A creek in the woods, wandering lost,
ripples beneath the low hanging moss
and carries falling leaves for a ride,
they swirl in the eddies and raft on the tides
and rush to and fro to the swampy lows,
then slow, to unfold in a pool of shadow.

And only be chance do the leaves arrive
at the hidden pond where Joeabb resides.

Here, the sunlight is filtered by shade
of trees in the water. Their trunks colonnade
at the edge of the pond like sentries at guard;
banishing all who would venture this far
to spy on creatures asleep on the logs,
that swim in the cattails or slog thru the bog
or perhaps the reclusive Joeabb the Frog,
the once famous tenor, ghost of the fog.

Leagues to the south, as the blackbirds fly,
at a green lily pond in times gone by,
a young Joeabb, just tadpole to frog,
soon discovered his gift from the fog;
a beautiful voice, hauntingly tender
with range and power – basso to tenor.
Those who heard him were staggered with awe
and news spread quickly of Joeabb the Frog.

Come evening, the pond was symphony hall,
crickets would fiddle, hoot owls would call,
heron and egrets swooshed in the shallows
and frogs by the scores puffed their bellows.
Birds of all feathers flocked the trees,
lightning bugs lighted the mist magically,
a lodge of beavers thumped hollow logs
but all would go still, for Joeabb the Frog.

It seems he would sing to the night, unaware
that a throng of listeners had gathered there
and often his eyes would drift to his maid,
a spotted she-frog, he called Lilyjade;
crooning sweet tones for her alone
as if his songs were a lover’s poem.
And after the throng of the gathered had gone,
they’d snuggle together to wish on the dawn.

Joeabb rejected the trappings of fame;
refused the gifts, ignored the acclaim.
Offers of travel and sing on the lake,
though tempting, he thought, tempted the fates.
Until he was nudged by his own Lilyjade;
with a goodbye kiss, he was whisked away
and night after night he sang for her sake,
while millions listened around the great lake.

The fog rolled in, his tenor voice soared
and those so impressed by this frog troubadour
thundered a cheer that rippled the lake
at the end of the concerts of Joeabb the Great.
Each morn, he vow to the great beyond
that soon he’d return to the green lily pond
where surely his mate ponders the dawn
and lingers with fading stars to wish on.

At the final performance, a fierce wind blew
and everyone, looking for cover, withdrew.
Joeabb impulsively headed for home
and wrestled the gales of the night alone.
He arrived along with the calm of day
and met by the creatures who weathered the fray,
he saw his pond completely transformed
and heard cruel stories wrought by the storm.

Heads bowed when he called Lilyjade,
for she was swept by the hurricane’s rage.
Joeabb searched thru the woods for leagues
and refused to accept what the others believed.
He swam the swamps and the waterways,
journeyed farther and wider each day,
and after months of the same, on and on,
he never returned to the green lily pond.

Some say he’s lost, others he died;
fell in a cavern, buried alive.
Some say he found a moonbeam of blue
and climbed to the sky for a better view.
But in truth he repaired to this swampy glade,
so cloistered by backwater bramble and shade
and began a song so incredibly strong
that time itself refused to move on.

When the mist comes from the trees beyond
he croons to a moon and a love that is gone
and endeavors to conjure his Lilyjade
from the ghostly haze that glides the glade;
certain that when his voice becomes pure,
she’ll respond from beyond the misty moor.
But the fog only drifts thru his sad serenade,
years into decades and age upon age.

Now, a thousand years have gone by;
his voice so pure, just a note makes you cry.
And so, the angels who bring forth the dawn
were moved to tears by his woeful song.
With a touch they placed this hidden pond
between the here and the great beyond
and nestled the souls of two little frogs
who live forever in love in the fog.

On warm summer evenings while lying your bed
or rocking the porch with stars overhead,
you may hear a voice so incredibly pure
you’ll clutch at your heart in rapture, assured,
if you close your eyes and breathe the night air
you’ll drift with the mist that lifts you to where
a blithe little spirit sings in the fog
and you’ll hum along with Joeabb the Frog.

You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Road.com. Large or small, any amount helps!

Adapted from folklore by Craig Dominey

Near the mouth of Dunbar Creek on Georgia’s St. Simons Island, there’s a section of swampy marshland where some fishermen refuse to cast their lines. In the daytime, it doesn’t look any different from the other vast marshes stretching across Georgia’s coastal islands. Elongated white herons call to one another over the endless plain of reeds and mosquito infested marsh grasses. Fiddler crabs scurry across the sands. Unseen creatures plop into the black waters.

But when night falls, it is said that one can hear a different sound entirely. Swamps are known to make strange sounds at night. But if you listen closely, you may hear what sounds like the faint rattling of chains drifting across the marsh, followed by an eerie chant: “The water brought us the water will take us away.”

If you think your ears are deceiving you, think again. For the old timers in the area will tell you that what you’re hearing is the brave warrior Oba, leading his people on their final march home.

Oba, as you may have guessed, is an African name. So our story begins in early nineteenth century Africa – the coast of West Africa to be exact, in the country now known as Nigeria. It is in the southeastern part of this country that the Ibo tribe lives, and has lived for hundreds of years. Early European explorers once called these people “savages,” but the Ibos were anything but. They were spiritual, highly intelligent people well trained in the arts of agriculture, education and war. They tamed miles of tropical rain forests and coastal swampland into cultivable fields and wealthy cities. In fact, the Europeans found that there was little they could trade with the Ibos that the Ibos couldn’t produce themselves.

Oba lived deep within the interior of Iboland in a village founded years before by his great-grandfather. Oba was the proud father of two sons, with a third child on the way. He was tremendously excited about the new arrival, and even talked to the unborn child in his beautiful wife’s womb. For the Ibo believed that the dead and the unborn were always present in their daily lives, and that their homeland was holy ground that they could never leave.

As a hunter and a warrior, Oba was one of the most respected and relied upon members of his village. For it was his job to protect the village from enemies, both human and animal. Oba wore his responsibilities proudly, adorning his body with beautiful emblems that reflected his power and status.

Early one morning, Oba prepared to leave on a hunt with some other men from the village. As he sharpened his arrows, he suddenly heard the voice of his unborn child, whispering cryptically…

“The waters will bring you back to us.”

Startled, Oba looked back at his wife, still sleeping on their bed. “What does that mean?” he quietly replied in her direction.

Again, the unborn child whispered, “The waters will bring you back to us.”

Oba thought about this strange message for a moment, then shook it off. Maybe my unborn child thinks I’m traveling by canoe on this hunt, he thought. But he wasn’t – he was traveling on foot.

Oba told his two sons to help their mother with the daily chores, then tenderly kissed his wife goodbye. “I’ll be home soon,” he said with a smile. Then he confidently walked away.

Hours later, Oba found himself alone in the vast grasslands. In the distance, he spotted a herd of antelopes grazing peacefully, oblivious to his presence. Oba crept closer to the herd, stealthily removed his bow and arrow, and aimed.

In a flash, the antelope suddenly scattered. Oba watched them run away in disbelief. He had been as quiet as the wind, just as he always was. What caused the antelope to run?

Without warning, something hard struck him on the back of the head. He crashed to the ground, his head throbbing with pain. As he tried to get up, he was struck again across the face, this time by something that felt like a fist. He could hear excited voices swarming around him. Then two strong men lifted him to his feet, holding his arms behind his back. Too delirious to fight, Oba offered little resistance as the men tied him up tightly in a grass rope and shackled his ankles and neck.

As his eyes clouded with blood from the deep gash on his head, Oba could see that his captors were rival tribesmen, gleeful at their fine catch. One of them yanked on a chain attached to his neck shackle, dragging Oba through the grasslands like a dog.

Oba’s captors dragged him miles away from his village. The rope and shackles dug into his skin, and the neck shackle made it difficult to swallow or breathe. But the most intense pain came from the helplessness he felt. For Oba knew that other invaders must be close to his family, and there was nothing he could do to protect them. The thought of his wife and children in shackles made his blood run cold. He shook it off, thinking desperately about escape.

Hours later, they reached the wide banks of the monstrous Niger River. Other enemy tribesman had gathered there with similar “catches” of all ages, many weak and malnourished. Oba’s spirits lifted briefly, until he realized that his family wasn’t among the captured. Some captives he knew by sight, others he had never seen before.

The captives were thrown into waiting canoes and paddled down the mighty Niger. Oba writhed in pain on the dirty, water-soaked floor, covered in sores, intense pain shooting up his back. He watched the wispy clouds drifting through the hot African skies above him, and prayed silently to the spirits of his ancestors to watch over his family.

Oba had drifted off to sleep before he was suddenly awakened by a tremendous commotion. Night had fallen, and the canoes were docked in what Oba guessed was a large river village. His captors suddenly yanked him to his feet and ordered him and his fellow captives onto the dock.

As he stood upright, Oba’s jaw dropped. They had landed in a bustling coastal town on the banks of a vast ocean. Tall masted merchant ships, bigger than anything Oba had ever seen, were lined up on the dock.

From out of nowhere, a group of white skinned beings suddenly surrounded Oba, inspecting him carefully. Oba had heard about these white beings before, but this was the first time he had seen them in the flesh. With their cold eyes, angry mannerisms and colorful, otherworldly garments, they didn’t look like human beings at all, but white monsters that had come to terrify him. What were they doing here?

One of these white monsters suddenly nodded, and Oba was dragged to an area near the ships. He was humiliatingly held down, stripped of his clothes and proud adornments, and shaved from head to toe. Oba screamed with pain as a white monster stuck him with a red-hot iron, branding a strange symbol into his skin. He was then lead down into the dark bowels of a waiting ship, where he was chained to a rack and left.

Oba squinted through the darkness. He could make out hundreds of other eyes staring back at him, filled with the same unspeakable fear. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the hold was filled with other Ibos from across Iboland – men, women and children of all ages, shackled together in pairs onto racks. No one spoke, afraid of what the white monsters might do next.

The large boat suddenly lurched into the water, its massive wood frame moaning and creaking. The captives were tossed back and forth, some screaming and crying. But Oba could only stare into the darkness, a horrifying thought chilling him to the core. For he felt in his heart that he might never see his family, his ancestors or his homeland again.

Weeks went by, and the massive boat lurched across the storm swept seas. Fearful of the boat collecting water, the white sailors closed off nearly all of the air openings below, turning the hold into a hellish world of disease, bodily waste and death. The stale air below was so rank that the candles wouldn’t remain lit. Food and water were scarce. Many Ibos died quietly in the foul darkness.

The sick and the dying were thrown overboard. The others were occasionally taken up to the deck to dance for the amusement of the sailors, who played strange musical instruments with strings and a stick. As they danced, the Ibos could see swarms of sharks in the waters below, eagerly waiting for the next captive to be tossed over the side.

Some Ibos attempted suicide by rubbing their wrists against their shackles until they bled to death. Others thought of mutiny, but were terrified of being severely beaten.

But Oba somehow kept his head, for he had become something of a leader while on the boat. For the Ibo children who had been torn from their families, Oba provided a smile, a knowing wink and, when the white sailors weren’t looking, words of comfort when needed. When rival tribesmen turned on each other, Oba was the mediator. When desperate captives thought about suicide, Oba reminded them of the inner strength that all Ibos shared.

But Oba’s thoughts were always with his family. He wondered if his wife and child were crossing the water on similar boats, destination unknown. No matter how hard he tried to shake these thoughts off, they nagged him day and night. Sometimes, under cover of darkness, Oba would cry silently to himself.

But then he would hear a faint whisper – the same cryptic whisper he heard as he was sharpening his arrows that morning before the hunt. It was his unborn child telling him:

“The waters will bring you back to us.”

As the weeks passed, his unborn child’s voice was the only comfort Oba had. Oba still wasn’t sure what this message meant. But he felt that it wouldn’t be long before he found out.

One evening, the Ibo captives were suddenly awakened by an explosion of activity on deck. Though they could not understand what the white sailors were saying, they noticed that the boat had slowed, and some sort of landing preparations were underway. After three torturous months, they would finally be able to disembark. But where would they be?

The white men gruffly unchained the captives from the racks and shoved them up on deck. In the bright moonlight, Oba could see that they were drifting down what looked to be a creek of some sort. He also noticed that the white men’s voices had suddenly become hushed and anxious.

The boat finally came to rest on a bluff near the end of the creek. The plank was gently lowered and, one by one, the terrified Ibos were marched into the black night, their ankles shackled together. They shivered as the cold, muddy soil of this alien land squished under their bare feet.

Oba could now see that they had landed in some sort of salt marsh ribboned with tidal creeks. Rustling palm tree fronds and Spanish moss filtered soft streams of moonlight down onto the black waters. In the stillness, Oba could hear the eerie sounds of night birds calling one another, crickets and frogs chirping in the grass, unseen creatures splashing into the water. The air was thick with the salty smells of the sea.

This new world, in fact, felt like the Niger Delta marshland back home. Oba suddenly had a glimmer of hope. After all that time, had they turned around and returned to Africa?

Then the glow of pine torches emerged from the black forest, and Oba could see that they belonged to more white people, their garments as strange as those on the white merchants back home. In hushed tones, they closely inspected the Ibo captives – pinching them, prodding them, stripping them of their clothes. Liking what they saw, these new white people produced wads of money and bartered with the sailors.

Now Oba realized the horrible truth: he and his people were being sold into slavery. This wasn’t a strange idea to him – his village back home had used prisoners of war as slaves before. But what lay in wait for them deep within this black, alien swamp?

Oba looked into the eyes of his fellow captives. Some were vacant and weary, others wide with terror. Some captives even flashed sparks of humiliation and anger. They all seemed to know that their fate had been sealed – that they would spend the rest of their lives enslaved to these brutal white monsters, in a world they could never hope to understand.

Again, Oba thought of his family back home, both above and below the earth. He took some comfort in knowing that, as all Ibos believed, his soul would one day return to Iboland upon his death. But his soul could not return while his living body remained in the white man’s world. Besides, he thought, the white man does not deserve to reap the fruits of my labor.

It was then that Oba again heard the voice of his unborn child, this time booming through his ears:

“The water will bring you back to us! The water will bring you back to us!”

Oba suddenly understood what his unborn child was trying to say. As the white people hastily negotiated with one another, Oba leaned over and whispered something into the ear of the captive next to him, who in turn passed it down the line. All looked back in agreement with Oba – men, women and children, some with tears in their eyes. And as they slowly turned together and walked away from their captors, they began to softly chant the words that Oba had whispered to them:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

Up on the ship, a white sailor suddenly noticed what was going on. He rushed to the side and looked down upon the Ibos, walking hand in hand into the black water, their shackles clanking around their ankles.

“They’re walking into the water!” he screamed.

The other sailors snapped to attention and ran after the Ibos, sloshing blindly through the dark marsh. They pointed guns in their direction and ordered them to stop. But the Ibos kept walking deeper and deeper into the water, their eerie refrain growing louder and louder:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

Oba placed his hand down the head of a young boy about his son’s age who had been ripped away from his parents. There was no fear in the boy’s eyes, only a defiant certainty. The two smiled at one another as the waters rose to swallow them, their loud voices trailing off behind them:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

Within seconds, the rattling of the chains stopped, and the voices were silenced. The white sailors watched with horror as men, women and children sank together into the murky depths, never to return.

This act of defiance did not stop the slave trade in coastal Georgia. For over sixty more years, slaves from Africa continued to toil on the vast cotton plantations that blossomed throughout the area.

But when work was done, the slaves would sometimes gather around the fire and tell the story of the Ibos. For to them, the Ibos’ defiance gave them hope that one day they, too, would return to the motherland – if not in body, then in spirit.

And to this day, they say that if you sit near the mouth of Dunbar Creek on certain nights and listen closely, you’ll hear the sound of the Ibos’ rattling chains, along with the sounds of bare feet slapping against the dark waters. And, if you’re not too frightened already, you may also want to keep an ear out for their solemn, defiant refrain as it drifts like a whisper through the marsh:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Road.com. Large or small, any amount helps!

Written by Thomas E. Fuller

Hungry for the Gulf, the Dark River flows broad and wide after River Bend. The marshlands appear as the riverbanks fade. But if you go far enough into the marshes…

The swamps begin.

Now Chancy Fox was a gambling man, and a good one. So it was just damn laziness that ran him afoul of Sheriff Black Mountain Kincaid and his two brothers, Kennesaw and Stone. That was up at Swann’s Landing, right above Meridia. Chancy may have been lazy, but he wasn’t a total fool. He was up and out of there before that fifth ace he’d tucked up his sleeve hit the table. He figured as soon as he was outside of Swann’s Landing, he’d be out of the Sheriff’s jurisdiction and free.

He figured wrong.

Chancy Fox had offended something deep in Black Mountain Kincaid’s rusty soul. The Sheriff reached the limits of Swann’s Landing and just kept going. And where Black Mountain went, his brothers were sure to follow.

That gambler ran south, hugging the banks of the Dark River. Past Carpenter and Egret. Past Meridia itself. And everywhere he tried to get a friendly game of cards going, here they would come, riding into town on their black horses, close as memory, relentless as death. Sheriff Black Mountain Kincaid and his brothers.

Chancy Fox was getting right desperate. So he came up with a plan. He took a ride on the Blue Stag Packet steamship when it stopped for wood at Paradox. He knew the Brothers Kincaid would be right behind him. Soon as the steamer hit the marshlands, he undid the dingy tied to its side and slipped away into the night. Into the marsh he went. Twist right, twist left, twist right again. Soon as he was well in, he rowed into the grass and waited. Sure enough, another dingy came slipping past with three large men and a lantern. Chancy Fox waited for a few minutes, chuckled and stared rowing back the way he’d come.

Two hours later he was still rowing.

Now you’d think a man couldn’t lose something as big as a river, but Chancy managed it. He turned and turned and turned again and still couldn’t see anything but marsh grass. He was so busy not seeing things that he didn’t notice all the Cyprus trees until he was surrounded by them. Spanish moss like old men’s whiskers brushed his face and he couldn’t see for the mosquitoes. Then two things happened. He saw the huge rotting old plantation house rise up out of the darkness.

And someone coshed him a good one on the back of the head.

When Chancy came to, he was lying on a dank, mildewed old chaise in the middle of a dank mildewed old room. And three women were fussing over him. Well, at least they looked like women. Kinda. They were are tall and thin, like paper fold herons, and dressed in ragged finery at least sixty years out of date. And their eyes were very, very bright – and their teeth were very, very sharp.

At first, Chancy was enjoying all the attention. Then he actually started listening to what the sisters were saying and the enjoying stopped right fast. Their voices were dry and rustley, like mice scampering through old newspapers. They’d been in that decaying house ever since Daddy died and the swamp rose, and they were right lonely…

…And right hungry. And Chancy he remembered that mosquitoes ain’t the only things that drink blood.

But Chancy could think fast when he had to, and he thought fast now. “Ladies,” he said with a courtly cough, “I am flattered by your attention, but there are three of you, and I’m right poorly. But out in that swamp is a boat with a lantern, and three of the finest men it is my privilege to know. And while I am loathed to share, whatever are friends for?”

The sisters looked at each other and tittered and suddenly they were gone, like herons flying off into the night. Having effectively taken care of Black Mountain Kincaid and his brothers, Chancy Fox tipped his hat over his eyes and went to sleep. Later, he thought he heard screams coming up outa that swamp, but it was probably a dream.

As day started to break, there was a dry rustling like birds with paper wings, and the sisters were back. Now instead of being tall and thin like herons, they were round and blotted like ticks and not paying any attention to Chancy. But Chancy was paying attention to them. They disappeared into the bowels of the house and Chancy waited until the sun was up full, broke three legs off a chair, and went hunting.

He found them in three separate rooms, lying in three separate coffins, and without so much as a thank you, he drove a chair leg through each of their hearts. Black blood erupted all over the place, but Chancy didn’t mind. And when they were dead, they were really dead.

Now if Chancy had been as smart as he thought he was, he would have found his dingy and gotten far, far away from there. But he figured ladies like that would have jewels or some such, and it took him a while to find them. But find them he did, even though it took him all day. Night was falling when he finally headed down the crumbling steps and the deep cavernous voice rumbled at him out of the night.

“Evenin’, gambler.”

And Chancy Fox turned and stared at the tall bulky figure of Sheriff Black Mountain Kincaid looming in the dark, his two giant brothers on either side of him.

“Evenin’, Sheriff,” Chancy answered. “Heard you was dead.”

“That’s strange, gambler. Heard the same thing about you.”

And the Sheriff smiled and his brothers smiled. And their eyes were very, very bright, and their teeth were very, very sharp. And Chancy Fox remembered a few other things about bloodsuckers.

He didn’t even bother to scream as they closed in on him, their blood-soaked clothes rustling like paper wings.

Hungry for the Gulf, the Dark River flows broad and wide after River Bend. The marshlands appear as the riverbanks fade. But if you go far enough into the marshes…

The swamps begin.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Road.com. Large or small, any amount helps!

Adapted by Craig Dominey and Veronica Byrd

One morning, in a small shack deep within a Louisiana swamp, Sister Jones woke with a start. She looked at her husband who was sleeping soundly beside her. She was a bit uneasy, for she had dreamed of a beautiful wedding, and she had been taught since the time she was little that to dream of marriage was a sure sign of death. Sister Jones lay there and wondered who was going to be the one to pass from this earthly life to the next – she or her husband, Cephus.

Well, about a week later, she got her answer. Her husband, who had been suffering with the consumption, took a turn for the worst and slipped from this life into the spirit world. Now, the widow Jones was sad to see her husband go, but she should have seen it coming, for she had been warned by the dream.

Sister Jones immediately covered all of the mirrors in the house soon after her husband Cephus died, ’cause everyone in town knew that, if you didn’t, the image of the dead would remain in the mirrors. Now, Sister Jones loved her husband, but she didn’t want his image hanging around in those mirrors.

The next day, Sister Jones buried her husband. Afterwards, she and the mourners came back to the house and were just sitting around talking about how they were going to miss poor ol’ Cephus, stubborn though he was, when the front door swung open. A cold breeze filled the entire room – and in walked Cephus! He walked up to the mourners and said, “Y’all talkin’ ’bout me?”

He then pulled up his favorite rocking chair and sat down right between his widow and the lead mourner and said, “What’s all this about? Y’all act like somebody’s dead. Who’s dead?”

Well, needless to say, by this time all the mourners had jumped up and run clean out of the house. But the widow, who was also very frightened, managed to blurt out, “N…now Cephus, y…you know you is dead! So why are you s…sittin’ here in the living room and not in the g…graveyard?”

“Dead?” said Cephus. “How come you say I’m dead? I sho’ don’t feel dead!”

The widow was quite confused by now, and she simply told him, “Y…you may not feel dead, Cephus, b…but you look dead as can be. You b…better get back in the grave where you belong!”

Now, even though Cephus was dead, he was still very stubborn. He said, “No! I ain’t going back to any grave until I FEEL DEAD!” He then moved closer to the fire and tried to warm his cold hands and feet, all the while giving the room an icy chill. And from sundown to sunup, day after day, that’s all he did – sit by the fire, rockin’ back and forth.

After a few weeks of Brother Cephus just sitting around, things started to get bad in the household. Cephus’s skin turned a funny gray color, and it looked real dusty. Every time he’d move, his joints creaked and cracked. And as the days wore on, he’d creak and crack more and more.

The widow Jones, who hadn’t received any company since her husband’s untimely return, began to wonder just how long this corpse would last. Their insurance company refused to pay the insurance because Cephus declared to everyone that he wasn’t dead. To make matters worse, the undertaker threatened to take back the coffin if Cephus refused to lie in it!

Now, the widow Jones needed that insurance money awfully bad, and what’s more, she was getting really tired of her dead husband sitting around the house, creakin’ and crackin’. She tried to convince Cephus time and time again to get back in the grave. But each time, he’d protest, “Leave me alone woman! I ain’t going back to no burying ground ’til I’m dead – and I DON’T FEEL DEAD YET!”

Widow Jones just knew that something had to be done.

Well, Cephus had been sitting around the house for about a month before, one night, the best fiddler in town built up enough nerve to go by and visit the widow Jones. After all, she hadn’t had any company since Cephus came back.

The fiddler came in and sat on one side of the fire and Cephus, in his favorite rocking chair, sat on the other – cracking, creaking and still trying to warm his cold hands and feet. They exchanged glances and made small talk – as small as a human and a corpse could make. But after a few minutes of this, it was very obvious that the two men were rather uncomfortable.

By and by, Cephus blurted out, “All this sittin’ around is boring. Let’s the three of us do something fun. How ’bout some music, Brother Fiddler? Let’s dance an’ limber up our joints a bit!”

Still trying to get used to the fact that he was sitting and talking with a corpse, the fiddler got out his fiddle and started to play. When Cephus heard that music, he jumped up, shook himself about, and he started buck dancing around the room. “Now that’s more like it!” he hollered as he skipped and pranced about, his old rotten bones creaking and cracking even louder than before. For a dead man, he sure could dance!

In fact, he danced so hard that a piece of his arm flew loose and fell on the floor. Not believing his eyes, the fiddler stopped playing and said, “Good golly, look at that!”

The widow Jones grinned at the sight, an idea coming to her head. “Play faster!” she demanded.

The fiddler played faster, and Cephus danced faster. He danced so fast that pieces of bone went flying everywhere!

Now, by this time, the po’ fiddler was so scared he didn’t know what to do. “W…w…what should I do now?” he pleaded to the widow. The widow kept hollerin’, “Faster! Faster! Keep playing faster!” The fiddler, too frightened to do other than what he was told, played faster. Cephus danced faster, and the fiddler played faster still. Cephus danced faster, bones droppin’ all the time, until all at once Cephus crumbled to the floor in a big heap of bones.

There lay the bones of Cephus, still as they could be – except for his big ol’ bald head! Why, it kept dancin’ all by itself, just-a-grinnin’ up at the fiddler! That head was bouncing all over the floor just-a-dancin’ and a-grinnin’!

The widow hollered, “Play faster, Fiddler! Play faster!”

Well, the fiddler wasn’t hearing none of that. He said, “I’m sorry, Sister Jones, but I gotta go run and get me some rosin for my bow. I’ll be right back.” Well, I’ll have you know, that fiddler ran out of that front door in a flash, and he hasn’t been seen since.

When the fiddlin’ stopped, Cephus’s bald head grinned up at his wife and said, “What happened to the music? I wanna dance some more!”

The widow simply looked at the head and said, “The music has stopped, Cephus, and so have you. You’ve danced yourself into a big heap of bones, and now it’s time for you to go back to the graveyard.”

Cephus’s big ol’ eyes looked around, and he noticed that he didn’t have a body. So he sighed a big sigh and said, “Okay, wife. I guess I do feel dead now. Go on and take me to the graveyard.”

So the widow Jones gathered up all the bones and took them back to the graveyard. But she was careful to lay those bones all crisscrossed-like, so Cephus could never jump up and dance some more. After that, Cephus didn’t get up outta that grave no more.

And, it’s sad to say, the po’ widow Jones remained a widow for the rest of her life. Most folks think it was that dancin’ head that kept all the men away!

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Road.com. Large or small, any amount helps!

Written by J.J. Reneaux

Down in the bayou country there was once a beautiful girl named Marie. She was so pretty, so jolie, that all the people called her Marie Jolie. She was as sweet as sugar cane, but if you did her wrong, look out, for that girl could show a temper as hot as cayenne pepper!

Now Marie Jolie grew to be of a marrying age, but to her maman’s disappointment, she wasn’t yet of a mind to be married. First, she wanted to have adventures and see the big world, so she found something wrong with every young man who came to court her. This one was too short; that one was too tall; the next one had the ears of an elephant.

After a while her maman got impatient with Marie, for she worried that her daughter would wind up an old maid – a terrible fate in those days. So Maman says, “Marie Jolie, it is time for you to take a husband. You can’t pick one to suit you, so me, I’m gonna do it for you. We gonna have us a contest. You see this pumpkin? I’m gonna get M’su Carencro, the buzzard, to put it on the highest little skinniest branch of that big cypress tree out there in the swamp. Chère, the man that can fetch that pumpkin down without fallin’ in the water is gonna be your husband!”

“Well, Maman,” says Marie, “if it’s got to be, I s’pose – that’s as good a way as any of choosin’ a man.”

The contest was held the following week. Men came from parishes far and near, each one more eager than the next to win the hand of Marie Jolie. But one, a tall, dark, handsome man, stood out from the crowd. “Ooh, Maman,” says Marie, “I hope he gets the pumpkin! He’s a good-lookin’ devil for true.”

One after the other, the men tried to climb the great cypress, but they all ended up spitting swamp water. At last the good lookin’ stranger’s turn came. Quick as lightnin’, he scaled that tree like a cat, snatched the pumpkin, and landed with his boots on dry land. Before she knew it, Marie Jolie was a married woman!

She climbed proud as could be into her husband’s wagon, and they started driving down the road. It wasn’t long, however, before she noticed that things were getting strange. The path was growing darker and darker, and her new husband uglier and uglier.

Suddenly, a fearsome man appeared beside the path. “Gimme my tie and collar which I lent ya!” he calls out. Marie’s husband took off the tie and collar. “Here, then,” he says, “take back your ol’ tie and collar.”

A little farther down the road, they met another man. He says, “Gimme back my coat which I lent ya!” “Take your ol’ coat,” says her husband.

Yet a third man appeared and demanded his trousers; a fourth demanded his hat. A little while later, her husband stopped the wagon, disappeared briefly into the swamp woods, and returned just as well dressed as before!

Finally, a fifth man, fiercer than all the others together, his face hidden in the shadow of his tall hat, appeared before them and pointed a long, bony finger. “Give me the horses which I lent ya!” he roars. “Go to the devil, then,” says her husband with a wicked laugh, “and take your ol’ horses with ya.”

He watched as the man led the animals away, then he turned to his wife and hissed, “Girl, get down and hitch ya’self to the wagon and pull us home !” Marie Jolie could feel her temper rising. She was gonna tell him a thing or two! But a terrible change had come over her husband. His icy glare and ugly scowl frightened her. She thought she had better do as he said at least for a little while. She climbed down, hitched herself to the wagon, and began to pull with all her strength.

At last they arrived at her husband’s cabane. It was a gloomy lookin’ place, set way back in the swamp woods. “Marie Jolie,” says her husband, “I must leave. While I am gone, you will stay here and see no one. My maman will take good care of you ” And he disappeared in a burst of flames and smoke.

Marie was scared for true. She begged her new momma-in-law, “Please, Belle-Megrave, tell me why my husband is so strange.”

Belle-Megrave, who was a kind woman at heart and felt worse than anybody about how her son had turned out, sadly shook her head. “Oh, chère fille, ” she says, “you’ve made a terrible match. You have gone and married M’su Diable, the devil himself!”

Marie couldn’t believe her ears. “Old woman, you are only jealous. You just want to break up my marriage.”

“You do not believe me, p’tite fille? Come with me,” the old woman whispered. She led Marie Jolie inside the house to a secret door. She unlocked it with a big brass key and the heavy door creaked open. There, inside that dim room, Marie saw the devil’s other wives – each one hanging from a hook!

Now Marie Jolie knew the truth. “Oh, please, Belle- Mère,” she cried, “you gotta tell me how I can escape! How can I get out of here?”

“Girl, do you not see what became of the others who tried to escape? Stay with me, little one, I will keep you company and ease your suffering,” Belle-Megrave pleaded. “Do not bring down the terrible wrath of my son, the devil!”

But Marie Jolie was growing angry, and in her anger she grew bold. “No,” she insisted, “I will not be the devil’s wife! If you won’t help me escape, then I’ll find a way on my own.”

Belle-Megrave sighed. “The devil knows many tricks. He can change into fire and smoke and ride the wind. You cannot outrun him, but maybe if you are brave enough you can outsmart him. Even the devil cannot defeat a strong heart. But if your courage fails, he will destroy you.”

Marie was determined. “My heart is strong and my mind is made up,” she said. “M’su Diable will not destroy me.”

“All right then,” says Belle-Megrave, “here is what you must do. M’su Diable will return in the deepest night, at three o’clock, the soul’s hour. He hates dawn and the rising sun. In its light he cannot hide his true self, so he sleeps. His spy, Gaime, the rooster, keeps watch. If he catches you tryin’ to escape, he will crow. Tonight you must feed Gaime three bags of corn instead of one, so that he will oversleep. At sunrise, go and gather six dirty eggs. They will protect you. Do not take the clean eggs, for they are bad luck. Then, chère, run as quick-quick as you can away from this place!”

Marie did as she was told. Rooster overslept and she got the six dirty eggs. She tiptoed out, soft-soft, but the gate hinge squeaked and Gaime woke up crowin’ full-throat. “M’su Diable, M’su Diable, wake up! Vite-vite! Your wife is gettin’ away!”

Marie ran for her life as M’su Diable came screaming after her. She had not gone far when she turned and saw a cloud of smoke and fire approaching. She took one dirty egg and threw it over her shoulder. Boom! It exploded right in the devil’s path, and a fence of wood as high and wide as the eye could see sprang up. M’su Diable snorted and stomped in fury and flew back to his cabane. When he returned, he had his magic golden axe. The axe chopped through the fence at once, and the devil was again hot on the trail of his runaway wife.

Marie grabbed a second dirty egg and heaved it straight at the devil. Crack! It flashed like a bolt of lightning, and a fence of brick sprang up as high and wide as the eye could see. The devil cursed and spat, and his magic axe smashed the brick to splinters.

Marie took aim and flung the third dirty egg. It shattered like thunder, and a fence of stone sprang up as high and wide as the eye could see. The devil shrieked and set his axe to ripping through the wall, and soon the cloud of fire and smoke again threatened to destroy her.

Marie took the fourth egg and hurled it through the air. The earth shook with its force, and a fence of iron sprang up as high and wide as the eye could see. But it, too, was little trouble for M’su Diable’s fearsome magic.

Marie ran as fast as she could, but M’su Diable was almost upon her. She grabbed the fifth egg and pitched it straight into the fireball behind her. A wall of flames roared to the sky, and a deep bayou appeared before the devil. The water stopped him cold. But suddenly a great gust of wind blew the evil cloud of smoke and fire over the bayou, and the waters began to boil.

Marie’s blood ran cold as ice when she looked back this time. For M’su Diable had dropped his disguise, and now she saw the ol’ devil himself as he truly is. His forked tail whipped wildly about, his cloven hooves raised clouds of dust, and his goat beard flapped wickedly in the wind. The bright sun glinted off his sharp, curved horns, and his beady eyes burned like hot coals. Crusty red scales covered his body. For true, M’su Diable looked a whole lot like a boiled crawfish!

Only one dirty egg remained, and Marie threw it with her last ounce of strength. But her hand trembled so that she completely missed her mark. The egg fell at her own two feet and exploded. The earth rumbled and cracked. A mighty river came rolling by. It was the Mississippi! Marie was trapped. How could she ever swim such a wide, dangerous river?

But wait – wasn’t that ol’ Grandmaman Cocodrie sunning herself out there in the shallows? Marie cried out to the alligator, “Je vous en prie, Grandmaman, traver-sez-moi. Sauvez ma vie! Aidez-moi, vieille Grandmaman! I beg you, carry me across. Save my life. Help me, old Grandmother!”

Grandmaman Cocodrie, always on the lookout for an easy meal, swam up to Marie without a moment’s hesitation. “Maybe I will carry you across,” she growled. “But tell me, what makes you think I won’t eat you up?”

“Grandmaman,” says Marie, “I’d rather be your supper than be the devil’s wife!”

“Climb on my back, p’tite fille, I like your courage!” says the old cocodrie, and she carried Marie quickly and safely to the other side.

Just then, M’su Diable came running up to the bank. In his most charming voice he called out, “Traversez-moi, Grandmaman, traversez-moi! Belie, belie cocodrie! Carry me across, old Grandmother, carry me across! Beautiful, beautiful alligator!”

“Climb on my back, M’su, I’ll give you a ride for sure,” says ol’ Alligator with a snap of her jaws. M’su Diable stepped onto her scaly back, holding his forked tail out of the muddy water, while Grandmother Alligator swam out into the deep river.

Things were looking awfully bad for Marie, with M’su Diable closing in on her. But, if there was anything that Grandmaman Cocodrie hated, it was a mean ol’ devil on her back, and suddenly, way out there where the water was swiftest and darkest, she dived. M’su Diable didn’t have a snowball’s chance in August. M’su Diable, of course, can’t swim a lick – not much water down where he comes from. The 0l’ Muddy took that devil kickin’ and sputterin’ all the way downstream to New Orleans. Some say he washed up in the French Quarter, right smack dab in the middle of Bourbon Street, but then, that’s another story altogether.

As for Marie Jolie, she lived to be une très vieille femme, a very old woman. She had many adventures before her black hair turned snow-white. People called her Marie Esprit, the spirited one. When they asked why she never married again, she’d just smile and say, “You know, chère, once you been married to one devil, there’s no need to go out and look for another one!”

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

You can help keep the stories coming by making a donation to The Moonlit Road.com. Large or small, any amount helps!