Red Angel

Начало книги

The priest stood in the center of the clearing, naked to the waist, his stomach protruding over white cotton trousers that billowed about his legs. His shaved head, a gleaming brown, rocked from side to side; eyes rolled back, mouth open, almost as if in pain. Bare feet began to stamp the ground, raising small puffs of dust. Then his eyes snapped forward, wide and glaring, fixed on the badly burned corpse that lay before him on the ground.

“BabaluAye erikunde. BabaluAye obiapa. Bindome.”

The sound of drums filled the clearing, low and sonorous, the resonant beat intensifying as the higher pitch of basket rattles and beating sticks joined the rhythm. Now the chanting voices came, repeating the priest’s words, over and over, the bodies of the worshipers moving in a circle about the corpse, swaying to the drums, heads rocking wildly as if unsupported by bone.

The priest’s hands shot into the air, his grizzled, aging face resolute, eyes intent on the body. The arms caught the light of torches that illuminated the circle and cast wavering shadows that made it appear he, too, was dancing. Drums and chanting ceased. Worshipers stood frozen in place, bodies tense with anticipation.

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