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Contents I
II III IV
V VI VII
VIII
SCENE SEVEN
The foot of a gigantic tree by the edge
of a great river. A rough structure
of boulders, like an altar, is by the tree. The
raised river bank is in the nearer background. Beyond this the surface
of the river spreads out, brilliant and unruffled in the moonlight,
blotted out and merged into a veil of
bluish mist in the distance. Jones'
voice is heard from the left rising and
falling in the long, despairing wail of the chained slaves, to the
rhythmic beat of the tom-tom. As his voice sinks into silence, he
enters the open space. The expression on his face is fixed and stony,
his eyes have an obsessed glare, he moves with a strange deliberation
like a sleepwalker or one in a trance. He
looks around at the tree, the rough
stone altar, the moonlit surface of the river beyond, and passes
his hand over his head with a vague gesture of puzzled bewilderment.
Then, as if in obedience to some obscure
impulse, he sinks into a kneeling,
devotional posture before the altar. Then he seems to come to
himself partly, to have an uncertain realization of what he is doing,
for he straightens up and stares
about him horrifiedly—in an incoherent mumble. What—what is I doin? What is—dis
place? Seems like—seems like
I know dat tree—an' dem stones—an' de
river. I remember—seems like I
been heah befo'. (tremblingly) Oh, Gorry, I'se skeered in
dis place! I'se skeered! Oh, Lawd, pertect dis sinner!
(Crawling away from the altar, he
cowers close to the ground, his
face hidden, his shoulders heaving with sobs of hysterical fright.
From behind the trunk of the tree, as if he
had sprung out of it, the figure of
the Congo witch-doctor appears. He
is wizened and old, naked except for the fur of some small animal
tied about his waist, its bushy tail hanging down in front. His
body is stained all over a bright red. Antelope horns are on each
side of his head, branching upward. In one
hand he carries a bone rattle, in
the other a charm stick with a bunch of
white cockatoo feathers tied to the end. A great number of glass beads
and bone ornaments are about his neck, ears, wrists, and ankles. He
struts noiselessly with a queer prancing step to a position in the
clear ground between Jones and the altar. Then with a
preliminary, summoning stamp of his foot on the earth, he begins to
dance and to chant. As if in
response to his summons the beating of the tom-tom grows
to a fierce, exultant boom whose throbs seem to fill the air with
vibrating rhythm. Jones looks up, starts to spring to
his feet, reaches a half kneeling, half-squatting position and remains
rigidly fixed there, paralyzed with awed fascination by this new
apparition. The witch-doctor sways, stamping with
his foot, his bone rattle clicking the time. His voice rises and
falls in a weird, monotonous croon, without articulate word divisions.
Gradually his dance becomes clearly one of
a narrative in pantomime, his croon
is an incantation, a charm to allay the fierceness of
some implacable deity demanding sacrifice. He flees, he is pursued
by devils, he hides, he flees again. Ever
wilder and wilder becomes his
flight, nearer and nearer draws the pursuing evil, more and more the
spirit of terror gains possession of him. His croon, rising to intensity,
is punctuated by shrill cries. Jones has become
completely hypnotized. His voice joins in the incantation, in
the cries, he beats time with his hands and sways his body to and
fro from the waist. The whole spirit and
meaning of the dance has entered
into him, has become his spirit. Finally the theme of the pantomime
halts on a howl of despair, and is taken up again in a note of
savage hope. There is a salvation. The forces of evil demand sacrifice.
They must be appeased. The witch-doctor
points with his wand to the sacred
tree, to the river beyond, to the altar, and
finally to Jones with a ferocious command. Jones seems
to sense the meaning of this. It is he who must offer himself for
sacrifice. He beats his forehead abjectly to the ground, moaning hysterically)
Mercy, Oh Lawd! Mercy! Mercy on dis
po' sinner.
(The witch-doctor springs to the
river bank. He stretches out
his arms and calls to some God within its depths. Then
he starts backward slowly, his arms remaining out. A huge head of
a crocodile appears over the bank and its eves, glittering greenly,
fasten upon Jones. He stares into them
fascinatedly. The witch-doctor
prances up to him, touches him with
his wand, motions with hideous command toward the waiting monster.
Jones squirms on his belly nearer and nearer, moaning
continually)
Mercy, Lawd! Mercy!
(The crocodile heaves more of his
enormous hulk onto the land. Jones
squirms toward him. The witch-doctor's voice
shrills out in furious exultation, the tom-tom beats madly. Jones
cries out in a fierce, exhausted spasm of anguished pleading)
Lawd, save me! Lawd Jesus, hear my
prayer!
(Immediately, in answer to his
prayer, comes the thought of the one
bullet left him. He snatches at his hip, shouting defiantly)
De silver bullet! You don't git me
yit!
(He fires at
the green eyes in front of him. The head of the crocodile sinks
back behind the river bank, the witch-doctor springs
behind the sacred tree and
disappears. Jones lies with his face to the ground, his
arms outstretched, whimpering with fear as the throb of the tom-tom
fills the silence about him with
a somber pulsation, a baffled but revengeful power.) |
