After her third night in the house, she woke at dawn, made coffee, dressed. Condensation stippled the broad window facing the deck. Sleep had been simply that; if dreams had come, she couldn’t recall them. But there was something — a quickening, almost a giddiness. She stood in the kitchen, feeling the cold of the ceramic floor through thick white sweatsocks, both hands around the warm cup. Something there. She extended her arms, raising the coffee like a chalice, the gesture at once instinctive and ironic. It had been three years since the loa had ridden her, three years since they had touched her at all. But now? Legba? One of the others? The sense of a presence receded abruptly. She put the cup down on the counter too quickly, coffee slopping over her hand, and ran to find shoes and a coat. Green rubber boots from the beach closet, and a heavy blue mountain jacket she didn’t remember, too large to have been Bobby’s. She hurried out of the house, down the stairs, ignoring the hum of the toy Dornier’s prop as it lifted off behind her like a patient dragonfly. She glanced north, along the jumble of beach houses, the confusion of rooflines reminding her of a Rio barrio, then turned south, toward the Colony.
The one who came was named Mamman Brigitte, or Grande Brigitte, and while some think her the wife of Baron Samedi, others name her »most ancient of the dead.« The dream architecture of the Colony rose to Angie’s left, a riot of form and ego. Frail-looking neon-embedded replicas of the Watts Towers lifted beside neo-Brutalist bunkers faced with bronze bas-reliefs. Walls of mirror, as she passed, reflected morning banks of Pacific cloud. There had been times, during the past three years, when she had felt as though she were about to cross, or recross, a line, a subtle border of faith, to find that her time with the loa had been a dream, or, at most, that they were contagious knots of cultural resonance remaining from the weeks she’d spent in Beauvoir ‘s New Jersey oumphor. To see with other eyes: no gods, no Horsemen. She walked on, comforted by the surf, by the one perpetual moment of beach-time, the now-and-always of it. Her father was dead, seven years dead, and the record he’d kept of his life had told her little enough. That he’d served someone or something, that his reward had been knowledge, and that she had been his sacrifice. Sometimes she felt as though she’d had three lives, each walled away from the others by something she couldn’t name, and no hope of wholeness, ever. There were the child’s memories of the Maas arcology, carved into the summit of an Arizona mesa, where she’d hugged a sandstone balustrade, face into the wind, and felt as though the whole hollowed tableland was her ship, that she could steer out into those sunset colors beyond the mountains. Later, she’d flown away from there, her fear a hard thing in her throat. She could no longer recall her last glimpse of her father’s face. Though it must have been on the microlight deck, the other planes tethered against the wind, a row of rainbow moths. The first life ended, that night; her father’s life had ended too. Her second life had been a short one, fast and very strange. A man called Turner had taken her away, out of Arizona, and had left her with Bobby and Beauvoir and the others. She remembered little about Turner, only that he was tall, with hard muscles and a hunted look. He’d taken her to New York. Then Beauvoir had taken her, along with Bobby, to New Jersey. There, on the fifty-third level of a mincome structure, Beauvoir had taught her about her dreams. The dreams are real, he’d said, his brown face shining with sweat. He taught her the names of the ones she’d seen in dreams. He taught her that all dreams reach down to a common sea, and he showed her the way in which hers were different and the same. You alone sail the old sea and the new , he said. She was ridden by gods, in New Jersey. She learned to abandon herself to the Horsemen. She saw the loa Linglessou enter Beauvoir in the oumphor, saw his feet scatter the diagrams outlined in white flour. She knew the gods, in New Jersey, and love. The loa had guided her, when she’d set out with Bobby to build her third, her current life. They were well matched, Angie and Bobby, born out of vacuums, Angie from the clean blank kingdom of Maas Biolabs and Bobby from the boredom of Barrytown. . . .