Volume 2 Chapter 22 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
The Love-Spell
The countenance of the myal-man had assumed an air of solemnity that betokened serious determination; and the mulatta felt a presentiment that, in return for his services, something was about to be demanded of her—something more than a payment in meat and drink.
His mysterious behaviour as he passed around the hut; now stopping before one of the grotesque objects that adorned the wall,—now fumbling among the little bags and baskets, as if in search of some particular charm—his movements made in solemn silence only broken by the melancholy sighing of the cataract without; all this was producing on the mind of the mulatta an unpleasant impression; and, despite her natural courage, sustained as it was by the burning passion that devoured her, she was fast giving way to an indefinable fear.
The priest of Obi, after appearing to have worshipped each fetish in turn, at length transferred his devotions to the rum-bottle—perhaps the most potent god in his whole Pantheon. Taking another long-protracted potation, followed by the customary “Whugh!” he restored the bottle to its place; and then, seating himself upon a huge turtle-shell, that formed part of the plenishing of his temple, he commenced giving his devotee her lesson of instructions.
“Fuss, den,” said he, “to put de lub-spell on anybody—eider a man or a woman—it am nessary, at de same time, to hab de obeah-spell go ’long wi’ it.”
“What!” exclaimed his listener, exhibiting a degree of alarm; “the obeah-spell?—on Cubina, do you mean?”
“No, not on him—dat’s not a nessary consarquence. But ’fore Cubina be made lub you, someb’dy else muss be made sick.”
“Who?” quickly inquired the mulatta, her mind at the moment reverting to one whom she might have wished to be the invalid.
“Who you tink fo’? who you greatest enemy you wish make sick?”
“Yola,” answered the woman, in a low muttered voice, and with only a moment of hesitation.
“Woan do—woman woan do—muss he man; an’ more dan dat, muss be free man. Nigga slave woan do. Obi god tell me so jess now. Buckra man, too, it muss be. If buckra man hab de obeah-’pell, Cubina he take de lub-spell ’trong—he lub you hard as a ole mule can kick.”
“Oh! if he would!” exclaimed the passionate mulatta, in an ecstasy of delightful expectation; “I shall do anything for that—anything!”
“Den you muss help put de obeah-spell on some ob de white folk. You hab buckra enemy?—Chakra hab de same.”
“Who?” inquired the woman, reflectingly.
“Who! No need tell who Chakra enemy—you enemy too. Who fooled you long time ’go? who ’bused you when you wa young gal? No need tell you dat, Cynthy Vagh’n?”
The mulatta turned her eyes upon the speaker with a significant expression. Some old memory seemed resuscitated by his words,—evidently anything but a pleasant one.
“Massa Loftus?” she said, in a half-whisper.
“Sartin shoo, Massa Loftus—dat ere buckra you enemy an’ mine boaf.”
“And you would—?”
“Set de obeah fo’ him,” said the negro, finishing the interrogatory, which the other had hesitated to pronounce.
The woman remained without making answer, and as if buried in reflection. The expression upon her features was not one of repentance.
“Muss be him!” continued the tempter, as if to win her more completely to his dark project; “no odder do so well. Obi god say so—muss be de planter ob Moun’ Welc’m.”
“If Cubina will but love me, I care not who,” rejoined the mulatta, with an air of reckless determination.
“’Nuff sed,” resumed the myal-man. “De obeah-spell sha’ be set on de proud buckra, Loftus Vagh’n; an’ you, Cynthy, muss ’sist in de workin’ ob de charm.”
“How can I assist?” inquired the woman, in a voice whose trembling told of a slight irresolution. “How, Chakra?”
“Dat you be tole by’m-bye—not dis night. De ’pell take time. God Obi he no act all at once, not eben fo’ ole Chakra. You come ’gain when I leab de signal fo’ yon on de trumpet-tree. Till den you keep dark ’bout all dese ting. You one ob de few dat know ole Chakra still ’live. Odders know ob de ole myal-man in de mask, but berry few ebber see um face, an’ nebba suspeck who um be. Das all right. You tell who de myal-man am, den—”
“Oh, never, Chakra,” interrupted his listener, “never!”
“No, berra not. You tell dat, Cynthy, you soon feel de obeah-spell on youseff.
“Now, gal,” continued the negro, rising from his seat, and motioning the mulatta to do the same, “time fo’ you go. I specks one odder soon: no do fo’ you to be cotch hya when dat odder come. Take you basket, an’ folla me.”
So saying, he emptied the basket of its heterogeneous contents; and, handing it to its owner, conducted her out of the hut.