Orgy of Souls

The night retorted with silence. Samson knew the spirits had to be commanded, his tone certain, yet not disrespectful. A fine line to walk. In truth, he imagined this was how life was for his brother, time wasted talking to someone who wasn’t there.

“I have brought the names, those souls I have to barter.”

For an hour, he implored the empty air. Sweat glistened on his body. He sliced his arms in blood tribute. Drops of blood sizzled in the candle flames.

“Why won’t you answer me?”

“Not enough,” a voice finally murmured and extinguished the candles.

Samson collapsed into an exhausted heap of spent flesh. “I’ve failed.”

“Twenty for one.”

“Twenty souls?” Samson asked.

Samson felt his hopes sink. There was no way he could find twenty women willing to sell their souls for sex. It was impossible. Well, nearly impossible.

“Twenty for one. Their blood must be spilled for the covenant to be made.”

Samson shivered as the meaning of the words sank in.

4

Working at Matthew’s House, a hospice for those dying of AIDS, Samuel felt like he was set up to fail. There was little he could do for them since nothing he could say or do would prevent any of them from dying. It was the perfect metaphor for all of his life’s work—futile efforts while everyone around him died anyway. He muttered a quick prayer to refocus himself on his duties and responsibilities. If he could provide any measure of comfort, he needed to do so. And some of the clients brought a special joy to him.

He made his way to the back corner of the floor. From the way she sat stiffly, he knew the pains in the woman’s neck and head must be excruciating today.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” She closed her eyes and put her hands together as if ready for her penance. Then she peeked out from one eye.

“Give me a break.”

“It’s true. I’ve been up to no good since my last confession. Adultery. Murder. Stealing. I’ve been working my way through the top ten like it’s my personal to do list.”

“Have you even left this bed?”

“No, but I have big dreams.”

“Us grown folk call them fantasies.”

Nkosi Bhengu, originally from South Africa, was the third of six girls. Her family had been missionaries in South Africa and she spent her childhood there. She came to America to go to school and major in journalism. However, she couldn’t escape the legacy of her AIDS-torn country.

Strikingly beautiful in a haunted sort of way, she had the sort of face meant to be immortalized on canvas. It was her thick, hearty laugh that drew him to her, though he was certain that she had once captured many a man’s heart with her bright eyes. Before. Chronic diarrhea and sudden weight loss were the first signs. By the time she showed symptoms, the disease had ravaged through her body.

“How are you doing?” Samuel asked.

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“What do you want? I’m still dying, but I feel pretty good. Bring me my mirror.”

“Why? You still look beautiful.”

“You are an accomplished liar, Father,” Nkosi said. “Every morning I look at myself in the mirror. Then I’m ready to say my prayers.”

“You’d have made a great nun.”

“I’m still breathing. No need for the ‘would haves.’”

She sat up straighter in bed as he handed her a mirror. Using the IV stand to raise her body, she studied her reflection until satisfied. She set it down and began the Lord’s Prayer. Samuel joined in.

“What’s the matter, Father? Your head’s not in the game today.”

“You’ve been in America too long.”

“Not long enough.” Nkosi gestured toward her cup. Before Samuel could feign protest, she put her hand to her head in a dramatic swoon of being too weak to pour her own water.

“Neither of us chased after AIDS.” Samuel filled the cup and handed it to her. “It’s not like we asked for it.”

“True, but I know how you get, finding any excuse to blame yourself.”

“It’s not me I’m blaming right now. I know that the church is supposed to be Christ’s bride, but I feel like we’re the wife clinging to an abusive husband.” Samuel took the empty cup from her and offered to refill it. She waved him off.

“I can’t be angry at God. He didn’t send this disease, but I can be angry at it. This invader.”

“But God...”

“Don’t ‘but God’ me. Your arms are too short to box with God.” Nkosi said.

“Now you sound like my grandmother. I’d like Him to at least know He was in a fight.”

She laughed that infectious laugh of hers. “Maybe I should be the priest and take your confession. You’re not doing a great job at the whole ‘comfort the dying’ thing.”

“I know.”

“Hey, I was kidding.”

“I’m just tired. People forget that we’re no different, you know? I’m no further up the spiritual ladder than anyone else, I’m only on the clock more. It’s hard coming to terms with the fact that this is where God wants me to be. What He wants me to go through. I don’t know. There’s something...not very humble about the whole ‘God has a plan for me’ line of thinking.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

“You’re a good friend, Nkosi.” Half the time Samuel didn’t know who was meant to be comforting whom.