Lucky Town was a small village far away from the city. There were not many residents there but the few who lived there enjoyed a peaceful contented existence with little excitement. As a matter of fact visitors found it a boring little community.The small population consisted of East Indians, Negroes, a few Portuguese, one Chinese and two Amerindian families. They all lived well with each other. There was nothing to get excited about; nothing to fear. That is until Clifford nearly scare the entire village to death.
Clifford was seventy plus. He had been drinking since he was a teenager. He was now an experienced drinker with a phenomenal absorption rate. His sobriety level was very low. That meant whenever he took more than three shots he starts to feel tipsy. He was known to consume at least two halves. Every night he went home drunk.
His wife Daphne had tried everything she knew to help him with his addiction problem. He refused her efforts claiming that ‘his father drank, his father’s father drank and this went back for countless generations. He declared that drinking was in his family.’
Night after night he crisscrossed the village street drunk and homeward bound. People were accustomed to this, and after a time started to ignore him. It was not until after the village scare, that they really paid attention to him.
The night of the incident was an ordinary night. It was moonless and dark. The lack of street lights emphasised the darkness. Villagers moved back and forth on one errand or another.
As soon as the clock struck 12 midnight Naraine closed his rum shop. Clifford was always among the last patrons to exit the parlour. Getting his bearings right he staggered off home. In order to enter the village, one had to cross a big trench. There was an old wooden bridge spanning this waterway and everyone had to use it. When the tide was high, the water would reach close to the bridge. When the tide was low there was very little water there, thanks to the village koker. But there was always an abundance of mud in the trench.
That night the tide was falling, so there was still a bit of water. Clifford headed for the village in his “zig zag” fashion. When he got to the bridge there were problems. It was so dark that he could not distinguish the unpainted old bridge in the gloom. He was too drunk to apply reason and so headed toward a dark mass thinking it was the bridge. Wrong. Clifford walked overboard. SPLAT! Black, smelly mud flew in all directions.
Brother Ian was going home after a hard day’s work. As he was about to cross over the bridge, he heard a strange noise then something hit him. He recoiled in surprise rubbing his face and chest. To his horror he was covered in nasty dark mud. How did it hit him? He looked around but there was no one in sight. His young heart began to beat at an increased rate.
Clifford struggled to get to his feet but kept slipping. From a face down position he was now flat on his back. Without realising it he had covered himself from head to toe with the trench mud. There was mud in every crevice of his body. When he tried to speak, he only succeeded in uttering an awful grunting sound. Every time he tried to get to his feet it sunk into the mud and impeded his attempts. With mounting frustration he howled and bellowed his way into an undignified crawl until his feet hit solid ground. He then stood and launched himself up the slope of the trench and back onto the road.
Brother Ian started to pray. Something had assaulted him. It was not a small bit of mud that could be easily thrown by someone-this was a large volume that covered him from face to just below the knee. Wiping the dripping substance from his eyes and mouth, he attempted to cross the bridge. “Ahhh!”
Brother froze. He looked hastily around him to see if he was under attack. Nothing moved. “Oohhh!”
The poor Brother was beside himself with fright. He thought he heard a slushing sound but there still was no movement. “Uggghh!”
Brother Ian took a few steps backward. Better to be safe than sorry. Although it was very dark he could see the bridge clearly. With a mighty effort he ran for the bridge.
From out of nowhere a dark horrible creature charged at him and grabbed him. With the strength of a truly petrified man he tore himself from the grasp of his attacker and with screams that ranged from Little Richard to Little Kevin (Home Alone) he sped over the bridge and down the village street waking all the slumbering folks. Doors opened and belched out villagers eager to see what the excitement was all about. All they could hear from a fleeing Brother Ian was something about a monster. “Monster!” “Jumbieee!” “Aaaah!”
About ten men advanced in the direction from where Ian had fled. It was too dark to see clearly so they were reluctant to enter the very dark area near the bridge. “Uhhhh!”
A low sound was coming from the centre of darkness. The men looked at each other waiting for someone to make the first move. Nobody dared. They agreed to advance on the suspicious area as one body and advanced they did. At a signal they all forged ahead and into the dark. It did not take any signal to galvanise them into their next move. From within the dark came a scream of horror and another of total hysteria.
“Aaaieeee!” “Oh me Gaadd!”
They went in as a solid bunched and raced out as a spreading virus. Each man headed for safety, shouting like Brother Ian.
“Jumbiee!” “Monster!” “Killer!”
And from the dark came a menacing dark figure lumbering after them uttering an assortment of grunt and grumbles.
“Cahhh!” “Grrrhh!” “Aaaaa!”
When the wives and a few curious children saw the swiftly retreating adults and the attacking figure they shot back inside and boarded up. No one dared to turn on any light or look through the window. Tomorrow they would deal with this new threat.
As day appeared, some of the men who had all spent a sleepless night came outside. They gathered at the side of the road and talked about the ordeal the night before. No one had a reasonable explanation. Then old mother Sookoo passed and dropped a bombshell.
“Maning boys. A who lay don pon de damn full a mud an looking haf dead?”
All eyes centred on her. She pointed in the direction of the side line and continued on her way. From the direction she had indicated came a strange dark figure with a familiar stagger. It took less than a minute for them to recognise Clifford. Then it hit them. He was the culprit who had terrified the villages. Then the humour hit them and they threw back their heads and roared with laughter.
Clifford looked at his friends in astonishment and then anger. They were all pointing at him and laughing. He knew he often made a fool of himself but this morning he was not in the mood for that. The night before, had been a strange one and he wanted to talk about it. The way they were looking at him caused him to look at himself. When he realised the state he was in he turned and hurried home. He needed a long clean bath and a stiff drink.
By Neil Primus