Help: Seeking A Quick Help

Quick Help

“The night is approaching. You told me you would help.”

"Yes. You will meet me at the only palm on the hills of ṣápátì, in Ibadan, tonight. Oh, and Before I forget—take a bite. It’s chocolate. I bought some on my way home from work. You know that I’m an entrepreneur, yes?"

'Yes, of course I know! That’s why I’m looking forward to your help tonight.”

Yale let the chocolate sink into his mouth. Hummmh… it was a cold-creamy, sweeter chocolate. He didn’t recognize the brand, but it was delicious.

He made a gesture as if to help himself to another one. “May I?”

Wúrà snapped the box shut with a sly smile. “Uh-uh—only one for now. When we’ve made a deal, then you may have more.”

Yale rubbed his neck sheepishly but smiled.

“Now go get ready for tonight. And don’t be late.”

As the hours raced by, Yale grew anxious. It was a longer trip than he’d anticipated. Although his hired man drove well—with the bad roads and frequent security checks—how would they make it to ṣápátì, Ibadan tonight!

Most people in the area knew how daring Wúrà was. Her name meant gold, and she made sure it showed in the way she dressed and the bold way she conducted business. Those who offended her soon discovered she did not make idle threats. It was this that kept her neighbors at bay.

Even knowing this, Yale was eager for her help. Wúrà had a reputation as a woman with a sharp mind for business who could get things done. Everything she touched turned to gold. But there were two well known rules when making a deal with her. Never double-cross her and be prepared to pay her price. Those who broke these rules learned the hard way how far Wúrà’s influence extended. Most met with financial ruin. There were rumors that others met a more sinister end. 

It was in the matter of his inheritance that he had sought Wúrà’s help. He had been oppressed for too long by his elder brother, Tánímọ́lá, who had been given charge of their parent’s estate at the time of their deaths. That was almost two years ago! Yale had grown tired of waiting for Tánímọ́lá to cut out his own plot of the land and describe his portion among their assets. His brother had been biding his time, withholding what was rightfully his. 

Tánímọ́lá's claim over his portion needed to end, and quickly! Yale had many things to consider. His financial security. His prospects for future business ventures. His name and standing within society. And then there was his fiancé, Ahmale’s happiness to attend to. She had expressed her desire for marriage and children, but on his salary, it was a prospect that seemed farther away by the minute.

It was settled. Tonight, his brother would surrender his claim to Yale’s property, whether in life or in death.

Night was falling and thick, dark clouds had overridden the day. Yale began to feel sleepy as he watched the African countryside slip past. As the hill country of ṣápátì came into view, he perked up and began scanning the horizon for the lone palm. He began to wonder, could there really be a hill with only one palm tree among all the hills of ṣápátì?

“There! It’s there.” He said, pointing.

The driver nodded and followed the road as far as he could until it came to an end.

“You’ll have to walk from here, sir. Want me to go with you?”

“No,” Yale said, “go stay in the village. Meet me here in the morning.”

Yale watched as the car sped away into the night and then began his ascent. It felt strange climbing a hill in the dark dressed in business casual, but the moon was full and bright enough to allow him to see the hour hand on his watch. It was almost 9. The time agreed upon. He quickened his pace, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. It would not do to keep Wúrà waiting. 

As he neared the palm, on a hill known to the locals as the ṣápátì dung hill, he saw that a torch had been lit, and people were gathered near a large straw hut that had recently been constructed. He noticed that many of the construction materials appeared quite old, as if they had been taken down and reconstructed many times. 

Two of the most beautiful women he had ever seen were waiting on either side of the door leading into the hut. They smiled at him and Yale smiled back. So, it was like a retreat then, perhaps, he thought. Wúrà was there, too, near the palm, wearing a burgundy evening dress and a luxurious gold necklace draped across her cleavage. She held a glass of champagne in her hand and raised it as Yale drew near. 

“The man of the hour, right on time.”

She finished the champagne quickly and passed her glass to an attendant, then motioned for Yale to continue inside. He gave a slight bow and allowed Wúrà to enter before him, giving a courteous nod to each of the door keepers.

Inside, the hut was filled with more people than Yale anticipated. Many women in various modes of dress (and undress) lined the walls of the hut, whispering among themselves and occasionally giving a slight nod or a lingering glance in Yale’s direction.

Yale was led to a woven fiber couch that overlooked a circle of white sand that had been laid out in the center of the hut.

“The seat of honor,” Wúrà said, extending her arm.

Yale lowered himself onto the couch as gracefully as he could, but his nerves were getting the better of him. This was all very strange. He wasn’t sure what he expected of a business meeting conducted at night on a lonely hill in Ibadan, but it wasn’t this.

Some of the women were dressed very formally in evening attire, a few wore sharp business suits, and others less formal attire that one might find a lady of station from a village wearing. A few of the older women appeared to be dressed in more traditional tribal regalia that Yale didn’t recognize. The markings and decorum were strange to him, and some of the more macabre accessories gave him an uneasy feeling. He noticed several of the older women wore what looked like necklaces of bird skulls, mummified bats, and finger bones. He was convinced one wore a necklace made entirely of human ears. 

One of the women caught him staring and he quickly looked away, causing her to cackle. His eyes landed on a young woman in very scant clothing who was kneeling, watching him. She had a hungry look in her eyes. She smiled devilishly at Yale and licked her lips.

He almost jumped when he felt Wúrà’s hand touch him.

“Do not be frightened. You are our guest of honor tonight. The auction will begin soon.”

“Auction?” Yale was confused. “I did not know there would be an auction.”

“Yes, it is a very old tradition that is important to our business here. My sisters and I stand on our traditions and ceremonies. You do not object, do you?”

“Object? That is—no, not object. I am surprised, that is all. This is not what I expected.”

Wúrà clicked her tongue and cooed. “Oh, Yale, our ways seem primitive, don’t they? I do apologize for that, but as you will see it is necessary. These ceremonies go back to our founding. Every business has its own unique culture. Don’t you agree? Ours may seem mysterious at first, but you will be most pleased with our results, I assure you.”

Yale leaned back against the couch and tried to relax. The two beautiful women who had been attending the door entered carrying tall, goat skin drums, which they placed on either side of the circle. Women dressed in many bead necklaces and very little else took their places beside the drums and began to play. Yale felt awkward watching them—the way they danced as they played, moving their hips and spinning on their heels without ever losing time. Their movements became a part of the music, and it was hypnotizing.

“Are all of your associates women?” Yale asked, his eyes never leaving the performance.

“Yes, it has always been this way,” Wúrà replied.

“And yet you do business with men?”

“We do business with anyone who is willing to pay our price.”

“And what is your price? We haven’t yet discussed terms.”

“Shhhhh, Yale. Watch the ceremony now. The night is still young for that.”

He didn’t argue, though there were many other questions he would have liked to ask. He let the drums transport his mind away instead. He didn’t even notice when Wúrà stepped away, or when she returned a short time later with a stoppered gourd.

“Yale—here, drink.”

“Eh—?”

“No, don’t ask what it is. I’m not allowed to tell you. It’s tradition. I’ve mixed some of the chocolate you enjoyed with it to help the taste.”

He hesitantly took the gourd from her and removed the stopper, holding it near his face to try to get a whiff of the contents.

“Only a small drink is enough. It will be considered a terrible offense if you don’t drink and I can’t guarantee a deal if you refuse.”

“Tradition,” he said, studying Wúrà’s face.

She nodded but seemed worried. He couldn’t imagine they would offer him anything harmful. If so it would be a very poor way to conduct business, but still, he had never been one for taking risks. He could sense many eyes on him, but he felt too self conscious to look anywhere but straight ahead. How many men, he wondered, had sat where he was sitting and taken this same deal? Surely, they were no worse for it. He knew many men who had made deals with Wúrà and were now doing quite well for themselves. They didn’t boast about their success, but when one would ask them their secret they would simply say, “Go see Wúrà if you want to make a deal.”

It was decided. He steeled his nerves and pressed the guard against his lips, feeling a hot, smooth liquid pour into his mouth. He drank only a very little and passed the gourd back to Wúrà, trying not to make a face. It was bitter and burned his nose and throat like alcohol. He could taste the sweetness of the chocolate too, though, and other flavors he did not recognize and did not care to guess.

He looked over in time to see Wúrà take a drink, and didn’t feel so bad when she also made a face before passing it to another woman. From there the gourd was passed around the room, each woman drinking just a little before passing it to the next.

So it really was a ceremony then, he thought.

Yale began to feel much more relaxed then. His face was flush and he felt the drums moving through him. The tempo quickened as the gourd was passed around, but then just as suddenly as it began, the playing stopped. Each of the drummers took a drink from the gourd as well and then stood waiting at attention.

“The next phase of the ceremony has begun. The auction is about to start.”

Yale sat up a bit, curious to see what would happen next.

Wúrà placed a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. This part of the ceremony is for you alone to decide. I will guide you.”

All eyes were on the entrance. Yale looked too, unsure what to expect.

Then the dancers began to play again, drumming a slow, heavy tempo accompanied by a dance in which they leapt into the air before a flurry of drum strikes. It was the kind of drumming that Yale imagined one might hear as they were being led to their execution.

He felt slightly drunk now, and he almost laughed in spite of himself when a cow was led into the hut and placed in the center of the circle.

An old woman—the oldest woman perhaps that Yale had ever seen, stood next to the cow, placing her hand upon it. She smeared a bit of what looked like blood onto the animal’s forehead. When he saw her take a bit more from the gourd and do the same again, he hoped it only looked like blood.

She was saying something, but Yale couldn’t immediately make out what she was saying. He assumed it was Yoruba, but he couldn’t recognize the dialect.

Perhaps sensing his confusion, Wúrà placed a hand on his shoulder again. He noticed her many gold rings then, some set with pearls, others with jewels and diamonds. Her nails were long and regally painted.

“All of these cattle are yours, Yale. They are yours to save or to sell as you see fit, for the agreed upon price. This is part of the ceremony.”

The old woman continued speaking in the strange dialect, then abruptly ended and looked at Yale.

“Who is she?” Yale asked, keeping his voice low.

“She is Kike-ímọ́lẹ̀, our leader. She says that this cow is an adulteress and a harlot. It is no good for you. Will you sell this cow for the blood price and receive a happy marriage?”

Yale felt a bit silly and he wasn’t sure what to say. He assumed the answer was yes. Who would want a harlot cow in place of a happy marriage—whatever that meant.

He looked at Wúrà and nodded.

“You must say it for all to hear,” she said.

Yale leaned forward and cleared his throat. “I will sell it for happy marriage!”

The drumming quickened its tempo and the cow was handed off to an attendant and led aside. An excited murmur ran through the crowd that was soon hushed by Kike- ímọ́lẹ̀’s raised hand.

Another cow was led in then. “This cow has betrayed your trust. It has not served you well. Will you sell it for the blood price and receive a trusted ally in its place?”

Yale nodded again and declared more boldly this time, “I will sell the cow that has not served me well!”

The cow was led aside as before. Once more the tempo increased and an even more excited murmur ran through the crowd. Kike-ímọ́lẹ̀ once again raised her hand, but many of the women continued to exchange looks of excitement and whisper among themselves.

A third cow was led in then. “This cow is a liar and a thief. He has withheld what is yours and taken what does not belong to him. Will you sell this cow for the blood price and receive your rightful wealth?”

Yale hesitated a moment. They must mean his brother, Tánímọ́lá. Up until now he had understood each cow’s role in a very general way. Stand ins for good fortune in love and friendship. But this gave him pause. What did they mean by blood price? He assumed they would sacrifice the animals, perhaps, though three cows seemed a steep sacrifice for one ceremony.

“Yale, this is the most critical part. This is what you sought my help for. Give Kike- ímọ́lẹ̀ your decision, quickly.”

Yale could feel the old woman’s eyes—the whole gathering’s eyes heavy upon him. She held her thumb up as she gazed at him intensely, poised to mark the cow for destruction.

And what if there was really magic in all of this—what had Tánímọ́lá done to show himself a good brother and a good steward of their father and mother’s trust. There were even rumors that had reached Yale’s ears that his brother had poisoned their parents, or neglected them in their last days to speed along their deaths. He had dismissed these rumors at first, but after two years—two years of withholding what was his! And flaunting it in his face with such impunity the whole time, he could take no more!

“I will!” He shouted. “I will sell the thief and liar bastard! His blood be upon his own head!”

It seemed that Wúrà breathed a sigh of relief. She knelt next to Yale and patted him on the leg. “Well done, Yale!”

He exhaled, feeling like a great weight had been lifted from him.

“What now?” he asked.

“Now we drink and feast.”

“What of the business? The arrangements? I still don’t understand how you will help me in my claim to the estate.”

Wúrà smiled. “It’s all been taken care of. Kike-ímọ́lẹ̀ has given her blessing and you’ve given your consent. After tonight, all of your problems go away. Anyone who has moved against you is being dealt with as we speak.”

Her answer only raised more questions in Yale, but before he could open his mouth, another gourd was passed to him.

“Drink,” Wúrà said, “join us in the feast. This one is better than before, I promise. It’s the iyipada potion. Drink deeply.”

In the Yoruba language it was iyipada. In English it was transformation. He saw many gourds being passed around by the jubilant crowd. He took the gourd and drank, only a little at first, and then more. It was the most delicious wine he had ever tasted, if indeed it was wine. He drank deeply as Wúrà had instructed him and felt the wine instantly warming his blood.

Women were dancing now, and Wúrà took Yale by the hand. “Come! Dance with me!”

He danced and laughed, feeling the rhythm, feeling the wine. The room seemed to spin about him. Many faces laughing. Wúrà laughing. Kike-ímọ́lẹ̀ smiling at him with her white hair and uneven teeth. As the room spun he saw the women dancing, moving in strange ways. Their laugher seemed to encircle him, and in it he heard strange sounds, like the screeching of birds, and the calls of wild beasts. He heard the shrill laughter of a hyena, the hungry howls of wolves, the grunting of pigs and screech of bats. One moment he saw Kike-ímọ́lẹ̀ and then he saw her change, her features becoming more avian, more owlish. She was a great white owl now, her wings outstretched as she rose and circled overhead.

Wúrà led him to the center and a knife was placed in his hand as he was shown to the cow that had stood in for his brother. He looked at the knife, mute in its presence. The dumb beast stared at him with large, unblinking eyes. Wúrà guided his hand with the knife to the cows throat.

He wasn’t sure if it was her hand or his own that slit the animal’s throat. Attendants on either side did the same to the other two cows, and they collected the great river of blood in bowls as it fell. Each cow bellowed and collapsed.

The yipping and growling of the many animals grew to a fever pitch. The screeching of every unclean bird and hateful beast imaginable filled his mind, and Yale felt the same din of noise rising from his own throat, taking the shape of a mournful howl. As one animal, they fell upon the cattle and tore them to pieces, filling their bellies with warm blood and tinder flesh.

The next morning, Yale woke alone on the hill of ṣápátì, beside the lonely palm. Someone had placed him on a rug made of cow’s hide, and covered him with a thin blanket. All signs of the hut were gone save for a shallow, sandy impression.

Beside him, he found a jug of water and drank greedily. His mouth was dry and his head was spinning. The night’s events were all askew, and it made his head ache to try to piece them back together.

He looked down the hill where he expected to see his driver, but saw only an empty stretch of road stretching into the countryside. He glanced at his watch. It was already a quarter to ten.

He dusted himself off and began to slowly descend the hill toward the village. Once on the road, he was able to wave down a truck hauling produce and catch a ride the rest of the way into town.

The car was there in the main thoroughfare. Children ran around it, laughing and slapping it with their hands. One was taking a peek inside. When they saw Yale approach they scattered and watched from afar. He found the keys in the glove box, but there was no sign of his driver.

“Did any of you see the man who drove this?”

The children all shook their heads.

 He asked around for the better part of an hour, but no one in the village could tell him where his hired man had gone. As the day wore on and no sign of the driver appeared, he began to grow concerned about his prospects of reaching home before nightfall. Reluctantly, he decided to drive himself, but left word for his hired man to call him at the estate should he return.

All the way home he puzzled over the missing driver and the events of the night before. It felt like a strange dream to him, but flashes would bleed through that he knew were real.

Back at his apartment he dropped in a chair, exhausted, and picked up the phone from the receiver, pressing it against his ear. He dialed his fiancé, Amahle. He let it ring a dozen times, hung up and redialed the number, then let it ring a dozen more. No answer.

He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, then dropped in two headache tabs. He stood there at the faucet, hand on his forehead, trying to pry open the mystery of the night before. He was trying to move through it all in chronological order, but he was only getting snapshots. Then an image popped into his mind of a man’s body, covered in blood. As he flicked through the images in his mind like projector slides, he could see the naked body moving closer, limbs sprawled, throat cut, and then, a face. His brother’s face.

The phone rang causing him to jump. He hurried to pick it up and was surprised to find it was Wúrà on the line.

“I see someone made it home.”

“Y-yes… I…”

“What’s the matter, Yale?”

“I’m having some trouble piecing last night back together. What happened? What was the meaning of that—ceremony?”

“Don’t you remember? I guess you did drink a bit much, you wolf, you. Yale, I have to go, but it really was a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Wait—just, wait a moment, please. What am I supposed to do now?”

“What do you mean? You’re free Yale. Your thief brother. Your cheating fiance. Your disloyal driver. They’ve all been dealt with. They’ll never trouble you again. All of your enemies are gone, Yale. I’m very thorough. I’ll go ahead and draw up the paperwork on my end and have everything in order for you to take full ownership of the estate. There’s the matter of my fee of course. It’s 15% of all liquid assets but that should be a small matter now that you control everything. Just lay low for now—not that you have anything to worry about—and I’ll be in touch in a few months.”

In those months Yale was able to piece together the full depths of his brother’s betrayal. Tánímọ́lá had not only taken steps to legitimize the theft of Yale’s share of the inheritance, but he had secretly been sleeping with his fiancé. His hired man had known about the whole thing, as well as his brother’s mistreatment of their parents, but had taken bribes from Yale’s share in exchange for keeping his silence. 

Everything Wúrà had said was true. All of Yale’s enemies were gone. Vanished without a trace. There were rumors of course, and many suspicious eyes on Yale, but Wúrà had worked her magic as usual and made it all go away.

Magic! Yale hadn’t believed in magic before that night. And even now, as he dressed for his dinner date with Wúrà, he knew he should have loved for all she had done for him—just as he knew he should fear her magic. But it was the memory of that night that had become his obsession now. 

He had begun seeing a psychologist who specialized in regression therapy. It had been a difficult journey over many months, and it was a time filled with nightmares and anxieties that haunted his waking hours, but he had finally learned the truth of what Wúrà was.

He splashed on some cologne and made his way out of his family’s estate to the waiting car. He had a new driver now, a bright young man he could trust, one who had also once been a benefactor of Wúrà. Another who had been made to eat the flesh of his kin.

He met Wúrà at the restaurant and greeted her with a kiss. She had promised him love, loyalty, wealth, and she had delivered it all in one neat package. If it had only been that, Yale might have been the happiest man in Africa. But the image of those laughing faces—laughing at him. His ignorance. Mocking him as he knelt on all fours like a dog—no, he was a wolf—it was his brother, the cow, who had become a man again. All three of them had reverted to their true forms, just before he and the coven fell upon them and devoured them.

He cut into his steak and held the meat close to his mouth. The scent sickened him but he showed no sign. Wúrà watched him, smiling. He smiled back and sank his teeth into the rare beef, pretending to savor it.

Yale was finally free. He wanted for nothing. But what he desired most now was knowledge. Secret knowledge.

With all his money and resources, there had to be someone, somewhere, who could tell him how to kill a witch.

READABLE

@Varon Cook

Read your Midnight Masquerade sample! Nice characters, cozy family setup, interesting boy-girl relationship, hint of exotic/fringe culture, hint of Dylan's potential coming of age adventure. An assembly of promising elements. 

Some thoughts:

You mentioned "summer of 1986" at the start ... maybe introduce a few specific pop culture mentions from that year? Movies, music, celebrity gossip, computer games, etc. Music references, especially, might help create an imagined soundtrack for this. Especially since it's happening at the Midnight Masquerade.

Also, broadly speaking the relationship angle in stories tends to be activated mainly through a Girl's Forbidding Father or a Romantic Rival kind of character, which immediately introduces a sense of conflict/obstacle. So perhaps can work one or both of these into the draft? Just a quick mention would do, as a teaser. Either there's a boy interested in Irina (Kenny or a carnival boy), or another girl interested in Dylan?

The Dylan-Irina interaction/dialogue flows well. It makes a strong impression. One consideration is that this might steal the thunder/attention from any horror angle you have in mind, effectively making it a YA romance. (I do get the sense that this might make a good YA romance, if you're exploring that possibility.)

Yeah, those are my thoughts after reading it, hope something here is helpful. Thanks for sharing this!

Below the banner stood a man.

He was thin to the point of emaciation.

A black top hat sat on his head, tilted ever so slightly, almost jauntily.

A midnight-black suit hung from his frame.

But, although thin, there was something that suggested a hidden strength and intelligence.

His skin stretched tight across his bony cheekbones, his pointed chin. His eyes, in the shadow of the hat, were two pits of deepest black.

He looked across to them and lifted a hand, gave a small wave.

He bowed, and when he stood straight again, his smile had stretched from one side of his face to the other.

The effect was hideous; a living cadaver.