Before The Rain, Part 20: Blame It On The ‘Tumba Francesa”

Image of a hand signing a contract.

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LOOMIS came to from his latest “Falling-out,” to find two tangible sensory impressions crowding up his poor poor overtaxed brain-pan. Besides his ceaseless chant, “Muh

Lyn’sey’s gone..whar..Whar yuh gone, gal?,”et cetera an’ so forth, his very head and soul throbbed sonorously, painfully with this debbilish, droning but seductive drum beat.

“Heh heh, my son, that is TUMBA FRANCESA.”

THUMP, Thump, TRUMM, TUMM-BA, TOOOM-Baaa…”

The now massive overarching presence of Doctor Harkelius’ bespectacled and grossly freckled physiognomy dominated Loomis’ visual field at this point. Particularly so, for the less-than-kindly practitioner stood astride  Mister Reader at a rather close and  uncomfortable angle. Doctor Peter continued his domineering monotone–he could hardly be expected to cease his intense prate now!

My dear Loomis. Many many generations ago, the sugar plantations in the surrounding parishes out of, let us say, sheer NECESSITY, ah.., they imported vast legions of Cuban and Dominican, but African -born slaves to labor in the mills and fields,

“So..,” Loomis drooled defiantly.

“SHUT UP!” , his new oppressor broke in , not missing a beat. “So then, these suffering folk had a secret avenue of worship and freedom from their physical, heh-heh, bonds!

They had brief periods of largesse  and rest granted them by the masters. At this time the ‘native’ laborers would roll out the log drum and summon up the “Loas,” or demigods, and WHIRL themselves into feverish ecstasy, until–

“Until?”, burbled the fervid yet almost inert Loomis.

“UNTIL, you fool,” Harkelius stormed on, “_ahh, Until, they were gathered up, washed down, dried off, and sent back into the arena of toil. So thre you have it. That is what you are now hearing.

“I can barely move,” groaned Loomis. “I feel paralyzed, like. Have you ginned me up with some secret damn’ potion? Doctor whoever you–?”

“Now, now. Not so fast, young fellow. The Tumba tempo is far more potent than any drug.

Besides,” here Harkelius gestured with a sweeping motion of his clawlike left hand, and three slim dudes in cheap sharkskin suits and black collared shirts made themselves manifest outside the fiery circle.

“Yes, Loomis,” said the most overbearing of the three guys, who was known as Victor.

“I’m Vic, an’ th’ good Doc here informs me yer trying to get a leg back up in the singin’ business,’dat right?”

In a rare moment of lucidity, Loomis growled, “Wal I ain’t no Johnny Adams th’ Tan Canairy, if dat’s what you was thinkin’,”

Ed,  who appeared the enforcer of this odd trio, blurted out. Look, man. We are now y’ENTOURAGE, an’ you jist better LIKE IT LIKE’DAT! OK?”

Suddenly Doctor Harkelius got between Ed and Loomis, and sprinkled some weird purplish and greenish spangled smoke around. The DRUMMING got way louder, and SWIRLED into a sinister ROARING sound.

Over the careering din, Loomis heard the Doctor’s voice declaim, “Now you are returning to New Orleans. Very swiftly in fact, but the race is to the swift! You will awaken in GIROD CEMETERY, and my friend Victor will have pen and ink, or BLOOD perhaps, for you to sign a most  important contract…

(TO BE CONTINUED) 

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