The modern mind doesn't believe in voodoo, magic potion, and secret ceremonies. Could the modern mind be wrong? In a Haitian village Novelist Mayra Montero walks into a mystery.

By Mayra Montero

Mayra Montero is an acclaimed Cuban novelist and Journalist. Her work

includes The Messenger, The Red of His Shadow, The Last Night I Spent with You, Deep Purple, and in The Palm of Darkness, a story of an American biologist and his native Haitian guide as they search for an endangered amphibian.

Night is falling in Saltrou, a small Haitian village near the border of the Dominican Republic. Beside a hut made of wood and palm leaves, the voodoo priest is almost ready for the ceremony called desounin, from the French word, meaning "separation". Through the ceremony, a person who has died is separated from the spirit who protected him from birth, governed his life, and ruled his head and soul. I am here as an observer, invited by two friends who are anthropologists. The one who died was a well-respected old man, and preparations for the desounin are arduous and complicated. We, the witnesses, are kept away from the priest until the ceremony begins.

In that silent night- the insects, I don't know why, wait quietly- I feel sicker than I have ever been in my life. I have felt unwell since the morning, but even so I wanted to go to Saltrou. Seated on a jute sack, surrounded by friends and family of the deceased, I think that at any moment I may faint.
Now I am shaking with fever; my neck feels rigid. I am terrorized by the thought that I may have caught one of those viral infections so common in the Haitian countryside-meningitis, perhaps. Only my deep interest in seeing the desounin, something so secret and spiritual, keeps me there, red-eyed and dry-mouthed, fighting against the dizziness.

One of my anthropologist friends goes to the priest, Jean Patrice, and makes him aware of my situation. He comes to me, and I try to stand up in pain, but cannot. I curled up in pain, my tongue growing thicker and thicker. He takes my hands and makes me raise my arms. I suppose I look like a bird, a defenseless one whose wings are being opened. Then he lets go of me and leaves. Fifteen minutes alters, he comes back with an aluminum cup from which he orders me to drink. I try to hold the cup, but I am sure I can't. Any moment it will drop to the floor. Still, the cup is there, floating between my fingers. The priest looks at me with his wise eyes. A force that is not mine, that does not come from me, keeps my hands high, my fingers clutching the cup, and pushed the cup to my lips. I swallow a bitter, warm liquid. I can't identify any particular taste- tobacco? Some roots? I don't even want to think that the taste of blood could also be lurking there.

Ten minutes later, I started to sweat. Little by little my neck relaxes; my eyes don't sting anymore, and my mouth returns to normal. I feel better. But I also feel a fire, a fearful reverence deep in my chest. I tell my friends that I clearly perceived that an invisible being helped my hand and pushed the cup toward my lips. They saw that I was suddenly able to hold the cup, and they attributed it to the hypnotic force of the priest's eyes.

I stand up, incredulous. Cured. An assistant brings me another drink, this time with alcohol. At that very moment the sound of the priest's rattles mark the beginning of the ceremony. Hearing that "music" I think it also signal my tiny, insignificant resurrection.

This article was originally published in Oprah's Magazine, " Ah Moment".