JUMBIE JUSTICE

Rufus weaved his drunken way home after the party, peering in the gloom of the unlit road.Walking through this silent backstreet always made him nervous, and this time it was almost midnight – the witching hour, and he was now nearing the Rose Hall cemetery.
His thoughts ran back to the jumbie stories the boys had been telling over their drinks. He had enjoyed listening as much as everyone else, even throwing in a tale or two of his own; but now they came back to haunt him with spine-tingling horror – especially as the cemetery he was approaching was where that girl… what was her name now – Jane Ellis, had been buried a few days ago.
“…  boy, hear dis wan nuh… Sam bin driving home nearly twelve o’clock near Rose Hall graveyard when he hear a baby cryin’… He stap he truck and look fuh dis chile and fine am unda de silk-cotton tree…
“He pick up de baby and put am in de passenger seat, thinkin’ he gon drap am at de hospital. Well, when he start to drive he feel he skin start crawling and something mek he look at de baby… you know dat baby was growing right in front he eyes till he turn wan man who look at Sam with sheer evil in he eyes…. Look, Sam fly out de truck door and lef’ de truck to go lang e way. When he reach home de truck de park by he door. Sam nevah drive dah truck again. He sell am out.”
It was just about here, Rufus remembered, that he met Jane Ellis. He had not seen her face because then it had been almost pitch dark, except for the girl’s torchlight, unlike tonight now that the moon was peering through the clouds and illuminating the street with a faint glow, although the eerie shadows cast by swaying branches created fearsome imageries in his mind, startling him several times.
He had been returning home after having drinks with the boys, just like now, and she had been hurrying to the factory with a meal for her husband, who was working double-shift because his relief did not turn up for work.
Of course Rufus did not know all of this, nor her name; that is, until the news of her rape and strangulation – in this same vicinity, had circulated around Canje the next day.
“… and you mus’ hear dis wan… Vishnu had been going home wan night when rain de pourin’, shelterin’ unda he big black umbrella… When he reach pass de graveyaad he hear somebody seh… ‘tanks fuh de shelta man, ah goin’ home now. When he look around he en see anybody. Man Vishnu tek off like a locomotive, wid so much speed he even run pass he own house.”
Recalling these stories was scaring Rufus spitless, when suddenly “eeeeeeee……….eeeeee………….ooooo………….eeeee’ sent Rufus’ hair standing on end in spine-chilling terror, until he realized it was the midnight factory siren.
He laughed shakily and soliloquized “Rufus boy, behave yoself. Like ole age ketchin’ up wid you. Heh! Heh! Heh!”
A figure in white materialized out of the gloom in front of him, startling him. Then, as he looked closer, he discerned the outline of a seductively-swaying figure of a young woman.
“Hi gyal”, he called out, “Wait fuh me. We gon keep each odda company.”
She did not answer, but glanced over her shoulder and beckoned him forward.
Her sensuous gait sent hot flames shooting up his blood, making him remember that night he had met Jane Ellis, just somewhere nearby.
His sensual excitement had been as acute then as it was now, but when he had accosted her she had resisted, forcing him to give her a cuff to subdue her; whereupon her struggles ceased as she fell senseless to the ground – which suited him fine, for he was able to sate himself without any trouble before hurrying along home.
It was not until the next day that he learnt that she had died – having hit her head on a stone when she fell.
He shrugged off the memories and quickened his pace to shorten and close the distance between himself and the seductively-swaying, sense-drugging figure gliding in the shadowy pathway before – unconscious of the direction in which he was being led – conscious only of the fevered burning of his blood.
In his drunken haze he did not question why, but only responded to his lust.
She came to a stop and lay on a mound of freshly-sprouting grass, then beckoned invitingly.
He ran his tongue over passion-parched lips and lowered himself into her embrace – which she tightened, and continued tightening.
“Not so tight, darlin’” he croaked, “you stranglin’ me.”
She smiled enigmatically and increased the pressure of her embrace which, try as he would, he could not break.
He could not breathe… his world was growing dark. The constricting band in his chest was suffocating him.
As his head arched back in agony his eyes became riveted to the inscription on the tombstone before him:
“Here lies Jane Ellis.
Beloved wife of Stephen Ellis.
1951 – 1980. RIP.”