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from a large black woman at the nearby local market. The tall man chuckled, explaining how there were a great many large black woman in Costa Rica, and that Marcela would have to give him more information than that.
    “Dio se ella su nombre?” he asked.
    Her name? Marcela thought. She was just about to say no, she hadn’t said her name, but then decided to stretch the truth a little bit and try the name she’d been given in her dream. “Ella me dijo para venir a Semma.”
    The smile vanished from the tall man’s face.
    “Dijo usted, Semma?” he asked, his voice rising sharply on the last word as he quickly made the sign of the cross in the air between them.
    Marcela nodded, more than a little taken aback at the reaction the man had shown to that name. “Qué es la cuestión?”
    What’s the matter? she asked, but the man had heard enough. He told her to go away and leave him alone, packing up his tickets and walking away as fast as he could. He seemed genuinely spooked and in a hurry to bolt away from her. He started to do just that, running across the street before turning back to shout something over his shoulder.
    “Salga de nuestra ciudad fina. Si es la bruja de vodú que usted busca, usted la encontrará en Puntarenas, pero no dirá yo no lo advertí!”
    He ran off without another glance back, leaving Marcela stunned. He’d told her to get out of their fine city and also that she’d find Semma in Puntarenas, a nearby city. Other than the insult to leave, it was actually quite helpful information, but none of that was what stunned her so badly. It was when he’d said, bruja de vodú.
    Voodoo witch.
     
    ***
     
    The trip to Puntarenas was relatively uneventful. The bus was fairly new, more comfortable that Marcela had expected, and she thankfully had the back seat all to herself.  Puntarenas City was only an hour and a half ride from San Jose, a coastal resort used more by locals than by the tourists. Marcela hadn’t been there on her last visit and was looking forward to seeing the ocean. She passed the time taking in the scenery and being amazed that the locals actually used machetes to trim the weeds and high grass alongside the roads. Someone could make a fortune if they opened a weed-eater company around here, she thought, smiling.
    She stepped off the bus as the sun was setting over Port Caldera, just north of the city, the country's most important port for importing and exporting goods. She had a magnificent view of the ocean and she stood still for several minutes just taking it all in. She was supposedly on vacation, after all. That’s what she told herself, anyway. In reality, she was stalling, a little afraid to speak to anyone here since the incident with the lottery ticket vendor back at the airport. Not that she had any choice–Marcela knew she had to ask for help again. She didn’t know what she was getting herself into, but she was determined to see this out. As luck would have it, an elderly woman was sitting on a wobbly wooden bench at the entrance to the bus terminal. It didn’t appear as if she was waiting for a bus–just resting her weary bones for a while.
    Marcela gathered her courage and walked up to the old woman to ask her if she knew where to find Semma.
    “Semma? El templo?” the woman responded.
    The Temple? Is that what Semma was? The name of a voodoo temple? Marcela only nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The aged woman looked her up and down for a long time then simply pointed with a shaky, crooked finger in the direction of a dirt road leading away from the city and the ocean. Marcela couldn’t see any buildings along the path–not within eyesight anyway–just some scattered palm and banana trees lining the road. Marcela thanked the old woman and was quickly on her way.
    She walked for half an hour and found the temple just as the last rays of light were disappearing over the horizon. Semma, if that was indeed the name of this place, was nothing more than a