Obeah Gal (A Jamaican Story)

Part 1

THEY CALLED HER 'OBEAH GAL', although there was no hard and fast evidence to prove their accusation. No oddities like bones and bird feathers, and bottles or perhaps a skeleton of some sort in her little shed of a home. No absence of the cross or a mirror which any normal girl would be at a loss without, but which everyone knew an obeah person couldn't stand the sight of. Not a sign of it. 

It was only her behaviour, how she'd disappear into the bush-forest somewhere up in the hills, sometimes for days they said (that was an exaggeration since nobody would both see her leave and come back) – Lord only knew what she did up there; how she'd hardly talk to anyone at all, and yet be so friendly with most all kinds of animals, particularly the small wild kinds that could be found on that Island in the Sun. 

In fact, she seemed to be more of a "mad woman" than anything else – she ought to have been locked up in Bellevue, according to some – and yet, not quite that either. She seemed to have a healing hand.

It all started to come to light back when she was hardly nine years old, short for her age and brown-skinned with bright eyes black as coal, and long thick black hair that could not decide whether to be curly or wavy. Every day on her way home from school she'd detour to spend a couple of hours with the local veterinary practitioner who lived nearby. She enjoyed helping him by cleaning out the few cages when they were occupied and changing water. And watch how the few animals that were in recovery improved in health. Sometimes he would let her feed the animals he kept for himself: a sleek bulldog, the only one of its kind in the entire parish, a couple of Jamaican Red pedigree cows and an aviary full of local parakeets and doves.

And then he would give her something to eat because her mother never seemed to be able to provide her daughter with lunch or lunch money for the day.

One afternoon when she had almost reached home, she heard the screeching of tyres a chain behind her on the road – and the terrified yelping of a dog. She spun around and saw a yellow Ford drive off without concern, leaving a small struggling body on the hot asphalt. She ran up to it; it wasn't more than a puppy – only a few months old – and it snapped wearily at her out of fear as she carefully lifted it into her arms and walked briskly back to the vet's house.

"Docta Ben! Docta Ben!"

"But Maree! What brings you back here so soon? What have you got there?"

Maree put the poor pup on the table for the vet to examine it. "Is a car lick 'im, Docta Ben. Can you make 'im betta?"

But Dr Ben was shaking his head slowly and rubbing his gray beard. It would never be able to walk properly again. He lightly stroked the puppy's head with two fingers, regretting having to make that decision; then he went to a drawer to prepare the injection.

"What you a go do, Docta Ben?" Maree asked, watching him anxiously.

"I'm sorry, Maree. There's nothing I can do to help him except getting rid of his misery—"

She stared wide-eyed at him, shaking her head. "No."

"I'm sorry, but its hindlegs will be useless. That's no life for a dog..."

"No! You cyan't do it – he's mine!" And before Dr Ben could react, the girl had taken the puppy again and ran out.

"Maree, wait a minute! Wait!"

But she wouldn't listen. The vet sighed as he watched her disappear down the road. He was sorry – and worried. Not so much for the puppy: odds were that it had an internal bleeding and wouldn't live much longer. It was Maree he was worried about.

When she first came to him she would hardly talk, but her interest for the animals soon brought her out into the open. Somewhat. As far as he knew, she didn't talk to anybody else, excluding her two younger brothers – and when she had to answer the teacher at school, of course.

She was rather intelligent and quick to learn, although she didn't give that impression. He'd met her first when she came to him with a meagre goat kid – the cause being worms – and since then she'd been a regular visitor, coming almost every day after school. Now he feared that he wouldn't see her coming again. And he feared correctly. It wasn't until months later that he saw her again, at a distance. And right behind her was a dog, its hind legs drag-hopping at each step, but all the same, its tail wagging high, full of life like any ordinary, happy dog.

As usual, no one was at home when Maree arrived and she was glad for that. She placed the puppy by the tall Guinea grass next to the standpipe – the only real modern convenience they had – and then went to see if she could find a rag to use. No, she needed more than that: she would have to make bandages too. She wouldn't dare to use anything that was her mother's or brothers': she would have to take one of her old skirts – which meant of course that she would have only one left other than her school uniform. Well, she would survive, as long as the puppy was taken care of. 

She grabbed the dull 'kitchen' knife (there was no kitchen) and returned to the corner of the board house where she kneeled, tore a piece of the skirt with the help of the knife, and soaked it in an old paint tin that collected each drip-drop from the standpipe. Then she carefully cleaned the scraped side of the puppy.

"Sssch, sssch," she said as it whimpered, half-baring its teeth, but making no attempt to defend itself. She started talking quietly to it in that private tongue of hers which only animals seemed to understand.

Despite the hard knock the puppy had received, there wasn't much blood; there was only the sore on the side from scraping against the ground and that had already started to dry.

Then the bandages. Maree almost finished off her skirt but she couldn't care less. And she needed a stick to support the puppy's hindleg. When she had prepared all that she required, she kneeled by the puppy again. 

Now, how should she put them on, she wondered. She put a hand carefully underneath the puppy's belly as it lay there on its side. Then she tenderly felt its upper leg with her other hand. 

Yes, it probably was broken. 

As she was contemplating how she should start bandaging, she felt a peculiar heat starting to grow from within the middle of her chest. It slowly spread upwards, and down her arms into her hands, as well as downwards, filling her lower back and both her legs. She sat still, a bit amazed. It was a pleasant but intense heat, almost satisfying – and she had the distinct impression that it was travelling through her hands into the puppy's body and then transmitting itself back, down into her own legs. 

She didn't understand what was happening, but somehow she knew despite her youth that this was something she had better keep to herself. Not that that would pose any problem, really. She remained in that position until she felt the heat fade away.

Maree rose, satisfied with her work. The puppy was sleeping now, with just one or two whimpers and shivers, its lower back and hindlegs quite neatly wrapped with blue-and-red strips of cloth. She stooped to arrange the grass around it to conceal it from the house. Then she quietly walked around to the front of the house, her young heart praying for the little creature to survive.

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