The Rising Dead by Stella Green Page A

face didn’t give any clues to her age, and even though her bright clothes were bulky, he could tell she was petite and curvy. While he was still eating, the woman returned with a beautiful scarf. She placed it near him and began to slip away.
    “For me?” He laid his hand on the cloth, which was smooth and finely woven.
    She paused and looked up smiling for an instant, then hurried off. There was something mischievous and slightly naughty about that grin. She looked like she’d broken a rule and was pleased about it.
    Normally he wouldn’t have accepted a gift from people who had so little, but the scarf was lovely and he sensed that something about it was special. When he gathered his belongings, he tucked it in his pack.
    The shaman stood in the doorway, blocking his way. “You need to be here.”
    The Stranger gave his thanks for the food and medicine even though he knew the healing had nothing to do with the shaman. It seemed better not to mention the cloth. “I have many miles to travel. I must leave.”
    “To fight the jaguar god and survive is a sign.” Pointing to the rapidly healing scratches on the Stranger’s arm, the shaman nodded his approval. “This is the sign of a protector, a great warrior. Your destiny brought you here. I am a priest of the old gods. I read the stars. Two months ago the stars told me a northern man was coming. You will stay. Your name will be Sak Balan. It means White Jaguar.”
    The Stranger found the shaman’s confidence almost funny. He wished he believed in this man’s powers, because if there was a seer who could read his destiny in the stars and point him toward the place he belonged, it would be a comfort. The Stranger had no such illusions. Every place he visited had evil people with putrid sores and decay. He didn’t know when the trouble would start, but it always did. The worst part was the suffering of the innocent. He had learned to stay away from people because something about his presence seemed to put them in danger. He could fight. Defeating evil was possible, but the cost was high.
    “Your people will suffer if I stay.”
    “The stars tell me a different story.”
    “My story is very dark. You are waiting for someone else.”
    “Tell me your story.” The shaman pointed to the ground near his hut.
    The Stranger meant to leave, yet he found himself doing exactly what the shaman wanted. Again. He told the shaman that he had been battling evil for a long time. An evil being followed him and brought disaster to everyone he cared about or who helped him. “I can’t stay because he will find me, and you and your village will be the victims.”
    The shaman listened, nodding as if the problem of a powerful evil spirit was serious, yet not unusual. “He is like Juan Noj, the mountain lord that enslaves men’s souls and makes their rotting bodies work for him. I do not know your demon, but I know how to fool him.” He explained that he could cast a spell of protection that would make it impossible for the evil spirit to find the Stranger.
    The Stranger hadn’t spoken about decaying people. He kept that a secret because no one else could see them festering and he was worried that people would think he’d gone mad. Still, the shaman seemed to understand what was happening. He also had a potent talent for persuading others. Maybe it was fatigue or the herbs, or maybe it was the charming little Guatemalan woman who had brought him food, but the Stranger agreed to stay.
    The entire village spent the next day preparing for the protection spell. Huge amounts of corn were ground, vegetables were chopped, and dried meat was made into stews. In the morning everyone loaded themselves with sacks or gourds and followed the shaman through the jungle to a cave, which contained an altar with elaborate carvings. First the shaman built a fire at the altar. Then the men danced for hours while the women watched. The women feasted separately, but everyone drank together. There