“No, ma’am, ’e yent dead, ma’am, but him hab anodduh lady, en’ me hab Isaac Middletun. You know dat same Mistuh Middletun lib close Adam’ Run deepo? Well, she duh my juntlemun now, en’ me duh Mis’ Middletun.”
“Yaas, ma’am, well, mawnin’, ma’am,” and so on.
And always as Lucy sat in the sunshine before the cabin door and smoked her short clay pipe, or in the loneliness of night lay pondering and ponderable under the quilt that looked like a county map of Texas, constantly she projected thought waves towards Adams Run station, near which abode the recalcitrant Middleton. Along this main-traveled roadway of the Atlantic Coast Line, many trains passed by day and by night. The shrill shriek of the local freight, as it took the siding at the distant station, reminded her that Middleton’s ears were filled with the same sound. The hoarse warning of the Florida Limited at the curve, as it rushed southward filled with Northern tourists, who,—viewing from observation cars the fruit-laden thickets of gallberry bushes covering the damp, flat pinelands—marveled at the prodigality of the Southern climate that ripened huckleberries in midwinter, every whistle that blew along the busy line reminded Lucy of the railroad, and the railroad reminded her of the station, and the station reminded her of Middleton. Theoretically, a member of the gentler sex has only to wish herself upon a man and the man is as good as wived, and the dogma that “a woman has only to make up her mind to marry a man and she gets him,” is probably as old as the Creation, for Adam, like the gentleman he was, accepted philosophically and uncomplainingly—even gallantly—the spouse which kind Heaven had wished upon him. But much thought had brought Lucy to the conclusion that in her chase of a husband she was after all a dachshund, while the elusive Middleton was a fox. His defenses having proved impenetrable by direct attack, she had tried sapping and mining without success, even the “sperrit” bomb projected Middletonwards had fizzled at the fuse, and her cabin and its encircling yard and garden were still, alas! “no man’s land!”
In her desperation Lucy decided to conjure! Like old Lorenzo in “La Mascotte,” she believed in “signs, omens, dreams, predictions,” and also in the potency of the dried frog, the blacksnake skin and the kerosene-soaked red flannel rag, as charms to pull a bashful wooer up to the scratch, to put a “spell,” resulting in sickness or death, upon an enemy, or for any other purpose suggested by the mind of the one preparing the charm, for, a sort of aftermath of voodooism, “cunjuhs” are still believed in by many of these superstitious people.
Lucy bethought her of old Simon, not an authenticated witch-doctor, for he demanded no fixed fees, but a wily old sinner, a sort of amateur in black magic, who gave advice free of charge, although his services were always rewarded with gifts of eggs, or sweet potatoes, or clean rice. As snake skins and dried frogs were component parts of almost all old Simon’s “charms,” the boys of the community frequently brought him those they killed or found dead by the roadside. These, at his convenience, old Simon skinned and salted, or rubbed with ashes and smoked and dried and put away, for use when occasion should require. The low-country negroes seldom pass a dead frog lying on its back, believing that if so exposed for any length of time, rain will inevitably follow, and those so found, if not turned over to prevent the floods from Heaven, were taken to old Simon and added to his store.
So in the dusk of the early night and the dark of the moon, for Lucy did not wish the black sisterhood to know her business, she locked her cabin door, put a shawl over her head and slipped away to Simon.
The weather was cold and Simon’s door was shut. She rapped faintly and furtively, and a fierce bark challenged from within. Simon hobbled to the door and opened it, a black cur growling at his knee. Kicking the dog away, he bade Lucy enter.
“Come een, sistuh, how you do?”
“Tengk Gawd fuh life, Unk’ Simun. Uh come yuh fuh ax you fuh gimme uh cunjuh fuh t’row uh spell ’puntop Isaac Middletun wuh lib Adam’ Run deepo, fuh mek’um haa’kee to de sperrit’ wu’d, wuh tell’um fuh hab me fuh wife, ’cause uh done tell’um two time wuh de sperrit hab fuh say, but him ent study ’bout no sperrit, en’ ’e suck ’e teet’ at me, en’ him say suh him fuh marry nyung ’ooman ’cause him ent hab no appetite fuh marry settle’ ’ooman, en’ uh done tell’um suh nyung ’ooman cyan’ specify fuh settle’ man, but Middletun dat eegnunt en’ haa’d-head’, uh cyan’ git’um fuh do nutt’n’, en’ please suh fuh mek one hebby cunjuh, ’cause Middletun stubbunt sukkuh oxin en’ mule alltwo, en’ w’en you gimme de cunjuh, tell me wuh fuh do ’long’um en’ weh uh mus’ pit’um fuh t’row de spell ’puntop’uh Middletun, en’ uh fetch t’ree aig’ en’ some yalluh yam tettuh fuh you fuh eat.” And she took these gifts out of her apron and presented them to the weaver of spells.
Simon was a man of few words. Going to an old cupboard where he kept his store of raw materials, he fumbled about and at last drew forth the dried skin of a “copper-belly” moccasin, about three feet long. This he wound about a smoke-dried toad, to which had been added two rusty horseshoe nails. Around them all a dirty strip of red flannel, well soaked in kerosene, was tied, and the charm was ready. Wrapping it in a piece of brown paper he gave it to Lucy who, tremulous with happiness and excitement, tied it in a corner of her apron.