CHAPTER XXIII.

A group of negresses came near the tree to which I was fastened, and lit a fire. By the numerous bracelets of blue, red, and violet glass which ornamented their arms and ankles, by the rings which weighed down their ears and adorned their toes and fingers, by the amulets on their bosoms and the collar of charms suspended round their necks, and by the aprons of variegated feathers which were their sole coverings, I at once recognized them as griotes. You are perhaps ignorant that amongst the African blacks there exists a certain class with a rude talent for poetry and improvisation, which approaches closely to madness. These unhappy creatures, wandering from one African kingdom to another, are in these barbarian countries looked upon in the same light as the minstrels of England, the minnesingers of Germany, and the troubadours of France. They are called griots, and their wives griotes. The griotes accompany the barbaric songs of their husbands with lascivious dances, and form a grotesque parody on the nautch girls of India and the almes of Egypt. It was a group of these women who came and sat down near me, with their legs crossed under them according to their custom, and their hideous faces lighted up by the red light of a fire of withered branches. When they had formed a complete circle they all took hands, and the eldest, who had a heron’s plume stuck in her hair, began to exclaim “Ouanga.” I at once understood that they were going through one of their performances of pretended witchcraft. Then the leader of the band, after a moment’s silence, plucked a lock of hair from her head and threw it into the fire, crying out these words, “Malé o guiab,” which in the jargon of the Creoles means, “I shall go to the devil.” All the griotes imitated their leader, and throwing locks of their hair in the fire, repeated gravely, “Malé o guiab.” This strange invocation, and the extraordinary grimaces that accompanied it, caused me to burst into one of those hysterical fits of laughter which so often seize on one even at the most serious moments. It was in vain that I endeavoured to restrain it—it would have vent; and this laugh which escaped from so sad a heart brought about a gloomy and terrifying scene.

Disturbed in their incantations, the negresses sprang to their feet. Until then they had not noticed me, but now they rushed close up to me, screaming “Blanco, Blanco.” I have never seen so hideous a collection of faces, contorted as they were with passion, their white teeth gleaming, and their eyes almost starting from their heads. They were, I believe, about to tear me to pieces, when the old woman with the beaver’s plume on her head stopped them with a sign of her hand, and exclaimed seven times, “Zoté cordé!” (“Do you agree?”) The wretched creatures stopped at once, and, to my surprise, tore off their feather aprons, which they flung upon the ground, and commenced the lascivious dance which the negroes call “La chica.”

This dance, which should only consist of attitudes and movements expressive of gaiety and pleasure, assumed a very different complexion when performed by these naked sorceresses. In turn, each of them would place her face close to mine, and, with a frightful expression of countenance, would detail the horrible punishment that awaited the white man who had profaned the mysteries of their Ouanga.

I recollected that savage nations had a custom of dancing round the victims that they were about to sacrifice, and I patiently awaited the conclusion of the performance which I knew would be sealed with my blood; and yet I could not repress a shudder as I perceived each griote, in strict unison with the time, thrust into the fire the point of a sabre, the blade of an axe, a long sail-maker’s needle, a pair of pincers, and the teeth of a saw.

The dance was approaching its conclusion, and the instruments of torture were glowing red with heat.

At a signal from the old woman, each negress in turn withdrew an implement from the fire, whilst those who had none furnished themselves with a blazing stick. Then I understood clearly what my punishment was to be, and that in each of the dancers I should find an executioner. Again the word of command was given, and the last figure of the dance was commenced. I closed my eyes that I might not see the frantic evolutions of these female demons, who, in measured cadence, clashed the red-hot weapons over their heads. A dull, clinking sound followed, whilst the sparks flew out in myriads. I waited, nerving myself for the moment when I should feel my flesh quiver in agony, my bones calcine, and my muscles writhe under the burning tortures of the nippers and the saws. It was an awful moment. Fortunately it did not last long.

In the distance I heard the voice of the negro whose prisoner I was, shouting, “Que haceis, mujeres, ne demonio, que haceis alli, devais mi prisonero?” I opened my eyes again; it was already broad daylight. The negro hurried towards me, gesticulating angrily. The griotes paused, but they seemed less influenced by the threats of my captor than by the presence of a strange-looking person by whom the negro was accompanied.

It was a very stout and very short man—a species of dwarf—whose face was entirely concealed by a white veil, pierced with three holes for the eyes and mouth. The veil hung down to his shoulders, and displayed a hairy, copper-hued breast, upon which was hung by a golden chain the mutilated sun of a monstrance.

The cross-hilt of a heavy dagger peeped from a scarlet belt, which also supported a kind of petticoat striped with green, yellow, and black, the hem of which hung down to his large and ill-shaped feet.

His arms, like his breast, were bare; he carried a white staff, and a rosary of amber beads was suspended from his belt, in close proximity to the handle of his dagger. His head was surmounted by a pointed cap adorned with bells, and when he came close I was not surprised in recognizing in it the gorra of Habibrah; and amongst the hieroglyphics with which it was covered, I could see many spots of gore: without doubt, it was the blood of the faithful fool. These bloodstains gave me fresh proofs of his death, and awakened in me once again a fresh feeling of regret for his loss.

Directly the griotes recognized the wearer of Habibrah’s cap, they cried out all at once, “The Obi,” and prostrated themselves before him. I guessed at once that this was a sorcerer attached to Biassou’s force.

“Basta, basta” (“enough”), said he, in a grave and solemn voice, as he came close up to them. “Devais el prisonero de Biassou” (“Let the prisoner be taken to Biassou”).

All the negresses leapt to their feet and cast their implements of torture on one side, put on their aprons, and, at a gesture of the Obi, fled like a cloud of grasshoppers.

At this instant the glance of the Obi fell upon me. He started back a pace, and half waved his white staff in the direction of the retiring griotes, as if he wished to recall them; then, muttering between his teeth the word “Maldicho” (“accursed”), he whispered a few words in the ear of the negro, and, crossing his arms, retired slowly, apparently buried in deep thought.