Mr. Gray is not a soucouyant

Part1

By a wide margin, Mr. Gray was the richest and most successful man on the hill, and for that he was  both  envied and despised. But not by everyone.  Most were roundly content with the  little they had and was more than happy minding their own business concerning  other people’s  money.   Some, however, floated  rumors throughout  the village that Mr. Gray was both a soucouyant  and an  obeah man,  as a way to  explain his wealth and opulence.

Such rumors were not entirely unfounded. Over the years more than a few women, including my dear mother,  claimed to have been the victim of the so-called  village  blood sucker, who prayed on his helpless  hosts  as they  slept,  leaving black and blue mark  all over their  emaciated bodies.

According to the old timers that would know: 

“The soucouyant was once a man or woman that sold his soul to the devil in exchange for money, power or  even an  extended life span, surpassing 120 years.

As a creature exclusively  of the night, the  beast   usually  struck between 3 am to 5 am, when men and dogs  were  sound asleep. Ideally, however, it  preferred to strike during  the monthly blackouts on the island.

 Before the hunt, it was believed the creature sheds his skin like a snake. Then invoking  the spirts of darkness, it  ignited himself into a  ball of fire that cannonballs through the ink black sky then crash landing  in the bush behind  his  victim’s house.  Despite  its  fiery composition,  little of the  bush was ever set ablaze, as the creatures flames were  eerily cool to the touch and  inflammable.

These and more accusations mentioned above were  leveled by the  green eyed villagers about  poor Mr. Gray, who, from  the outside at least ,  seemed to be a harmless husband and father that loved his cigars and  gray fedora hats.

Hardly shy about his wealth,  Mr. Gray built a house  that resembled a   modern day castle, overshadowing   the rest of the smaller, wooden houses on the hill.  On the exterior, ornate bricks and quarried stones plastered the walls that created a feeling of solemn earnestness and might. The architectural tones of magnificent and fortitude   was also enhanced by the use of heavy wrought iron  window guards that encased the  eight frosted louvered  windows  around the house.  A heavy front door made from solid teak that closed with the seal of a Pharoh’s tomb, transforming the interior into a place of meditative silence and stillness. Finally, the spotted,  polished  terrazzo floors made for a harmonic chamber  that amplified  the voices, prays and songs within.

 The daily maintenance of the house was managed by Mrs. Gray, for whom Mr. Gray  purchased the latest house hold appliances,  including  a washer and  dryer made by Westinghouse—the first of its kind on the hill.  For donkey years, housewives had  endured the standard joking board and basin  for washing clothes, and so when the word went out  that Mrs. Gray  now owned the  solution to  a  housewife’s  drudgery, a crowd quickly gathered at her back door for a chance to see the modern marvel. Despite her opposition, Mrs. Gray was besieged by the curious women   to startup  a load, which she did to constant  oohs and aahs, followed by  more than a few questions:

 The crowd:  

What button to start?

And which button to stop?

And how the water does pass through?

And  how the dirt  does comes out ?

 Mrs. Gray:  

Push this button to stop

And that one there to start

The water come through this here hole

And the dirt pass out the back.

Along with all he did for his wife, Mr.  Gray was also invested  substantially  in  his three sons with the intention that they would move up in the world to become the  best  in town if not the  whole island.  For one, the boys all attended private schools, where they were encouraged to take up un-native   hobbies  that none of the fellas  could   quite well pronounce—lacrosse, badminton and archery — much less play.  Their speech also was very commanding in that they were careful  to pronounce every word in the way I had heard the  news man on television speak.

Of  the three boys, Luke, the eldest son at eighteen,  presented a model of  personal excellence  I had not known before. Such that although he  was black , he was   quite comfortable in his skin and appeared  to have unhinged himself from the mental shackles and  rusty chains  of inferiority that most of  the gang suffered under unknowingly.

On occasions,  Luke would stop by the cricket pitch to  bowl a few balls of cricket with the fellas. Then as night fell and the game was postponed until tomorrow, we all would  gather by the  bamboo patch  to hear Luke give one of his motivational speeches.

 “My brothers, the longest journey starts with the first few steps, a great man once said. Greatness is in each and every boy here on this bench,  who, if he so desire  can achieve his wildest dreams.  But hear now fellas,  the three keys  to unlock the doors of success, happiness and a good life.  Do you know what they are?”

At this we  all scratched our heads in thought. Then  a boy named Sheldon who had not accomplished much in Primary school– blurted out an answer  that seemed right to him at the time but had missed the metaphorical mark of Luke’s question by a mile.

“The only key I ever turn was for   the front door of meh mother house,” cried Sheldon,” and that door I don’t lie to tell yuh,  does make noise when I   push it hard.”

“Yes  fellas, brother Sheldon is right; all doors are not easy to open,” declared Luke with cunning humor. “But the doors I am talking about fellas, no  key made by man  is made to fit.”

“How so,” cried the gang as they slowly began to grab hold of Luke’s reasoning.

“You see fellas the locks and keys  to these doors  that I am talking about  do not exist in the world but in the mind—your mind.”

“And so the key different too, right Luke ,” cried  one, two then three fellas with glee, having found their way out of the  temporary fog of misunderstanding.

“Exactly,” cried Luke in a reassuring tone, being  quick to get to the  main point of his lecture less the train  of thought he was leading  jumped off track once more.

“The three keys to life  come from the three F’s in life— focus, fortitude, fearlessness.”

As I thought of  what it meant to focus, the image of  my family’s Polaroid Instant Film camera flashed before my mind’s eye,  which  had a habit of producing blurred images.

“Something like  the way a camera does work?” I asked beseechingly.

“Yes, just like a camera must  focus to create a beautiful  picture so fellas we must  focus to make our your dreams  a reality ” said Luke. “We are the masters of our faith and destiny.”

Such words troubled me. For wasn’t Christ the one true master, I thought to myself.

By the end of  the  talk, Luke shook each of our hands as if we were important business men and walked home to his castle on the hill. From the bench, a member of the gang  shouted into the night: “Till tomorrow. God spare.”

“The God in me, the God in you ,” replied  Luke.

Part2

Mr. Gray’s last son, Marlon who was around my age, sometimes invited over the fellas and I to watch episodes of “Happy Days” or  “What’s Happening” on the family’s big screen television.  Compared to the  breadbox sized television that my parents owned,  Mark’s  set was large as a dresser with wood paneling on the front and side that swallowed  up most of the space in the living room.

The highlight of our time spent  at the Gray’s home came with the  opportunity  to visit Marlon’s  bedroom and its  littered  landscape  of toys and gadgets that could fill a boys’ most elaborate dream: on  a   wooden desk   stood two  opposing armies of miniature green soldiers  with plastic guns, a car collection still wrapped in their packaging, board games like Clue and Monopoly ,  a deck of  playing cards  scattered like wild birds, a   glass bowl  of  iridescent marbles,  a walkie talkie  that lost its twin, a tennis racket that resembled a fly screen, cricket  gloves,  pads, a helmet, darts,  and   in one corner shoes boxes stacked as high as a skyscraper.

Assuming they were empty. I asked Marlon what was his purpose of  the boxes.

“What you doing with all them  box and them ,” I asked?

“I need it,” said Marlon.

“You need empty boxes for what,” I said.

“Who say they empty,” replied Marlon.

“So, wait, your father does buy you all them shoe,” I asked?

“ Yes, my parents  believe that a boy should try everything  once then decide,” replied  Marlon.

The  thought that one boy had  so many options even as I  was forced by my father  to wear one shoe the entire year- shoes that I used both  to walk to school in as well as kick ball —led me to question for the first time what other option being poor was denying me.

 

Part3

During the Christmas holidays, when  the men of the village drank  rum in excessive, played card games and , the old talk would often turn to tales of obeah, soucouyant, for which Mr. Gray’s name would often come up. Being much too young to  take part in the drinking, me and the fellas would sit on the edge of the circle of men and listen. Of the  men that had gathered these three I remember —Bones, the  tailor, Mr. Sarge , the policeman, and Maxi, the cab driver. Here’s the conversation I remembered:

“ Don’t make joke,” said Bones.

“Ah telling  you, that obeah  man  in the big brick house up the hill try to suck meh, just the other night,” cried Maxi.

“For real, you sure is not your own shadow you see with your drunk self,” cried Bones.

“Man watch yourself, I don’t drink during the week.”

“Since when,” interrupted Mr. Sarge.

“Well any way fellas. I was pulling bull Friday night and the money  flowing nice with customers. And I  finally reach up by the hill two something in the morning. And I walking fast but slow. And when I reach by the river I feel like something following  meh so meh mind tell meh turn around. Watch nah  I  turn and see this thing walking  to me with he back turn.”

“ So, you didn’t make out he face?” asked Bones.  

“Brother  man, hear nah by the time he took two backwards steps like he coming towards me, well  I takeoff like Hansley Crawford up the hill, said  Maxi. And  by the time I turn again  the man under the meh heel and I aren’t lying to tell you I start to call God name. But the beast playing he want to grab meh  foot and I let go a donkey kick  in  he head .”

“What the ass  is this , grown man like you  bawling for God,” said Mr. Sarge.

“God must be confused wondering   how Maxi calling just so  after twenty years of nothing” said Bones,  holding back laughter.

“That is true talk,” said Mr. Sarge.

“Man listen nah, I does pray in my heart.,” cried Maxi.

‘So how you make out after that ,”  asked Mr. Sarge.

“Man watch nah,  when I start to bawl for the LORD the neighbor dog must of hear it, and next thing   the neighbor light  turn on and the beast takeoff  up the hill. 

“Next time you say Mr. Gray, watch and see if he head not bust up”

“Will do” cried Bones and Mr. Sarge

Part4

For as long as I can remember, Mr. Gray took a liking to me. He often appeared on the dirt road, and as if out of  thin air, he would grab me up in his hairy arms  that smelled  of  heavy cigar smoke and rum. He loved patting my head as he presented me with dollars bills, which I took eagerly despite my mother’s warnings. Not long after, I would get to see  that Mr. Gray, while he could  be called many things, a soucouyant he was not.

 It was a Saturday afternoon during mango season and it just so happened that Mr. Gray had the sweetest  starch mango tree on the hill., I had pelted a big stone at one of the mangos but, in missing, hit  broke Mr. Gray’s expensive window . The hole, left by the rock was perfectly round and resembled a mouth  screaming in ghastly horror.  In that moment,  time stood still as  imagined all the possible outcomes for my crime, including the cut ass that my father was sure to deliver  upon learning of my misdeed. Then in an act of self-preservation,  I took off like an  outlaw on the run just as I had  seen on  my favorite Saturday morning westerns staring Clint Eastwood. Arriving thus  at the edge of the village and the Green mountains , I  knelt rather heroically  by the bank of the Silver spring for a drink of water and  had hardly taken  my fill when  I heard what I believed in my vivid imagination  were the sounds of  barking  dogs and men charging up the hill after me.  As I took off  through the lush and verdant fauna, the  path suddenly descended beneath my feet, causing me to accelerate then tumble madly like a breadfruit off  a tree. Luckily for me, my momentum  was ensnared by the thick virulent vines at the bottom of the slope  just beyond the mouth of the ominous twin black springs. Returning to my feet, I skirted cautiously along the  edge of  the stagnant waters that had taken several careless  boys to their untimely deaths.

Coming to a point of rest, I sat on a  large stone under the canopy of the trees and drew up a map in my mind that avoided Mr. Gray’s house. The  way home was due  East but had  I continued along my current path I was sure to arrive in the  backwoods and hinterlands  of  the Baptist church, followed by  Mr. Brown’s shop and finally  the government primary school I attended.  

It was 5 o’ clock when I arrived home to a serene and quite house. My  sister and her friend were in  the gallery playing with dolls when I entered.  I attempted to search her face for a sign that she knew what had happened  to Mr. Gray’s window and felt a slight easy when she  loutishly dismissed me.

“Go your way,” she said.

As  I entered the house, I heard my mother  from the kitchen  busy cooking.  I approached her with the cautious trepidation of a lost lion pup searching for his mother. Standing dutifully, as  she was, over  a bowl of fish she was preparing to cook for our Saturday evening meal , I felt the urge to  confess,  if only to soften the blows that telling the truth  may sometimes lead.  But before I  could do so, my mother ordered me to run up the hill to  pick limes for the fish, which  I  gleefully executed , knowing that my sin was still a secret. That night I slept like a baby and had managed even to miss the arrival of my father , who I  had anxiously awaited.

For an entire month or two after the incident, I did my best to avoid the road that passed Mr. Gray’s house.  His sons, meanwhile, never mentioned what had happened. And  so, in time  I had come to replace  the rumors  about  Mr. Gray being a sucyouant with the  facts of the matter that Mr. Gray’s generosity and  kindness  had saved me from getting wiped.

One day Mr. Gray called me from his gallery high above the road.  

“Come boy,” said Mr. Gray standing next to the same mango tree.

As always Mr. Gray placed his hand on my head and rubbed it then offered me  the  mangoes that he was holding. 

“Today  is the day,” he said, “follow me.”

Mr. Gray led me through the back of the house by the kitchen, and as we entered he asked that  I leave my slippers by the door.  Seated  by  the table in a long African robe,  Mrs. Gray was busy shelling green peas in a white bowl, from which she  barely noticed  her husband and his guest.

We entered a small windowless  room off the kitchen with a  thick blue  curtain serving as a door.  Mr. Gray   turned on a small lamp, revealing a large rattan mat in the center. Without  the aid of his hands, he squatted nimbly unto the floor with his back side supported by a worn square cushion.

“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to the opposite end of the map.

As I did, I noticed a pantheon of  African  mask made of  ebony and mahogany hovering on the walls  like silent witnesses of all that transpired within the room.

“Do you know why you are here,” he asked while opening his legs like a pair of scissors on the floor.

“No Sir,” I replied.

“ But do you know the purpose of  your life son, ” he asked, with earnestness.

Up until Mr. Gray, no one had ever asked such questions of me directly and so I thought to say the purpose any boy my age was to pitch marbles, fly kites, catch birds, play football and cricket and pelt mangoes.

“Well son” he added, “ever since Mrs. Gray told me about a dream she had about you I wanted to help find your path in life.”

Mr. Gray then took a round white cloth that laid next to a Bible and paced it  on the floor.  The cloths itself, about the size of a standard dinnerplate, was anything but ordinary, with  its array of archaic symbols, signs and numerals, resembling a physicist equation. He next reached for  a  small pouch  that the contents of which he emptied into the palm of his hand as he began a series of prays. Before each pray he  would place his hand to his head  then blow into  his cupped hands.

“What is your name,” he asked.

“Nigel,” I said

“Is that you name at birth?” he asked.

I told him my given and with that he prayed once more then blew again into his palm before dropping the contents of his hand unto the white cloth.

“Brap,” was the sound of what I late learned were cowry shells hitting the ground.

Studying the position of the shells intently with his finger, he   began writing in an old notebook a series of short strokes with a pen. Then collecting the shells once more in his hands, he briefly prayed, before casting them once more.

“Brap,” went the shells.

“Ok Mr. Joel, just as I thought,” he cried before delivering his message to me.

Although  I swore  to Mr. Gray never  to  share the content or  general themes of the message to anyone, the following poem in some way , though I can’t say how big or small, reflects a bit of Mr. Gray’s  roadmap as he saw it for my life.

 Here it is:

One day for you boy

One day for me

Snake in he  hole

Monkey in the tree

A thousand years of man

Is a day for the Lord

All man laid up plans

Debris on the floor

Watch  on the road boy

Potholes in the  way

If you fall  in one boy

Then  take another way

To know where you going

First  know who you are

Some kings are servants

As some slaves are stars

Keep clear  of sinners (boy)

Don’t follow fools

Play with the winners

Play by the rules

And Above all:

Fear God

Love your neighbor as yourself

Seek wisdom over wealth

Although I was raised as a Christian and told not to believe in stories and tales,  still  Mr. Gray’s message sits right with me.

 

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