The Poisonwood Bible
Page 127
Father announced this was the unfortunate effect of believing in false idols and he washed his hands of the affair. He was washing his hands left and right that evening. Mother didn’t necessarily agree with him, but I could see she didn’t want us going anywhere near that chicken house to investigate. Father quoted a Bible verse about the only thing we had to fear was fear itself. He told Mother if she let Nelson sleep in our house that night she’d be playing directly into the hands of the idol worshipers, and if she wanted to count herself as one of them she could take her children and go seek shelter among them. Then he turned to us and declared it was high time for us to go to bed and put the light out on laughable Congolese superstitions.
But Nelson slunk out of the house in such a terrified state we couldn’t find anything to laugh about, that is for sure. Even Anatole had been telling us to be extra careful right now, and Anatole, I must admit, has his head firmly attached to his shoulders. We tried to get ready for bed, but all we could hear was Nelson outside whimpering to be allowed to come in, and we became scared out of our minds. Even Leah did. We did not believe in voodoo spirits, and informed each other of that fact till we were blue in the face. But still there was some dark thing out there watching us from the forest and coiling up under people’s beds at night, and whether you call it fear or the dreaming of snakes or false idolatry or what—it’s still something. It doesn’t care what prayers we say at bedtime, or whether we admit we believe in it. Does it believe in us, that’s the question.
We lay in our beds listening to Nelson’s steady, high-pitched begging. Sticky-toed lizards ran sideways along the walls. The moon made shadows on our mosquito netting. Nelson pleaded, “Bdkala mputu Nelson, bakala mputu” over and over like a poor starving dog that’s been whining so long it doesn’t know how to stop. We heard Father’s bedsprings groan suddenly, then Father at the window yelling for him to shut up. Leah rolled over and put her pillow on her head. I felt sick to my stomach. We all did. Father’s hatefulness and Mother’s silent fright were infecting our minds.
“This is wrong,” Leah said finally. “I’m going to help him. Who has the guts to come with me?”
The thought of going out there gave me the willies. But if the others went, I wasn’t going to stay in here with the shadows and lizards, either. I think our house gave me the worst willies of all. That house was the whole problem, because it had our family in it. I was long past the point of feeling safe huddling under my parents’ wings. Maybe when we first came to Congo I did, because we were all just hardly more than children then. But now everything has changed; being American doesn’t matter and nobody gives us any special credit. Now we’re all in this stewpot together, black or white regardless. And certainly we’re not children. Leah says in Congo there’s only two ages of people: babies that have to be carried, and people that stand up and fend for themselves. No in-between phase. No such thing as childhood. Sometimes I think she’s right.
After a while she said again, “I’m going out there to help Nelson, and Father can go straight to hell.”
Whether we said so or not, the rest of us certainly agreed upon where Father could go straight to.
Surprisingly, Adah sat up and started to pull on her jeans. That was her way of saying, “I’m in.” So I felt around on the floor for my penny loafers. Leah pulled Ruth May’s shirt on over her head and
stuck her tennis shoes on her feet. As quiet as mice, we crept outside through the window.
What we decided to do was to set a trap, like Daniel in the temple. This was Leah’s inspiration. Nelson raked a pan of cold ashes out of the stove, and together we strewed them all around the hard-pan-dirt yard outside the chicken house. Inside it, too. We worked by candlelight. Nelson kept a lookout to make sure no one saw us. But Ruth May was careless, and the rest of us were also, to some extent, and made tracks over each other’s tracks. Then our two chickens got disturbed by our lights, since they’d come from a different way of life over at Mama Mwanza’s and weren’t used to living in our chicken house yet, so they ran around making chicken tracks on top of everything. We had to sweep it all up and start over. The second time we were much more careful. We made Ruth May stand in one spot, and chased the chickens back into the nest box to roost. They looked down at us with their stupid little eyes and made soft noises into their feathers to calm themselves down.
When it was all done, we made Nelson promise to hide out the night at Anatole’s and corne back before daybreak. Leah ran halfway there with him, because he was scared, and came back by herself. We all tiptoed inside to our beds, leaving the ashes perfect behind us like newly fallen snow. If anyone or anything set foot in our chicken house—if it had feet, that is—we would catch the culprit red-handed.
But Nelson slunk out of the house in such a terrified state we couldn’t find anything to laugh about, that is for sure. Even Anatole had been telling us to be extra careful right now, and Anatole, I must admit, has his head firmly attached to his shoulders. We tried to get ready for bed, but all we could hear was Nelson outside whimpering to be allowed to come in, and we became scared out of our minds. Even Leah did. We did not believe in voodoo spirits, and informed each other of that fact till we were blue in the face. But still there was some dark thing out there watching us from the forest and coiling up under people’s beds at night, and whether you call it fear or the dreaming of snakes or false idolatry or what—it’s still something. It doesn’t care what prayers we say at bedtime, or whether we admit we believe in it. Does it believe in us, that’s the question.
We lay in our beds listening to Nelson’s steady, high-pitched begging. Sticky-toed lizards ran sideways along the walls. The moon made shadows on our mosquito netting. Nelson pleaded, “Bdkala mputu Nelson, bakala mputu” over and over like a poor starving dog that’s been whining so long it doesn’t know how to stop. We heard Father’s bedsprings groan suddenly, then Father at the window yelling for him to shut up. Leah rolled over and put her pillow on her head. I felt sick to my stomach. We all did. Father’s hatefulness and Mother’s silent fright were infecting our minds.
“This is wrong,” Leah said finally. “I’m going to help him. Who has the guts to come with me?”
The thought of going out there gave me the willies. But if the others went, I wasn’t going to stay in here with the shadows and lizards, either. I think our house gave me the worst willies of all. That house was the whole problem, because it had our family in it. I was long past the point of feeling safe huddling under my parents’ wings. Maybe when we first came to Congo I did, because we were all just hardly more than children then. But now everything has changed; being American doesn’t matter and nobody gives us any special credit. Now we’re all in this stewpot together, black or white regardless. And certainly we’re not children. Leah says in Congo there’s only two ages of people: babies that have to be carried, and people that stand up and fend for themselves. No in-between phase. No such thing as childhood. Sometimes I think she’s right.
After a while she said again, “I’m going out there to help Nelson, and Father can go straight to hell.”
Whether we said so or not, the rest of us certainly agreed upon where Father could go straight to.
Surprisingly, Adah sat up and started to pull on her jeans. That was her way of saying, “I’m in.” So I felt around on the floor for my penny loafers. Leah pulled Ruth May’s shirt on over her head and
stuck her tennis shoes on her feet. As quiet as mice, we crept outside through the window.
What we decided to do was to set a trap, like Daniel in the temple. This was Leah’s inspiration. Nelson raked a pan of cold ashes out of the stove, and together we strewed them all around the hard-pan-dirt yard outside the chicken house. Inside it, too. We worked by candlelight. Nelson kept a lookout to make sure no one saw us. But Ruth May was careless, and the rest of us were also, to some extent, and made tracks over each other’s tracks. Then our two chickens got disturbed by our lights, since they’d come from a different way of life over at Mama Mwanza’s and weren’t used to living in our chicken house yet, so they ran around making chicken tracks on top of everything. We had to sweep it all up and start over. The second time we were much more careful. We made Ruth May stand in one spot, and chased the chickens back into the nest box to roost. They looked down at us with their stupid little eyes and made soft noises into their feathers to calm themselves down.
When it was all done, we made Nelson promise to hide out the night at Anatole’s and corne back before daybreak. Leah ran halfway there with him, because he was scared, and came back by herself. We all tiptoed inside to our beds, leaving the ashes perfect behind us like newly fallen snow. If anyone or anything set foot in our chicken house—if it had feet, that is—we would catch the culprit red-handed.
