A small iron pot, without crook or crane, rested upon the stones of the furnace; and the anxious glances with which the negro regarded its simmering contents—now stirring them a little, now lifting a portion in his wooden spoon, and carefully scrutinising it under the light of the lamp—told that the concoction in which he was engaged was of a chemical, rather than culinary nature. As he bent over the fire—like a he-Hecate stirring her witches’ cauldron—his earnest yet stealthy manner, combined with his cat-like movements and furtive glances, betrayed some devilish design.
This idea was strengthened on looking at the objects that lay near to his hand—some portions of which had been already consigned to the pot. A cutacoo rested upon the floor, containing plants of several species; among which a botanist could have recognised the branched calalue, the dumb-cane, and various other herbs and roots of noxious fame. Conspicuous was the “Savannah flower,” with its tortuous stem and golden corolla—a true dogbane, and one of the most potent of vegetable poisons.
By its side could be seen its antidote—the curious nuts of the “nhandiroba”: for the myal-man could cure as well as kill, whenever it became his interest to do so.
Drawing from such a larder, it was plain that he was not engaged in the preparation of his supper. Poisons, not provisions, were the ingredients of the pot.
The specific he was now concocting was from various sources, but chiefly from the sap of the Savannah flower. It was the spell of Obeah!
For whom was the Coromantee preparing this precious hell-broth?
His mutterings as he stooped over the pot revealed the name of his intended victim.
“You may be ’trong, Cussus Vaugh’n—dat I doan deny; but, by de power ob Obeah, you soon shake in you shoes. Obeah! Ha! ha! ha! Dat do fo’ de know-nuffin’ niggas. My Obeah am de Sabbana flower, de branch calalue, and the allimgator apple—dem’s de ’pell mo’ powerful dan Obi hisseff—dem’s de stuff dat gib de shibberin’ body and de staggerin’ limbs to de enemies ob Chakra. Whugh!”
Once more dipping the spoon into the pot, and skimming up a portion of the boiling liquid, he bent forward to examine it.
“’T am done!” he exclaimed. “Jess de right colour—jess de right tickness. Now fo’ bottle de licka!”