CONJURE BALLS, MOJOS AND FRIZZLY CHICKENS
         
                                        by
                                        Carl D. Kirby
         
         
         
             The beliefs and superstitions that I learned growing up in
         the Mississippi Delta have almost faded away. The tenants who
         nurtured them are dead or scattered to the four winds, displaced
         by machinery and technology.
         
             An early casualty of their migration to the cities was the
         legend of the Swift Peter. Occasionally renewed in the
         plantation environment, there was nothing to sustain it in the
         inner city. This widely-held belief had a credible basis in
         fact. I had heard about this mysterious animal since childhood,
         and in the early fifties an incident occurred that prompted me to
         investigate the source of the legend. One of my, tractor drivers
         said that he was keeping his prize possum hound in the house at
         night because a tenant on the adjacent place had reported a Swift
         Peter attack. I had previously interviewed plenty of witnesses,
         many of whom reported sightings of the animal. Descriptions were
         sketchy due to the blazing speed of the creature. The tenant
         reported I couldn't do nothin' but glimpse him 'fore he run into
         the cotton. There were many more ear witnesses than eye
         witnesses. The animal or animals attacked the house dogs and
         cats, killed or carried off chickens and small puppies. Dogs
         that fought them were often badly wounded. The attacks occurred
         at night and raised a tremendous racket. When the tenant ran out
         with his gun and lantern, he was always too late to get a shot.
         According to one victim, When he run off, it w'ant a minute till
         I heard a racket at the next house.
         
             My break-through came in the person of one Eddie Robinson, a
         one armed man who was chopping cotton for me. I admired Eddie
         because he had overcome his disability by rigging a leather
         harness with a large brass ring to slip the hoe handle through.
         I asked him if he had ever heard of a Swift Peter. I sho' have.
         I even seen one. Where? Cross the river in Arkansas. We was possum
         huntin' and the dogs bayed him. He was caught in somebody's trap.
         He like to killed one of the dogs before we shot him. How did you
         know it was a Swift Peter? They all said it was. What did it look
         like? Well, it was bigger than yo' bird dog, but not hardly as
         big as Mr. Butler's German Police dog, and he was kinda long and
         low. He had two rows of teefies on the bottom and the top
         teefies come down twix 'em.. .and kind of a yellow top knot.
         
             Eddie admitted that they were all drinking. I always found
         him to be truthful, so I believed he thought he saw the double
         row of teeth in the lower jaw. I believe that it was a Red Wolf,
         still surviving at that time in parts of Louisiana and Arkansas.
         A highly secretive animal, it could well have thrived in the vast
         forests between the levee on the Mississippi side.
         
             Two other beliefs, although erroneous, were supported by
         visual evidence. Because a boar possum has a forked penis, they
         believed it copulated in the nostrils of the female, who then
         sneezed the semen into the marsupial pouch. There was the
         Stinging Snake, properly named Chain Snake for the red linked
         design on its black body. This snake is harmless, but its tail
         ends in a sharp point that looks like a stinger. There was the
         recurring tale of one stinging a tree in its death throes,
         whereupon the tree promptly died.
         
             The strongest and most popular superstitions were of African
         origin. A gifted few had the power to cast spells or conjures to
         enlist the aid of good or evil spirits. They were referred to as
         witches, regardless of gender. I personally witnessed a
         successful conjure in the late thirties:
         
             Uncle Rambo was probably eighty, with a shock of white hair
         and a scraggly goatee. He was described as two headed; he had
         too much wisdom for one head, and he was feared and revered
          throughout his domain. One day he was fishing on the Yazoo Pass,
         and he ran out of pipe tobacco. He hailed a young man fishing
         nearby. Aubrey, you got any 'bacca?
             I ain't got nothin' but some Grainger Twist. That'll be all
         right, boy. Aubrey got to his feet and executed a dance that would
         become popular years later. The old man was speechless, not
         comprehending the play on words. Aubrey laughed, That ain't
         enough, I'll gi' you some mo'. He resumed his gyrations. Uncle
         Raxnbo didn't laugh. He pointed a shaking finger at Aubrey. You
         gon' be sorry for that, boy.
         
             A week or so later, Aubrey awoke to find a bloody sheet tied
         over the foot of his bed. Now, a conjure is no good unless the
         conjuree knows he or she is being conjured, and what the result
         will be. Uncle Rambo had put the word out that the sheet was a
         death sheet, and that Aubrey would lose the use of his legs.
         Not long after, my country doctor father got a call from the
         plantation owner to come see about Aubrey. I went along to drive
         and observe.
         
             There was no doubt Aubrey was ill. He was listless and his
         skin was ashy. Papa checked him over. He had no feeling in his
         legs and feet. He couldn't wiggle his toes or move his legs.
         Papa stuck him with a needle from his thighs to the soles of his
         feet. No reflexes. He elicited the story of the Grainger Twist
         from a tearful Aubrey. Don't worry, Aubrey, I'm going to find a
         cure for you.
         
             Back at headquarters, he told Mr. Turner, Tim, I can't do
         anything for Aubrey, but you can. Go to Uncle Rambo and give him
         twenty dollars to take the curse off. Don't laugh; I've read
         authentic stories of believing in spells so strongly that no
         doctor could cure them. There is nothing physically wrong with
         him, but don't discount the power of the mind. There are
         accounts of Polynesians who can simply will themselves to die
         when they are tired of living. As a doctor, I can't comprehend
         how one can stop an involuntary muscle like the heart, but they
         do it. By the way, this call is on me.
         
             Uncle Rambo allowed Aubrey's father to witness the removal.
         Although it was summer, he had Jim to kindle a hot fire in the
         fireplace. He threw in powders that blazed up in different
         colors. He mumbled incantations, rubbing Aubrey's legs with a
         salve that no doubt contained cayenne pepper. Aubrey began to
         sweat profusely. Uncle Rambo dried him off with a clean flour
         sack and threw it in the fire. Aubrey's legs twitched. He
         flexed his toes and began to shout. Thank you, Uncle Rambo!
         Thank you, Jesus! I'm sorry, Uncle Rambo, I was just jokin
         you.
         
             Uncle Rambo put his materials away. Don't never joke
         nobody like that again, boy. Don't open the window till the fire
         burn hitself out. Good evenin'. A week later, Aubrey was
         hoeing cotton. I was privileged to see another act of witchcraft
used to
         apprehend a fugitive. A fight at a card game resulted in the
         stabbing death of one of the players, and the perpetrator escaped
         into the woods behind the levee. He was at home in the woods,
         and presumed to be armed. When the dogs lost the trail in the
         river, the sheriff called off the search and obtained the
         services of a witch woman. He figured the killer's family were
         providing him with food and shelter, as well as reports on the
         movements of the searchers. At the funeral service, the witch
         placed an egg in each hand of the deceased and assured his family
         that three days after the burial, his hands would start squeezing
         the eggs, and the murderer would feel shortness of breath and
         heart pains. His heart would burst when the eggs did, unless he
         gave himself up beforehand. Of course, his kin duly informed
         him, and the tenth day after the funeral he came in, actually
         looking relieved.
         
             One of my hands asked off to attend his uncle's funeral. I
         asked him what was the cause of death. They say he had a snake
         in him.
         
             How in the world could he swallow a snake, Andrew?
         
             He didn't 'zackly swallow it.
             Well, how did it exactly get there?
             A witch-man put somthin' on him.
             How did he do it?
         
             They say he catch a snake of a certain kind and kill it in
          a certain way, and tie a certain knot in it. Then he hang it up
         in a tree till it dry, then he grind it into a powder, and put it
         in my uncle somethin' to eat. When he et it, the snake re-fawm
         inside him, then it quile around his heart and start squeezin'
         till he die.
         
             Didn't they try to do something to stop it?
             Everthaing they could; they give him some lye.
             Hell, Andrew, they burned him up trying to kill the snake!
             It wan't all that much, but his lips ~ real red.
             Many superstitions bordered on the ridiculous. One man who
         
         left his wife and came to live with relatives on my place gave
         the following explanation: My wife shade-dried my clothes. He
         had come home to find the clothing hanging under the front porch,
         and had left with just what he had on. I never did learn the
         penalty for ignoring this one, but twenty years later encountered
         a similar superstition among the negritos of Esmeraldas, Ecuador.
         
             The afflicted were not completely defenseless. Some spells
         had their antidotes. Butterbean hulls placed under the front
         porch steps prevented the entry of malicious spirits that brought
         illness. A bottle tree in the front yard was a good all around
         repellent. A small dead tree or bush with plenty of branches was
         festooned with all colors and shapes of small bottles, chiefly
         those used for medicines, flavoring and hair straightener. They
         were fine for ordinary spells cast from a distance, but availed
         not against conjure balls hidden near the house. Conjure balls
          were made from secret ingredients ground into a powder, mixed
         with beeswax and rolled into a marble-sized ball. It could be
         tossed under the porch or close to the house, where it would pass
         unnoticed while it slowly released its malignant vapors. The
         only known antidote for this was the frizzly chicken. These
         chickens are distinguished by feathers which curl forward, giving
         the appearance of standing with their butts to a strong breeze.
         Persons carelessly picking up a conjure ball would receive the
         full charge of the curse, possibly killing them outright. The
         frizzly, being immune, would track down the ball, pick it up and
         tote it into the woods, far from the proximity of the intended
         victim.
         
             There were charms intended to offset bad luck with good. I
         carried a rabbit's foot in grade school. Our cook, Henrietta,
         got me a Three S Toby, a small bag packed with soot, sand and
         salt, and some little hard balls that felt like okra seed. I
         wore it on a string inside my shirt. The little chamois bag was
         tightly sewn, and it was never to be opened. Its job was to keep
         haunts we called them haints from scaring me. It was very
         effective, and obviously had great residual effect. It has been
         sixty-nine years since I lost it swimming in Moon Lake, and to
         this day, I've never been scared by a haint.
         
         
         
         
         
                                     THE END