"Obeah" and Other Martinican Stories
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"Obeah" and Other Martinican Stories
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781628952896 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Michigan State University Press |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2017 |
| Series: | Ruth Simms Hamilton African Diaspora |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 132 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
E. Anthony Hurley is Associate Professor of Francophone Caribbean and African Literatures in the Department of Africana Studies at Stony Brook University.
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"Obeah" and Other Martinican Stories
By Marie-Magdeleine Carbet, E. Anthony Hurley
Michigan State University Press
Copyright © 2017 E. Anthony HurleyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62895-289-6
CHAPTER 1
Le "Quimbois"
Le vent sauvage des tropiques accourt du large. Nourri d'embruns, salé, gueulard, fleurant la marée, il fouaille les criques, s'acharne sur les cocotiers qu'il crible de volées de sable. Puis il galope vers les mornes.
Dans l'herbe des savanes, sur les talus des chemins, il pleut des fruits mûrs. Couleurs et parfums confondus, les corolles volent.
Cinq heures. Au loin, sur une cadence de biguine, les cloches appellent les fidèles. Dans les palmiers les merles sifflent leur "prière matinale". Tandis qu'en chute bigarrée la volaille quitte les citronniers, le ciel rosit. Ni meilleur, ni pire que les autres, voici un jour nouveau. Mais jouir de l'air et du soleil tout neufs, vivre et lutter encore aujourd'hui semble dépasser les forces de Loulou. L'habitude l'arrache de sa couche. Mais autour de sa case, il traînaille, le geste lent. Pourtant, l'ouvrage attend. Il lui faut partir.
Enfin, son café noir avalé, Loulou, coutelas en main et houe sur l'épaule, s'en va berçant sa peine d'une complainte:
"Moin planté pensées
C'est soucis moin récolté ..."
Au fait quels soucis l'accablent? Autrefois, fier de sa force, il faisait orgueilleusement saillir les muscles sous son cuir noir, luisant au soleil. Et son rire heureux résonnait à tout propos. Maintenant le jeune nègre semble, dos rond, lèvres serrées, regard terni, indifférent à tout.
Ainsi l'appel du voisin retentit par trois fois par-dessus la haie: "O ... O Loulou ô ... ô! qui nove?"
En vain. Une secousse de l'autre le réveillant, il répond mollement, une angoisse dans la voix. L'espace d'une seconde, Asson hésite. Il pense au vieux dicton "Zaffai cabrite pas zaffai mouton" et puis, au diable la sagesse, il entreprend de confesser Loulou. Mais quel nom donner au mal qui le ronge? Loulou n'a rien de précis. Peut-être, un mauvais sort? On a dû lui jeter un sort! Mais qui? Asson se penche à son oreille.
— Céline, Maïotte, Ti-Thé? Tu les courtisais en même temps. L'une d'elles, pour se venger, t'aura sans doute "piaillé".
Consterné, le pauvre Loulou baisse la tête. Il revoit le regard humide de l'une; la bouche provocante de l'autre; et de la troisième, la démarche houleuse.
—... Consulter Rozane, murmure Asson ...
Rozane!!! Loulou se signe. Approcher cette sorcière, il n'osera jamais!
— On dit qu'elle vit comme un monstre, balbutie Loulou. On dit ...
— On dit surtout qu'elle réussit toujours! Rappelle-toi Ti-Dore, mon propre cousin qu'elle a guéri d'un seul coup! Et le mariage de Souloune, elle ne l'a pas fait le mariage de Souloune? Tu crois que ce beau Monsieur de la ville aurait reconnu ses petits et l'aurait épousée si la vieille Zane n'y avait donné un coup de pouce?
Mal convaincu, Loulou résiste encore. Le voudrait-il qu'il ne pourrait consulter Rozane. Elle a tiré bien des gens d'affaire, soit. Mais à quel prix? Chacun de ses sortilèges coûte une fortune.
— Allons, pas tant que ça, grogne Asson. Tes coqs de combat valent gros. Tu sais bien qu'en les vendant tous les deux tu pourrais te payer l'aide de la sorcière. Au fond, tu as peur ...
Pris pour un capon? Jamais! C'est dit. Loulou ira trouver la vieille.
Un soir il enferme dans une bourse de cotonnade les billets crasseux reçus en échange de ses précieuses bêtes de race. Vêtu de son meilleur pantalon, de sa chemise rose, la plus belle, il tire derrière lui la porte de sa case. En route! Dieu lui viendra en aide! N'a-t-il pas accroché deux nouvelles médailles d'aluminium à son scapulaire de bon chrétien? Oui, Dieu le protégera, même sur ce chemin qui conduit à la demeure de la sorcière. N'arrive jamais que ce qu'Il veut. S'Il permet qu'on "piaille" un homme innocent, il doit pareillement permettre que la victime se défende. Sinon, Il ne serait ni juste ni bon!
Par la nuit sans lune des formes silencieuses frôlent les buissons. Elles longent les champs de canne à sucre dont bruissent, comme une eau légère, les flèches soyeuses. Elles surgissent, s'éloignent, s'amassent et se défont. La piste serpente au bord d'un talus. Elle traverse la voie ferrée conduisant à l'usine proche, puis soudain, elle grimpe la rampe d'une côte assez dure, pour dominer ensuite une sorte de gouffre. Loulou avance, l'oreille bourdonnante de la voix des insectes nocturnes, des soupirs du feuillage, et surtout de la clameur de l'océan, à chaque tournant plus sensible. Les histoires étranges contées aux veillées des morts lui reviennent en mémoire. On les écoute en tremblant délicieusement, le punch ou le café noir en main. Ici, en cette randonnée solitaire, leur souvenir fait frissonner.
Tous l'assurent. Si d'aventure sur le coup de minuit des ailes velues battent aux fenêtres; si une infernale cavalcade sème l'épouvante au village; si des feux sautent de l'un à l'autre des pitons et des mornes ne cherchez pas qui mène le train, c'est Rozane!
Le pauvre Loulou sent croître son malaise. Il se gourmande et se parle et s'encourage à la mode nègre:
— Courage, Loulou, quimbé fô, nèg. Ouè misè pas mô!
D'ailleurs, voici la dernière étape. Le voyageur évite un groupe de pêcheurs nocturnes. Quelques hommes s'agitent en effet à la lueur de "serbis" fumeux; fouillant la vase de leurs bâtons, ils cherchent des crabes de terre. Loulou dépasse une crique où dorment les gommiers hissés sur leurs rondins. Il arrive. Il est arrivé. Voici, au bout d'une sente la "chapelle" qui indique l'entrée de la case. Un lampion flotte sur un doigt d'huile dans un verre d'eau. La flamme de la veilleuse vacille au vent. Le doigt pointé vers le cœur, un "bon Dieu" de plâtre préside aux offrandes des chalands ...
Loulou se sèche le front où perle une sueur glacée. Il ne peut plus reculer. La voici la case de Zane. Le Chef Soucliant, Zane "Maman Quimbois!". Basse, accroupie, cul dans la vase, étayée de pilotis d'un côté, la case a l'air d'une bête se dressant sur ses pattes de devant. Les lames en lèchent presque le seuil. Une avare clarté filtre des cloisons mal jointes. Loulou approche, tellement intrigué qu'il en oublie sa peur.
Horreur! Epouvante! Sa tignasse crépue se hérisse!
La pièce est sinistre, presque nue. D'un tas de haillons, posé à même le plancher, émerge une tête hideuse et qui n'a plus rien d'humain. Les yeux,barrés de taie blanche, certainement privés de regard, n'ont même plus de cils ... A la place du nez, deux grands trous noirs ... dans un fouillis de rides, une fente, taillée de travers, la bouche ...
C'est "ça" Zane la toute-puissante, Zane la quimboiseuse, la sorcière, dont la seule pensée fait trembler tant de gens! Un épouvantail, ni plus, ni moins. Loulou en rirait se le spectacle n'était si abject.
Il pourrait entrer là, et s'emparer de force de tous les sortilèges, et de ce déchet même, au besoin!
Pour l'instant, deux clientes, occupent la place. Deux femmes, deux dames, plus exactement, l'une très jeune et qui a l'air égaré, l'autre assez âgée, le désespoir sur la face.
— Mère et fille ... dans la peine, depuis longtemps ... laisse tomber Rozane. Prenez les cartes, sur la table. Mêlez. Coupez. Passez-les moi, or-donne-t-elle.
Trois têtes se penchent sur le jeu étalé sur le parquet.
Rozane bougonne des mots sans suite, dans un silence épais. Brusquement elle semble se mettre en colère.
— Parlez! mais parlez donc! ou alors, allez-vous en!
La voix, stridente, ténue, cingle comme des lianes empoisonnées.
Entre les plis de sa robe blanche, la plus jeune des femmes s'affaisse soudain. La mère blémit encore et se raidit. Alors, apparemment radoucie, la sorcière parle.
— Je n'ai pas besoin des cartes pour y voir clair. Un jour, votre fille a respiré un bouquet de roses rouges offert par une inconnue. Elle était fiancée, n'est-ce pas? Une rivale se vengeait ... car du coup, votre fille a perdu la raison. Depuis, des années ont passé. Il fallait venir plus tôt. J'essaierai de vous trouver un remède, mais c'est tard!
Des minutes passent, lentes comme des heures. Enfin, un bras sorti du tas de haillons tend un minuscule paquet vers la mère éplorée.
Obeah
THE WILD WIND OF THE TROPICS RUSHES INLAND FROM THE OPEN SEA. Fed with spray, salty, blustering, and perfuming the tide, it lashes coves and harasses coconut trees, riddling them with volleys of sand, then gallops towards the hills.
Ripe fruits rain down on the grassy savannas and on the slopes of the roadways. Flower petals fly about, a mix of colors and fragrances.
It's five o'clock. In the distance, church bells chiming to the rhythm of a biguine summon the faithful. In the palm trees blackbirds chirp their "morning prayer." The sky turns rosy as a multicolored flock of fowls fall out of the lemon trees. Here is a new day, no better or worse than any other. But it seems to be beyond Loulou's strength today to enjoy the brand new air and sun, to live and fight again. Habit drags him from his bed. But he dawdles around his hut, moving very slowly. Yet, work is waiting. He has to leave.
At last, Loulou swallows his black coffee and goes off, with cutlass in hand and hoe on shoulder, singing a lament to soothe his pain:
Thoughts me sow
But worries me reap ...
So what are his major worries? In the good old days, proud of his strength, he used to show off the muscles rippling under his black hide, glistening in the sun. And his happy laugh would boom out constantly. Now the young Negro, his back bent, his lips tight, doesn't seem interested in anything.
A call from his neighbor rings out three times over the hedge: "O ... O Loulou, wha's up?"
No use. Jolted awake by his neighbor's shout, Loulou answers feebly, with anguish in his voice. Asson hesitates for just a second. He is thinking about the old saying "Goat business is not sheep business." And then, not listening to common sense, he starts drawing the truth out of Loulou. But how to describe the pain that is eating away at him? Loulou can't find a word for it. A curse, perhaps? Somebody must have worked obeah on him! But who? Asson leans over into his ear: "Celine, Maiotte, Ti — Thé? You were courting all of them at the same time. One of them, for revenge, has probably worked obeah on you."
Appalled, poor Loulou bows his head. He remembers the misty eyes of one of those women, the provocative mouth of another, and the third with a walk that whipped up a storm.
"Go see Rozane," Asson whispers ...
"Rozane!!!" Loulou makes the sign of the cross. He would never dare approach that obeah-woman!
"They say she lives like a monster," Loulou stammers. "They say ..."
"They say particularly that she always succeeds! Remember Ti-Dore, my own cousin that she cured immediately! And Souloune's marriage. Didn't she bring off Souloune's marriage? You think that that fine city gent would have recognized his children and married her if old Zane hadn't put her finger in the pie?"
Loulou is not completely convinced and still resists. He would really prefer not to have to consult Rozane. She really helped a lot of people, agreed. But at what cost? Each of her spells cost a fortune.
"Come on, not that much," Asson grumbles. "Your fighting cocks are worth a lot. You know that if you sell both of them you could pay for the obeah-woman's services. But basically you're afraid ..."
To be taken for a coward? Never! That's it. Loulou will go find the old woman.
One evening he puts the filthy bills he had received in exchange for his precious bloodstock in a cotton purse. He dresses in his best trousers and his pink shirt, the most beautiful one he has, and pulls the door of his hut shut behind him. Off he goes! God will help him! Did he not pin two new aluminum medals to his chest like a good Christian? Yes, God will protect him, even on this path leading to the obeah-woman's home. Only what God wants will happen. If he allows an innocent man to have obeah worked on him, he must similarly allow the victim to defend himself. Otherwise, God could not be either fair or good!
Silent forms brush against the bushes in the moonless night. They run alongside the sugar cane fields whose silky arrows rustle like light water. They appear suddenly, form clusters, and then separate. The trail winds on the edge of a slope. It crosses the railway leading to the nearby factory, suddenly climbs the slope of a rather harsh hillside, and then overlooks a kind of abyss. Loulou moves forward, his ears buzzing with the voices of the nocturnal insects, the sighs of the foliage, and especially the clamor of the ocean, which becomes more perceptible at every bend. He now remembers the strange stories that are told at wakes. They are listened to in trembling delight, with rum punch or black coffee in hand. Here, on this solitary hike, the memories of these stories make him shiver.
They all reach the same conclusion. If by chance on the stroke of midnight hairy wings beat at windows; if a hellish cavalcade sows terror in the village; if fires jump from peak to peak and from hill to hill — you don't have to ask who is responsible, it's Rozane!
Poor Loulou feels his uneasiness grow. He rebukes himself, talks to himself, and encourages himself as black countryfolk do:
"Have no fear, Loulou, be strong, man. What don't kill you makes you stronger!"
Anyway, this is the last stage. Loulou walks around a group of night fishermen. Some men are moving about in the smoky glow of straw torches. They rummage in the mud with their sticks, looking for land crabs. Loulou passes a cove where the little fishing boats are sleeping hoisted on their logs. He is almost there. He has arrived. Here at the end of a path is the "chapel" that marks the entrance to the hut. A lantern is floating on a drop of oil in a water glass. The flame of the night-light flickers in the wind. A plaster Jesus, with his finger pointed toward his heart, presides over the offertory from the barges ...
Loulou dries the beads of icy sweat on his forehead. He cannot go back now. Here is Zane's hut. The Chief of the Sorcerers, Zane, "Mama Obeah!" The hut, low, crouched, its backside in the mud, propped up by stilts on one side, looks like an animal rearing up on its front legs. The waves almost wash up against its doorway. A miserly glow of light filters through badly assembled partitions. Loulou draws closer, so intrigued that he forgets his fear.
Horror! Terror! His kinky hair stands on end!
The room is sinister, almost completely bare. A hideous head that has nothing human about it emerges from a heap of rags positioned right down on the floor. The eyes, an opaque white film blocking them out, are definitely sightless, and have even lost their lids ... Instead of a nose, there are two large black holes ... and, in a jumble of wrinkles, there is a slit, cut crosswise, the mouth ...
The room is sinister, almost completely bare. A hideous head that has nothing human about it emerges from a heap of rags positioned right down on the floor. The eyes, an opaque white film blocking them out, are definitely sightless, and have even lost their lids ... Instead of a nose, there are two large black holes ... and, in a jumble of wrinkles, there is a slit, cut crosswise, the mouth ...
That's the Almighty Zane, Zane the "obeah-woman," the witch, the very thought of whom causes so many people to tremble! A scarecrow, no more, no less. Loulou would have laughed if the sight of her was not so pitiful.
He could get in there and grab all the spells by force, and even this piece of trash, if he wanted to!
At the moment, there are two clients in the room. Two women, or to be more precise, two ladies, a very young one looking lost, and the other one fairly old, with despair in her face.
"Mother and daughter ... suffering, for a long time now ..." Rozane mutters. "Take the cards on the table. Shuffle them. Cut. Pass them to me," she orders.
Three heads bend over the deck spread out on the floor.
In a thick silence, Rozane grumbles some disjointed words. Suddenly she seems to get angry: "Speak! Go on, speak! or go away!" Her voice, shrill and reedy, stings like a poisoned vine.
The younger woman suddenly collapses between the folds of her white dress. The mother turns pale and stiffens. Then the obeah-woman, apparently back to her softer self again, speaks: "I don't need the cards to see what's been going on. One day, your daughter smelled a bouquet of red roses given to her by somebody she didn't know. She was engaged to be married, wasn't she? A rival took revenge ... and as a result, your daughter lost her mind. Since then, years have passed. You should have come sooner. I will try to find a cure for you, but it is already late!" Minutes pass, as slow as hours. Finally, an arm emerges from the heap of rags and hands a tiny package to the tearful mother.
The women are already moving off. Loulou comes out of the shadows. He remains undecided.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from "Obeah" and Other Martinican Stories by Marie-Magdeleine Carbet, E. Anthony Hurley. Copyright © 2017 E. Anthony Hurley. Excerpted by permission of Michigan State University Press.
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