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143 pages

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Co-narrated by the Baron Samedi, Vodou Spirit of Death, Saturday Comes is an atmospheric tale of love and hate; of Haiti's long-smoldering societal and class issues; of the magic, which reigns over the everyday lives of Haitian natives, and of the unseen forces that draw human beings together.

It is a cold, wet, living nightmare when 12-year-old Maya St. Fleur finds herself on a makeshift boat bulging with other Haitians fleeing their island for a better life in the States. The sordid degradation and horror of that trip will mark her for life.

The name of the one who has coerced her to leave the country and family she loves is Henri Chenet-perpetrator of unspeakable acts against her mother; blackmailer; and father of the boy who makes her heart beat with young love. Consumed with a desire for vengeance, she nevertheless vows to, one day, kill the son he cherishes above all else.

Years later, she reconnects with her childhood love in Miami, and they fall for each other all over again. Will she be able to follow through with her dark, murderous plan hatched so long ago?Â

Sujets

Occult

Supernatural

Fiction

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Publié par	eBookIt.com
Date de parution	21 février 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9780978500399
Langue	English

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Saturday Comes
A Novel of Love and Vodou
Carine Fabius

2011

© Copyright 2011 Carine Fabius

Saturday Comes
by Carine Fabius

Published in ebook format by
Kouraj Press
6025 Santa Monica Boulevard
#202
Los Angeles, CA 90038
323-460-7333
info@kouraj.com
www.kourajpress.com

Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com

Copyright © 2011 by Carine Fabius

Cover Design: Pascal Giacomini, Jeannie Winston Nogai

Cover Artwork: Edouard Duval-Carrié

Notice of Rights
All rights reserved under international and pan-American copyright conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

Fabius, Carine

Saturday Comes

Copyright © 2011 Carine Fabius
All rights reserved.

ISBN-13:978-0-9785-003-9-9

Also by Carine Fabius
Jagua, A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon
Sex, Cheese and French Fries: Women are
Perfect, Men are from France
Ceremonies for Real Life
Mehndi: The Art of Henna Body Painting

Acknowledgements
Writing a book is a long, hard journey requiring, among countless things, the help and support of those whose encouragement, generosity, expertise, tough criticism and positive feedback help to remind an author that there is an end in sight. I am grateful to those of you who read the manuscript and provided critical insights. I won’t even attempt to name you all because this book has been so many years in the making that I will surely forget someone crucial! I owe endless gratitude to Maddie Perrone of Literary Artists Representatives, my first agent, who fell in love with this story and believed in me as a writer. I am also grateful to Deborah Ritchken of Castiglia Literary Agency, who pushed hard to help this story see the light of day, and to my friend Karen Kaplan for introducing me to Deborah and championing this book from day one. Many thanks to Donald J. Cosentino for helping me get closer to the ultimate trickster, Baron Samedi ; and to Henrietta Cosentino for her guidance to a better understanding of Vodou ceremonies. Frank Weaver remains the best editor known to mankind. Thanks to Edouard Duval-Carrié for his gorgeous artwork, which graces the cover of the book. As always, huge thanks to my husband, Pascal Giacomini, for his enduring support.

The Baron

I f Christians paid more attention in school they would remember about Saturday night. They would know that the Miraculous One goes by other names too, like Lord of Saturday, Father of the Dead, Spirit of Death; or, the one my Haitian children use: Baron Samedi . What’s that you say, baby? Yesss…Samedi is French for Saturday, the day He died. But the Christ’s valiant journey to the underworld to gather lost souls never gets much play; it’s his return on Easter Sunday to rise in glory from the dead that steals the show every time. Not surprising, really, since everyone makes such a fuss about life. Call me biased, but I’m into death.
I love it down here in the land of the dead, where it’s icy and dark, with no need to protect my sensitive eyes from all that light—although these shades do look sharp with my black suit and hat. And you’ve got to admit that my purple scarf hits just the right note! I let myself be lured up there, but I don’t like to stay too long. Sliding into a human body is no easy thing. My throat gets funny too. I hear them saying I’m nasal and that I speak so slowly…But, there are matters to deal with above ground—like encouraging humans to carry on feeding their obsession with sex.
No death without life, I like to say. ‘Round and ‘round it goes, from the grave to the stage and back again! You want my job, you better be an expert on getting down , baby, and, yesss , dying. Haitians love that delicious and dangerous combination. Mmm…That’s why I like hanging with them and will attend their ceremonies, but only IF properly plied with the right rum and cigars. And it is true that I love, love, love to dance. Watch this smooth move. Uh huh. You get my groove.
Love me, hate me, fear me—doesn’t matter. Just get used to me ’cause I’ll be dropping in from time to time to cast a shadow or two. I can’t help it. I have a stake in this story, as in all stories, which have to end in my cold but welcoming arms. Haitian people say that if a person does not merit death, I will reject it. I am not sure if I agree or disagree—about it being a question of merit. Why don’t you read on and judge for yourself?

Prologue
I am going to kill him!
In a feral flash of brilliance, Maya St. Fleur knew what to do. As glacial resolution spread through her body, the dark, long-limbed child wondered at the sense of peace and thrill that filled her heart. She understood that her prayers to the Baron had been answered. As he bowed before her now, his tall black hat removed in at-your-service parody, she watched his vacant face melt into shaded topcoat, and vanish into the gloom around her. And she accepted the unthinkable. Yes, it was perfect—and so right that she should kill the very one who had introduced her to love.
A defiant tear willed itself down her cheek as angry waves slapped against the rotting, hollowed-out, 14-foot tree trunk that doubled as a boat. She frowned, wiping at the tear. I have to stay strong. I have to stay alive. But she knew that the probability of reaching Miami was slim at best. It was folly even to try.
The hopeful crew of twenty-five that had waved goodbye to relatives and friends had dwindled down to two: Maya and the determined young man named Antoine, who had collected their tattered filthy dollars for the price of passage.
Perhaps two weeks (or was it months?) had passed since the group’s departure. But the anxious resolve, swollen aspiration, and devil-may-care disposition had been theirs, not Maya’s. No willing participant was she, sentimentally blackmailed and prodded like a pirate on a plank to leave her family and friends, home and hopes. How was it that she, who would have chosen Haiti’s desperation over Miami, was the only one still alive? One by one, day after wretched day, night after terrifying night, they’d gone. Three nights into the voyage, two aged women, an overweight girl, and a middle-aged man had been swept away by choppy waves. Blue-cold wails haunted the air around them as the moonless sky aided the sea in its conquest. And the others: that blur of black faces and bodies so wrenchingly skinny and scared. What did it matter? They were gone, and Maya dared not reflect on the gruesome, sometimes scandalous remembrances—of tightly packed bodies made slippery by vomit, of soggy bodily wastes crushed between toes, of the increasing fights among them for the food their own excrement had become, and then much worse as their hunger turned vicious. And the stench, the unbearable, never-ending stench…
As the sun started to rise in the sky, she looked over at the once-cocky captain of their boat. He didn’t seem to be breathing. It would be so simple, so beautiful just to die here now, floating like this ; at least there’s more room now, so much better than before …But she would not allow that. She would continue to breathe, and a miracle would get her to this cursed land they called Florida. She mustered up what strength she could to hum a song to Agwe , Ruler of the Sea. Please, please . She had work to do. She dropped her burnt and blistered arm over the side into saltwater below. Knowing it wouldn’t help, she lifted a few drops to her mouth, dripping acid down her throat. Why not? Desperation had inspired worse things.

A strong wind picked up.
Thankful for a respite from the heat, Maya turned over and prayed for sleep— a dreamless sleep, please God . But she would not be spared.
“Ou konen Jedi se jou pa ou.”
“You know Thursday’s your day,” she heard him say. Maya peered around a half-opened door to a concrete room, dank and windowless, and froze before a familiar spectacle: M’sié Chenet, the man of the house where she and her mother worked, stood as close as he could behind her manman, his right hand squeezing her breast in a painful pinch. His left hand clutched a coiled red rope. His dark green shorts pooled around his ankles as he pushed rhythmically into Manman Jizzeline’s dark brown behind. As Maya watched, her mother turned, noticing her. Two ragged-edged black holes burned in place of her eyes. She smiled but her teeth were gone, replaced by sharp, pointed fangs that dripped dirty, brown blood. Maya opened her mouth to scream in terror, but something stopped her.
“It’s okay,” her mother said without words. “There’s nothing we can do to change it. I die, he lives on. That’s the way it’s always been. Don’t try to change it, you’ll only get hurt. Now go!”
“No!” she shouted, running toward them, fists flailing, a hollow scream bouncing against clammy gray walls; and she saw the red rope come to life, becoming a thick purple-edged snake that flung itself around her scrawny body. As she watched herself disappear down the serpent’s orifice, she wondered at her vanishing resolve. “I am like a stone. I can’t move or fight. And this heat, this smelly, horrid heat. I’m going to hell…But I didn’t kill him yet! So hot…so hot…so hot…”
When Maya opened her eyes, it was hot indeed, and the horrid smell a vapor from her own body. A strange, gritty sensation filled her mouth and surrounded her tongue. She sat up groggily and gazed upon turquoise water, sensing a change. The boat was missing! She looked down, imagined she saw sand, and thought, Shore!
And then a voice said something she could not comprehend. Dazed, her eyes clouded, M