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Papa Legba, open the gate for me, Ago-e
Ativon Legba, open the gate for me;
The gate for me, papa, so that I may enter the temple
On my way back, I shall thank you for this favor
--From a traditional Haitian vodou song

In my long, long existence--such an existence as mine cannot be called "life"--I have been known by many names. Papa Legba, St. Peter, Li Grand Zombi, the Serpent Corrupter, Shaitan, Gabriel. I have been known as all these and more. What I am, truly, is not to be known by man or beast. But suffice it to say that I am a storyteller: the second-greatest storyteller in existence, in fact. Only Vudu itself (or himself or herself, here not even I am sure) is greater than I, being creator of this universe. It is tradition that I am sought among the marshes and swamps of my old home, Lousiane, by each new vodouisant. Of course, I am not simply here, but everywhere. But here is where I make my main home. You are a hardy one, seeing as you have braved the deep marshes to see me. Thusly, as the old traditions tell, you will be shown the secret--the secret which only I may entrust to any other. If you attempt it, I shall strike you dead where you stand in the form of a cobra. It shall be painful, I promise you that. What's that? You will not tell? I thought not. Very well.

Know you therefore that this hell-blasted world in which you--not I--exist is but one of an infinite number of similiar worlds. None of these worlds are quite the same, but none of them are so horribly, wildly different as to be unrecognizable. Well, there are some of them like that, but Vudu had the good sense to seal them off forever from the likes of you. I digress. There are an infinite number of worlds, an infinite number of universes, an infinite number of -yous-. Don't start so, young one. I am old and rapid movement upsets me. I will tell you a story if you swear to be calm. You do? Good. Here it is then--the story of a world where you and I and Vudu himself are truly powerful, may truly change the world without subtlety....

House of Balthasar Masan, Vieux Carré,Nouvelle-Orléans, Lousiane

June 23, 1769

The six men sat around the long wooden table as flickering candles cast weird shadows across their faces. The room in which they sat was simple, yet elegant--gold leaf lined the lintels holding up the walls, while exquisitely-painted artistry adorned the walls. Denis-Nicholas Foucault, however, was in no mood to admire the fine design of the room. The former Commissaire de la Louisiane and current political leader of Nouvelle-Orléans tapped his fingers impatiently against the fine-grained table as his gaze flicked from face to face. After moments of impatient waiting, the commissaire burst out in rapid, eloquent French: "Gentlemen, we cannot sit here all night if we are to retain independence or regain the suzerainty!" Pierre Marquis, commander of Louisiane's militia, looked up, pursing his lips. It was so like Foucault to burst out such. He had never had the emotional grip and elegant politeness befitting a French gentleman of his stature. But allies are allies, and so Marquis spoke gently to him. "Nicholas, there is nothing we can do. We have a few thousand mere militiamen to defend Nouvelle-Orléans against two thousand well-trained Spanish soldiers. If we attempted to stand against them, the city would be burned and ourselves slaughtered with the hideous methods of the Spanish." "Those militiamen will fight hard if they know it is their lives and home at stake!" Foucault replied, though he knew that Marquis was right.

As the inevitability of doom began to sink on the six men, these six men who were the most powerful men in all of Lousiana, a seventh voice spoke. All six men briefly sat enthralled at the sound of the voice--crude and yet somehow silky, primitive and yet somehow deep, unimaginably old, with echoes and whispers in it seeming to promise fantastic riches and knowledge of depraved olden secrets. This was a good thing, for this voice was the harbringer of the future. "If you will fight against dem Spaniards who wanta take dis city, de vodousiants will support you." The six shivered as one man at the mention of the vodousiants. They were the true power in many parts of Nouvelle-Orléans, exerting great influence on the massive slave population of the city and the province. The bearer of the ancient voice stepped out of the shadows and Balthasar Masan breathed a sigh of sudden fear when he realized it was one of his own slaves, Leonide. Leonide grinned suddenly, revealing a gap-toothed smile. "For a priiice, of course."

Three miles west of Nouvelle-Orléans, Lousiane

July 21, 1769

Alejandro--well, Alexander, really, but it had been a long time since anyone had called him that--O'Reilly looked around at the low-hanging trees and the marshes, hating all of it. The heat and humidity had settled over the entire 2,000-man army trudging through the mud around midday like a blanket. O'Reilly cast a look behind him at the same 2,000-man army: they were, to a man, slouching and sweating under the heat. Damn Spaniards, all. A good man of strong Irish stock could take any kind of weather, anywhere, and survive as well as needs be. And O'Reilly was of the very strongest Irish stock. On his mother's side (admittedly very far back), he was a direct descendent of Brian Boru. And though he would never know it, his father had been an indirect descendent of Strongbow, the man who had conquered Ireland. But times were tough in Ireland now for even the strongest of the Irish, and no true Irishman could travel to England to work. No, O'Reilly and many others of his kind had escaped poverty for the riches of dusky Spain, where the houses stood low and close-together and the still-Moorish maidens danced to the exotic sounds of toque and cante. The Spanish king offered a fortune to those Irishmen who would fight in his army, and so fight they did. O'Reilly had risen to great prominence as a fighter in the Spanish army--indeed, he was a Field Marshal, and the prospective governor of Louisiana (if these damn Frenchies would allow him in).

Suddenly, the Field Marshal was pulled out of his reverie by a sound to the west. He snapped his head in that direction, scanning the trees with a sudden, desperate, and unknown fear. Behind him, the men were doing the same, lifting their muskets. For a moment, all was quiet, except for the flies buzzing and the occasional splash of water. But alas, no peace can last forever. Without warning, thousands of screaming, war-painted demons swarmed out of the treeline and out of the trees themselves. The great warrior O'Reilly only had time to draw his sabre and scream "Emboscado!" before five of the hellions dragged him down from his horse. Kicking and slashing blindly, O'Reilly struggled manfully against the bipedal beasts who had seized him. After what seemed like a lifetime of battle, he was suddenly left alone. Pushing himself by his sword, he noticed dazedly the sun shining on the water (and on the blood and glassy eyes of his dead men) and that blood was streaming from a cut just below his throat. He managed to pull his head up and saw that there was a black man, maybe two feet away from him, with a large snake wrapped around his neck. The unbelievably ancient black man stared into O'Reilly's eyes--O'Reilly could not but stare back, entranced by what he seemed to see in those pools of inner wisdom. All was quiet as Leonide took step after step towards O'Reilly while the Lousianian army watched from safety among the trees. The Irishman did not notice when his sword fell out of his suddenly nerveless hands, so great was his fear. But he did notice when the snake suddenly struck towards his throat and bit, once, deeply.

In Nouvelle-Orléans, one great, terrible scream was heard, and then there was silence.
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