The man holding the _iya ilu_ tonight was Obewole, his weathered coffee face rendered darker still by the contrast of a short grey beard. His muscles were conditioned by decades of swinging a long iron sword; in the fields he could wield a cane machete as powerfully as any young warrior. He shifted the shoulder strap one last time, then held out the mallet in readiness and looked toward Atiba for a signal to begin.

When Atiba gave a nod, a powerful drum roll sounded above the roar of the gale. Then Obewole began to talk with the drum, a deep-toned invocation to the ceremonial high G.o.ds of the Yoruba pantheon, Eleggua and Olorun.

"_Omi tutu a Eleggua, omi tutu a mi ileis, Olorun modu-pue ..."_

As the drum spoke directly to the G.o.ds, the line of men pa.s.sed by Atiba and he sprinkled each with liquor from a calabash, flinging droplets from his fingertips like shooting stars in the candlelight. Each man saluted him, their _babalawo_, by dropping their heads to the ground in front of him while balanced on their fists, then swinging their bodies right and left, touching each side to the floor in the traditional Yoruba obeisance. The office of _babalawo _embodied all the struggles, the triumphs, the pride of their race.

When the last man had paid tribute, all three drums suddenly exploded with a powerful rhythm that poured out into the night and the storm.

Obewole's mallet resounded against the skin of the large _iya ilu_, producing a deep, measured cadence--three strokes, then rest, repeated again and again hypnotically--almost as though he were knocking on the portals of the unseen. Next to him the men holding the two smaller drums interjected syncopated clicks between the _iya ilu's _throaty booms. The medley of tempos they blended together was driving, insistent.

As the sound swelled in intensity, the men began to circle the drawing for Ogun, ponderously shuffling from one foot to the other in time with the beat. It was more than a walk, less than a dance.

Atiba began to clang together two pieces of iron he had brought, their ring a call to Ogun. The men trudged past him, single file, the soles of their feet never leaving the earth. Using this ritual walk, they seemed to be reaching out for some mighty heart of nature, through the force of their collective strength. They had come tonight as individuals; now they were being melded into a single organic whole by the beat of the _iya ilu_, their spirits unified.

Some of them nodded to Obewole as they pa.s.sed, a homage to his mastery, but he no longer appeared to see them. Instead he gazed into the distance, his face a mask, and methodically pounded the taut goatskin with ever increasing intensity.

"_Ogun cyuba bai ye baye tonu_ . . ." Suddenly a chant rose up through the dense air, led by the young warrior Derin, who had devoted his life to Ogun. His cropped hair emphasized the strong line of his cheeks and his long, powerful neck. As he moved, now raising one shoulder then the other in time with the drums, his body began to glisten with sweat in the humid night air.

All the while, Atiba stood beside the mill, still keeping time with the pieces of iron. He nodded in silent approval as the men in the line began to revolve, their bare feet now slapping against the packed earth, arms working as though they held a bellows. This was the ritual call for Ogun, warrior and iron worker. As they whirled past the design on the floor, each man bent low, chanting, imploring Ogun to appear.

While the sound soared around them, the dance went on and on, and the atmosphere of the mill house became tense with expectation.

Suddenly Derin spun away, separating himself from the line, his eyes acquiring a faraway, vacant gaze. As he pa.s.sed by the musicians, the drumming swelled perceptibly, and Serina sensed a presence rising up in the room, intense and fearsome. Without warning, the clanging of iron stopped and she felt a powerful hand seize hers.

"Ogun is almost here." Atiba was pointing toward Derin, his voice a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "Can you sense his spirit emerging? Soon he may try to mount Derin."

She studied the dancers, puzzling. "What do you mean, 'mount' him?"

"The Orisa can mount our mind and body, almost like a rider mounts a horse. Ogun wants to displace Derin's spirit and become the force that rules him. But Derin's self must first leave before Ogun can enter, since it's not possible to be both man and G.o.d at once. His own spirit is trying to resist, to ward off the G.o.d. Sometimes it can be terrifying to watch." He studied the men a few moments in silence.

"Yes, Derin's body will be the one honored tonight. He's the youngest and strongest here; it's only natural that Ogun would choose him. Don't be surprised now by what you see. And Dara"--his voice grew stern--"you must not try to help him, no matter what may happen."

At that instant the young warrior's left leg seemed to freeze to the ground, and he pitched forward, forfeiting his centering and balance.

He began to tremble convulsively, his eyes terror-stricken and unfocused, his body reeling from a progression of unseen blows against the back of his neck. He was still trying to sustain the ritual cadence as he pitched backward against the mill.

Now the drums grew louder, more forceful, and his entire body seemed to flinch with each stroke of Obewole's mallet. His eyes rolled back into his head, showing only a crescent of each pupil, while his arms flailed as though trying to push away some invisible net that had encircled his shoulders. He staggered across the floor, a long gash in his shoulder where the teeth of the mill had ripped the flesh, and began to emit barking cries, almost screams, as he struggled to regain his balance.

"You've got to stop it!" She started pulling herself to her feet. But before she could rise, Atiba seized her wrist and silently forced her down. None of the other men appeared to take notice of Derin's convulsions. Several were, in fact, themselves now beginning to stumble and lose their balance. But they all continued the solemn dance, as though determined to resist the force wanting to seize their bodies.

At that moment the measured booms of the large iya Hu drum switched to a rapid, syncopated beat, a knowing trick by Obewole intended to throw the dancers off their centering. The sudden shift in drumming caused Derin to lose the last of his control. He staggered toward the drummers, shouted something blindly, then stiffened and revolved to face Atiba.

His eyes were vacant but his sweat-drenched body had as

sumed a mystical calm. He stood silent for a moment, glared fiercely about the mill house, then reached for the long iron machete Atiba was holding out for him.

"_Obi meye lori emo ofe _. . ." He was intoning in a deep, powerful voice, declaring he would now reveal who he was.

"_Ogun_!"

He abruptly brandished the machete about his head and with a leap landed astride the diagram Atiba had traced in the dirt.

The other men hovered back to watch as he launched a violent dance, slashing the air with the blade while intoning a singsong chant in a voice that seemed to emanate from another world. The drums were silent now, as all present knelt to him, even those older and more senior.

Derin the man was no longer present; his body belonged to the G.o.d, and his absent eyes burned with a fierceness and determination Serina had never before seen.

She gripped Atiba's hand, feeling her fingers tremble. Now, more than ever, she was terrified. The pounding of rain on the roof seemed almost to beckon her out, into the night, away from all this. But then she began to understand that the men around her were no longer slaves, in the mill room of a plantation in the English Caribbees; they were Yoruba warriors, invoking the G.o.ds of their dark land.

Now Derin was finishing the ritual chant that proclaimed him the earthly manifestation of Ogun. The words had scarcely died away when Atiba stepped forward and demanded he speak to the men, offer them guidance for the days ahead. When Derin merely stood staring at him with his distant eyes, Atiba grabbed him and shook him.

Finally, above the sound of wind and rain, Derin began to shout a series of curt phrases. His voice came so rapidly, and with such unearthly force, Serina found she could not follow.

"What is he saying?" She gripped Atiba's hand tighter.

"Ogun demands we must right the wrongs that have been set upon us. That we must use our swords to regain our freedom and our pride. He declares tonight that his anger is fierce, like the burning sun that sucks dry the milk of the coconut, and he will stand with us in the name of vengeance. That victory will be ours, but only if we are willing to fight to the death, as worthy warriors."

Atiba stopped to listen as Derin continued to intone in a deep chilling voice. When he had concluded his declaration, he abruptly turned and approached Serina. He stood before her for a moment, then reached out with his left hand and seized her shoulder, tearing her white shift.

She gasped at the tingle in her arm, realizing his fingers were cold and hard as iron. His eyes seemed those of a being who saw beyond the visible, into some other world. She wanted to pull away, but his gaze held her transfixed.

"Send this one back where she belongs, to the compounds of your wives.

Yoruba warriors do not hold council with women. She . . . will lead you . . . to . . ." The voice seemed to be receding back into Derin's body now, to be calling from some faraway place.

Suddenly he leaped backward, circled the machete about his head, and with a powerful stroke thrust it into the earth, buried halfway to the hilt. He stared down for a moment in confusion, as though incredulous at what he had just done, then tremulously touched the dark wooden handle. Finally he seized his face in his hands, staggered backward, and collapsed.

Atiba sprang to catch him as he sprawled across the remains of the trampled palm fronds. Several other men came forward, their eyes anxious.

"Ogun has honored us tonight with his presence." He looked about the dark room, and all the men nodded in silent agreement.

At that moment a long trunk of lightning illuminated the open doorway, followed by a crack of thunder that shook the pole supporting the thatched roof. Serina felt a chill sweep against her forehead.

"That is the voice of Shango. He too demands to be heard. We must continue." Atiba turned to Serina. "Even though it displeases Ogun, your presence here tonight is essential. You were once consecrated to Shango. Perhaps you were never told. But you are Yoruba. Your lineage is sacred to him."

"How do you know?" She felt the chill in the room deepening.

"Shango animates your spirit. As a _babalawo _I can tell. It must have been divined the day you were born and sanctified by a ceremony to Olorun, the high G.o.d. There are signs, but I must not reveal to you what they are."

"No! I won't have any part of this. It's pagan, terrifying." She wrapped her arms about her, shivering from the cold. "I only came here to please you. I'll watch. But that's all."

Atiba motioned to the drummers. "But Shango will not be denied. You have nothing to fear. Most of his fire tonight is being spent in the skies." The drums began again, their cadence subtly changed from before. The lightning flashed once more, closer now, as he urged her toward the dancers.

"We must know the will of Shango, but we are all men of Ogun. Shango would never come and mount one of us. He will only come to you, his consecrated."

As the line of men encircled her and pushed her forward, into the crowd of half-naked bodies sweating in the candlelight, Atiba's face disappeared in the tumult of heaving chests and arms. She tried to yell back to him, to tell him she would never comply, but her voice was lost in the drumming and the roar of the rain.

She was moving now with the line of men. Before she realized what she was doing, she had caught the hem of her swaying white shift and begun to swing it from side to side in time with the booms of the _iya ilu_ drum. It was a dance figure she remembered from some lost age, a joyous time long ago. She would dance for her love of Atiba, but not for his G.o.ds.

Now the rhythm of the drums grew more dizzying, as though pulling her forward. It was increasingly hard to think; only through the dance could she keep control, stay centered on her own self. Only by this arcing of her body, as the movement of her hips flowed into her swaying torso, could she . . .

Suddenly she saw herself, in Pernambuco, being urged gently forward by her Yoruba mother as the slaves drummed in the cool evening air. It was Sunday, and all the _preto _had gathered to dance, the black women in ornate Portuguese frocks of bright primary colors and the men in tight- fitting trousers. The drums were sounding and the plantation air was scented by a spray of white blossoms that drifted down from the spreading tree. The senhor de engenho was there, the white master, clapping and leering and calling something to Dara about her_ mulata _daughter's new frock. He was watching her now, waiting. Soon, very soon, he would take her.

Lightning flashed again, and she felt its warmth against her icy skin.

She wanted to laugh, to cry, to stay in that world of faraway whose warmth beckoned. But now she felt her own will beginning to ebb.