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- Нил Гейман
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A
small
,
dark
-
bearded
man
with
a
dusty
black
derby
on
his
head
,
curling
payess
at
his
temples
,
and
a
ragged
fringed
prayer
shawl
came
to
them
walking
across
the
fields
.
He
was
several
feet
in
front
of
his
companion
,
who
was
twice
his
height
and
was
the
blank
gray
color
of
good
Polish
clay
:
the
word
inscribed
on
his
forehead
meant
truth
.
They
kept
coming
.
A
cab
drew
up
and
several
rakshasas
,
the
demons
of
the
Indian
subcontinent
,
climbed
out
and
milled
around
,
staring
at
the
people
at
the
bottom
of
the
hill
without
speaking
,
until
they
found
Mama
-
ji
,
her
eyes
closed
,
her
lips
moving
in
prayer
.
She
was
the
only
thing
here
that
was
familiar
to
them
,
but
still
,
they
hesitated
to
approach
her
,
remembering
old
battles
.
Her
hands
rubbed
the
necklace
of
skulls
about
her
neck
.
Her
brown
skin
became
slowly
black
,
the
glassy
black
of
jet
,
of
obsidian
:
her
lips
curled
and
her
long
white
teeth
were
very
sharp
.
She
opened
all
her
eyes
,
and
beckoned
the
rakshasas
to
her
,
and
greeted
them
as
she
would
have
greeted
her
own
children
.
The
storms
of
the
last
few
days
,
to
the
north
and
the
east
,
had
done
nothing
to
ease
the
feeling
of
pressure
and
discomfort
in
the
air
.
Local
weather
forecasters
had
begun
to
warn
of
cells
that
might
spawn
tornados
,
of
high
-
pressure
areas
that
did
not
move
.
It
was
warm
by
day
there
,
but
the
nights
were
cold
.
They
clumped
together
in
informal
companies
,
banding
together
sometimes
by
nationality
,
by
race
,
by
temperament
,
even
by
species
.
They
looked
apprehensive
.
They
looked
tired
.
Some
of
them
were
talking
.
There
was
laughter
,
on
occasion
,
but
it
was
muted
and
sporadic
.
Six
-
packs
of
beer
were
handed
around
.
Several
local
men
and
women
came
walking
over
the
meadows
,
their
bodies
moving
in
unfamiliar
ways
:
their
voices
,
when
they
spoke
,
were
the
voices
of
the
loa
who
rode
them
:
a
tall
,
black
man
spoke
in
the
voice
of
Papa
Legba
who
opens
the
gates
;
while
Baron
Samedi
,
the
voudon
lord
of
death
,
had
taken
over
the
body
of
a
teenage
Goth
girl
from
Chattanooga
,
possibly
because
she
possessed
her
own
black
silk
top
hat
,
which
sat
on
her
dark
hair
at
a
jaunty
angle
.
She
spoke
in
the
baron
’
s
own
deep
voice
,
smoked
a
cigar
of
enormous
size
,
and
commanded
three
of
the
Gédé
,
the
Loa
of
the
dead
.
The
Gédé
inhabited
the
bodies
of
three
middle
-
aged
brothers
.
They
carried
shotguns
and
told
continual
jokes
of
such
astounding
filthiness
that
only
they
were
willing
to
laugh
at
them
,
which
they
did
,
raucously
and
repeatedly
.
Two
ageless
Chickamauga
women
,
in
oil
-
stained
blue
jeans
and
battered
leather
jackets
,
walked
around
,
watching
the
people
and
the
preparations
for
battle
.
Sometimes
they
pointed
and
laughed
;
they
did
not
intend
to
take
part
in
the
coming
conflict
.
The
moon
swelled
and
rose
in
the
east
,
a
day
away
from
full
.
It
seemed
half
as
big
as
the
sky
as
it
rose
,
a
deep
reddish
-
orange
,
immediately
above
the
hills
.
As
it
crossed
the
sky
it
seemed
to
shrink
and
pale
until
it
hung
high
in
the
sky
like
a
lantern
.
There
were
so
many
of
them
waiting
there
,
in
the
moonlight
,
at
the
foot
of
Lookout
Mountain
.
Laura
was
thirsty
.
