Brother Clary picked up the thing, noting its weight - it was hollow - and the soft moss that was growing on it.  It was indeed a skull, the bone a dark mottled brown from age, the jawbone missing, and the few teeth left in the upper jaw also stained dark with age.  He kept to the back, but none of the horrors were following them.  The path merely showed more dark jungle.

McCurdy's each step was painful, and stars were dancing in his vision as blood continued to leak from the wound.  Hornsby proved to be a tough old man, easily able to help him stand and walk, at least for a while.  "Ah, then, dinna fash y'self so," he said, trying to sound soothing, but there was a worried edge to his voice.  The squirrel creature stopped to sniff at a splash of blood on the path, then trotted after McCurdy.

Liza Waters was merely stumbling along, without any will of her own, going where Marianne pulled her.  She had not spoken since the battle.

"Alive ?  Aye, when his lwa was there !"  Hawksmoore snapped, retrieving a machete from Hornsby since Marianne had appropriated his (and he did not ask for it back, she noted).  "Didst not see the rooster ?"  He hacked at the greenery blocking the path as if he had a great grudge against it, and was scowling evilly as he went.  Marianne had another sense; that when Hawksmoore was worried, he got...nastier.  Then the young man stumbled and fell, clutching his side, and swore horribly, starting with Satan's bollocks and ending much worse.

"That's it, s'truth," Hornsby said, now panting with the effort of keeping McCurdy up on his feet.  "We'll have to stop along the path and see to the bloke here, and thou needst respite as well.  Bastian, canst aid me ?"

McCurdy could barely move his own feet. He was losing too much blood; he could feel it. “Put me down,” he said. “Let me go. I need to plug this hole.” He grimaced as a shot of pain sliced through him worse than the first time.

Marianne helped Liza to a corner to rest for a while, and looked on worriedly as McCurdy struggled to put one foot ahead of another. The situation was grim. As Hornsby and Hawksmoore worked to patch up the P.I, Marianne kept her eyes open for trouble. She paused briefly to scoop up the squirrelly thing and find some fruit to give the brave little creature that had saved her from Basil's clutches.

At McCurdy's demand to be set down, Hornsby obeyed, laying the man gently down on the thick loam of the path.  "Smartly, lad," Hornsby said to Hawksmoore, who indeed hurried along to McCurdy's side.  They peeled back the shirt and then looked at each other, as if both coming to the same conclusion, which was not a good one.

Liza Waters stopped when Marianne stopped leading her, and sat down when pushed to do so.  She had not lost the blank look in her eyes, and had not spoken.

The little strange beast allowed itself to be picked up and flopped in Marianne's grasp, unafraid of her, but there was no fruit to be found here.  The greenery seemed thick and dark, and what light there was gave it a strange twilight glow.  Something flittered across the path, moving like a bat, but uttering a screetchy cry more like a hawk.  Its ears perked up, then subsided, and the big jewel-like eyes were watching McCurdy.

Brother McCurdy saw nothing following them, but did hear...or rather feel...a vibration in the ground.  Then a few heartbeats later, another one, as if something very large was moving along at a slow pace, not far away...just in the shadows, to the left.

"Look'ee," Hornsby addressed McCurdy, "Y're hurt in a bad spot.  Maylike we can heal ye, but ye must have faith that we can do, or twill be useless.  Do ye trust us ?"

McCurdy just looked at him. He was beyond reason now. The things he had seen in the past few days...

He nodded at Hornsby, his thoughts reflected in his pained, grey eyes. He would believe anything about now... even the old pirate’s voodoo...

As Hornsby and Hawsmoore commenced their magic, Marianne returned to sit by Liza, holding the creature close and running her fingers through the soft fur. The older woman showed no signs that she was even conscious of what was happening around her and the glazed look in Liza's eyes was even more alarming than McCurdy's injury. "Liza," Marianne called and gently shook her, trying catching her attention.

While the others were variously preoccupied, Hornsby and Hawksmoore with McCurdy, Marianne with Liza, Brother Clary took a position where we could keep watch over the group, shotgun at the ready.

He looked over the group, silently aching for these folks who were not quite friends, and yet certainly not quite strangers after all that they had been through.

He added his own whispered prayers.

Marianne tried to speak to Liza, but the woman was unresponsive.  She just stared blankly off into space, awake but completely unaware, and uncaring of her circumstances.  It was very strange.  The little lizard-squirrel was a warm, soft weight in Marianne's arms, the large eyes taking in everything, but settled in apparent contentment.

Brother Clary prayed, keeping watch on the dark shadows that obscured the way that they had come from.  It was well he did this, for there was someone coming along the path - he could hear something moving, stealthy footsteps.

Jack McCurdy gave up a nod, and relinquished himself to a hope he had never imagined he might be holding.  The two pirates quickly got to work.  Hornsby rummaged into his belt pouch, pulling out a dull silvery stone and laying it on McCurdy's head, and took out a tiny bag of white dust and sprinkled it liberally on the site of the wound.  Hawksmoore pulled out a knife, well-honed and old, and sliced open his own hand, then clenched the fist over the cut and let the blood drip onto McCurdy's puncture wound.  They were humming, singing perhaps, in low voices, words that made no sense.  As he watched, the pain and loss of blood rendering him weak and dizzy, the blood from Hawksmoore's hand became clear, clear as water.  A blazing cold ripped through his body, and he had the sensation of floating in icy water, with singing all around him, voices of many pitches, in many tongues, but all in one rhythm...he even heard Brother Clary's voice, in prayer, among them.  Then, as his lungs demanded he get to the surface and breathe, he took in a deep breath.  The pain had gone away, leaving only a fading ache, and though he felt tired, he knew he would be all right.

"Pardners,"  Brother Clary spoke softly, when he heard McCurdy's breathing become more or less regular again.  "It sounds like me might have some company..."  He never took his eyes off the path and calmly levered another shell into the chamber.

McCurdy tried to raise his head to see what Clary was talking about, but he could barely hold it for a few seconds even though he could feel the urgency in the padre’s voice. He blinked and rolled his eyes around, slowly rocking his head from side to side trying to force the dizziness away. Whatever it was they had done, it had been something powerful. He could still feel it lingering.

He flopped one arm onto his chest as if he couldn’t control it, but when he lifted it again, he had one of his pistols in his hand. “Hep me up,” he groaned, still blinking the cobwebs from his head. “Hep me up,” he repeated as he rolled to his side, struggling through the fatigue to his feet. The exhaustion was leaving him at every flex of a muscle...

Marianne watched intently as the two men worked their magic, taking careful note of what they did. At Brother Clary's warning, she carefully deposited the little creature on  Liza's shoulder and stood up, her machete at the ready. She had had quite enough of this for one day, and the next person who attempted to get within a few feet of her would make an excellent target for her frustration.

Hornsby stood and offered his hand to McCurdy, hauling the detective to his feet.  Stars danced in McCurdy's vision, but his feet stayed under him, and when he blinked a few times, the stars cleared.  A patch of blood on his clothes showed where the wound had been; the wound itself was a white, puckered scar.

The squirrel-beast flopped on Liza's shoulder, then decided to bat at her earring, which sparkled in an intriguing way for the animal.  There was no response from Liza.  Marianne stood, machete in hand, ready for battle.

The walking figure resolved itself into a slim figure swinging a machete at the greenery.  It was man, dressed in leather trousers, a leather vest, and a heavy canvas shirt, ripped on one sleeve, and tall leather boots.  He had long hair, a golden brown, and alert blue eyes.  He paused, free hand automatically drifting towards the Thompson sub-machine gun slung over his shoulder, but did not make any further moves as Brother Clary gestured with the shotgun.

"You do realise you're standing on the Path," the man said, in English accented strangely, the cadence suggesting he was not used to speaking it.  Perhaps French.  "I have no quarrel with you, I wish to move past."

Hornsby's eyes had narrowed with suspicion. "Don't know who you are, boy-o."
"I was not aware I needed to introduce myself to a pirate," the man replied, with a touch of ire, and sounding much more French in origin.  But he turned to address Marianne.  "Enchante, Mademoiselle," and swept a bow so very courtly, it could not have come from this century.

McCurdy raised his 45 and put it right level with the man's heart. "Well, I ain't no pirate, pretty boy. How about you answer the man. I ain't in no mood and I'm feelin' the need to kill somebody." McCurdy was still pale and he looked fragile as a kitten about then, but his eyes were burning blue steel and his hand was as steady as a rock. He certainly didn't look like he was joking.

"Enchante, Monsieur," Marianne replied with a smile, quite charmed by the courtly, old-world gesture. All the same, she didn't seem to be in a hurry to relinquish her machete.

"You understand, we must be careful," she said, looking distastefully at McCurdy, who seemed hell-bent on killing someone today. "Whose company do we have the pleasure of?"

"Oh...an American," the Frenchman said, with a disdainful sniff at McCurdy, though he seemed warm enough towards Marianne. "Very well, I will attempt to bring civilisation to you.  You may call me Jean-Pierre de Veine.  What, may I ask, are you doing with two English pirates ?"

McCurdy didn’t move his gun. “You seem to know who these fella’s are... How so?”

"I wouldn't have the Spanish one," Marianne replied with a grin. "You seem to have traveled this path many times before, Monsieur?" she asked curiously.

Brother Clary stands, shotgun at the ready, watching against any false move.  He is content to let others do the negotiating.  The black-clad preacher has no taste for killing another person, but will not hesitate to protect these folks he has thrown his lot in with.

The Frenchman smiled at Marianne.  "As well you know, milady," he replied, in courteous tones, and was going to reply to McCurdy when Hornsby interrupted.

"'e's just a bloody Frog, son-of-somebody bleedin' thing." said the old pirate sourly, though Hawksmoore said nothing.  "But this is the Path, and we have here what is termed 'neutral waters'.  Belay the weapons.  Let Bad-Luck Jean go by."

"It can be said in the long past that I have had the better of you, Capitan Hornsby...is that not the name you use now ?" the Frenchman responded archly. "At least I can walk the Path alone, without my cabin-boy and my admirers."  The alert eyes riffled over Brother Clary, and the Frenchman smirked. "Quite the entourage you have assembled."

"And how do you two know each other?" Marianne asked carefully, looking from the Captain to the Frenchman.

McCurdy didn't take his eyes from the frenchman, but he did lower his pistol. Of course, it remained in his hand, but at least it wasn't pointing at the stranger any longer.

Brother Clary followed McCurdy's lead, lowering the shotgun, but maintaining a 'ready' position while he silently eyed the stranger through narrowed eyes.

Hornsby shrugged.  "When one of us is done nigh to death, we are reborn sommat different," he said. "Go on, Lafitte, hope you enjoyed yer little jest.  Pirates indeed, as if you were one to talk !"

"Oh, come now, it was very amusing to tease you," the Frenchman responded, with an impish grin.  "The lady, I can understand her in your company, she is a lovely creature to look upon, is she not, with the hair of flame ?  And spirit to match, I am sure.  The American, well, they get everywhere, what can one do, I found that out well enough. The man of God, I am hoping he has the Cross, for I saw trouble preceed us on the path.  The xombie, I am puzzled."  He quirked an eyebrow at the silent Liza.

"Ringrose got her, methinks," Hornsby said, with Hawksmoore's silent scowl in affirmation.
"Then you must hope to find her soul, before the sun rises," the Frenchman said, with a sad smile. "I would bargain for it from him, but I have nothing he wants, except for my head on a spike.  And that is terribly ----"

He was interrupted by a loud rasping cough.  The effect on the pirates was electric - they bristled with weapons.  A twig snapped to the west and Hornsby yelped, "RUN !"

Bursting from the darkness of the jungle were lean and dreadful shapes, running on two legs - greater than the height of a man.  They ran like predators, and sharp teeth glittered in massive pointed jaws.

Following the pirates' lead, Brother Clary transferred his shotgun to one hand and sprinted up to McCurdy, Marianne, and Liza, urging them to follow.  As he ran he chanced a look over his shoulder in order to get another view of what had terrorized these hardened, worldly men.

Marianne rolled her eyes at the Frenchman's jest and his compliment, but his words about Liza alarmed her. She was about to question him about it further, when the pirates snapped to attention as one, and began running.

Even the short time she had spent in this jungle had taught Marianne to run first and ask questions later. She hefted her machete over her shoulder and ran for her life, dragging Liza along behind her.