming here. Although it seemed the bold young woman must have won them their exoneration since the leader, with the sulky look of a child, turned his back on them and retreated to the other side of the circle.

Brenna watched the woman as she approached Casey and her, thinking, she’s different from the others. It’s something in her attitude.

It wasn’t just her friendly smile either. It was her language when she reached them, an apology she expressed without any hint of the native dialect. “Sorry about that, folks.”

“It looks like we owe you a vote of thanks,” Casey told her. “You know, the cavalry riding to the rescue at the last minute.”

She received his gratitude with a laugh. “Oh, you weren’t in any danger. He was just upset because of that.” She nodded at the camera in Brenna’s hand.

“I wouldn’t have photographed any of this,” Brenna hastened to assure her. “Certainly not without permission.”

“I appreciate that. My people don’t mind having their pictures taken by the tourists, but they do like to be asked first. I’m guessing you came to see the falls and heard the drums.”

“We did, yes.”

Their deliverer glanced back over her shoulder. “Um, if you don’t mind, why don’t we leave the ceremony here to continue, and I’ll walk you back and try to explain.”

Casey waited until they were out of sight of the clearing, where the drums had resumed beating, and on the path to the falls before asking, “What was that we were seeing? Voodoo?”

“Not voodoo, no, though it is similar but with different rituals. Both of them originated from Africa, but this one is called obeah.”

“And the guy in charge?”

“Well, whatever you do, don’t call him a witch doctor. He hates that. He considers himself an obeah priest, and when he’s conducting a ceremony his name is Lubomba. And when he’s not,” she confided, following another melodic laugh, “he’s plain Frankie Wilson. Works on a melon farm outside a village below ours. Like most of our men do whenever the work is available.”