A ghostly aroma of burnt sugar arose from the parched earth east of the forest. A dilated sun spun into a torrid tint of tangerine. With a final exaltation it fell into hell. Pomegranite blood seeped deeply into that purple haze behind the cane field and the piedmont known as Spyglass Hill. The bitter perfume wafted seaward toward Daddy Doc's lagoon. Born and raised in his father's house, he lived in it now. The pinewood house was built upon stilts and painted with pastels of azure and rose. Its roof was Joseph's Coat of Many Colors. His father had bought a zillion kinds of shingle at an odds-and-ends close-out sale at the Old Jew's hardware downtown. The house was littered with nautical gear. There was a defunct diving suit. His father had been a salvage man and a Christian, honest and hardworking. A two-bit Welsh son-of-a-bitch let him drown twenty fathoms down inside a worthless wreck during a devil's squall.
The Church of England consoled the stoic African widow, saying a good man had gone to his Final Reward. Glory! Glory!
*
A motley assortment of conch shells, cowry shells, driftwood, ancient beer and rum bottles, brown and green, lay to the lee of easy notice. In the midst crawled a mangrove spider.
Secluded and feared by locals, his humble ancestral estate was a magician's workshop. There was no doubt that a sentient wickedness awaited anyone daring tresspass. Daddy Doc promoted the self-fulfilling myth that he was a powerful magus. Legend had it that he could control storms as adeptly as a Hawaiian kahuna, animate and direct clay men as stolid as a Kabbalist's golem, and send forth thought-forms much like the tulpas of Tibetan lamas to do his bidding. It did not matter to him whether there was a Supreme Deity who divined Everything. He himself could channel the Cosmos, and that was far and away enough.
Daddy Doc favored only one white person.
Pirate Jenny.
A true child of earth, fire and water, she was welcome anytime.
*
Today at dusk she sat at the end of his ramshackle pier. She wore a khaki baseball cap from Gap. a blue chambray shirt from Burdines, and a black bikini bottom from God-knows-where. It was scarcely larger than her eyepatch!
Daddy Doc noticed whispy blond curls of pubic hair extending beyond the fabric borders. The fabric was so shear that he could discern the contours of her gorgeous vulva.
A vision of Izaak Walton's "compleate anger," she patiently coaxed that elusive nibbler.
*
"Tell me about Babalu-Aye," she said, near him now.
"He is the artful patron of the sick."
"I remember when I was a kid and we watched "I Love Lucy" on TV and Desi always hollered Babalu! when he led the orchestra."
Daddy Doc laughed heartily, basso-profundo. "I loved that crazy Cuban."
"Was it the same Babalu?"
Shrugged. "Can't really say."
"Do you remember Mac's wife? Bernice. She had AIDS."
"Yes. She came to me one night. I remember her very well."
"Babalu-Aye helped her. She wrote me from Vancouver."
"Indeed."
"I never thought she would embrace magic."
It was a wild star-tossed night. With her red hair writhing like braided serpents, she strode gaunt and fever-eyed from the rattling grove of coconut palms. She wore a necklace of beads, red and white, in homage to Santa Barbara, also known as Chango, mighty god of thunder and lightning. Bernice climbed the steps to his herbal veranda like a zombie. He commanded her to lie down with him, and suddenly the storm was upon them.
*
"Time for one last dip," Pirate Jenny said, doffing her shirt and cap.
Daddy Doc removed his mirrorshades and observed her petite breasts.
She allowed him to touch her belly. His black-polished nails traced the taut ridges of her tanned abdomen. She tingled, went electric. Then she dove into the placid lagoon and disappeared beneath a deep blue indigo. With no thought of sharks.
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