In Darkness by Nick Lake Page B

warm living thing in the midst of an indifference of chilly mud. He could easily imagine that the smell came from rotting bodies, that there were dead people, zombis, in the mud to either side . . .
    He shivered, tightening his grip on the horse’s bridle. He focused on the light, followed it until he came to a small hut. He dismounted, tethered the horse, and knocked before entering.
    The blind houngan sat on a chair in a simple, clean room. Except for some jars of powder, two chairs, some veves drawn on the floor, the room was empty.
    — You came back, said the houngan.
    — Yes. Is this real? Am I here? Or is it a dream?
    — Can’t it be both? said the houngan. Tell me. This spirit that is inside you, do you want me to take it out?
    — I want you to . . . I don’t know. What is it? I told the others it was Ogou, but I don’t think that’s true.
    — I don’t know for certain what it is, said the houngan. It’s not Ogou Badagry, I agree. I would’ve been aware of his coming. We all would – Ogou is the lwa of war, and when he possesses a person, there is usually violence.
    Toussaint shook his head vehemently.
    — I don’t know if I want this, he said. I felt good to begin with. Righteous. But we’ll have to kill so many if we want our freedom. Last night it was all I could do to stop the slaves killing my master. And he was never cruel to them.
    The houngan nodded.
    — Life must be paid for with death, he said.
    He indicated the chair beside him, gestured for Toussaint to sit.
    Toussaint did so, and he was aware that he had just lied, although he hadn’t intended to. He might not want to lead the rebellion, not precisely, but he knew that he would. It was his destiny. And who was to say that it wasn’t the very thing to possess him that would give him the strength to lead his people?
    In his previous dream, he had been in a city like none he had ever seen before, with houses made from metal and people dressed in the clothes of lunatics. Yet he had known it was the future, and in that land blacks walked free everywhere and there were no whites that he could see. There, he was a boy, or he was in the dreams of the boy; he was not sure which. At the same time, he was himself. It was a strange sensation, one that had lingered long after he had woken, and even though he had forgotten much of his dream, he remembered one essential truth.
    He knew that they were going to win, because the boy he had been in that strange future knew it was not right for one person to own another, not anymore. That was why Toussaint had no doubt that he would lead. No one else had the same conviction. No one else could pursue the cause knowing that it was not only just, but that it was possible.
    The problem was that he didn’t necessarily want to. He had never killed anyone in his life, and he didn’t want to start now. He wanted to understand all sides of a conflict before he ever had to pick up a weapon.
    — How do you feel, otherwise? the houngan said. What do you know of the thing that entered you? Because something did. I sensed it. We all sensed it.
    — I like it, said Toussaint. That’s what scares me. And I can read! I could never read before.
    The houngan nodded slowly.
    — The lwa bring strange gifts, he said.
    — I’m not sure if it is a lwa, said Toussaint. Is there a way to tell? Can you . . . examine me?
    The houngan put out his hands.
    — Give me your head, he said. Lean forward.
    Toussaint inclined his forehead and felt the old man’s calloused hands gently cradle his head. Some time passed whilst the houngan made little noises of consideration. Finally he took a deep, deliberate breath, released it unevenly, and he let go.
    — It doesn’t make sense, he said.
    — What doesn’t?
    — There is only one soul in you. There is only one you. It’s as if . . . as if there isn’t anything else. The houngan was talking to himself as much as to Toussaint. But I was there! I sensed you buckle, and be