I Walked with a Zombie Page #11

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BETSY:

You've never said anything about

voodoo before, Mrs. Rand.

MRS. RAND

Haven't I? I suppose I take it for

granted. It's just part of everyday

life here.

BETSY:

You don't believe in it?

MRS. RAND

A missionary's widow? It isn't

very likely, is it?

BETSY:

I don't mean believe, like

believing in a religion. I mean,

do you believe it has power? Do

you think it could heal a sick

person?

MRS. RAND

(looking hard at Betsy for

a moment)

Frankly, my dear, I didn't expect

anything like this from a nice

level-headed girl. What are you

driving at?

BETSY:

I heard the servants talking about

someone called Mama Rose. They said

she had been "mindless"...

MRS. RAND

Her son drowned. She brooded until

her mind was affected. All the

Houngan did was coax her out of it

with a little practical psychology.

PAGES ARE MISSING AT THIS POINT AS BETSY AND

JESSICA LEAVE FORT HOLLAND AND TRAVEL ACROSS THE SUGAR CANE

FIELDS TO THE HOUMFORT

EXT. THE HOUMFORT - NIGHT

LONG SHOT. The camera is behind Betsy and Jessica as they go

toward the Houmfort through the sugar cane. We see this

voodoo temple as they go toward it. It is a rickety

structure of poles and laths, roofed over with a thin thatch

of sugar cane and straw. It forms a sort of rude pergola.

In the center of this structure is a small, cubicle hut, made

of rough boards but neatly whitewashed. From the rafters of

the main structure hang crude chandeliers of tin which give

light to the ceremonies.

(Please see pages 28 to 31, Life Magazine, December 13, 1937.

All the details mentioned above are graphically illustrated,

Near the little hut in the center of the Houmfort, stands an

altar covered with a lace tablecloth and littered with a

childish jumble of plates, candles, little colored stones and

bottles. Before this altar stands the Houngan, the high

priest of the voodoo ceremonies, a small, stoop-shouldered

man in a worn, white coat and trousers with ragged cuffs.

Several mild-looking negroes in white trousers and shirts sit

in kitchen chairs on one side of the altar with rada drums

between their knees. Grouped around this altar in a loose

semicircle are the worshippers, a group of mild-mannered,

poorly-but-neatly-dressed negroes. They seem to have made an

effort to dress in their best and their best is very poor

indeed. As Betsy approaches, she can see familiar faces.

As she comes up they turn and look at her. They are not

hostile nor greatly surprised; just mildly curious. Leading

Jessica by the hand, Betsy takes her place at one end of the

semicircle around the altar. Her arrival has in no way

interrupted the ceremonies. The Houngan continues to chant

before the altar, the rada drums beat and the crowd sings the

chorus of the Shango song at the proper intervals. It is all

very decorous and decidedly religious in tone. No sooner has

Betsy taken her place with the others than the Shango ritual

approaches its climax. The Sabreur, a colored man dressed in

white shirt and trousers, with a neat dark tie knotted under

his collar, comes in, bearing a sabre in his right hand,

holding it in stately, almost processional manner. He

advances to the altar, strikes it three times and at this

signal two colored women dressed in white beguine dresses

with square cut necks, an essential part of this religious

costume, come forward. One holds a white leghorn chicken and

the other carries a white rooster. They come together to the

altar and for a moment, the figures of the Houngan, the

Sabreur and the two Mam-Lois hide the actual blood sacrifice

from us. Only the fact that the drumming and the singing

reach a climactic pitch reveal that some Important portion of

the ceremony has taken place. Instantly the drumming and the

singing stops. A young colored girl jumps up from her seat

among the worshippers and begins shivering and quaking,

crying out wordlessly. There is a cry from the people.

THE PEOPLE:

Put the god in her! Put the god in

her!

The Houngan prances forward, followed by the Sabreur. The

Houngan holds a little saucer in his hand with some dark

liquid at the bottom of it. He dips four fingers into this

liquid while the girl quivers and writhes before him in

religious ecstasy. He marks her forehead with four strange

marks, one with each finger. The Sabreur, crying out the

name of Shango, four times, points his sabre to the four

directions of the compass. There is an immediate

transformation in the girl. Her frenzy ceases. She seems to

be filled with a jubilant calm and dances into the cleared

space before the altar. Her words are no longer meaningless.

They have taken shape and form and, when she speaks, she

speaks with great resonance as if her voice came from

somewhere other than her own throat. She is possessed by the

god, Shango.

One by one, people from among the group of devotees dance

into the circle, go up to her and beg for favors. One woman

leads a little boy up to her. We hear her words as she calls

out to the possessed girl:

WOMAN:

Make him rich, Shango! Make him

rich!

The girl lays her fingers on the boy's eyes, and then takes

his shoulders and turns him around three times, Evidently

this is absolute guarantee of an enormous income tax to be

paid at St. Sebastian. The woman and her son retire happily,

pleased and grinning. Finally, exhausted, the girl possessed

of the god, Shango, sinks to her knees and then falls

fainting to the floor. Two colored men come in, carry her

away. A great cry rises from the voodoo worshippers.

WORSHIPPERS:

Damballa! Damballa! Damballa!

Damballa!

The drums find a new rhythm. The Houngan retires to one

corner of the altar; the Sabreur to the other. Two young

girls, their beguine dresses slashed and torn, dance in from

either side. This is a wild and an impassioned dance, a

dance to Damballa. There is no singing, only an occasional

call from the crowd, "Come to us, Damballa!" The dancers

reach the climax of their dance and strike a plastic pose

before the altar, each kneeling on one knee, their arms held

to their breasts, their foreheads butted together. Although

not a muscle moves, one can almost feel the tension of these

two bodies. One of the rada drummers comes up and crouches

down holding a small drum almost under the chins of the two

girls.

The other drummers stop playing and he begins to beat a quick

staccato rhythm that grows faster and faster. In this

playing, as in the pose of the girls, there is tremendous

tension. By now all cries have ceased. Everyone is silent,

waiting. Then suddenly, from behind the closed and curiously

painted door of the inner Houmfort, a voice speaks. A voice

that is light, pleasant and authoritative.

VOICE:

(muffled by the door)

Where are my people? Let them

bring me the rice cakes -- let them

dance and be happy --

There is a great ecstatic shout from the voodoo worshippers.

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