Томас Майн Рид - Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

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 [549]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 [550], 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.

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?”