Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(79)
He was sufficiently shocked at her language that it took him a moment to absorb her meaning. The tongue tip flickered out again, and had she had dimples, she would certainly have employed them.
“I see,” he said carefully. “But you were about to tell me what an Obeah man is. Some figure of authority, I take it, among the Koromantyns?”
The flirtatiousness vanished abruptly, and she frowned again.
“Yes. Obi is what they call their…religion, I suppose one must call it. Though from what little I know of it, no minister or priest would allow it that name.”
Loud screams came from the garden below, and Grey glanced out, to see a flock of small, brightly coloured parrots swooping in and out of a big, lacy tree with yellowish fruit. Like clockwork, two small black children, naked as eggs, shot out of the shrubbery and aimed slingshots at the birds. Rocks spattered harmless among the branches, but the birds rose in a feathery vortex of agitation and flapped off, shrieking their complaints.
Miss Twelvetrees ignored the interruption, resuming her explanation directly the noise subsided.
“An Obeah man talks to the spirits. He, or she—there are Obeah women, too—is the person that one goes to, to…arrange things.”
“What sorts of things?”
A faint hint of her former flirtatiousness reappeared.
“Oh…to make someone fall in love with you. To get with child. To get without child”—and here she looked to see whether she had shocked him again, but he merely nodded—“or to curse someone. To cause them ill luck or ill health. Or death.”
This was promising.
“And how is this done, may I ask? Causing illness or death?”
Here, however, she shook her head.
“I don’t know. It’s really not safe to ask,” she added, lowering her voice still further, and now her eyes were serious. “Tell me—the servant who spoke to you, what did he say?”
Aware of just how quickly gossip spreads in rural places, Grey wasn’t about to reveal that threats had been made against Governor Warren. Instead, he asked, “Have you ever heard of zombies?”
She went quite white.
“No,” she said abruptly.
It was a risk, but he took her hand to keep her from turning away.
“I cannot tell you why I need to know,” he said, very low-voiced, “but please believe me, Miss Twelvetrees—Nancy.” Callously, he pressed her hand. “It’s extremely important. Any help that you can give me would be…well, I should appreciate it extremely.”
Her hand was warm; the fingers moved a little in his, and not in an effort to pull away. Her colour was coming back.
“I truly don’t know much,” she said, equally low-voiced. “Only that zombies are dead people who have been raised by magic to do the bidding of the person who made them.”
“The person who made them—this would be an Obeah man?”
“Oh! No,” she said, surprised. “The Koromantyns don’t make zombies. In fact, they think it quite an unclean practice.”
“I’m entirely of one mind with them,” he assured her. “Who does make zombies?”
“Nancy!” Philip had concluded his conversation with the overseer and was coming toward them, a hospitable smile on his broad, perspiring face. “I say, can we not have something to eat? I’m sure the colonel must be famished, and I’m most extraordinarily clemmed myself.”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Twelvetrees said, with a quick warning glance at Grey. “I’ll tell Cook.” Grey tightened his grip momentarily on her fingers, and she smiled at him.
“As I was saying, Colonel, you must call on Mrs. Abernathy at Rose Hall. She would be the person best equipped to inform you.”
“Inform you?” Twelvetrees, curse him, chose this moment to become inquisitive. “About what?”
“Customs and beliefs among the Ashanti, my dear,” his sister said blandly. “Colonel Grey has a particular interest in such things.”
Twelvetrees snorted briefly.
“Ashanti, my left foot! Ibo, Fulani, Koromantyn—baptise ’em all proper Christians and let’s hear no more about what heathen beliefs they may have brought with ’em. From the little I know, you don’t want to hear about that sort of thing, Colonel. Though if you do, of course,” he added hastily, recalling that it was not his place to tell the lieutenant-colonel who would be protecting Twelvetrees’s life and property his business, “then my sister’s quite right—Mrs. Abernathy would be best placed to advise you. Almost all her slaves are Ashanti. She…er…she’s said to…um…take an interest.”
To Grey’s own interest, Twelvetrees’s face went a deep red, and he hastily changed the subject, asking Grey fussy questions about the exact disposition of his troops. Grey evaded direct answers, beyond assuring Twelvetrees that two companies of infantry would be dispatched to his plantation as soon as word could be sent to Spanish Town.
He wished to leave at once, for various reasons, but was obliged to remain for tea, an uncomfortable meal of heavy, stodgy food, eaten under the heated gaze of Miss Twelvetrees. For the most part, he thought he had handled her with tact and delicacy, but toward the end of the meal she began to give him little pursed-mouth jabs. Nothing one could—or should—overtly notice, but he saw Philip blink at her once or twice in frowning bewilderment.