The Conjure Woman Charles W. Chesnutt (best fiction novels .TXT) 📖

“Dan wuz mighty so’ fum ’is woun’s en scratches, en wuz laid up fer two er th’ee days. One night de noo mule got out’n de pastur’, en went down to de quarters. Dan wuz layin’ dere on his pallet, w’en he heard sump’n bangin’ erway at de side er his cabin. He raise’ up on one shoulder en look’ roun’, w’en w’at should he see but de noo mule’s head stickin’ in de winder, wid his lips drawed back over his toofs, grinnin’ en snappin’ at Dan des’ lack he wanter eat ’im up. Den de mule went roun’ ter de do’, en kick’ erway lack he wanter break de do’ down, ’tel bimeby somebody come ’long en driv him back ter de pastur’. W’en Sally come in a little later fum de big house, whar she’d be’n waitin’ on de w’ite folks, she foun’ po’ Dan nigh ’bout dead, he wuz so skeered. She ’lowed Dan had had de nightmare; but w’en dey look’ at de do’, dey seed de marks er de mule’s huffs, so dey couldn’ be no mistake ’bout w’at had happen’.

“Co’se de niggers tol’ dey marster ’bout de mule’s gwines-on. Fust he didn’ pay no ’tention ter it, but atter a w’ile he tol’ ’em ef dey didn’ stop dey foolis’ness, he gwine tie some un ’em up. So atter dat dey didn’ say nuffin mo’ ter dey marster, but dey kep’ on noticin’ de mule’s quare ways des de same.

“ ’Long ’bout de middle er de summer dey wuz a big camp-meetin’ broke out down on de Wim’l’ton Road, en nigh ’bout all de po’ w’ite folks en free niggers in de settlement got ’ligion, en lo en behol’! ’mongs’ ’em wuz de cunjuh man w’at own’ de shote w’at cha’med Primus.

“Dis cunjuh man wuz a Guinea nigger, en befo’ he wuz sot free had use’ ter b’long ter a gent’eman down in Sampson County. De cunjuh man say his daddy wuz a king, er a guv’ner, er some sorter w’at-you-may-call-’em ’way ober yander in Affiky whar de niggers come fum, befo’ he was stoled erway en sol’ ter de spekilaters. De cunjuh man had he’ped his marster out’n some trouble ernudder wid his goopher, en his marster had sot him free, en bought him a trac’ er land down on de Wim’l’ton Road. He purten’ ter be a cow-doctor, but eve’ybody knowed w’at he r’al’y wuz.

“De cunjuh man hadn’ mo’ d’n come th’oo good, befo’ he wuz tuk sick wid a col’ w’at he kotch kneelin’ on de groun’ so long at de mou’ners’ bench. He kep’ gittin’ wusser en wusser, en bimeby de rheumatiz tuk holt er ’im, en drawed him all up, ’tel one day he sont word up ter Mars Jim McGee’s plantation, en ax’ Pete, de nigger w’at tuk keer er de mules, fer ter come down dere dat night en fetch dat mule w’at his marster had bought fum de po’ w’ite man dyoin’ er de summer.

“Pete didn’ know w’at de cunjuh man wuz dribin’ at, but he didn’ daster stay way; en so dat night, w’en he’d done eat his bacon en his hoe-cake, en drunk his ’lasses-en-water, he put a bridle on de mule, en rid ’im down ter de cunjuh man’s cabin. W’en he got ter de do’, he lit en hitch’ de mule, en den knock’ at de do’. He felt mighty jubous ’bout gwine in, but he was bleedst ter do it; he knowed he couldn’ he’p ’isse’f.

“ ‘Pull de string,’ sez a weak voice, en w’en Pete lif’ de latch en went in, de cunjuh man was layin’ on de bed, lookin’ pale en weak, lack he didn’ hab much longer fer ter lib.

“ ‘Is you fotch’ de mule?’ sezee.

“Pete say yas, en de cunjuh man kep’ on.

“ ‘Brer Pete,’ sezee, ‘I’s be’n a monst’us sinner man, en I’s done a power er wickedness endyoin’ er my days; but de good Lawd is wash’ my sins erway, en I feels now dat I’s boun’ fer de kingdom. En I feels, too, dat I ain’ gwine ter git up fum dis bed no mo’ in dis worl’, en I wants ter ondo some er de harm I done. En dat’s de reason, Brer Pete, I sont fer you ter fetch dat mule down here. You ’member dat shote I was up ter yo’ plantation inquirin’ ’bout las’ June?’

“ ‘Yas,’ says Brer Pete, ‘I ’member yo’ axin’ ’bout a shote you had los’.’

“ ‘I dunno whe’r you eber l’arnt it er no,’ says de cunjuh man, ‘but I done knowed yo’ marster’s Primus had tuk de shote, en I wuz boun’ ter git eben wid ’im. So one night I cotch’ ’im down by de swamp on his way ter a candy-pullin’, en I th’owed a goopher mixtry on ’im, en turnt ’im ter a mule, en got a po’ w’ite man ter sell de mule, en we ’vided de money. But I doan want ter die ’tel I turn Brer Primus back ag’in.’

“Den de cunjuh man ax’ Pete ter take down one er two go’ds off’n a she’f in de corner, en one er two bottles wid some kin’ er mixtry in ’em, en set ’em on a stool by de bed; en den he ax’ ’im ter fetch de mule in.

“W’en de mule come in de do’, he gin a snort, en started fer de bed, des lack he was gwine ter jump on it.

“ ‘Hol’ on dere, Brer Primus!’ de cunjuh man hollered. ‘I’s monst’us weak, en ef you ’mence on me, you won’t nebber hab no chance fer ter git turn’ back no mo’.’

“De mule seed de sense er dat, en stood still. Den de cunjuh man tuk de go’ds en bottles, en ’mence’ ter wuk de roots en yarbs, en de mule ’mence’ ter turn back ter a man⁠—fust his years, den de res’ er his head, den his shoulders en arms. All de time de cunjuh man kep’ on wukkin’ his roots; en Pete