Changer's Daughter Read Online Free Page B

that getting surprised is going to be par for the course for this job.” Bill grins. “Remember how we both felt when we learned that ‘Rob’ Trapper was really ‘rebecca’—and a sasquatch to boot?”
    “Stunned,” Chris says, remembering and smiling despite his pique, “scared, and positive we didn’t want to show any of it. I’ll never forget.”
    “At least the Wanderer is one of the athanor who likes humans,” Bill continues. “The ones I’m afraid of are those who think we’re spies just waiting for our chance to reveal their big secret to the world.”
    Chris rises and paces; halting, he strikes a mock-solemn, stagy pose, miming as if reading from a sheaf of notes.
    “‘Immortals Among Us,’” he pronounces in the tones of a television news anchor. “‘Myths and Monsters Real! Film at Eleven.’ Damn it, Bill. We wouldn’t live twenty-four hours if we told, no matter what kind of insurance we tried to take out.”
    “But the important thing is,” Bill reminds him, “that we don’t want to tell. Right?”
    “Right,” Chris says, slumping back in his chair. He wonders at the lack of conviction in his own voice.

    “Witches! I say that witches brought the illness that killed my baby!” weeps Aduke, still half-mad with grief and rage. Her infant had been buried that morning, wrapped in a cotton shroud dotted in red, black, and white. A deep cut had been made on the lobe of his right ear. “That baby wanted to live. He was no àbikú , longing for the other side!”
    Oya, knowing that the mutilation of a corpse already ravaged by disease had been the last straw for the young mother, gathers the girl in her arms and hugs her to her ample breast, crooning as she does so.
    “Easy, easy, little mother. We on the earth do not know what fate the soul chooses before birth, only Olodumare knows this, and he tells only Ifa. When you are stronger, we will go to the babalawo and have him cast the palm nuts for you. Then you will know how to name your next son.”
    Aduke sniffles something incoherent and Oya continues:
    “Don’t blame the old mothers for marking the boy before he was returned to the earth. They did it for love of you and love of him. If your next son is born with the same mark, then you will be warned and know to take precautions against those companions from the other side who try to lure him back to them.”
    Aduke raises her head. Her pretty face is smeared with tears, but she is no longer crying.
    “I understand, Oya,” she says meekly.
    Oya is an odd woman. When first met, she introduces herself as Oya, adding no family name nor praise name. That the name she gives is that of one of the old Yoruban goddesses is quite interesting. That she gives the name not as part of the àbíso name given by her family, as would be common enough, but as if it is her own name is fascinating.
    This adoption of a goddess’s name would be impertinent except that the name fits Oya so very well. Some of the old people mutter that this woman who calls herself Oya is the goddess come among them in these bad times. No one, not even the chiefs or diviners (who between them claim to know the answer to every mystery) contradict this.
    In this moment of intimacy, Aduke almost asks Oya who she is and where she lived before she came to Monamona a month or so before. The words are on her lips, but they shrivel into silence as she meets the older woman’s knowing eyes. Instead she says:
    “Oya, when can I consult the babalawo ?”
    “Not today,” Oya says firmly. “We will wait until you are a little farther from death.”
    “But if there are witches!” Aduke protests.
    “Shame, shame!” Oya tuts. “And you educated at the best schools and even the university in Ibadan. What would your professors and white friends think if they heard you talking about witches?”
    “They might laugh,” Aduke says defiantly, “but they have not had their baby taken by a disease that is supposed to be dead. They