The woman began a Creole incantation, and dabbed a mystery oil on her fingers. She traced a line on Chavennes’ forehead down his nose and onto his lips. She opened his willing mouth, saturated three of her fingers in the liquid, and placed them on his tongue. The flavor was foreign, but undeniably pleasant. A surge of warmth suddenly circulated through him. All protest and fear drained from him as his limbs felt light and numb. His quizzical look was met only with a sly smile by the priestess.

“You have started a profound movement, Jean-Baptiste Chavannes. While your body will die today, your actions now will determine whether your legacy lives on in the hearts and minds of your people.”

Chavannes felt a growing sense of courage as he listened intently to the woman’s words.

“I have provided you the strength to neutralize what these men will do to you. Make this your podium and rally your countrymen. The voodoo warrior God Ougan will guide you and give you strength.” 

With that, Cecile bowed her head, closed her eyes, disappeared down the platform steps.