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anything which might arise."
    "Hasan and I will accompany you."
    I was about to protest when Ellen insinuated herself between them.
    "I want to go, too," she said. "I've never been to one."
    I shrugged. If DOS Santos went, then Diane would go, too, which made for quite a few of us.
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    So one more wouldn't matter, shouldn't matter.
    It was ruined before it got started.
    "Why not?" I said.
    The hounfor was located down in the harbor section, possibly because it was dedicated to Ague Woyo, god of the sea. More likely, though, it was because Mama Julie's people had always been harbor people. Agu6 Woyo is not a jealous god, so lots of other deities are commemorated upon the walls in brilliant colors. There are more elaborate hounfors further inland, but they tend to be somewhat com-mercial.
    Ague's big blazeboat was blue and orange and green and yellow and black, and it looked to be somewhat unseaworthy. Damballa Wedo, crimson, writhed and coiled his length across most of the opposite wall. Several big rada drums were being stroked rhythmically by Papa Joe, forward and to the right of the door through which we entered-the only door. Various Christian saints peered from behind unfathomable expressions at the bright hearts and cocks and graveyard crosses, Hags, machetes and crossroads that clung to almost every inch of the walls about them-frozen into an after-the-hurricane surrealism by the ampoteric paints of Titan-and whether or not the saints approved one could never tell: they stared down through their cheap picture-frames as though they were windows onto an alien world.
    The small altar bore numerous bottles of alcohol-ic beverages, gourds, sacred vessels for the spirits of the loa, charms, pipes, flags, depth photos of unknown persons and, among other things, a pack of cigarettes for Papa Legba.
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    ROGER ZELAZNY
    A service was in progress when we were led in by a young hounst named Luis, The room was about eight meters long and five wide, had a high ceiling, a dirt floor. Dancers moved about the central pole with slow, strutting steps. Their flesh was dark and it glistened in the dim light of the antique kerosene lamps. With our entry the room became crowded.
    Mama Julie took my hand and smiled. She led me back to a place beside the altar and said,
    "Erzulie was kind."
    I nodded.
    "She likes you, Nomiko. You live long, you travel much, and you come back."
    "Always," I said.
    "Those people . . . ?"
    She indicated my companions with a flick of her dark eyes.
    "Friends. They would be no bother ..."
    She laughed as I said it. So did I.
    "I will keep them out of your way if you let us remain. We will stay in the shadows at the sides of the room. If you tell me to take them away, I will.
    I see that you have already danced much, emptied many bottles ..."
    "Stay," she said. "Come talk with me during daylight sometime,"
    "I will."
    She moved away then and they made room for her in the circle of dancers. She was quite large, though her voice was a small thing. She moved like a huge rubber doll, not without grace, stepping to the monotonous thunder of Papa Joe's drumming.
    After a time this sound filled everything-my head, the earth, the air-like maybe the whale's heartbeat had seemed to half-digested Jonah. I watched the THIS IMMORTAL 39
    dancers. And I watched those who watched the dancers.
    I drank a pint of rum in an effort to catch up, but I couldn't. Myshtigo kept taking sips of Coke from a bottle he had brought along with him. No one noticed that he was blue, but then we had gotten there rather late and things were pretty well along the way to wherever they were going.
    Red Wig stood in a corner looking supercilious and frightened. She was holding a bottle at her side, but that's where it stayed. Myshtigo was holding Ellen at his side, and that's where she stayed. DOS
    Santos stood beside the door and watched everybody-even me. Hasan, crouched against the righthand wall, was smoking a long-stemmed pipe with a