Volume 2 Chapter 27 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
The Invocation of Accompong
The canoe soon made its trip, and returned with Cynthia seated in the stern. As upon the occasion of her former visit, she carried a basket upon her arm filled with comestibles, and not forgetting the precious bottle of rum.
As before, she followed the myal-man to his hut—this time entering with more confidence, and seating herself unbidden upon the side of the bamboo bedstead.
Still, she was not without some feeling of fear; as testified by a slight trembling that might be observed when her eyes rested upon the freshly-filled bottle, that stood in a conspicuous place. The look which she turned upon it told that she possessed some previous information as to the nature of its contents—or perhaps she had only a suspicion.
“Da’s de bottle fo’ you,” said the myal-man, noticing her glance, “and dis hya,” continued he, drawing the other out of Cynthia’s basket, “dis hya am de one fo’—”
He was about to add “me,” but before he could pass the word out of his mouth, he had got the neck of the rum-bottle into it; and the “gluck-gluck” of the descending fluid was substituted for the personal pronoun.
The usual “Whugh!” wound up the operation, clearing the Coromantee’s throat; and then, by a gesture, he gave Cynthia to understand that he was ready to proceed with the more serious business of the interview.
“Dat bottle,” said he, pointing to the one that contained his decoction, “am de obeah-’pell. It make Cubina lub you while dar’s a tuff ob wool on de top o’ ’im head. Dat long ’nuf, I reck’n; fo’ when ’im go bald, you no care fo’ ’im lub.”
“Is that the love-spell you spoke of?” inquired the mulatta, with an ambiguous expression of countenance, in which hope appeared struggling with doubt.
“De lub-spell? No—not ’zackly dat. De lub-spell am different. It am ob de nature ob an ointment. Hya! I’se got ’im in dis coco-shell.”
As Chakra said this he raised his hand, and drew out from a cranny in the thatch about three-quarters of the shell of a cocoa-nut; inside which, instead of its white coagulum, appeared a carrot-coloured paste, resembling the pulp of the sapotamammee—for this, in reality, it was.
“Da’s de lub mixture!” continued the obeah-man, in a triumphant tone; “da’s for Cubina!”
“Ah! Cubina is to take that?”
“Shoo he am. He mus’ take ’im. A gib it him, and den he go mad fo’ you. You he lub, an’ he lub you, like two turtle dove in de ’pring time. Whugh!”
“Good Chakra—you are sure it will do Cubina no harm?”
The query proved that the jealousy of the mulatta had not yet reached the point of revenge.
“No,” responded the negro; “do ’im good—do ’im good, an’ nuffin else. Now, Cynthy, gal,” continued he, turning his eyes upon the bottle; “das for de ole Cussus ob Moun’ Welc’m—take um—put ’im in you basket.”
The woman obeyed, though her fingers trembled as she touched the bottle that contained the mysterious medicine.
“And what am I to do with it, Chakra?” she asked, irresolutely.
“Wha you do? I tole you arready wha you do. You gib to massr—you enemy and myen.”
“But what is it?”
“Why you ask daat? I tole you it am de obeah-’pell.”
“Oh, Chakra! is it poison?”
“No, you fool—ef ’twa pizen, den it kill de buckra right off. It no kill ’im. It only make um sick, an’ den, preehap, it make ’im die long time atterward. Daz no pizen! You ’fuse gib ’im?”
The woman appeared to hesitate, as if some sparks of a better nature were rising within her soul. If there were such sparks, only for a short while were they allowed to shine.
“You ’fuse gib ’im?” repeated the tempter, hastening to extinguish them. “If you ’fuse, I no put de lub-spell on Cubina. Mor’n dat—I set de obeah fo’ you—you youseff!”
“Oh, no—no, Chakra!” cried she, cowering before the Coromantee; “I not refuse—I give it—anything you command me.”
“Dere, now—das sensible ob you, Cynthy. Now I gib you de instrukshin how fo’ ’minister de ’pell. Lissen, an’ ’member ebbery ting I go ’peak you.”
As the hideous sorcerer said this, he sat down in front of his neophyte—fixing his eyes upon hers, as if the better to impress his words upon her memory.
“Fuss an’ formoss, den, de grand buckra ob Moun’ Welcome, ebbery night ’fore he go bed, hab glass ob rum punch. I know he used hab—he so ’till, eh?”
“Yes—he does,” mechanically answered the mulatta.
“Berry likely—dat ere am one ob de habits neider buckra nor brack man am like break off. Ebbery night, shoo?”
“Yes—every night—one glass—sometimes two.”
“Gorry! ef twa me, me hab two—not sometime, but alway—’cept when a make um tree, ha! ha! Berry well, das all right; and now, gal, who mix de punch fo’ ’im? You use do dat youseff, Cynthy!”
“It is still my business. I make it for him every night.”
“Good—das jess de ting. Whugh! now we know how set de ’pell ob de obeah. You see dis hya? It am de claw of de mountain crab. You see de ’cratch—dar—inside ob de machine? Well—up to dat mark it holds jess de ’zack quantum. Ebbery night you make de punch, you fill up dar out ob dis bottle. You pour in de glass—fuss de sugar an’ lemon—den de water—den de rum, which am ’tronger dan de water; an’ affer dat de ’pell out of dis bottle, which am de ’trongest ob dem all. You ’member all a hab tell you?”
“I shall remember it,” rejoined the woman, with a firmness of voice, partly assumed—for she dreaded to show any sign of irresolution.
“Ef you no do, den de spell turn roun’ an’ he work ’gin youseff. When de Obi once ’gins he no ’top till he hab ’im victim. Now a go fo’ ’voke de god Accompong. He come whenebba Chakra call. He make ’im ’pearance in de foam ob de catrack out yonner. Affer dat no mortal him lay not till one be promise fo’ de sacrafize. You ’tay in hya—De god muss not see no woman—you lissen—you hear um voice.”
Rising with a mysterious air, and taking down from its peg an old palm-leaf wallet, that appeared to contain some heavy article, the myal-man stepped out of the hut, closing the door behind him, lest—as he informed the mulatta, in sotto voce—the god might set his eyes on her, and get into a rage.
Cynthia seemed to consider the precaution scarce sufficient; for the moment the door was closed, in order to make herself still more secure against being seen, she glided up to the light and extinguished it. Then, groping her way back to the bedstead, she staggered down upon it, and sate shivering with apprehension.
As the myal-man had enjoined upon her, she listened; and, as he had promised her, she heard—if not the voice of Accompong—sounds that were worthy of having proceed from the throat of that Ethiopian divinity.
At first a voice reached her which she knew to be human: since it was the voice of Chakra himself. It was uttered, nevertheless, in strange and unnatural tones, that at each moment kept changing. Now it came ringing through the interstices of the bamboos, in a kind of long-drawn solo, as if the myal-man was initiating his ceremonies with the verse of a psalm. Then the chaunt became quicker, by a sort of crescendo movement, and the song appeared transformed to a recitative. Next were heard sounds of a very different intonation, resembling the shrill, harsh call of a cow-horn or conch-shell, and gradually dying off into a prolonged bass, like the groaning of a cracked trombone.
After this had continued for some moments, there ensued a dialogue—in which the listener could recognise only one of the voices as that of Chakra.
Whose could be the other? It could only be that of Accompong. The god was upon the ground!
Cynthia trembled as she thought how very near he was. How lucky she had blown out the light! With the lamp still burning, she must have been seen: for both Chakra and the deity were just outside the door, and so near that she could not only hear their voices with distinctness, but the very words that were spoken.
Some of these were in an unknown tongue, and she could not understand them. Others were in English, or rather its synonym in the form of a negro patois. These last she comprehended; and their signification was not of a character to tranquillise her thoughts, but the contrary.
Chakra, chantant:—
“Open de bottle - draw de cork,
De ’pell he work - de ’pell he work;
De buckra man muss die!”
“Muss die!” repeated Accompong, in a voice that sounded as if from the interior of an empty hogshead.
“De yella gal she gib ’im drink;
It make ’im sick - it make ’im sr’ink,
It send ’im to ’im grave!”
“Him grave!” came the response of Accompong.
“An’ if de yella gal refuse,
She ’tep into de buckra’s shoes,
An’ fill de buckra’s tomb.”
“Buckra’s tomb!” echoed the African god, in a sonorous and emphatic voice, that told there was no alternative to the fate thus hypothetically proclaimed.
There was a short interval of silence, and then the shrill, conch-like sound was again heard—as before, followed by the long-drawn bass.
This was the exorcism of the god—as the same sounds, previously heard, had been his invocation.
It was also the finale of the ceremony: since the moment after Chakra pushed open the door, and stood in the entrance of the hut.
“Cynthy, gal,” said he, with a look of mysterious gravity, “why you blow out de light? But no matter for light. It’s all oba. Did you hear the god ’peak?”
“I did,” murmured the mulatta, still trembling at what she had heard.
“You hear wha him say?”
“Yes—yes.”
“Den he ’peak de troof. Nuffin mor’n dat. You take heed—I ’vise you, as you friend. You go troo wif de ’pell now ’im ’gun, else you life not worth so much trash ob de sugar-cane. A say no more. Ebbery night, in um fuss glass, de full ob de crab-claw, up to de mark. Now, gal, come ’lon’.”
The last command was the more readily obeyed since Cynthia was but too glad to get away from a place whose terrors had so severely tested her courage.
Taking up the basket—in which the bottle containing the dangerous decoction had been already placed—she glided out of the hut, and once more followed the Coromantee to his canoe.