Sweat poured down her thighs; and in its warmth she felt the desire of Shango. As she clasped the wand ever more tightly against her breasts, she gasped, then shuddered. The white presence was entering her, taking her body for its own. She sensed a heat in her eyes, as though they might now bum through the dark.
A heaviness was growing in her legs, and she planted her feet wide apart to receive and support the burden she felt swelling in her breasts. The room was hot and cold and dark and light. She no longer saw anything save whiteness. Then she plunged the wand skyward and called out in a distant voice, resonant.
"E wa nibi! SHANGO!"
*
The flames billowed along the edge of the field, and the crackling of the cane swelled into a roar as a carpet of red crept up the hillside. Clusters of gray rats scurried to escape, lending a chorus of high-pitched shrieks to the din. As the night breeze quickened from the west, it whipped the flames toward the dense, unharvested acres that lay beyond.
Suddenly the urgent clanging of a bell sounded from the direction of the main compound, and soon after, silhouettes appeared at the perimeter of the indentures' quarters, the circle of thatched-roof huts beside the pathway leading to the sugarworks. Figures of straw-hatted women—the men were all gone away with the militia—stood out against the moonlit sky is they watched in fearful silence. Never had a fire in the fields erupted so suddenly.
Now! Atiba wanted to shout. Join us! Throw off your chains. Free yourselves!
He had not been able to enlist their help sooner, for fear a traitor among them might betray the revolt. But now, now they would see that freedom was within their grasp. He tried to call to them. To beckon them forward.
Give me the words, Mighty Ogun. Tell me the words that will make the branco slaves join us.
But the prayer passed unanswered. He watched in dismay as the women began, one by one, to back away, to retreat toward their huts in awe and dread.