Volume 2 Chapter 26 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
The Death-Spell
On the night after that on which Chakra had given reception to Jessuron, and about the same hour, the Coromantee was at home in his hut, engaged in some operation of a nature apparently important: since it engrossed his whole attention.
A fire was burning in the middle of the floor, in a rude, extemporised furnace, constructed with four large stones, so placed as to inclose a small quadrangle.
The fuel with which this fire was fed, although giving out a great quantity of smoke, burnt also with a bright, clear flame. It was not wood, but consisted of a number of black agglutinated masses, bearing a resemblance to peat or coal.
A stranger to Jamaica might have been puzzled to make out what it was; though a denizen of the Island could have told at a glance, that the dark-coloured pieces piled upon the fire were fragments detached from the nests of the Duck-ants; which, often as large as hogsheads, may be seen adhering to the trees of a tropical forest.
As the smoke emitted by this fuel is less painful to the eyes than that of a wood fire, and yet more efficacious in clearing out the mosquitoes—that plague of a southern clime—it may be supposed that the Coromantee had chosen it on that account. Whether or not, it served his purpose well.
A small iron pot, without crook or crane, rested upon the stones of the furnace; and the anxious glances with which the negro regarded its simmering contents—now stirring them a little, now lifting a portion in his wooden spoon, and carefully scrutinising it under the light of the lamp—told that the concoction in which he was engaged was of a chemical, rather than culinary nature. As he bent over the fire—like a he-Hecate stirring her witches’ cauldron—his earnest yet stealthy manner, combined with his cat-like movements and furtive glances, betrayed some devilish design.
This idea was strengthened on looking at the objects that lay near to his hand—some portions of which had been already consigned to the pot. A cutacoo rested upon the floor, containing plants of several species; among which a botanist could have recognised the branched calalue, the dumb-cane, and various other herbs and roots of noxious fame. Conspicuous was the “Savannah flower,” with its tortuous stem and golden corolla—a true dogbane, and one of the most potent of vegetable poisons.
By its side could be seen its antidote—the curious nuts of the “nhandiroba”: for the myal-man could cure as well as kill, whenever it became his interest to do so.
Drawing from such a larder, it was plain that he was not engaged in the preparation of his supper. Poisons, not provisions, were the ingredients of the pot.
The specific he was now concocting was from various sources, but chiefly from the sap of the Savannah flower. It was the spell of Obeah!
For whom was the Coromantee preparing this precious hell-broth?
His mutterings as he stooped over the pot revealed the name of his intended victim.
“You may be ’trong, Cussus Vaugh’n—dat I doan deny; but, by de power ob Obeah, you soon shake in you shoes. Obeah! Ha! ha! ha! Dat do fo’ de know-nuffin’ niggas. My Obeah am de Sabbana flower, de branch calalue, and the allimgator apple—dem’s de ’pell mo’ powerful dan Obi hisseff—dem’s de stuff dat gib de shibberin’ body and de staggerin’ limbs to de enemies ob Chakra. Whugh!”
Once more dipping the spoon into the pot, and skimming up a portion of the boiling liquid, he bent forward to examine it.
“’T am done!” he exclaimed. “Jess de right colour—jess de right tickness. Now fo’ bottle de licka!”
Saying this, he lifted the pot from the fire; and after first pouring the “liquor” into a calabash, and leaving it for some moments to cool, he transferred it to the rum-bottle—long since emptied of its original contents.
Having carefully pressed in the cork, he set the bottle to one side—not in concealment, but as if intended for use at no very distant time.
Then, having gathered up his scattered pharmacopoeia, and deposited the whole collection in the cutacoo, he stepped into the door way of the hut, and, with a hand on each post, stood in an attitude to listen.
It was evident he expected some visitor; and who it was to be was revealed by the muttered soliloquy in which he continued to indulge. The slave Cynthia was to give him another séance.
“Time dat yella wench wa’ come. Muss be nigh twelve ob de night. Maybe she hab call, an’ a no hear her, fo’ de noise ob dat catrack? A bess go down b’low. Like nuf a fine her da!”
As he was stepping across the threshold to put this design into execution, a cry, uttered in the shrill treble of a woman’s voice—and just audible through the soughing sound of the cataract—came from the cliff above.
“Da’s de wench!” muttered the myal-man, as he heard it. “A make sartin shoo she’d come. Lub lead woman troo fire an’ water—lead um to de Debbil. Seed de time dat ar’ yella’ gal temp’ dis chile. No care now. But one Chakra ebber care ’brace in dese arms. Her he clasp only once, he content—he willen’ den fo’ die. Augh!”
As the Coromantee uttered the impassioned ejaculation, he strode outward from the door, and walked with nervous and hurried step—like one urged on by the prospect of soon achieving some horrible but heartfelt purpose he had been long contemplating from a distance.