Excerpt from the book:

Myrddin looked around the room. "Now is the time to call upon the ancestors who have gone before you, to think of dear friends who have departed. Let them come to you now, let them be present for just a moment on this All Hallow's Eve."

Hesitantly at first, but soon gaining in strength, people began to call out the names of ancestors and friends. Their voices became plaintive, permeated with longing for those who were no longer with them. I could almost imagine the souls of the departed standing outside the house, peering through the windows as best they could, tapping on the rattling glass, eager but unable to join us.

Who would I ask to join us, I thought through the haze, a haze brought on both by the smoke from the poorly kept fire and by the impact of the queimada liquor. Who would I ask, I wondered? No one. Let the departed stay departed, I thought with a shiver. That's where they belonged.

We passed our cups back to Myrddin and he refilled them again and again. Santiago played another haunting tune on the gaita and then another, and people whispered stories to each other or stared pensively into the fire.

Gradually the room filled with the memories, if not the spirits, of the departed ones.

Suddenly, I felt a little woozy. I stood up, intending to go to the outhouse. And then it happened.

As I steadied myself against the table, I accidentally glanced into the punchbowl. Although I knew that the queimada was no longer burning, when I looked into the bowl it seemed to be filled with iridescent flames that licked and flickered across the surface, like early morning mist rising off a lake. Suddenly the flames disappeared and a small figure appeared in the bowl.

The figure was crouched against a tree. I couldn't tell if it was male or female, but it was dressed in what I supposed were masculine clothes: a hooded cloak, a short tunic, leggings, and crude leather shoes. The figure was trying to make itself as unobtrusive as possible, practically burrowing into the thick underbrush. Suddenly a heavyset man stepped up beside the crouching form and grabbed it by the nape of the neck, lifting it up off the ground. The hood fell back, revealing close-cropped, curly red hair.

I will never forget the look of terror on that face. I leaned forward, compelled beyond all reason to try to help.