All In Vain

By Julie Murphy

The babbling woman sits by the village fire, Her mumblings cascade with the spittle from her mouth, As she shrieks and claws the air around her face.

With maddened eyes she sees nothing.

The village chief and priests and common-folk Sit around in varying degrees of authority And tremble at her inarticulate words With fear and dreading in their heavy hearts.

The scribe writes every word she says Into a dirty, hand-worn note book Which some missionary left behind.

He struggles to keep up but dares not interrupt.

The doctor and his AMOs lie angry and puzzled In a village hut after their long and dangerous ride Not knowing why these plainly ignorant beings Refuse the help they offer.

They had explained it all so clearly With the use of charts and actions One shot in the arm prevents disease and death In those poor infected lungs.

At first all were eager to participate And held their arms to be the first Happy to know some better magic which could help them out Of their endless painful waiting.

A scream rent the smelly, unwholesome air And an old wizened woman began to roll and tumble on the earth; Pulling her hair and frothing at the mouth Her eyes rolled up till only white did show.

“She sees it, come we must go . . .”

They crowd around, and garland her with flowers And sit her up a pencil at the ready For all those words of wisdom she will utter Of what the spirits say.

The rumblings go on which priests interpret, As a warning of danger The doctor and his medicines, that long silver needle “Not needed—go home, we don’t need you, You bring evil to our home.”

Imploring, pleading all to no avail, “Go away, we don’t want you here, We have managed all these years, we see evil in your coming, Our spirits warn us you are not good.”

The months pass An epidemic strikes And crumbling huts are left To tell the story that remains.