Strange, strange happenings in Springwell Village; from a peaceful quiet place it suddenly got hit by a very peculiar incident. That event caused many to think differently. Now everybody became more cautious in the community.Springwell was a remote village way up in the hinterland. The houses were not laid out in any organised fashion. They were scattered haphazardly like the pieces in a game of jacks; plunked down anywhere.
The school was at the back of the community and the playfield at the entrance. The garbage dump was on the same side of the village as the only church and the market were close to the health clinic.
Things were usually disorganised and done at the eleventh hour. The only efficient thing in this small village was the spit-press. As soon as something happen it was all over the village in a flash, bearing in mind there were no telephones (landlines or cell phones) as yet.
One stifling hot August afternoon a group of boys were heading for the playfield to have some fun. They were noisy and rough, horse playing as they went. With another 200 metres to go, they broke into a disorganised race. The first to reach would be first to bat etc. etc.
As they emerged onto the field in a noisy mob, they stopped and stared. There in the middle of the field was a strange old woman. She stood hunched over trembling, a sad and lonely looking figure. They moved slowly towards her but stopped when she raised her silver grey head and fixed them with two piercing eyes that seem to have glowing coals at their core. The advancing party stopped and retreated.
Word spread like a rushing tide and soon people were heading for the field to see the strange person. As the crowd gathered the “press” cranked up.
“Is who is she?”
“Me ent no gal.”
“She no from round hey!”
“Me wanda who she come to.”
The old woman remained fixed to the same spot“Mmmmmmm!”
The strange hum was coming from the bent over figure. The tone sent chills through many there and the tone of the conversation changed.
“Like she is some kinda spirit or wat?”
“Boy she look dangerous. Don’t go too near.”
“I feel she come fo carry way somebody pickney.”
This last statement caused a current of anger and apprehension to surge through the people gathered there.
Meanwhile Papa Logan, after hearing about the woman gathered a few items and hurried to the playfield. He arrived with a pot, potspoon a bag of odds and ends and some firewood.
Helpful hands quickly got the fire going and hungry eyes watched the old man go to work.
When the pot of water was on the crackling fire he began to add some unusual ingredients-a bit of indigo, funny smelling oils, little bits and pieces of dried preserved insects and leaves of about half a dozen herbs. Soon the pot was boiling and emitting a pungent smell that made all those downhill of it run for cover. The only one who did not escape was the solitary figure in the centre of the field. When the awful smell hit her it was like releasing or triggering a jack in the box. She jumped about three feet in the air and started spinning and dancing in an erratic pattern.
The crowd had increased by now and they moved with her. Whenever she came too close to them they beat a hasty retreat. Whenever she went the other way they advanced. It looked like a badly choreographed group performance.
Suddenly a howling cry erupted from the tormented woman.
“Loose me! Ow! Loose me na!”
The crowd around her got a bit wider as people withdrew instinctively. After this outburst she again pleaded.
“Loose me! Ow! Loose me na!”
The crazy dance went on then another dimension was added. The woman began chanting in a strange foreign tongue.
This caused the crowd to get even jettier.
“Papa Logan is who is she?”
“La Cava!”
“Wah she want?”
“Somebody!”
A middle aged woman grabbed the pot and lifted it off the fire. Immediately the dancing and chanting ceased and the old figure shuffled off. Back went the pot and back she spun and chanted. Off and on, off and on, until she look exhausted except her eyes. They kept looking at Papa Logan every time she spun around. Her old dirty clothes were soaked with sweat. She whirled on.
Gangadin was the best drinker in town. He outdrank everyone and never got tumble- down drunk. The furthest he got was zig zag, slurred speech drunk. Day or night meant nothing to him. Once he felt like drinking he went for it.
On a z-path home he wandered onto the playfield. He stopped short and squirted at the scene playing out before him. It was not Maypole or Mass Games. It was a weird gathering of villagers moving or swaying in a drunken fashion. Nobody had bothered to inform him about the event so he decided he would not stay. He staggered across the field and straight for the fire.
As usual nobody paid him too much attention and only tried to warn him when he decided to hop over the pot.
Don’t ask me why Gangadin didn’t walk around! By the time they could warn him, his left foot had scored a perfect shot and the pot flew a short distance spilling its content on the grass. The drunken man turned around to apologise and looked deep into two of the most sobering eyes he had ever encountered. Walking gingerly, he approached the woman and apologised. She flashed him, a rare smile then fixed Papa Logan with a murderous glare. Taking her hand Gangadin staggered while she shuffled off into the distance.
The crowd had watched all this in silence.
No one dared to challenge her. There was something about her eyes that warned them to stay away.
Papa Logan stood silently with head hung in defeat.
“Papa she get away!”
“Uh hu!”
“What gon happen?”
“Child I in plenty trouble!”
“Wat Papa?”
“She gon come fo me!”
The children burst out laughing at the “joke!” no one looked close enough to see the worry and resignation in his eyes. He picked up his pot and spoon and trudged home.
That afternoon Gangadin returned to the village with a broad smile on his face. He had come into a large sum of money but would tell no one how. What was remarkable was that he was sober and remained so after that.
As for Papa Logan, he tried to put up protection and all sort of paraphernalia around his house and in his yard; to no avail. Next morning his wife found him dead in bed. He had apparently died in his sleep. What was puzzling was the look of terror written all over his face.
By Neil Primus