Myra found places for herself and Janine in the front row of spectators, and they sat down on the ground while the children scampered off to join a group of boys and girls who were dashing in and out of the trees, playing tag. At this stage of the proceedings, apparently, it did not matter if the youngsters paid close attention. Men and women, whites, Negroes, and Indians, chatted amiably, and here and there a laugh was heard above the hum of conversation. The flares were burning brightly, and the tempo and volume of the drums were increasing gradually, so slowly that the change was almost indiscernible.
Janine Groliere, the girl from another civilization, another world, sat in numb silence, waiting for the sacrifice of a human being on the altar of stupidity. She could no longer think of Jeremy as someone she loved; she was hemmed in by wild pagans, virtually all of them escaped slaves, criminals, murderers, trollops, and their festive mood only increased her own sharp sense of stark desperation.
There was a sudden stir in the crowd, and an incredibly tall man wearing a hideous purple-and-white mask over his head approached the throne of the commander. A flame-colored cape covered his body from his neck to his knees, and he walked with an awkward, almost grotesque gait. Looking at him, Janine realized that he wore wooden clogs at least eight inches high and that these, together with his mask, contrived to give him the appearance of great height. He stopped before the commander, raised his hands high over his head, then his arms descended slowly to his sides. There was a flash of color as he turned toward the assemblage, and Janine realized that his hands were painted a bright gold.
"That is the obeah man," Myra murmured softly.
Again his hands were lifted, and the crowd became very quiet. The children stopped their play, and Myra's sons crept to her and sat meekly on the ground, huddling together. The sound of the drums grew louder, and the obeah man lifted his left hand to the mouth of his mask. At this signal a large group of young women arose from their places all over the area and hurried to the kettles in which various brews were still bubbling. Each girl held a large gourd, which she dipped into a kettle and carried to one of the spectators seated around the square.
Janine watched individuals sip from a gourd, then pass it to the person on his or her left. Soon a score or more of the gourds were moving from hand to hand and from mouth to mouth. As each became empty, one of the maidens took it to a kettle, refilled it, and started it around the assemblage again,
Myra took a deep swallow from a gourd and handed it to the French-English girl, who stared dubiously at the contents. "Drink!" Myra hissed. "Do as the others do or you will be in great danger. The obeah man will not tolerate another insult!"
Hastily Janine lifted the hollow gourd to her lips and sipped experimentally, then almost gagged. A rank-smelling mixture slid down her throat, burning fiercely. She shoved the husk into the hands of a middle-aged Negress on her left and gasped for breath. Before she could recover, Myra handed her another gourd, then still another a moment later. Although she tried to imbibe as small a portion of the raw alcoholic liquors as she could, it was impossible not to take something each time, for Myra watched her closely.
She soon lost count of the gourds that were handed to her, but she felt giddy and was afraid that if she was forced to drink much more she would become sick. The steady pounding of the drums was more insistent, and the beating of her heart seemed to synchronize with the steady throbbing. As she glanced around the square, trying to focus on the people sitting on the far side, she saw that the Maroons continued to remain quiet; there was no conversation, and people looked neither to the right nor the left.
Although the gourds were not offered to the children, the youngsters seemed to absorb the mood of their elders, for they sat soberly, neither conversing nor laughing. Only the commander and the obeah man among the adults refrained from drinking, however, and Janine saw that Arnold, who was being served separately by one girl, was draining large quantities of the vile brew. Suddenly and without warning the obeah man uttered a high, shrill scream, and the maidens hastily collected the gourds, then carefully threw them onto the fires that blazed beneath the kettles.
Swaying slightly, Janine put one hand on the ground to steady herself, and as she gulped in large quantities of fresh air she thought hazily but with infinite relief that this portion of the ceremony was past. However, she was in no way prepared for what came next. Four men, each heavily daubed with white paint and each holding aloft a huge, flaring torch, headed a procession that moved with slow, solemn dignity through the gathering and into the clearing. Behind them came six others, jointly carrying something wrapped in white cloth.
The torchbearers approached the commander and saluted. The white bundle was placed carefully on the ground; the obeah man stepped forward and whipped off the cloth. Lying on the ground was the body of Jeremy Stone.
He had been dressed in a loincloth, and his face and body had been painted with alternating stripes of black and white. Some obeah treatment had obviously been administered to him already, for his arms and legs—indeed, his whole body —seemed rigid and strained.
Janine almost fainted, and only by the greatest exercise of will power was she able to retain consciousness. She wished herself elsewhere, yet she could not take her eyes from the pitiful figure whose life was at stake in these weird rites. She was vaguely aware that the drums had stopped, but even as she realized it they started again, and now the tempo was rapid and ominous. The entire assemblage seemed to hold its breath as the obeah man slowly approached the body of the unconscious man. There was an instant when the drums again stopped, then the witch doctor slowly sprinkled a fine powder over Jeremy, covering him from head to toe, while from behind the grotesque mask came the penetrating, high-pitched singsong of a macabre incantation.
As he chanted, two figures detached themselves from the throng at the far side of the crowd. These men were painted as was Jeremy, and on their heads they wore smaller versions of the obeah man's mask. They carried something between them wrapped in a snowy-white cloth, and as they reached the body of the young gunsmith they stopped abruptly. The witch doctor reached out a golden hand and snatched the cloth away.
Beneath it was revealed a small white kid which struggled valiantly in the grip of its captors. The drums grew louder still, and their tempo again increased. Janine, scarcely able to think, discovered that she was breathing hard, and despite the knot of fear at the pit of her stomach she was possessed by a strange sense of excitement that made her body tremble.
The obeah man began another incantation, and the kid bleated; a golden hand reached inside the red cape and reappeared holding a long, thin-bladed knife. In almost the same motion the witch doctor reached out with the knife and expertly slit the animal's throat. Then, as the blood gushed forth, he held the kid over Jeremy. The crimson flow spilled onto the unconscious man's body, and the two assistants started to shout in unison.
"Mak-ra dal!" they screamed. "Mak-ra dal!"
Voices here and there in the crowd joined in, and soon the entire assemblage was chanting, "Mak-ra-dal! Mak-ra-dal! Mak-ra-dal!"
Janine was astonished to find that she was shouting as loudly as the rest, though she had no idea of the meaning of the words. But she was gripped by a strange and restless frenzy, and even the sight of the dead animal's blood on Jeremy's body did not bother her. The steady beat-beat-beat of the drums seemed to have become a part of her own body, a part of her own brain, and she could not refrain from swaying back and forth to the wild rhythm from which there was no escape.