minds wandered aimlessly
through the gray, semi-conscious vale where only they
existed.
And still Tillie danced on, her tall, graceful figure
responding to the tempo of the drums, her full breasts
moving rhythmically under her blouse, her ample hips
rotating, her powerful legs whirling to stamp a steady
rhythm against the ground as her Negro blood pumped in
her ears, filling her brain with the power of the beating sound that seemed to sustain her, driving her with
endless vehemence beyond the endurance of the other
dancers. Finally, she alone danced in violent supplication
to Pucku, the possession god of her Negro people.
Heaving, gasping, her movement became more spasmatic
as her arms flailed about hysterically, carrying her to a
whirling, climactic peak that ended in a thin, piercing
scream as she swooned to the ground in semi-conscious
obeisance. Her body still quaking with the fury of
possession, Tillie mumbled indistinctly, her deep voice
muttering soft, unintelligible passages that ran endlessly
from her lips.
Picking his way carefully among the bodies strewn in
reckless confusion around the clearing, a short, wizened
old man came to stand above her, his ears tuning in the
sound of her voice to the exclusion of all others. Tillie
Swann had been truly possessed by Pucku and was
speaking in the tongues of his god. Tonight he would
listen to her alone. Crouching down beside the prostrate
woman, he listened silently until she spoke no more,
refusing to leave until the woman's eyes once again
looked clearly into his.
Slowly the gray veil lifted from Tillie's gaze. Still
disoriented, she felt the ground beneath her body, damp
and moist against her perspired skin. Her head was
aching, the pulse in her throat still throbbing violently.
Finally able to focus her gaze, Tillie was startled to see
two bright black eyes staring unblinkingly into hers.
Cowering from the piercing brightness of his stare, Tillie
awaited the witch doctor's words.
"Tillie Swann be chosen of Pucku t'night. Him speak
through you t' him people here. You white blood be
weak, you black blood strong. What you want from dis
old man t'night?"
Looking purposefully into the old man's face, Tillie
said firmly, "My soul-child, him make the white obeah man turn against him. My soul-child hard-ears, not listen
to Tillie. Obeah-man leave house rygin against my soulchild. You speak to Pucku. Break obeah-man's magic."
"Who dis obeah-man be, Tillie Swann?"
"Him be the Captain Damien Straith."
His eyes flaring revealingly, the old man slowly stood
and turned to walk away. Quickly scrambling to her feet,
Tillie swayed momentarily before turning to run after
him. Reaching his side, Tillie took his arm to stay him.
"What you say, old man? You help Tillie Swann?
Amassa, old man," she pleaded again.
His face once again inscrutable, the old man muttered
almost inaudibly, "Cap'n Straith have strong obeah..."
"You help Tillie Swann, old man?" Tillie repeated, her
dark eyes glued to the man's face in wordless appeal.
For long silent moments the old man stared into her
face, his mesmerizing glance seeming to slip beyond
her eyes into her very mind. Suddenly shaking off her
restraining hand, he turned to walk toward a small hut at
the edge of the clearing, and slipped inside. Reappearing a
few minutes later, he carried a small cloth bag. Reaching
inside, he handed her a dried, shriveled fowl's foot,
mumbling softly, "Foot of fowl dat scratch earth of de
dead, him bring strength of spirits t' protect you soulchild. Keep it near you child, 'n obeah-man's duppy stay
away."
Having finished speaking, the old man turned on his
heel and walked away, leaving Tillie staring gratefully
behind him.
"Tenky, old man. Tillie Swann say tenky."
Making no response, the old man walked into his hut
and out of her sight.
Swiftly turning, Tillie noticed most of the dancers
were on their feet and milling around the clearing.
through the gray, semi-conscious vale where only they
existed.
And still Tillie danced on, her tall, graceful figure
responding to the tempo of the drums, her full breasts
moving rhythmically under her blouse, her ample hips
rotating, her powerful legs whirling to stamp a steady
rhythm against the ground as her Negro blood pumped in
her ears, filling her brain with the power of the beating sound that seemed to sustain her, driving her with
endless vehemence beyond the endurance of the other
dancers. Finally, she alone danced in violent supplication
to Pucku, the possession god of her Negro people.
Heaving, gasping, her movement became more spasmatic
as her arms flailed about hysterically, carrying her to a
whirling, climactic peak that ended in a thin, piercing
scream as she swooned to the ground in semi-conscious
obeisance. Her body still quaking with the fury of
possession, Tillie mumbled indistinctly, her deep voice
muttering soft, unintelligible passages that ran endlessly
from her lips.
Picking his way carefully among the bodies strewn in
reckless confusion around the clearing, a short, wizened
old man came to stand above her, his ears tuning in the
sound of her voice to the exclusion of all others. Tillie
Swann had been truly possessed by Pucku and was
speaking in the tongues of his god. Tonight he would
listen to her alone. Crouching down beside the prostrate
woman, he listened silently until she spoke no more,
refusing to leave until the woman's eyes once again
looked clearly into his.
Slowly the gray veil lifted from Tillie's gaze. Still
disoriented, she felt the ground beneath her body, damp
and moist against her perspired skin. Her head was
aching, the pulse in her throat still throbbing violently.
Finally able to focus her gaze, Tillie was startled to see
two bright black eyes staring unblinkingly into hers.
Cowering from the piercing brightness of his stare, Tillie
awaited the witch doctor's words.
"Tillie Swann be chosen of Pucku t'night. Him speak
through you t' him people here. You white blood be
weak, you black blood strong. What you want from dis
old man t'night?"
Looking purposefully into the old man's face, Tillie
said firmly, "My soul-child, him make the white obeah man turn against him. My soul-child hard-ears, not listen
to Tillie. Obeah-man leave house rygin against my soulchild. You speak to Pucku. Break obeah-man's magic."
"Who dis obeah-man be, Tillie Swann?"
"Him be the Captain Damien Straith."
His eyes flaring revealingly, the old man slowly stood
and turned to walk away. Quickly scrambling to her feet,
Tillie swayed momentarily before turning to run after
him. Reaching his side, Tillie took his arm to stay him.
"What you say, old man? You help Tillie Swann?
Amassa, old man," she pleaded again.
His face once again inscrutable, the old man muttered
almost inaudibly, "Cap'n Straith have strong obeah..."
"You help Tillie Swann, old man?" Tillie repeated, her
dark eyes glued to the man's face in wordless appeal.
For long silent moments the old man stared into her
face, his mesmerizing glance seeming to slip beyond
her eyes into her very mind. Suddenly shaking off her
restraining hand, he turned to walk toward a small hut at
the edge of the clearing, and slipped inside. Reappearing a
few minutes later, he carried a small cloth bag. Reaching
inside, he handed her a dried, shriveled fowl's foot,
mumbling softly, "Foot of fowl dat scratch earth of de
dead, him bring strength of spirits t' protect you soulchild. Keep it near you child, 'n obeah-man's duppy stay
away."
Having finished speaking, the old man turned on his
heel and walked away, leaving Tillie staring gratefully
behind him.
"Tenky, old man. Tillie Swann say tenky."
Making no response, the old man walked into his hut
and out of her sight.
Swiftly turning, Tillie noticed most of the dancers
were on their feet and milling around the clearing.
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