Lo, even in Sioux County, where abide the strictest of the strict, there was, in the colony’s early years, some who toyed with the dark side.
In 1870, Will Broekbrooder pioneered a homestead just a few miles east of Orange City, where he spooked out a practice in the occult, a word old Broekbrooder wouldn’t have used or needed, Dutch or English.
He plied a steady trade in demonology because.many were the children brought low by fetid water in those early days—and, alas, many little ones, so stricken, never recovered. On fear and grief, diviners among us all trade handsomely.
On a dark and moonless night, our Broekbrooder was called to a nearby homestead where a child lay in the throes of something malicious. Bear me out here--is there anything as heart-rending as a sickly child; then again, is there anything as repulsive as the demon-merchant Broekbrooder’s moon-shaped face, scrawny beard and pointed chin, every bit of him making hay on human fear.
Once upon a time, old Broekbrooder told the boys that they’d lose fewer turkeys if they’d only follow some ancient rule of taking a straw and just blowing up the turkey’s vent. The boys thought Boekbrooder was scary, but they let the directive be.
One of the wizard’s most memorable attempt at demon banishing came when a distraught farm woman who’d already lost too many children seemed on the verge of losing yet another one dark and stormy night.
When medication failed, a neighbor, in a whisper suggested Broekbrooder. Defenses are weak among the distressed.
Broekbrooder was summoned. And in he came with the elaborate pretense you might expect of a demi-god.
After inspecting the child, he ordered a pillow opened so he could search for a garland, which, he intoned, would prove bewitchery. (Note: a feather pillow of any age will have a garland). So, ah, there ‘twas, just the proof and instrument he needed. He swept that garland over the child with a chorus of utterances no one in the room had ever heard before, half-song, half- chant, in some odious foreign tongue, then sat back slowly, his eyes rising to the ceiling and staying there as if he were in communication with the spirits. “Yes,” he said, after several minutes, “Ja, het is wahr,” or “Yes, it’s true,” and immediately ordered a big pot with a cover and a black chicken to begin the ritual.
I’ll not darken the tale any darker than it is by detailing the abuse that black chicken suffered as a means of curing the child. As that poor chicken’s life waned, everyone in the room wore faces of sheer horror, save Broekbrooder, who insisted thwarting a witch required severity. While uttering gibberish, he continued to make odd passes over the child, then asked for chalk and drew lines on the floor so that, he said, the witch who would come for the child’s life would not find a way in.
The ritual was no doctor’s appointment; it was an all-night affair, the devil banisher, as he liked to call himself, promising them that the first woman to come to the house in the morning would be the witch. The neighbor and his hired man were skeptical but silent.
When some hours later there came a knock on the door, who should stand there but the neighbor lady, Mrs. VerGowe, with a basket of goodies for the sick child. No matter. The spellbound were unable to undo the nuttiness for some time.
Finally, reason prevailed, and the child recovered. For a time at least, the poor family was the laughingstock of all the righteous Dutch. They’d cast their lot with a silliness, people said.
But then, where troubled souls live in fear, this man Broekbrooder is never afar off.
Ja, dat is wahr.
