HE WAS a permanent resident of the village of Amsterdam. Every night he reminded the other residents that he was part of their community. Most of the villagers felt otherwise but could do nothing to alter the present status quo. Almost everyone felt fear and apprehension about him. Not because he was white. Not because he was Dutch. They felt this way because he was dead.

The Jumbie of the ‘Dutchman’ roamed Amsterdam at night. The Clop! Clop! Clop! of his horse alerted many to his presence or his approach. Some saw him, others could only hear him. But they all shared the same emotion; fear.
He could be seen sitting upright upon his horse dressed in his usual cork hat – called bughouse, khaki top and white pants with a shiny black riding booths. In his left hand he held the reign and in his right the whip. He knew every road, street, dam and shortcut, and used them to his advantage.

Very soon villagers realized that they could not let him see them. Whenever the Clop! Clop! of a horse was heard in the dark of night, road users would seek the fastest and nearest place of concealment. Gutters, trees and bushes were among some of their favourite options. For those who refused to take heed, they would receive a severe whipping. If they resist they would suffer fatal consequences. Eventually, the wiser folks began to stay indoors after nine p.m. at night. This was the reported time that sightings would begin. Others, especially the younger folks, ignored all the scary stories and moved about whenever they wanted. One group quickly learned the error of their ways.

The ‘Single Ladies’ were on their way home after a night of hectic partying. Fun began around 10.30 pm and ended at 1.30 am. Exhausted, high, drunk and loudmouthed they occupied the entire road as they moved slowly along. The six beauties were a must-have item for any party or dance in the village. They were wined, dined then possessed. Their friends were far away and well off. There was no place for bums or drunks on their agenda.
Their loud laughter and shouts, coupled with their lewd behavior and skimpy attire, left little doubt about their morality. The girls were not bad, they just took every available opportunity to really enjoy themselves. Tonight was no exception.
Clip!
Clop!
Clip!
Clop!
Their noisy interaction faded and heads swiveled to focus on the roadway behind them. In the far distance and darkness a figure was emerging and heading directly for their position. Immediate evasive action was required. They looked desperately around seeking any place of concealment. The only place near enough and large enough to hold five bodies was an old wooden bridge; under the bridge that is. The group kicked off high-heeled shoes and sprinted for safety, expensive shoes in hands. Frightened, they huddled together listening to the steadily approaching horseman.
Clip!
Clop!
Clip!
Clop!
He was near to the bridge and very close to their hiding place. They could see anything or anyone moving across the old bridge through the gaps between the boards.
Clump!
Clang!
Clump!
Bang!
He was right above them. Five pairs of terrified eyes looked up at the horrible spectacle above them. As they clung to each other, their now sweaty bodies trembled in terror.
The Dutchman halted his horse on the bridge and looked steadily around him. He saw nothing of interest so he decided to move on. His horse however saw the group below and refused to budge despite being urged to do so by the master. Snorting and pawing at the bridge the ugly spectre on four legs tried to alert its master to their presence. He was not interested and took his whip to it.
Ply!
Wax!
The sound of the brutal strikes resounded through the quiet village and reverberated through the ladies. They all pictured being subjected to a severe whipping by the horseman. The two moved to the end of the bridge and stooped there.
“I will lift up my eyes onto the Lord from whom comet my salvation.”
The voice was soft, soothing and unafraid. It approached the bridge and the Dutchman galloped off into the night.
“You can come out now, girls”
They peeped tentatively out to see who this new person was. When they saw him their faces broke into smiles, then tears. The girls hurried towards the diminutive figure of Father Ron.
The priest had seen the terrified girls hiding beneath the old bridge. He had abandoned his morning matters and gone to their rescue. He offered to walk them home but they refused en mass. It was agreed that they would spend the remaining hours of darkness at the presbytery. Many had forgotten the last day they had attended church. Tonight’s episode had awoken their need for some form of relationship with God.

Next morning they went their separate ways. The villagers were shocked by their close encounter with death. What shocked everyone more was their unexpected attendance at mass the next Sunday.
Seated in the front bench were the five ladies dressed in their Sunday best. Somehow they had found their way back.