Volume 2 Chapter 21 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
The Resurrection
Arrived at the cotton-tree hut, the myal-man—for such was the negro—dived at once into the open door, his broad and hunched shoulders scarce clearing the aperture.
In a tone rather of command than request he directed the woman to enter.
The mulatta appeared to hesitate. Inside, the place was dark as Erebus: though without it was not very different. The shadow of the ceiba, with its dense shrouding of moss, interrupted every ray of the moonlight now glistening among the tops of the trees.
The negro noticed her hesitation.
“Come in!” cried he, repeating his command in the same gruff voice. “You me sabbey—what fo’ you fear?”
“I’se not afraid, Chakra,” replied the woman, though the trembling of her voice contradicted the assertion; “only,” she added, still hesitating, “it’s so dark in there.”
“Well, den—you ’tay outside,” said the other, relenting; “you ’tay dar wha you is; a soon ’trike a light.”
A fumbling was heard, and then the chink of steel against flint, followed by fiery sparks.
A piece of punk was set a-blaze, and from this the flame was communicated to a sort of lamp, composed of the carapace of a turtle, filled with wild-hog’s lard, and having a wick twisted out of the down of the cotton-tree.
“Now you come in, Cynthy,” resumed the negro, placing the lamp upon the floor. “Wha! you ’till afeard! You de dauter ob Juno Vagh’n—you modder no fear ole Chakra. Whugh! she no fear de Debbil!”
Cynthia, thus addressed, might have thought that between the dread of these two personages there was not much to choose: for the Devil himself could hardly have appeared in more hideous guise than the human being who stood before her.
“O Chakra!” said she, as she stepped inside the door, and caught sight of the weird-looking garniture of the walls; “woman may well be ’fraid. Dis am a fearful place!”
“Not so fearful as de Jumbé Rock,” was the reply of the myal-man, accompanied by a significant glance, and something between a smile and a grin.
“True!” said the mulatta, gradually recovering her self-possession; “true: you hab cause say so, Chakra.”
“Das a fac’, Cynthy.”
“But tell me, good Chakra,” continued the mulatta, giving way to a woman’s feeling—curiosity, “how did you ebber ’scape from the Jumbé Rock? The folks said it was your skeleton dat was up there—chain to de palm-tree!”
“De folk ’peek da troof. My ’keleton it was, jess as dey say.”
The woman turned upon the speaker a glance in which astonishment was mingled with fear, the latter predominating.
“Your skeleton?” she muttered, interrogatively.
“Dem same old bones—de ’kull, de ribs, de jeints, drumticks, an’ all. Golly, gal Cynthy! dat ere ’pears ’stonish you. Wha fo’? Nuffin in daat. You sabbey ole Chakra? You know he myal-man? Doan care who know now—so long dey b’lieve um dead. Wha for myal-man, ef he no bring de dead to life ’gain? Be shoo Chakra no die hisseff, so long he knows how bring dead body to de life. Ole Chakra know all dat. Dey no kill him, nebber! Neider de white folk nor de brack folk. Dey may shoot ’im wid gun—dey may hang ’im by de neck—dey may cut off ’im head—he come to life ’gain, like de blue lizard and de glass snake. Dey did try kill ’im, you know. Dey ’tarve him till he die ob hunger and thuss. De John Crow pick out him eyes, and tear de flesh from de old nigga’s body—leab nuffin but de bare bones! Ha! Chakra ’lib yet—he hab new bones, new flesh! Golly! you him see? he ’trong—he fat as ebber he wa’! Ha! ha! ha!”
And as the hideous negro uttered his exulting laugh, he threw up his arms and turned his eyes towards his own person, as if appealing to it for proof of the resurrection he professed to have accomplished!
The woman looked as if petrified by the recital; every word of which she appeared implicitly to believe. She was too much terrified to speak, and remained silent, apparently cowering under the influence of a supernatural awe.
The myal-man perceived the advantage he had gained; and seeing that the curiosity of his listener was satisfied—for she had not the slightest desire to hear more about that matter—he adroitly changed the subject to one of a more natural character.
“You’ve brought de basket ob wittle, Cynthy?”
“Yes, Chakra—there.”
“Golly! um’s berry good—guinea-hen an’ plenty ob vegable fo’ de pepperpot. Anything fo’ drink, gal? Habent forgot daat, a hope? De drink am da mose partickla ob all.”
“I have not forgotten it, Chakra. There’s a bottle of rum. You’ll find it in the bottom of the basket. I had a deal trouble steal it.”
“Who you ’teal ’im from?”
“Why, master: who else? He have grown berry partickler of late—carries all de keys himself; and won’t let us coloured folk go near de storeroom, as if we were all teevin’ cats!”
“Nebba mind—nebba you mind, Cynthy—maybe Chakra watch him by’m-bye. Wa, now!” added he, drawing the bottle of rum out of the basket, and holding it up to the light. “De buckra preacher he say dat ’tolen water am sweet. A ’pose dat ’tolen rum folla de same excepshun. A see ef um do.”
So saying, the negro drew out the stopper; raised the bottle to his lips; and buried the neck up to the swell between his capacious jaws.
A series of “clucks” proclaimed the passage of the liquor over his palate; and not until he had swallowed half a pint of the fiery fluid, did he withdraw the neck of the bottle from between his teeth.
“Whugh!” he exclaimed, with an aspirate that resembled the snort of a startled hog. “Whugh!” he repeated, stroking his abdomen with his huge paw. “De buckra preacher may talk ’bout him ’tolen water, but gib me de ’tolen rum. You good gal, Cynthy—you berry good gal, fo’ fetch ole Chakra dis nice basket o’ wittle—he sometime berry hungry—he need um all.”
“I promise to bring more—whenebber I can get away from the Buff.”
“Das right, my piccaninny! An’ now, gal,” continued he, changing his tone, and regarding the mulatta with a look of interrogation, “wha fo’ you want see me dis night? You hab some puppos partickla? Dat so—eh, gal?”
The mulatta stood hesitating. There are certain secrets which woman avows with reluctance—often with repugnance. Her love is one; and of this she cares to make confession only to him who has the right to hear it. Hence Cynthia’s silent and hesitating attitude.
“Wha fo’ you no ’peak?” asked the grim confessor. “Shoo’ you no hah fear ob ole Chakra? You no need fo’ tell ’im—he know you secret a’ready—you lub Cubina, de capen ob Maroon? Dat troof, eh?”
“It is true, Chakra. I shall conceal nothing from you.”
“Better not, ’cause you can’t ’ceal nuffin from ole Chakra—he know ebbery ting—little bird tell um. Wa now, wha nex’? You tink Cubina no lub you?”
“Ah! I am sure of it,” replied the mulatta, her bold countenance relaxing into an anguished expression. “I once thought he love me. Now I no think so.”
“You tink him lub some odder gal?”
“I am sure of it—Oh, I have reason!”
“Who am dis odder?”
“Yola.”
“Yola? Dat ere name sound new to me. Whar d’s she ’long to?”
“She belongs to Mount Welcome—she Missa Kate’s maid.”
“Lilly Quasheba, I call dat young lady,” muttered the myal-man, with a knowing grin. “But dis Yola?” he added; “whar she come from? A nebber hear de name afo’.”
“Oh, true, Chakra! I did not think of tellin’ you. She was bought from the Jew, and fetched home since you—that is, after you left the plantation.”
“Arter I lef’ de plantation to die on de Jumbé Rock; ha! ha! ha! Dat’s wha you mean, Cynthy?”
“Yes—she came soon after.”
“So you tink Cubina lub her?”
“I do.”
“An’ she ’ciprocate de fekshun?”
“Ah, surely! How could she help do that?”
The interrogatory betrayed the speaker’s belief that the Maroon captain was irresistible.
“Wa, then—wha you want me do, gal? You want rebbenge on Cubina, ’cause he hab ’trayed you? You want me put de death-pell on him?”
“Oh! no—no! not that, Chakra, for the love of Heaven!—not that!”
“Den you want de lub-spell?”
“Ah! if he could be make love me ’gain—he did once. That is—I thought he did. Is it possible, good Chakra, to make him love me again?”
“All ting possble to old Chakra; an’ to prove dat,” continued he, with a determined air, “he promise put de lub-spell on Cubina.”
“Oh, thanks! thanks!” cried the woman, stretching out her hands, and speaking in a tone of fervent gratitude. “What can I do for you, Chakra? I bring you everything you ask. I steal rum—I steal wine—I come every night with something you like eat.”
“Wa, Cynthy—dat berry kind ob you; but you muss do more dan all dat.”
“Anything you ask me—what more?”
“You must yourseff help in de spell. It take bof you an’ me to bring dat ’bout.”
“Only me tell what to do; and trust me, Chakra, I shall follow your advice.”
“Wa, den—lissen—I tell you all ’bout it. But sit down on da bedsed dar. It take some time.”
The woman, thus directed, took her seat upon the bamboo couch, and remained silent and attentive—watching every movement of her hideous companion, and not without some misgivings as to the compact which was about to be entered into between them.