Port-au-Prince! The loas hover over the city as though the very air were the breath of spirits. They whisper, Freedom. The city swarms with blacks, maroons, quadroons, mulattoes, men and women of splendid, glossy colors, their hearts high with rage. Rage gallops through the streets and down the back alleys. There is no Christian God here. Africa reigns with her pulsing power, avenging ancestors, gods of blood. At every doorway there is a wrinkled charm, on every sweating chest a trinket of bones hung from a thong of flesh. Altars with blood on the stones, feathers, and fur dried on the walls, guard every courtyard.

I saw him on the dock, Negroes swarming around him. I moved closer, as though drawn by a magnet. He was making fire. He danced, his black body gleaming wet, and where he stomped there was smoke, and when he turned and hurled his fist at the ground, the flame sprang up as he bid it to do. I was envious. I stayed with him the whole day.

That night they lit the sacrificial fires, and he began the ceremony I thought I knew so well. But it was not the same. He is a true channel for the spirits. They come to him instantly. After he was in deep trance, he took up the sword. The drums were like thunder in the sky. He quivered where he stood. His long grass skirt swayed and lifted, like seaweed under the surge. When the sword was red-hot from the coals, he pulled its razor edge against one arm, then the other. He carved with delicate precision upon his chest, his neck, his tongue. He lifted the blade and sliced his open eye. No blood flowed. No welts, no scars. His eye remained whole.

The pages were separating now, under the gentle warmth of the hair dryer. Julia had let the book dry for several days, wrapped in towels, and then at last she had begun to pull the pages apart. It was slow, tedious, frustrating work. Much of the diary was lost. The ink had faded into watery rivulets as tears on a love letter would streak the words written there. Some of the pages were like tissue, limp and fragile, tearing easily into ragged strips like bindings for wounds. But there were other sections she could read clearly.

Abruptly, he leapt into the fire. I watched as he pranced on the coals, digging his feet into the bright embers, while the drums raged. He spun and cavorted, riding a burning broom, for he was the horse now, and he galloped in the firebrands in a mad frenzy, until I was certain his feet must be burned, and all the while my own body crawled with a stinging rash. Then, at last, he collapsed, exhausted, his chest heaving, sitting with his legs crossed under him. The soles of his feet were gray from the ash but firm and unblistered. Unable to resist, I touched one foot, and found that the skin was cool and dry. I offered him water and he took it in his cupped hands and smiled at me.

Julia shuddered. But she did not doubt the veracity of what she read. Simply, she feared it. Nothing in her nature craved this magic or responded to the powers that brought it into being. She was more fascinated by the medical explanations. Skin was thick. Sweat repulsed the heat. Faith and speed were strong allies. Sleight of hand was always possible. Witch doctors were clever.

I followed him to his home, for I had nowhere else to go, because I wanted to be his slave, and because he led me there. He lives in a hovel among hovels, built into the side of a hill, with a dirt floor, and a ragged rug for his cot. He has no food or water. Others feed him because he is a great houngan. And because he is a renowned Bokor, I knew they would not question a white girl living in his house, if only I could convince him to let me stay.

I said to him, “Teach me to make fire.”

He asked me why I thought he should teach me. What I had seen. And I told him everything I knew. I told him of Chloe and of Erzulie and of the last ceremony, when I had turned the knife in my father’s hand. I recited the chants from the book of runes, and I told him of the spells I had mastered. And he listened quietly until I had finished. Then he said, “You know nothing, my child. Your knowledge is only of the mind, you have no intuitive skills. I cannot waste my time with you.”

He said I could remain one night, and then I would have to leave. I asked him where I should sleep, and he pointed to the ground near the back wall. I asked for water, and he shook his head. No water, he said. The Negroes were not allowed to use the well in the square. They must walk several miles for water, out of the slums and into the country.

I woke just after midnight because I heard the sound of a stream flowing. At first it was muted, but then it became distinct.

When the day came, I told the houngan I had found water. He said that was not possible, that they had tried to dig several wells, but had no success. I said, “The water is here, behind this wall, where you had me sleep. Dig here.”

He called several men, and they started to dig. They found the underground stream the first day. The water poured out like a silver flame, and the houngan said, “All right then, tonight you come with us.”

The meeting place was at a crossroads, at a small village in the country. There were several thatched huts, and thousands of candles lined the cross in four directions. People came swiftly, like shadows on little paths through the cane, or over the trees. They wore bright costumes of the Soukougnan, who shed its skin, and Loup-Garou, the werewolf. The Bokor said, “This ceremony is Bizango—blood sacrifice.” Each man danced in the motions of his animal, strutting cocks, barking dogs, grunting pigs, even demons with tails and horns. I do not know how they transformed themselves. They called Carrefour, not Legba, and after he was fed, Baron Cimetière.

I was pulled to the center of the circle with a frightened little goat and thought he was the sacrifice. I began to bleat with him and fed him leaves with my own lips to calm him, but his eyes were wild. The drums stopped, and they all drifted away stealthily, like leopards. They had long cords in their hands, cords the Bokor said were cured intestines and very strong. When the victim was brought back he was a man, but he was turned into a cow before they killed him.

Page after page Julia carefully, skillfully, peeled back. Her tools were her surgeon’s scalpel, scissors, and small tweezers, all taken from her medicine bag. But so much of the book was gone. She wondered whether returning the diary to Barnabas in this ruined condition would only disturb him more. Sometimes she could save only a phrase.

The Bokor has glittering eyes, and he likes a joke. He is a little wisp of a man, very black and scarcely five feet tall. He is thin and small-boned, with tiny hands and feet, and his face is as wrinkled as a sea cucumber in the sand.

Julia’s shoulders ached from her efforts, and her eyes were stinging from trying to read the blurred words. She had hoped she could save more. Perhaps if she let it dry a few more days, more pages would come apart.

He told me voodoo comes from Africa but the French call it voir—to see, and Dieu—God, “to see God,” but I said I have heard it means voir dans, “to see within.” I thought it mattered a great deal which was the proper meaning, but he said it did not matter in the least. He asked me why I had memorized African invocations.

“You are not a Negro girl.”

“I have some of the blood in me.”

“Use your own language. The words don’t matter. Magic comes from the soul.”

Eye of newt and toe of frog,

Wool of bat and tongue of dog.

Vampire, ghoul, bloodsucker, parasite.

Drums, rum, blood.

“Tell me the three drums.”

“Cata, Seconde, Maman.”

“Why are they called those names?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cata is mischievous, naughty, an unruly child. Seconde is in the middle, the whole human spectrum. That is the ordinary life. Maman is voudun.”

Julia was deeply ashamed that she had taken the diary. She felt the very least she could do was retrieve it and return it to Barnabas in the hope that he would forgive her. Also, the very next morning, as she lay in bed before rising, she began to ponder the scientific explanations for witchcraft—even as she had immersed herself in the investigation and discovery of the final solution for vampirism. A peculiar curiosity teased her mind. She had to admit to herself she was fascinated with the supernatural and its antithesis, its “natural” explanations.

I said to him, “Can you kill someone?” and he said, “Killin’ is easy, but it is against the law.” And I asked him, “Can you make someone love you?” and he said, “You pays your money and you takes the consequence.” Then I said, “Can you call back the dead?” and he said, “Yes, if they be feelin’ mischievous. The dead love to be called. Unless, of course, they are zombies. Then you have yourself a slave.”

Zombies! Now that was an interesting phenomenon. The living dead. Caskets opened and the body not decayed. Hair and fingernails had grown. Skin still flushed, rosier than in life, signs of rejuvenation, erect penis. Why had they used the headstone since ancient times? To prevent the corpse from rising. And why the multitude of ceremonies for the dead? That they might rest in peace in their graves. With the requisite objects, they might be willing to stay put: wine in jars, grains in bowls, coins for Charon in the mouth, poppy seeds for dreamless slumber.

A plantation owner came to the Bokor to buy some laborers, and the Bokor took the money. Then, with his face in a contorted mask, he mounted a horse backwards and rode it to the victim’s door. He placed his lips over a crack in the door and sucked the soul of the victim out. After a few days the victim died. The Bokor took me to the graveyard at midnight, where the dead man lay in his tomb. He had the victim’s soul in an earthen jar, and when he called out his name the dead man was obliged to answer because the Bokor had his soul. Then he passed the jar beneath the dead man’s nose so that he could smell his soul, and the man rose up and followed him. At the Bokor’s house he was given the red elixir that is the secret formula and became a zombie. Now he will work tirelessly for the lucky planter.

ZOMBIE POWDER:

Secure an entire afterbirth, the bag intact with

part of the navel cord still attached. Wrap it in

manchineel leaves.

Grind with a pestle:

bouga toad or unleached manioc

millipedes or tarantulas

seeds and leaves from poisonous plants

puffer fish stingers

human remains from a new corpse

A man who stole the secret of the Zombie Powder was killed by the Bokor’s hounci. He never knew they had found his hidden little bag. They took him in a boat, then, far from shore, they tied his hands behind his back and struck his neck with a rock, making a raw spot. Into the wound they rubbed a quick poison. He knew he was dead before he hit the water.

The Bokor said he made the Zombie Powder because it was easier than sucking souls through keyholes.

Barnabas had not spoken a rational word to her since their argument; he had been so ill that everything he said was from the raging of the fever. He seemed to drift between penitent guilt and furious determination. “No more! No more!” he would cry, coming out of a disturbed sleep. Or he would grasp her hands in his and with wild eyes, plead with her to forgive him, saying, “Julia, stay with me, don’t leave me!” Moments later he would stare off into space, and scream, “Get away from me! Stay away!” and she would shrink with fright, certain he was venting his anger on her.

The Bokor said, “I will not show you murder and death. These you have already seen. I have shown you life returning from the dead. And tonight I will show you how to murder Death itself. Tonight you will stake the vampire.

“The vampire has ivory teeth, elongated and sharp, to suck the life force, and he leaves his victims exhausted and spent. He is a self-absorbed being without sympathy. I have told you that all gods come from our imaginings, and likewise the vampire is born in the realms of our innermost thoughts. He is the manifestation of our deepest longing and our deepest fears. Dead, but not dead. Blood still within the body. The odor of the vampire is like the guano in the cave where bats breed. He has eyes like hollows of madness with which he can see colors of rich intensity. He has the hearing of a predator and far-beyond-human capacities of survival. He cannot be killed when he is awake; therefore, you must not wake him. He can only be murdered in the grave.” “What has made him that way?”

“The vampire bat has fed on him and poisoned his blood.”

“Why does the bat come?”

“A curse—an enemy pronounces a curse, the consummate form of vengeance. It takes enormous power to make this curse. Great power and great hatred combined.”

The sounds of the night were muted, and the candles gave a dim light. The sky was shrouded with clouds as we walked to the cemetery. Our footsteps were like the dead whispering. The Bokor motioned to the grave where the vampire slept. I saw the white cross and the coffin in the hole. The hounci were with me, because they wanted to take the parts, but they hung back in fear. “You cannot be frightened,” he said. “All fear is weakness.” He put the stake in my hand.

When I looked down on the vampire I was filled with wonder, for I could sense his mystery and his strength. His face was very white, like carved ivory, as were his hands, which were folded across his breast, and I could see the shape of his skull, and the bones of his fingers beneath his skin. His fingernails were long and yellow, and I could smell the odor of bat guano rising from his body. His coat was covered with dirt, and his ruffled collar with mildew and rust. He was sleeping so peacefully that I was suddenly reluctant to harm him.

The hounci moved closer. “Tonight you will murder Death itself.” I placed the point of the stake against his chest and thought only of how thin I was, and wondered where I would find the strength to force it into his heart. All I had was the weight of my own body, and I raised up and pushed with all my might on the sharpened post of wood, feeling it pierce the fabric of his coat and the layers of his skin, each section giving way with a little jerk. The monster groaned. The stake struck a rib, and I slid it down to find a softer entrance.

At that moment the vampire opened his eyes. His hypnotic stare sent a terrified quivering through my body. I could feel him draining my strength with the force of his will as his eyes burned into my soul, then he reached up his powerful hands and grasped the stake. His mouth opened to form the words to stop me, and his lips drew back to reveal the fangs, gleaming white and covered with slime. I could push the stake no farther.

Then the Bokor leapt upon my back, knocking the breath out of my chest as it struck the end of the post. Our bodies slammed into the vampire, and, as the stake slid into his heart, the blood spurted forth and covered me. I lay upon him, my face next to his face, my breath sucking the prolonged death rattle of a windpipe choked with blood.

Julia shuddered. She remembered how Barnabas had returned without the diary, his clothes in an awful condition, shivering and soaked to the skin. The wounds had reopened, and he was weak from loss of blood. She was worried that the bite of the vampire would cause a relapse, for Barnabas appeared to be fighting an inner battle between opposing demons, his emotions in turmoil, and his very nature feeding upon itself.

Most of the time she was certain he had no sense of who or where he was, and he raved about a ship attacked by pirates and lying in chains. Other times he seemed calmer and spoke to someone in a gentle voice, someone he loved.

Unable to stop herself, Julia continued to dry out and try to read sections from the diary.

The Bokor spoke to me often, and he was always discouraging.

He liked to tease me and torture me with his riddles.

“Do you still wish to become a voudun mambo?”

“Yes.”

“The choice is not an easy one, and the journey once begun bears no returning. Will you go all the way?”

“I will not be left behind in shallows and in miseries.”

“Why would you want such a thing?”

“I believe it is my destiny.”

“Destiny is only what you believe.” He giggled. He liked turning a phrase on its ear. This time, I was determined to make him listen.

“I mean, I have gifts, and knowledge.”

“So does everyone.”

“Will you teach me what you know?”

“Voudun is confusing and cumbersome. It will not make your life better.”

“I need something to protect me.”

“Voudun will only make you more vulnerable.”

“But won’t it give me power?”

“Power is unwieldy. You want to control things, but voudun is not control. This is why I know you will never be a mambo. You are a white girl. How can you look into the African soul? You only want your way, like all vain females. You want tricks, silly little spells. You want to play with others like they are toys. This is not power, but only fiddling and foolishness.”

“I will tell you why I am so afraid. I have begun to think that I am bound to the Devil.”

“The Devil?”

“Yes.”

“And you want to be free of him.”

“Yes . . . free . . .”

“But the Devil is only another loa, and not a very interesting one at that. Another luminous spirit. The loas will never harm you unless you let them. Feed them and give them drink, and they will never bother you. Strike the vévé with the asson and the loa is obliged to descend. You know that. All the gods are only our own imaginings, and the Devil is no different.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am certain of nothing.”

“But I have seen him and spoken to him.”

“I did not say that he did not exist.”

“Then how can I free myself?”

“All right, answer me this. What is witchcraft, if you don’t already know?”

“You have always told me. It is interference, meddling.”

“How does it work?”

“You find the weakest point, and that is the place you fling your power.”

“So, you have just answered your own question. That is how you free yourself.”

“The Devil has a weak point? What is it?”

“Is he not the Horned God?” The Bokor giggled again, his little sea-cucumber body shaking.

“What does that mean?”

“Ah, you are still too young to know. He is always a cuckold. You must not fear him. As long as you fear him he has you.”

“Then why does he tell me that my power comes from him when I have taught myself these things and suffered to know them?”

“That’s easy. Think of what you just said.”

“Ah, that is my weak point.”

“Exactly. He knows how proud you are. He is trying to tell you something you already know. You have several choices. What are they?”

I thought about this for a time, then I answered.

“To live an ordinary life and never be what I was meant to be. To make little spells. Or to choose voudun?

“Once you choose voudun there is no ordinary life.”

“What if I only choose good magic, like my mother. She was a healer.”

“Ah, yes, good magic. But there is no good magic. It’s all interference, and therefore evil. That does not mean it isn’t distracting.” And he giggled again.

“Stop these ridiculous riddles. Tell me the truth!”

“But the truth is the riddle!” And he jiggled with laughter. At least he was enjoying himself.

“So if I become a witch—”

“You are a witch already.”

“If I practice only what I know, and am not proud, will he leave me alone?”

“No. Because what you know is meaningless. And now we have come back around to the beginning of our conversation. Listen to me, Angelique, and I will tell you the truth as you call it. Everything I say to you you will forget, because you will not understand. But I will tell you anyway, and perhaps one day you will remember it. Death is the only power, and the Devil is death. All voudun has death at its center. When you accept death and cling to nothing in life, your power will emerge, and voudun will guide you.

“Can you do that? Can you achieve indifference? I think not. I think you will always be obsessed with something. You have not the character of a mambo. You will cling to life and ignore the death it springs from. You will seek love, and it will turn to jealousy, then revenge, because deep beneath all your rainbow colors is a dark pool of despair, and because your way is the way of desire. You say Erzulie is your goddess, but her mirror side is Erzulie-Rouge. Which will it be? The lily or the rose? Perfect innocence or profound understanding? The great voodoo goddess has Death sitting by her side. The moment surrounding the moment. The magic within the magic. The power is in the mirror. It will be many years before you realize, if you ever do, that you will be doomed by your obsession, and that the greatest power is in desiring nothing.”