The ceremony was as follows:
On Saturday I was told to have the materials for my initiation bath ready for the following Tuesday at eleven o’clock. I must have a bottle of lavender toilet water, Jap honeysuckle perfume, and orange blossom water. I must get a full bunch of parsley and brew a pint of strong parsley water. I must have at hand sugar, salt and Vacher Balm. Two long pink candles must be provided, one to be burned at the initiation, one to be lit on the altar for me in Pierre’s secret room.
He came to my house in Belville Court at a quarter to eleven to see if all was right. The tub was half-filled with warm water and Pierre put in all of the ingredients, along with a handful of salt and three tablespoons of sugar.
The candles had been dressed on Saturday and one was already burning on the secret altar for me. The other long pink candle was rolled around the tub three times, “In nomina patria, et filia, et spiritu sanctus, Amen.” Then it was marked for a four day burning and lit. The spirit was called three times. “Kind spirit, whose name is Moccasin, answer me.” This I was told to repeat three times, snapping my fingers.
Then I, already prepared, stepped into the tub and was bathed by the teacher. Particular attention was paid to my head and back and chest since there the “controls” lie. While in the tub, my left little finger was cut a little and his finger was cut and the blood bond made. “Now you are of my flesh and of the spirit, and neither one of us will ever deny you.”
He dried me and I put on new underwear bought for the occasion and dressed with oil of geranium, and was told to stretch upon the couch and read the third chapter of Job night and morning for nine days. I was given a little Bible that had been “visited” by the spirit and told the names of the spirits to call for any kind of work I might want to perform. I am to call on Great Moccasin for all kinds of power and also to have him stir up the particular spirit I may need for a specific task. I must call on Kangaroo to stop worrying; call on Jenipee spirit for marriages; call on Death spirit for killing, and the seventeen “quarters”1 of spirit to aid me if one spirit seems insufficient.
I was told to burn the marked candle every day for two hours—from eleven till one, in the northeast corner of the room. While it is burning I must go into the silence and talk to the spirit through the candle.
On the fifth day Pierre called again and I resumed my studies, but now as an advanced pupil. In the four months that followed these are some of the things I learned from him:
A man called Muttsy Ivins came running to Pierre soon after my initiation was over. Pierre looked him over with some instinctive antipathy. So he wouldn’t help him out by asking questions. He just let Mr. Muttsy tell him the best way he could. So he began by saying, “A lot of hurting things have been done to me, Pierre, and now its done got to de place Ah’m skeered for mah life.”
“That’s a lie, yes,” Pierre snapped.
“Naw it ’tain’t!” Muttsy insisted. “Ah done found things ’round mah door step and in mah yard and Ah know who’s doin’ it too.”
“Yes, you find things in your yard because you continue to sleep with the wife of another man and you are afraid because he has said that he will kill you if you don’t leave her alone. You are crazy to think that you can lie to me. Tell me the truth and then tell me what you want me to do.”
“Ah want him out de way—kilt, cause he swear he’s gointer kill me. And since one of us got to die, Ah’d ruther it to be him than me.”
“I knew you wanted a death the minute you got in here. I don’t like to work for death.”
“Please, Pierre, Ah’m skeered to walk de streets after dark, and me and de woman done gone too far to turn back. And he got de consumption nohow. But Ah don’t wanter die before he do. Ah’m a well man.”
“That’s enough about that. How much money have you got?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“Two fifty is my terms, and I ain’t a bit anxious for the job at that.”
Pierre turned to me and began to give me a list of things to get for my own use and seemed to forget the man behind him.
“Maybe Ah kin git dat other fifty dollars and maybe not. These ain’t no easy times. Money is tight.”
“Well, goodbye, we’re busy folks here. You don’t have to do this thing anyway. You can leave town.”
“And leave mah good trucking business? Dat’ll never happen. Ah kin git yo’ money. When yo’ goin’ ter do de work?”
“You pay the money and go home. It is not for you to know how and when the work is done. Go home with faith.”
The next morning soon, Pierre sent me out to get a beef brain, a beef tongue, a beef heart and a live black chicken. When I returned he had prepared a jar of bad vinegar. He wrote Muttsy’s enemy’s name nine times on a slip of paper. He split open the heart, placed the paper in it, pinned up the opening with eighteen steel needles, and dropped it into the jar of vinegar, point downward.
The main altar was draped in black and the crudely carved figure of Death was placed upon it to shield us from the power of death.
Black candles were lit on the altar. A black crown was made and placed on the head of Death. The name of the man to die was written on paper nine times and placed on the altar one degree below Death, and the jar containing the heart was set on this paper. The candles burned for twelve hours.
Then Pierre made a coffin six inches long. I was sent out to buy a small doll. It was dressed in black to represent the man and placed in the coffin with his name under the doll. The coffin was left open upon the altar. Then we went far out to a lonely spot and dug a grave which was much longer and wider than the coffin. A black cat was placed in the grave and the whole covered with a cloth that we fastened down so that the cat could not get out. The black chicken was then taken from its confinement and fed a half glass of whiskey in which a paper had been soaked that bore the name of the man who was to die. The chicken was put in with the cat, and left there for a full month.
The night after the entombment of the cat and the chicken, we began to burn the black candles. Nine candles were set to burn in a barrel and every night at twelve o’clock we would go to the barrel and call upon the spirit of Death to follow the man. The candles were dressed by bitting off the bottoms, as Pierre called for vengeance. Then the bottom was lighted instead of the top.
At the end of the month, the coffin containing the doll was carried out to the grave of the cat and chicken and buried upon their remains. A white bouquet was placed at the head and foot of the grave.
The beef brain was placed on a plate with nine hot peppers around it to cause insanity and brain hemorrhages, and placed on the altar. The tongue was slit, the name of the victim inserted, the slit was closed with a pack of pins and buried in the tomb.
“The black candles must burn for ninety days,” Pierre told me. “He cannot live. No one can stand that.”
Every night for ninety days Pierre slept in his holy place in a black draped coffin. And the man died.
Another conjure doctor solicited trade among Pierre’s clients and his boasts of power, and his belittling comments of Pierre’s power vexed him. So he said to me one day: “That fellow boasts too much, yes. Maybe if I send him a swelling he won’t be out on the banquette bragging so much.”
So Pierre took me with him to steal a new brick. We took the brick home and dressed nine black candles by writing the offensive doctor’s name on each. His name was written nine times on a piece of paper and placed face down on the brick. It was tied there securely with twine. We put the black candles to burn, one each day for nine days, and then Pierre dug a well to the water table and slipped the brick slowly to the bottom. “Just like the brick soaks up the water, so that man will swell.”
FOUR
I heard of Father Watson the “Frizzly Rooster” from afar, from people for whom he had “worked” and their friends, and from people who attended his meetings held twice a week in Myrtle Wreath Hall in New Orleans. His name is “Father” Watson, which in its
elf attests his Catholic leanings, though he is formally a Protestant.
On a given night I had a front seat in his hall. There were the usual camp-followers sitting upon the platform and bustling around performing chores. Two or three songs and a prayer were the preliminaries.
At last Father Watson appeared in a satin garment of royal purple, belted by a gold cord. He had the figure for wearing that sort of thing and he probably knew it. Between prayers and songs he talked, setting forth his powers. He could curse anybody he wished—and make the curse stick. He could remove curses, no matter who had laid them on whom. Hence his title The Frizzly Rooster. Many persons keep a frizzled chicken in the yard to locate and scratch up any hoodoo that may be buried for them. These chickens have, no doubt, earned this reputation by their ugly appearance—with all of their feathers set in backwards. He could “read” anybody at sight. He could “read” anyone who remained out of his sight if they but stuck two fingers inside the door. He could “read” anyone, no matter how far away, if he were given their height and color. He begged to be challenged.
He predicted the hour and the minute, nineteen years hence, when he should die—without even having been ill a moment in his whole life. God had told him.
He sold some small packets of love powders before whose powers all opposition must break down. He announced some new keys that were guaranteed to unlock every door and remove every obstacle in the way of success that the world knew. These keys had been sent to him by God through a small Jew boy. The old keys had been sent through a Jew man. They were powerful as long as they did not touch the floor—but if you ever dropped them, they lost their power. These new keys at five dollars each were not affected by being dropped, and were otherwise much more powerful.
I lingered after the meeting and made an appointment with him for the next day at his home.
Before my first interview with the Frizzly Rooster was fairly begun, I could understand his great following. He had the physique of Paul Robeson with the sex appeal and hypnotic what-ever-you-might-call-it of Rasputin. I could see that women would rise to flee from him but in mid-flight would whirl and end shivering at his feet. It was that way in fact.
His wife Mary knew how slight her hold was and continually planned to leave him.
“Only thing that’s holding me here is this.” She pointed to a large piece of brain-coral that was forever in a holy spot on the altar. “That’s where his power is. If I could get me a piece, I could go start up a business all by myself. If I could only find a piece.”
“It’s very plentiful down in South Florida,” I told her. “But if that piece is so precious, and you’re his wife, I’d take it and let him get another piece.”
“Oh my God! Naw! That would be my end. He’s too powerful. I’m leaving him,” she whispered this stealthily. “You get me a piece of that—you know.”
The Frizzly Rooster entered and Mary was a different person at once. But every time that she was alone with me it was “That on the altar, you know. When you back in Florida, get me a piece. I’m leaving this man to his women.” Then a quick hush and forced laughter at her husband’s approach.
So I became the pupil of Reverend Father Joe Watson, “The Frizzly Rooster” and his wife, Mary, who assisted him in all things. She was “round the altar”; that is while he talked with the clients, and usually decided on whatever “work” was to be done, she “set” the things on the altar and in the jars. There was one jar in the kitchen filled with honey and sugar. All the “sweet” works were set in this jar. That is, the names and the thing desired were written on paper and thrust into this jar to stay. Already four or five hundred slips of paper had accumulated in the jar. There was another jar called the “break up” jar. It held vinegar with some unsweetened coffee added. Papers were left in this one also.
When finally it was agreed that I should come to study with them, I was put to running errands such as “dusting” houses, throwing pecans, rolling apples, as the case might be; but I was not told why the thing was being done. After two weeks of this I was taken off this phase and initiated. This was the first step towards the door of the mysteries.
My initiation consisted of the Pea Vine Candle Drill. I was told to remain five days without sexual intercourse. I must remain indoors all day the day before the initiation and fast. I might wet my throat when necessary, but I was not to swallow water.
When I arrived at the house the next morning a little before nine, as per instructions, six other persons were there, so that there were nine of us—all in white except Father Watson who was in his purple robe. There was no talking. We went at once to the altar room. The altar was blazing. There were three candles around the vessel of holy water, three around the sacred sand pail, and one large cream candle burning in it. A picture of St. George and a large piece of brain coral were in the center. Father Watson dressed eight long blue candles and one black one, while the rest of us sat in the chairs around the wall. Then he lit the eight blue candles one by one from the altar and set them in the pattern of a moving serpent. Then I was called to the altar and both Father Watson and his wife laid hands on me. The black candle was placed in my hand; I was told to light it from all the other candles. I lit it at number one and pinched out the flame, and re-lit it at number two and so on till it had been lit by the eighth candle. Then I held the candle in my left hand, and by my right was conducted back to the altar by Father Watson. I was led through the maze of candles beginning at number eight. We circled numbers seven, five and three. When we reached the altar he lifted me upon the step. As I stood there, he called aloud, “Spirit! She’s standing here without no home and no friends. She wants you to take her in.” Then we began at number one and threaded back to number eight, circling three, five and seven. Then back to the altar again. Again he lifted me and placed me upon the step of the altar. Again the spirit was addressed as before. Then he lifted me down by placing his hands in my arm-pits. This time I did not walk at all. I was carried through the maze and I was to knock down each candle as I passed it with my foot. If I missed one, I was not to try again, but to knock it down on my way back to the altar. Arrived there the third time, I was lifted up and told to pinch out my black candle. “Now,” Father told me, “you are made Boss of Candles. You have the power to light candles and put out candles, and to work with the spirits anywhere on earth.”
Then all of the candles on the floor were collected and one of them handed to each of the persons present. Father took the black candle himself and we formed a ring. Everybody was given two matches each. The candles were held in our left hands, matches in the right; at a signal everybody stooped at the same moment, the matches scratched in perfect time and our candles lighted in concert. Then Father Watson walked rhythmically around the person at his right. Exchanged candles with her and went back to his place. Then that person did the same to the next so that the black candle went all around the circle and back to Father. I was then seated on a stool before the altar, sprinkled lightly with holy sand and water and confirmed as a Boss of Candles.
Then conversation broke out. We went into the next room and had a breakfast that was mostly fruit and smothered chicken. Afterwards the nine candles used in the ceremony were wrapped up and given to me to keep. They were to be used for lighting other candles only, not to be just burned in the ordinary sense.
In a few days I was allowed to hold consultations on my own. I felt insecure and said so to Father Watson.
“Of course you do now,” he answered me, “but you have to learn and grow. I’m right here behind you. Talk to your people first, then come see me.”
Within the hour a woman came to me. A man had shot and seriously wounded her husband and was in jail.
“But, honey,” she all but wept, “they say ain’t a thing going to be done with him. They say he got good white folks back of him and he’s going to be let loose soon as the case is tried. I want him punished. Picking a fuss with my husband just to get chance to shoot him. We needs help
. Somebody that can hit a straight lick with a crooked stick.”
So I went in to the Frizzly Rooster to find out what I must do and he told me, “That a low fence.” He meant a difficulty that was easily overcome.
“Go back and get five dollars from her and tell her to go home and rest easy. That man will be punished. When we get through with him, white folks or no white folks, he’ll find a tough jury sitting on his case.” The woman paid me and left in perfect confidence of Father Watson.
So he and I went into the workroom.
“Now,” he said, “when you want a person punished who is already indicted, write his name on a slip of paper and put it in a sugar bowl or some other deep something like that. Now get your paper and pencil and write the name; alright now, you got it in the bowl. Now put in some red pepper, some black pepper—don’t be skeered to put it in, it needs a lot. Put in one eightpenny nail, fifteen cents worth of ammonia and two door keys. You drop one key down in the bowl and you leave the other one against the side of the bowl. Now you got your bowl set. Go to your bowl every day at twelve o’clock and turn the key that is standing against the side of the bowl. That is to keep the man locked in jail. And every time you turn the key, add a little vinegar. Now I know this will do the job. All it needs is for you to do it in faith. I’m trusting this job to you entirely. Less see what you going to do. That can wait another minute. Come sit with me in the outside room and hear this woman out here that’s waiting.”
So we went outside and found a weakish woman in her early thirties that looked like somebody had dropped a sack of something soft on a chair.
The Frizzly Rooster put on his manner, looking like a brown, purple and gold throne-angel in a house.
“Good morning, sister er, er—”
“Murchison,” she helped out.
“Tell us how you want to be helped, Sister Murchison.”
Mules and Men Page 21
