The Hanging Hill

37

“You bolted the doors?” Hakeem asked his two associates.

They nodded.

“The janitor?”

“Working elsewhere.”

Hakeem now turned to Grimes. “When is your next scheduled performance?”

“This afternoon. Three p.m.”

“Good. We have time. Several hours.”

“For what?”

“Your audition, Exalted One. Please. Let us form a circle.”

The three Tunisian men held hands.

Great, Grimes thought, they want me to play ring-around-the-rosy. Right here at center stage. On the darkened set of Dracula’s castle.

“Please, Exalted One. Take our hands. Form a circle with us around this lamp. We must be positioned over the portal.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Grimes reached out with his right hand and clutched the extended left hand of the giant named Badir.

While he did, Hakeem reached over and took hold of Grimes’s left. Elevated his crippled arm. The pain washed up through the shoulder socket, then drifted away.

“Tighten the circle, gentlemen,” Hakeem said, and the four men shuffled closer to the ghost light. The caged bulb was exceedingly bright. At least five hundred watts. Grimes feared it might fry a permanent dot onto his retina.

“Tell me, Exalted One,” said Hakeem, “have you ever sensed that you might possess the power to bring back the spirit of one long since departed? To summon forth the souls of the dead?”

Grimes shook his head. Answered honestly. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Think hard.”

“No. I never …”

Jinx!

The cat. Yesterday. Had he brought back the spirit of his long-dead friend simply by wishing for it?

“My cat,” he whispered. “Maybe.”

The other men sighed and nodded.

“This is good,” said Hakeem. “Very good. You might, indeed, be blessed with your grandfather’s gifts.”

Hearing that caused Grimes to stand a little taller, his chest to swell. “Well, I suppose it’s possible. Maybe a little.”

“We shall see. Badir? Anoint the ground!”

The big man broke the circle so he could reach into a pouch he carried slung over his shoulder. He started to sprinkle dirt at their feet.

“What’s that?” Grimes asked.

“Earth. From a graveyard. Jamal?”

Now Jamal let go of the hands he was holding and produced a cloth sack.

“Eat!” he said, presenting Grimes with a stale slice of black bread.

Grimes ate. It was dry and tasteless.

“Drink!” Out came a small corked vial containing purple liquid.

“What is it?” Grimes asked.

“Unfermented grape juice,” answered Hakeem.

Grimes drank. The juice was sour. Needed sugar.

Now Jamal unwrapped a sheet of butcher paper from around a slab of gray meat resembling jerky.

“Am I to eat this as well?” Grimes asked.

“Yes,” said Hakeem. “It is the final course.”

Grimes took the meat from Jamal. “What is the meaning behind all this?”

“These are all food items associated with the underworld. The realm of the dead.”

Grimes nodded. Chewed on the tough, stringy meat.

“Unleavened black bread!” Hakeem declared. “With out yeast, it is lifeless and black like the shroud of death. Grape juice! To honor Dionysus, the Greek god of the vine. One of the few ancient deities able to ferry dead souls up from the underworld!”

Grimes nodded. The symbolism made sense. “And this final course? The meat?”

“To pay patronage to Hecate, goddess of sorcery, you must eat her favored earthly animal. You must eat flesh from the corpse of a dead dog!”

He wished he hadn’t asked.