The Prophet

Chapter Fourteen

The wooden floor creaked beneath my shoes as I stepped from the foyer into what had once been the front parlor. Now it was the reception area, and a new assistant had taken over the front desk and phones.

She looked up with a curious half smile as I walked in, her chocolate-brown eyes disdainfully sizing me up from ponytail to sneakers. She was dressed much more stylishly in a silky blue top that looked gorgeous with her dark skin tone.

“May I help you?” she asked, with a trace of an accent I couldn’t place.

“I’m Amelia Gray. I don’t have an appointment, but I’m hoping to see Dr. Shaw.”

“He’s very busy today.”

“Could you at least tell him I’m here? If he doesn’t have time to see me, I can come back later.”

She hesitated, not at all receptive to my request.

“We’re friends,” I added, which did not impress her.

“Wait here,” she coolly instructed as she rose from the Charleston-style desk and disappeared down the hallway. I heard a door open, the murmur of voices and then the brisk click of her heels on the wood floor as she returned.

“This way,” she said, her lips pursed in disapproval.

“Thanks.”

I’d been to the Institute many times before, so, of course, I knew where the office was located, but I followed her silently down the corridor to where she opened a set of pocket doors. She said nothing, merely stepped aside for me to enter, and then slid the doors closed behind me.

I stood glancing around at what appeared at first to be an empty office. It took me a moment to spot Dr. Shaw balancing precariously at the top of a ladder as he pulled a dusty volume from the highest shelf of an overflowing bookcase. I didn’t speak for fear of startling him, even though I’d already been announced and he’d undoubtedly heard the door.

His office was as crowded as ever, a treasure trove of ancient tomes that begged to be explored from cover to cover. The furnishings were sparse, but the room itself was lovely with a cozy marble fireplace for winter evenings and a set of French doors that led out into a well-kept garden. The oak floors were covered with faded rugs and stacks upon stacks of books. I inhaled deeply the scent of leather bindings and a hint of tobacco, although I had never seen Dr. Shaw smoke. But it wasn’t hard to imagine his teeth clamped around the stem of some great, curved pipe as he pondered the complexities of this world and the next.

“Hello,” he called from his lofty perch. “Have a seat, won’t you? I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Take your time.”

I placed my bag on the floor beside the chair opposite his desk and walked over to glance out at the garden. The doors were ajar, and a mild breeze blew in the fresh talcum scent of the heliotrope that grew in clay pots on the patio. A fat calico sunning on the stone pavers observed me through slitted eyes. Then something at the gate caught her attention, and her ears pricked as she turned. I saw nothing suspicious, although the trail of salt across the threshold piqued my curiosity.

Dr. Shaw descended the ladder and came to greet me. He was even taller than Ethan, with an unstudied elegance that suggested a life of affluent gentility. He had thick, white hair and the most piercing blue eyes I’d ever encountered. Despite his old-money air, he wore his usual attire of threadbare flannel and houndstooth, both trousers and jacket hanging loosely on his lanky frame.

I smelled something faintly musty and herbal as he took my hand in both of his and smiled warmly. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes, too long. How are you, Dr. Shaw?”

“I’m very well, Amelia. And you?”

“Just fine, thank you.”

He cocked his head, observing me. “What have you been up to lately? Forgive me for saying so, but you look a little worse for the wear.”

“I’ve been under the weather,” I said. “Nothing serious.” Unless you counted a near-death experience serious. Unless you counted being haunted serious.

But I wouldn’t mention any of that to Dr. Shaw because, as much as I appreciated his knowledge of all things paranormal, I’d never opened up to him about the ghosts. The sightings were personal and private and talking about them would be yet another way of acknowledging the dead.

“Let’s sit, shall we?” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Would you like some tea?” he asked as we settled in.

“No, thank you. I won’t take up too much of your time. I’ve stumbled across something that I’d like to ask you about.”

His ears seemed to twitch with the same mild inquisitiveness as the calico. He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Let me guess. You’ve encountered another shadow being.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Psychic vampire?”

“Not that, either.”

He folded his hands on the desk, and I noticed once again the ring he wore on his pinkie. A snake curled around a claw. It was the same emblem Devlin wore around his neck—the talisman of the Order of the Coffin and the Claw. That secret society for the Charleston elite.

I glanced up into those vivid blue eyes and shivered.

“Is the breeze too much?” he asked in concern and started to rise.

“No, no. I’m fine. The reason I wanted to see you…”

He held up a graceful hand to silence me. “As eager as I am to find out what brought you to me this time, I need to get some business out of the way first if you would indulge me. Otherwise, it may slip my mind entirely. I tend to be overly forgetful these days,” he said, a shadow fleeting across his distinguished features. That shadow worried me. I hoped his memory problems weren’t symptomatic of an illness, but on closer inspection, he did look a little frail.

“What business would that be?” I asked.

“I need to ask something of you and I’m afraid it will dredge up a lot of unpleasant memories.”

“What is it?” I asked nervously.

“Have you heard about Oak Grove?”

Another shiver but one of a very different nature. The very mention of that old graveyard invoked dark feelings. “What about it?”

“The police have finally finished their investigation. The cemetery has been turned back over to Emerson University, and the Committee has decided to go ahead with the restoration. I’ve been asked to approach you about our plans, but considering your history with the cemetery, no one will hold it against you if you’d like to be released from the original agreement. But make no mistake. You’re still our first choice.”

Return to Oak Grove? After everything that had happened there? I drew a breath as the faces of dead women flashed before my eyes. “When would you want me to start?”

“As soon as possible. Emerson’s bicentennial is well underway, so we would like to have the restoration completed before the end of the year. It would be a nice way to close a very unpleasant chapter. You’d be working with Temple Lee for a time. I believe the two of you are acquainted?”

“Yes. She’s a friend of mine.”

He nodded. “Given the age of the disturbed graves, the remains fall within her jurisdiction. But since you know each other, the arrangement should be amicable. No territorial disputes, I trust. That is…if you decide to come back. Take a couple of days to think it over and let me know by the end of the week.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I started the restoration and I’d like to be the one to finish it.”

“Are you sure?” He gazed at me kindly. “As I said, no one will hold it against you should you decide otherwise, and it will in no way affect my future recommendations.”

“I appreciate that, but I really would prefer to finish what I started.” It was a matter of professional pride, but it would also be good for me to have something with which to occupy my mind other than Devlin and his ghosts and Robert Fremont and his murder. I had a tendency to obsess.

Dr. Shaw sat back in his chair with a nod. “That’s settled, then. I’ll let the Committee know that Oak Grove is once again in your capable hands.”

“Thank you.”

“Now to your business,” he said with a slight lifting of his brows.

“Oh, I’m not here on any real business,” I said. “I’ve stumbled across something and I’m hoping you may be able to answers some questions for me.”

“Not shadow beings, not psychic vampires…hmm,” he mused. “I can’t imagine.”

“Have you ever heard of a substance called gray dust?”

The moment I uttered the words, I could have sworn the breeze blowing in through the French doors grew stronger. Pages ruffled in an open book on Dr. Shaw’s desk, but my gaze remained fixed on his face. I saw something flash across his features that made my blood run cold. Surprise, yes, and maybe even a hint of fear. But what lifted the hair at my nape was a look of malevolence that I would never have believed had I not witnessed it with my own eyes. Not from the refined and elegant Dr. Shaw.

As he put out a hand to close the book, I remembered something Robert Fremont had said only that morning about Essie’s relationship with Dr. Shaw. She would never divulge her secrets to a man with evil intent.

“Where did you hear about gray dust?” he asked almost casually. His tone was so completely devoid of malice, his eyes so mildly inquisitive, that I might have imagined his momentary agitation.

“I take it you know what it is, then?” I asked with my own practiced calm.

“I’ve heard of it, yes.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

He picked up a silver letter opener and ran his thumb along the blade. “To understand gray dust, you need to understand where it comes from.”

“It comes from Africa, doesn’t it?”

“Gabon, to be precise. Are you at all familiar with the country?”

“Only that it appears tiny on the map and is bordered by Cameroon, the Congo and Equatorial Guinea.” And that Darius Goodwine had spent a lot of time there writing, researching and apparently studying with a shaman. And had then made the transformation to tagati.

Dr. Shaw grew pensive. “It’s been said that Gabon is to Africa what Tibet is to Asia…the spiritual epicenter of an entire continent.”

I felt the bite of the wind again as it blew in through the French doors. Dr. Shaw got up to close them, taking his time with the latch as he glanced anxiously into the garden. I had a feeling he was biding his time while he figured out how he wanted to proceed with the conversation. His hesitation, not to mention the look that had crossed his face, was very unsettling.

He came back over to the desk and lowered himself stiffly to the chair. His faltering mobility seemed odd considering that only moments earlier I’d seen him balanced effortlessly atop a ladder.

“Gabon is one of the most mysterious countries in the world,” he said. “The area has long been a source of fascination to researchers and adventurers alike. Much of the area is covered in a forest so impenetrable as to provide a natural deterrent to undesirable influences. Religious beliefs have been preserved for generations without corruption from the outside world, including the integration of certain plants into their rituals and ceremonies.”

He paused as the pocket doors slid open and the assistant stuck her head in the office. “It’s three o’clock, Dr. Shaw. You wanted me to remind you.”

“So I did. Thank you, Layla.”

“I’ve made you some tea,” she said as she carried in a silver tray that held a single demitasse cup and saucer and placed it on the corner of his desk.

“Are you sure you won’t join me?” Dr. Shaw asked me as he reached for the cup.

Layla shot me a dark look, one that seemed to dare me to acquiesce, so I said quickly, “I’m fine, thank you. But…should I go? Do you have another appointment?”

He put up a hand. “It’s a small matter that requires my attention. Thank you for reminding me, Layla.”

“Not at all. That’s why I’m here.” She exited the room without a backward glance.

Opening a desk drawer, Dr. Shaw withdrew a tiny plastic packet, unzipped it and sprinkled the contents into his tea. I smelled that same musty, herbal odor as he stirred, then sipped.

I said nothing during this interlude, but I was curious to know what manner of herb he’d used to doctor his tea. Once again, I hoped his frailty was more a matter of working too hard than any ill health.

He took another taste, closed his eyes, and after a moment, I began to think that he’d drifted off. The silence lengthened until it became awkward. Should I say something or quietly slip away? I wondered. Just when I thought I might need to summon Layla, his lids fluttered open, and he sat very still until his eyes gradually came back into focus.

“Where were we?” he asked.

“Gabon,” I said hesitantly. “But are you sure I’m not taking too much of your time? I can always come back another day.”

He didn’t answer, but instead picked up precisely where he’d left off as though there’d never been an interruption. “You see, in most African religions, there remains a strong belief that life doesn’t end with death, but continues in another realm. In some cultures, it’s a rite of passage for a young initiate to enter the spirit world and converse with dead ancestors before he’s accepted into the sect.”

“How does he go about entering the spirit world? Or conversing with dead ancestors, for that matter.” And why would one want to? In my world, ghosts were to be avoided whenever possible.

“He’s able to pass through into another realm by consuming plants with magical properties. Or, in other words, by ingesting a powerful hallucinogen.”

“Like gray dust?”

His eyes flickered, and I couldn’t help noticing that his pupils had dilated after sipping the tea. “Like the root bark of Tabernanthe iboga, which is a plant that forms the very foundation of the Bwiti religion.”

“What does it do?”

“A mild dose can cause anxiety and sleep deprivation. A high dose produces hallucinations and a state of lethargy that can last for as long as five days.”

“Five days? That’s potent stuff. Is it dangerous?”

“A massive dose can cause paralysis of the respiratory muscles and death.”

“So, this iboga plant…” I pronounced the name carefully. “Is that where gray dust comes from?”

“No. Gray dust is a derivative of a plant that no one outside of a certain sect has ever been able to identify. The effect is different from ibogaine.”

“How?”

He settled back in his chair. “The hallucinations, for one thing. After iboga bark is chewed, the initiate falls into a deep sleep and has no real consciousness of the outside world. In his vision world, he’s faced with a series of obstacles that must be overcome before he can enter the spirit world. Once he’s allowed to pass through the barriers, a guide, usually a long-dead ancestor, will accompany him on his spiritual journey where he’ll witness many fantastical sights. Legions of the dead, typically with painted faces and open bellies from ritual autopsies. Here, he’s able to look upon the gods and speak with his deceased ancestors. When the effects of the iboga wear off, consciousness returns and he’s expected to recount his journey to the elders.”

“And gray dust?”

“Gray dust has nothing to do with hallucinogenic visions,” Dr. Shaw said. “It has a property that literally stops the heart. The initiate flatlines. In a medical environment, he would be considered clinically dead anywhere from seconds to minutes. During that interval, his spirit is able to leave the body and enter the realm of the dead, not through visions, but because his life in this world has ceased. And because he is dead, there are no obstacles to overcome. No barriers to cross. He can move through the spirit world as freely as his ancestors, traveling into realms unimaginable even through visions and hallucinations. The danger, of course, is wandering too far and becoming lost. After a certain amount of time passes, the physical body can’t be resuscitated. The shell withers and dies or, in some cases, is invaded by another spirit. At least…that’s the claim.”

I found myself shivering again. This whole conversation was bizarre and unsettling. Not that I didn’t believe it. I knew better than anyone that the spirit world existed as surely as the living world, but the notion of someone purposely traveling through the veil was unfathomable to me. I hadn’t yet thrown off the shackles of my father’s rules even though I had apparently embraced my arrangement with Robert Fremont. It was as though I once again found myself suspended between two worlds, only now the tug-of-war was being waged between my past and my future. Between the safety net of what I knew and feared, and my desire to attain a higher purpose. But I couldn’t remain in this limbo forever. The ghosts wouldn’t let me. Already they were seeking me out.

“What about the ones who make it back from the spirit world?” I asked. “The ones who are resuscitated. Do they suffer from any side effects?”

“Some report a spiritual enlightenment and feelings of euphoria, while others suffer from episodes akin to PTSD. And still others undergo drastic transformations both mentally and physically from what they saw on the other side. Or from what they brought back.”

“Brought back? You mean like ghosts?” I thought about Shani and Mariama. Had Devlin brought them back from the Gray? Was that what Shani seemed so desperate to tell him?

“If gray dust makes it easier for the living to enter the realm of the dead, it stands to reason the reverse would also be true, would it not?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Idly, he stirred his tea. “There are those among the Gullah even today who believe something as simple as an improper burial can allow the dead to come back and control the lives of the living. If a root doctor has enough power, he can enter the spirit world and bring back the dead himself. He can also attack his enemies in the dream realm, when they’re most vulnerable.”

Once again, I thought about Fremont’s insinuation that Dr. Shaw’s interest in rootwork stemmed from some evil intent. I still couldn’t buy it. Everything I knew of Rupert Shaw pointed to a man of good character. “Did rootwork originate in Gabon?”

“Like most of the Southern conjure arts, it’s based upon the beliefs and practices of a number of religions in west and central Africa. A sort of spiritual soup seasoned with Christianity. The foundation of rootwork, like Bwiti, is the mystical and medicinal quality of certain plants. A smear of blood root paste will cure your skin irritations, a pinch of goldenseal will help your digestion.” He stared down into his cooling tea. “A little celandine will ward off evil spirits and the law. And anything else that may hound you…”

He seemed to drift off again, and I leaned toward him in concern. “Dr. Shaw? Are you okay?”

He roused from his lethargy and rose to claim another book from a nearby shelf. Blowing dust from the cover, he handed it to me. I glanced down at the title: Sticks and Stones—Roots and Bones.

“That’ll get you started,” he said. “If you still have questions, come back and see me. I can even arrange a consultation with a root doctor, if you’d like.”

“Essie Goodwine?”

A brow lifted. “If you feel up to taking a drive. Otherwise, we can walk down the street and talk to my old friend, Primus—”

He swayed, and I laid the book aside as I jumped to my feet to take his arm. “Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing. Just a little dizziness,” he murmured.

He tottered again and my grip tightened. “What should I do?”

“Help me to my seat, if you would.” His voice sounded strained, and I could see the sheen of perspiration on his face. “It’ll pass in a moment.”

I led him back to his chair and waited until he was safely settled. The hand he lifted to cover his eyes trembled.

“Do you have these episodes often?” I asked worriedly.

“Every now and then.”

“It’s none of my business, but do you think it wise to climb ladders? Especially when you’re alone?”

“I usually have some warning before a spell comes on,” he said, dropping his hand from his eyes. “At any rate, it’s passing already. I feel fine now.”

“Are you sure I can’t get you something? Call someone?”

“Please, don’t trouble yourself. It really is nothing. But perhaps we could continue our conversation at another time?”

“Of course. I’ll get out of your hair.” I went around the desk to retrieve my bag.

“Before you go…” His voice lowered, and I saw his gaze dart to the French doors as though he were afraid someone lurked out in the garden. “There’s something I must tell you.”

I glanced down in alarm. “What is it?”

His blue eyes looked troubled and very intense. Frightened, I would say. “You must be very careful who you talk to about this. And don’t repeat any of what was said here today.”

My pulse quickened as my hand tightened around the strap of my bag. “Of course, but may I ask why?”

“Gray dust is an innocuous name for a sacred substance that is used sparingly even by the most powerful shamans and witch doctors. An unseemly interest by someone outside the sect might be taken as blasphemy and could put you at considerable risk.”

“At risk? You mean someone might try to harm me?”

“Not physically perhaps, but…tell me, my dear, do you keep bay leaves in the house? Citronella candles, perhaps? Or some eucalyptus? Dragon’s blood under your pillow would be even better.”

“Why do I need them?”

He didn’t seem to hear me. He’d drifted off yet again, and after a moment, I quietly slipped away.