Put Off 

a short story 

By Deena C. Bouknight

“If the blind lead the blind, they will both fall into the pit.” Matthew 15:14

“My brother, I will do it,” said Serge to the voodoo priest, barely visible behind the crumbling concrete altar. The windowless grass hut allowed in little of the remaining daylight descending rapidly behind the barren crest of Cha Cha Mountain.

The burly coffee-skinned man often did his sibling’s bidding. Yet, the other-world “called” received recognition. In fact, in a village tainted by poverty – as was most of the depleted Caribbean country – Serge’s brother lived affluently. Payment for services came in the form of livestock and rice and sometimes money. For the local Houngan to sacrifice a chicken to the loa and solicit spirits to intercede for Bondye for healing, direction, or special privileges, he might even ask for Haitian goudes or American dollars.

But this day, Serge was to summon the bokor – a dark sorcerer to rid the village of a loco young man. Pepe – starved of oxygen during a laborious birth – was known, accepted, tolerated by villagers. His ways were not their ways, but his family kept him close. Lately, though, he had taken to sneaking out at night to eat the meals of the dead, left at the entrances of tombs just in case the trapped spirits may need sustenance. Blasphemy! He must be stopped! Villagers looked to Houngan for resolution.

“Go now!” instructed the voodoo priest. Serge complied. Though he would never see the rewards bestowed on his brother, crumbs were better than nothing.

He had at least a two-mile walk through muddy paths and over a vast dry sea of white rocks. The closest bokor lived remotely in a rural perch of maize farmers.

As Serge exited the dirt-swept yard, he allowed his open palm to glide atop the rough-hewn burnt cross, a commonplace voodoo/Catholic emblem marking dwelling places of priests or priestesses. His spirit heaved. Would Jezi be displeased with his mission? Was Jezi more powerful, or were the loa spirits.

Serge knew the bible of God and the words about taking life. The bokor would advise taking Pepe’s life. This was certain. It was the justice of voodoo and no one questioned. Yet, Serge questioned. More and more since the voices from the new church rose and overflowed the valley. His brother cursed the Jezi worship. But Serge stirred. His soul or his heart or both, he was not certain, nudged by the singing. “Mesi, Jezi! Mesi, Jezi!” The voices throbbed against the church walls every Sunday morning since the church’s planting a few months earlier.

Sunday morning was long gone, but Serge thought about the worship as he approached the church in the dusk. The salmon painted simple structure was on his route to fetch the bokor. The church and the singing and the praises to Jezi would not distract or deter him or cause him to question his allegiance to his powerful voodoo brother because Sunday evenings were not for worship in the dark, vast valley.

Yet, as Serge drew closer he detected a rising “Hallelujah! Amen! Amen! Amen!” He heard the hum of a generator, noticed illumination seeping through church window bars.  

Curious, he stopped on the road just outside the church doors and listened to the revelry inside. A tugging.

But he must continue on.

“We love you, Jezi! Nou renmen ou!” In English, then Creole, then English. The singing drew him. Serge took a few steps on the road, stopped, and listened more. His feet moved in the direction of the church’s door. As his hand approached the handle, the tall metal door opened. Light was in him and on him and through him. A gracious face spoke in Creole, “Bon soir!” The next words conveyed: “Welcome. We are celebrating visiting missionaries this fine evening!” Serge entered the sanctuary and the presence of the singing smiling voices. A hand motioned him toward a row.

Wait!

He hurried back through the door to the outer darkness. The metal door banged behind him but the singing did not cease. Serge sought breath. His heart beat anxiously as he eyed the road that would lead to a bokor and eventually a poor mindless boy’s death.

He glanced back at the door of the church. A small child peering through the leaves of a banana tree would tell the voodoo priest the next day that his brother gestured with his hands as if he were taking off a great jacket. To the curious observer, Serge appeared to fold the imaginary article of clothing and place it on the top step of the church.

“No more,” he whispered, and then opened the door and walked through.