Play@YSDC

Pierre and Laurent say a nervous au revoir to the houngan and slowly trail out of the Hounfor district in the twilight. Their legs are heavy and their hearts no less so, it has been a troubling day. Parting ways at the marketplace, Pierre heads down the back streets to the Lavigne house, unsure how he will account for today's events to his mother.

Laurent walks back down the main street, towards the sea. Lamps glimmer through cracks in shutters and the road is quiet except for the occasional scrabbling of a rat or some other animal. In the distance he can hear the faint sounds of drums and horns, carried on the wind. The Rara procession must still be winding its way through some distant part of Dame Marie. Taking a deep breath, Laurent finds the air is not quite so hot and sticky as usual, a light, cool breeze blows, carrying the salty tang of the sea and clearing out some of the stink from the gutters. Near Pointe Pierre a faint fishy smell lingers. He thinks he sees someone underneath the old mapou tree, a thin, shrivelled face with the pale skin pulled tight across, eyes dark and shadowed, like a skull, leering. But when he looks closer there's no one there.

He returns to his shack, on the outskirts of Pointe Pierre. His father half sitting on the edge of his cot, half-drunk bottle in his hand, seemingly fast asleep. Laurent curls up on his own roughly stuffed mattress and tries to sleep. His dreams haunted by pallid, looming faces with hints of squirming shapes deep in the black pits where eyes should be.

-----



When Laurent wakes to the sound of a particular incessant rooster, the sun is already up, the day is starting to warm up and he feels sweaty in the single room. Looking around his father has already gone. He checks his feet for chigres and then peers out the door. There are already several of the hollowed-out ceiba-tree fishing boats bobbing in the water.

Laurent gets breakfast ready, hungry after a night's sleep.

Is school in session today?

With no school today, Laurent decides to go down to the shore after breakfast and look at the boats.

Fishing boats crowd the shoreline, most heading out into the bay where the catch is more plentiful.

Laurent heads back to Dr. Clermont's to see if he has been able to learn anything from examining Lawton Lindo's body.

It's still pretty early and Laurent finds that Dr Clermont is not yet up when he knocks on his door. The old doctor takes it in good humour and unlocks the surgery and brings Laurent through to where he's kept the body of Lawton Lindo. The bloated grey corpse looks similar to yesterday, missing hand, exposed entrails, mangled face, but there is now a longer incision running all the way up the chest to the neck, and the ribs have been prised apart, revealing the heart and other viscera. The smell is much worse, and flies are thick in the room. There are puddles of congealed blood on the floor.

'We need to bury the poor man. Or have the Azagon take him away. He is becoming quite piquant.'

Clermont points out the pale, clammy skin with patches of red-blue discolouration and dark, prominent veins. He explains that Lindo has probably been dead for thirty six hours or so, suggesting he died a few hours or so after Laurent last saw him. The body is more bloated than would be expected for this stage of decomposition but it has obviously been submerged in water for an extended period of time which has caused the swelling.

'I did not find any water in the lungs,' he says, pointing to a section of bloody meat sitting beside an instrument of lenses and tubes that Laurent recognises from school as being a microscope. Laurent assumes the doctor must have removed a piece of lung to study it. 'Sometimes that happens, when someone falls into the water, a reflex. But more often it means that they died before the body was submerged.'

'And these injuries,' he points to the gash in the abdomen and where the hand has been severed. 'Whatever did this was not a simple reef shark, look at the pattern of serration, it is too big. Maybe a bull shark, although I've never heard of them out in the bay. Something big. Or, maybe it's not an animal bite, it is hard to say when the body is in this condition. Perhaps this man was hacked to death with machetes? I must talk to Lieutenant Etienne.'

OOC:   I think a roll for Insight.

Laurent takes it in stride, having seen a lot already that's more disturbing. "I could arrange to have the body taken back to the Azagon," he says.

Insight roll (current level 4) for seeing the body:
1d6

Mumbling distractedly, Clermont says, 'Oui, that would be very helpful.' Then he seems to realise what he's said and looks up at Laurent. 'Could you do that? I have my old Renault but...l'odeur, you know, it takes so long to come out.'

"I service their vehicles," says Laurent. "I think I could get them to allow me to use one, especially since he was one of their guests."

Clermont smiles and looks visibly cheered up. 'Merci, merci beacoup, that is a load off my mind. I really need to get him out of here before the morning surgery starts if you could...'

"I can use your telephone to call them," suggests Laurent.

'Ah, oui, oui, of course, of course.' Clermont leads Laurent through to his office where a shiny black bakelite rotary phone sits on the desk. Dr Clermont is one of the few people in Dame Marie with a telephone and he is inordinately proud of it. 'Uh, do you know the number? Would you like me to show you how to dial it?'

OOC:   I suggest a roll here to see if Laurent knows how to get hold of the Azagon. He can have two die - one human and one for his technical knowledge

"Merci," says Laurent, who had just been planning to ask the operator to connect him.

Roll to know how to contact the Azagon (human die plus professional die):
2d6

Laurent doesn't know the number for the Azagon but he knows enough about telephones to try the operator and have the exchange connect him. There are so few telephones in Dame Marie that they know exactly where's he talking about.

After a few rings a man answers, 'L'hôtel Azagon, bonjour, Monsieur Henninger speaking. How can I help you?' He sounds a little bit confused, like he doesn't get many telephone calls.

"This is Laurent Toussaint," says Laurent. "I'm calling from Dr. Clermont's office. We have the body of one of your guests here, Lawton Lindo, and we'd like to arrange for it to be brought back to the Azagon."

'Hein? Mr Lindo? Non, that cannot be. Uh, is he alright?' Mr Henninger seems to be struggling to understand the situation.

"I'm afraid not, Monsieur Henninger," says Laurent. "Il est mort."

'Mort? Non, how can this be?' asks Henninger. 'He was well, what happened to him?'

"He was found washed up on an island," says Laurent. "As for the cause of death, Dr. Clermont is the best one to answer that. Would you like to speak to him?"

'Comme c'est terrible' gasps Henninger. 'Oui, please put the doctor on.'

Laurent hands the receiver to Dr Clermont who looks initially confused until Henninger obviously asks him something, 'Ah, Monsieur Henninger, that is difficult to say. I must give my report to Lieutenant Etienne of the Armée de St Joseph, but between you and me I think he either fell in the sea and was attacked by some kind of animal or he was attacked on the land and then thrown into the water. Either way, it is most concerning...Did Monsieur Lindo have any family? Oh, I see, I'm sorry to hear that...Back to Monsieur Toussaint? Of course, of course.'

Clermont hands Laurent back the phone, 'We are of course happy to bring Mr Lindo's body back to the Azagon, are you able to take it or should I send a car?'

"You should send a car, please," says Laurent.

'Of course, of course, I will send one right away.'

After exchanging further pleasantries and expressing his shock at Mr Lindo's death, Henninger goes to organise a car. About forty minutes later and after sharing a simple breakfast with Dr Clermont, Laurent hears a vehicle pulling up outside the doctor's surgery.

Walking out the front he sees one of the jeeps used by the Azagon. Out of the driver's side climbs the larger-than-life figure of Juan Mendoza.



'Ah, mes amis, we meet again in grim times,' he says. His sombre tone more than counteracted by his booming voice and avuncular handshakes.

"It is good to see you again," says Laurent, "but I wish it were under better circumstances. I can help you carry him to the car. Do you have any idea what he might have been doing out at sea? When was the last time anyone saw him?"

'Si, sad times.'

Laurent helps Dr Mendoza to carry Lindo's body to the jeep, although, to be honest, Mendoza seems to practically carry the man by himself, Laurent merely guiding his feet and dropping the hatch to the rear so that Mendoza can load him onto the vehicle.

As they shift the body, Mendoza talks, 'I have no idea what Lindo would have been doing out at sea. I don't think he was much of a sailor or a fisherman. I don't think he even swam. When he came to the Azagon from Baltimore he brought all these dark clothes, he said the hot sun would play havoc with his extra fair skin. Even in Baltimore the sun was a problem for him. As for the last anyone saw him...'

He thinks for a while, remaining uncharacteristically quiet for a minute or so, 'Well, I can't say for certain, but the last people I heard saying they definitely saw Lawton were you and that beguiling lady friend of yours.'

"When we saw him on the beach the other night?" asks Laurent. "You mean he never returned to the Azagon?"

"Bon," says Laurent. "I can accompany you and ask him if he's there."

Mendoza invites Laurent to join him and they spend a surprisingly pleasant journey to the Azagon chatting. Mendoza is an engaging and larger-than-life personality. It's just a pity that they are hauling a corpse in the back.

At the Azagon Laurent helps Mendoza to carry Lindo's body to a more discreet clinical area. 'We don't have a mortuary as such. There hasn't ever been the need.'

-----

After they've deposited the corpse Mendoza insist on introducing Laurent to Dr Tom Driscoll, director of the Azagon. His office is at the far end of a downstairs corridor, 'Since his illness he's wanted a degree of seclusion...some time for quiet contemplation.'



Mendoza knocks on an imposing pine door with a nameplate reading Dr Tom Driscoll, Director. There's a faint sound from inside the room and Menoza pushes open the door. Inside, behind a rather grand mahogany desk sits a man who seems to be in his seventies, slicing open a white envelope with an ornate letter opener, like a small jewel-encrusted dagger. He waves a hand and then rather painfully attempts to get up from his seat. Stiffly and with some evident discomfort he round the desk and holds his hand out to grope for Laurent's to shake it weakly. His hair is completely white and there is an odd drooping to one side of his face. In a quiet and weary voice he says, 'Ah, Mr Toussaint, I have seen you around the grounds with your father. I understand you are a fine mechanic.

"Oui, Dr. Driscoll," says Laurent, shaking his hand. "I sometimes service the vehicles here. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Driscoll turns over the ornate knife in his hands, absentmindedly. 'Oh no Mr Toussaint, I do not think you can help me...I mean, Je ne pense pas que tu puisses nous aider, excusez mon français.' He looks past Laurent into the middle distance, then his expression sharpens.

He drives the point of the dagger into the surface of the fine wooden desk in a sharp movement. 'There are things going on here that cannot be fixed like broken machinery.' He thumps his other hand down onto the desk and Mendoza jumps, 'Damn St Joe, why did I ever come here?'

"Maybe I can still help," says Laurent. "I know all sorts of people with a variety of talents."

Laurent feels hot and sweaty in the beating St Joe sun but Driscoll shudders and says 'It's cold today isn't it.' He's breathing wheezily.

'Something very strange is happening here my young friend. People change when they come here. They undergo - some sort of metamorphosis.' He nods to a pile of files on the desk, the top one reads Lindo, Lawton. 'Lawton Lindo, Paul Henninger, Robert Morrison, Phillip Wynn, all changed. And now Lawton is dead. I think...I think this place may be ill-fated. Touched by evil.'

Although he doesn't say anything, Mendoza is clearly uncomfortable with this talk, shifting from one foot to the other.

"How do they change?" asks Laurent.

'How do they change, how do they change?' He's interrupted by a bout of coughing. 'These men, they come here with commonplace maladies. Anxiety, alcoholism,' he glances at Mendoza. 'But now look at them, Morrison, the stockbroker, he's developed headaches, headaches so fierce he says they're driving him crazy. Wynn, the department store man, dreadful headaches too. And nightmares, hideous dreams from which he wakes up soaking wet, shaking all over he says.'

He shakes his head and reaches back to his desk to take a sip of water. 'And Lindo, the attorney, nightmares as well, walking in his sleep, and now...' Driscoll shakes his head again and lets out a noisy sigh. 'Well he's no longer with us, dead in bizarre and suspicious circumstances. I've spent hours with these men, I've examined them, discussed their attitudes with them, their goals, their states of mind, prescribed medication, diet. Lord, I've even taken them to the library and encouraged them to read books that might help them!'

He grabs the files and throws them onto the floor, 'We've examined them,' he waves towards Mendoza, who nods. 'Over and over again we've checked them out. And there is nothing wrong with them except, of course, the common illness that brought them here in the first place.

'Perhaps the Azagon itself is the answer. Evil does exist in the world, you know. You will know all about voodoo Monsieur Laurent, the bocors. I've heard they resent us, the houngans, the bocors, more than once I've heard it.

'And now my manager is slinking out at night. Last night I couldn't sleep, this damned arthritis of mine was giving me the fits. I was sitting by the window in the dark, looking out at the night. And there he was, Henninger, suddenly, in the yard. After midnight. The way he moved, he wasn't asleep. I can't prove it of course. Then he disappeared into the night and another man came out following him. I didn't get a good look at that one.'

Mendoza lets out an involuntary gasp at this.

'Something is really happening here, you know. It's been happening for weeks. And the only explanation I can come up with is that we are the target of some evil force.'

"I think you're right," says Laurent. "I've also been noticing strange happenings, and now it seems that the evil is centered around the Azagon. I know a houngan, and I will be meeting him this evening. If anyone can help, he can. Would you like to come with me?"

Driscoll thumps his arm and leg and says, 'I'm afraid I don't think I'm up to it. Maybe...' he looks at Mendoza, who winces. 'Well, I suppose...'

"Bon," says Laurent. He gives Driscoll a meeting place near the houngan, and a time shortly before his appointment. "I think he'll be able to help."

Dr Mendoza reluctantly takes down the address and time. 'Dr Driscoll will not be able to attend but I will come in his place. For what it is worth,' he says sceptically.

OOC:   What would you like to do now?

"Thank you, Dr. Mendoza," says Laurent. "Is Ti-Jean Lazaire here? How is he doing?"

'Monsieur Lazaire? I am not sure, we can go and look for him if you would like?' He looks to Driscoll who gives him a nod of permission.

"D'accord, let's see if we can find him," says Laurent.

Mendoza takes Laurent through the winding corridors of the hotel, through to the rather plainer decorated service areas, eventually arriving at the kitchen. There are a couple of local men working away, Mendoza asks them where Lazaire is and they rather sheepishly admit that he hasn't been in yet today.

Raising his voice and looking more agitated, Mendoza starts prowling through the corridors, arriving at Henninger's office and knocking loudly. Laurent trails behind him looking embarrassed. There's no answer and Mendoza pushes the door open to reveal an empty office. He turns on his heels and strides off again, growling and calling out for Henninger and Lazaire.

Laurent hurries to keep up with the big man who sweeps into what seems to be a corridor of bedrooms. He hammers on the first door he comes to, shouting out 'Henninger, you fat oaf, are you in there?' and almost immediately turning the knob and pushing open the door explosively. Inside, the room looks like an earthquake has rocked it. It's a big room by Laurent's standards, but the bed is unmade, sheets lie crumpled on the floor. A stack of books has fallen onto a chair cluttered with clothing, like its been knocked off the bureau.

Mendoza slowly walks inside and looks around. Laurent follows at a distance and feels something gritty under his shoes. Some sort of powder has been spilled in the doorway. He picks some up on a wetted finger. It's crystaline like salt, touching it to his tongue it does taste salty.

'Where is that useless Belgian?', Mendoza curses.

"There's salt in the doorway," says Laurent. "I wonder if he put it here for protection." He has the sinking feeling that it didn't work. "Could he be in the bathroom?"

The rooms in the Azagon are not ensuite and Mendoza stomps back into the corridor. He starts pulling open other doors. The one opposite is less chaotic that the first, but the bed is unmade and there's a stub of candle on the desk, a stalagmite of black wax overflowing a holder, next to a framed colour print that shows Paul Henninger standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the Azagon with Lawton Lindo. The window beside the bureau is closed and across the lower sash something is loosely stretched, some kind of dressmaker's tape measure.

After crashing ineffectually around this room, Mendoza tries another door, which is locked, and then the next room which is in a better order, the bed made, and sitting on the chair beside the desk a startled looking woman, forty or so years old, very round but deceptively so. Laurent recognises Circée Orelle, well known in Dame Marie and working as a housekeeper at the Azagon, her plumpness deceptive because she's composed mainly of muscle as any Dame Marie boy knows if he has the misfortune to earn himself a beating from her.

Mendoza looks equally surprised, 'Pardon commère, is...' he looks around. 'Monsieur Morrison is not in m’sié. I was just resting my feet for a moment... she gabbles. 'Oui, oui, we were looking for Monsieur Henninger and Ti-Jean Lazaire, have you seen them?'

At the name of Ti-Jean her face darkens, 'Non, non, but if you see Ti-Jean you can ask him what he was doing messing about in Monsieur Morrison's room!' She snatches a something from a shelf and thrusts it into Mendoza's hands. It's a jointed wooden rule, a carpenter's rule. Then she opens a bag of rubbish and pulls out a nub of black candle wax. 'Gate san, it makes my blood boil, how am I to do my job with him creeping around messing up the guests' rooms?'

"I think the houngan should see these things," says Laurent. "He may know why he was placing them."

'Of course, I'm sure that would be fine,' says Mendoza. But Circée hisses through her teeth. 'Don't need no houngan to tell you what these are for,' she says. 'This is Vodou for sure.'

Laurent nods. "What sort of Vodou is it?" he asks.

She gives a bitter laugh, 'Well I'm no mambo, but, it's either for protection, or the opposite.' She traces her finger along some shapes seemingly burned into the wood. Three letters, A.V.R.

"Well, it doesn't look like it offered much protection," says Laurent. "A.V.R. A votre..."

'Monsieur Morrison, he is unwell?' asks Circée in surprise.

"Je ne sais pas," says Laurent, "but he does appear to be missing."

'Non, non, I do not think he is missing,' says Circée. 'I saw Monsieur Morrison earlier today. He was, well, he was not any more sick than he was yesterday is all I can say.'

"Where did you see him?" asks Laurent.

'Oh, I'm not sure,' says Circée. 'Perhaps in the day room. Yes, yes, I think it was there. He was sitting in a chair looking out at the sea.'

"Thank you," says Laurent. "Let's go see if he's still there," he says to Mendoza.

A bit calmer, but grumbling to himself, Mendoza leads Laurent to the day room. It has a set of large windows overlooking the beach and the blue sea beyond. There's a number of sofas, chairs with small side tables. And sitting by the window in a high backed wooden chair, writing at a desk, is the only inhabitant of the room. A man in his late thirties. The unhealthy blue-grey tinge of a white man. But strange orange-red hair, receding at the temples. Thin, jutting nose, small ears, small mouth and weak chin. His large hands and thick, stubby fingers hold a pen, and he's writing on some loose leaves of paper. There's an unpleasant odour of body odour mixed with garlic.

Mendoza introduces him, 'Monsieur Robert Morrison.'

"Bonjour, Monsieur Morrison," says Laurent. "I'm Laurent Toussaint."

Morrison turns and looks Laurent up and down in surprise. 'Bonjour petit garçon, how can I help you both?'

"We found your room in quite a state," says Laurent. "Do you know what happened there?"

Morrison looks a bit nonplussed, 'Ah yes, well, I am not the tidiest but I am sure Madame Orelle has things in hand.'

Placing his hand on Laurent's shoulder, Mendoza gives a sort of wry smile and says, 'Mr Morrison's room was in a darn sight better condition than Mr Henninger's!'

Laurent nods. "Have you seen Monsieur Henninger lately?" he asks Morrison.

'Mr Henninger, why yes, I think I saw him somewhere this morning. We exchanged pleasantries. What is all this about young man?' he asks.

"He seems to be missing," says Laurent, "and his room was in a similar state to yours, only worse. Where did you see him last?"

"Have you seen Ti-Jean Lazaire today?" asks Laurent.

'Ti-Jean the cook? No, I haven't seen him today,' he says. Then adds conspiratorially, 'Between you and me I don't miss him. His food was always too strongly flavoured, reeking of garlic!'

"Merci," says Laurent. "Maybe we can find him in the kitchen."

"Well, somebody must be, if there's food," says Laurent, "and whoever it is may know why he isn't there and where he is."

They say goodbye to Morrison and Mendoza leads Laurent to the kitchens. They're towards the back of the hotel building and he can smell it and hear it well before he catches sight of the cramped, steam-filled room, pans and utensils clanging, unintelligible shouts back and forth, the pungent smell of rich food. There are several people bustling about the kitchen but a harassed looking woman seems to be in charge and she rushes over. 'Wi Docteur Mendoza, how can I help? We are really very busy with Ti-Jean sick today.'

"We came here looking for him." says Laurent. "Do you know where he is, and what kind of illness he has?"

"We're looking for Monsieur Henninger too," says Laurent. "Do you know where we might find him?"

She huffs and puffs, looking around her at the organised chaos in the kitchen, with chefs rushing back and forth with steaming pans. 'Monsieur Henninger? Well, is he not in his office, or maybe somewhere...' Then she starts gesticulating, pointing over Laurent's shoulder.

'There, there he is. Monsieur Henninger, Monsieur Henninger!'

Looking behind him, Laurent sees the sweaty figure of Paul Henninger.

Laurent turns around. "We were just looking for you, Monsiuer Henninger," he says. "Do you know what happened to your room?"

Henninger has a haunted, driven look. He splutters at Laurent's question then manages to answer. 'Je suis désolé, but I have become, well, something of a slob. A long way from when I played international football, non?'

OOC:   I've managed to lose the picture I had of Henninger, I had to find a new one.

"I thought someone else did that to your room," says Laurent. "We can help you, but you need to open up to us. Do you know where Ti-Jean Lazaire is, and what's wrong with him?"

'Non, non, just me,' he shrugs. 'And Ti-Jean, one of the cleaning staff passed on a message this morning. She said that he was sick and wouldn't be in today. I expect he's at home but I don't know what's wrong with him.'

"Which member of the cleaning staff told you?" asks Laurent.

'Ah, well, um, I'm not sure, Sally maybe. She said that she met Auxian Ramses this morning and he told her Ti-Jean had a rough night and wouldn't be able to come in today. I presumed he'd had too much to drink but she said Ramses told her he was sick and that he would look after him.'

"Bon, then he's in good hands," says Laurent. "Do you know anything about voodoo?"

'Voodoo? Non. As i told you yesterday, I don't know much about it. I do know Dame Marie is a hotbed of voodoo, and Dr Driscoll is worried those houngans resent the Azagon being here, they claim to be doctors too. But no, all I know is that Ti-Jean gave me the name of that Auxian Ramses, said he might be able to help with my...difficulties. The dreams, the sleepwalking.'

"Ah, that explains it," says Laurent. "Your room probably got into that state while you were sleepwalking. You know, Auxian Ramses could help you with that, and with the dreams. Dr. Mendoza and I are going to see him this evening. You should come with us."

Henninger shakes his head sadly. 'Would that I could, young man. Things here have become frantic since Mr Lindo's death. But I'm sure waiting a few days won't do any harm.'

"It might not be a good idea to put it off," says Laurent. "You might injure yourself while sleepwalking. Maybe we could help you out with the things you have to do in order to free up some time for you to come with us this evening."

Henninger hesitates, 'Um, well, I really am very busy...'

OOC:   How about making a roll to persuade him. I'll roll against you

ppdLL1d6

"Like I said, we can take some of that work off your hands," says Laurent.

Roll to convince Henninger:
1d6

'Non, non, I do not think so but thank you for the offer,' says Henninger finally.



Mendoza makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and blowing a raspberry. 'Let us see how you are set this evening. I suspect you are not so busy as you think.'

"We shall help with your work regardless," says Laurent. "I work here from time to time on the vehicles and doing various maintenance jobs, and I can do other work besides. We'll get done what we can today, and we'll see how much is left by evening."

Henninger reluctantly accedes to Laurent's suggestion and let's him help out around the hotel. It quickly becomes clear to Laurent that much of Henninger's trouble is that he runs about the hotel like a headless chicken, careening from one disaster to another without solving any of them.

Mendoza soon wanders off in indifference, mumbling something abusive sounding in Spanish. But Laurent is able, with a bit of judicious hinting and prodding, to get much of Henninger's work completed by the afternoon, taking care of a couple of mechanical repairs himself and saving the hotel the need to bring anyone in. But still Henninger is frantically fretting about various minor tasks he has acquired throughout the day.

OOC:   Let's have a roll to see how much work is left

The work is hard, and Laurent is tired by evening.

Roll to accomplish Henninger's work (human die plus occupation die, as some of the work involves mechanical repair):
2d6

By the evening it is clear to Laurent that any tasks remaining are of little consequence, but Henninger continues to fret about the hotel like a mother hen.



Mendoza arrives from wherever he has been for the afternoon, he has a light sweat across his face and arms and a twinkle in his eye. He looks over Henninger with not a little disgust then addresses Laurent. 'We go and see your voodoo friend, si?'

'Oh, well, I ought to stay here, there's still so much to do...' blathers Henninger.

"Yes, let's go see the houngan," says Laurent. "You really should come too, Monsieur Henninger. You've done enough work for today. You can always delegate what's left. You can assign someone else to do it."