by Michael David Gibb
“Nearly there,” he gasped to himself, his eyes set on the deserted beach. There was no way he was turning back now. He would see this through, seasick or not.
All he had to do was wiggle his toes in that white sand and all would be better.
“And you said you don’t get seasick!” the captain said.
Edgar Smith, tax accountant, struggled to speak. “I never said that, Captain. I said I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do!” Captain said and broke into a fit of laughter.
“Ha, ha,” Edgar said, pushing himself up to stand. He shaded his eyes from the sun. “Aren’t we going any closer?”
“No place to dock. The rest of the island is surrounded by coral. It’s treacherous for boats.” He thumbed at the rocky brown coral that threatened off the bow. “You’ll have to swim.”
“Swim?” The beach suddenly shone like the gates of Heaven seen from Hell’s back door. “Listen, I’m not that strong a swimmer.”
“Here.” Captain reached down, grabbed a life jacket that might once have been orange, and tossed it to Edgar.
Edgar looked doubtfully at the vest before putting it on. “So, you know much about the island?”
Captain shrugged. “It’s just a destination to me. I’ve never set foot on it. My wife is the priestess. She’s the one who knows this place better than anyone else.”
“But surely you know if it works or not?”
Captain looked Edgar over, as if sizing him up. “I’ve seen strange things in my time. Whether it works or not depends on what is asked. The goddess is fickle. She does what she wants.” Edgar must have looked appalled because Captain chuckled, moved closer, and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, little man. The goddess will look into your heart and give you what you need.” Captain pointed at Edgar’s backpack. “Is it waterproof?”
“No.”
Captain flipped open a bench and brought out a black plastic garbage bag. He blew into it to check for holes, seemed satisfied, then picked up the backpack. “You don’t want the offerings to get soaked in salt water. Oshun is very particular goddess.” He put the backpack inside the bag and tied off the top. “Take care of it. You might want to use it again tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Another boat ride. Edgar swallowed. But he’d be different by then. At least he hoped so. Edgar tested the life vest restraints. The snaps at the neck pulled apart, the plastic weakened by overexposure to the sun. He sighed and had to catch his balance as a particularly large swell rocked the boat.
Captain stood steady, his legs unaffected as if bolted to the deck. “Time’s wasting,” he said and flicked his hand dismissively. “Over you go. I have a long trip back.”
Edgar grasped the plastic bag closely. “You will be back tomorrow?”
Captain’s hands went up. “Hey, I want the full pay. Don’t worry. I’ll be here.” A warning finger separated and wagged. “But early, mind you.”
Edgar nodded and climbed down a metal ladder into the water. In a moment he was struggling against the swells with the bag pulled behind him like a giant black jellyfish.
Captain called to him. “Little man? What was it you said you came for again?”
Edgar looked back, trying desperately to keep the salt water from splashing into his mouth. “An edge.”
Captain smiled and nodded as if it all made perfect sense, waved, and went back to the wheel. Water churned behind the boat as it pulled away.
Edgar refocused his efforts and fought his way to the beach.
When his feet finally met the sandy sea floor, he turned and looked for the boat. It was gone. “Well,” he told himself. “This is it.”
He pulled the bag ashore and untied it, taking out a water bottle from the side of his backpack. He emptied it in a breathless gulp, but his throat still felt as dry as a mummy’s handbag. Casting the bottle aside, he drank another, then folded the plastic bag and stuffed it into the backpack’s front pouch. He riffled inside the larger compartment and brought out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and read.
“Go to the north side.”
He reached into the pack again and searched until he found a battered lensatic compass. With an arm against the sun, he pointed the compass around until he found his bearings. He squinted back at the paper. “Find the bay with the bottles. Call out to Oshun.” He brought the paper closer to his black rectangular glasses and gazed at the photocopied drawing of a naked African woman.
“What are you getting yourself into?” he said in a long exhalation, then read on. “Announce what you are seeking. Leave your offerings and await your blessing.” He turned the paper over. Blank. Of course it was blank. He’d read it at least twenty times since Captain’s wife, the priestess, had given it to him.
She was a woman who bathed in incense and bad lighting, who spoke with an accent Edgar couldn’t quite place, and who was supposedly a distant cousin of Kirk at the firm. Edgar remembered how his strange journey had begun.
“You need to stand out!” Kirk had said, his melodic voice filled with self-confidence. “And I know exactly how you can do it.”
At first Edgar had been skeptical, but after seeing Charlie Atkins get a promotion when he’d come back from the Bahamas, Edgar’s mind had begun to wonder. Charlie hadn’t believed either, but on his return he had sworn a difference. An edge. A week later he’d been promoted.
“You need Oshun’s help,” Kirk said.
“Who’s Oshun?”
“A goddess of the old West African faith.”
“Okay,” Edgar said, eyes narrow, knowing that the money talk was next. He knew Charlie had paid Kirk’s cousin but wasn’t sure how much. “Let’s say I were interested. What would it cost?”
“Two thousand dollars. Cash. Plus my finder’s fee of–” Kirk smiled more teeth than Edgar thought possible. “Two hundred.”
Edgar winced. Kirk shrugged. “Hey, take it or leave it. It’s only your future we’re talking about.”
Edgar said that he’d have to think it over. Who was he kidding? It was no contest. No way! But three weeks later Kirk hadn’t said anything else, not even an eyebrow raise, and surprisingly, the idea had grown on Edgar. Charlie had certainly never regretted it. But, Edgar’s nagging conscience told him, Charlie had also been a go-getter. Not to mention a looker. Charlie knew how to play the game of life.
But a vacation in the Bahamas wouldn’t be so bad. Besides, a trip to a private island wasn’t cheap whether it was for snorkeling or some voodoo ritual. Money wasn’t a problem for Edgar anyway. He was single with plenty of disposable income. It was worth it for one night on a real deserted island. A voodoo island. What’s cooler than that? He could spend a week in Nassau afterwards and have a great story to tell his grandchildren some day.
Edgar said yes.
“You won’t regret it,” Kirk said when Edgar paid the finder’s fee.
“Hey, I want a receipt!”
“No problem.” He pulled a receipt book from his suit pocket. The man was certainly prepared. “Listen,” he said, once he had handed over the receipt. “No one ever regrets a trip to the island. But you need to remember one thing above all.” He looked both ways and leaned closer, speaking softly. “You must believe in order to receive.”
On the sun-drenched Bahamian beach, Edgar repeated the mantra. “You must believe in order to receive.” Be positive. He took in a deep breath. He’d paid the money, he might as well enjoy the ride.
He hooked the life vest on a nearby tree branch and hefted up the backpack. Holding the compass in front of him, Edgar found his bearings and trudged up the beach.
Thoughts of Captain distracted him as he walked. What did he really know about the man? Honestly? He didn’t even know his name.
And the priestess had been pleasant enough, not to mention pretty, but Edgar didn’t know her name either. Kirk had only given her address and her title. He had insisted on secrecy. Then Captain had shown up, standing in a doorway of plastic beads after the deal had been struck and the initial thousand dollars had changed hands. Edgar stopped and realized in fear that, given the opportunity, he wasn’t even sure he could describe what Captain looked like.
“Calm down!” Edgar said to himself. “You’re rushing to conclusions. He wants the full two grand. He’ll be back.” He nodded, licking his lips. “He’ll be back.” He scratched his arm absently and flinched at the pain. Both of his arms were sunburned. He stopped and took off the backpack.
“This vacation is off to a great start!” he said sarcastically and spread sun block over his already sensitive-to-the-touch skin. As he mumbled to himself, a mosquito landed on his arm. Figures, he hadn’t thought to bring bug repellent.
“You don’t think!” he said and smashed the mosquito. “And you’re going to end up bug food for it, Edgar.” He put away the sun block and hefted the pack. “If you had only thought this through more carefully… but no, you never pay attention to the little details.”
But that wasn’t true, his inner voice said.
When it came to debits and credits, Edgar was a pro. It was just in his personal life that his attention to detail suffered — amongst other things. Here he was, thirty-three years old, with hair retreating as if caught in a brush fire, except for a tuft at the top of his forehead.
Each morning, just after his shower, Edgar would comb his hair, tilt his head back, and that tuft would look like it was part of a full head of hair. But take a picture and — oh, my God! — it looked like the plumage of some silly tropical bird. Of course the bulletin boards that covered the firm’s lunchroom walls were filled with office photos. And, smiling like a fool in many of them, was Edgar-bird. How he’d wanted to rip them down. Or at least take a Sharpie and fill in his hair.
They were reminders of his awkwardness. His utter failure at the game of life.
But you’re successful, his inner voice chimed. You have a great condo, a nice car, and a good salary.
“But no wife and two point five kids,” Edgar said, taking another bearing and seeing a path that wound into the scrub brush. “And no best friend.” He peered into the murky foliage. A few feet in, a bottle hung from a tree, its green hue glinting as it swayed in the breeze.
“Bottles,” Edgar said, smiling. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He shifted the pack, shimmied his shoulders, and followed the path.
“An edge,” he murmured. “You must believe in order to receive.”
The path soon narrowed, pushing the plentiful insects closer. Edgar smacked at his neck and arms, spat out the errant flyers that bee-lined into his mouth, and rushed along.
Another bottle shone ahead. This one red. As he passed it, he thumped it. It made a pleasant hollow, thick noise against his fingernail. That was the second bottle and both had been decorative. Whoever had put them up didn’t believe in recycling old rum or wine bottles. These had been bought for their beauty. Devotion had been tied around each and every neck.
Edgar began to get excited. He had never believed in the voodoo mumbo jumbo, but being there on the island — especially alone — summoned his inner child who declared at the top of his lungs that anything was possible. A chill ran through Edgar’s body even as sweat poured down his face. He could feel the island’s sacredness. He stopped and closed his eyes. The power of … Oshun filled him. A numbness crept into his neck and a floating feeling came over him. He smiled then opened his eyes abruptly when he felt the sting.
He smacked at his neck and saw the remains of what had to be the largest insect he had ever seen. Its proboscis twitched like a lie detector gauge gone awry and Edgar shuddered and wiped his palm on some nearby fanning leaves.
His hand went to his neck and came back covered in blood. Rather than staying where he was, Edgar raced forward, hand applying pressure to his neck. He didn’t want to give anymore blood to the natives.
Crashing through the underbrush, Edgar ran. He passed another bottle, then another, until the path widened and he heard the roar of water on the coral reef. Coconut trees surrounded the path, swaying as if beckoning him closer. He slowed.
As he walked onto the beach, the salty breeze swept away the smaller insects that Edgar had never seemed able to escape. Waves pounded the reef in a lover’s frenzy but allowed a blue serenity closer to shore.
Without thought, Edgar dropped the pack and his glasses, pulled his shirt over his head, and hobbled to the water, finally escaping his pants just out of the water’s reach. He sprinted forward, cackling like a child, and hopped into the shallow water. Salt crept onto his tongue and his oversized boxer shorts disappeared with one awkward dive, yet Edgar still splashed and jumped and dove.
This was more than a frolic on the beach. This was the end of boring old Edgar. A wake. No, he thought. A good riddance. Edgar had never been satisfied with his life. He’d been the wallflower in elementary school. The nerd in high school. The geek in university. And just another worker bee at the firm.
Edgar cupped his hands around his mouth. “An edge!” he screamed, laughed, and fell backwards into the water.
When he emerged, his face was set. It had been his baptism. The death of the old and the birth of the new. It was time to speak to Oshun.
He trudged ashore, grabbed his pants and shirt (his boxers were long gone), squinted for his socks, and laughed when he realized he still wore them. Along with his shoes.
No wonder taking off his pants had been so difficult!
He balanced on one foot and took off the shoe and sock, then switched feet and did the same with the other foot. He put on his glasses and looked around, suddenly self-conscious of his nakedness.
“No! That’s the old Edgar. New Edgar doesn’t care,” he said, hands on his sides, as if the coconut trees were eavesdropping. “New Edgar doesn’t give a …” He looked around, his shoulders crept up to hide his neck. “Shit,” he said softly. The shoulders relaxed. “Shit,” he said louder. “Edgar … no, Ed! Ed doesn’t give a shit!” Birds exploded from the scrub brush. Edgar watched them, laughed, then knelt down to open his pack.
He pulled out the creased directions, focused for a moment on the drawing, then mumbled through what he had already done.
“Find the bay with the bottles.” He looked ahead. From almost every tree or large shrub a decorative bottle hung. The plethora of colors: red, green, blue, and even pink, sparkled in the tropical sun.
“Call out to Oshun.” His arm dropped and the other rose to scratch his tender scalp. “Oshun?” he said finally. “Are you there?” Of course she’s there, his inner voice scolded.
You must believe in order to receive.
Edgar stepped forward with the pack raised in the air. “Oshun! I bring offerings as fitting for a goddess of your beauty and kindness.” He had never spoken like that before and it embarrassed him. And what the hell must he look like? A naked body so white (besides his head and arms) that it could signal to spy satellites.
You must believe in order to receive.
He steeled himself, knelt, and opened the pack. He pulled out a water bottle and held it high. “Clean water, because you are a goddess of fresh water.” He lay the bottle in the sand then pulled out a honey bear that had traveled with him from Toronto. Then an orange he had bought in Nassau that morning as well as a cowrie shell necklace and perfume.
“Sweet food and the sacred cowrie!” He shook the necklace in a circle around him as the priestess had told him to do and placed it on the sand to join the others.
“Perfume!” He felt his confidence surge. “As so befits a woman of your unsurpassed beauty.” He uncapped it and sprayed a mist into the air. He put it down with the other items and stood.
“I ask for your blessing, Oshun! I ask for one thing in particular: an edge over my fellow workers. I want my life to change. I’m tired of being overlooked. I want to be noticed!”
His voice faded and the sounds of the tide and the breeze that whispered through the scrub brush took their rightful places.
“Leave your offerings and await your blessing,” Edgar said from memory. His shoulders sank and he looked around. The sun had already begun to set. He sighed. It had been fun imagining magic, but now that he had done everything, he felt deflated. He sighed again. He needed to make camp for the night. He snickered. “Camp. Yeah, right.” The hotel in Nassau seemed a million miles away.
He picked up the pack and moved up the beach. Three coconut trees made a triangle that was the perfect place to spend the night. Edgar took out two beach towels and unfurled them onto the sand. One to lie on and one to cover up with. He looked down the beach at his clothes. They seemed far enough away from the waves. He’d get them in the morning. He was tired anyway.
So tired.
He lay down and pulled the towel over him.
* * *
In the night Edgar dreamt of needles.
Hundreds. Thousands. Covering his skin. It wasn’t agony but neither was it enjoyable. It just was.
When he woke up the next morning, he felt different. Something had changed. He sat up. The beach was empty. Not only were the offerings gone, but his clothes were as well. At least he’d had the forethought to put his wallet into the backpack before the boat trip. If only he’d thought of extra clothes.
“Who cares?” he said nonchalantly, a part of him wondering why he wasn’t more concerned. He was naked after all! He riffled through the backpack and brought out four energy bars and the last two bottles of water. With uncharacteristic lust, he gulped down both food and water, wiping the remnants away with his forearm.
His forearm!
He brought it back up, astonished.
“An edge,” he said in shock. Blood drained from his head. He swayed. “I want to be noticed.” He fell back onto the towel. His eyes shut and he shuddered. Then the island went silent.
A warm hand touched his forehead.
“Calm yourself.” Her voice sounded like a woman born and bred in Toronto, but he knew she was actually speaking a different, much older tongue.
Edgar opened his eyes. A beautiful African woman knelt beside him.
“This is not a curse. It is what it is. Everyone will notice you now. It is you who must decide what you will be noticed for. Be happy and go into the world.” She smiled and vanished.
Calm washed through Edgar as he looked at his arms. “It is what it is,” he said with conviction. The sunburn had turned burgundy red. Yet it wasn’t painful. It was in this red that the black crept in like blood from a corpse, circling, connecting, continuing.
The designs were intricate. Intelligent. Beautiful.
The lines moved over his body.
Edgar wished he had a mirror.
But he did!
He frantically searched the pack, found the small shaving mirror, and gazed into it. He stuck out his tongue like a Maori warrior and laughed but frowned when he saw the tuft.
Edgar-bird plumage.
He reached inside the pack and brought out his old Swiss Army knife, a safety razor, and a traveler’s can of Barbesol.
In minutes he had used the knife’s small scissors to shorten his hair. Sitting in the warm ocean water, he lathered his head from front to back and shaved off what was left.
Edgar ducked underwater and rubbed at his completely bald head, then returned to the beach. A pleasant, caressing touch spread through his chest and stomach. Edgar peered down under his water-beaded glasses.
As he watched, the black lines that covered his body converged and drew a human form. Flowing hair. Svelte legs. Naked beauty.
Oshun smiled at him from his own skin.
Edgar inhaled abruptly and felt a moment of spiritual clarity. “I am reborn,” he said in a whisper. “But Ed isn’t a good name for me either.” He paused and thought. Then he smiled. “Edge. That’s my name.”
In the distance, a boat’s engine sputtered and groaned. Edge collected the towels and wrapped them around himself like tribal garments, then hefted the backpack.
“Well,” he said, looking down at his tattooed body. “It was time I left the firm anyway. I could go into business for myself. Maybe here in the Bahamas?” He chuckled and walked onto the forest path. “Even voodoo priestesses need a good accountant.”
About the Author
Michael David Gibb writes because he has to, picks AC/DC’s “The Jack” and “Highway to Hell” on his electric guitar because he needs to, and plays like a fool with his two young sons because he wants to. Gibb grew up in South Carolina where the old family home had a rocking chair that rocked on its own. He frequented dilapidated colonial graveyards and even frolicked in a park where pirates were once hanged. He now lives in Ottawa, Canada, in the guise of a scary stay-at-home dad.
©2009 Michael David Gibb
