Remy Von Guesson and the Orisha (First Chapter)

Dampness covered the underground tunnel like a layer of thin skin; it threatened to cover Remy in a moistened embrace. She navigated the dark tunnel with her hands, careful not to trip. Falling into this complete void would be the end for her; no one would come to the rescue. Remy realized she had forgotten to tell Jorgie to wait on her in case something happened. She swallowed thickly and focused her senses. Stopping momentarily, Remy pulled out her architectural map of the Castillo of San Cristobal and her pocket flashlight from her knapsack. Slipping the lit flashlight into her mouth, she studied the map. According to the map, she was ten paces away from the opening. The map proved to be accurate.

Remy wasn’t entirely convinced of its worth when she bought it from a local vendor in San Juan who collected maps and other historical curiosities. His shop was crowded with baubles that could pass as valuable artifacts to a tourist, but to Remy, she could tell they weren’t worth a dime. The shop was cramped, with walls lined with shelving and a long wooden table in the middle held on one side by a large rock; a wide wooden counter hugged the back of the shop. The vendor had caught her smirking at the shelves.

“What’s funny?” the older man asked in Spanish. He wore a gauzy guayabera and loose tan trousers, his arms folded on his back. The vendor leaned towards Remy, and she could smell tobacco on his breath.

“These things,” Remy said in Spanish, waving her arms at the display.

“Aww,” The man said and studied Remy.

“Are you a relic hunter? Like Deacon Ellis? I’ve never met a woman adventurer.”

Two things made Remy’s blood boil: the mention of Deacon Ellis and the question of her independence based on her gender. “I am a seeker of historical artifacts. I don’t keep them like he does, I give them to museums or back to its people.”

“I see,” The man said as if stifling a yawn.

“Look, I came in here to see if you sell maps. A couple of the locals pointed to this spot.”

“What map are you looking for?” The vendor said as he walked back behind his wooden counter.

“I’m looking for an underground map of the Castillo of San Cristobal.”

The vendor raised a bushy eyebrow. “And you think I have one?”

“Either you do or you don’t.”

He cleared his throat.

“Well, then, I’ll be on my way. Good luck with your trinkets,” Remy said as she headed toward the entrance.

“Wait!” the vendor said as he raised his hand. Remy wondered if he had once been an actor. Reaching below, a tuft of his salt and pepper hair feathering up like a newborn chick above the counter’s edge, Remy could hear sliding glass. The man placed a yellowed scroll on the counter and unrolled it. Remy stepped up. The map’s foxing spots seemed to have the right rust color, yet the toning wasn’t what she expected in an older map. The architectural firm’s name on the bottom corner was burnt away as was the year.

“Where did you get this map?” Remy asked, looking up from the map.

“I bought it off a descendant of Juan Ponce de Leon a few years ago,” The vendor began, his left eyelid twitching slightly. “This is the original map. Are you interested or not?”

Remy smirked. “First of all, no one knows what happened to Juan Ponce de Leon’s descendants. It could be you or me or your neighbor, for that matter,” She said, peering at the vendor, whose eyelid twitched rapidly. “Second, this is not the original map since this would not be the right paper used back in the 16 or 1700s.”

“It is a true map of the tunnel!”

“You may be right, but it’s not original, and I’m not paying more than three dollars for it,” Remy said, pulling out her small purse from her knapsack.

The vendor sighed. “Fine.” And he grabbed the bills from the counter.

Remy reached the darkest part of the tunnel, where the light from the entrance couldn’t reach; it felt like she was underwater in her scuba gear. Pulling out her flashlight, she pointed it down the hall. At the end of the beam, she could see the entrance to one of the cisterns. Spurred by curiosity, Remy walked up to the cistern opening. A Fall Out shelter sign was hung next to it. She imagined drills occurring ten years ago when World War II began. Above the entrance was a Jesus on the cross, accompanied by the sun and the moon on each side of him; at his feet lay a skull. It must be protection for the people’s water source and later for their lives. Remy remembered that when the Castillo was first being built, they realized they had no pure water sources, so the cisterns had to be incorporated into the plans. Remy turned back and began searching for an opening to Juan Ponce de Leon’s office. Pausing in the middle, she placed her knapsack on the ground.

“Of course. How could I honestly of thought that the map would be accurate?” Remy said out loud, her voice bouncing down the hall like a rubber ball.

She called out again. Remy recalled reading about the castle’s soldiers and their warfare tactics. They had to learn to be silent and knew that if there was a sound, it was from the enemy approaching. Sound was the key if this was anything like her expedition in Peru a couple of years ago when she had to call forth a bridge using a type of xylophone in the Amazon Rainforest. Practicing different tones, Remy whistled. Nothing had changed as she swept the walls again. Putting her five years of singing lessons as a child to use, Remy sang: Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do. When she got to So, a scraping sound emerged. Again, she sang So. Another scraping. Remy sang until the scraping stopped. Sliding her hands on the wall, she almost fell through the opening.

Adjusting her knapsack, Remy headed down a short hallway and into a chamber. Having conserved her flashlight for this moment, she pulled it out again and surveyed the room. A thin mucus-like layer covered the walls, and rotting furniture huddled in a corner. Remy approached the wooden writing desk and pointed the beam toward the old parchments. Yellowed and torn along the edges, she could see the faded lettering. After slipping into a pair of gloves, Remy gingerly picked at the documents. Juan Ponce de Leon’s journal should be here somewhere. The beam revealed several crooked drawers below, and Remy began pulling each out. They mostly held more documents and writing instruments. On top was an ornate hutch with two deep cupboards. Each one was empty. Remy flashed the beam inside one of the cupboards again and noticed something odd. A piece of ribbon clung to the side of the cupboard. She placed the flashlight into her mouth and gently pulled at the ribbon; the whole wooden panel popped out. She almost dropped the flashlight as she saw trinkets stashed towards the back. Remy took out each piece by piece. These must be mementos or things Ponce de Leon took from prisoners. Laying on its side was the journal. Her gloved fingers trembled as she took the journal out. I’m getting closer, papi.

Pulling a piece of linen from her knapsack, she wrapped the journal inside. As she turned to leave, she knocked into a wooden figure that she had pulled out from the secret compartment. A loud crack resonated against the walls as it hit the ground. Scooping up the figurine, she examined it with the flashlight; Remy could see that the figure had an elongated head and beads around its wrists, which were stationary on the side of its body. The paint was rubbed off in the corners of its armpits, neck, and ankles. A crack ran the length of its torso. Could it be Santeria? Remy held the figure closer. She recalled seeing similar figures back in the hallways of the Mads Museum of Natural College.

Her head jerked as a filmy veil emanated from the crack in the figure. She stumbled back as it continued to spew forth, her flashlight bouncing up and down in between her lips. The smoke appeared to take shape and hovered in front of Remy. As if being sucked towards her, the smoke pushed its way through into her eyes and mouth; she didn’t have time to react. All went dark as the flashlight hit the ground. Remy stood panting and rubbing her eyes. Fumbling for her flashlight and knapsack, she dashed out of the chamber. Her footsteps echoed behind her.

She heard another set of footsteps gaining on her. Remy sped up, even though she knew it was impossible that someone else was with her in the tunnel. It was close to midnight when she last checked her pocket watch, and she had asked to be let in with a bribe since she knew it would have been tricky to go during the day. Yet, the sounds of footsteps were there. The unbearable sensation of someone reaching out to her caused Remy to spin back. Remy could see whisps darting past her in the gloom of the nearby entrance. They appeared to her like drifting smoke in anthropomorphic shapes. Each seemed to be carrying weapons, yet the shapes didn’t hold long enough to be sure. She staggered back onto the wall, the slickness dampening the back side of her trousers and blouse, doubling the speed of the goosebumps racing along her spine. The last of the whisp raced by, and Remy was certain it had turned to look at her. Staring down the hall, she realized she was bracing herself against the wall. Breathing heavily, Remy followed where the apparitions had gone, out into the sweltering night.

A flashlight blinded Remy, and she swatted with her forearm, making contact with the person’s hand. The beam spun and landed on the ground, revealing Remy’s contact.

“Pablo, you shouldn’t sneak up on people! I could have beaten you,” Remy said.

“I’m sorry, senorita. I didn’t mean to do that. I was looking for you, the police; they are patrolling,” Pablo said, scooping up his flashlight. He was a petite man who wore his straw hat even at night, along with his loose shorts and stained undershirt. Remy always relied on him when she visited Puerto Rico on an excursion.

“Let’s get going then.”

Beams crossed their path as voices reached them from around the corner of the Castillo. Grabbing at Pablo, Remy double-backed and dashed around the corner where the wall faced the sea. The misty sea breeze sizzled in the humid air and freckled Remy’s face as they slid along the wall. The steep hill supporting the Castillo ended at the ocean, where the waves crashed violently, its foam glistening by the full moon’s light. She could hear Pablo wheezing with either fear or lack of exercise. Continuing towards the apex of the fortress where the El Garrita hung above, keeping sentinel of the sea.

Remy peered back and saw the flashlight beams resting near their feet. The voices grew into shouts.

“Pablo, you need to make a run for it. I’ll distract them. I don’t want you to get jailed over this.”

“Thank you, senorit. My wife would kill me if I end up in jail again!” Pablo said, and he genuflected. “How would you escape?”

“I’m going to go down further and flash my light over there,” Remy said, pointing at an area beyond where the fortress ended. “Jorgie should be over there with the seaplane.”

“Ok, say hi to Jorgie for me.”

“Alright, now go. Keep close to the wall until you reach the open lawn.”

As Pablo nodded, Remy noticed, past his round face, the police gradually approaching them, their flashlight beams bobbing against the slope. Remy shook Pablo’s hand and pushed away. Grabbing hold of her satchel, she slowly slid down the hill. Landing on the creamy, narrow beach, Remy pulled out her flashlight. Using Morse code, she flashed where she had hoped Jorgie was waiting. The police were right above her now, and a couple of them shouted down at her. A flash of light caught Remy’s attention, and she sighed—the throttle of an engine and then the sloshing of water as Jorgie made his way. A gunshot broke the wet sand in front of her, then another behind her, causing her to skip in place. The next one might actually make its mark. The seaplane rolled into view, and Remy hopped onto its leg; with a jolt, it raced into the open sea, bullets bouncing off its body.

Swallowing the last remaining bit of champagne, Deacon Ellis placed the glass on a tray being held by a passing waiter. He peered at the fundraisers, who filled the vast ballroom of his estate. Smirking, he thought of all the donations pouring in when they each received the coveted invite. Deacon had no shortage of financial support since he ran an excavation team funded by various institutions, several annual fundraisers, the occasional government contracts, and his best-selling books. Three years after World War II, the rich still needed to indulge in frivolous parties and splurge on the best things in life, perhaps more than ever. With his connections, Deacon and his son, Deckard, avoided being drafted, the benefits of being rich and influential. Deacon had accrued enough money to support himself and Deckard through the war. It gave him time to research other potential excursions once the war ended. There was one artifact he had learned about that drew his interest more than any other, and he was hoping to learn more about it tonight. He peered at the mirrored wall beside him, smoothed his dark brown hair, and patted down his thick mustache.

African dancers mingled through the room, enticing the attendees to dance as the tribal drummers droned in the background. Above, aerialists swung on fake vines, wearing barely any clothes. Potted trees and foliage were brought in to mimic a jungle, complete with animal handlers in safari-style clothing cradling a python, a sloth, and other exotic wildlife. Deacon wrinkled his nose as perfume and animal musk drifted between the attendees. A donor approached him and shook his hand; Deacon merely smiled and peered over their shoulder. He was waiting for someone else to arrive.

“Well, Mr. Ellis, it looks like you have done it again,” The older gentleman with the cropped beard said, shaking Deacon’s hand longer than he should. “This is a swell party.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m so glad I’ve bumped into you. By the way, my name is Edmund Muller.” He took hold of Deacon’s hand once more. “There is an auction happening in New York, being represented by my firm, that I would very much like for you to attend.”

“Is that so?” Deacon said, feigning interest. He was used to being invited to such events for his presence alone. Anyone who can host Deacon Ellis, the famed archaeologist, would have a name out there.

“Yes, yes. There will be other treasure hunters and archaeologists in attendance.”

“Will Remy Von Guesson be going?”

“Remy Von Guesson? Yes, yes, I’ve heard of her. But I believe we didn’t send her an invite. Should we?”

“No, if you do, I won’t attend,” the Deacon said, patting his mustache.

“I see, I see,” Edmund said, a worry line showing between his eyebrows.

“If you would excuse me, I need to make my way around,” Deacon said and made a circling movement with his finger.

“Yes, of course! I will send you the invite.”

Deacon nodded as he turned to leave. It occurred to him that the person he was expecting might be detained at the entrance, and he began to walk towards the wide double doors to his estate. A hand grabbed his elbow.

“Dad,” It was Deckard.

“Yes, son?”

“I’m going to the movies with my friend, Sam. I’ll see you later.”

“No, you can’t,” Deacon said.

“You know, I don’t care about these parties,” Deckard said, peering about. “I promise I’ll be there for the meeting in the morning.”

Deacon pushed his hair back. “When are you going to realize that it is important for you to learn and get acquainted with all these people?”

“Dad, this is your thing: getting people to give us money. My thing is to go on these excursions with you. Alright?”

“We’re not starting this conversation again, Deckard.” Deacon hissed.

Deckard met his father’s stare. He stepped back when he noticed someone behind Deacon.

Deacon turned. “Ah! There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you would show up.” He turned and saw that his son had left. He is beginning to be a chafe on my side.

Deacon patted the person’s back.“Without you, this excursion wouldn’t be happening,” He said as he guided the newcomer towards the back of the ballroom, where his sitting room was.

Deacon stopped short as he stared at the woman standing before the sitting room door. She wore the same outfit as before—cargo pants and a top clung to her body like she had come out of a pool—and she peered at Deacon with a doleful look. Muriel? He remembered the last time he saw her was after waking one morning. He had thought it was the remnants of a bad dream. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink.

“Mr. Deacon? Are you ok?” The new guest asked.

Deacon nodded slowly as he glanced at the person. Looking back at the door, he saw that Muriel was gone.