She’d spent her time in the shop for a while before deciding which book to steal, and had eventually gone for the biggest on the basis it must have the most spells in it. It had only just fit in her backpack and had made the cycle home a hell of a lot harder. It had a lot of footnotes in and the title had “witchcraft” in quotation marks, but the spell itself seemed good and solid, involved lots of blood of other bodily fluids and was therefore exactly the sort of thing Nana Bo would have approved of.

There had been people willing – eager, even – to get Josephine vials of blood in exchange for being remembered to Nana Bo. They’d all been so peachy keen to believe she was her grandmother’s granddaughter that none of them questioned the logic or likelihood of a ten-year-old summoning the god of death. So many materials had gone into the basket when she asked that there were now more bones, feathers, trinkets and random root vegetables in there than there were actual ingredients for the spell.

The chicken especially was giving her some trouble. It was trying to eat the yam it was standing on.

Back at Tina’s house she’d undone the tight cornrow plaits so her hair bounced along behind her as she pedalled up the hill to the cemetery. You had to care about the look of the thing, Nana Bo had said, and while cornrows and do-rags were a look they weren’t the right look. Josephine isn’t quite sure what the right look is but as she cycles through the cemetery gates she hopes she’s about to come close.

Someone’s left a tin can on Nana Bo’s grave. Josephine holds it, mutters a quick curse on whoever left it there, and puts it neatly in the bin. She doesn’t seem to be thinking about the fact chicken sacrifice will make a much larger mess as she takes off her backpack and wiggles out the book. It’s already looking dog-eared and she’s had it for less than a fortnight. Humming quietly to herself, she opens it on the page she has bookmarked and puts it on a patch of the springy grass that surrounds the grave. It doesn’t feel right having a book there but nobody ever taught Josephine how to do this sort of thing so she’s only going on what she’s seen and what she’s seen doesn’t really match up to what’s in the book. She rummages in the basket of her bicycle and comes up with a jar that’s helpfully marked “ЯaM ASH” which contains the ash of the burnt horn of a sacrificial ram. At the same time she brings out a hand mirror, and looking in the hand mirror, she starts to – except then she notices she’s still got her bicycle helmet on. It’s not going to leave a very good impression on Baron Samedi if the ten-year-old summoning him still has her bicycle helmet on. She quickly unclips it and leaves it near her bicycle before taking a fingerful of ash and rubbing it deep in her eyes, making them stream and her sneeze. When she marks four lines down her lips she can taste the powdery carbon dryness on the inside of her mouth. But it’s the look of the thing and she now looks (roughly) like a skull. The beads help; the chunky turquoise necklace around her neck that Nana Bo used to wear.

The book doesn’t have a description on how to summon Legba. This troubles Josephine. She’s not quite sure what happens to people who speak with the gods without going through their messenger first, but she’s sure it’s something bad. She shuffles from knee to knee until a dog walks past sniffing at the air. She takes this as an OK, drags the big brass bowl from the bottom of her bicycle basket, breaks up a few twigs of mountain ash (which was sodding hard to get hold of and which she plans on having a word about with Baron Samedi, if he comes) and tries to light it. The first few matches break but eventually one takes and within time flames are roaring almost as high as the headstone. Josephine edges away from the bowl, curls her knees up inside her jumper, and waits. The cemetery will be closing soon. They’ve probably got a night janitor or something. Josephine shivers under her jumper. It’s getting dark.

Once the flames have gone down she gropes around for her flashlight. The only light is that which is coming from the stars, just like the spell dictates. Whoever designed the place obviously wasn’t expecting a little girl to be sitting on one of the graves after dark. Still, there she is, and she’s holding the flashlight in her mouth as she opens the vial of dove’s blood. “Bara Sha-“ Possibly, she reflects, it would be better to take the flashlight out of her mouth first. The blood spills hesitantly on the ash and Josephine whispers: “Baro’ Samedi.” It’s not the name the book uses but it is, she knows, the name of the god. Next goes in the milk, which smells a bit off, and then the oil, and each time Josephine takes time to stir with her pointy bit of unidentified bone and call the god a bit louder each time.

She wriggles onto her stomach and reads the next part slowly. Then she flicks through her notebook and reads that slowly too. Finally, she dips a finger in the warm goop and carefully copies one of the symbols onto the coins that have been jangling in her pocket. She’d thought about it and it didn’t seem right doing it on cents, so these are 50 centimes coins she’s buffed with spit and her sleeve. She copies the symbols ev-er-so-care-ful-ly and double checks to make sure she’s put them on the right side.

The rest of the twigs go into the big brass bowl (does it count as a brazier?) and this time they light first time and flare, which Josephine takes to be a positive sign.

“Baron Samedi, I summon ya! Baron Samedi, I summon ya!” In her mind it becomes a chant to the beat of drums: Baron Samdi, Baron Samdi, Baron Samdi. From crouching at the foot of the grave she tosses in the coins, not wanting to get too close for fear of getting burnt.

Baron Samdi, Baron Samdi, Baron Samdi.

The chicken squawks.

Josephine waits.

There is a moment in which nothing happens. If the witches and wizards and magi and thaumaturges of the world were to write an Esperanto of magic, this moment would have a word, and it would be defined both by the expectant waiting and the disappointment that perhaps nothing has happened.

This shapeless moment stretches out, leaving gaping spaces into which the thaumaturge in question might pour all their uncertainties, and then ends with whispering.

The noise collects in the corners of the graveyard and grows, steadily, bending and doubling and tripling in on itself. A wind comes with it, snaking around the headstones, whipping the smoke from the brass bowl/brazier into a fury—it twists upwards and outwards. With a sudden cessation of sound, the smoke balloons into a globe centered on the bowl/brazier. Inside the membrane-thin wall of smoke, a figure takes form.

Baron Saturday.

He’s tall and thin and brown all over, save for his face, which is painted with thick white to resemble a skull. He’s wearing a black tuxedo and wearing a black top hat, and he’s carrying a cane that is carved to look like a riot of little men and women holding one another up like a tower. His feet are bare; his eyes are wolf-white.

The Loa is standing in the centre of the containing sphere of smoke, the brass bowl right behind his bare-to-the-earth feet. Leaning on his cane, canted slightly to the side, he looks authoritative—and intrigued. He’s existed a long time and seen many things, but a summoning by a small girl—if not exactly new—is a rare and curious occasion.

When he speaks, the skin of the containing globe shivers and wrinkles. His voice adds odd harmonics to the air, all ice and anomaly. Today it gives the impression of depth. It’s the kind of voice a canyon would have.

”Yes?”

There are a lot of things to notice about this moment. For example: there is the fact that Josephine has summoned the god of death. The first thing she notices, though, is how shiny he looks. She’s only seen him inhabiting the bodies of humans before and they’ve usually been covered in blood and ash and dust. Baron Samedi as he appears now is near enough immaculate that it makes no difference.

It’s fortunate for Josephine that she’s been brought up to expect this sort of thing to happen on a day-to-day basis. It doesn’t, but that hasn’t stopped her expecting it. Therefore there’s none of the theological uncertainty that might have hit anyone else who’d sort of not exactly stuck to the proper spell and still managed to summon the god of death. She’s a little nervous, but no more than can be expected. It’s dark and cold and god of death for goodness’ sake. Because she’s been brought up a good girl to respect her elders, no matter what corporeal form they may be in, her head is practically touching the ground when she replies. This also has the advantage of hiding her face since having seen the real thing she realises what a poor reflection she’s made.

“Baro’ Samedi,” Josephine mutters, and risks glancing up. He’s suitably impressive enough for her to be satisfied. “Thank you. Thank you fo’ coming.” As if she had invited him to a birthday party. Aw, bless.

In the relative silence of a graveyard at night, the crinkle-tinkle-snap of ice forming is audible. It creeps out from under Baron Samedi’s bare feet, coating the grass in a thin shell that reflects the low light. Where it reaches the edge of the smoke-skin bubble it stops, apparently unable to reach out into the night towards Josephine.

The god seems to be ignoring the frost formation.

He sweeps a hand, magnanimously dismissing (or accepting) her thanks. His eyes seem to glitter, although it’s hard to read his expression under the thick white paint.

”Your request for my presence seemed reasonable enough.” Within the circle, things vibrate and twitch with his sibilants and consonants. His voice has an almost physical presence.

”What do you want?”

It’s so cold, and not just the night cold. This is cold that penetrates the stomach like a frozen drink on a boiling day. Although the ice can’t reach her Josephine can feel it radiating like a bonfire would if it was made of ice. She chances a glance up. It’s at the same moment Baron Samedi chooses to speak.

Josephine’s learnt about sound waves in school. This is the first time she’s actually been aware of them. Hearing the voice of death, she can believe in it like she could believe in a tsunami. The voice might only be the whirling waves but the ocean’s there behind it sure as eggs is eggs.

Or chickens is chickens.

“Baron,” Josephine says, up on her elbows now, teeth chattering away, “My Nana Bo was yo’ mambo. She left this earth almost a year ago now. Everyone, when she left, they said she would be back soon, but she ain’t. Please, Baron Samedi,” she looks up at Death imploringly, “I need to know where she’s gone. Her name is Beatrice an’ she was fifty nine when she die’.” Joey knows this because she worked it out from the headstone. It’s essential to get these facts straight. Nobody wants to be connected with the wrong spirit when they’re trying to use Death as their own personal switchboard.

Imagine-- not a wrong connection but a wrong posession. Still, they're on her grave; her bones are resting below their feet. The Baron is a God—surely he can figure these things out.

(If he wants to.)

His movements graceful but never boneless, Baron Samedi drops into a squatting position. His knees are out and angular; one of his hands rests fingers-spread on the ground. The other’s cocked over one of his thighs, and he holds his cane folded up in it like a mantis’ leg.

This brings him more on a level with Joey, like he’s speaking to her mano-e-mano rather than as a towering figure of general authority. This is a bit suspect, as she’s a little girl and he’s Death.

”You want to talk to her?” he asks. The thick white paint on his face folds and stretches as he lifts his eyebrows.

‘Talk’ is a bit different from ‘bring back’.

Being possessed by a horse when you’re expecting your dearly departed father might come as a bit of a shock, yes. He’s the god of Death. That must mean the Death of everything with humans the only ones irritating enough to keep bugging him.

Attempts at dice, pleading, summoning… humans must be a right pain in the arse.

Since they’re having a jolly little chinwag now Josephine pulls herself back and sits upright with her hands resting on her lap. Her ankles, bent back underneath her, are starting to ache. It’s unusual for a little girl to have aching joints but then again her teeth are starting to ache.

That’ll be all the shivering.

"Yes," she says, and dares to look up into Baron Samedi’s eyes. "Please. Sir." She wants to say something more, to tell her how grateful she’ll be, but she gets the feeling he already knows.

He makes eye contact, confident and probing. He’s leaning right up close to the skin of smoke, now—almost up against it. It seems to clear and thin and stretch away between their gazes. Hopefully it still holds him.

The grass along the edges outside the bubble looks like it wants to start frosting over. It doesn’t.

Finally, he nods.

”Then talk.” Still squatting, he raises the hand that had been splayed on the ground and holds it high above him, tossing his head up as well. The hat stays on, but you probably don’t have to worry about that sort of thing when you’re a god.

Energy gathers within the globe of smoke, and then outside it as well, crackling like static electricity in the air. The wind whips up, and all the ice and frost inside the smoke creeps back to the Baron, as though he’s sucking it all back up.

No energy comes from Nana Bo’s grave, because those are just her bones and various decaying chemical and mineral compounds; what Baron Samedi is calling now is her—for want of a better word—soul. (Spirit. Essence. Personality.) The energy seems to lean from the air itself, coruscating across the thin membrane separating Samedi from Josephine.

Coruscating across the outside.

It snaps into her like heat lightning. The voice of the dead is just a voice, after all. To be heard, it needs a body.

There’s a well known cinematic shot when entities enter or leave a body. It was used in The Exorcist, amongst others. The innocent child is flung up into the air chest first with a van de graff type thing coming out of her sternum.

That’s sort of what happens now.

Josephine’s not really concentrating on what’s happening because there’s too much of it happening all at once. Baron Samedi’s nod was presumably acquiescence, so she’s happy for that; the rest is a bit confusing.

There’s someone else in her head with her.

She flutters gently and unconsciously to the ground. Just as her feet brush the grass, she (whoever she is right now) picks her head up from lolling across her chest. Those big brown eyes zero in on Baron Samedi, safe there in his little bubble, and she says:

"You."

The vocal cords are the same but now there’s depth to them. About six feet of it.

"You." Her little finger points as she glances down to take a look at the body she’s now inhabiting. She moves her hands to the hips, miscalculating their distance by a couple of inches by quickly readjusting. "What yo’ been doin’ with dis girl?"

"Nana, j’ai appelé Baro’ Samedi, il y a…" For a second Josephine’s face crumples but then it’s back to the stern expression that was found, up until eighteen months ago, to frequently cross the face of Beatrice St. Clare.

"You an’ you’s have done enough messin’ wid dis girl! I raised her right, Mister Samedi, but so help me… if yo’ be messin’ wid her to get back at me somehow there will be hell to pay."

The Baron remains in his squatting position, his limbs still loose and casual. He gives Joey/Beatrice a wry expression.

”Beatrice,” he says, and the little bit of honey laced onto his tone seems oddly out of place. ”I am hell to pay. She wanted to talk to you.”

Completely abandoning his poise, he rocks gently backwards and sits on the grass with his legs crossed. The frost is already creeping outwards again.

He drops the cane and gestures at her, not so much reconciliatory as encouraging.

”So talk.”

"Psht." Beatrice says dismissively and with a not-altogether-unkind nose wrinkle. Her frown, although not upside down, has softened a little. "I know you, Baro’ Samedi.” She’s actually used the appropriate title. This is a rare thing for Beatrice. Azrael should rejoice. "You really expec’ me to believe you’d let this kid have me back without oh Nana he did, you were right, I found a book hush up, chil’ – you’re going to make sure she’s fine, y’hear me? Don’t forget she’s one of yo’ own, Samedi."

She waggles her finger again as threateningly as possible while inhabiting her granddaughter.

"Oh!" That’s Josephine again. Beatrice doesn’t gasp. "Thank you, Baro’ Samedi!" …And here come the tears. "I… I always believe in you… thank you! You see what a state you’ve got the poor gal in no Nana, I’m just crying with happy."

Josephine’s smiling as the tears run down her face and cool quickly on her cheeks in the presence of so much ice. She shivers again. Unlike Beatrice, she doesn’t have the composure to stop herself.

It’s sort of like watching a play; Baron Samedi seems content to sit back and spectate. He’s considerably less imposing sitting there with his legs crossed in the grass and no shoes on, but he’s still tall enough to be basically Joey’s height seated. The waggling finger does not seem to impress him.

”Don’t forget you’re in my domain now, Beatrice. We’ll call this a temporary reprieve.” He ignores the comment about Josephine’s heritage and, when she starts crying, helpfully conjures a box of Kleenex. This would be more helpful if it weren’t inside the containing sphere along with him, hovering a couple of inches above his long brown fingers.

”You’ll be fine, Josephine. Don’t let your grandmother worry you.”

Funnily enough, Beatrice hadn't meant it to be a comment on her heritage. She's 99% sure Josephine doesn't know about any of that and she doesn't want her knowing either. So while they've still got a seesaw mind, Beatrice is guarding her thoughts as well as her mouth. The comment was on the way Josephine was raised rather than who she was; nurture, not nature. She'd been raised to believe with all her heart in the power of the Baron.

Unfortunately in this case he was right, and Beatrice resigned herself to the fact. This is the working of Baron Samedi who can just as easily undo it. All hail, etc etc.

"Well," says Beatrice, drawing herself up to the height that is considerable for a child but miniscule compared to the god in front of them, "tell the chil' I'll be watching her," that face flickering happens again, "don't worry, Nana, I can hear you. Alright then. Baro' Samedi," she nods. It's the sort of nod a workman would give to his equals.

Then she's gone. Josephine's face is all her own. "Odd," she whispers, half to herself and half to the Baron. "Nana say not to take one of your tissues." This despite the fact Joey's still snivelling.