“You Don’t Understand My Sick.”
It is lamentable to behold the superstitious dread of these people of the power of the witch-doctor to do them harm.
During my stay at Nanaimo a bright, intelligent young man, about nineteen years of age, by the name of Charlie, attended our school. I missed him for some days, and on inquiry learned that he was sick. I made my way to the old heathen house where he lived, and there found him lying on a wretched cot, covered with his old dirty blanket.
I said, “Charlie, what’s the matter?”
“I am sick, sir,” he replied.
I felt his pulse, made general inquiry, but could discover very little the matter with him. Giving him some medicine, I told him to “have a strong heart,” as he would soon be well.
Two or three days afterwards, on a beautiful sunny spring morning, I visited him again, and found he was still lying in the same place. I got him up and out of the old house into the sunlight, but he seemed to grow worse rather than better.
Finally I said to him one day, “Charlie, what’s the matter with you? You are not sick!”
“Oh, you cannot understand my sickness,” he replied.
“Where are you sick? What is the matter?” I continued.
“Oh,” he said, looking very serious, “white man don’t understand my sickness.”
“Tell me where your sickness is?” I urged.
Pulling down his dirty blanket, and putting his hand upon his stomach he said, “It is here. An old conjurer has made me sick. He has blown something into my inside.”
“Oh, nonsense, Charlie!” said I. “It is no such thing. No man has power to do that.”
But he shook his head and replied, “Oh, I told you, you don’t understand my sick. The Indian has power, and he is using it on me, and I shall die.”
Day by day I visited the poor boy and tried in every way to get him to arouse himself and to go out with the rest of the boys. But no, he lay there and sickened, and in about six weeks he died.
I do not believe anything was the matter, except his superstitious fear that the old witch-doctor had put his spell upon him and was killing him.