“But some duppies wish to stay in their graves,” Nana said, “and it is a most cruel thing to wake them after they are gone. Let them rest. They don’t need to come back for nothing after they are gone. God gives the duppy nine days after death to do and take with him what he wants. After that let him rest.”
Then I wanted to ask a question. “You tell me that the duppy rises on the third night after death and that he does not depart until the ninth night. But where is he all this time?” I asked.
“Oh, the duppy goes back and forth from the grave to his house where he use to live. He is in the yard and he visits all the places where he use to go. On the ninth night he goes back to the apartment [room] where he lived last and where he breathed his last breath and takes with him the shadow of everything he wants. We know that he is there, so we prepare everything for him in that dead room that he wants so that he will go away happy and not come back and harm us. We know that he likes singing and to see his family and friends for the last time. The whole district comes to make him happy so that he will rest well and not come back again.”
The talk went on and on all about duppies caught in bottles; duppies caught in pimento sticks to make a terrible weapon; duppies sitting on beds of the sick and “throwing heat” on them; duppies paid to throw the sick out of bed; duppies raining showers of stones in the houses; duppies forcing men to turn around and walk with them from town to town. So the nights ran together and made nine.
On that ninth night Joe Forsythe and I came to the familiar yard. People stood about in small collections talking. A great table at the far left was loaded with foodstuffs. Fried fish, rice, rum, bread, coffee, wet sugar for the coffee, fowl, and what not. A sizable tarpaulin had been stretched on tall poles from one house wall. Chairs and boxes were spaced around the edge of the covered area and boards were laid between these to make plenty of seats. A small deal table was in the center and a four-spouted naked light hung directly over the table. There was a chair for the leader when the time should arrive for him to “track out” the hymn for the rest to sing. The beginning of everything was there, but nothing had shaped up yet. I went inside to pay my respects to the widow.
Most of the patriarchs had already arrived and were in the dead room. The feast for the duppy was spread. There was white rum and white rice without salt and white fowl also saltless. The wooden bath bowl was full of water and placed in the center of the floor. A glass of drinking water was on the white draped table with the food which was not in plates at all, but spread on banana leaves. The bed was snowy white in its cleanliness.
The intimates sat and talked casually. Now and then one of the old women looked out of the door and bawled at some girl whom she considered too free with the boys. But mostly they had the air of just waiting around for something. I could hear a great hub-bub of talking from the outside and looked out to find that the yard was full of people.
Suddenly one Nana removed her clay pipe from her lips and stared pointedly at the door for a moment, then nudged her neighbor to look. She looked in the same direction and in turn nudged her neighbor. Calling-attention gestures swept the room in the silence. Everything was conveyed by gesture. The first Nana led the “seeing.” Her eyes went from door to bed, from bed to bath bowl, from bath bowl to table, and all eyes followed hers. Little nods of gratification as the duppy was observed to eat or drink, or bathe, or take the shadow of his bed and meal. Finally he was seen to take a seat to enjoy the evening. Then the leader arose and spoke to him.
“We know you come,” he said with gracious courtesy. “We glad you come. Myself two times.”
All others nod and murmur in agreement. The duppy is assured of a welcome in every way. “We do the best we can.”
The leader went outside and took his place under the four-pronged naked light and began tracking out the songs. The “treble” raised the song. He had a dramatic falsetto with uncanny qualifications. It could not be called a good voice, but it did things to those who could sing. It seemed to search out the hidden roads to harmony so the others could find them. The night song had begun. It kept up hour after hour. The monotony varied only by the new inventions in melody and harmony on the same song.
Way late the leader cried “Sola!” That was an invitation for those who had special or favorite songs to track the verses out for the others to sing the chorus. Ten or more people were instantly tracking out. The leader gave precedence to a girl. She was a penny brown girl with high lights in her eyes. She acted out the verses of a song and raised the singing to a frenzied pitch.
Inside the room the old ones kept the duppy entertained with Anansi stories. Now and then they sang a little. A short squirt of song and then another story would come. Its syllables would behave like tambour tones under the obligato of the singing outside. It fitted together beautifully because Anansi stories are partly sung anyway. So rhythmic and musical is the Jamaican dialect that the tale drifts naturally from words to chant and from chant to song unconsciously. There was Brer Anansi and Brer Grassquit; Brer Anansi and the Chatting Pot; Brer Frog’s dissatisfaction with his flat behind and Anansi’s effort to teach him how to make stiffening for it. And how all the labor was lost on account of Brer Frog’s boasting and ingratitude. “So Frog don’t learn how to make him behind stick out like other animals. Him still have round behind with no shape because him don’t know how to make the stiffening.” A great burst of laughter. This is the best liked tale and it is told more than once.
Eleven o’clock arrives and “tea” is served. When this is over it is still a half hour till midnight. Plaintive tunes, mournful songs are sung now. A new and most doleful arrangement of “Lead Kindly Light” fairly drips tears. Then “Good Night” sung over and over. Finally the leader signals a halt. He then solemnly invites all the family and close friends together in the dead room to help discharge the dead.
I was signalled to come too so I went. Inside the tiny room it was very crowded and solemn. The brother of the dead man was selected to preside. He tracked out, “There is rest for the Weary,” and after that he prayed:
“Lord, we come to send off the spirit of our dear one to thee. We know him is with thee for him is thy child and not Satan child. So him is not with Satan in Hell but with thee in Heaven. Accept him there, Lord. Don’t drive him out of thy Kingdom. And whether him is gone to thee or to Satan, help we to discharge him from this house forever. The living has no right with the dead. Amen.” He tracked out a sankey and then addressed the duppy directly.
“We know you come and we make you welcome. We give you white fowl; we give you rice and leave your bed for you. We leave you water and we do everything for you. Done!!! Go on to your rest now and no do we no harm. We no want to see you again. You must left and you not to come again. No come back! Mind now, you come again we plant you!”
Now this closest male relative of the dead man seizes the sheet from the bed and casts it to the floor. The mattress follows. Eager hands help gather up the slats and take the bed down completely. The slats are thrown to the floor with a great clatter. The brother takes one of the slats and beats the pile of bedding on the floor before it is taken outdoors. The women seize the banana leaves with the food heaped on them and throw them out of the window. The water follows. A Nana looks at the door and nudges. They all “see” the duppy depart. The duppy that was once a man can have no more friendly relationship with mortals.
Instantly outside the tempo changes. They grow jubilant. A “village lawyer” holds up his hand in restraint. “It no finish yet! It no finish yet!”
“Yes, man, it finish. Him gone. Bed is outside.”
“Then what about the chalk marks? Make I see.” (Show them to me.)
In their eagerness to begin play, some have overlooked or forgotten this last necessity. The know-it-all takes a piece of white chalk and with an air of importance makes a cross mark on all the windows and doors. The recent activities inside have driven the duppy out. The cross marks are meant to keep him out. I
t is finished.
A play spirit seized the yard. Men hunted up rocks with which to play “Dollyman.” A game where fingers get crushed and fights commence. Temporary love affairs were developing right and left. In spite of the older women who tried to keep an eye on the girls, there were numerous love-lit excursions into the outer darkness. Two men with cow-cords under their arms swaggered about very conscious of the weapon they carried. But a “bad stick” under the arm of a stocky, grim looking fellow was regarded with awe.
This was one of the far-famed “Ebolite” sticks. They are made from pimento wood, which becomes “prementa” on the lips of the peasant. A stick of pimento about a yard long is cut. It is roasted in a fire with great skill so that the bark sheds completely without injuring the wood beneath. A little more roasting and the stick becomes a beautiful, dark, glistening thing. The stick is buried in a grave, a coolie grave is the preference, and allowed to remain there for two or three weeks. In this time, the duppy of the person buried there has come to live in the stick. After it is dug up it is polished and the two ends and sometimes the middle of the stick is wound with brass wire. The stick is ready for its baptism after the wire and it is given a name. This name is always feminine. It is named for some mule or horse or obeah woman. Soon everyone in the district knows this stick just as well as if it were justice of the peace. People whisper its name as if it were a person. “Me see Alice in the yard,” and no man however full of rum would jostle the owner of Alice in the yard. But rum was talking thru several men there. “Red men licking a black man,” is the way one woman spoke of it.
I was standing in the swirl of all this when Joe touched my arm. “Let’s go,” he said.
“No, I don’t want to go. Look, one man has got his fingers mashed over there at the dollyman game. I think it’s going to be a fight. I want to see it.”
“Plenty fight, man. But I take you to see Koo-min-ah. That’s the best kind of nine night. It don’t happen often. It’s a nine night but it don’t happen until the person been dead a year and a half. The Africans do this with the Maroons. I take great trouble to fix it so you can come see. Come on. They make two ‘house’ tonight.”
When we reached the yard where the Koo-min-ah was being held we found that we were early for the Koo-min-ah but late for a magnificent Congo. Both the drumming and the muscular subtleties were extraordinary.
Zachariah, “The Power,” came forward and received me and later explained that they built the house for the duppy after he was gone eighteen months because it was not certain that the spirit had definitely settled down in his new home before then. If the house which in reality is a cement tomb were built earlier than that, it might be closed while the duppy happened to be out, and then he would become a wandering spirit.
Back of us was an elaborate palm booth. Off to one side the Maroons were jerking a pig. Close by the Africans were preparing a goat with all fragrant herbs. Four or five persons in full ceremonials appeared out of a house there in the back. The Power hurriedly left us and went into the house. The intriguing monotony of the Congo died down and people began to collect around the great booth. There is a bustle inside there but the flambeau hanging from a palm stem is not yet lighted.
The Power appears for a moment at the door and the light flares. Four men who look like African nabobs I find are the drummers, and the four less panoplied men with them are the “rackling” men. That is the men who play the triple rhythm on the back of the drum with little sticks. There are two “shuckers,” the men who play the cha cha.
There under the booth are two “houses” for the dead. Between them is a wooden bath bowl which contains a large calabash full of water. That is all. I wonder about the bowl and the calabash but the time is past for asking questions, because the drummers are pounding the drumheads with hammers and turning pegs in tuning their instruments.
There is the thunder of drums subtly rubbed with bare heels, and the ferocious attack of the rackling men. The thing has begun. They are “making house for duppy.” The hands of the drummers weave their magic and the drums speak of old times and old things.
A few warming-up steps by some dancers. Then a woman breaks through the dancers with a leap like a lioness emerging from cover. Just like that. She sings with gestures as she challenges the drummers, a lioness defying the tribesmen.
“Ah minnie wah oh, Ah minnie wah oh!”
And the men at the instruments reply:
“Saykay ah brah ay.”
She makes some liquid movements of her upper body and cries again:
“Yekko tekko, yekko tekko, Yahm pahn sah ay!”
The men:
“Ah yah yee-ai, Ah yah yee-ai, ah say oh!”
She danced thru one furious movement and cried again:
“Yekko tekko, ah pah ahah ai!”
This whole thing was repeated many times with more singers and dancers entering into it each time. Now the scores of dancers circled the tombs. It was asymmetric dancing that yet had balance and beauty. It was certainly most compelling. There was a big movement and a little movement. The big movement was like a sunset in its scope and color. The little movement had the almost imperceptible ripple of a serpent’s back. It was a cameo in dancing.
One male dancer suddenly ceases and demands rum. All the others join him. Zachariah hesitates and fools around a bit, but they insist and he produces a bottle. The oldest man among the Africans is summoned. It is the law that he must have the first drink that is poured. It is handed to him with deference. Zachariah takes the next drink himself, then the woman singer-dancer who I learn is called “The Governess.” Then the drummers, then the rackling men and the shuckers, then the dancers. Lastly, these who just stand and sing. They don’t really belong, so if nothing is left for them no harm is done.
The dancing begins in earnest now. The Governess is like an intoxicating spirit that whips up the crowd. Those rackling men become fiends from hell. The shuckers do a magnificent muscle dance which they tell me is African. The drums and the movements of the dancers draw so close together that the drums become people and the people become drums. The pulse of the drum is their shoulders and belly. Truly the drum is inside their bodies. More rum, more fire.
“Hand a’ bowl, Knife a’ throat
Rope a’ tie me, Hand a’ bowl
“Hand a’ bowl, Day a’ light
Wango doe, doe, Knife a’ throat
“Hand a’ bowl, Knife a’ throat
Want ingwalla, Fum dees ah”
Now Zachariah proved the magnificent dancer that he was. He dominated the group with his skill. The whole performance rose to a pitch. They all followed him in spirit and ferocity if not in skill. It was the goat song that was being sung. The Governess was speaking for the sacrificial one, and Zachariah was dancing the priest. Women began to “cramp.” They flung themselves about and fell quivering. It is law that they be not allowed to lie on the ground and they were instantly seized up by men and the tempo increased. Clothes were torn away unconsciously. Two or three hot, wet bodies collided with me. I saw women picked up by their buttocks, their bodies bent backwards so limply that their heads and heels trailed the ground. Their faces were bathed in rum to revive them. If it took too long, they were carried outside of the lighted circle somewhere to be revived. The drummers, the shuckers, the rackling men had played their faces into ferocious masks. Ecstatic body movements went with every throb.
Zachariah leaped over both graves, over the seated drummers, whirled his body in mid-air, fell on his back, arched his back until only his head and toes touched the ground, held the pose in trembling ecstasy for a long moment, then hurled his lower body up and seized a cramping woman with his thighs and brought her down. Somebody rushed in and broke his scissors hold and the dance went on.
Too late I saw the goat dragged up between the tombs and the knife in Zachariah’s hand. In a flash he was catching the blood from its throat in a glass. There was a great pressing forward for a drop of his wonder-working bl
ood, but the crowd was driven back. Still in motion, Zachariah took a deep drink from the glass, then allowed each drummer a little sip. “The Power” then danced with the glass and finally with a leap and a cry, hurled it as far from him as he could. Some of the crowd motioned to follow the glass and take it up, but “The Power” shook his head in warning and chanted without ceasing to dance, “Who want to take it up, take it up, but it is trouble to do so.” That halted the rush instantly. Not a soul ventured to go.
After a magnificent flourish that coincided with sounds of the drums, “The Power” went into a cramp himself and sank to the ground. Nobody touched him. Then I saw the rising calabash. There before my eyes the calabash full of water rose from the bath bowl and slowly mounted to the top of the palm booth and as slowly sank again. The drums went on and on. They sang on and on.
Tell My Horse: Voodoo and Life in Haiti and Jamaica Page 6
