II.
… HERE a doubt occurs to me,—a doubt regarding the precise
nature of a word, which I call upon Adou to
explain. Adou is the
daughter of the kind old capresse from whom I rent my room in
this little mountain cottage. The mother is almost precisely the
color of cinnamon; the daughter's complexion is brighter,—the
ripe tint of an orange. … Adou tells me creole stories and
tim-tim. Adou knows all about ghosts, and believes in them.
So does Adou's extraordinarily tall brother, Yébé,—my guide
among the mountains.
—"Adou," I ask, "what is a zombi?"
The smile that showed Adou's beautiful white teeth has instantly
disappeared; and she answers, very seriously, that she has never
seen a zombi, and does not want to see one.
—"Moin pa té janmain ouè zombi,—pa 'lè ouè ça, moin!"
—"But, Adou, child, I did not ask you whether you ever saw It;
—I asked you only to tell me what It is like?" …
Adou hesitates a little, and answers:
—"Zombi? Mais ça fai désóde lanuitt, zombi!"
Ah! it is Something which "makes disorder at night." Still, that
is not a satisfactory explanation. "Is it the spectre of a dead
person, Adou? Is it one who comes back?"
—"Non, Missié,—non; çé pa ca."
—"Not that? … Then what was it you said the other night when
you were afraid to pass the cemetery on an errand,—ça ou té ka
di, Adou ?"
—"Moin té ka di: 'Moin pa lé k'allé bó cimétiè-là pa ouappó
moun-mó;—moun-mó ké barré moin: moin pa sé pè vini enco.'" (I
said, "I do not want to go by that cemetery because of the dead
folk,—the dead folk will bar the way, and I cannot get back
again.")
—"And you believe that, Adou ?"
—"Yes, that is what they say … And if you go into the
cemetery at night you cannot come out again: the dead folk will
stop you—moun-mó ké barré ou." …
—"But are the dead folk zombis, Adou?"
—"No; the moun-mó are not zombis. The zombis go everywhere:
the dead folk remain in the graveyard. … Except on the Night of
All Souls: then they go to the houses of their people
everywhere."
—"Adou, if after the doors and windows were locked and barred
you were to see entering your room in the middle of the nIght, a
Woman fourteen feet high?" …
—"Ah! pa pàlé ça!!" …
—"No! tell me, Adou?"
—"Why, yes: that would be a zombi. It is the zombis who make
all those noises at night one cannot understand. … Or, again,
if I were to see a dog that high [she holds her hand about five
feet above the floor] coming into our house at night, I would
scream: "Mi Zombi!"
… Then it suddenly occurs to Adou that her mother knows
something about zombis.
—"Ou Manman!"
—"Eti!" answers old Théréza's voice from the little out-building
where the evening meal is being prepared over a charcoal
furnace, in an earthen canari.
—"Missié-là ka mandé save ça ça yé yonne zombi;—vini ti
bouin!" … The mother laughs, abandons her canari, and comes in
to tell me all she knows about the weird word.
"I ni pè zombi"—I find from old Thereza's explanations—is a
phrase indefinite as our own vague expressions, "afraid of
ghosts," "afraid of the dark." But the word "Zombi" also has
special strange meanings. … "Ou passé nans grand chimin lanuitt,
épi ou ka ouè gouôs difé, épi plis ou ka vini assou difé-à pli ou
ka ouè difé-à ka màché: çé zombi ka fai ça. … Encó, chouval ka
passé,—chouval ka ni anni toua patt: ça zombi." (You pass along
the high-road at night, and you see a great fire, and the more
you walk to get to it the more it moves away: it is the zombi
makes that. … Or a horse with only three legs passes you:
that is a zombi.)
—"How big is the fire that the zombi makes ?" I ask.
—"It fills the whole road," answers Théréza: "li ka rempli
toutt chimin-là. Folk call those fires the Evil Fires,—mauvai
difé;—and if you follow them they will lead you into chasms,—
ou ké tombé adans labîme." …
And then she tells me this:
—"Baidaux was a mad man of color who used to live at St. Pierre,
in the Street of the Precipice. He was not dangerous,—never did
any harm;—his sister used to take care of him. And what I am
going to relate is true,—çe zhistouè veritabe!
"One day Baidaux said to his sister: 'Moin ni yonne yche, va!—ou
pa connaitt li!' [I have a child, ah!—you never saw it!] His
sister paid no attention to what he said that day; but the next
day he said it again, and the next, and the next, and every day
after,—so that his sister at last became much annoyed by it, and
used to cry out: 'Ah! mais pé guiole ou, Baidaux! ou fou pou
embeté moin conm ça!—ou bien fou!' … But he tormented her that
way for months and for years.
"One evening he went out, and only came home at midnight leading
a child by the hand,—a black child he had found in the street;
and he said to his sister:—
"'Mi yche-là moin mené ba ou! Tou léjou moin té ka di ou moin
tini yonne yche: ou pa té 'lè couè,—eh, ben! MI Y!' [Look at the
child I have brought you! Every day I have been telling you I had
a child: you would not believe me,—very well, LOOK AT HIM!]
"The sister gave one look, and cried out: 'Baidaux, oti ou
pouend yche-là?' … For the child was growing taller and taller
every moment. … And Baidaux,—because he was mad,—kept
saying: 'Çé yche-moin! çé yche moin!' [It is my child!]
"And the sister threw open the shutters and screamed to all the
neighbors,—'Sécou, sécou, sécou! Vini
oué ça
Baidaux mené ba
moin!' [Help! help! Come see what Baidaux has brought in here!]
And the child said to Baidaux: 'Ou ni bonhè ou fou!' [You are
lucky that you are mad!] … Then all the neighbors came running
in; but they could not see anything: the Zombi was gone." …
