Hoodooed

Gordon Lee Surrender Jones lay upon what he confidently claimed to be his death-bed. Now and again he glanced furtively at the cabin door and listened. Being assured that nobody was coming, he cautiously extricated a large black foot from the bedclothes, and, holding it near the candle, laboriously tied a red string about one of his toes. He was a powerful negro, with a close-cropped bullet-head, a massive bulldog jaw, and a pair of incongruously gentle and credulous eyes.

According to his own diagnosis, he was suffering from “asmy, bronketers, pneumony, grip, diabeters, and old age.” The last affliction was hardly possible, as Gordon Lee was probably born during the last days of the Civil War, though he might have been eighty, for all he knew to the contrary. In addition to his acknowledged ailments, there was one he cherished in secret. It was by far the most mysterious and deadly of the lot, a malady to be pondered on in the dark watches of the night, to be treated with weird rites and ceremonies, and to be cured only by some specialist versed in the deepest lore of witchcraft; for Gordon Lee knew beyond the faintest shadow of a doubt that a hoodoo had been laid upon him.

Of course, like most of his race, he had had experiences in this line before; but this was different. In fact, it was no less a calamity than a cricket in his leg. Just how the cricket got into his leg was a matter too deep for human speculation; but the fact that it was there, and that it hopped with ease from knee to ankle, and made excruciating excursions into his five toes, was as patent as the toes themselves.

What complicated the situation for Gordon Lee was that he could not discuss this painful topic with his wife. Amanda Jones had embarked on the higher education, and had long ago thrown overboard her old superstitions. She was not only Queen Mother of the Sisters of the Order of the Star, and an officer in various church societies, but she was also a cook in the house of Mrs. James Bertram, President of the State Federation of Women’s Clubs. The crumbs of wisdom that fell from the lips of the great Mrs. Bertram were carefully preserved by Amanda, and warmed over, with sundry garnishings of her own, for the various colored clubs to which she belonged.

Gordon Lee had succeeded in adorning only three toes when he heard a quick step on the gravel outside and, hastily getting his foot under cover, he settled back on the pillow, closed his eyes, and began laboriously inhaling with a wheeze and exhaling with a groan.

The candle sputtered as the door was flung open, and a small, energetic mulatto woman, twenty years Gordon Lee’s junior, bustled into the room.

“Good lan’! but it’s hot in heah!” she exclaimed, flinging up a window. “I got a good mind to nail this heah window down f’om the top.”

“I done open’ de door fer a spell dis mawnin’,” said Gordon Lee, sullenly, pulling the bedclothes tighter about his neck. “Lettin’ in all dis heah night air meks my eyes sore.”

The bedclothes, having thus been drawn up from the bottom of the bed, left the patient’s feet exposed, and Amanda immediately spied the string-encircled toes.

“Gordon Lee Surrender Jones,” she exclaimed indignantly, “has that there meddlin’ ol’ Aunt Kizzy been here again?”

Gordon Lee’s eyes blinked, and his thick, sullen under lip dropped half an inch lower.

“Ef you think,” continued Amanda, furiously, “that I’m a-goin’ to keep on a-workin’ my fingers to the bone, lak I been doin’ for the past year, a-payin’ doctors’ bills, an’ buyin’ medicines fer you, while you lay up in this here bed listenin’ to the fool talk of a passel of igneramuses, you’s certainly mistaken. Hit’s bad enough to have you steddyin’ up new ailments ever’ day, without folks a-puttin’ ‘em in yer head. Whut them strings tied on yer toes fer?”

Gordon Lee’s wheezing had ceased under his severe mental strain, and now he lay blinking at the ceiling, utterly unable to give a satisfactory answer.

“Aunt Kizzy jes happen’ ‘long,” he muttered presently. “Ain’t no harm in a’ ol’ frien’ passin’ de time ob day.”

“Whut them strings tied on yer toes fer?” repeated Amanda with fearful insistence.

Gordon Lee, pushed to the extreme, and knowing by experience that he was as powerless in the hands of his diminutive wife as an elephant in those of his keeper, weakly capitulated.

“Aunt Kizzy ‘low’—I ain’t sayin’ she’s right; I’s jes tellin’ you what she ’low’—Aunt Kizzy ‘low’ dat, ‘cordin’ to de symtems, she say’, —an’ I ain’t sayin’ I b’lieve her, —but she say’ hit looks to her lak I’s sufferin’ f’om a hoodoo.”

“A hoodoo!” Amanda’s scorn was unbounded. “Ef it don’t beat my time how some of you niggers hang on to them ol’ notions. ‘Tain’t nothin’ ‘t all but ignorant superstition. Ain’t I tol’ you that a hunderd times?”

“Yes, you done tol’ me,” said Gordon Lee, putting up a feeble defense. “You all time quoilin’ an’ runnin’ down conjurin’ an’ bad-luck signs an’ all de nigger superstitions; but you’s quick ‘nough to tek up all dese heah white superstitions.”

“How you mean?” demanded Amanda.

Gordon Lee, flattered at having any remark of his noticed, proceeded to elaborate.

“I mean all dis heah talk ‘bout hits bein’ bad luck to sleep wid de windows shet, an’ bout flies carrying disease, an’ ‘bout worms gittin’ in de milk ef you leave it settin’ roun’ unkivered.”

“Not worms,” corrected Amanda; “germs. That ain’t no superstition; that’s a scientific fac’. They is so little you don’t see ‘em; but they’s there all right. Mis’ Bertram says they’s ever’where—in the water, in the air, crawlin’ up the very walls.”

Gordon Lee looked fearfully at the ceiling, as if he expected an immediate attack from that direction.

“I ain’t sayin’ dey ain’t, Amanda. Come to think of hit, seems lak I ‘member ‘em scrunchin’ ‘g’inst my teeth when I eats. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ‘t all ‘bout white folks superstitions, —I ‘spec’ dey’s true, ebery one ob ‘em, —but hit look’ lak you oughtn’t to shet yer min’ ag’inst de colored signs dat done come down f’om yer maw an’ yer paw, an’ yer gran’maw an’ gran’paw fer back as Adam. I ‘spec’ Adam hisself was conjured. Lak as not de sarpint done tricked him into regalin’ hisself wid dat apple. But I s’pose you’d lay hit on de germs whut was disportin’ deyselves on de apple. But dey ain’t no use in ‘sputin’ dat p’int, ‘ca’se de fac’ remains dat de apple’s done et.”

“I ain’t astin’ you to dispute nothin’,” cried Amanda, by this time in a high state of indignation. “I’m a-talkin’ scientific fac’s, an’ you’re talkin’ nigger foolishness. The ignorance jes nachully oozes outen the pores o’ your skin.”