“How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags,
What is’t you do?”
MACBETH.
It was dark, on a certain evening, to which the attention of the reader
is now called, when, amidst the rocks and bushes of the mountainous
district that flanks Port-of-Spain on the east, and that is known by name
of La-vantille, two female forms might be perceived.
They were following a rough and narrow path which led up to the mountains
through a thousand rugged ascents and yawning and frightful precipices.
The two travellers seemed foot-sore and exhausted, and were compelled
now and then to grasp a root or twig of the Guava-bushes that grew here
and there to assist them, as they arrived at a more broken and difficult
part of the small road. The air was also oppressive—the rocks were still
radiating the beams which the sun, that had not long set, had shot full
upon them as it was sinking in the west. Nature was hushed: but the
distant and faint barking of the cur that guarded some invisible hut, and
bayed at some imaginary danger, fell on the ear.
The two persons still followed the path, and ascended still higher and
higher up the mountain that overlooks Port-of-Spain.
“You are tired, madame,” said one of the persons, whose dress indicated
an humble condition in life, and who was evidently conducting the other.
“Yes,” replied the other, who appeared to be of a different class.
“We shall not have very much farther to go,” said the guide.
“The place is certainly a great distance from town,” remarked the other.
“Yes, it is, and the path is very rough and unpleasant; but we shall
presently come to a beautiful spot, where we shall be able to rest for a
few moments.”
“No, no,” answered the other; “it would be better to proceed at once: the
night is now quickly coming on, and we do not know what dangers there may
be among these solitary rocks. What, if robbers were to attack us?”
“Robbers,” replied the other; “madame needs not fear robbers; bless me,
people would not take the trouble to come and remain here for the purpose
of robbing others. Robbers are never heard of in Trinidad, I assure you.”
“Indeed,” replied the other.
“Yes, indeed: I know persons who have traversed this place at all hours
of the night. I myself have passed here on one of the darkest nights, and
quite alone, also: you need not be under any fear, I assure you.”
In the mean time the wayfarers arrived at a small level piece of ground
that was covered with grass. It was quite an “oasis” in those rough and
flinty parts.
“Ah,” cried the guide, “here is the place, let us rest here,” and sat
down on the grass. The lady did the same.
“This is a beautiful little spot, is it not, madame?” remarked the guide
interrogatingly.
“It seems so,” answered the lady.
“If it was day, you should be able to see the whole country round from
this,” proceeded the guide: “on that side is Caroni, where we first
settled when my master and his family came from Carriacou; a disagreeable
and muddy place, madame; there is Maraval, a sweet pretty spot, with
beautiful hills and scenes; and straight before us lies the sea. If it
were light, you would be able to perceive the five islands, and the large
bay where Admiral Appadocca—”
At this name the lady started suddenly.
“What is the matter, madame?” asked the guide.
“Nothing, nothing,” hastily replied the lady.
“Do not be alarmed; it is, no doubt, a cricket, that has jumped on you.
There are not many snakes here: Caroni is the place for them,” observed
the female cicerone.
“Well, as I was saying, madame,—what was I saying?—I was telling you
about the large bay where Admiral Appadocca—”
The lady started again, but more slightly than before.
“Let me drive it away for you,” said the guide, “these crickets are
sometimes very troublesome; but they are a sign of good luck—they are a
sign of good luck. People say, those on whom they may happen to jump, are
sure to have money—plenty of money. Where is it? let me catch it.”
“Oh, never mind, never mind,” the lady said hastily, “continue, continue
your story.”
“When Admiral Appadocca, I was saying, set the Spanish ships on fire,
at the time when the English took the island, I remember the blaze they
made. People say they were laden with gold: what a pity that was.”
“Why did he set them on fire?” inquired the lady.
“Because he would not let the money fall into the hands of the English,”
answered the guide.
“And what became of the admiral himself?” the lady inquired again.
“I really cannot say,” answered the guide.
A short pause ensued.
“Had he any son, do you know?” asked the lady after a time,
“I do not know, madame,” answered the guide.
“The money that I spoke of just now, has been all lost. They say that
sometimes the fishermen manage to bring up a portion. I don’t think that
is true,” said the guide.
“Do you not think we had better go on,” inquired the lady—“I wish very
much to see that old woman, as soon as possible.”
“Come, then,” answered the guide, and the two travellers continued their
journey. As they proceeded, the path became still more rough, steep, and
trying. They, however, went on.
“I should be very much disappointed,” said the lady, “if after all this
trouble and labour, the person that you tell me of, should not be able
to give me the information I require.”
“Never fear that, madame, never fear that,” replied the guide, “she is a
wonderful woman.”
“Do you know of any instance in which, what she said, turned out to be
the truth?” asked the lady.
“Bless me, yes, madame, great many, I can assure you. She has often
foretold what would happen, and what she said, proved as true as
possible.”
“She may be able,” said the lady, “to speak about what is to come, but
can she say any thing about the present?”
“All,” replied the guide.
“Do you think, she will be able, to give me any information, about the
person whom I am now seeking?” inquired the lady.
“I am sure she will,” answered the guide.
“Let us walk faster,” said the lady, and, at the same time, quickened her
pace.
“I should not advise you to walk faster, madame,” said the guide, “we
have still a considerable way to go.”
“True,” said the lady, and fell again into the measured and leisurely
pace of the guide.
“You are sure she will give me the information, you say?” observed the
lady.
“Quite sure,” answered the guide, dryly, “I can point you out a hundred
families in town, who were landed here as poor myself, and who made the
great fortunes they now possess, only by consulting her. In the time of
slavery, when a planter lost any of his slaves, he had nothing else to
do, but to come to her, and she would send him to the very corner, where
he would be sure to find his run-a-way.”
“Indeed!” cried the lady.
“It is true,”—replied the guide, “beside, she can cure all sorts of
disorders. Those that are pronounced incurable by the doctors in town,
resort to her, and are sure to be restored to health.”
“I remember one case in particular,” said the guide, seriously, “of a
man who had been suffering for two years, from a hand that was swollen
to a very great size. He could not get any rest, either night or day,
but groaned continually. He consulted every doctor—they did everything
in their power but could not relieve him. His hand grew daily worse and
worse: and he was reduced to the size of a nail. Well, some one told him
about this old woman, and he came to her. She examined the hand, then
pressed the fingers; from under the nails of each she took out a rusty
pin. Next day the hand was perfectly cured.”
“Impossible,” said the lady.
“Quite true,” replied the guide.
“There is another case,” continued the guide, “that is as striking. There
was once an unfortunate man who was afflicted with madness; sometimes
he was quiet, at others he would break out in the greatest violence and
beat his wife and children almost to death. All the doctors saw him and
said he was quite gone, there was no curing him. His illness daily gained
ground upon him, until at last he went violently mad. His friends were
grieved on his account, and were at last persuaded to take him to the
old woman. They did so: as soon as she saw him, she took a little stick
and struck him on the head; his skull opened: she took out twenty small
fishing hooks that were stuck into his brains; and closed the skull
again. In a few moments the man was cured.”
“Is that possible?” exclaimed the lady.
“It is remarkable,” observed the guide.
“Did you see the cure yourself?” inquired the lady.
“No, I did not,” answered the guide, “but every one in the town knows it.”
The path in the meantime became more rugged, broken, and steep.
“Ha, we are now arrived,” said the guide, taking a long inspiration.
The travellers made two or three steps forward, and they immediately
perceived a faint light that glimmered indistinctly through the brushwood.
“Now, madame, you must disguise yourself, or else she won’t speak to
you,” said the guide.
“Why so?”
“Because,” replied the guide, “there is a law in this country against
those who tell fortunes. If it was to be known that she told anything to
any one, she would be burnt alive. Leave your veil here, madame, there,
so, and hide your comb with it. That’s it, that’s it; now take this
handkerchief, tie it round your head—let me do it.”
The guide tied and adjusted a Madras handkerchief on the head of the lady.
“Now let us go: and recollect let me speak.”
The two travellers diverged into a still narrower part that was almost
entirely hidden by the bush which grew thickly and fully about it.
The angry barking of a dog was now heard. The travellers still went on,
until they could now distinguish the outlines of a low and narrow hut,
in the open part of which the embers of a wood fire still smouldered. By
its faint light, was to be indistinctly seen, the form of the wakeful
watch-dog, that stood determinedly a little way in front of the hut, and
barked fiercely and fretfully.
The two women stood, afraid of approaching nearer. The dog still barked
noisily.
“Ho, mother! mother Celeste,” called the guide. “Mother Celeste!”
No one answered.
“She does not hear,” observed the lady, “she is asleep; call louder.”
“Ho, Mother Celeste! Mother Celeste! it is I, it is I,” repeated the
guide.
Still there was no answer,—the dog barked still more loudly.
“Heavens! I hope we have not come all this way for nothing,” exclaimed
the lady, in a voice that faltered with anxiety.
“It is to be hoped not,” answered the guide, and she began to call out
more loudly than before. “Mother Celeste! Mother Celeste!”
“Who is is that comes to disturb me at this lonely hour of the night?”
said a weak and obscure voice, that came from within the fragile hut.
“It is I, it is I, and another person, who wish to see you,” answered the
guide.
“You cannot see me to-night. I do not know what you have to see me
about,” answered the same voice.
“We have come a great distance, and we cannot return without seeing you:
let us in.”
“I cannot open my door at this hour of the night,” replied the voice:
“return.”
“That we cannot,” replied the guide. “Call your dog, Mother Celeste, and
open the door to us; you will see what a present we have brought you.”
“What present can you bring me this time of night?”
“Fifty dollars, Mother Celeste, fifty dollars.”
“I can’t open to you,” replied the voice, “I can’t open to you.”
“Say a hundred,” said the lady.
“Well, a hundred dollars,” cried the guide.
“It is very late, I do not know who you may be; I shall consider—I shall
consider,” said the same voice.
“She will open now,” said the guide, “that is what she always says, she
is now hiding all her things.”
Truly enough, in a short time, the voice from within was again heard.
“Approach, my children; come and tell me your woes,” it said.
“But the dog, the dog,” cried the guide.
“True,” replied the same voice, “Fidele, Fidele,” it called, and the dog
immediately became silent and disappeared.
The two females now approached the hut. It was a little cabin, that was
built of a few pieces of round timber, which were now black with smoke.
Palmeto leaves formed a slight covering to it. A few reeds roughly
fastened to the primitive posts, fenced in the part which lay in the
direction from which the wind usually came. The other, or inner part of
the hut, however, was fenced entirely in, and covered, as the sleeping
apartment.
“Wait until I strike a light,” said the same voice.
In a few moments a rudely constructed old door opened.
“Enter, enter, quickly, my children,” said the same voice.
The lady hesitated a moment.
“Go in, go in, madame,” said the guide, and gently pushed her.
The two travellers entered.
The hut presented as peculiar an appearance on the inside as it did on
the outside. The rough pieces of Palmeto bark that boarded it, was hung
with drapery of spider’s webs, that either floated black with time and
dust, or was still spread in the process of extension, under the industry
of the master insect himself. From crooked nails, that were driven into
this primitive wall, a number of bottles, of peculiar fashions and makes,
hung suspended by cord that had long lost its colour under the many dyes
which it may have received from the black, yellow, green, brown, and
bluish liquors which those bottles seemed to contain.
In one corner stood a rough bed, that seemed constructed of four branches
of a Guava-bush; and around, a number of nasty, greasy, barrels were
ranged, and had their heads carefully covered over by pieces of plastered
old canvass.
In one of the deep angles of the hut there burnt a lamp, constructed of
a hollow gourd, in which some cotton and some oil were adjusted, and
was made to throw around a dim light, whose faint radii did not extend
farther than a foot or two beyond its centre.
At the side of this lamp was huddled up a being which at first view,
might appear to be one from whom life had long departed, and whom the
veneration of friends or kindred persisted in still retaining among them.
She was a little black woman of diminutive size, with an old greasy
dress, that lay slack and loose about her. Her knees were drawn up to
her jaws, which protruded largely and hideously. Her skin was shrivelled
and dry, and seemed to flap as she moved her toothless jaws. A Madras
handkerchief was tied carelessly round her head, and from a corner, or a
hole here and there, her short gray and matted hair peeped out.
“Good night to you, Mother Celeste,” said the guide, as she drew a
three-legged stool for the lady, and sat, herself, on the ground.
“Good night to you, my children, good night,” said Mother Celeste.
“I have brought this friend of mine,” said the guide, “to see you on a
matter of great importance.”
“To see me? to see me, my child,” mumbled Mother Celeste: “what can I do
for her, poor old woman as I am, except give her my blessing?”
“She wants some information about a person she is seeking,” said the
guide.
“How can I give it, how can I give it, my child?” answered Mother Celeste.
“Try, mother, try,” remarked the guide.
A pause ensued, during which Mother Celeste seemed thoughtful.
“What friend of yours is this, my child?” inquired Mother Celeste.
“She is from the Spanish main,” answered the guide.
Mother Celeste raised the rude lamp to the face of the lady: “Yes, yes,”
she muttered, and replaced it on the ground, and then grasped her hand:
the lady started when she felt the rough hacked skin of the sorceress.
“Do not start, my child,” said Mother Celeste, “do not start; and now
tell me your story,” she mumbled. “Will you go into the front awhile?”
she added to the guide.
The latter opened the little door, and went out.
“I love,” said Feliciana, whom the reader may have recognised before
this, “I love a man—a stranger to me—I cannot tell you how I love him. He
was taken to my father’s house, from the beach on which he was found half
drowned. I loved him the very first moment I saw him, he is so handsome.
He suddenly left my father’s house, and now I wish to know where to find
him. Do tell me: there are a hundred dollars for you.”
The sorceress clutched the money and pressed her flabby lips to it again
and again, then tottered towards her rude bed and laid it under her
pillow.
“Yours is a difficult case, child,” mumbled the old woman.
“What is the man?”
“Alas, mother,” answered Feliciana, “I fear he is a pirate.”
“Is he short or tall?”
“Tall.”
“Dark or fair?”
“Pale.”
“Retire for a moment, child,” said mother Celeste.
Feliciana went out of the small apartment.
An hour passed. During this time, Feliciana and her guide were alarmed by
the horrible noises that were heard from the room of the sorceress. Now
the most fearful yells—now the most heart-rending groans broke forth—the
violent stamping of several individuals were at one time heard, at
another, the strangest jargon grated harshly on the ear, while, at the
same time, the stench that penetrated through the chinks in the partition
almost suffocated those without.
Feliciana and her guide trembled in utter fear.
“Shall we run away?” said one to the other.
“No, no,” answered Feliciana, her whisper almost inarticulate with terror.
Even at this trying moment the thought of Appadocca was the most powerful
in her mind. The hope of finding him, sustained her against all terrors.
At the end of the hour the little door of the hut was violently opened,
and the little sorceress was seen standing in a body of flame.
“Seek your lover, amidst the tombstones to-morrow, at the lonely hours of
night,” she said, and the door was violently closed.
This uncertain answer fell on the ears of Feliciana like a thunderbolt.
“Oh, he is dead—he is dead,” she cried, and wept bitterly.
The guide stood aside and allowed the young lady to give vent to her
sorrow.
“Who knows, madame,” she said, after a few moments, “the answer may not
mean that.”
The young lady raised her head for a moment, a new thought seemed to
strike her.
“Let us ask,” she said, “let us ask?”
“Oh, she will not open the door now, for the world,” the guide replied.
“Will she not? Mother Celeste, Mother Celeste,” cried Feliciana.
The barking of the dog that now reappeared drowned their voices.
“I tell you, madame, she will not open the door,” said the guide. “I
ought to know her, since I bring people to her almost every day.”
Feliciana remained buried in thought where she was for a moment. “Let us
go,” she shortly said.
The two travellers began to retrace their steps towards Port-of-Spain.
Feliciana was sad and pensive; the guide was less talkative than before,
and after half-an-hour’s walk, the barking of the dog still reached their
ears.