Zen's War: Captivity

The shaman―or Houngan as he had referred to himself―stood with his arms outstretched and his hands open over the body of the Colonel. The Houngan’s eyes rolled back in his head, revealing only the whites of his eyes. His hands trembled, and he seemed to be in a trance like state. Colonel Krakowski lay there looking paler by the minute. Zen had trouble taking the ritual seriously, but tried to keep an open mind. It was then that the Houngan began to speak in a loud booming voice.

“I call on Papa Legba to allow me to open up the crossroads, so I may gain access to this spirit that is trying to depart from this physical plane of existence.”

“This is never going to work,” Derek commented, finding the Houngan’s words completely ridiculous.

“At least give him a chance,” Aurora said.

“At this rate he definitely won’t make it,” Hector said, in agreement with Derek.

The Houngan suddenly came out of his trance, once more revealing his brown irises and pupils of his eyes. He then turned his head and addressed the group. “If you want to save him I need all of you to believe that I can. This will not work otherwise.”

At that moment the group became quiet and the Houngan continued to consult with the spirit world. “I also call on Babalu Aye to heal the body of this man.”

Colonel Krakowski continued to struggle for his life. Foam still bubbled from his mouth, and he was gnashing his teeth together. It seemed as if all hope was lost.

Derek turned to Pablo and asked, “Who is Papa Legba and Babalu whatever?”

Pablo turned to Derek and quickly responded, “Papa Legba is the spirit who is able to access the crossroads between the world of the living and the land of the dead. Babalu Aye is the Lord of pestilence and healing.”

“This is insanity,” Hector commented.

The Houngan stood there with sweat glistening on his face. It seemed as if he was going to pass out. Zen watched, questioning how he had let himself get talked into seeing this so-called healer. He was agnostic, so he didn’t necessarily disbelieve or believe that the Houngan had any spiritual power. He hoped however that whatever he was doing would save the Colonel.

“I call on the loa to allow this man’s spirit to return safely to his body,” the Houngan said, pleading with the spirit world.

The Colonel was still twitching on the extended lawnchair. His eyes looked like they were clouded over, but they seemed to be clearing slightly. Was it the words that the Houngan was speaking that were causing the Colonel to recover, or was it that the neurotoxin was being fought off by his own body? Maybe, it was only psychosomatic. The fact was that it didn’t really matter how he recovered, but simply that he did. Slowly his muscle twitches appeared to be subsiding, as well as the opaqueness of his eyes. It became obvious that he was recovering. Zen did not believe in miracles, but this was as close to one as he had ever seen. The Colonel suddenly sat up looking like he had just awoke from a dream. He appeared to be completely disoriented, unaware of the ordeal he had just undergone.

He used the sleeve of his army jacket to wipe the saliva from his beard and mouth. “What the hell is going on?” he asked, then rubbed his eyes with his hands in an effort to clear his vision.

The Houngan said to him as he stood over him, “Your spirit tried to depart from your body, but with the help of Papa Legba I was able to coax it into returning.”

“I can’t remember anything... I take that back. I remember being cut by a spear point by one of the Nocturnes, but nothing after that. My life didn’t flash before my eyes, and I didn’t see any bright light. How did I end up here?” the Colonel asked, still in a state of confusion.

“After you were cut by the spear of the Nocturne we didn’t know what was happening to you. You lost consciousness and started to have convulsions. Pablo suggested that we bring you to a shaman, or the Houngan rather. Thankfully the Houngan was only a few blocks away from where we were attacked. It wasn’t easy but we somehow managed to get you here,” Zen replied.

“I guess it’s you I have to thank for saving my life,” the Colonel said, directing his gratitude at Pablo.

“No, it’s Hunter that you should thank,” Pablo responded, “it was his ability that brought you back.”

Colonel Krakowski extended his hand to shake Hunter the Houngan’s hand in thanks. “Thank you for saving my life. God will definitely reward you for it,” he said as he shook Hunter’s hand.

“Thank Papa Legba for allowing your spirit to return from the netherworld. You can thank me by giving me food and water,” Hunter said in return.

Hector swiftly unzipped one of the pockets on the side of his backpack and pulled out some coyote meat, then he tossed it to Hunter who caught it in midair. Derek then reached into his backpack and withdrew his thermos of water. He then walked over to Hunter and handed him the thermos.

Hunter took a piece of the coyote meat and bit off a large piece. He did not question what kind of meat it was. He seemed grateful to have anything to eat at all. He then took a generous gulp of water. Since it had been quite some time since the rest of them had anything to eat or drink, they took this opportunity to rest and get some sustenance.

As they sat down to eat in the light of the kerosene lamp Pablo introduced them to Hunter. Zen’s suspicions had been correct that Hunter was in fact an escaped slave from the Confederate territory. He had been on the run for nearly a year. He constantly had to be wary of who he came into contact with. Bounty hunters were a constant threat due to The Fugitive Slave Law that was recognized by the Mexican Revolutionary Front. Any escaped slave could be returned to the Confederate Army for supplies such as horses and livestock. These were highly sought-after commodities, just as firearms were. He had been owned by a wealthy cotton plantation owner who was also a lieutenant in the Confederate Army.

“How have you managed to elude the authorities?” Zen asked.

Hunter looked at Zen, taken aback by his question. “Well, it obviously hasn’t been easy. Thankfully there are still some people out there who aren’t bigots. There’s an underground railroad of sorts. Some people will let me hide out overnight, but usually I have to bribe people to help me out. It’s hard to trust anyone, especially cause there’s such a high bounty on my head,” he answered between bites.

“So, where are you from anyway?”

“I grew up in New Orleans,” Hunter answered.

“It must’ve been tough,” Zen said, “growing up with all that racism and hatred.”

“Things weren’t always like that. Before the Confederacy took over, there wasn’t any slavery. Sure, there was some racism, but nothing like now,” Hunter said, as he twisted one of his dreadlocks between his fingers.

“That David Munroe is some piece of work. If it wasn’t for him, there wouldn’t even be a Confederacy, again,” Aurora said, joining in the conversation.

“I don’t necessarily agree. If not for him, someone else would have brought the Confederacy back,” Hunter said.

“Yeah, maybe. But the ones who are really to blame, are the ones who followed him,” Zen responded.

Pablo, who had been sitting with his back against the wall of the underground chamber spoke suddenly. “The same thing’s true for the Mexican Revolutionary Front. If they hadn’t followed El General, there wouldn’t be a Revolutionary Front.”

“The same things been true for all dictators and despots throughout history, but it doesn’t change the reality of how things are,” Hunter said, “all we can do, is the best we can do. Why worry about what is beyond our control?”