I stood in a graveyard. A purple mist crawled just above the surface, clinging to the headstones. Torches burning with green flames illuminated the night sky. A drumbeat sounded in the distance, erratic and unnerving. Large mausoleums of dark granite loomed over me. They seemed to move and shift in the purple and green light.
“Come to flick my nose again?”
A low, delighted chuckle answered from inside a mausoleum. I turned toward the sound, and he appeared in front of me, in the disconnected way things in dreams sometimes do. Baron Samedi tilted his top hat and grinned, his skull-painted face splitting.
“I come to speak with you about actions, ‘mon. And consequences.”
I folded my arms, tucking shaking hands under my biceps.
“You have a flair for the dramatic.”
“Flair,” Samedi said, “is the entire point, ‘mon. How memorable would a dream be without atmosphere? How seriously would you take me if I came to you in a parking lot?”
“This still isn’t real.”
He laughed, the sound ringing off the stones.
“Depends on your definition of real. But I don’t have time to argue with you.”
He drifted closer, floating with his knees bent backward. His snakeskin boots never touched the ground.
“But you’re right. Not real exactly. Not technically. It’s a dream. But it’s mine, not yours. I brought you here, to my domain.”
He spread his arms wide, and the green torches flared, doubling their intensity.
“You can just do that?” I asked, relaxing my arms.
“The worlds of the living and the dead have rules. There are doors, locks, decisions about who can walk through each one.” He waved his hand, and the drum was joined by a bass and saxophone, playing a familiar jazz tune I’d never be able to name.
“Dreams are looser. They don’t fall so strictly under the watchful eye of your chosen loa. They are much more my style.”
He floated around me in a circle, looking me up and down the way a buyer might size up a new horse.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“About?”
“About families, benefits, and which ones you’ve decided to ignore.”
Before I could respond, he snapped his fingers, and the surrounding mist coalesced into three shapes — vague, shifting figures, one cool and pale, one burning red at the edges, and one wreathed in the same purple-green light as everything else in this place.
“Legba’s people,” Samedi said, nodding toward the pale one. “Rada. The old guard. Water, wisdom, keeping things calm and neat. Very respectable. Very sensible. They taught the rest of us how to behave, and most of us were such good students we never left the classroom.” He spoke in a warm, if slightly condescending tone. “I see why you went with the Papa. He’s already helped you more than you probably understand. Rada are good spirits to have at your back. Terrible spirits to have a drink with, though.”
He made another gesture, and the red-tinged figure moved forward.
“Now these guys,” his eyebrows rose as he spoke, “are some bad motherfuckers. Petro. Hot blood, hard lessons, and very little patience. Forged, not born. No sense of humor whatsoever. I respect the fire in them, though. They came out of struggle and learned early that sometimes the only way through a locked door is to kick it down. Fiercely loyal, mean when they have to be.”
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He swished his hand, and the last figure pulsed.
“And Gede.”
Samedi’s grin widened, and the shape seemed to lean in, excited by its own introduction.
“Gede are the only ones who tell the truth about the whole arrangement.”
“Which is?”
“That death isn’t the opposite of life. It’s the punchline.” He laughed, and for a moment the entire graveyard laughed with him. Buildings, torches, tombstones, even the mist seemed to lean into the joke.
“Rada wants you to be calm about it all. Just accept it as the natural end. Petro wants you to be angry, indignant even. Fight tooth and nail to avoid it. We’re the only ones who thought to laugh, because honestly, ‘mon, what else can you do? You die. You get yanked back to fight monsters and save a plan-et that didn’t know it needed saving. If that’s not funny, nothing is.”
“I guess I don’t see the joke.”
“The joke sees you.”
“What do you want from me?” I tried to keep my tone even.
Samedi looked at me. He brought both hands down in front of his chest, and the graveyard grew quiet and still. The music cut off.
“At first, I just wanted to play the game, but I’ll get real with you.” He leaned closer. I could smell tobacco on his breath.
“You may or may not know that I am the gatekeeper of the dead. I give souls permission to pass into the realm of death. That’s not all I do, though. I am also the preserver of life. I can cure any mortal disease or wound, and I do not let the faithful die before their time.”
He paused for a moment.
“When I saw only a single person take the Rootworker class, I wanted in on the action. I wanted to have a good laugh. When I saw that same person protect children from an untimely and cruel end,” he put his hands on my shoulders, “I wanted to offer my services, to protect and empower this champion.”
I stood a little straighter.
“Legba is a great loa. He can open paths in so many ways. I can complement what he’s given you, and I can make it fun. Take some of that sharp edge off.”
He pushed off me and floated high in the air. The torches flared again, and the music kicked back up.
“Think about me when you take a second loa!” he shouted into the wall of sound.
The dream shifted, and I was standing in a field. Papa Legba leaned against a wooden fence post. He offered a friendly smile and inclined his head. Then I was awake.
***
I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of my room in the safe house, waiting to see if any of the dreams would fade. Every word sat exactly where Samedi had left them. I shot a quick glance at the statue of Legba and then opened my Devotion tab.
PAPA LEGBA — Considered
Progress to favored: 34%