As Samedi was about to burn Ezilí alive and rip her into nothingness to become the vengeful loa of death, Brigitte spoke. “You are right. I was a saint and was prayed to all the time. Like all gods, like spirits, like all saints, we feed on the prayers, on the wishes, on the fears and hopes of our worshippers. They never talk about the reliance we have upon them. We are arrogant parasites.” Brigitte inhaled, refusing to meet their steely gaze. “There was a farmer, and when he was just a little boy, I watched over him from time to time. He prayed to me, and I blessed him thoughtlessly. He was good to his wife and children, so I blessed the family.” Brigitte paused to now look directly into Ezilí’s eyes, which were full of quiet rage. Brigitte always saw herself as a good saint, but these new lands had changed all that. Her fingers clutched her dress until her knuckles were white as she continued with the tale of her transformation. “Until one night, I heard a child pray to me. The voice was so quiet, I thought I was hearing things. The child was watching her mother get beaten.” Brigitte flinched at the memory of the slack jaw and the bloody eye of the mother. The farmer noticed the child, and the woman lunged, trying to protect her daughter. All that righteous anger made it possible for Brigitte to lead her strength. “I just wanted the fighting to stop.”
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