Black Onyx

It was hotter than it had been in weeks and the humidity cloaked the town with its thick suffocating presence. At the top of a pale white clock tower, the bell chimed eight, resounding with melancholic peals that echoed through the busy working district below.

Weathered apartments, planted above quaint specialty shops, stood in formation along a narrow street, rose high into a twilight sky. 

 Open windows begging for relief from the heat only added tension to the already thick air as the din from the domestic chaos permeated the square below. Tensions were as hot as the stagnant heat with babies crying, couples fighting and kids complaining about not wanting to go to bed.

The sun sank fast below the horizon casting a warm orange glow across the sky. As the day turned into night, the streets bustled with people and the sounds of laughter and whispers filled the air. Couples at a small outdoor cafe sat at tables adorned with flickering candlelight, sipping from chilled glasses while the cool liquid provided little relief from the heat. 

Darrell Geary, a burly man in his late twenties, parked his motorcycle near an alley and pulled out a bottle of bourbon from inside his leather jacket. “Damn thing’s empty,” he said getting off his bike. He staggered aimlessly along a dimly lit cobblestone sidewalk, swinging the bottle around like a band conductor’s baton. He passed a lamp post and, with an upward swing, smashed the bottle hard against it, sending shards of broken glass in every direction.

  A tan and black tabby cat sat preening herself in a nearby doorway, Geary sneered, taunting the cat, “Here kitty, that’s a good kitty".

When the cat approached him, Geary snatched it up, snapped its neck, and tossed the lifeless body into a nearby trash can. Steam rose from the black pavement and rhythmic taps from a Rada Drum resounded in a synchronized beat with his footsteps as he made his way down a deserted New Orleans alleyway. His calloused laughter echoed off the thick air.

Silence and darkness cloaked the town, as people drew their window shades, closed and locked their doors, and turned off their shop lights. 

Geary paused and lurked in front of a still-open store. The door was ajar. The sign above it read, “Forrestall’s Curiosity Shoppe.” Acrid smells of exotic herbs mingled with the sweet scent of incense as they percolated through the curiosity shop. The tantalizing blend of spices, old leather books, and the musty smell of trinkets assaulted Geary's senses as they wafted through the open door hitting him like a drug-injected cloud. He swayed, intoxicated by the scent and the booze. He watched and listened, mesmerized by the array of oddities and trinkets inside as the proprietor waited on his last-minute customers.

“Take your time folks. I don’t mind closing a little later." Justice Forestall was smartly dressed. Thin gray hair was neatly combed back, and his silver beard was trimmed to perfection. His calm demeanor gave off an air of intelligence as well as experience.

As he reached for the voodoo artifacts, his pale blue eyes seemed to scan them with a knowing gaze. It was clear he was well-versed in the practice of voodoo, and it was obvious the artifacts he carefully removed from the display case were precious to him. Each one was handled with such care and reverence as if they held some kind of mystical power.

Turning to the woman, he said, “I have a Sun Juju, several Gris-Gris bags, Voodoo Dolls, potions, powders, and oils.”

The woman wore a crisp white tailored suit. Paying attention to every detail she watched the proprietor as he carefully removed the items from a glass display case and laid them on the counter for her inspection. “Is Voodoo really practiced in this area?” she asked, picking up a bottle of snake oil.

Forestall seemed to embody the essence of the practice with each item he laid on the counter. “This is a curio shop, Madam. Just for fun. That’s all." He smiled and winked at her husband.

“Do you run the shop by yourself?” the man asked, picking up a Gris-Gris bag from the counter.

“Yes, ever since my wife, Agnes, passed away,” Forestall said taking a black, teardrop-shaped, onyx stone from his pocket. He sighed as he caressed it.

Forrestall's eyes filled with longing as he talked about his late wife. He missed her. The shop not only reminded him of her. He could still smell her fresh clean scent with every breath he took.

The onyx he held had been her favorite. She had claimed it brought her good luck. Sadly, it hadn't saved her. The cancer had stolen her life and had taken her from him. Forrestall's thoughts drifted to his daughter and her family up north. He had been thinking of retiring and moving closer to them. But the shop held too many memories to just pack up and leave. He couldn't imagine anyone else running it. It was a piece of him he wasn't willing to let go of. As he placed the onyx icon back in his pocket, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. As he looked around at all the curios and trinkets, he knew that he would never be able to truly let go of the shop. Not while he was still breathing.

“This potion smells nice,” the woman said looking at her husband for his reaction. 

He laughed and said, “Whatever you want dear," pulling out his wallet to pay for his wife’s find. Satisfied with the purchase they said, “Goodnight,” and left the shop.

Forestall repositioned the unsold curios back into the display case careful not to break them. Pausing for a moment he slipped his hand into his pocket. The smooth onyx was warm and comforting. 

The peaceful silence broke when Geary burst into the shop, his face disfigured with rage.

“I was just getting ready to close," Forestall said to the unshaven man with long, slick greasy hair. He could feel his heart racing as Geary's angry eyes scanned the display case and then settled on Forestall.

“Give me that black stone you were showing those folks!” Geary shouted glaring at Forestall with fixed, stony eyes. Reaching into his pants pocket he pulled out a switchblade. It glinted as he moved across the counter shoving Forestall hard against his chest. He watched in a drunken stupor as the old man fell backward, full weight, hard against the fragile glass display case shattering it into crystal daggers as Forestall crashed down hard onto the wooden floor.

Geary bent over the defenseless man lying amongst the jagged blades of glass and snatched the now glowing onyx from his hand. He whispered slurring his words. “I could use some luck.”

“Give that back,” protested Forestall, trying to get up.

“Shut your mouth!” Geary said, pushing him back to the ground and without any particular reason, he plunged the knife deep into the old man’s chest.

Gurgling with each agonizing breath, Forestall began to chant as his pain-filled eyes stared straight into Darrell Geary's dark, cold, vacant ones. 

Forcing the words out, struggling with each, he managed to cast his hex. Blood spilled from his mouth as he spoke. “My wish for you . . . tumble . . . smoking stew. Black snake . . . catch your heel. Hornets sting . . . when you kneel.”

And with his last breath, he gurgled, “Haunting . . . by night, . . . all wrong, . . . nothing right."

Blood bubbled from Forrestall’s mouth, down his chin, and with his dying breath he murmured, "You’ll pay."

“Die old man. Shut up and die!” Geary shouted, thrusting the still-glowing black onyx into his pocket. He helped himself to several artifacts, took what little money there was in the cash register, and left the store, unconcerned he'd robbed a man of his money and his life.

Out into the darkened street, he ran.  A soulless, angry man. With a frozen heart, he jumped onto his bike and drove off, hard and fast in the blistering heat and deep into the black of the night.

Days melted into weeks and weeks turned into two months since Geary had paid his fateful call to the curiosity shop. He’d become obsessed with the black onyx as he toyed with it. Entranced with the cold, smooth surface, the way it felt against his calloused hand, the way his eyes reflected in the mirrored surface when he gazed at it was driving him mad.

The Fourth of July announced itself with fireworks and banners as Geary sat on his bike in a parking lot finishing off a bottle of bourbon. It was another hot, steamy, sticky summer evening. The streets buzzed with activity like hornets swarming around their hive. Neighbors sat kibitzing on their front stoops. Fireflies and sparklers twinkled like tiny diamonds as they danced around playful children. Firecrackers, bottle rockets, and cherry bombs exploded in the air. Fireworks flashed, sending a kaleidoscope of color across the raven sky. 

While rolling the stone over in his palm, something on the stone's surface caught Geary’s full attention. He held it closer. As he looked at it a vision of Forrestall’s eyes surged through him like a lightning bolt. 

“Snakes,” the old man's voice called to him. “Hornets,” it echoed growing louder flooding Geary’s head like the reverberating beat from a boom box.

Geary looked into the mirror on his bike. Staring back at him was Forestall, holding a snake, laughing. His ghostly eyes glowed as he watched his every move. A death-rattled voice called out to him, “All goes wrong, with nothing right.”

Tortured. A man on fire. Geary kick-started his bike. Careening down the crowded street, flying past cars and pedestrians, running stop lights and stop signs, his anger boiled. Terrified and desperate for relief from the agonizing heat and Forrestall’s phantom vision. The world was a sweltering inferno. A surreal apocalypse pervaded the thick air around him like a shroud. Escape was not possible. No sound was loud enough to exterminate Forrestall's death-rattled taunt.

His mind was bedlam from the exploding fireworks mingling with the mangled noise from town. The air was thick with the stench of his fear and confusion. Geary drove his bike faster and farther away, deeper into the cavernous black of the night. As the journey called to him the faster, he drove. Farther away from town and deeper into the night he flew. The farther and faster he drove, the more deafening the noise became. Miles and miles of dew-sodden countryside with sharp bends in the road illuminated only by the single light beaming from the racing motorcycle. Deeper and deeper into an unfamiliar domain he rode.

His head felt like it was being pummeled with a hammer and his distorted drunken perception of the night contorted the world around him. 

The road tensed as moss-covered trees gathered their long black veils drawing in the power from the awakened realm. The wooded silence called to him, sucking him downward, closer to its core. The bike picked up speed. Faster with each curve. Faster on every turn. Corner after sharper corner. 

At top speed he made his final turn approaching his unknown fate. Down the iron machine went, sliding sideways along the hard paved blackened road, propelling Geary into a nocturnal pilgrimage.

The country road stood quiet, enveloped by a blanket of peacefulness. On one side was a crumpled bike. On the other, a cemetery. Geary lay dead, shattered, and torn. Resting beside him was the glowing black onyx. Together they’d been thrown into the cavernous darkness landing head-first on a gravestone that read, "Justice Forestall."