The Jumbie God’s Revenge by Tracey Baptiste Blog Tour with Excerpt @TraceyBaptiste @AlgonquinYR


In the third and final book in the Jumbies series, Corinne must use her emerging supernatural powers to battle the angry god who would destroy her Caribbean island home.




Publication Date: September 3, 2019
Ages 8-12




Corinne knows that the sudden hurricane that sweeps through her seaside village is out of the ordinary. It’s tempting to blame the out-of-season storm on Mama D’Leau, the powerful jumbie of the sea. But then an even worse gale wracks the island, sending the terrified villagers out of their rain and wind-battered homes to seek the shelter of the mountain. There Corinne learns that the torrential weather is not the work of a slighted jumbie, but of the god Huracan, who is angry and seeking vengeance…but for what? It is up to Corinne, along with the help of her friends—and even some enemies—to seek answers and defend their island before Huracan succeeds in destroying it forever.

Fierce, courageous, and a natural born leader, Corinne embarks on her most challenging mission yet in THE JUMBIE GOD’S REVENGE. Her previous adventures and mishaps with the capricious and sometimes cruel jumbies that share her island have given her a sense of both purpose and responsibility—she is determined to keep her people safe, and that means never backing down from a fight…especially a fight that she may have started. Buoyed by the love and support of her father, Pierre, and her friends Malik, Bouki, and Dru, Corinne stands up to face the greatest danger she’s ever encountered, and comes into her own emerging powers in a way we’ve never seen before. 

With all the signature wit, whimsy, and breathtakingly vivid storytelling that readers have come to know and love from The Jumbies series, Tracey Baptiste delivers a stunning finale that will shock and delight young and old readers alike.



PREORDER


In the series:




The Horizon

Corinne La Mer leapt from one tall coconut tree to
another. Nothing but air surrounded her and there
was only the sand and a few sharp rocks below. She landed
on the rough trunk of the tree, slapping it hard with her
palms and then wrapping her legs around it. She slipped
and felt a rush of panic rise to her throat until she got the
soles of her feet flat against the bark to grip her in place.
Corinne looked down at the beach. Mrs. Duval, in a
bright purple headwrap and a loose white blouse and col
-orful skirt, shaded her eyes as she peered into the tree.
“Don’t injure yourself before you get my coconuts,
please,” she teased Corinne.

Next to Mrs. Duval was Corinne’s friend Malik. He
shaded his face with a small hand, watching Corinne as
she moved. His older brother, Bouki, wasn’t looking her
way at all. He was focused on the road, hoping for one last
customer before they called it a morning.
Corinne caught her breath and returned to her task. It
was dizzyingly high at the top of the coconut trees. Even
in the shade of their large fan-like leaves, and with the
sea breeze blowing to shore, the heat had her drenched
in sweat. She panted as she reached up for a thick, yellow coconut. 
She twisted and twisted it until the tough
stem snapped and then looked down to see where Malik
was waiting to catch it, but the coconut slipped from her
sweat-slick palm.
“Watch out!” she cried. Malik stepped nimbly out of
the way, but Bouki, busily counting Mrs. Duval’s coins,
didn’t hear her warning. The coconut grazed the side of
his arm and dropped near his foot.
“You nearly killed me!” he yelled.
“I said ‘watch out.’” Corinne carefully climbed back
down the sloping trunk. She had skinned the insides of
her thighs climbing down before and had learned to use
the soles of her feet to keep her body away from the bark.
When she was close enough to the bottom, she pushed
off the tree and landed near Bouki, who had lopped off
the top of the coconut with a machete and passed it to
Mrs. Duval.

Mrs. Duval shook the coconut and screwed up her face.
“All these coconuts dry, dry these days. I thought it was
rainy season already.” She peered up into the tree again.
“Aren’t there any more up there?”
Bouki patted the trunk. “We only have what nature
gives us,” he said.
“And whatever else you can grab,” Mrs. Duval added.
Bouki put on a fake look of offense as he pocketed
her money, but it was not news to anyone that Bouki and
Malik used to be thieves.
“They’re reformed,” Corinne said.
“Hmm. Reformed,” Mrs. Duval repeated, looking at
the boys out of the corner of her eye. She sniffed the
opening of the coconut and first sipped, then tipped it
back and drank long. When she finally came up for air,
there was a look of satisfaction on her face, but only for
a moment. “You should go back to selling oranges,” Mrs.
Duval said to Corinne. “Nothing on the island compares
to your oranges.”
Corinne blushed, but her gaze flitted over the waves,
and the compliment faded quickly. “I can’t only sell
oranges, Mrs. Duval,” she said. “It’s not good business.”
“Ah, of course,” Mrs. Duval said, smiling. She turned
to the beach, where a band of children played on the
sand. She waved at them to catch their attention, and then
pointed with the whole length of her arm to a pink house.
They all went running.

Corinne waved at Laurent, the oldest of the bunch,
who played cricket with her when he wasn’t doing chores
or watching his younger siblings.
“I can send him along later,” Mrs. Duval said. “If you
want to play.”
Corinne shook her head. “Maybe another time.”
“You know,” Mrs. Duval said, leaning in close. “You
can’t watch the waves forever.” When Corinne didn’t
answer, Mrs. Duval picked up all her coconuts by the stems
and walked behind her children to their house.
The sea was bright blue and the sun reflected off the
choppy waves in dazzling silver and gold. In the line of
fishing boats near the horizon, Corinne could just make
out her papa’s, even though it was impossible to see its
bright yellow color. She had memorized the shape of it, so
she could always pick out her papa on the waves.
“He’s safe, you know,” Bouki said.
“For now,” Corinne replied.
“You worry too much.”
Corinne turned from the sea to look at her friend.
There had been a time when she didn’t worry. That was
before her orange trees bore their first fruit, when she
and her papa had their routine. He would wake her up in
the morning and tell her to be careful on land, and she
would tell him to mind that the sea didn’t swallow him
up, and they would both promise to be safe. But then

Severine came. She was beautiful at first, dreadful at their
last encounter, and with her came all of the jumbies.
“You don’t worry enough,” Corinne told Bouki. She
clutched the stone pendant of the necklace that hung near
her heart, and rubbed its cracked surface with her thumb.
Corinne hadn’t believed in jumbies before Severine
followed her out of the forest. She thought they were only
stories that grown-ups told to scare the children on the
island, stories about things that came out at night so little
ones would stay in their beds. But then she encountered
creatures with backward feet, women who shed their skin,
and men covered in spiky fur with teeth as sharp as daggers. 
There was a jumbie who cared for the woods, and one
who lived beneath the waves who would turn anyone into
stone at a glance and who ruled the mermaids in the sea.
Corinne had seen them all. But worse than that, she had
witnessed their power, and she understood just how easy
it was to succumb to any one of them.
She had nearly lost her papa to Severine, and Bouki to
Mama D’Leau. It was enough to make anyone worry.
Months ago, when Corinne had dragged Severine into
the sea and left her there, she had been sure that it was
only a matter of time before the sea spat Severine back out.
“The sea doesn’t keep anything, Corinne,” her papa
had told her. So today, and every day, she stayed near the
shore watching the waves and waiting.

Corinne nicked the skin of her thumb on a sharp edge
of her stone necklace. The stone had been her mama’s,
and after Corinne had broken it, her papa had wrapped it
in leather to hold it together again. In the months since,
Corinne had rubbed some of the cracks smooth, but the
stone did not soothe her like it used to.
“What is it we are looking for?” an old woman asked.
She had appeared out of nowhere and stood next to them
in the shade of the coconut tree.
“Witch!” Bouki said.
The witch picked up her walking stick and brought
it down with force on Bouki’s right foot. The sparse few
strands of her short white hair shook with her jab.
Bouki doubled over to nurse his foot and looked daggers 
at the white witch, but he knew enough not to say
anything else.
“Good morning, neighbor,” Corinne said.
The witch knocked her walking stick on the trunk of
the tree and squinted up at the fruit. “Any more good ones
left?” she asked.
“All green,” Corinne said.
The witch nodded. “I don’t mind the young ones.”
Malik scrambled up the tree. The witch leaned against
the trunk, letting her stick rest against its curve. She rubbed
her left arm slowly.
Everything about the white witch looked like it was
near expiration: the sun-bleached pattern on her dress,
the threadbare wrap that tied her head, the few drooping
twists of short white hair that refused to be contained
in her headwrap. Even the skin of her body sagged loose
around her bones as if it might detach and crumple
around her at any moment. No one knew how old the
white witch was. Even the oldest people in the villages
remembered her as ancient when they were young.
Corinne watched the witch massage her damaged
arm. It was even more shriveled and grayer than the rest
of her, as if the life had been leached out of it. But at the
end of her arm, her hand seemed more vibrant. Her fingers 
curled and stretched in short, jerking movements.
“Your hand is getting stronger,” Corinne said.
“There’s only two ways for a thing to go,” the witch
said. “Better, or worse.” She stretched and bent her fingers
as she looked out to sea. “What you looking out at the sea
for? You already know what is under the water.”
Before Corinne could find an answer, Malik jumped
to the ground holding a coconut with just the barest hint
of yellow on the husk. He macheted the top off before
presenting it to the witch.
The witch’s tongue jumped out in anticipation, flicking 
over her thin, dry lips. She took the husk in her good
hand and drank deeply. Some of the water dribbled out
the sides of her mouth, past a patch of gray chin-stubble,
and down the dark, wrinkled folds of her throat, which
made jerking movements like fresh fish bundled in a net.

She downed the entire contents in one go. Then she
handed the coconut back to Malik. He moved to cut it
open, but she shook her head. “There’s nothing there,”
she said. She seemed to be discussing the sea, not the lack
of jelly in the coconut.
Without another word, the witch shuffled off, kicking
up pale sand.
“Didn’t I say that, brother?” Bouki asked. “Didn’t I tell
her that nothing was going to happen?”
“Is that what I said?” the witch called over her shoulder. 
She maneuvered back around to face them. “Dunce.
Who ever said nothing is going to happen?” She lifted
her cane with some difficulty and gestured around her.
Her loose dress rippled in the wind. “Something is always
happening.” She moved her mouth in a way that made
Corinne think she was rearranging her teeth before she
continued. “Boy, nothing is as dull as you.”
“You think something else is going to happen,”
Corinne said.
The witch shot her the same look of disdain she had
turned on Bouki. “Something is happening right now,”
she said. “And a moment after that something will happen
again.” She cut her eyes at Bouki again. “Maybe you are
spending too much time with this one. You were smarter
when you were coming to the market alone. You will miss
things if you keep wasting time standing guard at the sea.
You think this is the only piece of shore? The only spread

of water?” She stretched her ruined fingers again and muttered,
“Only two ways for things to go, better or worse.
And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
They watched the witch as she bent the corner around
a grove of coconut trees. It was only after she was out of
sight that Bouki shouted, “She didn’t pay!”







Tracey Baptiste is a New York Times bestselling author who grew up in Trinidad and Tobago on jumbie stories and fairy tales. Moving to the United States at fifteen was one of the hardest and most exciting times of her life. Tracey is a former elementary teacher and editor. She writes everything from picture books to middle grade and young adult novels, both fiction and nonfiction. She currently teaches at Lesley University's MFA program in Creative Writing.


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