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offer a small sacrifice to assure our safe journey.”
    “Sacrifice? Aren’t you a Catholic?”
    “Among other things, yes. It is traditional when André takes the boat out to sea to ask for a blessing.”
    “God has pretty good ears, I expect He can hear you as well from here.”
    She smiled. “We have our ways, Indy. Surely a man of your experience understands?”
    Indy sighed. “Yeah, I suppose. Go, do what you need. Mac and I’ll wait here, make sure the boat is shipshape.”
    Marie and her cousin André approached Alain and spoke to him. Her brother waved at Indy and Mac and headed back for the Chevrolet.
    “Lad seems to be in a bit of a hurry. Must have left the water running back home.”
    “Might as well have a look at this tub,” Indy said. “We don’t want to see a snout sticking up through the bottom halfway there.”
    Mac laughed. “That’s my line, isn’t it?”
    As they headed toward the water’s edge, Indy caught a movement in the trees to the left of the fisherman’s house.
    Mac caught the look. “Something?”
    “I thought I saw somebody there, in the woods, watching us.”
    Mac glanced that way. “I don’t see anyone.”
    Indy shook his head. “Gone, now. All I got was a glimpse. A face. Not real healthy looking.”
    “Maybe a trick of the light,” Mac said.
    “Maybe.” But his impression was that it was somebody sneaking around, and there was something odd about them . . .
    Well. He’d check it out, but they wouldn’t be here that long. Maybe on the way back.
    Zile Muri-yo
    When Boukman spoke, it was with the voice of Baron LaCroix—called here Lakwa—of the Guédé, the Spirits of the Dead. To grant Boukman power, the Guédé demanded much of their horse—though the rider was inside rather than without, and they rode him hard. Often after such a ride, Boukman was too tired to move for hours, sore for days. Lakwa was not as fierce as Cimetière, the Guardian of the Cemeteries, and neither was as hard on him as Samadi’s wife, Maman Brigitte, who liked to drink hot pepper sauce and curse long and loud, burning his belly, roiling his bowels, and turning his voice into a hoarse whisper.
    He shared his body with Lakwa now, and the voice coming from his lips was that of the loa:
    “Kill the black rooster and bathe in the blood! The dark of the moon comes, and thus the Risen will flourish!”
    There were half a dozen zombi servants gathered around Boukman in the small clearing. These were the True Risen, not the Children of the Potion, and their powers were much greater. No thirst, no hunger, they were bothered not by the heat of day nor the insects at night; their hearts did not beat, nor their souls yearn, for their souls were passed on, leaving them empty, existing only to serve the bokor who commanded them.
    They took much power to raise and hold, the true ones. At his peak, too many years ago, he had been able to keep two score animated, and those able to travel the length and breadth of Hispaniola even while he himself slept. These days? Half that many were all he could manage, and when he was really tired some of them dropped and lay still. Age wanted to rob him of everything, and fighting it cost more and more power each year. Despite being weaker, the Children of the Potion were so much easier to make and control than the True Risen. Administering a drug was easier than bringing someone back from the dead . . .
    There was a change blowing, he could feel the herald winds brushing against his lips, could taste the coming of it . . .
    Abruptly the baron left him, and he felt himself sag as the loa’s spirit flew away.
    The Risen stood silently, waiting.
    “Go,” he said. “Watch. Learn. Come back and report.”
    The half a dozen dead—five men and one woman—shambled wordlessly toward the forest.
    Boukman already knew the white men were on their way here. One of his servants had seen them by the sea on the mainland, and he knew they were coming. He did not know why yet,