SANTIAGO DE CUBA
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.
“BabaluAye nfumbe. BabaluAye nkise.”
Behind the priest the circle parted and the first of the gods appeared. The drums started again as Chango began to sway, bright red robes flashing with the movement, a gleaming ax swinging in a wide arc above his head. Next came the god Oggun, machete held high, body gyrating to the drums, green robes flowing as his torso spun and dipped. Now Ochun, dressed in yellow, goddess of love, her body long and supple, each motion sensuous, seductive. Then Yemaya, blue-robed goddess of the sea, conch shell held high, her movements large and powerful like the ocean’s ebb and flow. Next Oy, encased in flowing white, goddess of wind and lightning, face rigid, eyes wide and staring, ruler of the cemetery.
The gods spun about the corpse; each form caught in the beat of the drums. Brown and black faces glistened with sweat, then suddenly froze in place, all attention now drawn to the far end of the circle. The priest turned, raised his eyes to the distant moon.
“BabaluAye nfumbe.”
Again the worshipers parted, and the god all awaited entered the circle, body slithering across the ground, snakelike, arms and legs covered by festering sores. Slowly, laboriously, BabaluAye crawled toward the blackened corpse, his head twisted with pain and suffering. Again, the drums, the chanting. Bodies of worshipers swayed in the circle; voices rose to a frenzy. The one they had awaited-the god of death and sickness-was here. Tongue flicking, mouth distorted, BabaluAye moved on the corpse.
“Angel Roja. Angel Roja. Mendez nfumbe. Mendez nfumbe. Mendez, Mendez, Mendez.”
In the shadows, as the chanting voices rose, a figure dressed in the uniform of Cuba’s State Security Forces watched. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as Oggun passed his machete to the waiting priest. The circle fell to a hush as the priest raised the blade, paused, then sent the gleaming edge down toward the corpse. Sparks flew as the blade struck stone beneath the neck. The head rolled away. Again, drums and chanting filled the circle. Again, the gods renewed their dance.