The Voodoo Halfworlds (Ch. 5). Walking the Shadow’s Threshold
Clark (2014), Dayan (1995), Fernández Olmos & Paravisini-Gebert (2017), Hebblethwaite (2015), and Nwokocha (2023) argued that Afro-Creole spiritual traditions and “ritual language” had exerted a “profound and pervasive creative influence” on Latin America and Louisiana (USA).
By Miguel A. Reyes-Mariano
The acclaimed writer Leu Seyer searched for and took a voodoo potion to improve his storytelling skills. This experience not only helped him in his efforts to improve his narratives but also changed his whole world through a connection with the voice-hearers’ realm that will follow him to eternity.
Previously:
Writer Leu Seyer trades almost everything for a Haitian voodoo potion for writing creativity. "It requires permission to be rewritten," warns the priestess. After drinking it, his career soars. Months later, he is found raving on a beach, writing hand gone—the spirits' payment. Now he only mutters that unwritten stories are "in hunting season."
CHAPTER FIVE: WALKING THE SHADOW’S TRESHOLD
At the crossroads of the realms, there was nothing more than emptiness, neither ink nor ordinary words capable of surviving this journey without a special permission from the Halfwolrds. But at this point in the string of events, Leu Seyer could no longer pretend not to be offensive or find satisfaction in being small and silent. Therefore, when he rediscovered the way back to the voodoo potion of whispers, this time he took the opportunity with a deeper understanding of his pretensions and what was at stake.
On this occasion, he came to negotiate a steady supply because he was no longer an amateur groping in the dark. He had already endured the spirits' vengeance and survived. Now he was a practitioner. Now he was a believer. Even more, this time, he did not need the antidote. So, when he drank the potion, it went down smoothly, with its familiar taste—though less burnt oil and copper, but more paper pulp—almost as if the potion welcomed a returning member by guaranteeing a better taste. By then, he had already accepted the twisted logic of his journey: to regain his missing estate, he would have to re-enter the system that had taken his written hand away.
To regain authorship, he would have to return to the annex, where authorships are exchanged. This time, he did not go to Haiti in search of inspiration or revenge, but to recover something. A kind of investigation carried out through a manuscript, using scientific methodology. He wanted to return to the hallway, to the table, to the corrections whispered like quotes. He wanted to return to the Intermediate Worlds because deep within them, his right hand was still writing. And a man can endure almost anything if he believes that a part of himself that has been lost is not gone, but merely misplaced.
Leu Seyer no longer felt the burning in his throat that the voodoo whisper potion had once caused. It seemed the intermediate worlds recognized him with the same uneasiness scholars reserve for a text that changes from one edition to another. The initial dose, taken almost two years earlier, had tasted like burnt molasses with a burned oil flavor, mixed with some strange taste of ink and copper coins, too. It was as if the drinker were forced to suffer by recognizing an exchange in the oldest form of currency.
But this time the liquid went down smoothly, as if the added paper pulp, stained by too many fingerprints, had diluted the other heavier ingredients. In fact, the potion had not lost its potency, but he had already adapted, as living organisms and systems do. The potion had already found a new stable host. Nevertheless, Leu had previously believed that the burning sensation validated the experience, that if it hurt, it must be real. But the Halfworlds do not need new affirmations from those who have been tested before. What they require is to be rewritten, and the potion seems to have proven an effective way to ensure that.
By then, the dining room in Leu's rental unit consisted of a single table and two chairs, with no discernible layout. What could be interpreted as his only piece of furniture, the table, was also a premise: it should be read less as a piece of furniture and more as an idea or concept of his workplace. The surface of this table was rustic, like a deleted sentence. It was not polished but had been worn down by several revisions until it was no longer a solid texture. Running his left index finger across the table's surface, he saw a light layer of dust, similar to graphite dust, and suddenly found himself inclined to inspect his fingertip for traces of ink as well.
What Leu did not notice in his dining room was the little mouse watching him from a distance, as if quietly waiting for his slightest oversight to eat the last piece of sandwich he had dropped under the table. Carelessly, both Leu's story and that of the little mouse seemed to be written by another hand, as the lack of coordination in their actions could only be the result of another hand detached from a rational head. The little mouse, because of its proximity to extinction, and Leu, because of his stubbornness in wanting to return to the intermediate worlds. Worse yet, in his determination to regain his right hand, Leu made no preparations this time. He simply gathered all the money he could and walked the same routes he had walked almost two years earlier. His memory was not as good as he thought, but his credit card records helped him greatly in reconstructing his former steps.
In the rented room, there were no cups, bottles, pens, or candles like last time. Now he had no other objects he could associate with himself in this place, except for his laptop with its extended battery. In this still unfamiliar space, he treated his renewed vitality as something that could be bought. It was contrary to the result of a magical rejuvenation potion and instead resembled a potion that could return him to his former state if he truly had faith in recovering his hand. In Haiti, the mundane people treat voodoo as a religious practice and contract, rather than as mere superstition or speculation (Brown, 1991; Fernández Olmos and Paravisini-Gebert, 2017), and the Halfworlds extend that correction to ontology. Thus, Leu knew that his mission in Haiti was clear and that what mattered was the “contract” and its respective “annexes.”
Leu, carelessly in a trance, stumbled upon a red briefcase that had mysteriously appeared near his feet. Immaculate and impressive, it was so intensely red it hurt to look at. It was not the intense red of blood or the festive red of a ribbon; it was the procedural red of warning signs and “no entry” notices. It was a red to be observed, and failure to pay attention could be dangerous. Leu definitely did not remember bringing it with him, and he never will. That was the second act of orthotypography, with the lack of indentation in the paragraphs, as if it were an editorial cut to a later document. In the real world, writers often make such cuts intentionally in total disregard of conventions.
They deliberately decide what to include and what to omit, leaving out boring narratives to highlight moments of action. They do so on the assumption that the reader will fill in the gaps of the missing scenes. Now, it seemed that someone else was editing Leu’s life using these same techniques, and he was just getting used to it, as he was to accepting the loss of his hand. He returned his gaze to the briefcase, as if staring at it long enough would reveal where it came from, but all he got was a dazzle from the glare of its polish.
Still disoriented about his whereabouts or physical location (in the midst of a trance), he tried to get up. Then the air thickened, not because of pressure but because of an incongruous feeling in his intuition. Leu could not access his full mental agility to find the right answers. It was similar to filling out a bureaucratic form where one does not want to make a mistake, even by accident. In the end, even getting up seemed feasible, at the same time, useless. It was as if discarding the attempt had already been done in another version of his reality, and he had considered it unproductive.
Therefore, he decided to remain seated and alert, trying to engage all his senses, since the Halfworlds are never silent but produce sounds in different ways. It was not like trying to solve an acoustic puzzle: the sound here was a composition; a slight rustling of pages not yet turned. It was like a slight friction of ideas that could not be developed into scenes, dialogues abandoned in the middle of a discussion that remained static.
In one direction, Leu could see the layers of a wall composed of phrases that had accumulated like sediment: they were clear on the surface and distorted as he delved deeper into his writings, full of empty spaces. The revisions to the writings were transformed into the texture of the critics' tensions as one delved into the narratives' firmness. In the other direction, he could visualize a passageway built with conditional clauses. A passageway that involved more sacrifices but guaranteed nothing. Therefore, he was sure that grammar was the true architectural design of that place.
Upon arriving (no, upon remembering that he had arrived), he believed he would find the library of the unwritten, as writers tend to idealize their punishments. However, the Halfworlds are not a reading room but a waiting area for those with unfinished business. This includes authors whose works never reached their final destination. Unfortunately, the cessation of breathing does not always provide closure, and the contained anguish can become a lack of closure and constant pain. Yet the completion of unfinished business is prohibited in the Halfworlds. Quasi-authors with their drafts are deprived of the stability they crave. However, those who seek inspiration in books that were almost written come to this realm. These are the ones who transcend the deceased's ideas (although they are rarely given credit).
This, therefore, leads to interactions that can “almost” end in undesirable consequences. Quasi-authors do not easily give up their credits and therefore seek retribution for unacknowledged uses. Some might simply want their stories to come to light. The origins of these needs must be understood. Some stories may have been interrupted when their authors passed of natural causes. Others may have been cut short by circumstances such as fires, car accidents, evictions, or power outages that destroyed years of work in a single night. There are even those that are unfinished for criminal reasons. There are also others that may have been abandoned, and abandonment has its own smell within these walls: a rancid sweetness, similar to that of overripe fruit left in a bowl. It is not always a moral failing, but it is always an unfinished consequence. However, the Halfworlds do not judge; they document. The archives never judge, but their keepers may demand justice.
For Leu, the first whisper on his return came as a correction, soft, silent, and without fanfare. The language slipped through the empty space behind his thoughts, like lines spilling into the margin of a page. Then a voice said to him, “You will never be late,” a voice without age or gender, only the deliberate, gentle movement of someone handling the paper of a manuscript with respect for its fragility. Leu allowed himself not to respond, because doing so would give the whisper something to hold on to, and he had learned to be careful with hooks. The voice continued, unconcerned: “You have come to us twice.” The phrase settled with the gravity of a revised document. Leu repeated the words aloud: “Twice,” and his voice sounded like a printed word rather than a spoken one. It was as if speaking were simply another form of transcription here. As he waited for some other reaction, he heard nothing. Echoes do not behave well within a draft.
Leu then asked the whisperer to “explain,” even though he hated the desperation that makes words blow away in the wind. He waited a long time before the soft whisper replied, “It is not an explanation; it is a correction,” and, subtly, the whisperer warned him not to succumb to impatience. There, time passes outside the norms of the world his perception accredits as real. In Halfwords, there are no defined deadlines, nor is there anger. However, there can be cruelty. Leu then understood that his impatience was a reflection from the world of the living. But in this realm, the very incorporeal state ensures that unfinished things do not vanish on a printed page.
Then Leu felt the potion's pulp rise to his mouth again. It seemed as if the amalgam itself had opinions about his demands, and he could not decide whether he was irritated or pleased. He felt a movement creeping along the edge of the scene, and he counted the faint accumulation of presences that had not been fully found in the light of the world of those who still breathe. To be recognized in the Halfworlds is a form of transcendence, but to be genuinely seen is to have been edited. Then Leu tried to level his gaze because even the angle of his eyes could be interpreted as permission to be approached.
Then, from among the shadows, some faces began to take shape like characters entering a new chapter, and the camera opened to include them all. But the scene intensified by the potential of each spirit's silent demands. They were not ghosts as defined in folklore; they were the ethereal matter of writers, people with ink-stained fingers. Now, countenances of lungs that still retain the memory of worldly smoke and bodies bent by the weight of time. A few were even famous in their day, but most never made it to the editors' room. Yet, in the Halfworlds, previous fame does not change the hunger of spirits.
As he wandered through that neural room of limbo, Leu's impatience began to weigh heavier in the air, like humidity on a cloudy afternoon. But Leu was still delighted by the contemplation of that unique library, which brought back memories of the smell of paper on new books stored for a long time in bookstores. Then, suddenly, a soul began to stir, until it lost its anonymity. The shadow of a woman with her hair pulled back, her eyes narrowed by the cold of different winds, because she could never stop writing. “We know who you are,” she said, and Leu clenched his jaw as he replied, “Knowing me does not give you the right to possess me.” She showed him a symbolic yet masterful disappointment as she continued, “Possess is a strong word; we prefer ‘assigned.’”
The word “assigned” (or assignment) hit him like a bucket of cold water. Then he wondered: Could assignment be the currency among those involved in the Halfworlds? Leu had long thought his talent was something he could develop or waste, but the potion and the intermediate worlds taught him it could also be preserved in other realms. Meanwhile, in the material world, in his lethargic state, he remained seated while his unconscious mind roamed the vastness of the Halfworlds. There the little mouse in his room had already dared to move between his feet. Then, Keu suddenly stumbled again over the crimson red briefcase at his feet. He looked at it carefully and considered it less an object and more a conduit that could perhaps connect several realms. This object had material consistency in contrast to the ethereality of everything around it. Furthermore, he was inclined to think it could transgress the barriers of both worlds.
Leu imagined what might be inside the briefcase, and a wave of nausea washed over him, reminding him of other openings in previous drafts: sheets of paper that smelled of fresh ink, photographs that should not have existed, and once even a glove that fit perfectly on the stump of the hand he had lost. Every memory conspired to mock him with recollections of the contours of what he no longer possessed. “What really happened to my hand?” he asked himself, with a force greater than the logic of the inexplicable. A soft acoustic ripple ran through the group of faces before him, without laughter or hard expressions. This was merely the audible acknowledgment from a group that had heard similar phrases countless times. Then, a voice from the outer edge replied, “Here, and there refers more to status than to position.” This referred to where one resides within the system: one that operates according to established rules, which are no longer the same as those of the other realm.
“Then why am I here?” Leu asked. The author with the slicked-back hairstyle examined him with the serenity of someone filing a document. “Because you can still drink,” she said. Leu realized that “drinking” meant accessing and consenting. It is the act that opens the paths between realms and allows a “realmwalker” to continue the reassignments. Another voice added, “You came back, but not completely.” His thoughts returned to the Haitian coast; to the delirium; to the pristine scar of what had been taken from him.
However, Leu had been grateful to be alive. Moreover, the intermediate worlds had noticed that gratitude, for in realms where the primary currency is debt, gratitude is a form of influence. “Do realmwalkers always come?” Leu asked the gathering. The whisper in response was so soft it could almost have been a deep breath: “We don't pressure anyone to come.” But Leu's laughter was sharp as he said, “Yes, you do when walkers expect fame and fortune from you.” Again, the soft-voiced whisperer replied, moving close enough to Leu to be heard as if it were a sigh: “You pressure yourself,” an assessment of Leu's behavior, sharp enough to serve as a cutting instrument.
Leu turned his attention back to the red briefcase as he lowered his gaze to the floor. His right hand reached for the handle before he could stop himself, a movement the audience interpreted as an act of reflection. However, Leu realized that in the Halfworlds he had access to his right hand at will. The atmosphere suddenly seemed to tense, as if the room itself were recording the scene. A slight vibration ran through the table in the background, as if warning him of his decision. He hesitated, but without further ado, he opened the briefcase. A few inches from the metal surface of the briefcase, he saw the reflection of dark water. In the intermediate worlds, proximity has a special meaning... it is curiosity that leads travelers to their assignments.
The woman with her hair pulled back looked at the briefcase and added, “It is never yours, but it always will be.” Leu immediately replied, “That does not make sense.” She let out a laugh from deep in her throat, then added, “Meaning is for actions brought to a satisfactory conclusion.” It was a statement that carried the weight of a doctrine. Even so, he grabbed the handle, and the cold metal sent a small click through the back of his left eye. This time, his memory did not return to past events but reorganized itself to help him overcome the gray gloom that had nested in him during the freezing winters of Buffalo, New York. Suddenly, a man who appeared to be limping approached to snatch the red briefcase from him. The man turned his head, as if he did not want to look Leu in the face. Thus, in the impassivity of a moment that was both horrific and instantaneous, Leu recognized the distorted contours of his own face, molded by the consequences.
The man let go of the briefcase handle as if it were burning him. The briefcase’s inner lining, falling open on the floor, became a reflective surface like dark water. The man disappeared into the hall’s shadows, and when Leu reached into the briefcase, he found a thin folder. When he opened the envelope, there was on a piece of paper an image that seemed to come in real time from the world of the living. But the image quickly faded, like a phrase erased in the middle of an unfinished sentence. Two observers paused their judgment and showed something akin to envy, because he was only a visitor yet had the ability to write in the other realm, to complete tasks, and to serve as a bridge. In the world of the awake, scholars have long pointed out that Creole spiritual traditions have strongly influenced artistic creativity, but “influence” is simply a polite way of describing what happens when a tradition asserts its right to define its artistic expression (Dayan, 1995; Nwokocha, 2023).
“What is going on here?” Leu wondered. It sounded like an open procedural interjection, almost bureaucratic... In fact, the Halfworlds function as a record of unresolved material issues. The soul of the spirit, with her hair tied back, spoke again: “You wanted to be a writer,” and Leu felt a familiar shame wash over him, as if black ink had spread through the water in the briefcase. She continued, “You wanted splendor, recognition, the sudden flow of language,” and he remembered the interviews and podcasts that called him a visionary, as if having visions were an exclusive good. Another voice interjected, "You drank, and the stories found you, but you thought you were lucky.“ Then Leu felt the pulpy taste in his mouth again. The author, with his hair tied back, continued in a low voice: ”Luck, that's the word the living use to refer to what they cannot understand."
“Who designated my hand?” Leu asked, and instantly wished he hadn't, because it held traces of hope, and that is an invitation. The crowd did not respond immediately; they turned away as if, instead of being in conversation, they were consulting a catalog. Leu heard a faint sound, as if someone were writing at the end of the hallway, and his pulse fell into the rhythm of writer's block. In the other realm, the little mouse was already savoring the crumbs from the sandwich that had spilled under the table. Even a few flies and cockroaches had made an appearance in the room.
While Leu remained in a trance, the spirit with tied-back hair spoke again, saying, “You will meet the assigner when he requires your assistance,” which was not an answer but a notification of an appointment. A second specter—thin, coughing, with eyes like a nighttime traffic signal—said, “Do not confuse missing with absent; missing implies recoverable.” Leu's left hand flexed and extended forward. It was as if he suddenly understood that the Halfworlds use language as laws do: to limit what cannot be conceived. “Then I want to know if my hand is recoverable,” Leu asked. The coughing spirit replied, “Not your hand; your authorship.” Immediately, the spirit added, “In this realm, you will be allowed to use your right hand, the only one authorized to open the red briefcase... There you will find your assignments when you are in a trance or under a spell.”
It is important to remember that there is a significant difference between superstition and religion, and that religious discipline is a way to keep fear at bay. At that moment, Leu realized that voodoo is not a series of magic tricks and illusions but a full-fledged cosmology with laws, institutions, and moral implications; to call it anything else would be from ignorance (Brown, 1991). After all, the Halfworlds seem to be a layered structure for unfinished stories within the universe's cosmology. Like a bureaucracy that takes the claims of those with unfinished business and redistributes them into assignments. Leu thought the potion would give him a creative boost, but in spiritual systems, shortcuts are often forms of debt, and with debt comes interest.
As the scene faded, Leu glanced down the hallway out of the corner of his eye and saw how all the walls began to fall apart, as if new details were unfolding in the next paragraph of the story. Leu recognized that Halfworlds function similarly to narrative structures: they establish motifs and then repeat them in great detail until, ultimately, they force confrontation and the cumulative symbolism of the repeated motifs reaches the threshold of a symbolic climax. The red briefcase was a motif, and his missing hand could access that other intriguing motif. Then the very visualization of the hallway became a third motif. Also, the sound of typing from the hallway became constant and methodical. “Who was typing?” he wondered. A spirit with a thick voice replied, “What is typing?” as if correcting a mis-categorization. A second voice added, “Do not personify the mechanism; those continue to function even if people change.”
The spirit, with her hair tied back, changed her posture, as if offering new terms. “You can still make sense of this,” she said, her tenderness frightening him more than any hostility. “Sense for whom?” Leu replied. “For the unfinished,” she answered, pausing as if quoting. “I'm not here to work for you,” Leu said, bewildered, but his words were lost in the void. He refused to understand that in the intermediate worlds, only assignment exists. “You are always here for an assignment. That's all you are,” interrupted a sharp voice from the audience, so similar to his inner critic that he shuddered. He searched for its source, but the shadows remained hidden, fabricating voices from his own fears. “That is not fair,” Leu muttered. “Justice only exists in complete realms,” replied the whisper, like the epigraph of a book he refused to write.
0306
As he approached the briefcase again, Leu's right hand moved slowly toward the handle, as if testing whether the Halfworlds would allow him to carry out his plan. The air grew thick, and he felt a subtle buzzing. It came from the material realm, where a little mouse, cockroaches, and flies were feasting on his food scraps. Unable to make sense of it, he turned his gaze to his left hand, and a cold, sinister anguish took hold of his mind as he thought about how long it would be before it ceased to be his. In there, a hand is not simply a part of the body, but also a tool for effecting transfers, a visible symbol of authorship, and authorship is what the Halfworlds redistribute.
Fortunately, he was still considered useful despite the spirits having mutilated him. Leu wondered whether usefulness was the only form of personality recognized in these parts. “You are not to be trusted,” he suddenly said to the group, then immediately regretted it, as it sounded like an accusation against those who had mutilated him. However, the author, with her hair tied back, replied calmly, “We are authors...” She paused, then, as if defining the terms, added, “incomplete authors.” She narrowed her eyes and continued, “And you were the one who left our stories unfinished by making them your own.”
The being, with her hair tied back, changed her posture, as if offering new terms. “You can still make sense of this,” she said, her tenderness frightening him more than any hostility. “Sense for whom?” Leu replied. “For the unfinished,” she answered, pausing as if quoting. “I am not here to work for you,” Leu said, bewildered, but his words were lost in the void. He refused to accept that in the intermediate worlds, only assignment exists. “You will always be here for an assignment. That is all you are,” interrupted a sharp voice from the audience, so similar to his inner critic that he shuddered. He searched for its source, but the shadows remained hidden, fabricating voices from his own fears. “That is not fair,” Leu muttered. “Justice only exists in complete realms,” replied the whisper, like the epigraph of a book he refused to write.
Then a whisper added softly, as if writing lightly on paper: “You are the result of what the potion poured into you.” A delicate way of referring to the Loa. Here, a note was made in the trance: the last word of the passage, “Loa,” had changed to “the Loa.” This was because the original used “the Loa,” but “Loa” was also acceptable. At this point, the author, with her hair tied back, was no longer needed in the scene and began to fade away. She took a few steps back but seemed to be waiting for something. She was not retreating; she was in transition. At this point, the audience had already focused its attention on the hallway. Leu felt a surge of energy as she headed toward the hallway (even if it was all in her imagination). He heard the typing again, now louder. It sounded almost like a drumroll. He felt the urge to run, but he knew he could not. The typing continued, relentless. Leu felt his heart pounding in his chest, but he could not turn back now. He had to keep going.
Leu did not see the Loa as a “monster” or a character in a horror movie, but as an actor within a system of rituals. He also realized that language intertwined with time could produce its own forms of institutional presence. Writers and scholars have examined the deities of voodoo, their migrations across Africa, the Caribbean, and Louisiana, and the diaspora. They have focused on how these deities were formed in the collective imagination and how they continue to function as living entities rather than mere museum artifacts (Dayan, 1995; Nwokocha, 2023).
Leu had probably imagined the Loas as rumors before his foray into Haiti, but later as a desperate necessity, and finally, as a personal resource. Today, he sees the Loas as a form of editing. An editor does not merely correct or polish writing but determines what constitutes writing, what is removed from the text, what will be printed, and what will remain forgotten. The potion was an editorial decision in his life that granted him fluidity while indicating where he would be reviewed in the future. Thus, upon rediscovering the Loa, he affirmed that the whispered answers were those of balance. Like a euphemism, the institution used when redistributing assignments.
Leu then tried to remember how the red briefcase had come to rest at his feet. He did not remember obtaining it, since his “memory” was more about “recovering his estate.” But it appeared when it was needed, because the Halfworlds operate with symbolic efficiency. Leu slowly bent down to pick it up again, careful not to move too quickly, not to let the room interpret it as “consent.” As he picked up the briefcase, its cold touch reassured him, unlike last time, as if the briefcase started recognizing his familiarity.
Leu stood up with a new understanding of his mission and was surprised at how easily he had accepted it. Further, the Halfworlds had decided that standing was better than sitting for this part of the narrative. Thus, when they decided what was “best,” their ideas became a mandate. Behind him, the table no longer served as an anchor but as the final word in this part of the narrative. Moreover, as he walked down the hallway, the space became more refined with each step, as if it were shifting toward a more polished draft. The smell of new paper grew so strong it almost overwhelmed him. This smell was intensified by layers of ink on the rain-soaked papers and layers of dried glue. The smell of books left too long in damp basements may still be legible, but surely some missing words will be interpreted differently from their original intent.
The soul, with her hair tied back, returned to the scene behind him and spoke to him, her voice now firmer, as if retreating to the edge of the page as a reminder: “You have arrived twice, but now you will become a realmwalker.” Leu closed his eyes and saw his right and left hands moving over the keyboard with impossible consistency, creating sentences that were and were not his own, completing something he did not want to perish. He opened his eyes and asked quietly, “If I pass, am I accepting?” The whisper replied, “If you refuse, you are also accepting, because refusal is still a choice recorded in the system.” Leu exhaled and then affirmed, “Then I choose to ‘be a witness’ to the new stories in which I will be involved,” emphasizing the word ‘choose,’ a verb, with an air of formality, as if it were a legal term.
The hallway opened onto a glow not from lighting but from exposure. The feeling of re-entering was a statement that one could not help but hear. Once again, Leu's mouth tasted the flavor of paper and assumed the Loa was pleased with it. This was because, after immersion in the Halfworlds, the speed of action could save his corporeal body from any incident outside his purview or range of action. He knew, with complete impartiality, that the potion tasted different now, because fear no longer slowed him down or warned him through pain. But comfort was deceptive, and paper was necessary for writers, even if the ink seemed not to penetrate through the crossroads.
The last thing Leu heard before his vision faded into nothingness was an assertion that sounded more like a proclamation. A decree carefully inserted at the bottom of the page: “You will never be late,” and he took it as dogma. Arriving at the moment when one can be of use is very important. Arriving to clear the name of an innocent person before someone other than the guilty party can be imprisoned is significant. Alternatively, revealing the truth about someone's death (accident versus suicide or murder), especially if another person is in danger or being blamed, is significant too.
Thus, to prevent the rejection of half-truths, the disinheritance of someone, or another person's becoming a suspect due to misleading circumstances, he ‘chose to become a witness.’ Leu undoubtedly understood that assignments were the only opportunity recognized by the Halfworlds, far beyond materializing inspirations about other people's stories. This is because some may be fictional, while others may be the difference between a confession and a complaint that could have been silenced. Thus, Leu introduced that line at the end of this chapter, and the manuscript received it as a contract with acknowledgment of receipt, signed by him.
It was not a closing at the end of the paragraph; instead, he had delved deeper into the appendix. There, where things may still be analyzed or waiting to be interpreted correctly, at that moment, Leu returned to the world of the living, sitting in his rustic chair in front of his laptop, on that single table in his room with no discernible geography.
- - - - - - -
Do not miss Chapter Six of the series: While connected to the Halfworlds, Leu had a vision of a mythical figure walking toward him on an unfinished paragraph. This person had something that needed attention. As he picked up the red briefcase, Leu uttered, “This has to be rectified.” Then he would find himself using once again his right hand, the one from which the matriarch made a cut to take his blood. Still intact, steady, and chattily writing in another realm for justice.
-
REFERENCES
Brown, K. M. (1991). Mama Lola: A Vodou priestess in Brooklyn. University of California Press.
Clark, E. S. (2014). Afro-Creole spiritualism in nineteenth-century New Orleans [Doctoral dissertation, Florida State University]. FSU Digital Repository.
Dayan, J. (1995). Haiti, history, and the gods. University of California Press. (Reprinted 2008 by University of California Press.)
Fernández Olmos, M., & Paravisini-Gebert, L. (2017). Creole religions of the Caribbean: An introduction from Vodou and Santería to Obeah and Espiritismo (3rd ed.). New York University Press.
Hebblethwaite, B. (2015). Historical linguistic approaches to Haitian Creole: Vodou rites, spirit names and songs: The founders’ contributions to Asogwe. En La Española – Isla de Encuentros / Hispaniola – Island of Encounters.
Nwokocha, E. A. (2023). Vodou en vogue: Fashioning black divinities in Haiti and the United States. University of North Carolina Press.
