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Darkness approached, and the candles
in the room already gave more light than
the windows. She moved aside a board at
the back of the shoddy little room and
led us through the opening into a huge
natural cavern in the cliff face. "Don't
want the white folk to think this freed
slave too rich," she said, then, turning
to Mr. Birdsong, "Not to offend." Mr.
Birdsong smiled and shrugged.
She seated us in chairs fashioned
from cow bones, each with a pelvis ingeniously
arranged so that it fit the shape of a buttocks
perfectly, and jaguar skins covering the
chair backs. Candles were stuck, with
their own wax, to the top of the
rock horns
that rose from the floor. Mushrooms grew at
the base of the rock horns. Little shrines
stood in every corner of the huge chamber,
("--most odd acoustics in this room," said
Mr. Birdsong), and these shrines contained
a wide assortment of knickknacks -- feathers,
chicken bones, jars and ampules containing
powders and liquids, bits of fir scales and
feathers, wood and ivory figures of animals,
birds, and people, some of the wooden ones
covered with nails, large white candles,
claws, and chicken feet. Masks, made of wood,
hide, and rusted metal hung by horsehair
strings from the rock horns that came from
the ceiling. Water dribbled down the horns,
followed the strings, and wetted the faces
of the masks, giving them a most lively and
frightening appearance.
One in particular
caught my eye, made from a cloth that shined
with a green glow, accented with flowertarget
about the eyes.
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