BLACK APRIL




  [Illustration]

  BLACK APRIL

  _by_ Julia Peterkin

  [Illustration]

  GROSSET & DUNLAP, _Publishers
  by arrangement with_
  THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY




  COPYRIGHT, 1927
  BY THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

  _Printed in the United States of America_




  _To_
  JULIUS MOOD




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                PAGE

      I APRIL’S FATHER                     11

     II APRIL’S SON                        21

    III COUSIN BIG SUE                     40

     IV JULIA                              52

      V BLUE BROOK                         57

     VI UNCLE BILL                         66

    VII A BIRTH-NIGHT SUPPER               73

   VIII THE PREMISES                       84

     IX SATURDAY AFTERNOON                 89

      X THE BARNYARD                      100

     XI HUNTING ’POSSUMS AND TURKEYS      129

    XII DUCK-HUNTING                      138

   XIII THE QUILTING                      159

    XIV CHURCH                            180

     XV FIELD WORK                        199

    XVI PLOWING                           203

   XVII HOG-KILLING                       231

  XVIII JOY AND APRIL                     268

    XIX AT APRIL’S HOUSE                  287

     XX SEEKING                           308




BLACK APRIL




BLACK APRIL




I

APRIL’S FATHER


The cool spring dusk fell drowsy and soft over Sandy Island, all but
blotting out a log cabin that nestled under great moss-hung oaks
close to the river’s edge. The small drab weather-stained house would
scarcely have shown except for the fire that burned inside, sending a
bright glow through its wide-open door and showers of sparks up its
short stick-and-clay chimney.

A gaunt, elderly black man strode hastily toward it along the path
leading up from the river and went inside, but in a few minutes he came
to stand in the doorway, his bulk well-nigh filling it as one broad
shoulder leaned dejectedly against the lintel. When a moan came from
inside, his brawny hands clenched and buckled in a foolish helpless
way, and a frown knitted his forehead as he cast a glance at the old
black woman who pattered back and forth from the hearth to the bed in
the corner with a cupful of root-tea or a bit of hot grease in a spoon
or a pinch of salt in the palm of her hand.

Once in a while she called to him that everything was going well.
To-morrow this same girl would laugh at all these groans and tears.
Birthing a child is tough work. He must have patience. Long patience.
Nobody can hurry a slow-coming child.

The fire crackled and leaped higher, lighting the dirt-daubed cracks
of the walls, shining under the bed where it played over the freshly
sharpened point of a plow-share. A share ground and filed and put under
a bed is the best thing in the world to cut birth-pains, but this one
lagged with its work. Its clean edge glittered bright enough, yet as
time dragged on the pains lingered and the expected child tarried with
its coming.

The moon must be to blame. This new moon was right for planting seed
but wrong for birthing. Swift labor comes with a waning moon, not a
growing one.

The man heaved a deep sigh and looked out into the gathering twilight.
The slender young moon was dropping fast. This birthing ought to get
over. When the river’s tide turned, life could go out mighty quickly.
Ebb tide is a dangerous time for sick people.

Old Granny was too slow. Too easy-going. When this same girl was born
sixteen years ago, or was it seventeen, Granny had a long race with
Death and lost, yet here she was poking around with her roots and teas,
trifling away the time.

“Granny,” he stopped to clear the huskiness out of his throat, “better
make haste. De tide’ll soon turn. Ebb tide ain’ to be trusted, you
know.”

A wry smile shriveled Granny’s face. “You’s too short-patienced,
Breeze. Dis is a long-patienced task. It takes time. You better go cut
one more turn o’ fat lightwood an’ fetch em in. De fire is got to keep
up shine to-night.”

A pitiful moan from the corner stopped her talk, and, with an echoing
grunt, the man stepped down into the yard.

Granny’s shaking head bobbed faster as she watched him hurry to the
wood-pile and pick up the ax. Her trembling hands drew her shawl closer
around her bent shoulders. Lord, how time does change people, she
muttered to herself. Breeze was no mild fellow in his youth. No. He was
a wild scamp. But when his own girl got in trouble, he r’ared around
and wanted to kill the man that fooled her. As if she wasn’t to blame
too. A good thing the girl had sense enough to keep her mouth shut.
Nobody could make her say who the father of her child was. She was a
shut-mouthed creature. But spoiled to death. Rotten spoiled. No wonder.
Here she was, disgracing her father’s house, after he had raised her
nice as could be, but he hadn’t a hard word for her. Not one. If he
hadn’t humored her all her life to everything heart could wish, she’d
get to work and finish this birthing before dark, instead of keeping
people fretted with worry-ation all day and now, more than likely, half
the night. But as long as her soft-hearted old father took her part,
Granny was helpless, and her scolding did no good.

The sturdy ax-cuts that rang out gave Granny an idea. That ax was sharp
and clean. The plow-share was hampered with rust. Why wouldn’t the ax
cut the birth-pains far better? Hurrying back to the door she quavered
out shrilly, “Bring me dat ax, Breeze! Hurry wid em.”

He came with it, but halted at the door. He had ground that ax only
this morning. Its edge was awful keen. This was no time to be risking
anything. Granny had better be careful.

Granny stretched her old neck forward and her forehead furrowed with a
frown as she said sharply that as long as she’d been catching children,
if she couldn’t rule an ax, she’d better quit right now and go home!
She couldn’t stand for people to meddle with her when she was doing
her best. What did a man know about birthing? Put the ax beside the
share. Together they’d fetch the child like a lamb a-jumping!

When steel jangled against steel under the bed, Granny ordered sharply,
“Now you git out de door till I call you. You ought to be glad for de
pain to suffer dis gal. I’m so shame of how e done, I can’ hold my head
up. I hope to Gawd you’ll lick em till e can’ stand up, soon as e gits
out dis bed. I never did hear no ’oman make sich a racket! E ought not
to much as crack e teeth! I wish e was my gal. I’d show em how to be
runnin’ round a-gittin’ chillen, stead o’ gittin’ a nice settled man
fo’ a husband.” Granny eyed the girl, then her unhappy old father,
severely, but her talk was to no purpose, for old Breeze’s eyes were
bloodshot with pity, his very soul distressed.

“You’s wrong, Granny. I used to t’ink like you, but I know better now.
If de gal’ll git thu dis safe, I wouldn’ hold no hard feelin’s ’gainst
em. Never in dis world.” He leaned over the bed and gave the girl’s
shoulder a gentle pat, but Granny hurried him away. This was no time
for petting and being soft. Some hard work waited to be done. The
sooner the girl got at it, the sooner it would be finished.

“Quit you’ crazy talk an’ go on out de door! Don’ come back in dis
room, not less I call you.”

Granny spoke so sharply, he obeyed humbly, without another word.

The breath of the earth was thick in the air, a good clean smell that
went clear to the marrow of the man’s bones. God made the first man
out of dust, and all men go back to it in the end. The earth had been
sleeping, resting through the winter, but now, with the turn of the
year, it had roused, and it offered life to all that were fit and
strong. The corn crop, planted on the last young moon when the dogwood
blooms were the size of squirrel ears, was up to a stand wherever the
crows let it alone. Pesky devils! They watched every blade that peeped
through the ground and plucked it out with the mother grain, cawing
right in the face of the scare-crow that stood up in the field to scare
them, although its head, made out of a pot, and its stuffed crocus sack
body were ugly enough to scare a man. To-morrow he’d hide and call
them. He could fool them close enough to shoot them. It was a pity to
waste shells on birds unfit for man or beast to eat and with too little
grease on their bones to add a drop to the soap pot, but there’d soon
be another mouth to feed here.

To-morrow, he must plant the cotton while the young moon waxed strong.
There was much to do. He needed help. Maybe this child being born would
be a boy-child, a help for his old age. A sorrowful woman will bear a
boy-child, nine times out of ten, and God knows, that girl had been
sorrowful. When she helped him plant the corn, she had dropped a tear
in mighty nigh every hill along with the seed. No wonder it grew fast.

Soon as the moon waned, the root crops, potatoes, pindars, chufas,
turnips, must be planted. Field plants have no sense. If you plant
crops that fruit above the ground on a waning moon, they get all mixed
up and bear nothing but heavy roots, and root crops planted on a waxing
moon will go all to rank tops no matter how you try to stop them.
Plants have to be helped along or they waste time and labor, just the
same as children you undertake to raise. That poor little girl was
started off wrong.

She was born on a moon so wrong that her mammy died in her birthing. He
had done his best to raise the little motherless creature right, but he
made a bad mistake when he let her go to Blue Brook without him last
summer. She went to meet his kin and to attend the revival meeting.
She was full of life and raven for pleasure. He couldn’t refuse her
when she asked to go. But he hadn’t made her understand that those
Blue Brook men were wicked devils. He knew it. He had been one of them
himself. Poor little girl, she knew it now! Now when it was too late
for anybody to help her out of her trouble.

Years ago, over thirty of them, he had left Blue Brook and come to
Sandy Island on account of a girl. She had named her child April
because it was born this very month. Afterward, she had married and
forgotten him. Now she was dead, but her child, April, was the finest
man on Blue Brook. Barely middle-aged, April was already the plantation
foreman, ruling the other farm-hands, telling them what to do, what not
to do, and raising the best crops in years. April had made a name for
himself. Everybody who came from Blue Brook had something to say about
him, either of his kindness or of his meanness, his long patience or
his quick temper, his open-handedness or his close-fistedness. On Blue
Brook, April was a man among men.

He had seen him, a tall, lean, black, broad-shouldered fellow, so
much like himself that it was a wonder everybody didn’t know that he
was April’s daddy. But they didn’t. For April’s mother had been as
close-mouthed as the girl lying yonder on the bed. She never did tell
who fooled her and made her have sin. She died without telling.

Some day he’d like to tell April himself. But after all, what was the
use? April had taken the name of his mother’s lawful husband and he
loved the man who had raised him as well as an own father could have
done. Why upset them?

Granny’s shambling steps inside the cabin took his thoughts back to
the girl there. If the child was born on this rising tide, it would
more than likely be a boy-child. April would be a good name for him
too. April was a lucky month to be born in; it was a lucky name too.
If the child came a girl, Katy, the name of April’s mother, would be a
good name for it.

The spring air wafted clouds of fragrance from the underwoods bordering
the forest. Crab-apple thickets and white haw trees were in full bloom.
Yellow jasmine smothered whole tree-tops. Cherokee roses starry with
blossoms sprawled over rail fences and rotting stumps, piercing through
all other scents with their delicate perfume.

Sandy Island looked just so, smelled just so, on that April night when
he came here so many years ago. He thought then that he’d go back some
day and fetch Katy here to stay with him. But the years had tricked
him, fooled him. They had rolled by so fast he’d lost track of them,
and of Katy and her boy, April. Now, he was almost an old man, and Katy
was up yonder in Heaven. His own lawful wife and his other boy, his
yard son, were up there too. Had Katy told them about April? Or would
she stay shut-mouthed for ever and ever?

As he wondered and pondered about the ways of people in Heaven, the
river, gorged by a high spring tide, slowly flooded the rice-fields
encircling the island. The black water lapped softly as it rippled over
the broken dikes and passed through the rotted flood-gates, hiding
the new green shoots of the marsh grass and uprooting the tall faded
blades, that had stood through the winter on the boggy mud flats.

Frogs chanted. Marsh-hens chattered. Wood ducks piped and splashed.
Ganits flew in long lines toward the sunset, squawking hoarsely and
flapping the air with blue and white wings. Partridges whistled. Doves
mourned. Where were the groans from the bed in the corner? Maybe all
was over at last.

Granny stood in the door beckoning him to come. Her harshness was all
gone. She hobbled down the steps and came tottering to meet him, then
laying a bony hand on his shoulder she whispered that the ax was too
sharp. It had cut the pains off altogether. They had ceased too soon
and she couldn’t get them started again. She had tried every tea she
knew. Every root. Every ointment. Every charm. She was at her row’s
end. This moon was all wrong for birthing. A young moon makes things
go contrarywise. The child should have waited a week longer to start
coming. And two weeks would have been still better.

The girl had dozed off in spite of everything. He must come and try to
rouse her up. Girls behave so crazy these days. They do like nobody
ever had birthed a child before them. She was fretted half to death the
way this girl carried on. He must come and make her behave. If she had
been a nice decent girl, all this would never have been.

The girl’s eyes opened and looked up at him, and he leaned low over the
bed to hear her whispered words. She spoke with worn-out tired breath,
begging him to go and get help from somewhere. She hated to die in sin,
and leave him, but she couldn’t hold out much longer. Death already had
her feet cold as ice, it was creeping up to her knees. Couldn’t he take
the boat and go across the river to Blue Brook? Wasn’t somebody there
who could come to help her?

He studied. Certainly there was. Maum Hannah, his own first cousin, had
a string of charm beads their old grandmother had brought all the way
from Africa when she came on a slave ship. They and the charm words
that ruled them were left in Maum Hannah’s hands. Ever since he was
a boy, living on Blue Brook, he had heard people say that those beads
had never failed to help a woman birth a child safely. No matter how it
came, head foremost, foot foremost, or hand foremost, it was all the
same when those charm beads got to working.

He’d go fetch Maum Hannah. She’d come. Old as she was, she’d risk the
booming river if her beads were needed to help a child come into the
world.

His boat was a dug-out and narrow for two people in a river running
backward in a flood-tide, but she’d come. He felt sure of it.
Barefooted, bareheaded, without a coat, he ran down the steep slope to
the black water’s edge, and soon the sharp bow of his boat, driven by
one short paddle, sliced through the current. Swift wheeling circles
of water marked every steady dip it made. Hugging the willow banks,
the boat hurried on, then cut straight across the river. Thank God,
the high-running tide made the rice-fields a clear sheet of water. The
boat could take a bee line to Blue Brook without bothering about how
the channel ran beyond the river. The landing aimed for was on a deep,
clear blue creek, which gave the plantation its name, Blue Brook. The
man’s knees were shaking as he stepped out of the boat and dragged it
higher up on the bank to wait until he came back with Maum Hannah and
the beads. Up the path he trotted, to the Quarters where the long low
houses made blurs of darkness under tall black trees. The thick-leaved
branches rose against the sky, where the fires of sunset had lately
died and the moon had gone to its bed.

Rattly wagons hurried over the roads. Cattle bellowed. Children
shouted. Dogs barked. An ax rang sharply and a clear voice sent up a
song. “Bye an’ bye, when de mawnin’ comes!” How trustful it sounded.
He tried to hum the tune, but fear gnawed at his heart and beat drums
in his ears and throat and breast.

He was born and reared on Blue Brook. He knew every path and road on
it. Every field and ditch and thicket. Every moss-hung oak. He had
lived right yonder in the foreman’s house with his grandfather, the
plantation foreman. The foreman _now_ was his son! His blood kin. A
proud fellow, that April! Lord, how April strutted and gave himself
airs!

The darkness melted everything into one. The whiteness of the Big House
was dim.

Fences, cabins, trees, earth were being swallowed up by the night.

Maum Hannah’s cabin was the last in those two long rows of houses, and
firelight shining out from her wide-open door sent a glow clear across
her yard. She was at home. It wouldn’t take long to get her and the
charm beads into the boat, then back across the river.

Black people were gathered in the doorways, most of them his kin with
whom he’d like to stop and talk, but there was no time for one extra
word, even with April, the foreman. Dogs ran up to him, sniffed,
recognized that he was of the same blood as their masters, and went
back to lie down.




II

APRIL’S SON


Taking Maum Hannah’s three steps as one, he called out a breathless
greeting:

“How you do, Cun [Cousin] Hannah?”

She was stirring a pot on the hearth and the long spoon clattered
against the iron sides she dropped it. “Who dat call me?” She limped
backward a few halting paces and gazed at him with questioning eyes.

“Dis is me, old man Breeze! Git you birthin’ beads quick an’ come go
home wid me!”

She stared at him vacantly. “Fo’ Gawd’s sake, who is you?” She
whispered sharply.

“You don’ know me? Is you gone blind, Hannah?”

Her arms dropped weakly as she peered at him, taking in his bare feet,
his patched clothes, his shirt, open at the neck, showing the swell of
his throat, the panting of his breast. With a sudden burst of laughter
she reached out and took his hand. “Lawd, Breeze, I thought sho’ you
was Grampa’s sperit come fo’ me! You scared me well-nigh to death, son!
Come on een an’ set down! Jedus, I’m glad to see you! But you is de
very spit o’ Grampa!”

“I can’ set, Hannah. I ain’ Grampa’s sperit, but I sho’ did come to git
you! My li’l’ gal is ’bout to die, Hannah. E can’ birth e chile to save
life, no matter how hard e try. Git Gramma’s birthin’ beads. You got to
go wid me. I couldn’ stan’ to le’ dat li’l’ gal die, an’ don’ do all I
can to save em. E’s so pitiful in e pain.”

Maum Hannah grunted. “Pain don’ kill a ’oman, son. It takes pain to
make em work steady till de task is done. I can’ stop no pain! No,
Jedus! De gal might be well by now anyhow.”

But he was firm. “Listen to me, Hannah! You got to go home wid me
to-night! Now! In a hurry! Make haste, too!”

“It’s a mighty black night since de moon is gone down.”

“Bein’ black don’ matter. I know de way. You come on, Hannah.”

“I declare to Gawd, my cripple knee is so painful I don’ know ef I
could git in a boat.”

“Den I’ll tote you, but you sho’ got to come.”

“I’m mighty ’f’aid o’ boats an’ water in de daytime much less at
night.” She leaned down to fix the sticks on the fire, but he caught
her roughly by the arm.

“Don’ you tarry, Hannah. You come on right now!”

“What kind o’ boat you got?”

“De boat’s narrow an’ de river’s high, but you got strong heart, enty?
You’ll be as safe wid me in dat boat as ef you was settin’ right here
by de fire in your rockin’ chair. I promised my li’l’ gal to fetch you
an’ you’ birthin’ beads ef e would hold out till I git back. You better
come on! Gramma’ll hant you sho’ as you fail me to-night!”

Maum Hannah sighed deep. “I know I got to go, scared as I is. A boat
on a floodin’ river is a turrible t’ing, but I sho’ don’ want Gramma’s
sperit to git no grudge against me. Catchin’ chillen is Jedus’ business
anyhow, an’ de river belongs to Jedus, same as me an’ you, I reckon.
You wait till I git de beads out de trunk. Sometimes I wish Gramma
didn’ leave me dem beads. It’s de truth!”

She groped her way to the shed-room and fumbled in a trunk, then called
out that she needed a light. He broke a splinter off from a stick of
fat lightwood on the hearth and, lighting it, took it to her. The small
flame blazed up, sputtering and hissing, and spat black drops of tar on
the clean floor, on the quilt covered bed, on the wide white apron she
was tying around her waist. The shaking hand that held it was to blame.

“How come you’ hand is a-tremblin’ so, Breeze?” she asked gently. “You
is pure shakin’ like a leaf. Trust in Gawd, son. You’ gal b’longs to
Him, not to you. Jedus ain’ gwine fail em now when e have need.”

The light wavered wildly as he raised an arm to draw his shirt-sleeve
across his eyes. Big teardrops rolled down his cheeks, and his face
twitched dumbly.

“You mus’ scuse me, Hannah. I’m so weakened down wid frettin’ until de
water dreans out my eyes. My mind keeps a runnin’ back to de time dis
same li’l’ gal’s own mammy was taken dis same way. When de tide turned,
e went out wid em. Dat’s how come I’m hurryin’ you so fas’. We mus’ git
back whilst de tide is risin’.”

He stood, straight and tall, and strong for his years, but the troubled
look in his eyes made the old midwife wonder.

Her weight tilted the narrow boat so far to one side that some of the
black river water slid over its edge and ran down cold on her feet.
“Jedus hab mussy!” she groaned. “If dis boat do go down, I’ll sho’ git
drowned to-night! I can’ swim, not a lick.”

“You set still, Hannah. Dis boat knows better’n to turn over to-night.
I got em trained. E’s got sense like people. E knows e’s got to take me
an’ you safe.”

“I’m mighty glad to hear dat, son, mighty glad.”

The boat was already gliding swiftly past the black willows on the Blue
Brook’s bank and around the bend where the thick trees made shadows
and long tresses of gray moss waved overhead. Soon they’d reach the
river. When a dark bird flew across the stream Maum Hannah shivered
and whispered, “Do, Jedus, hab mussy,” but Breeze muttered, “Dat ain’
nuttin’ but a summer duck.”

The whole world lay still, wrapped by the night, quiet, save for the
swish of the water against the sides of the boat as the noiseless dips
of the steady-plying paddle thrust it on.

As they neared Sandy Island the shrill cry of an owl in the distance
caused the boat to falter in its forward going.

“Wha’ dat, Breeze?”

“Dat’s one o’ dem blue-dartin’ owls. Dat ain’ no sign o’ death.”

Ripples from the boat broke into glittering sparkles of light laid by
the stars on the water. The river murmured. Trees along the bank were
full of strange shadowy shapes. Whenever the lightest rustle of wind
drifted through the black branches, low smothered sobs fell from them.

A tall sycamore with its white outstretched arms high up toward heaven,
reached toward the river waving, beckoning.

The night air was cool, but Maum Hannah took up the edge of her apron
and wiped off big drops of sweat that broke out cold as ice on her
forehead. “Do, Jedus, hab mussy!” she prayed.

The new moon had gone to bed. Now was the time evil spirits walk and
take people’s souls out of their bodies. Pines on the island made soft
moans. The darkness quivered with whispers. Only the firelight shining
out from the cabin on the hill made a clear red star to guide them.

The narrow boat swerved and turned in-shore. A cypress knee, hidden by
the water, bumped hard against it, but didn’t stop its leap toward the
bank. Old Breeze eased himself past Maum Hannah, and hopping out on the
wet sand drew the boat up a little higher on the hill.

“Git up, Hannah. Le’ me hold all two o’ you’ hands. Step slow. Hist
you’ foot. Don’ miss an’ trip. Now you’s on dry land.”

“T’ank Gawd! Praise Jedus’ name!”

“You got de beads, enty?”

“Sho’ I got ’em. Dem beads is all de luck I got in dis world. If dey
was to git lost, I’d be ruint fo’ true. Pure ruint!”

The steep climb cut her breath and stopped her flow of talk, but Granny
who had heard them coming, croaked out:

“Yunnuh better make haste. De chile is done come, but de gal won’ wake
up an’ finish de job. Yunnuh come on.”

Maum Hannah lifted the long dark string of beads from around her neck
and handed them to old Breeze. “Run wid ’em, son. Put ’em round de
gal’s neck. Right on e naked skin. If I try to walk fast I might fall
down an’ broke my leg.”

Breath scarcely came and went through the girl’s parted lips, and her
teeth showed white. Were they clenched? Old Breeze pressed on the round
chin to see. Thank God the mouth could open!

Maum Hannah got inside the room at last. The charm words that went with
the beads would set things right. Death might as well go on home! Let
the girl rest. She was tired. Things could wait while she had her nap
out.

The big hickory armchair, drawn close to the fire, held a feather
pillow on its cowhide seat, and lying in the nest it made was a small
black human being. Granny laughed as she picked it up and put it into
Maum Hannah’s hands, saying:

“A boy-chile! An’ born wid a caul on e face!”

“Great Gawd, what is dis! You hear dis news, Breeze? Dis chile was born
wid a caul on e face!”

The man turned his troubled eyes away from the bed. “Wha’ you say,
Hannah?”

Laughing with pleasure Maum Hannah and Granny both told him again. His
grandson had been blessed with second-sight. He had been born on the
small of the moon and with a caul over his face. He would have second
sight. He’d always be able to see things that stay hidden from other
people. Hants and spirits and plat-eyes and ghosts. Things to come and
things long gone would all walk clear before him. They couldn’t hide
from this child’s eyes.

“Hotten another pot o’ water, Granny. Lemme warm em good, an’ make em
cry.” Maum Hannah cradled the child tenderly in her hands, then held
him low so the firelight could shine in his face. With a quick laugh
she caught him by one foot and holding him upside down smacked him
sharply with three brisk slaps.

“Cry, suh!” she scolded. “Ketch air an’ holler! I hate to lick you so
hard soon as you git here, but I got to make you fret out loud.” A poor
weak bleating sounded and she handed the child to Granny.

“You fix em, whilst I finish up wid de mammy.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Wake up, gal!” she plead, shaking the girl’s limp arm. “Wake up!”

The rigid eyelids fluttered open and a faint smile played over the
girl’s face. She was too weary to draw her breath. The pain had sapped
all her strength, every bit.

Maum Hannah stooped and looked under the bed.

“Great Gawd,” she grunted. “Who dat put a’ ax under dis bed? No wonder
de pains quit altogedder. You ought to had chunked dese irons out de
door!” She did it forthwith herself.

“Now! All two is gone! Open you’ eyes, gal! Ketch a long breat. Dat’s
de way. Hol’ you’ two hands togedder. So. Blow in ’em! Hard. Hard as
you kin! Make a stiff win’ wid you’ mouth! Blow you’ fingers off. Dat’s
de way!”

Then something else went wrong. Where was a spider’s web? Granny ought
to have had one ready. Every good midwife should find one as soon as
she takes a case. Maum Hannah’s eyes were too dim to see a web on the
dark rafters overhead. Somebody must find one and fetch it quickly.
Life can leak out fast. Spider webs can dam it up better than anything
else. But, lord, they are hard to find at night! Where was Breeze?

One was found at last. Then it took careful handling to get it well
covered with clean soot from the back of the chimney. Thank God for
those beads. The girl would have lost heart and given up except for
them and the charm words which Maum Hannah kept saying over and over.
With those beads working, things had to come right. Had to. And they
could not help working. Couldn’t, thank God.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning’s sunshine showed plenty of gossamer webs spun with
shining wheels. Long threads of frail silk were strung across the yard
from bush to bush, traps set by the spiders for gnats and mosquitoes,
strong enough to hold a fly once in a while. But it takes a house
spider’s stout close-woven web to hold soot and do good. For a house
spider to make its home under your roof is good luck, for sooner or
later the cloth it weaves and spins will save somebody’s life.

Old Breeze got up early and cooked the breakfast, fixed himself a bit
to eat and a swallow or two of sweetened water to drink and went to the
field to work, but the two old women sat by the fire and nodded until
the sun waxed warm and its yellow light glowed into the room through
the wide-open door. Then their tired old bodies livened and their heads
raised up and leaned together while whispered talk crept back and forth
between them. Granny held that Breeze was a good kind man to take the
girl’s trouble as he did. Many a man would have put her out-of-doors.
Girls are mighty wild and careless these days. But their parents are
to blame for it too. Half the children born on Sandy Island were
unfathered. It wasn’t right. Yet how can you stop them? Maum Hannah
sighed and shook her head. It was a pity. And yet, after all, every
child comes into the world by the same old road.

A thousand husbands couldn’t make that journey one whit easier. The
preachers say God made the birthing pain tough when He got vexed with
Eve in the Garden of Eden. He wanted all women to know how heavy His
hand can be. Yet Eve had a lawful husband, and did that help her any?

Granny blinked at the fire and studied a while, then with a sly look
at the bed she whispered that this same little boy-child was got right
yonder at Blue Brook during the protracted meeting last summer. Her
wizened face showed she knew more than she cared to tell. Not that it
was anything to her whose child it was.

She fidgeted with her tin cup and spoon and peeped at Maum Hannah out
of the corner of her eye, then asked with pretended indifference:

“What’s de name o’ de gentleman what’s de foreman at Blue Brook now?”

“E’s name April.”

“Enty?” Granny affected surprise. “Is e got a fambly?” she presently
ventured in spite of Maum Hannah’s shut-mouthed manner.

“Sho’, e’s got a fambly. E’s got a fine wife an’ a house full o’
chillen too.”

“Well, I declare!” Granny mirated pleasantly. “Was any o’ dem born wid
a caul?”

“No, dey wasn’t. I never did hear o’ but one or two people bein’ born
wid a caul. Ol’ Uncle Isaac, yonder to Blue Brook is one, and e’s de
best conjure doctor I ever seen.”

“Who was de other one?” Granny inquired so mildly that Maum Hannah
stole a look at her hard, dried furrowed face. There was no use to beat
about the bush with Granny, so she answered:

“April, de foreman at Blue Brook, was de other one. Dese same ol’ hands
o’ mine caught April when e come into dis world, just like deys caught
all o’ April’s chillen.”

“You mean, April’s yard chillen, enty?” Granny looked her straight in
the eyes like a hawk, but Maum Hannah met the look calmly, without any
sign of annoyance.

“I dunno what you’s aimin’ at, Granny. April’s a fine man. Blue Brook
never did have no better foreman. An’ his mammy, Katy, was one o’ de
best women ever lived. April was she onliest child. April was born
dis same month. Dat’s how come Katy named him April. April’s a lucky
month an’ a lucky name, too. Wha’ you gwine name you li’l’ boy-chile,
daughter?”

Granny looked toward the bed and listened for the answer.

“I dunno, ma’am,” the girl answered weakly, and Granny sweetened her
coffee with a few drops more of molasses. She stirred and stirred until
Maum Hannah suggested:

“April’s a fine name. Whyn’t you name em dat? When I git back to Blue
Brook, I’ll tell de foreman I named a li’l’ boy-chile at him. Dat
would please em too. E might would send em a present. April’s a mighty
free-handed man, an’ e sho’ thinks de world o’ me too.”

Granny waited to taste the sweetened coffee until she heard what the
girl said. The girl didn’t make any answer at first, but presently she
said with a sorrowful sigh, she’d have to think about the baby’s name.
She couldn’t decide in a hurry. Sometimes a wrong name will even kill a
baby. She must go slow and choose a name that was certain to bring her
baby health and luck.

She talked it over with her father and named the baby Breeze, for him.
No foreman in the world was a finer man, or a kinder, stronger, wiser
one. The breeze for which he was named could have been no pleasanter,
no sweeter, than the breeze that blew in from the river that very
morning.

The old man beamed with pleasure. He was glad to have the child named
for him. But since the month was April, why not name him April Breeze?
Then he’d have two good-luck names, and two would be better than one.

“We could call em li’l’ Breeze, enty?” she asked with a catch in her
voice.

“Sho’, honey! Sho’! If dat’s de name you choose to call dis chile, den
e’s li’l’ Breeze f’om now on. But April is a mighty nice name for a
boy-chile.”

“It’s de Gawd’s truth,” Maum Hannah declared, and Granny grunted and
reached for a coal to light her pipe.

Li’l’ Breeze grew and throve and his grandfather prized him above
everything, everybody else. He was a boy-child, and, besides, he was
born with a caul on his face. Men born so make their mark in this
world. Rule their fellows. Plenty of people have no fathers, and many
of them are better off. A child that has never looked on his daddy’s
face can cure sickness better than any medicine. Just with a touch of
the hand, too. It was a good thing for Sandy Island to have such a
child.

Before Breeze was weaned people began coming to have him stroke the
pain out of their knees and backs and shoulders. He could cure thrash
in babies’ mouths, and even cool fevers.

His mother’s disgrace was completely forgotten, when she married a
fine-looking, stylish young town man who came to Sandy Island to preach
and form a Bury League. He could read both reading and writing and talk
as well as the preacher who read over them out of a book.

Breeze stayed on with his grandfather, helping him farm in the summer
and set nets for shad in the spring. When the white people who owned
Sandy Island came from somewhere up-North in the winter and crossed
over the river on a ferry-flat from Blue Brook with their dogs and
horses to hunt the deer that swarm so thick on the island that they
have beaten paths the same as pigs and rabbits, Breeze went along
to help hold the horses and watch the dogs. People said he was Old
Breeze’s heart-string, and Old Breeze’s eyeball. He was, although the
mother had other boy-children now, fine ones too.

And instead of the grandfather’s getting feeble and tottering with age,
he grew younger, and worked harder, so that he and Breeze might have
plenty. Every extra cent saved was buried at the foot of a tall pine
tree growing on the bank of the river not far from the cabin’s front
door. When hard times came, they’d have no lack. The money would be
there, secretly waiting to be spent.

One spring when the shad fishing was done, Old Breeze got leave from
the white folks to cut down some dead pines the beetles had killed.
He dragged these to the river with his two old oxen, and made them
into a raft which he floated down to the town in the river’s mouth,
and sold to a big saw-mill there. Breeze stayed with his mother until
his grandfather came back home, pleased as could be, with presents for
everybody, and a pocket full of money besides. But although he brought
the mother a Bible besides many other fine things that made her smile,
she shook her head and said, “Dead trees are best left alone. Trees
have spirits the same as men. God made them to stand up after they die.
Better let them be.”

But the grandfather was not afraid of tree spirits, and he cut and cut
until no dead tree was left standing and the ground all around the big
pine tree was full of hidden money. Then there was nothing to do but
fish and hunt, and to hunt in the spring is against the white men’s
laws. Old Breeze got restless. He gazed in the fire night after night,
thinking and thinking.

One morning he got up early and skimmed all the cream and put the
clabber in a jug, then he took the brace-and-bit down off the joist
where it stayed and walked off to the woods alone. Every morning he did
it. There was no more clabber for the pigs or the chickens, but the
pine trees began dying so fast that before long enough were ready to
cut for a raft to be floated down the river.

The tall pine close to the bank was the biggest tree on Sandy Island.
It stretched far above the oaks before it put on even one limb. If that
tree ever died, it would make a good part of a raft by itself.

One cold dark dawn, Breeze was roused by the cabin’s door creaking on
its hinges as it closed behind somebody’s muffled steps. Where was Old
Breeze going? Easing a window open, he peered out and saw the old man
going toward the big pine with the jug and the brace-and-bit.

“Wait on me! I’m a-gwine wid you!” he called.

Old Breeze stopped and stood stiffly erect.

“Who dat call me?”

“Dis me! Breeze!”

The old man broke into a laugh. “Lawd, son, I thought sho’ a sperit was
a-talkin’ to me. How come you’s ’wake so soon? Git back in de bed an’
sleep!”

But Breeze dressed in a hurry. He wanted to see what would be done with
clabber and the brace-and-bit.

Outside in the half-light it was silent except for the rustle of the
big tree’s needles in the wind. Breeze watched while holes were bored
deep in the solid roots and the clabber all poured down them. He
promised never to tell a soul. Not a soul. That was a stubborn tree.
It swallowed down many a jug of buttermilk and clabber without getting
sick at all, but at last the tips of its needles looked pale. The green
of them faded into yellow, then brown, and its whole top withered. The
old tree gave up. Poor thing.

Its heaviest limbs faced the south, away from the water. That was good.
When it fell, the big butt cut, the heaviest one, would be easy to roll
into the river, and the next two cuts would not have to be pushed very
far. That tree would bring money with its stout, fat heart. A pocket
full of money.

Sunday night came, and Old Breeze wouldn’t go to meeting, but went to
bed for a long night’s sleep. He must get up a high head of strength
before sunrise to cut the big tree down.

Day was just breaking through the cracks of the cabin’s log sides
when Breeze heard it fall. It gave a great cry, and its crash jarred
the cabin. The weight of a big tree’s falling always leaves a deep
stillness behind it, but after the big pine fell the stillness stayed
on. Breeze lay quiet and listened. The tree must have dropped wrong,
and gone across a clump of bamboo vines. Old Breeze would have to clear
them away before his ax could begin to talk.

He’d hear it soon. Lord! Nobody could make an ax speak faster or louder
or truer. Nobody. This was Monday morning and he must get the clothes
up for the mother to wash. Every Monday he carried them to her and
helped her do the washing.

Kingfishers splashed into the river. Once an eagle cried. The day moved
on, smooth and bright and yellow, as the sun walked up the sky past
the tree-tops, higher and higher until noon stood overhead. But the
grandfather’s ax had said nothing yet. Not yet. But wait! It would make
up for lost time when it started to ring!

Sis, the stepfather’s young sister, lived with Breeze’s mother and
helped her mind the children. Every Monday morning they washed the
clothes out in the yard, where the washtubs always sat on a bench in a
sunshiny place. The other children, Breeze’s half brothers and sisters,
roasted sweet potatoes in the ashes under the big black washpot, and
kept the fire going.

On that Monday morning, the fire burned blue and kept popping, and
every now and then the mother cast her eyes, full of dark thoughts,
at the sun. Old Breeze always came for dinner with her on Monday.
Something must have happened. The big tree must have fallen wrong to
keep him so long. But Sis could talk of nothing but the new dress and
the ribbon he had promised to buy her with some of the money the big
pine brought.

The mother lifted the lids of the little pots that sat all around the
big washpot cooking the family’s dinner. With a big iron spoon she
stirred and tasted, added salt and a pod of red pepper. Pepper is good
to help men be strong and warm-hearted. It makes hens lay, too. She
filled the bucket with victuals and told Breeze to run, fast as he
could, to the big tree, so the dinner would be hot when he got there.
Hopping John, peas and rice cooked together, is so much better fresh
out of the pot and breathing out steam. When rice cools it gets gummy.
The fish stew was made out of eels, and they get raw again as soon as
the fire’s heat leaves them. Breeze must take his foot in his hand and
fly.

Breeze did run, but he soon came running back, for Old Breeze wasn’t
there. His ax lay almost in the water, with its handle wet, and his
throwing-wedge beside it.

The two old oxen were chewing their cuds, but the ground around the
tree was all dug up and broken, as if hogs had rooted it up to find
worms.

Breeze had called, and called, but nobody answered! When the mother
heard that, a shiver went clear through her body. Her hands shook so
when she lifted them out of the washtub that all the soap-suds on them
trembled.

She said she’d go and call. She knew how to send her voice far away.
She could make him hear and answer. Maybe a deer or a fox or a wildcat
had come and tricked him away from his work, but her words quivered in
her mouth as she said them.

All the children went trailing after her; Sis went hurrying with
baby Sonny in her arms; and they all stood still and listened while
the mother’s throat sent long thin whoopees away up into the sky.
Her breast heaved with hoisting them so far above the trees into the
far-away distance. She’d wait for an answer until all the echoes had
whooped back, then she’d take a deep breath and cry out again.

An old crow laughed as he passed overhead, an owl who-whooed far in
the distance. The wind began moaning and crying in the tops of all the
other trees around the fallen pine.

The mother dropped on her knees and laid her forehead down on the
earth. Her thin body shook, and her fingers twisted in and out as her
hands wrung each other almost to breaking. She prayed and moaned and
begged Jesus to call Granddad to come back. To come on in a hurry. She
couldn’t stand for him not to answer when she called so hard and so
long.

All the children began crying with her. Even Sis, who never cried no
matter what happened, put Sonny down on the naked ground and with tears
running out of her eyes all over her face, reached out and took the
mother’s shoulders in both arms. She tried to keep them from shaking,
but she soon shook with them, for the mother said over and over she had
known all the time that something bad was going to happen. She knew it
last night when she came home from meeting. Her fine glass lamp-shade,
the one Granddad brought her from town, with flowers on it, broke
right in two in her hand. She hadn’t dropped it, or knocked it against
anything, but it broke in two in her hand. Her moaning talk changed to
a kind of singing as her body rocked from side to side. Her face turned
up to the sky, her eyes gazed straight at the sun, and over and over
she wailed the same words until the littlest children all cried out
and screamed them too:

  “Las night I been know
  Somebody gwine dead!
  Yes, Lawd! Somebody gwine dead!
  A sign sesso!
  Yes, Lawd, a sign sesso!
  De hoot-owl ain’ talk!
  De wind ain’ whine!
  I ain’ see a ground-crack needer!
  But I had a sign,
  Jedus gi’ me a sign!
  Da lamp-shade!
  F’om de town-sto!
  E come een two
  Een my hand!
  Yes, Lawd!
  E come een two een my hand!
  I ain’ drap em. No!
  I ain’ knock em against nuttin,
  But e come een two
  Een my hand!
  De lamp-shade know,
  E try fo’ talk,
  E broke fo’ gi’ me a sign.
  My Pa is dead!
  I know, fo’ sho’!
  Da lamp-shade broke
  Een my hand!”

Her breath caught in her throat with gasps and her grieving got hoarse
and husky, the steady sing-song braced by the children’s shrill
mourning reached the neighbors who came hurrying to see what was wrong.

At first they tried to cheer up the mother’s heart with big-sounding,
bantering talk. Granddad could outswim an otter. The river could
drown him no more than a duck. He had followed a wild turkey, or a
hog going to make her bed. It was wrong to trouble trouble before
trouble troubles you. Hogs had rooted up the earth around the pine.
Nobody had done that. Granny hobbled up, muttering to herself between
her toothless jaws. The sun shone right into her eyes and marked how
they shifted sly looks from the fallen tree to the earth. Her withered
fingers plucked at the dirty greasy charm thread around her wrist. One
bony finger pointed at the broken ground.

“Whe’ is e, Granny?” the mother asked, and the silence was that of a
grave. Granny’s palsied head shook harder than ever, and the mother
rent the air with her cries. Sis and the children joined in with wails,
and the dogs all howled and barked. Granny said Old Breeze was done
for! The same as the felled tree. Who was to blame? How could she tell?
Had he eaten any strange victuals lately? Had he drunk water out of any
strange well? No? Then he must have been tricked by somebody under his
roof. Somebody who wished him ill had put an evil eye on him. No strong
well man would melt away unless he had been bewitched. Granny peeped
sidewise at Breeze. Where was his stepfather? Where? Nobody answered
the old woman, but feet shuffled uneasily as she said that the whole
of Sandy Island showed signs of bewitchment. When had it rained? The
fowls’ eggs hatched poorly. The cows lost their cuds. The fish didn’t
bite. Shooting stars kept the sky bright every night. Black works were
the cause! Then everybody chimed in; it must be as Granny said. And the
old woman looked straight at Breeze. He was born with second-sight. The
young moon was here. This was the time when all those who are cheated
out of life come back and walk on this earth whenever a young moon
shines. If Old Breeze had met with foul death, he’d come back that
night and walk around that very pine as soon as the first dark came.
Young Breeze must watch for him and talk with him and find out what had
happened to him. Nobody else on Sandy Island could talk to spirits like
that boy. He had been born with a caul over his face, and that strange
thing that had veiled his eyes when he came into the world gave them
the power to see things other people could never witness. Spirits and
hants and ghosts and plat-eyes.

Granny’s talk made Breeze’s flesh creep cold on his bones. His blood
stopped running. Fear tried to put wings on his feet, but he clung to
his mother’s skirt and wept, for even the shadows began an uncertain
flickering and wavering as if they’d reach out and grab him.

“Hogs ain’ rooted up de ground. Not no hogs what walks on fo’ legs. No.
Sperits might ’a’ done it--but whe’s you’ husban’, gal? Whe’ e is?”

Nobody knew. Nobody ever knew. And Breeze was too coward-hearted to
watch for his grandfather’s spirit. No matter how Granny scolded him,
he couldn’t do it.

Days afterward, April, the foreman on Blue Brook Plantation, came to
Sandy Island, bringing a pair of blue overalls holding pieces of a
man. He had fished them up out of the Blue Brook itself where they had
drifted instead of going on down to the river’s mouth.

Old Breeze had worn blue overalls that Monday morning. Maybe it was he.
More than likely it was he. Granny was certain of it.

The stepfather had disappeared with the money buried at the foot of the
old dead pine, but April stayed to help dig a grave and bury the poor
thing he had found. The mother shrieked and wailed, but Granny grunted
and shook her head. She said Old Breeze’s body floated to Blue Brook on
purpose so April could find it, for April was Old Breeze’s son, and,
more than that, April was li’l’ Breeze’s daddy!




III

COUSIN BIG SUE


Breeze had heard about Blue Brook Plantation all his life, but he had
never heard about his mother’s Cousin Big Sue until one hot October
afternoon when he was minding the cow by the spring branch and helping
his mother break in the precious nubbins of corn and put them in the
log barn. Sis called them to come on home in a hurry! The stepfather
had gone to town hunting work. Maybe he had come home. Sis’s voice was
high and shrill and scared, and Breeze knew something had happened.
These hot days the mother always worked in the field until first dark
because that was the coolest part of the day, and Sis, who stayed at
home and sewed and patched and cooked, never called anybody until after
the sun went down.

Breeze forgot that the cow was in reach of the low-ground corn and
hurried across the stubby furrows as fast as his skinny legs could
carry him, but he stopped short when he saw a big fat black woman with
a good-natured smile on her face, standing beside Sis in the cabin’s
back door. Who was she? Why had she come? Why did Sis look so grieved?

The other children were in the yard, giggling, trying to hide behind
one another, but the woman’s eyes stayed on Breeze.

“I kin see de likeness!” she laughed. “Lawd, yes! Dat boy is de pure
spit o’ April! De same tar-black skin. De same owl eyes. A mouth blue
as blackberry stain.”

Breeze had run so fast he was out of breath and his heart beat against
his ribs as he watched his mother kiss the stranger and go inside the
cabin with her. Presently Sis called him to come in too.

The mother put an arm around him and drew him up close to her side.
Her sleeve was wet with sweat, her body hot and steamy, but her hand
was cold and shaking like a leaf. How weak and frail she looked beside
the fat outsider, who held out a thick hot hand to shake Breeze’s. The
gold rings on it matched the gold hoop earrings glittering in her small
ears, and they felt hard as they pressed against his fingers.

In the silence that followed Breeze looked at the big woman’s sleek
smooth face. It was round and tight like her fleshy body but with
dimples in its cheeks like baby Sonny’s. She took a pair of gold-rimmed
spectacles out of her pocket and put them on, then leaned back in her
chair and laughed a queer gurgling laugh that widened her flat nostrils
and stretched her full lips.

“Lawd, ain’t it funny how dat boy favors his pa! Dat’s a pity too. A
boy-chile ought to favor his ma to be lucky. I hope e ain’ gwine be de
devil April ever was. April was born wid a caul de same way. Lawd, e’s
a case too!”

Without giving his mother time to answer she talked on; her son Lijah
was like her and her girl, Joy, the image of Silas, her husband. Thank
God, Joy didn’t have ways like Silas. He was good-looking enough, but
God never made a more trifling creature than Silas. He ran off and
left her seven years ago and she had raised those two children all by
herself. Lijah was in Fluridy now. Or maybe it was Kintucky, she wasn’t
certain which; but he was the worst man in the town where he lived.
Everybody was scared to meddle with Lijah. She laughed and rubbed her
fat hands together. Nobody would ever run over her Lijah. He took after
her that way. Now Joy was different. Joy was weak and easy. But she was
a nice girl. She was in town, going to college, getting educated. Joy
wouldn’t rest until she got a depluma. When she got it, she’d teach
school or marry some fine stylish town man. Joy was a stylish girl
herself. Maybe too slim, now, but she’d thicken out. When she was Joy’s
age, Silas could span her waist with his two hands. Joy would fatten up
too when she reached a settled age.

Cousin Big Sue rolled out her talk without stopping to catch one
breath, and all the time her small sparkleberry eyes roved from
Breeze’s face to his mother’s, then back to Breeze again.

The mother sat huddled low in her chair, her forehead wrinkled, her
shoulders drooped. She reached out and took baby Sonny from Sis, and
with fingers that shook she unbuttoned her dirty sweaty dress to feed
him. For the first time in his life Breeze noticed her poor ragged
underclothes and her bony feet and legs. They looked so lean and skinny
beside Cousin Big Sue’s tight-filled stockings and wide laced-up shoes.

Two bright tears fell swiftly in baby Sonny’s fuzzy wool and shone
there, two clear drops. Breeze was about to cry himself for his
mother’s stooped body looked so pitiful. The corners of her mouth were
pinched in and the back of her dress, all darkened with sweat from the
hard work she had been doing, was humped out in two places by the bones
of her thin shoulder-blades. But baby Sonny bobbed his head in such a
funny way as he seized the long thin breast that came flopping out. He
crowed and kicked his little feet with joy just as if that ugly flesh
was the finest thing in the world. Breeze forgot himself and laughed
out loud.

Cousin Big Sue’s fat hands stroked each other gently, and the laugh
that oozed out of her mouth squeezed her eyes almost shut.

“Dat boy Breeze is got nice teeth, enty? But Lawd, his gums sho’ is
blue! April’s got ’em too. An’ April’s wife, Leah, is got ’em. Dat’s
dog eat dog, enty? I wish dis boy didn’ had ’em, but I know e won’t
never bite me. Will you, son?”

Breeze felt so shamefaced he shut his mouth tight and hung his head,
and his mother began telling Big Sue about the terrible dry-drought.
How it had worked a lot of deviltry since June. The crops had promised
to make a fair yield, and she kept stirring the earth to encourage them
to hold on to their leaves and blossoms, even if they couldn’t grow.
But the hot sun wouldn’t let a drop of rain fall, no matter how the
clouds sailed overhead full of thunder and lightning. The leaves all
got limp and dry. Sis said they were hanging their heads to pray, but
they stayed limp, then they parched brown and dried up and fell off.
The peas-patch didn’t make enough hay to stuff a mattress. The corn
planted on the hill looked like dried onions. The patch of corn in the
rich low-ground, close by the spring branch, had done little better.
Mid-summer found every blade with its hands shut up tight, trying to
hold on to what little sap the sun left. The grass quit trying to
be green and the cow had nothing to eat but the coarse bitter weeds
growing alongside the spring branch. She was nearly gone dry. What
little milk she gave was skimpy and rank, and turned to clabber soon as
it cooled. The cream was ropy, and the curds tough. When the butter was
churned it wouldn’t gather, but laid down flat like melted lard.

The hens had quit laying and spent the summer panting air in and out of
wide-open mouths, with their wings away off from their bodies, trying
to get cool. The old sow had quit rooting and stayed in the mud-hole
wallowing, until the mud baked into squares like an alligator’s hide.
She had no milk for her pigs, and those that didn’t starve turned into
runts.

Winter was coming. Not a leaf of collards was growing, the few nubbins
of corn left wouldn’t make bread to last until Christmas. God only knew
how she’d feed the children.

When she leaned down to wipe her eyes on her skirt, baby Sonny raised
up his hard little head and jerked it down on her breast with a hungry
butt, and Breeze forgot again and snickered out. Not that he would ever
make sport of Sonny. Never in the world. He loved every crinkly tuft of
wool on the baby’s head, every tiny finger and toe. Even if he didn’t
grow a bit, his lightness made him easy to hold. Breeze loved him
better than all the other children put together because he was small
and weak.

Big Sue broke into a bright smile. “Son, I’m sho’ glad you love to
laugh. I love to laugh my own self.” Her narrow eyes sparkled through
her gold-rimmed spectacles, and her wide loose lips spread across
her face. “De people on Blue Brook is almost quit laughin’ since de
boll-evils come. But boll-evils don’ fret me. I cooks at de Big House.
An’ no matter if de buckra is at Blue Brook or up-North whe’ dey stays
most o’ de time, I has all de victuals an’ money I wants. I has more’n
I kin use. It’s de Gawd’s truth. You’ll sho’ have sin, if you don’ give
me dat boy to raise. Po’ as you is, much mouths as you got to fill,
you ought to be glad to git shet o’ one. You better listen good at all
I say. I’ll train em good. I’ll fatten em up. I’ll learn em to have
manners. Dis same boy might git to be foreman at Blue Brook yet. E
comes from dat foreman breed. You sho’ ought not to stand in his way.
No, ma’am.”

If she wanted a boy-child to raise why didn’t Cousin Big Sue choose
one of the others? Maybe she didn’t like the way their shirts were
unbuttoned, with their naked bodies showing down to their waists. Their
ragged breeches were not only dirty but ripped open.

Breeze’s heart fluttered like a trapped bird’s. Fright had him
paralyzed so he couldn’t run off and hide. His mother looked shrunken,
withered. A few tears fell from her eyes as they stared out of the door.

“I bet you ain’t got decent victuals for supper right now. I got
plenty, yonder home.”

Cousin Big Sue’s eyes were riveted on Breeze, as she declared he’d be
far better off with her than here with his mother, and a house full of
starved-out children, growing up in ignorance and rags. She’d teach him
and train him and raise him to be a fine man, to know how to do all
kinds of work, to make money and wear shoes and fine clothes like her
Lijah.

“April”--she peeped sidewise at the mother when she spoke the
name--“April’s de foreman at Blue Brook, an’ e’ll help me raise Breeze.
E tol’ me so las’ night.”

The mother listened and looked at Sis. Sis slowly nodded back, yes.
Breeze burst out crying. He begged them not to give him away. He didn’t
want to leave home. He wanted to stay right there and be hungry and
ragged. He liked to grow up in ignorance and sin.

The shed-room was open so that Big Sue saw the beds covered with old
quilts worn into holes. She said Breeze would have good quilts and
a feather-bed at her house. The softest lightest feather-bed in the
world. It was stuffed with breast feathers plucked off the wild ducks
she’d picked and cooked for the white folks at the Big House. Breeze
would think he was sleeping on air. She had dry-picked the ducks so
the feathers would be puffy, though scalding would have made picking
easier.

She’d buy him a pair of ready-made pants from the store, and two or
three shirts. She’d get shirts with tails on them like a grown man’s
shirt.

After that first outcry Breeze couldn’t make a sound with his voice,
for a lump rose in his throat and choked him. He’d rather stay at home
and do without bread, or bed.

“Please, please----” he wailed. But his words were dumb and his crying
did no good.

The day was moving. The shadow cast by the china-berry tree had
stretched from the front steps to the four-o’clocks over on the other
side. Big Sue said she must go. A long walk was ahead, and her feet
were not frisky these days.

Breeze could scarcely take in what had happened. He was given away.
When Big Sue closed her warm, wet-feeling hand over his and led him
away down the path that followed the deep, wide black river, he wanted
to scream out, to yell that he didn’t want to go. But he couldn’t. He
couldn’t even stop his feet from stepping side by side with hers, one
step after another.

Something about this big fat woman kept his mouth shut. Even when the
long sandy path was behind, and he could see the ferry-flat, that would
take him across the river, he couldn’t speak, and the throat lump had
swelled to a great big ache in his breast.

When a sudden patter of feet sounded behind him Breeze looked around
expecting to see a fawn go across the road, but instead, there was Sis,
with her arms outspread. She ran straight to him, fast as she could,
and with a sharp little cry hugged him tight. She pressed her soft
cheek, wet with tears, on his and whispered in his ear that he must go
like a man, and try to be a good boy. She held him close for a minute,
then without another word let him go, and ran. She was soon hidden
from his eyes by the bend in the road. He strove for one more glimpse
of her, but he could see nothing but trees and shadows.

They had reached the far end of the island and the dim road turned to
drop down to the river where the flat waited, floating with one end
tied up close to a cypress knee. Nobody was in sight. Big Sue stopped.
“Whe’ is you, Uncle?” She shouted. Echoes answered and reechoed. “Come
on, Uncle! Le’s go!” She waited, then grumbled. “Lawd! Uncle’s too
deef.”

A few steps nearer the river showed a little old man, sitting crumpled
up with his back against a tree. His head was dropped forward, his old
cap awry, showing the milk-white wool on his head. Big Sue broke out
laughing and went close enough to him to yell in his ear. At once he
jumped awake, jerked his chin up off his breast, sat up straight. His
eyes, dazed with sleep, gazed around, groping for the sound. When they
found Big Sue hiding, he joined her laughter with a hearty cackle that
bared his pink toothless gums set in the midst of the bristling white
whiskers that stood out around his jaws and chin, fiercely denying the
bright twinkle in his eyes.

“Takin’ a li’l’ nap, Uncle? I couldn’t sleep on Sandy Island, not to
save life.”

Yes, he admitted, he had dropped off. No use to lie, for he’d been
caught. Sleep was a tricky thing. A sly-moving thief. Always stealing
time from somebody. He gave a wide-mouthed yawn, stretched his arms to
try the sleeves of his long-tailed faded black coat, then strove to get
his crooked legs straightened, to unbend his knock-knees, and get his
stumbling feet clear of the rough footing made by the great puckered
roots around the tree. When he finally reached the clear ground he
appeared to see Breeze for the first time.

“Lawd, Big Sue, you had luck fo’ true! I too glad! Wha’ you’ name, son?
Come shake hands wid Uncle.”

He made a polite bow when he took Breeze’s hand, his dry old face
shone with a kindly smile, his frock coat opened, showing a flowered
waistcoat underneath.

“A good-size boy too. E ought to could plow by next spring. Sho’! How
old you is, son?” Uncle stood back on his heels, straight as a ram-rod,
his eyes sparkling as he praised Breeze’s looks.

“I gwine on twelve, suh,” Breeze answered. But Big Sue put her mouth up
close to the old man’s ear and bawled:

“His mammy say e’s gwine on twelve, but e looks mighty small to me. You
t’ink e’s a runt?”

Uncle’s eyes watched her lips.

“No, no, Sue, dis boy ain’ no runt. You feed em up. E’ll fill out an’
grow. Bread an’ meat all two is been sca’ce on Sandy Island since de
dry-drought hit em las’ summer. You keep de boy’s belly full, an’ dis
time nex’ year you wouldn’ know em.”

“I wouldn’ live on such po’ land!” Big Sue bawled again. “Not me! Dis
sand looks white as sugar. T’ank Gawd, us home yonder is on black land
what kin hold water!”

“You like de black land, enty? No wonder, black as you is, gal!” Uncle
chuckled at his joke.

“Sho’! Gi’ me black land eve’y time! You ain’t so white you’self,
Uncle.”

Uncle missed her last words. He was too busy laughing and talking.

“You like you own color, enty, gal?”

Big Sue nodded and joined in heartily with his hollow clattering
guffaws.

“Gi’ me de black all de time. White t’ings is too weakly!” she shouted
gaily, as Uncle led the way toward the flat. Big Sue followed, holding
Breeze’s hand tight. She picked her way down the short sandy hill with
slow uncertain steps.

“I ain’ use to shoes an’ dey hinders my feet in dis sand,” she
explained loudly, but Uncle was busy starting the flat across the
river. Grunting, straining until veins showed in his forehead, he
finally got the waterlogged hulk to moving by means of a rusty cable
and a curious narrow board with notches cut in one side so it could
clutch the cable tight.

The sun fell lower as they slowly crossed. Colors of the sky on the
still water made a band of flame, of scarlet and purple down the middle
of the dark stream, that spread out into the marshy forest.

The old ferryman paused in his pulling and muttered, as he gazed at
the sunset; then with a bright look at Breeze, and a chuckle, he began
pulling hard again. A flock of crows streaked the sky, going home;
a lone fish-hawk sailed not far behind them; tiny swamp sparrows
twittered and chattered.

Night was coming and the whole world knew it. The wind dropped into a
quiet whispering, waiting for the tide to turn. Every tree and leaf and
bough, even the water itself, was darkening. Squirrels chittered softly
in their nests, a wildcat yeowled gently. Breeze’s heart, that had been
thumping miserably in his breast, now beat up in his throat and the
lump that had risen when he told his mother good-by swelled bigger and
harder than ever. Tears that had been stinging his eyes all the way
began rolling down his cheeks.

He turned his back, and easing a hand stealthily up to his face, tried
to brush them away. Cousin Big Sue mustn’t see him cry. Sis said he
must be a man and try to be good.

He suddenly forgot his sorrow when swarms of tiny, almost invisible
insects rose from nowhere, and settled in his eyes and ears and
nostrils and teeth, with a fierce singing and stinging that was
maddening. He took off his ragged hat and tried to fight them away,
but they ignored its waving. As fast as he killed what seemed to be
handfuls, by crushing them on his face and neck and bare legs, others
took their places. Sand-flies and mosquitoes were eating him up. Cousin
Big Sue had to fight them too, but Uncle was not troubled at all.

“Is de sand-flies pesterin’ yunnuh?” he asked mildly.

“Great Gawd, dey sho’ is!”

“Git some sweat out you’ armpits an’ rub on you’ face. Dat’ll run ’em!”

“Do, Uncle! Fo’ Gawd’s sake! I ain’ no filthy ol’ man like you! I
washes myself!”

“Wha’ dat you say, daughter?”

Big Sue broke into a laugh. “I ain’ say nuttin! Not nuttin!”

Uncle calmly worked on, unconscious of what she said. Sweat trickled
over his wrinkled face, but it kept its pleasant smile. More than once
Big Sue opened her mouth to speak, but closed it without a word, and
her face was as doleful as if, like Breeze, she was lonely and homesick.

Breeze wondered bitterly why he hadn’t run away and hidden down in
the branch where nobody would ever find him? Baby partridges, or new
hatched guineas, will sneak under a leaf and stay there until they die
before they’ll let a stranger find them. Why didn’t he do it? He would
rather die by himself in the woods than be here on his way to live with
this strange woman whose wind was broken.

The sticky mud on the bank had shown no respect for Big Sue’s
wide-laced shoes. It clung to their soles and stained their shiny
tops. The hem of her stiff starched white apron was streaked with dirt.
Everything here was strange and unfriendly. The water and trees, the
tangled vines and rank undergrowth were all dark and scary. Snakes and
alligators and hog-bears and jack-o’-lanterns lived in such places.
More than likely hants and plat-eyes and fever and spirits were thick
all around. Suppose he’d see them now, with his second-sight! He didn’t
want to see anything but his home yonder behind him, and it was too far
to see even the smoke rising out of its low clay chimney. A thick green
dusk had risen up from the earth, cutting off the shore on the other
side of the river.

The cable slapped the water as it drew the flat across. The old man
kept up his grunting and straining. He was not afraid, although he was
so old that the years had dried up the flesh on his crooked bones.
Breeze jumped sharply, startled and bewildered, when, without any
warning, the old man’s laughter cackled out. Looking down where the old
bent forefinger pointed, he caught sight of an alligator which settled
slowly, noiselessly, under the water until two eyes and a nose tip made
three small dark bumps above the smooth surface.

“De alligator see you, son!” the old man squeaked out gleefully, and
Big Sue broke into shouts of laughter.

“Great Gawd,” she cried. “Do look how e gaze at you, Breeze. E mus’ be
hongry! E don’ see how you’s po’ as a snake! You’ li’l’ bones would
pure rattle inside dat big creeter’s belly.”

Stinging homesickness filled Breeze’s heart. Why had he come? Truly,
this was out of his world. But there was no way to turn back. None.
Shrill piercing bird-cries that rose and fell out of the sky answered
something that ached in his heart.




IV

JULIA


Overhead the high thin air swished, beaten by the wings of wild ducks
that flew swiftly across the sky in an even fan-shaped line. Uncle kept
looking up at them. Once when he spoke to them in strange muttered
words, Big Sue observed:

“Lawd, do listen at Uncle! A-talkin’ to dem ducks same as if dey was
speerits!”

The trees leaned dreamily over the water which trembled as the sun
turned it to dark blood. Uncle’s pulling slackened. The flat touched
the firm earth at last.

With amazing nimbleness the old man hopped out and tied it fast to a
tree, his crooked fingers fumbling stubbornly with the frayed rope
until he was satisfied it would hold; then he followed Big Sue and
Breeze up a short sandy climb where the road made a swift bend and ran
underneath great trees whose thick branches lapped overhead, shutting
out all but small white pieces of the sky.

A bony gray mule hitched to a two-wheeled car stood tethered to a limb.
Uncle hobbled to the beast’s head: “Wake up, Julia! Open you’ eyes,
gal! You too love to nod! Dat’s de biggest fault I got to find wid you!
Lula was a wakeful mule! Lawd, yes!”

Big Sue was panting and climbing in over the cart’s wheel, using the
hub for a step. She sat on a board laid across the body. Breeze got in
and sat on the floor. Uncle crawled over the dashboard, and jerking
the rope lines urged Julia to move on.

“Mind, Julia! Don’ git me vexed! I ain’ used to no triflin’ ways!
Lula was pearter’n dis!” Uncle sat up very straight and his tone was
terribly threatening.

Julia shook the gnats out of her ears, then snorted them out of her
nose, but not until Uncle got to his feet and, raising a long dry stick
high as his arm could reach, brought it down on her hip with a powerful
whack did she move out of her tracks.

“Git up, Julia!” He gave her another lick, and she turned slowly about
and got into the sandy road.

Big Sue heaved a weary sigh.

“Julia is de laziest mule I ever seen in my life, Uncle! Whilst you was
a-buyin’ one, whyn’t you git a spry one?”

“Julia ain’ lazy. E’s just careful. Julia knows dis cart ain’ so
strong.”

“I hear-say Julia kicks awful bad sometimes!”

“Who? Julia? No, ma’am! Julia’s kind as kin be!”

“E looks awful old, Uncle.”

“Julia ain’ no more’n ten.”

“How come e front knees is so bent over if e ain’ old?”

“Bent over? Julia’s got to bend e knees to walk, enty?”

“Well do, fo’ Gawd’s sake, lick em an’ make em walk a li’l’ faster. We
wouldn’t git home befo’ to-morrow if you don’t. Lawd, I’m sorry Lula’s
dead.”

“Me too, Big Sue. Now Lula was a mule fo’ true. Lula was de finest mule
ever was on Blue Brook. Julia ain’ got no time wid em. Lula had sense
like people. I miss em too bad. I ruther de boll-evils had eat up all
de cotton on de plantation dan to ’a’ had Lula pizened. I told April
to don’ fetch dat pizen to de place. I knowed somet’ing bad was gwine
happen soon as he done it. But April is a headstrong man. Nobody can’
change him when he gits his mind made up.”

“April tries to be big doins’ like de buckra, enty?”

“No, gal, not like de buckra. April’s done passed by de buckra! April
aims to do like Gawd now!”

“Shut you’ mouth, Uncle! You’s a case!” Big Sue roared with laughter.

“April better quit pizenin’ all dem bugs Gawd put in de cotton!” Uncle
contended.

Big Sue pondered over this, but presently she grinned and slipped a
look at Uncle.

“When Lula died, whyn’t you bought a awtymobile, Uncle? I hear-say you
got plenty o’ money buried all round you’ house.”

“Who? Me? Great Gawd! I ain’ got fi’ cents buried! But if I had a
t’ousand dollars I wouldn’ buy a awtymobile! Not me!”

“How come so?”

“Lawd, dey smells too bad! An’ I seen how dey treats de buckra. Dey
goes sound to sleep on de road any time dey gits ready. Soon’s dey gits
in deep sand whe’ de pullin’ is tight, dey squats right down an’ dozes
off. You can’ lick ’em wid no stick like I licks Julia to wake ’em up.
No, ma’am. You have to set an’ wait on ’em till dey nap is out. Dey kin
dead easy too. I wouldn’ trust to buy one. No, Jedus. Dey breath is
stink as a pole-cat too.”

“Lawd, Uncle, you is a case in dis world! A heavy case!”

Uncle’s eyes twinkled. “You ax me so much a questions, now le’ me ax
you one. How come you’ wind is so short, daughter? You been puffin’
like a steamboat ever since you come up dat li’l’ small hill.”

Big Sue’s hands caught at each other anxiously. “I dunno, Uncle. My
wind is short fo’ true. E’s been short since last Sunday was a week. I
eat a piece o’ possum what was kinder spoilt fo’ my supper last night,
an’ I ain’ been hardly able to travel all day. Spoilt victuals never
did set right in my stomach, somehow. I don’ know how come so.”

As Uncle studied, his eyes snapped. “Sp’ilt possum meat wouldn’ hurt
nobody. You looks to me like you’s conjured. You’ eyes looks strainin’.
You must ’a’ crossed somebody dat Sunday.”

Big Sue’s fat face looked ready to cry. “I ain’ never done nobody a
harm t’ing in my life, Uncle. I stays home all de time. I goes to
church on Sunday, den I comes straight back home. I don’ hardly go to
meetin’ on Wednesday night. I went all de way to Sandy Island to git
dis boy, by I was so lonesome yonder home by myself. Who you reckon
would conjure me, Uncle?”

Uncle shook his head gravely. That was hard to tell. Some people get
mighty mean if you cross them.

“I don’ cross nobody, Uncle.” Big Sue was whimpering. “Not nobody! I
ever was peaceable.”

“Is you an’ Leah friendly dese days? Leah is a mighty jealous ’oman,
Big Sue.” Uncle’s eyes sparkled as they sought Big Sue’s, but she met
them boldly.

“I ain’ got April to study ’bout, Uncle.”

A smile twitched Uncle’s dry wrinkled face. “How ’bout de new town
preacher, daughter? I hear-say you an’ Leah all two is raven ’bout em.
Better mind. De next t’ing you know dat same preacher’ll make you have
sin.”

Big Sue laughed with relief. “No, Uncle. You’s on de wrong trail now. A
preacher couldn’t make me have sin, anyhow.”

“How come so?”

“De preacher’s a Christian man, enty? An’ I is a Christian, enty? One
clean sheet can’ soil another, Uncle.”

“Shut you’ fool-mouth, Big Sue. You, neither dat preacher, neither
Leah, ain’ no cleaner’n nobody else. You kin have sin de same as me.
Sho’ you kin!”

Uncle brought his stick down with a whack on Julia’s back.




V

BLUE BROOK


Little by little the cart creaked along, leaving the grove of live-oaks
at the landing behind, then crossing the pasture where the rich land
lay unplowed, unsown, but covered with lush grass and sprinkled with
flowers. Some of them bloomed so close to the ruts that their heads
were caught in the cart wheels and shattered.

The fields came next, ripe corn-fields, hay-fields ready to be
harvested, brown cotton-fields, dripping with white locks of cotton.
Whirls of yellow butterflies played along the road. Flocks of bull-bats
darted about overhead in the sky, twittering joyfully as they caught
gnats and mosquitoes for their supper. White cranes flew toward sunset,
field larks sang out, killdees rose and sailed off crying. The whole
earth was full of sound.

Beyond the field near the river a group of low houses, “the Quarters,”
crouched in a grove of tall trees. Smoke from the chimneys settled in
long bands of still blue haze. Breeze could smell its oak flavor. Human
voices called out to one another, children shouting, laughing, playing,
all of them strangers to him. It set his limbs to quivering, his heart
to fluttering. He had nobody here. Nobody!

On a path that skirted the cotton field a skinny little black girl
swinging on the end of a rope was being jerked along by a large red cow
that stubbornly refused to follow the narrow path threading across the
field. The beast had run out between the rows of cotton stalks, and
with a deft tongue was licking, right and left, swallowing lock after
lock of white staple. Uncle got to his feet.

“Git a stick, Emma! Lick em! April’ll kill you, an’ de cow too, if you
knock out da cotton! Lawd, de field’s white! We sho’ made a crop dis
year!”

The girl’s quick eyes glanced back, her small mouth gave a grin. Taking
one end of the rope for a whip she fell to beating on the sides and
back of the cow with such zeal that it left off its eating, and with a
long mournful low, turned into the path that crossed the field and led
toward the Quarters. The child tugged at the rope and strove to master
the beast, whose dragging steps raised a cloud of dust that shone as it
floated low through the evening’s bright afterglow.

The dusk crept out across the fields wiping out the day’s light. Fires
in the cabins made every doorway shine. Long blue streams of smoke rose
up from the chimneys and trailed in the sky. Tiny birds flitted and
cheeped in the thickets. Sheep bleated. Shouts and snatches of song
mingled with wagons rattling.

“Emma’s a funny li’l’ creeter!” Big Sue remarked. “E look like a witch
to me.”

But Uncle hadn’t heard her, for he was busy jerking the rope lines,
trying to hurry Julia’s slow steps. When a closed iron gate finally
embarred them, Julia stopped short and Uncle gave a sigh. “T’ank Gawd,
we’s home at last.”

At each side of the gate was a house: one a small church, with a steep
roof and pointed windows; the other a cabin with a fire blazing high in
its wide chimney.

Big Sue yelled out at the top of her voice, “Do, Uncle! Please, suh! Go
all de way wid us.”

But the old man pretended not to hear her, and said to Breeze, “Son, I
knowed you’ grampa good, when e wa’n’t as high as you. You’ grampa was
my own sister’s chillen.”

Then he got out of the cart, went into the cabin and came out bringing
a big iron key. He unlocked the gate and opened it wide enough for them
to pass through.

Big Sue shouted in a coaxing tone, “Do, Uncle, let Julia take us all de
way. I so scared o’ de boggy place yonder in de middle o’ de avenue. If
I was to git in em Gawd knows how deep I’d sink down.”

At the thought of such a dreadful thing Uncle joined in Big Sue’s gales
of laughter, chattering in between his cackles. “Great Gawd, daughter!
Sho! You right! I better go long wid you! Da bog can’ fool me. I know
em too good. I’ll go long an’ show you de way.”

“You ought to try an’ git em drained befo’ de buckra comes home dis
winter. Dat bog likened to swallowed up a big awtymobile las’ year.”

Breeze was sure Uncle Isaac heard her, but instead of answering, the
old man gave a powerful grunt and said the weather would be casting up
for rain soon. The misery in his crippled knee had been jumping up and
down all day long.

Big Sue told Breeze “de buckra” were white people who owned the
plantation. They didn’t stay here much, but they would come from
up-North as soon as frost killed out the fever here and wild ducks got
thick in the rice-fields.

The wabbly cart creaked slowly on. The weird loneliness and strangeness
of the twilit avenue made Breeze feel very lonely and sorrowful. The
mule’s feet were heavy and made unwilling logy steps as they slowly
carried Breeze farther and farther from all the paths and places he’d
ever known.

Uncle Isaac jumped out of the wagon, and putting the rope lines in Big
Sue’s hands, began poking and feeling with his stick in the still black
water that covered the two ruts in the driveway. Julia must keep to the
right of the road. The middle looked safe, but it was tricky. It didn’t
show how deep and miry the mud in it was. It couldn’t fool Lula, but
Julia was strange to it. With his stick and queer words he told Julia
exactly where to walk until the bad boggy place that Big Sue feared was
behind them. He’d walk the rest of the way. Julia would move faster if
he went ahead.

The long avenue was bordered with enormous live-oak trees, whose great
low branches, almost hidden by drooping gray moss, completely shut the
road in, making it a long damp dimly-lighted shadow. Uncle pegged along
steadily in front, his stick stepping as importantly as either crooked
leg. Once in a while he turned around and spilled out broken stammering
words, his cheerful grins showing his empty gums.

The avenue of those gloomy moss-hung oaks began to seem endless, for
the road was soft and wet and the mule would not hurry, but at last a
white fence made of slender pickets stood in front. Julia stopped short
and Uncle Isaac sighed. “You an’ de li’l’ boy may as well git out now.
You kin go de rest o’ de way by you’se’f.”

He suggested that they’d better go through the front yard. Nobody was
at home so it wouldn’t matter. The path around the side was weedy.
Snakes were walking fast now and he’d hate for Breeze to be bitten as
soon as he set foot on Blue Brook.

Taking off his ragged cap, he bowed a low good night. He was glad a boy
blessed with second-sight had come to live on the plantation. April was
wise to get him here.

Big Sue thanked him, and, taking Breeze by the hand, led him through
the gate and along the driveway that curved between box-borders around
a large bed of shrubbery that Big Sue said was shaped like a heart.

If the white folks were home they couldn’t come this way, but since
they weren’t she was glad for Breeze to see the Big House. It was the
finest and largest one ever built on the Neck, and that was saying a
lot, for in the old days, before most of the houses were burned or left
to rot down, the Neck was a vast rich country.

In the fading light the great white house had an old gray look like
everything else here, from Julia and the wool on Uncle Isaac’s head,
to the moss swinging down from the huge age-twisted limbs of the giant
oaks. Breeze counted the six white columns rising from the brick-paved
porch, a step above the ground, to the corniced roof. Every door, every
green window shutter was closed. No sign of smoke rose from the tall
red brick chimneys. The background of shrubs and flowers was deadly
still and so full of deep darkness, Breeze held his breath.

Big Sue sniffed. “Lawd, ain’t de flowers sweet? Jedus, have mercy! Dey
pure cuts at my heart-strings! Watch whe’ you step, son. Seems to me
like I smell a snake too.”

“No’m, dat’s a watermelon.”

“Enty? Dey smell a good deal alike, rattlesnakes an’ watermelons. It’s
easy to take one fo’ de other, specially when de watermelons is kind o’
green.”

They crossed the back yard, which was clean-swept and white with sand,
then passed by the kitchen where Big Sue cooked the white folks’
victuals. It was a long low whitewashed building with plenty of room
inside, but Big Sue said when the duck shooting and deer hunting
started that kitchen could hardly hold all the game. Not only ducks
and deer, but partridges and wild turkeys and squirrels and oysters
and turtles. As soon as a killing frost made the place safe from fever
they’d be coming. Lots of ducks were already here. Lord, how she had to
turn! Those white folks were heavy eaters.

Breeze could make himself mighty useful helping her, bringing in
stove wood, running fast with the hot waffles, so they’d get to the
dining-room before they got cold. Cold waffles are not fit to eat, and
the kitchen was so far off it took quick moving feet to get anything
into the house crisp and hot. But it’s dangerous to have a kitchen on
to a house. Some of the best houses on the Neck caught fire and burned
down as soon as kitchens were built up close to them.

       *       *       *       *       *

A short straight clear path ran from the kitchen to the door of Big
Sue’s home, a squatty cabin of whitewashed boards with the floor of its
tiny front porch only one step up.

Big Sue pulled up her top skirt and her fat hand fumbled for the pocket
of her petticoat, her hussy, she called it, where she carried her
house key tied to a small flat piece of wood. She unlocked the padlock
fastening the rusty chain that held the door tight shut, and went into
the dark front room.

A few coals blinked with red eyes from out of a mound of ashes in the
big fireplace. Big Sue well-nigh jarred them out when she threw a heavy
knot of fat lightwood on them.

“Git down on de hearth an’ blow up de fire, Breeze. I got to git off
dese shoes. My toes is pure got de cramp wid dem.”

While Breeze placed the fat knot carefully on the live coals, and blew
on them with well-aimed puffs of his breath until a bright yellow flame
sent smoke and sparks flying up the chimney, Big Sue groaned with
trying to bend low enough to reach the strings in her shoes. She gave
it up saying:

“Do unlace dese strings, son. My wind is too short fo’ me to strain
a-tryin’ to bend down low.”

As his nimble fingers quickly undid the hard knots and the wide flat
shoes were slipped off her fat feet, the firelight flamed past him and
lit up the room. The walls were covered with newspapers, the floor was
scoured almost white, and the wooden bed in the corner puffed up high
with its feather mattress and many-colored quilt.

Taking her shoes off made Big Sue a different person. From being heavy
and slow she became light on her feet and quick. She took a black iron
spider off the hearth and put it over the clear hot blaze, then dropped
slices of white bacon on it to cook. While the bacon hissed and curled
up with frying, Big Sue pulled sweet potatoes out from under the pile
of hot ashes in one corner. Those that a squeeze from her fingers
showed soft and well done she put in a pan to be eaten, the others were
put back in the ashes to cook longer. She stirred a pot full of white
cornmeal mush; collard greens, cooked with chunks of bacon, half filled
another. The smell of food went all through the cabin every time a
pot-lid was lifted.

Big Sue gave Breeze a tin pan and a spoon, while she took another; but
just as she leaned down to dip up the food she glanced toward the bed.
Breeze had put his hat on it. She stopped still and glared at him.

“Great Gawd, boy! You put bad luck on my Joy’s bed. I got a good mind
to lick you. Take dis pin. Go stick em in da hat. Don’ never put a hat
on no bed. You ain’ had much raisin’, or you’d know better.”

Breeze took the pin and stuck it, as she said, in the hat’s crown. It
must stay there until morning, then he must hang the hat on a nail in
the newspapered wall.

“Lawd,” she sighed as she leaned over the pot again, “dat hat sho’
scared me. S’pose I didn’ had a pin! Come fill you’ pan now. Eat
a-plenty. I want you to grow fast so you’ll git big enough to help me
work. Put some pot liquor off de greens on you’ mush. Mush an’ pot
liquor is good fo’ you. It’ll stick to you’ ribs. Sweet potatoes an’
fat meat’ll fatten you too. You’s too small. You’ ma says you’s gwine
on twelve, but you can’ be dat old! I hope to Gawd you ain’ a runt!”

Breeze was ready to cry, and she changed her tone and told him that
April had a goat for him to break and ride and drive, if he’d be a
good boy and mind all she said. April would get a goat harness and a
goat wagon, too. Breeze must get the goat tame before the little white
boy who lived in the Big House came home. White people are so subject
to fever, they can’t risk even one night on the river before killing
frost. When the nights get warm, in the spring, they have to go away.
White people have some mighty weak sickly ways.

Breeze had eaten too much. He was packed so full he felt tight and
uneasy. He wanted to go home to his mother, but Big Sue kept talking
fast to keep his mind from dwelling on his troubles. Over and over
she said he was a lucky boy to be here with her at Blue Brook. While
he washed his pan and spoon, she got a tin basin off the water-shelf
by the door and poured it half full of hot water out of the big black
kettle simmering on the hearth. She gave it to Breeze with a big new
bar of turpentine soap. “Wash you’ feet good and get ready for bed,
son.”

But he had no night-clothes, no day clothes either, except the few he
brought tied up in a white cloth. He couldn’t sleep between her clean
white sheets in those dirty breeches and that filthy shirt! No! His
tears poured out when she got a great big garment out of the trunk in
the corner, and putting it over his head drew the great sleeves up over
his arms. As she buttoned it up at the neck, her laughing broke into
such funny snorts Breeze had to stop crying to look at her. Her wind
must be broken fo’ true!

He had to sleep in the big bed in the corner, Joy’s bed, to-night, to
take off the bad luck his hat had put on it. To-morrow night he’d take
the bed she fixed for him in the shed-room where Lijah used to sleep
when he was a little boy.

When Breeze crawled into Joy’s fine bed, the soft feathers rose up
gently, kindly, around his tired body, and Big Sue leaned over and gave
him several light pats.

“Sleep good, son. Dream a nice dream.” She fixed the big pillow under
his head, and drew up the quilts close over his shoulders. “All you
dream to-night’ll come true, so don’t git on you’ back an’ dream a bad
dream. Sleep on you’ side. So.”




VI

UNCLE BILL


Breeze roused from a doze when a man’s deep booming voice called from
the outside, “How you feelin’ to-night, Miss Big Sue?”

And Big Sue called back heartily:

“Come in, Uncle Bill. I too glad fo’ see you! I’m lonesome as kin be.”

Cracking his eyes Breeze peeped at the tall raw-boned man who shambled
in, bringing a tin bucket which he put on the shelf, saying he’d
brought some sweet milk for the little boy and a few sticks of wood.
Reaching up stiffly he pushed his hat farther back, then he scratched
his head awkwardly, while his deep voice rolled out, “You sho’ looks
fine, Miss Big Sue! I declare to Gawd, you could pass fo’ a flowers
garden!”

“Do shut you’ mouth,” Big Sue returned playfully. “You talk too much
sweet-mouth talk, Uncle Bill. Some day you gwine miss an bite you’
tongue in two. Better mind! You couldn’t preach no mo’.”

He declared he was not to blame. How could his mouth fail to talk sweet
when he saw her? It was a wonder the bees didn’t eat her. He dropped
the handful of sticks on the hearth, saying they were a few pieces of
driftwood he’d brought to put on her fire for luck to-night while the
old moon was in her bed.

“You must be feelin’ mighty peart to go all de way to de beach to pick
up driftwood, Uncle Bill.”

“Sho’, I feel good. Like a lamb a-jumpin’. I could start now and
travel till to-morrow’s sun shine, an’ I wouldn’t feel noways weary.”

“Lawd, you have luck,” Big Sue sighed. “But do lend me de loan o’ you’
pipe befo’ you fix de fire. I’m pure weak I want to smoke so bad.
I’m scared to smoke my own. I believe it’s conjured. It ain’ smoked
right since I lent em to Leah last Sunday a week gone, right yonder at
Heaven’s Gate Church.” Her breath had been cut off shorter than ever
to-day. She ate a ’possum leg last night for her supper and it was
kinder spoiled from being kept too long. She hadn’t felt exactly well
since. Spoiled food ever did make her sick. She didn’t know why.

“It’s because you’s such a delicate lady!” Uncle Bill declared. “You
ought to learn to drink milk. Nice sweet milk. And eat honey. De angels
lives on ’em. So de Book says.”

“I dunno,” Big Sue answered doubtfully. “I never could stand nothin’
’bout a cow. Not de milk or de meat or de ways. Gi’ me a hog all de
time.”

Uncle Bill got his pipe out of his side coat pocket, twisted its rough
wooden stem tight into its bowl and handed it to her, his lean face
brightening with a smile.

“E ain’ gwine smoke good by its new. I went to de fig trees no longer’n
yestiddy an’ cut dis stem, by my old stem was wore out altogether. E’s
gwine bite you’ tongue. I’m too sorry. I wanted you to talk some sweet
talk to me to-night!”

“Lawd, Uncle Bill, you ought to know my tongue better’n dat. I got a
strong tongue in my mouth. E’s trained. I done got em used to tastin’
all kinds o’ red pepper an’ seasonin’. E kin make friends wid any pipe
stem ever was. But you go look at my li’l’ boy.”

Breeze shut his eyes tight as Uncle Bill leaned down to look at his
face.

“E’s a good-size boy, but you’d be better off wid a husband, Miss Big
Sue. You see dese sticks? I went all de way to de beach to git em.
Dey’s driftwood, an’ I’m gwine burn ’em on you’ fire to-night, an’ make
a wish whilst dey’s green.”

“Wha’ dat you gwine to wish to-night?”

“I’m gwine wish fo’ you to marry me.”

“Great Gawd, Uncle Bill!” Laughter almost choked her. “I can’ marry
you! I got a livin’ husband right now! You must be forgot Silas ain’
dead!”

“Silas is been gone seven years, Miss Big Sue. Gawd don’ expect no lady
to live single longer’n seven years. No, ma’am. You kin marry me if you
want to.”

“I dunno,” Big Sue tittered. “Sometimes my mind do tell me to marry
again. But didn’t you promise Aun’ Katy you wouldn’ marry nobody? What
’ud she say?”

Uncle Bill heaved a deep sigh. “I can’ help dat. I miss Katy so bad,
I mighty nigh goes crazy yonder to my house by himself. If you would
marry me Katy wouldn’t mind. Not a bit. Katy had sense like a man.
Lawd, how I miss dat ’oman! I done made up my mind to marry again an’
I’m gwine wish a weddin’ dress on you whilst I burn dese same sticks on
you’ fire to-night.”

He spoke solemnly, and kneeling on the hearth he laid the driftwood
sticks carefully crossed on the coals. Then he blew deep breaths until
a slow green flame curled up. “Fo’ Gawd’s sake, Uncle Bill! Quit you’
crazy doin’s! You might miss an’ conjure me fo’ true.” Big Sue giggled
until her fat sides shook.

“Hush you’ laughin’ till I makes my wish, Miss Big Sue! You got me all
eye-sighted!”

“Mind how you wish in de face o’ dat fire!”

A woman’s voice flung the drawled words into the room so unexpectedly
that Big Sue jumped to her feet, calling, “Who dat?” and Uncle Bill
gave such a start that his wish was knocked clean out of his head.

“Don’ git scared. I ain’ nobody but Zeda. How yunnuh do dis evenin’?”

“Lawd, Zeda, you ought not to slip up on people dat way!” Big Sue
scolded, but Zeda broke into a laugh. She stood in the door where the
white cloth on her head made a clear spot against the darkness, but her
face and hands were one with the night.

“Don’ le’ me stop you’ wishin’, Uncle Bill. Go on. I might give you
luck.” Zeda’s teeth flashed as she sauntered in with noiseless barefoot
steps. She couldn’t sit down; she was on her way to Bina’s birth-night
supper at the Quarters. She just came by to see the boy-child Big Sue
had brought from Sandy Island.

“E’s sleep right yonder in Joy’s bed.”

“Lawd, you got a sizable boy, enty? E looks mighty long. Long as Leah’s
Brudge to me. I wouldn’ gi’ way a boy big as dat. E’s done raised.”

Again Breeze shut his eyes and pretended to sleep while Zeda leaned so
low over him searching his face that he could feel her breath on his
cheek.

“Don’ gaze at de child so hard, Zeda. You’ll wake em up.”

Big Sue was plainly out of temper, her tone was sour, pettish.

“I ain’ gwine wake em. I just want to see who e looks like. Leah says
his mammy had em for April, but e don’ favor April to me.”

“Do, for Gawd’s sake, shut you’ mouth, Zeda! To hear Leah tell it, half
de chillen on Blue Brook belongs to April, well as dem on Sandy Island.
Leah don’ count nobody when e gits to talkin’ ’bout April.”

Zeda laughed. “I dunno, Big Sue. I told April to-day, if he don’ mind,
he’s gwine catch up wid Uncle Isaac. De people say Uncle Isaac has
fifty-two chillen livin’ right now.”

Breeze peeped up in time to see the grin that lit her face as she
turned on her heel, saying she must go, and let Uncle Bill finish his
wishing. But he’d wish a long time before he got a wife as good as Aunt
Katy.

Uncle Bill sat up straight in his chair. “Now you talkin’ what Gawd
loves, Zeda; de truth. Katy was one in a t’ousand. I miss em so bad, I
can’ stan’ it no longer by myself. If Miss Big Sue would marry me, I’d
treat em white. I sho’ would.”

Zeda took her pipe out of her apron pocket and leaned for a coal to
light it. After one or two stout pulls she let the smoke trail slowly
out between her smiling lips. “I hear-say Big Sue an’ Leah all two is a
seekin’ de second blessin’ since de new Bury League preacher was here
last Sunday was a week gone. Is dat so, Big Sue?”

“I know I ain’ seekin’ em. I don’ know nothin’ ’bout Leah, an’ I don’
want to know nothin’ ’bout em.” She snapped the words out fiercely;
but Zeda set her arms akimbo and puffed at the pipe between her teeth,
her eyes flashing bright in the firelight that flared past her to the
framed pictures of faces looking down from the walls.

Big Sue sat grum, silent, until Uncle Bill heaved a great sigh and said
he was mighty sorry for Leah. She’d been sick three days. Salivated.
Her mouth was raw. Her teeth were loose, ready to drop out. Leah was in
a bad way.

Big Sue’s fat body straightened up. She was full of interest. How did
Leah get salivated?

Uncle Bill shook his head. He didn’t know what had done it. Leah hadn’t
been well since this moon came in. He couldn’t say if seeking a second
blessing had made her sick or if some medicine she’d bought from the
store had done it. He caught her wallowing on the ground and praying
and crying off in the woods by herself one day last week. Now she was
salivated. Zeda looked at Uncle Bill’s sorrowful face and her own
became serious.

“Dat’s what Leah gits fo’ prankin’ wid white folks’ medicine. I told em
so too.”

“I bet Leah’s conjured,” Big Sue put in cheerfully.

“Who in Gawd’s world would bother to conjure Leah?” Zeda asked. “Any
’oman dat wants April bad enough kin git em. April’s weak as water over
anyt’ing wid a dress on.”

“You ought to know,” Big Sue snapped out tartly.

A smile curled Zeda’s lips. “I does know. If anybody knows April, I
ought to. April’s de same as a bee at blossoms. You wait. You’ll see.
Leah’s a fool to fret ’bout April. I done been to see em an’ told em
so. No man livin’ is worth one drop o’ water dat dreans out a ’oman’s
eye. It’s de Gawd’s truth. If April buys em rations an’ clothes, Leah
ought to be sati’fy, ’stead o’ frettin’ an’ cryin’.”

Zeda’s bright hoop earrings glittered, her teeth flashed, then she
turned and spat in the fire. “Leah ought to be used to April’s ways
by now. E ought to learn how to meet trouble better. Trouble comes to
everybody. If e ain’ salivation or sin or men, e’s somet’ing.” Zeda
stretched her arms, then her body to its full height. She must go.
She’d promised Bina to help cook the birth-night supper.

Big Sue didn’t turn her head to say good night, but Uncle Bill got up
and went to the door and bowed low as she stepped out into the still
black night, which came right up to the open door.

In the silence that followed, the muffled roar of the sea rose and
fell. Big Sue said Zeda had ruined many a man. She was a bold sinful
woman.

“Zeda’s a fine field-hand, dough, an’ de clothes Zeda washes is white
as snow,” Uncle Bill defended warmly.

“It’s a wonder some ’oman ain’ cut Zeda wide open befo’ now,” Big Sue
came back sharply.

“But if anybody is sick or in trouble, nobody is better to em dan Zeda.
If Zeda had been my Katy’s own sister, e couldn’ ’a’ been better to em
whilst e was down sick. Gawd ain’ gwine be too hard on Zeda. You’ll see
it too.”

“Shucks! Zeda kin grin at you, an’ you fo’git all dat deviltry Zeda’s
done; but Gawd’s got it wrote down in a book. Zeda kin fool de breeches
off o’ you, but ’e can’ fool Gawd. Zeda’s got ten head o’ livin’
chillen an’ no two is got de same daddy. You b’lieve Gawd is gwine
ex-cuse Zeda? You must be crazy. Zeda’s as sho’ fo’ hell as a martin
fo’ his gourd. You’ll see, too. Gawd ain’ gwine let people off light as
you t’ink. No, suh. Zeda don’ like to see no other ’oman hab no man.
Zeda wants ’em all. All!”




VII

A BIRTH-NIGHT SUPPER


The birth-night supper had begun, and the big drum, answering licks
that somebody laid on its head, called the people to come on. Louder
and louder it boomed until the air itself was humming. Now and then
when a rackety thump sounded in an unlooked for place Big Sue laughed.
When the measure shortened beat by beat her fat toes made pats on the
floor.

“Lawd, de drum’s got de people steppin’ light to-night. Is dey marchin’
or dancin’?”

“Marchin’. Dat’s Sherry a-beatin’ de drum, now. When de dancin’ starts
Uncle Isaac beats de drum an’ Sherry squeezes de accordion.”

Big Sue got up and went to the door to hear better, and her thick
stumpy body rocked softly from side to side. “Po’ ol’ Uncle! Most ready
fo’ de grave an’ de biggest sinner roun’ here.” But the thought of
Uncle’s sin made her laugh, as she swayed this way and that. “I feel
light as a feather, Uncle Bill. Ain’ Sherry got dat drum talkin’ funny
talk! E don’ sound noways sinful to me. You t’ink marchin’ is a sin?”

“No. It ain’ sinful to march. How ’bout walkin’ out an’ lookin’ at ’em
a while.”

Breeze sat up. “Please lemme go too, Cousin Big Sue. I ain’ sleep.
I too scared to stay by myself.” The corners of the room were full
of darkness, the shed-room at the back was black, and the sea’s roar
unsmothered by the drum-beats.

“How come you had you’ eyes shut, so? You been playin’ possum, enty? I
caught you. I don’ like dat. No. Don’ you never make like you sleep if
you ain’ sleep. No. But git up an’ dress. Me an’ Uncle Bill would walk
on. You dress fast an’ catch up wid us.”

When Breeze overtook them, Uncle Bill, who walked in front, called
back, “How you do, stranger? I glad to see you. Come shake han’s wid
me.” Then he added, “A cowardly heart makes swift-runnin’ feet, enty?”

When Breeze answered promptly, “Yes suh,” Uncle Bill chuckled.

“You’s got manners, boy! Nice manners! I’m glad to see dat.”

“Sho’ e is!” Big Sue agreed. “All dat breed is mannersable people.
Dat’s how come I took so much pains to git em.”

“Dat is nice,” Uncle Bill approved. “I ever did like people to hab
manners.”

“Me too! I can’ stan’ no-manners people, specially a no-manners
boy-chile. I’m all de time tellin’ Leah, Brudge’ll git hung if e lives.
Brudge is too no-manners. I’d skin em if e was my own.”

The noise from the birth-night supper grew thicker and stronger as they
got nearer the Quarters. Every beat of the drum throbbed unbroken by
the laughter and singing and loud-ringing talk. Breeze’s feet stepped
with the time it marked, and so did Uncle Bill’s and Big Sue’s.

The Quarter houses were all solid darkness but one, and its doorway was
choked with people pushing in and out; its front yard hidden by a great
ring of marching couples, that wheeled slowly around a high-reaching
fire. These were holding hands, laughing into one another’s faces,
their feet plumping down with flat-footed steps that raised the dust,
or cutting little extra fancy hops besides the steady tramping bidden
by the drum.

Two big iron washpots sat side by side with the fire leaping high
between them. Zeda stirred one with a long wooden paddle, and a short
thick-set woman stirred the other. They added seasoning, stirred,
tasted, added more seasoning, until a tall fellow, black as the night,
and strong-looking as one of the oaks around them, broke through the
ring and stepped up to the pots, and put his hand on Zeda’s shoulder.
What he said was lost in the noise, but his teeth and eyes flashed in
the red light as Zeda put a hand on each of his broad shoulders and
quickly pushed him outside the ring again. The short woman took the
steaming paddle out of the pot and shook it gaily at him, shouting to
him to get a partner and march until the victuals were done and ready
to sell instead of setting such a bad example for the young people.

The marchers laughed, and the drummer, a long-legged young man, dropped
his sticks and yelled out, “How long befo’ supper, Ma! I’m done
perished. I’m pure weak, I’m so hongry!”

Zeda stopped short in her tracks and yelled back to him, “Shut you’
mouth, Sherry! You ain’ perished, nothin’! You beat dat drum or Bina’ll
put all two feets on you’ neck!”

The other woman pointed her paddle at him threateningly, shouting as
she did it, “You’ ma is sho’ right, son! I wouldn’ pay you, not one
cent to-night, if you don’ beat dat drum sweet as you kin! Keep de
people marchin’ a while yet. I got a whole hog an’ a bushel o’ rice
a-cookin’! Right in dese pots. I wouldn’ sell half if you don’ git
ev’ybody good an’ hongry! Rattle dem sticks, Sherry! Rattle ’em like
you was beatin’ a tune fo’ Joy to step by!”

This brought a shower of laughter and funny sayings and jokes as the
crowd bantered Sherry about the way he beat the drum when Joy was here
to march. But instead of answering a word, Sherry rolled the sticks
softly on the drum’s head, making a low sobbing sound that held on and
on, swelling, mounting until a battering roar made the air throb and
hum, then he stopped off short with a sudden sharp drub.

For a second there was a dead silence, then somebody cried out, “Lawd,
if you much as call Joy’s name, Sherry kin make dat drum talk some
pitiful talk! Joy ought to heared em to-night!”

“I got goose bumps big as hickory nuts all over me!”

“Me too. I’m pure shakin’ like a chill! Beat, Sherry! I got to march to
warm up now!”

Everybody laughed and the clatter of voices made a merry confusion.

Zeda laughed with the crowd. Then she added a handful of salt to her
washpot, tasted it, smacked her lips and added several pods of red
pepper.

“Yunnuh got to dance nice if you want to eat dis rice an’ hash! I ain’
mixin’ no cool Christian stew!”

Bina laughed and chimed in, “Dat’s de Gawd’s truth, Zeda! Not wid all
dat pepper.”

But Big Sue sucked her teeth. “Zeda don’ know one kind o’ seasoning
f’om anudder. Pepper an’ salt; dat’s all Zeda knows. E never could cook
no decent rations.”

A short fat man, with a well-greased face and a good-natured smile,
who stood waiting for Bina to say the word, began bawling with all
his might, “De victuals is ready, peoples! Come on up, men! Treat de
ladies! We’s got t’ings seasoned fit to make you miss an’ chaw you’
finger! Liver-hash an’ rice! Chitterlings an’ pig feet! Spare-ribs
an’ backbone! All kind o’ hog-meat.” He trailed off into a sing-song
chant, while the crowd pressed close around the pots.

Uncle Bill treated Breeze and Big Sue to heaped-up panfuls of food and
tin cups of molasses-sweetened water to wash it down. “Dis is sweetened
wid store-bought molasses. It ain’t fittin’ fo’ nobody to drink.” Big
Sue made an ugly face and threw the sweetened water on the ground. “I
wouldn’ have de face to sell sich slops to people an’ call it sweetened
water. Bina ever was a triflin’ ’oman. Gittin’ money is Bina’s Gawd!”

“How ’bout a little nip o’ toddy?” a deep voice spoke out of the
darkness and Big Sue turned quickly around to face it, then she laughed
out with pleasure. “No, t’ank you, April. I wouldn’t fool wid dat
whisky. You don’ know if it’ll kill you o’ not.”

“Come off, Big Sue,” the voice chided, “when did you get so scared o’
whisky?”

“I ain’ scared o’ good whisky,” Big Sue gurgled as he walked up near
and took her hand. “Dat last one you fetched me is sho’ fine. But I
sho’ don’ trust de whisky Jake makes! Lawd!” She broke into a loud
laugh. “I’m pure shame’ to say it but somebody told me when Jake gits
in a big hurry fo’ de whisky he don’ stop wid puttin’ lye in de mash!
Dat scoundrel goes straight to de horse stable an’ gits de yeast to
make em work! My stomach tries to retch if I much as t’ink on de way
Jake makes whisky! Jake’s a case in dis world!”

April and Uncle Bill both laughed with her, and Jake’s voice called
out cheerfully from the fire-brightened doorway, “Git you’ partners
ready fo’ de square dance! Git you’ nickels ready too! Fi’ cents a set!
All you chu’ch-members better git on home befo’ Sherry squeezes dat
’cordion. I’d hate to see anybody hab sin to-night! Cherry’s gwine
mash out tunes dat would tickle a preacher’s toe! A deacon’s ear would
git eetchy! Git you’ partners, boys! Don’ be wastin’ time!”

“How you like de boy’s looks?” Big Sue mumbled, casting a smiling look
up at April.

“I ain’ had a chance to look at em, not yet,” he answered low.

Sherry squeezed a long chord out of the accordion and the crowd
shouted with laughter. Uncle Isaac battered the drum, and swarms of
them trooped inside the cabin, falling into step with the accordion’s
frolicsome measure, but instead of Uncle Bill’s leading the way
straight home, he took a stand outside the cabin by an open window to
watch. The tall strange man leaned over and said to Breeze, “You’s too
low to see, son. Le’ me hold you up.” And he lifted him as if he were
no heavier than a feather.

The light was dim. Two glass kerosene lamps burned on the high
mantel-shelf, doing their best to help the fire light up the room.
Music and drum-beats and lively chatter swung into time with dance
steps. The confusion flowed into clean-cut swing.

Every man had his hat on. Some were tilted back, some balanced on the
side, some pulled to the front; few were right and straight. Many of
the dancers wore shoes, and the loose boards on the floor rose and
clattered to the regular beat of their feet.

“Did you ever seen people dance before?” April murmured in Breeze’s ear.

Breeze’s bashful “No, suh” was lost in noise, for Jake, who took up the
nickels at the door, was yelling briskly, his words guiding the dancers
into figures. “Hands ’round, all!” shifted the couples into a wide
circle that had to crumple in spots because the room was too small. As
it turned around every heel bumped the floor until the stamping tramp
shook the cabin from pillars to roof. Once in a while Breeze could feel
the big chest pressed against him shaking with laughter.

“Ladies to de center! Gentlemens surround dem!” Jake yelled it, and
the ring split and went double ply. “Make a basket!” he howled. Feet
shuffled and scraped the floor, as the men made a cord of long arms and
tight clasped hands that slipped over the ladies’ heads. The swaying
bodies were tied together tight. Sweat shone on every face. Eyes
gleamed. Teeth flashed.

“How you like dat, son?” April asked, and Breeze answered, “I like em
nice.”

“Wheel de basket!” Jake bawled, and the solid ring turned, slowly,
evenly at first, then faster and faster until its wild whirling threw
the dancers into knots of dizzy cavorters. Hot breath poured through
the windows. The rank smell of over-heated sweaty bodies ran high. The
house shook and creaked. Breeze could feel the strong throb of the
heart in the man’s breast beating against him. Gradually the long black
face leaned forward nearer to his.

“Right hand to you’ partner!” Jake cried, and hands trembling with
excitement squeezed each other and held fast.

“Do de gran’ right an’ left!”

Jake dashed the sweat out of his eyes with a bare hand, as the dancers
fell into two lines. A thread of ladies wound in and out between the
gentlemen, whose feet kept up a frisky jumping and jigging and jerking,
like drumsticks gone crazy and trying to hammer in the floor.

“Ain’ dey done dat nice!” Big Sue exclaimed.

“Dey done it mighty well,” the big man approved, his mouth close to
Breeze’s ear.

When the ladies had gone clear ’round and come to their partners again,
“Swing you’ own true love!” set every skirt to spinning in a giddy
ring that twirled until “Sasshay, all! Croquette! Salute de lady on de
right!” unwound them, let them fall limp.

Shrieks of laughter followed smacking kisses. Sherry’s accordion
blared out. Then something went wrong. The joyful clamor died into a
frightened hush as a long arm shot up. A razor flashed. A muttered
curse was followed by a slap on a cheek. Everybody stood still for
the length of a heart-beat. The muscles of the arms holding Breeze
hardened. A long low hiss of sucked-in breath made him shiver with
terror as the tall man leaned forward and said coolly:

“If yunnuh don’ quit dat doins’ it wouldn’ take me two minutes to come
in dere an’ butt you’ brains out o’ you’ skull! We ain’ gwine hab no
cuttin’ scrape here, not to-night, boys. Outen de lamps, Sherry. Outen
de fire, too. Dis dance is done broke up!”

“No, Cun April,” Jake began pleading. “Nobody ain’ fightin’ now. Dem
boys was just a-playin’. Dey ain’ gwine be rough no mo’. You wouldn’
broke up a dance not for a li’l’ prankin’, would you?”

The two fighters were held apart, one with his bullet head crouched
forward, his fists clenched; the other with his razorless fingers
reaching out to grab and strangle. April looked at them with a half
smile.

“Put dem boys out de door, den, Jake. Dey ain’ fit to be wid ladies.
Let ’em go wallow wid de hogs an’ cuss all dey please, so long as dey
don’ cut wid no razor.”

But Uncle Bill spoke out, “Dey is too no-manners to wallow wid de hogs.
Yes, suh. My hogs yonder to de barnyard is too nice to ’sociate wid any
such mens. Cussin’ befo’ ladies! Dey makes me feel pure blush.”

Big Sue wanted to go home, but April and Uncle Bill said there’d be
no more trouble, and as the accordion sang out with a low sad whine,
another dance set was made up. Pairs of feet were already cutting happy
capers patting flat-footed and with heel and toe.

They were going to black bottle, and that was a dance that beat the
four-horse altogether. The cabin room, packed with a seething mass,
rocked with the reeling and rolling inside it. The accordion’s mournful
crying timed to the beat of the drum sounded faint above the confusion,
but its pitiful wailing went clear through to Breeze’s very backbone.

Gusts of hot breath poured out through the window. The smoky lamps
sputtered low. The yellow light grew dim. Little sharp outcries mixed
with mad stormy thundering steps. Big Sue called out shrilly that she
wanted to go! People get drunk if they listen to music too long. Sherry
was squeezing out a mighty wicked tune. First thing they knew somebody
would kick both those lamps off the mantelpiece and when the crowd
started jumping out of the windows, they’d get trampled to death. She
hadn’t forgotten how the last birth-night supper broke up in a terrible
fight. April could hold those boys down a while, but when that music
got to working in their blood, the devil himself couldn’t stop them.

She could feel that music going straight to her head, and she was a
good quiet Christian woman. April laughed and put Breeze down and bowed
low and said good night. Big Sue invited him to walk home with them
and when he declined, saying he was tired and ready to go home to bed,
she insisted, but he declared that he hadn’t the heart to get in Uncle
Bill’s way. He’d see them to-morrow or some time soon.

On the way home Big Sue asked Uncle Bill why it was so sinful to
dance, yet not sinful at all to march by the drum. She never could
exactly understand. Uncle Bill said that crossing your feet is the
sinful thing. The people in the Bible used to march. Of course it was
wrong to march by reel tunes. Christians ought to march by hymns.

       *       *       *       *       *

Breeze fell into a sound sleep and left Big Sue talking, but he woke
up in the night with his throat tight and dry sore, and a hoarse cough
that barked. Everything was dark and Big Sue’s heavy snoring was the
only sound to be heard. What must he do? Suppose he choked to death!
Nobody would ever know it. His mother was way off yonder on Sandy
Island, and Big Sue sound asleep. He’d wake her. He couldn’t die here
in this dark by himself.

Crawling out of bed and guiding his way toward the sound of the
snortles that were all but strangling her, Breeze went to Big Sue’s bed
in the shed-room, felt for her shoulder and coughed as loud as he could
in her ear.

“Great Gawd, who dat?” she cried out. “Who dat, I say!” Big Sue was on
the other side of the bed!

“Dis is me,” Breeze whispered.

“How come you’s up a-walkin’ round, boy? Git on back to bed. You’ ma
didn’ told me you was a sleepwalker. Great Gawd a’mighty! I can’ stan’
a sleepwalker.”

“I ain’ ’sleep,” Breeze whispered again, but she didn’t hear him, so he
gave a loud cough that all but split his throat in two.

“Who dat cough? You, Breeze?”

“Yes’m.”

“Jedus, hab mussy! I ain’ never hear such a cough. You’ palate must be
fell down. Git on back in de bed. If you keep coughin’ I’ll gi’ you a
spoonful o’ kerosene. If you’ palate is down Maum Hannah must tie up
you’ palate lock. Go on back to bed. I sho’ am sorry you’ palate is
fell, but don’ you ever walk in on me a-sleepin’, not no mo’!”

The threat of the kerosene made Breeze struggle to hold in his coughs,
and whenever one tried to burst out he covered up his head, although it
seemed to him somebody was laughing in the shed-room with Big Sue.




VIII

THE PREMISES


Breeze slept late next morning. When he woke Big Sue stood by his bed,
looking straight into his eyes. A bar of sunlight fallen through a
crack in the wooden window blind laid a dazzling band on her face.

“Looka de sun shinin’ on you, son. You is gwine be lucky. Git up now,
I’m got to off a piece. But you’ breakfast is settin’ on de hearth.
I bet you had a bad dream last night. Don’t tell it befo’ breakfast.
Dat’ll make it come true.”

But Breeze couldn’t remember any dream at all, and, slipping out of Big
Sue’s night-gown and into his own clothes, he took his pan of breakfast
and went to sit on the front step in the sunshine while he ate. He
swallowed down the grits and bacon grease in a hurry, keeping the sweet
potato for the last. A lean spotted hound trotted up and sniffed at
his feet and legs, then turned to the empty pan on the step and licked
it clean. When he looked beseechingly at the potato, Breeze gave him a
taste and patted his head and stroked his long silky ears and together
they went to look around the premises.

Big Sue had told Breeze that Blue Brook was the finest plantation on
the whole Neck, and the Big House the largest dwelling, but those
chimneys, towering high as the tree-tops, and the tall closed windows
and doors had a cold unfriendly look. The yard was empty except for a
few chickens and a flock of geese. The old gander looked at Breeze and
flapped his wings and screamed out, and Breeze turned back, frightened
by his threats.

Behind Big Sue’s cabin were a tiny fowl-house and a pig-pen with a big
hog lying down inside. When Breeze looked over the fence the creature
grunted and struggled to get to his feet. Fat had it weighted down,
yet its snout made hungry snuffles at the empty trough, and the small
bright eyes watched through the cracks to see if Breeze had brought
any food. The hound stopped to smell a fresh mole-hill, then walked
leisurely on, and Breeze left the hog to follow him and see what the
premises held.

Weeds narrowed the path. Once a lizard barely got out of his way. He
must watch out for snakes. The morning was sunlit, sweet with fragrance
that the sun, already high up in the glittering sky, wrung out of the
shrubbery; but everything was so silent.

As Breeze went toward the still shadowy garden, with its boxwood
borders and bird pool and old gray sun-dial, Big Sue, unexpectedly,
came out of the side door in the Big House and behind her came April,
who had held him last night. Without a word April strode off in a
different direction, but Big Sue called to Breeze that she’d walk with
him. Going in front she led him past flowers of every color, bushes of
all leaves, telling him about them as she went. Years ago the garden
had been stiff and trimmed, and the shrubbery had grown in close-cut
bushes between straight box hedges. But time had changed everything.
Uncle Isaac was old and deaf, and instead of staying home at night and
resting so he could work at the roses and keep them from running wild
and getting all tangled up with vines, he ran around to birth-night
suppers and cut up like a boy. She pointed out boughs that reached
across the path. Clumps of paper-white narcissus, not waiting for
spring, bloomed in the wrong places. White patches of sweet alyssum
crept right up to the edge of the boxwood borders, the delicate perfume
making the air honey-sweet. But it was out of place, and ought to be
cut away. Uncle Isaac was too trifling to be the gardener now.

Tall tangled heads of grass were in some of the beds, and a bold vine
whose topmost branch was gay with orange-scarlet bells swayed from the
tip of a magnolia tree. The bright bunch of blossoms nodded at Breeze
with a slow persistence, sunlight filled each flower cup, and its hot
scent streamed out in the soft wind. There was something queer in its
steady silent bowing. A light sound hissed through the stiff magnolia
leaves whenever the mild wind freshened, but the magnolia tree held
every crisp, brown-lined leaf still. Unmoved. The light stir of the
morning’s breeze could not move that tall dark tree, which was splashed
here and there with over-ripe blossoms.

“Son, is you see de way dat trumpet vine is a-wavin’ at you? Better bow
back at em!”

Breeze did bow the best he knew how, but Big Sue laughed.

“When you bow, you must pull you’ foot.” She showed him how to do it.

She reached up and broke off a half-open bud, and tearing its creamy
petals apart showed Breeze how they closed over a core of gold. She
showed him the sun-dial marking the time of day. A spattering of
water called them to see the birds enjoying a bird bath; a flock of
pigeons dropped with a slanting flight, then hurried off. A tinkling of
sheep bells told that a flock browsed peacefully not far away. When a
blue-jay perched overhead with a screech, Big Sue shook a fat fist at
him. “Git off,” she scolded. “You don’t know to-day’s Friday. Is you
forgot you is due to tote a stick o’ wood to Satan? Git on to torment,
lessen you done been dere a’ready dis mornin’!” A streak of scarlet
flashed where a cardinal darted across a bright path of sunlight as a
hammer banged down on a nail. Old deaf Uncle Isaac was mending a broken
place in the fence, and talking to himself. His deaf ears had not
heard Big Sue and Breeze, and his murmured talk droned on out of his
stammering lips.

“Po’ old Uncle Isaac!” Big Sue sighed. “When e can’ talk to de livin’
e talks to de dead. His eyes is so full up wid speerits right now, he
don’ see we. You kin see speerits, too, son, enty? You’ ma said so.”

Before Breeze had time to deny it, all of a sudden she turned on him
and gave a sharp cry. “Looka here, boy! You been a-steppin’ in my
tracks! I know it! A’ awful pain is come right on de top o’ my head!
You done it! You needn’ shake you’ head. I was feelin’ good when I come
in dis flowers yard. Git a stick! Now broke em in two an’ cross ’em!
Put em in one o’ you’ tracks! Git me shet o’ dis pain! I declare to
Gawd, dat’s a provokin’ t’ing you done! I was feelin’ so good too. If
you try to conjure me, I’ll kill you!”

Breeze denied it humbly. He had not meant to step in her tracks. He
didn’t even know it would work her harm. When he had placed the broken
sticks as she bade him, she spoke more kindly, and warned him to be
careful never to step in anybody’s tracks.

Once she missed and stepped in Uncle Isaac’s tracks and it gave him a
terrible tooth-ache. She had to cross twenty sticks before she got him
rid of it. Poor Uncle! They’d better not go near him. He was on the
side of the garden where spirits stayed. Let him talk to them.

“My head is done better now, t’ank Gawd,” she sighed, adding that
she’d ask Uncle Isaac to supper to-night. He could tell so many funny
stories. He could explain, exactly, why the grass is green and the sky
is blue. Why the sun shines in the daytime and the moon and stars shine
at night. He knew what the thunder said when it spoke. He could whistle
the first tune the wind ever whistled. One time, the night was a great
big black giant that ran round the sun, trying and trying to catch
the day. Uncle Isaac said so and he knew more about the first men and
women who ever lived than Adam and Eve ever dreamed of. He got it all
at first-hand, by word of mouth, from Africa, where the world itself
was born and a terrible black God made all men black. Big Sue’s narrow
black eyes softened, her voice grew mild, her fat fingers toyed with a
rose. She said Uncle Isaac knew a strange tale about the high-tide and
the evening star, and another about why the morning clouds eclipse the
moon. They were pretty tales, all about love, but Breeze was too small
to hear them.




IX

SATURDAY AFTERNOON


Soon after the noon bell rang on Saturday, Big Sue gave Breeze a panful
of dinner, cooked on the hearth where a sleepy fire nodded and dozed
over a few chunks of hard oak wood.

“Hurry an’ eat, son, I want you to go wid me to de sto’. I got a lot
to buy, an’ I’m scared to come home by myself after dark. To-morrow’s
Sunday. I got to buy a kerosene an’ some rations. I’m gwine to git you
some clothes, too.”

As he followed Big Sue down the long avenue Breeze was careful not to
step in her tracks. Outside the gate, the road ran through a gloomy
forest, where tall pines and live-oaks stood among magnolias and cedars
and fragrant myrtle thickets. Big Sue talked about the country as they
walked on.

The old road, now dwindled to this narrow dim way, was once a fine
highway. Important gentlemen and lovely ladies used to drive over it
in fine carriages drawn by fiery horses. The gold and silver on the
harness used to blind people’s eyes the same as summer lightning. Men
who had run the whole country had gone along here many a time, right
where the trees sprung tall in the old dead ruts. Thorny yupon branches
reached out and scratched Breeze on the arm, trying to tear the holes
in his shirt bigger than they were. Big Sue called out greetings, for
numbers of black people were walking the same way. Some in groups. Some
walking by twos and threes. All dressed in their Sunday best, going to
the Landing.

The boat stopped on its way up and down the river twice a week,
bringing supplies and mail from the town in the river’s mouth to the
shabby little stores that squatted along the water’s edge. This row of
dilapidated houses was strung close together, and scrawny, mule-bitten
hackberry trees, some with hollows clear through their bodies, stood in
front of the wide-open doors, making hitching-posts for the restless
beasts that had to be tethered. Many of the mules and oxen stood free
to go if they liked, but they waited, dozing, switching flies, the oxen
chewing cuds.

Flashy colors of hats and ribbons, gay headkerchiefs and curiously
fashioned dresses wove in and out as crowds of black girls and women
tramped up and down the path that ran from one shop to another. Sunday
shoes, dulled with gray dust, made a cheerful squeaking as they blotted
out tracks made in the soft dirt by bare feet.

Some of the men were tall, with bold strong faces. Brawny muscles of
powerful arms and legs could be seen bulging under faded patched shirts
and overalls.

Droll shapes of merry laughter mixed with greeting voices. There were
graceful bows and handshakes and kindly inquiries. Old men, who might
have had great-grandchildren, tottered about importantly on uncertain
legs, bantering the girls with words that belied the white hairs
bristling from their withered ears. White wool peeped through their
tattered wool hats. Rheumatism spitefully twinged their joints and put
a hitch in every gay step. But lively spirits cheered their shriveled
flesh and lightened clouded eyes. Laughter deepened the creases in old
wrinkled faces, and swelled the tendons in ropy wilted throats.

Uncle Isaac and Uncle Bill sat, side by side, on a box outside the
post-office, chewing tobacco and spitting with calm delight. After each
bit of close talk, Uncle Isaac broke into sudden fits of high cracked
laughter, and pounded Uncle Bill gleefully on the back. He was old and
deaf, yet he took a full part in the pattern of Saturday’s joy. Breeze
wished he could hear one of the stories that made him laugh so, but he
knew by Uncle Bill’s bashful look that those stories should never have
been told at all.

“How’s you’ rheumatism?” Uncle Bill shouted, to change the subject.

“E’s better. A lot better dan e been. I been totin’ a’ oak-gall in my
pocket ’stead o’ dem buckeyes. I b’lieve de oak-gall is stronger. Seems
to me like I kin git ’roun’ more better since I made de change.”

Uncle Bill looked doubtful and his head shook a little, but he spat
thoughtfully, then yelled, “I made me a li’l’ pokeberry wine, an’ I
tell you, suh, it’s a fine t’ing! A fine t’ing! I ain’ hardly been
bothered wid any kind o’ misery since I been drinkin’ em.”

Uncle Isaac’s mild old eyes watched every word, for they had to help
his deaf ears understand. “You say elderberry wine?” he queried.

“No! Pokeberry! You know pokeberry, enty? Elderberry wine wouldn’ do
rheumatism no good. My Gawd, no,” Uncle Bill answered, laughing at such
a mistake. “You ain’ turned to no lady, is yuh?”

“No, t’ank Gawd!” Uncle Isaac screeched. “If it wan’t fo’ my crippled
knee, I wouldn’ feel no more’n forty years old. No, suh. Not a bit
more’n forty. April’s gwine git a rattlesnake to make me some snake
tea. Dat’s a good medicine.”

“E might be fo’ true,” Uncle Bill agreed. “I ever did hear say so. But
my stomach is too weak to stand sich a strongness. Rattlesnake tea be
de same as con’trated lye! Better mind how you projec’ wid em, Uncle!”

“Sho’! Sho’! I’m old enough to know medicine ain’ somet’ing fo’ play
wid. I ain’ no chillen, son. I been in dis world a good while.”

The mail was not open yet, and Big Sue waited for it all to be given
out so the storekeeper, who was postmaster too, could let her have what
she wanted. Breeze stood close beside her, watching the black people
who loitered and laughed and talked, as they crowded into the dirty
crank-sided store. Each man invariably paid her a compliment, such as,
“I declare to Gawd, Miss Big Sue, you look sweet,” or, “It do my eyes
good to see you.” Uncle Bill said, “I’m gwine buy you a treat soon as
de mail is finished.”

The men took off their hats and pulled a forelock and drew one foot
back to make their bows. The women made easy graceful curtsies. Big Sue
whispered to Breeze that he must pull his foot and bow too. Look at
Uncle Bill and Uncle Isaac. He must learn manners. But Breeze hadn’t
the heart to try here where so many would see him.

Outside, near the road, Brudge, a black boy as ragged as Breeze, but
apparently happy, parched peanuts in a round, black, fire-heated oven.
Over and over he patiently turned the sooty cylinder with a black iron
handle, all the time chattering and grinning, as from time to time
he dished out paper sacks-full, not only for the children, but for
grown men and women who bought them to eat right then. The smell of
the peanuts was delicious, but it was almost smothered by the scent of
fried fish, which came from a shack near by.

Big Sue said it was a restaurant, and Breeze was craning his neck to
see inside when April took him by the hand and led him in, while Big
Sue, laughing as she came, walked behind them. The afternoon light,
aided by a large kerosene lamp, whose glass shade was dim with smoke,
shone on the white oil-cloth that covered several small tables. Big
Sue said, “Set down, Breeze,” and he dropped into a chair by a table.
He ate big thick slices of store-bought baker’s bread that the boat
had brought from town and squares of fried fish that Big Sue said were
caught in the sea by regular fishermen.

April had a powerful look. He was very tall, his forehead high, his
mouth straight and wide, his bony chin and cheek-bones set forward. He
left most of his good bread broken all up but uneaten on the greasy tin
plate.

“Whyn’t you eat you’ victuals, April?” Big Sue asked him.

“I ain’ so hongry, not dis evenin’,” he answered, smiling and with his
glowing eyes on Breeze.

Reaching a long hand down in his pants pocket, he took out a piece of
paper money and gave it to her. “Buy de boy some clothes, Big Sue. Feed
em good, too. I want em to grow.”

Big Sue took it and told Breeze to go outside and watch the people
until she came.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some of the women and girls were fat and funny-looking, but others
were slender, with well-formed bodies. All of them looked at Breeze
searchingly, some slyly, but most of them with brazen eyes. Many of the
older women were smoking small clay pipes, and when they laughed their
teeth showed brown, stained with tobacco.

Young men strutted past them, with hats cocked on one side of their
heads. Some caught the girls’ hands and held them and offered to treat
them. Bottles of coca-cola and bags of candy rivaled peanuts and the
small sweet-cakes, just come on the boat from town in a big wooden box
that opened like a trunk. As Breeze gazed, his mouth watered at the
sight of so many good things to eat.

Big Sue kept talking to April, who stood strong as an oak, his eyes
riveted on her face. She looked uneasily at the door when he took her
hand. As she drew it away he laughed, then spat far outside and left
her.

Pulling up her skirt, Big Sue got a handkerchief out of her underneath
pocket, and untying the knot in its corner, added the piece of paper
money to what it already held. She gave Breeze two pennies. “Go buy you
a cake, son,” she bade him. Then she halted him with, “Wait, gi’ me
back dem pennies. Here’s a nickel. Git t’ree. I want one o’ dem cakes
myself.”

Forgetting his fear in his eagerness for the sweet-cake, Breeze ran
into the store next door. Every man and woman who had come to do
serious purchasing carried a crocus sack into which the things were
crammed: groceries, cloth, shoes, were all crowded in on one another.
Those who bought kerosene had it in quart glass bottles tied with
strings around the necks.

Breeze had never seen so many red sweaters in his life. They were in
all shapes and sizes and conditions. Some quite new. Some patched and
faded. Some with rolled collars. Some with frayed elbows. They were
worn with blue overalls and khaki breeches, white aprons and full
skirts and short skimpy dresses. Old and young wore them jauntily, as a
sort of badge of Saturday’s joy.

The doorway was hidden as the happy people pressed in and out of the
store. The sidewalk, thick flaked with bits of white oyster shell,
became trashy with empty peanut hulls, and scraps of tissue-paper torn
from candy kisses.

Everybody looked happy and light-hearted. Breeze envied them their easy
friendly ways, their gaiety. As he stood apart, looking on, listening
to them, he felt more homesick than ever. Even the sweet-cake, that
dropped rich crumbs on the floor with every bite he took, couldn’t make
him forget that he was a stranger here.

The postmaster called out Big Sue’s name, and there was a dead silence,
then much laughter. “Who? Big Sue Goodwine? My Gawd! Who dat wrote she
a letter?” Breeze was sent in a hurry to call her to come get it. There
was much chaffing. “It’s de sheriff, Big Sue. Dat’s who.” And, “You got
so much beaux you can’ member who is home an’ who’s gone off.”

When Big Sue stumbled in half out of breath, they called out to her,
“Hurry up an’ read em. Le’ we hear de news!”

But Big Sue sucked her teeth and said, “I don’ tell ev’ybody my
business. Not me!” She took the letter and put it deep down in her
apron pocket where not a soul could even see it.

The mail was all given out at last, and the buying was done. The
threads of color unraveled as the negroes left the stores and walked
away down the road, some young couples hand in hand. Big Sue was among
the last to start buying, for she had spent the time talking with her
friends. She waited until the store was almost empty, then she chose a
pair of pants and two shirts for Breeze, holding the garments up to his
body to get the right size. She gave him the package to hold, saying,
“Walk roun’ an’ look at de store. I want to git my letter read.”

The store was almost clear of people, but its air was still thick with
the acrid smell of hot sweaty bodies. Breeze knew few of the things
offered for sale, for the rickety shelves were crammed with much
besides cloth and shoes. He recognized the gay paper-covered tin cans
of salmon, but the little bottles of cologne labeled “Hoyt’s German”
were strangers to him. He couldn’t read, so he couldn’t tell that paper
covers on a big batch of china jars claimed in emphatic black words
that they held a cure for the darkness of dusky skins, or that the few
bottles left on a shelf that was lately full would straighten the kinks
out of crinkly hair.

Heavy sacks of green coffee berries were piled high between paunchy
barrels of moist brown sugar, and smaller, neater barrels of pure white
flour. Bolts of scarlet flannel waited to make garments that would keep
the cold from old painful knees and shoulders. Rolls of gay outing and
checked homespun for dresses were out on the counter. Piles of strong
brogans were only a few steps away from boxes of Sunday shoes. Kits
of chewing tobacco stood near a lot of little cloth bags full of Bull
Durham. Cakes with pink and white icing, and red-striped sticks of
candy were under a glass case along with black and white ball thread
and needles and fish-hooks.

The big kerosene lamp, tied with a wire to a rafter overhead, filled
the room with a pale yellow flare of light that showed the floor,
whitened with cornmeal, and spattered with stains of greasy salt that
fell on it whenever fat chunks of cured hog-meat were taken out of the
barrels and passed over the counter to the customers.

When at last nobody else was in the store, Big Sue reached down in her
pocket and got out her letter. “Please, suh, read em fo’ me. I’m ravin’
to know who’s wrote me a letter,” she asked. The storekeeper was a
kind-looking white man with blue eyes and red skin, and a mouth stained
at both corners with tobacco. He wiped his hand on his trousers, then
took the letter and tore it open and took out a single sheet covered
with pencil writing.

“It’s from Silas Locust. He’s your own husband, isn’t he?”

“Great Gawd!” Big Sue fairly panted. She put the fat hand up to her
breast and held it there for a minute before she could get breath
enough to say, “Do hurry, suh. Tell me wha’ dat nigger is writin’ to me
’bout.”

The letter said Silas was in Wilmington, North Carolina. He was a
preacher now, and married to a big fine-looking yellow woman, who had
three nice children for him. But lately his mind kept turning back to
Big Sue and Blue Brook Plantation. He wanted to see them. He was coming
home, in short. Big Sue repeated the words “in short” two or three
times. She seemed to have no feeling against Silas at all, or against
the fine-looking yellow woman he had married.

When the storekeeper handed the letter back to her, saying, “You may
as well get married, too, now that Silas has a wife,” she gave a
shamefaced giggle at the idea and said she couldn’t marry, not with a
living husband. The storekeeper said she needn’t laugh, she’d do it
yet, and she owned that she had thought about it a little.

The last time she went on an excursion to town, a man who had a nice
restaurant took her to ride in a painted hack, and said he’d buy her an
organ if she’d marry him. They could run the restaurant together. (She
giggled again.) But now she was glad she hadn’t done it, since Silas
was a preacher, and he’d be a-coming to see her, in short. Her sides
shook, and her round eyes rolled, until a serious thought came to her
mind, and she inquired, soberly, “Did Silas say if he’s Runnin’ Water
Baptist, or a Stale Water?” The storekeeper said Silas hadn’t mentioned
either one, and Big Sue pondered over it until the white man asked her
if Silas came back what she’d do with all her other beaux. Jake and
Uncle Bill and Uncle Isaac, too, and what about the foreman, April?

“Great Gawd! Do hush!” Big Sue shouted with clamorous laughter, as each
name was mentioned. “You make me too shame. I don’ care nothin’ ’bout
none o’ dem old mens! Not me! An’ April just got me to fetch dis li’l’
boy here to Blue Brook. E’s April’s own, by a ’oman on Sandy Island.”

But the storekeeper was in earnest, and he said, “If I were you,
whether Silas ever comes home or not, I’d leave April alone. Leah will
get you if you don’t. You’ve forgotten her gums are blue, haven’t you?
She’ll bite you some day, and what will happen then? You’ll die, and
those white folks will have to hunt another cook when they come to Blue
Brook to shoot ducks. Better be careful. Blue gums are worse than a
rattlesnake bite. Leah’s not going to stand outside that restaurant and
see you eating bread and fish with her husband inside, without doing
something about it. I heard her say so a while ago.”

Big Sue tossed her head. “Humph! I ain’ scared o’ Leah. Fat as e is,
I could squeeze em to deat’ in one hand.” She opened and clenched her
powerful fists. Years of kneading dough had given strength to her
thick wrists and round fingers, for all the soft cushion of flesh that
covered them.

It was late and Big Sue and Breeze took a short-cut by a path that
ran through the woods, then by a smooth planted field where new oats
sprouted green tips and covered the earth. They looked tender against
the dark even green of the trees. The evening light was thin and
misty. Shadows and colors and forms all melted into a cool pale dusk.

Big Sue warned, “Watch out for snakes, son. I can’ smell good. A fresh
cold is got my nose kinder stop up. A cold ever did hinder my smellin’.
I must go stand round de stables a while to-morrow. Dat’ll broke up a
cold quicker’n anyt’ing else.”




X

THE BARNYARD


Early Sunday morning Uncle Isaac came to ask Big Sue for an old
worn-out sieve. Uncle Bill was having a bad time. Hags rode all the
horses at the barnyard every night God sent. Every morning the manes
and tails were so tangled up it took Uncle Bill hours to get them
greased and smoothed out again.

Red sunsets promised a killing frost and the white folks would be
likely to come any time after that. Bill had the horses’ coats all
rubbed down like satin, every fetlock trimmed, the bridles and saddles
in good order, but the hags were deviling him to death. Big Sue said
she had already given Uncle Bill a string of red pepper pods and a
straw broom too, to hang up on the stable door. If they didn’t stop the
hags, what good could a sieve do?

Uncle explained to her how hags are fools about counting things. They
won’t go inside a door until they count the boards on the door-facing,
and the nails, then they’d count all the pepper pods and the straws in
the broom, and have time enough left before day to ride the horses, and
plait their manes and tails. But a sieve would stop them, for by the
time all the holes in the sieve were counted, those hags would be weary
and ready to go home and rest.

Big Sue gave him the sieve and he invited Breeze to walk with him to
the barnyard where Uncle Bill had a nice little milking goat to give
him. Breeze could break it to ride and drive, and the milk would be
good to make him grow.

Breeze was delighted. All his life he had wanted a goat. But Big Sue
shook her head. A milking goat wouldn’t do for Breeze. If he drank goat
milk he’d be ruined for life. He hated soap and water already, and
goat’s milk would make him worse. He’d never wash at all if he drank
it. Breeze begged her to change her mind. If she’d let him have a goat
he’d wash every night God sent. But she was firm. She had seen too many
boys grow up into filthy men just from drinking goat’s milk when they
were young. She wanted Breeze to be clean and nice so he could play
with young Cap’n when he came home to spend the winters.

She changed the subject by asking Uncle Isaac how far guinea fowls
could count. He said they could count five. She’d always thought that
too, but lately she’d left five eggs in her guinea nest and they
wouldn’t lay in it again.

“Did you put you’ hand in de nest when you took de eggs out?” Uncle
Isaac asked. “Guineas kin smell. If dey smell you’ hand, dey’ll change
dey nest.” Big Sue looked hard at Breeze. She had cautioned him about
that and he declared he had been careful to take the eggs out with a
long-handled spoon.

“Leave six eggs in de nest, Big Sue. I know a guinea can’ count to more
dan six.”

“No, I gwine lick Breeze, dat’s wha’ I’m gwine do. He took dem eggs out
wid his hand, and I know it.”

“No, daughter, no! You’s too hard-hearted!” He looked at her with
twinkling eyes. “You treat em too bad. I’m sorry for em. An’ Bill’s
gwine crazy if you don’ marry em! You ought not to plague we so!”

“Who? Me?”

“Sho’! You. Po’ Bill’s mighty nigh ruint his mouth tryin’ to be
stylish an’ wear teeth on Sundays to please you.”

She giggled, then she squalled. “Do hush, Uncle! You know I got a
livin’ husband right yonder to Wilmington.”

“Silas don’ count. Not now. When a man’s gone seven years, e don’
count. I’d risk dat.”

“Shucks!” Her tone was scornful. “It’ll take a younger man dan you or
Uncle Bill to git me. You can put dat in you’ pipe an’ smoke it too.”

“We’ll see,” Uncle Isaac responded cheerfully. “Droppin’ water kin
broke stone.”

As he turned away, Big Sue went up close and shouted in his ear that
Breeze’s palate was down, and she was going to ask Maum Hannah to get
it up for him.

“It might be de boy’s just got a li’l’ fresh cold. If e is, e ought to
work round de stables. Dat’ll broke a cold, if it ain’t got too strong
a holt on you. Let’s go by de stables now. Git you’ hat, Breeze.”

Uncle Isaac wanted Breeze to see him hang up the sieve for the hags.
There was a right way and a wrong way to do such things. Uncle Bill
loved those horses, yes Lord. Bill knew every horse and mule and cow
and goat and sheep by name. All the grown hogs, too. When he called
them they came. They knew he loved them. Uncle Bill was as tender with
little new-born things as if they were human babies. But he couldn’t
stand disobedience. He had no mercy on things that did wrong.

Alongside the path were wide-spread grape arbors. A double row of
gnarled knotted fig trees, full of yellow leaves and belated ripe
fruit, let rich honey ooze from tiny rifts in blue and brown and purple
skins, tempting bees to plunder.

Uncle Bill had tried to teach the chickens to sleep in a fowl-house,
but the younger ones would slip out here and roost in these fig trees.
Uncle Isaac pointed to a handful of white bloody feathers that lay
scattered over the grass. An owl caught the best white pullet last
night. She would roost in the top of the fig tree, no matter how often
she was shooed out. Foolish chicken. But Bill would get that owl.
Sooner or later he’d get him. Bill was a dangerous man to cross. Uncle
Isaac was emphatic.

Putting a kind hand on Breeze’s shoulder, he said, “You ax Bill to le’
you go wid him an’ l’arn how to call a owl. Bill kin call crows and
wild turkeys an’ alligators too. E’ll larn you all dat, son, if you
speak a good word for him to you’ Cun Big Sue. Bill is raven ’bout dat
lady. Pure raven.”

“Do hush you’ fool talk, Uncle!” Big Sue chided, with a pleased laugh.
“I ain’ got Uncle Bill to study ’bout.”

The great square barns were filled with corn and hay. A long narrow
building cut into many stalls made a shelter for the mules and horses.
As they opened the wide heavy gate, Uncle Bill came out of the barn
door with a pitchfork full of hay on his shoulder. He was lining out
two lines of a hymn to sing, but broke off in a laugh of delight when
he spied them.

“Why, Miss Big Sue! Great Gawd! I too glad fo’ see you! Lawd! Look a’
de li’l’ boy.” He laughed again with pleasure.

“I got de sieve fo’ de hags, Bill, an’ I bring Breeze an’ Big Sue to
hear you talk to de animals an’ de chickens. All two is got a fresh
cold. Take ’em inside de stables first.”

Uncle Bill invited them to come look inside the stables. “I got ’em
all clean, an’ full o’ de nicest pine straw beddin’ ever was. I’m too
sorry. Dey wouldn’ help you’ cold, not a bit, but come look at ’em,
anyhow.”

“Whe’s de run-at cow?” Big Sue asked.

Uncle Bill laughed at her fear. The run-at cow was in the pasture--she
needn’t be scared. He wouldn’t let anything hurt her.

In the long row of stables, bars of sunlight shining through the cracks
were blurred with dust raised by hens, roosters and little chickens,
scratching vigorously in the crisp dry straw. The cocks were saying
brave things, the hens sang contentedly as they looked for the grains
of corn and oats hidden under wisps of fodder and hay and straw.

“Scratch, chillen, scratch,” Uncle Bill encouraged them. “De mules will
come in to dinner befo’ long, den you-all’ll have to go home.”

“Make dem go home now,” Big Sue requested. “I wan’ see how you rules
dem, so I kin rule Breeze.”

He hesitated. “It ain’ quite time yet. De mules don’ come in till noon.”

“We won’ be here den,” she persisted.

“How come you sends de chickens home when de mules come?” Breeze asked.

“So dey won’t git trompled under foot, son. De hens is greedy, an’ a
mule’s foot is blind. Whilst de mules is chawin’ an’ droppin’ grains,
dey feet’ll step on a hen same as on pine straw.”

“Send de chickens home now,” Big Sue asked again with such a warm smile
that he put down his fork full of hay and, standing in the stable door,
waved his big arms and shouted:

“Shoo outa here, chickens! Git on home! Be quick as you kin! I hate to
git a stick after you to-day! Dis is Sunday! Git on out an’ go home!”

The chickens became terribly excited. Some of them huddled in the
straw, trying to hide, others cackled and ran. The hens with little
chickens clucked briskly and hurried away, for Uncle Bill’s face was
hard until every feather was out of sight.

The straw lay still. The dust whirling in the sunlight took its time
and dawdled. Stable flies, with shiny wings and short fat bodies,
strutted out in buzzing circles. Uncle Bill’s practised eyes spied a
scarlet comb away under a trough, far back in a corner.

“Who dat hidin’?” he demanded sternly, and a shamefaced young cockerel
cackled out in terror.

“Didn’ I told you to go home?” Uncle Bill asked him. “You ain’ know yet
you got to mind me? I ain’ got time to be foolin’ wid such as you. No,
suh! I’m too busy.”

The poor frightened creature made a few weak gaggles and tried his best
to hide.

“You’ head will be chop off to-morrow. I’d do it now if it wa’n’t
Sunday. Dem I can’ rule, I kills. I don’ mean to mistreat nothin’, Miss
Big Sue, but I got to be strict.”

He sighed as he came out and closed the door behind him. “Dat’s a fine
young rooster. I was gwine to keep him for seed. I sho’ hates to kill
him.”

“I wouldn’ kill him. Not dat nice rooster. You got to scuse a chicken
sometimes.”

“I done already scused em. Dat’s how come e’s so spoilt. E’s ruint.
If I let him live now e’d keep me worried all de time,” Uncle Bill
contended.

“Fetch em to me an’ I’ll fry em nice fo’ you!” Big Sue offered so
kindly that Uncle Bill declared, “Now, dat makes me feel a lot better.”

“Show us you’ hogs.” Big Sue smiled sweetly. “I wan’ to see if you got
one as fine as my Jeems.”

“I got fine ones, but deys all out in de pasture.”

“You kin call dem in, enty?” she persisted, and Uncle Bill gave in with
a happy laugh.

First he went by the open door and got a few ears of corn, then on to
the edge of the short slope, down by the water, where he drew a deep
breath that filled his great lungs. He gave a loud mellow call: “Melia!
Oh, Melia!” Before the echoes had died away, to the right and the left
was a hurried swishing of water, an eager grunting, the sucking sound
of quick feet lifted out of mud.

“Dey’s a-comin’!” he laughed, then he called again, “Come on, Melia!
Make haste, gal!”

His old face softened as they came in sight, crowds of them. The little
pigs squealed with delight as they hurried to get to him. The older
ones moved more slowly, for their bodies were heavy, but all the time
they grunted encouragement to their children. Uncle Bill’s big hand let
a few white grains of corn trickle through his fingers and fall near
his feet. Their quick eyes saw, and running forward they snapped up the
bits greedily, pushing one another, crowding, sniffing at Uncle Bill’s
dusty brogan shoes, hunting for more.

Uncle Bill lifted the wide sagging gate and opened it wide. “Come on
een!” he said, and the gluttonous crowd trooped inside. When every one
had passed he threw them whole ears on the ground. As they scrunched
the grains and smacked over them, he reached down and patted one on
the head, scratched another’s back with a cob, said some kind thing to
another. It was plain he loved them.

“Dese is my chillen,” he said to Breeze, with a kind smile filling his
soft black eyes.

“Dey is fine chillen, too,” Big Sue praised them. “Uncle Bill’s hogs
is de finest in dis whole country. I was dat proud when he brought
me Jeems, yonder in my pen, home. Uncle Bill raises fine hogs an’
nobody can’ cure hams, or make sausages to taste like de ones he fixes.
Nobody.”

“Well, I tries my best.”

It was a wonderful sight to Breeze. The shade between the fence and
the water held hogs of every shape and size. Huge and black, with soft
silky hair, they lolled, resting, panting, feeding their young.

“Git up, Ellen, an’ come here,” Uncle Bill called out to one of them.
“Le’ Miss Big Sue see you an’ you’ chillen good.” The words were hardly
out of his mouth before a great beast roused and lazily got to her feet
and walked toward him, followed by her children. Uncle Bill took an ear
of corn from his pocket, shelled a few grains and tossed them over the
ground, which made the pigs come faster.

“Po’ Ellen! E’s blind. I had to stick e eyes out. Lawd! I did hate to
do it!”

“How come so?” Big Sue asked him.

“Ellen would catch de chickens an’ eat em. A deer couldn’ beat Ellen
runnin’. A hen couldn’ git away f’om em nohow. Ellen would swallow down
a mother an’ whole brood o’ biddies quicker’n I could swallow a pint
o’ raw oysters. It’s de Gawd’s truth. E’d eat de mammy an’ all. I had
to hinder em somehow. I didn’ wan’ to kill a fine hog like Ellen, so
I hottened a wire till it was red an’ jobbed it in all two o’ e eyes.
Ellen can’ see how to run chickens down, not no mo’. Po’ ol’ gal!”

“How come some pigs is different f’om de rest?” Breeze asked. “How come
some is red an’ dey ma is black?”

Uncle Bill and Big Sue exchanged smiles. “May as well say, Uncle Bill.
Boy-chillen has to know sich t’ings.”

The old man smiled behind his rough hand and said, “De ma’s name is
Melia, son.”

Uncle Isaac drew nearer to hear, and Uncle Bill told how Melia had been
the apple of his eye since the day she was born. He planned to have her
raise the finest litters ever born on this plantation. But Melia was a
headstrong person. She had a mind of her own.

Uncle Isaac chuckled and murmured, “Dat’s de Gawd’s truth!”

Jack, the boar heading the herd, would take a prize anywhere. He had
tremendous size, yet he was so well-bred that in spite of his bulk his
skin was smooth, his hair soft and fine. He had every mark of a perfect
Poland-China.

Uncle Isaac agreed emphatically. “Yes, e sho’ is. Sho’! Sho’!”

But when Melia grew up she would have nothing to do with Jack. She
didn’t like him. Uncle Bill tried to encourage her to do her duty, but
Jack wasn’t to her taste, and that’s all there was to it. No amount of
coaxing could make her change.

Last spring Uncle Bill made up his mind Melia would have to be killed.
He hated to do it. The very thought cut at his heart-strings. But there
was no use to keep Melia unless she had children. He’d have killed
her then, but she was too large to be killed in hot weather. Her ham
couldn’t be cured properly, and so she was left to be made into meat
this winter.

Uncle Isaac broke out laughing. Lord, Bill was a doleful soul when he
fixed on Melia’s death. Uncle Bill nodded:

“It’s de Gawd’s truth! I pure had to go off an’ pray, I was so fretted
over Melia! My prayers was answered, too. Dey sho’ was!” He said soon
after his sorrowful decision, he went to the pasture one morning and
found a strange sight: the pasture fence had been broken down, and a
low-down, ornery, red razor-back hog was inside. He was dirty and lean
and ugly. His red hair was stiff and coarse and caked up with mud. He
was a sneaky, no-mannered beast. But Melia liked him.

Before many moons Melia had a fine litter of pigs. Red pigs, that took
their color from the father Melia chose for them, a scrubby, ugly
no-account hog that came from God knows where.

“Dey’s fine pigs, dough. Dey’s out-growin’ all de rest. Melia’s a case.
A heavy case.” His proud chuckle ended with a sigh. “I reckon I’m too
easy on Melia. She played a bad trick on me. I know I ought not to let
em do so. But I’m gittin’ old an’ soft-hearted, an’ Melia knows it.
Melia’s got too much sense. God ought not to ’a’ made Melia a hog. No.
Dat was a mistake. Ought I to ’a’ killed Melia, Uncle!”

“No. No,” Uncle Isaac said gently. “You couldn’ be hard, not on Melia.
Melia had a right to choose her man. Ev’y ’oman ought to could do dat,
enty?”

Big Sue laughed and curtsied good-by, after thanking Uncle Bill for
showing Breeze the barnyard creatures, and Uncle Bill and Uncle Isaac
both pulled back a foot and bowed and touched their bald foreheads,
where forelocks should have been.

With a happy heart Breeze followed Big Sue on the path that swung along
the edge of an open field, close to tall pines whose dark plumy tops
lifted high above the red ripened leaves fluttering on bushes at their
feet. The dogwood was crimson; haws and wild plum thickets gay scarlet.
Partridges whistled. Across a reaped field larks rose and called out
plaintively to one another from the stubble. High vines of black
muskadines perfumed the air. Persimmon trees bent with fruit waiting
for frost to make it mellow and sweet. The sun beat down hot, but
summer had given way to fall.

The road to the Quarters, strewn with fallen leaves that almost hid its
ruts and holes, ran past sugar-cane patches where green blades rustled
noisily over purple stalks. Sweet potatoes cracked the earth under
vines shading the long rows. Pindars were blooming. Okra bushes were
full of creamy red-hearted blossoms and pointed green pods. Butter-bean
vines clambered over the hand-split clapboard garden fences that kept
pigs and chickens out of small enclosures, where wide-leaved collards
waited for frost to make them crisp, and scarlet tomatoes spotted
straggly broken-down bushes.

Birds chirruped everywhere. The fields murmured in the soft wind.
The Quarters, although made up of houses that tottered and leaned
crank-sided, seethed with noise and life.

A large wagon, drawn by two mules, and with new planks laid across its
high body for seats, rolled by, filled with church-goers. A flutter
of hand-waves and a chorus of “good mawnin’s” greeted Big Sue as she
stopped to let it pass.

“How come you ain’ gwine to church to-day, Big Sue?” somebody called
out.

“I ain’ no Still-water Baptist, gal! I wouldn’ go to hear no
Still-water preacher. No, ma’am!” she answered. “Jedus was baptized in
de River Jurdan, an’ dat’s runnin’ water. Still water gits stale an’
scummy too quick. It can’ wash away sin! No! Sin needs runnin’ water.”

The Quarters’ houses, long, low, shabby buildings, had two front doors
apiece. Each house sheltered two families, a huge chimney in the middle
marking the division. Moss adorned the gray shingles of the sagging
roofs. Steps were worn thin. Rust reddened the old hand-wrought hinges
of the leaning doors and gave a creak to wry window shutters.

Maum Hannah lived in the house where she and her mother and her
grandmother were born. As they approached it a miscellany of goats and
chickens and pigs and dogs and half-clothed little children scampered
away from the door-step. The door was ajar, but a chorus of voices
called out:

“Maum Hannah ain’ home. E’s yonder down de street!”

“Come look inside de door at Maum Hannah’s nice house,” Big Sue pushed
the door wider open with a stick, so Breeze could see. The huge chimney
had big strong black andirons, where heavy logs of wood were slowly
being charred in two by a sleepy fire. All kinds of pots sat around on
the clean white sand of the hearth. One pot on a pot-hook that reached
out from the chimney’s back had steam spurting from under its cover,
filling the room with a savory smell. Big Sue sniffed. “Dat goat-meat
stew is seasoned mighty high,” she said. “De floor was scoured wid
mighty strong lye soap, too.”

The thing that took Breeze’s eye was the tiny black child that sat on
the hearth warming its bare feet on the naked sooty pots. He knew it
was Emma, but if he had not seen her before he could never have told
if she were a girl or a boy, her small features were so sharp and her
clothes so shapeless.

“Looka, Emma!” Big Sue called out with a laugh, and the child’s small
head perched on one side, one round black eye narrowed and a broad grin
showed her two rows of milk-white teeth.

“You’s Maum Hannah’s heart-string, enty, Emma?”

But Emma didn’t answer a word.

Big Sue said Emma’s mother was dead and she had no daddy, but she
was worth a lot, for she had power to cure sickness and sorrow by the
touch of her hand. That was because she had never looked on her daddy’s
face. Somebody stepped over her when she was a baby; that was why she
had never grown much. She’d never grow, although she sat there on the
hearth roasting potatoes and eating them all day long.

All children loved to come here and sit inside Maum Hannah’s chimney on
the end of a log. Big Sue used to sit there and watch Maum Hannah put
ash-cake in the ashes to cook, and sweet potatoes to roast. The fire
never went out in Maum Hannah’s fireplace. It’s bad luck for a fire
to die in a house and this fire had never gone out altogether since
it was first started by Maum Hannah’s great-grandpa, who was brought
from across the sea to be a slave. The first houses ever built here
were sheds to keep the fires from the rain and wind, for nobody had any
matches in those days. The fires that burned in all the Quarter houses
came from that same first fire that had burned for years and years.
It was a lot older than anybody on the plantation. Big Sue’s fire was
a piece of it. It burned hotter than match fire. Steadier too. It’s
unlucky to start a new fire with a match. Breeze must learn how to bank
the live coals with ashes every night, so the next morning they can
be uncovered and started into a blaze. If the fire goes out, borrow a
start from Maum Hannah, or one of the neighbors who have the old fire.

Maum Hannah’s cabin was very clean. Newspapers were pasted all over
the walls, the dark naked rafters almost hidden by fringed papers
that swung from the barrel hoops on which they were tied. A few split
hickory chairs sat near the small pine table, a water-shelf beside the
door held a wooden bucket and a long-handled gourd. The wide boards of
the floor were scrubbed until they were almost white, and a string of
eggshells by the chimney dangled in the draught. They’d been hung there
to make the hens lay.

Between the two rows of dingy old houses that squatted low under the
great oak trees the hot sunshine brought rank scents up out of the
earth. Odors of pig-pens and cow-stalls and fowl-houses and goats,
mixed with Hoyt’s German cologne and the smell of human beings.

Children were playing around almost every door-step. Plump.
Bright-eyed. Boys with loose-hanging, ripped-open trousers, their
black bodies showing where shirt-fronts lay wide open. Girls with
short, ragged skirts flapping around slim prancing legs. Babies cried.
Tethered goats bleated. Penned pigs squealed. Men, women, some in
every-day clothes, others in their Sunday best, sat on the door-steps,
leaned out of windows, lolled on the bare earth, where there was
sunshine. Talking. Parading. Laughing. Some of them combing and
wrapping hair, others putting shoe-strings in shoes, or smoking and
idling.

As Big Sue passed, she bowed or curtsied, and called out hearty good
mornings that fell limpid on the lazy hum of voices.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Whe’s Maum Hannah?” Big Sue asked, and everybody pointed to the last
house where an old woman sat in a chair in the yard in front of a
doorway, near a group of black children playing in the dirt.

A large clean white cloth, folded into three corners, lay across her
head and shaded her eyes from the sun. Her arms were crossed, and each
narrow flat bare foot rested on a brick. Side by side they slept,
almost hidden by the wide white apron that fell stiffly from her lap in
starched folds, with corners that reached the ground.

“Maum Hannah don’ trust de ground. E won’t as much as let her feet
sleep on it. I bet e’s been awake all night, an’ e’s makin’ up for lost
time now.”

Maum Hannah’s face bore a strong resemblance to Uncle Isaac’s. It
was smoother and had smaller features, but the same rich brown tone
was on the black skin. The wool that edged out from under her black
headkerchief was snow-white too, but her face was almost unlined,
except for the wrinkles that smiles had marked around her mouth.

The little black children stared and giggled as Big Sue went tripping
forward and put both her fat hands over Maum Hannah’s eyes:

“Guess who, Mauma!”

“Oh, I know you good,” Maum Hannah answered. “Dis is my Big Sue. I went
to sleep a-thinkin’ ’bout you, gal. My mind must ’a’ called you till
you come.”

“I declare!” Big Sue mirated. “I knowed it! I called you’ name, too, in
de night. Dis is de boy-chile I fetched f’om Sandy Island. I want you
to tie up his palate lock. E coughs so bad at night I can’ sleep.”

Maum Hannah gave Breeze a warm kindly smile, and her keen black eyes,
deep-set underneath her bony brow, scanned him swiftly from his head to
his heels. “Lawd, son, I too glad to see you. De last time we met, you
wasn’ no bigger’n my hand. How come you’ palate is down? I too sorry.
Did you know I had to gi’ you de first spankin’ you ever had? Lawd, I
had to pop you hard to make you holler! I hope you is hard to make cry,
yet.”

The little black children playing in the dirt around her forgot all
about their games, so engrossed were they in Breeze, and what Maum
Hannah said. They forgot their manners, too, until she prompted them.

“Yunnuh speak to you’ Cousin Big Sue. Git up! Stan’ up straight an’
pull you’ foot an’ bow nice! Dis li’l’ boy is yunnuh cousin, too. E
come f’om over de river. Tell him good mawnin’. Gawd bless him!”

There was great scrambling and giggling, and many shy “good mawnin’s.”
The sleek bodies were half-clad, but the whiteness of teeth, and
brightness of eyes made up for lack of garments.

Maum Hannah’s own teeth were strong and sound, and set in deep
blue gums which stressed their yellow tinge. The cane stem of a
rank-smelling pipe showed above the top of her apron pocket.

“Lawd, you’ pipe do smell pleasant!” Big Sue sighed. “But looka my
li’l’ boy. Who does e favor?”

Maum Hannah’s warm wrinkled hand gently lifted Breeze’s chin so the sun
could shine full on his face. “Dis boy is de very spit o’ April. Gawd
bless em, all two!”

Breeze felt that her wise old eyes took account of everything he was.
No secret could be hidden from them.

“I glad you got a li’l’ boy-chile fo’ raise. I too love boy-chillen
myself, even if dey does bring most of de trouble what’s een dis world.
My old mammy used to say ev’y boy-chile ought to be killed soon as it’s
born.”

“I ruther have boy-chillen dan gal-chillen,” Big Sue said. “But I know
good and well boy-chillen does bring most o’ de misery dat’s een dis
world.”

Maum Hannah nodded sorrowfully, as if she weighed Big Sue’s words, then
she spoke slowly:

“I dunno how come mek so.

“Gawd mus’ be makes boy-chillen and trouble, all two, one time.

“Eby ’oman hab joy when e buth one.

“Eby gal hab joy when e love one.

“Dey ain’ see misery hide behime joy.

“Till de misery grow.

“Grow big till e choke de joy!

“Till e bust de ’oman heart open.

“Boy-chillen brings most o’ de misery dat’s een dis worl’.

“Boy-chillen!”

“Dat’s de Gawd’s truth, Maum Hannah! I know so. I was so crazy ’bout my
Lijah, yonder to Fluridy, an’ e run off an’ left me when e wasn’t much
higher’n dis same boy-chile.”

“How’s Lijah when you heard las’?” Maum Hannah inquired.

“Fine! Fine as kin be. E sent me a’ answer to say e’s de baddest man at
de town whe’ e stay.”

“Dat’s nice. I glad to hear good news f’om Lijah. But e better not be
too rash. No. When you write em back tell em I say don’ git so bad e
can’ rule hisself.”

Big Sue laughed.

“I’ll sho’ do it. I’m gwine git a letter wrote to him as soon as Uncle
Bill has time to come by my house an’ do em.”

Maum Hannah raised her eyes to Big Sue’s face and laughed. “Git de
letter wrote to you’ boy, but don’ tarry too long wid de writin’. Gi’
Uncle Bill time to court some, too.”

Big Sue laughed too, until Maum Hannah added, “Better keep out de Big
House, honey. You’ll hab sin if you don’ mind!”

“How come so, Maum Hannah?” Big Sue appeared to be surprised.

“You know how come good as me. Better’n me, too. But dat’s you’
business. Not my own. My business is workin’ for Him up yonder.” Maum
Hannah held up her arms to the sky and lifted her face as if she were
praying, but her gaze became so fixed that they all looked up. There,
away above them in the sky like a tiny bird, sailed something so high
that its buzz was hardly more than the hum of the wind.

Maum Hannah got to her feet, and quickly untying her white apron, held
it up and waved it overhead as she called out loud as she could:

“Pray, chillen, pray! Talk wid Jedus! I too sorry to see you dis
mawnin’!” She shook her old head, and shouted again. “Gawd don’ like
mens to go up in de elements! Dis is His day, too! Pray, chillen, pray!
Do, Jedus, hab mussy on dem. I hope dey ain’ none o’ we white folks.”

“I hope not,” Big Sue joined in. “But most white folks is sinners, Maum
Hannah.”

“I dunno, gal. I can’ see inside nobody’s heart, an’ I tries to love de
sinners same as de rest.”

“You love sinners, Maum Hannah?” Big Sue was amazed.

“Sho’, honey, I loves de sinners, an’ hates de sin.”

“Dat’s right, Mauma. Right.” She gave the old shoulder an affectionate
pat. “Dat’s how come you has such good luck catchin’ chillen. Gawd
blesses you. How much did you catch last night?”

Both old hands went up with a gesture of importance. Two!

She’d caught two children last night. Two angels since first dark. The
spring love-making was bearing fruit early this fall.

“When’s de white folks comin’ home?” she asked with a sudden change of
expression.

Big Sue didn’t know for certain, but she thought soon as white frost
came to kill the fever.

“How come you want to know?” Big Sue was curious.

Maum Hannah hoped they would hurry and come while she was well and
able to talk with them. Something was on her mind, worrying her, and
she wanted to get it settled. She was fretted about the graveyard. It
was too full. Every grave dug lately uncovered old bones. There was no
more room, and a new graveyard ought to be started.

“Do, Jedus!” Big Sue exclaimed. “I sho’ would hate to be de first one
buried in a new graveyard. Dey say you wouldn’ never rest, not till
Judgment Day, if you gits buried first, off by you’ lonesome self.”

“Not if you trust Gawd, honey.”

“I trust Gawd, Maum Hannah, but I ever did hear dat de first one to be
bury in a new graveyard is bound to be unrestless.”

A gentle smile shone on Maum Hannah’s face. “I know, honey. I ever did
hear so too. Gawd knows if it’s so or not. But I done made up my mind
to dis: I’m willin’ to be de first one. I’m gwine ask de white folks to
set off a piece o’ new ground an’ when my time is come to let me be de
first one to be buried in em.”

“Great Gawd!” Big Sue panted. “You’s got a strong heart, fo’ true,
Mauma. I couldn’t do dat to save life.”

“I know, chile. My heart gits weak as branch water too when I t’ink on
death. But I’m done old. I got to go soon. I may’s well put my trust in
Jedus. E knows I done de best I could. I talk wid Him every night. I
talk wid em ’bout de graveyard in de new ground. I’m gwine to hab faith
dat E’ll help me to rise up on Judgment Day an’ fly straight to glory,
same as if I was a-layin’ yonder longside my mammy an’ all dem what’s
gone befo’ me.”

Big Sue pondered and shook her head. She couldn’t stand to let her mind
run on death. She couldn’t sleep at night if she did.

“Dat’s ’cause you’s healthy. If you was weakened down wid a sickness
you’d as soon go as stay.”

“Not me! No, Jedus! I hope I kin stay till I’m old and dry as Aun’
Trecia!”

“I hope you kin if you craves dat. But I know my time is most out. I’m
willin’ to sleep in new ground when my work is done.”

“Nobody else’ll mind a new graveyard if you sleeps dere ahead of dem,
Mauma.”

“I can’ do nobody no good if dey dies in sin. You must git right befo’
you’ time comes. Do, honey, git right. Right wid Jedus!”

Big Sue answered she _was_ right. And she wanted to stay right. But she
was worried half to death now, because she had broken a looking-glass.

“Now, dat is a pity! I too sorry you broke a lookin’-glass. But you go
see Emma. Emma kin help you git shet o’ dat back luck. Po’ chile, e had
ear-ache e’se’f las’ night. Dat cow make em run an’ fret e’se’f so bad.
Emma pure cuss de cow!” Maum Hannah burst into a laugh. “Emma’s bad!
Bad! I haffa all de time lick em! Po’ li’l’ creeter! Emma will cuss dat
cow!”

“Emma is too small to lick fast, enty, Mauma? Looks like lickin’ would
stunt em worser.”

Maum Hannah laughed again, and all the children laughed too.

“Lickin’ don’ stunt chillen! No. Lickin’ loosens up dey hide, an’ makes
’em grow. Now, Emma’s small, but e hab sense. Since de nights is cool
e sets by de fire an’ warms e feet on de pots. Dem same smutty pots I
cooks de victuals in. I tell em to don’ do so! But Emma keeps right on.
Dat smut leaves de pots to stick on Emma’s feets, den when Emma goes to
bed de smut leaves e feets to stick on my clean sheets an’ quilts. It
takes tight scrubbin’ to make ’em git off. Smut too loves cloth! Dat’s
how come I lick Emma so much. I try fo’ make em hate smut same ez I
hate sin. But Emma’s feets is so black e can’ see de smut on ’em.”

“Why you don’ git Emma some shoes, Mauma? Dey’ll keep her feets warm,
better dan de pots.”

“No, honey. I ain’ got de heart to make po’ li’l’ Emma wear shoes. E
too love to jump round an’ dance an’ shout. Shoes would hinder em. I’ll
dis keep on lickin’ em till e knows better. I’ll break em f’om de pots
soon ez I git time. I been too busy lately. All de chillen needs so
much doctorin’. De womens run round too much, a-pleasurin’ deyselves,
to hab good chillen dese days. Times is changed, honey. Womens ain’
quiet an’ steady like dey used to be. No.”

She sighed and pointed to the head of a little girl where a bit of wool
was tied so tight right over the middle of her forehead that the poor
child could hardly blink her eyes.

“I had to tie up Tingie’s palate lock dis mawnin’.” Tingie’s big eyes
looked up solemnly, and Tingie’s sore throat gulped with a great effort
to swallow. “Tingie hab de so’ t’roat, bad.”

“I’s feelin’ better now,” Tingie declared huskily.

“You’ll soon be well, honey,” Maum Hannah told her with a kind smile,
and the child smiled back, sure that Maum Hannah knew.

“I needs some buzzard-claw mighty bad, Big Sue. I wish you’d tell Uncle
Bill so. De babies is teethin’ so bad dis fall. I tried puttin’ a
hog-teeth on a string roun’ dey neck, but hog-teeth is too weak to do
any good. Do tell Uncle Bill to shoot me a few buzzards. De gal-chillen
is teethin’ ’most hard as boy-chillen dis year. But boy-chillen is
mighty scarce. De womens pleasure deyself too much to hab boy-chillen.
Boy-chillen picks sober womens fo’ dey mammy. Dese gals buy so much
trash out de sto’ to eat, dey breast-milk is weak as water. I tell ’em
so, but dey don’ listen at me. No.”

“My Lijah was plagued wid de grow-fast. You ’member, Mauma?”

Maum Hannah nodded. “I ’member, but grow-fast is a easy complaint to
cure. I had to work on one yeste’day.” She told how she and the mother
had taken the child into the room where it was born, and stood in
opposite corners to throw it back and forth to each other, singing the
grow-fast song as they did. A sure cure for grow-fast. “When de room is
big, it’s stiff treatment. My arms mighty near broke yeste’day.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Instead of going home the way they came, Big Sue followed a path
through the woods, and crossed a clear brown stream that flowed without
a single ripple to break its smooth dark surface, or coat it with foam.
The water’s breath smelt warm as it rose into the cooler shadows.

In a small hollow, near its banks, washtubs were turned upside down on
wooden benches, and a big black washpot sat over dead embers. Waiting
for Friday, the plantation wash-day. All the first days of the week
are field-days. On Friday the women gather and wash their clothes and
gossip. It is a great day for them. A sort of holiday. Full of things
to talk about. Every bit of the sunshine between the trees is strung
with clothes-lines, heavy weighted with clothes, the old trees stand
around silent and dolesome, with black shadows cooling their feet.

By Saturday noon the ironing is done, the week’s work over, then
the fun begins. Crap games and parties and dances for the sinners;
prayer-meetings and church for the Christians. Something goes on all
the time until Monday morning. Everything that matters happens between
Saturday night and Monday morning. A week’s earnings can be lost, or a
wife, or a sweetheart.

Even one’s soul!

When they passed a smooth clean piece of ground with a pile of charred
blackened sticks on it, Big Sue laughed and said, “Do look! De
crap-shooters been here last night. See where dey had a fire? Firelight
makes de bones rattle better, so dey say. An’ naked ground brings luck
to de players.”

“Is you a sinner or a Christian, Cun Big Sue?” Breeze blurted out
before he knew it.

“Who? Me? Great Gawd! I been a Christian ever since I was twelve years
old.” After a minute she added, “I did got turned out o’ de church one
time. I stayed out mighty nigh a year. Silas was de cause of my havin’
sin. E deviled me too bad befo’ e left me. But de earthquake come dat
summer, an’ I got so scared it didn’ take me long to seek and find
peace. I joined de church an’ I been in it ever since. You’s mighty
nigh twelve, enty? When you’s twelve Gawd’ll hold you responsible fo’
you’ sins.”

Near the creek stood the schoolhouse for the black children on the
plantation. A log house with a doorway cut in one end, and fitted with
a rude door made of clapboards swung on iron hinges. The big chimney
at the other end was overspread with clay mortar. This cabin occupied
a lovely spot, overshadowed with a great oak tree from whose roots a
small spring trickled and ran to join the larger stream behind it.

Big Sue said there were too many children to get inside the schoolhouse
at one time. Half of them had recess while the other half recited
lessons. The teacher taught with a long keen whip in her hand, and she
made every child learn the lessons. One word missed brought a sharp cut
across the palm of the offender’s hand. Two words brought four cuts
that would not soon be forgotten. Big Sue said she had never bothered
to learn to read and write. She didn’t have any use for either.
Sometimes she’d like to read a new receipt. Still, she could cook
better out of her head than most people could cook out of a book.

The old people didn’t believe in book learning. They thought learning
signs and charms more important, and they discouraged having a school.
But Zeda’s girl, raised right on the plantation, was the teacher, and
she worked wonders with the children. Lijah had never liked books.
Playing and riding and shooting and swimming interested him more. He’d
have made a good conjure doctor. Once he put some of his own hair in a
hole in a tree, and it cured his sprained ankle. He cut an elder stick
for Maum Hannah’s asthma, and tied it by the neck and hung it up in the
loft, and it cured her, too. For a while, before he ran away, he saved
all his toe-nails and finger-nails to put in his coffin, but that was
so much trouble he quit after he got one little bottle full. It takes a
lot of learning to be a good conjure doctor, for there’s black magic as
well as white. Magic can save as well as kill. Breeze ought either to
pray now or start learning magic. He was almost twelve.

The path ran close to a group of trees surrounded by an old rusty iron
fence, where tombstones gleamed white. Deep shadows rippled whenever
a breeze made its way through the thick, moss-hung woods. Enormous
live-oaks stood at regular intervals, all of them festooned with
trailing moss that made a weird roof overhead.

Cicadas chanted shrilly in a tangle of rose vines and honeysuckles.
White oleanders and japonicas crowded one another, the fragrance of the
blossoms mingling with the stench of decaying leaves and wood. Raising
the rusted creaking latch of the iron gate, Big Sue tipped inside the
enclosure where gnarled roots of the old trees crawled across the paths
and slipped under pink-plumed tamarisk bushes. They disappeared, but
they tilted the heavy tombstones, and crumbled the brick foundations
from under marble slabs thick with words.

Some of the graves were smooth and clean, others were smothered
with vines stretched across sunken hollows. Plantation masters and
mistresses had been crumbled, melted, to feed blind groping roots.

Big Sue went toward a corner where a massive gray stone marked a grave.
“Old Cap’n lays here. Gawd! Dat was a man! Not scared o’ anyt’ing or
anybody! Mean! Jedus, he was mean!”

Big Sue sighed. How times change! That same man lying in his grave had
lorded it over this whole Neck, once. Not only over the black people
who worked his fields after freedom the same as in slavery days, but
over the white people too. Most white people hereabout now were trash.
Poor buckra. Gray-necks. Children and grandchildren of overseers. When
the war to free the slaves was going on they stayed home and sold
whisky. They ran under the bed and hid if anybody started a racket.
They made money and saved their skins. Some of them owned plantations
now, and lived in houses whose front doors had been shut to their
grandfathers!

Times had changed. The man who had ridden over this country with the
loosest rein and the sharpest spur, was down under the ground feeding
tree roots and worms to-day. One little boy, one lone grandson, was
all that was left of his seed, and he was being raised up-North, among
Yankees. The child’s own ma was dead and his stepma had taught him the
strange ugly speech of the Yankees. Enough to make his grandpa turn
over in his grave! Wouldn’t the old man curse!

This land must be too rich, too rank for white people to thrive on it.
Their skins were too thin, their blood too weak to bear the summer
heat, and the fevers and sickness that hid in the marsh in the daytime,
then came out to do their devilment after dark.

Black people ruled sickness with magic, but white people got sick and
died. White people leave money to their children, but black people
leave signs. Give her signs every time! Uncle Isaac was getting old.
He might die soon. Breeze had better start learning all he could right
now, before Uncle Isaac’s mind failed. She’d see Uncle Isaac and tell
him.

As she spoke a faint rustle of wind went through the trees and a
lizard, carefully colored to match the soil, scurried across the path,
rattling dead leaves as it slid under the solid gravestone. Big Sue
leaned over the grave and stirred the earth, selecting bits of the
coarser sand.

“I want seven li’l’ rocks now. One fo’ ev’y night in de week. I gwine
keep ’em tie up in my pocket-hankcher, so I would stop havin’ so much
bad dreams all de time.”

Breeze shivered. If spirits of the dead ever haunt the paths of
the living, they lurked in the deep gloom of the shade made by the
overgrown shrubbery, by those coiling, writhing twisted vines. The
swift wings of a cardinal spun a scarlet thread before them. Clear
notes were flung in a spray of song from the top of the tallest tree.
Big Sue called up at him: “It’s twelve o’clock, enty? I hear you sayin’
dis is de brightest time o’ de day!” She tried to make her lips smile
bright enough to fit her words, but Breeze could see that the graveyard
had made her afraid too. “Le’s go, son. Le’s git out o’ here,” she said.

She trampled on a wild rose, full of frail blossoms. As Breeze stepped
aside to keep from crushing another, a soft wind seized the delicate
petals and scattered them over leaves that were already dead.

The road went through the woods past a cleared place, then brought them
to the negro graveyard. Every grave held something valued by the dead.
A white china pitcher and basin. Old bottles, still holding medicine.
Small colored glass vases. Cups and saucers. A few plates. Some of
the graves were decorated with clusters of wooden sticks, skilfully
carved to make heads of wheat. Breeze wanted to take one, but Big Sue
objected. To take one off a grave would be bad luck. Uncle Isaac would
be glad to make him one if he’d ask him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bright and early Monday morning, Big Sue began fitting together small,
carefully cut scraps of cloth, sewing them into squares with strong
ball thread. Breeze sat on the step in the pleasant sunshine threading
her big-eyed needle as fast as it worked up arm-lengths of thread into
firm-holding stitches, while she sat in a low chair on the porch.

Squirrels chased one another across the yard, and up into the live-oak
trees. Showers of ripe acorns jarred down by their playing spattered
over the ground. Those acorns were sweet as chinquapins, and the
squirrels were fat with eating so many. But Big Sue would not let
Breeze kill even one for dinner. His fine new sling-shot, made out of a
dogwood prong, could hit almost as hard as a gun, but Big Sue said the
white folks who lived in the Big House wanted the squirrels left. Even
if they ate up all the pecans in the fall, and all the peaches in the
summer, not one was to be killed. White people have foolish notions,
but it is better not to cross them if you can help it.

She was working hard to get her quilts quilted before the white folks
came down for the duck shooting this winter. They didn’t stay long
these last years. They had another home up-North, so li’l’ “Young
Cap’n” could go to a fine school there. Poor little boy! He liked this
home a lot better, but his Yankee stepma ruled him and his pa too.

Each day got shorter now. She must sew fast. Get all her squares
patched and ready. She’d scarcely have time to draw a long breath for
the turn of cooking to be done after they came. Nobody else on the
plantation could season victuals to suit them. Zeda helped sometimes,
but Zeda didn’t know when ducks were done to a turn and not too done.
Zeda was apt to get venison as dry as a chip, and if she as much as
looked at a waffle it fell flat.

Uncle Isaac’s wife was the cook before Big Sue. She used to be the
finest cook on the whole Neck. Nobody knew how she made things taste
so good. She wouldn’t tell. One day she dropped dead. Right in the
kitchen. Some people thought she was conjured, but too much rich eating
may have done it. After that Uncle Isaac tried to train two or three
people to fix the food, for he knew a lot of his wife’s secrets from
watching her. Big Sue was a girl then, but she was a natural-born cook.
When Uncle Isaac found that out, he let her have her own way. She could
beat everybody now. Lord! When she had the right kind of victuals,
people gnawed their fingers and bit their tongues just to smell the
steam when she lifted the pot lids.

The next moon might bring cold weather. She must hurry and get these
quilts pieced and have a quilting. She had quilts enough for herself.
These were for Joy. She’d ask all the plantation women to Maum Hannah’s
house, where the big room stayed ready for meeting on Wednesday nights,
and for quiltings any day in the week. If it turned cold, Sherry
would kill enough wild ducks for her to cook for the women to eat with
the rice. Wild ducks and rice are fine. If it stayed warm, she’d cook
chickens and rice, instead. Make a pilau, with plenty of hard-boiled
eggs. Uncle Bill would give her the chickens.

Sherry loved Joy so much he’d get anything she wanted for this
quilting! The women could easily quilt ten quilts a day. If they came
early and worked fast they could do fifteen, but she’d be satisfied
with six, for she wanted hers quilted right. With fine stitches, run
in rows close together. Then the cotton batting could never slip, no
matter how many times the quilts were washed.

She was piecing a “Monkey wrench” quilt now. She had a “Log-cabin”
finished, and a “Primrose” and a “Star of Bethlehem” and a “Wild-goose
Chase” and a “Pine-burr.” She had begun a “State-house Steps,” but that
was a hard one to do. It couldn’t be worked out in a hurry and look
right. She’d wait and finish it next year. Joy could wait for that one.

Some women don’t care how their quilts look. They piece the squares
together any sort of way, but she couldn’t stand careless sewing. She
wanted her quilts, and Joy’s, made right. Quilts stay a long time after
people are gone from this world, and witness about them for good or
bad. She wanted people to see, when she was gone, that she’d never been
a shiftless or don’t-care woman.




XI

HUNTING ’POSSUMS AND TURKEYS


Breeze learned something new almost every day. He grew taller each
week. His skinny muscles were filling out, his arms and legs growing
longer and tougher. Big Sue said he’d be useful if he kept on. He
fetched all the water they used from the spring, three full buckets at
a time, one bucket on his head, one in each hand. He cut all the wood
they burned, without fatigue, since Sherry had taught him the trick of
swaying his body forward from the hips as he brought the ax down on the
wood. Sherry made a game of wood-cutting, and could cut a thick oak log
in two with nineteen whacks. Breeze took two or three times as many,
but he did it with one or two less each day.

He made up both beds every morning and swept the floor so clean that
Big Sue couldn’t find a speck of dust anywhere. He knew how to crack
hickory nuts and walnuts so the goodies came out whole for Big Sue to
put in sweetened bread. He had helped make soap with ashes, pot-grease
and the fat of a lot of spoiled hog-meat April gave Big Sue. He took
a sack of corn on his shoulder to mill every Saturday morning, and
brought it back, ground fine, and hot from the grinding rocks. He
milked the cow, churned the cream, fed the chickens, and the hog in the
pen. He could even patch his own clothes.

The regular field-hands drew rations on Saturday, one peck of corn,
three pounds of cured hog-meat. The women who had no man living with
them, paid rent for their cabins with one day’s work a week. April saw
to it that every one paid. He was close and careful. Everybody had to
come right up to the notch since he was foreman, but the house of Big
Sue was rent free, since she was the cook. Breeze drew rations like a
regular field-hand, and by hunting and fishing with Sherry and Uncle
Bill he provided many a good potful of meat. With a line tied to the
end of a long swamp cane, and a slick wriggly earthworm for bait,
he caught strings of perches that made rich morsels when dipped in
cornmeal and fried.

Sherry’s coon dog, Zip, had a faithful nose, and when Sherry and Breeze
took him out at night they seldom came home without coons, or ’possums,
enough to satisfy both Big Sue and Zeda.

They came in earlier than usual one night with nine ’possums and found
April sitting by the fire with Big Sue. Breeze saw Sherry’s frown and
the two men hardly spoke to each other, until April eyed the ’possums
with a sneering smile and said:

“Yunnuh’s got a lot o’ ’possums to-night. I heared Jake’s calf got in a
bog. E must ’a’ died.”

April poked the fire until sparks flew into the room.

“Wha’ you doin’, April? Is you crazy?” Big Sue cried sharply.

April spat contemptuously far back into the live embers. “I’d as soon
eat a buzzard as one o’ dem ’possums!”

“How come?” Breeze, Big Sue, Sherry, all darted astonished looks at him.

“Dey’s full up wid carrion. A ’possum ain’ decent as a buzzard. Dey’s
so coward-hearted, dey durstn’ come out in de daytime to eat. No. Dem
sleek-tailed devils wait till night, den goes creepin’ to carcasses
and stuffs on all what de buzzards scorns.”

“Shut you’ dirty mout’, April! I declare to Gawd, you’s a-turning my
stomach! Torectly, I couldn’ eenjoy eatin’ dese possums at all!” Big
Sue laid stress on every word.

“When did you git so awful delicate, Big Sue?” April asked with a grin.

“I ever did have a delicate stomach. I don’ hardly have no appetite at
all lately.”

Sherry gave a loud guffaw and April frowned in sudden ill-temper. “Wha’
dat tickle you so turrible, now, Sherry?”

April’s irritation showed in the jerky shifting of his hands and
feet, and Big Sue’s eyes stretched open and rolled toward Sherry, who
answered sourly:

“Oh, I ain’ so awful tickled. No. I just had to laugh when I thought
on how it takes a thief to catch a thief. Night-walkers meets
night-walkers, enty?”

“I do’in’ un’erstan’ wha’ dat you’s a-drivin’ at.” April stroked his
mustache and eyed Sherry coldly.

“Me neither,” Big Sue chimed. “Whyn’ you talk plain talk, Sherry? It’s
mighty no-manners to stand up an’ laugh a horse laugh in somebody’s
face.”

“Do ex-cuse me, Cun Big Sue. Ev’y now an’ den, I forget an’ speak out
o’ turn. I was just talkin’ fool talk. I ain’ laughin’ at nobody. Come
on, Breeze. Le’s divide de ’possums. You take four, I take five. We
sho’ had good luck to-night. Good night, ev’ybody!”

Sherry flung himself out of the door and April sat silent, vexed,
upset; but his anger lasted only a short time. When he spoke, his tone
was pleasant enough. He ought not to have joked with Sherry. The boy
was too easy to get plagued. Zeda had spoiled him all his life, instead
of breaking him of his sassy ways. Such a pity to ruin a nice boy.
April got to his feet and stood stiffly erect.

Big Sue’s gimlet eyes watched his face, then leaning to knock her pipe
on the hearth she said sadly: “Lawd, I wish dem ’possums was somet’ing
fit to eat. A wild turkey or somet’ing. If dey was a wild turkey, I
could stuff dem wid oysters an’ roast dem. Jedus, wouldn’ dey taste
good! Whyn’ you kill a turkey, April? Looks like nobody else can shoot
one but you? Ain’ you got a blind baited?”

She smiled up at him so sweetly, April smiled back.

“Whyn’ you take Breeze an’ go in de mawin’?” she pressed. “We could eat
turkey to-morrow night.” She smacked her lips.

April turned her words over in his mind, thinking, calculating.
Presently he asked, “How ’bout gwine turkey huntin’ wid me in de
mawnin’, boy?”

Breeze was rapt with pure joy. April’s smile made him tingle all over.
Instead of being bashful and afraid, he looked straight into April’s
eyes and nodded.

“Lawdy! Lawdy!” He murmured low, and his heart went pit-a-pat. He was
going turkey-hunting with April, the foreman, who had scarcely ever
noticed him before!

“Git on to bed, son!” Big Sue said so gently, so kindly, Breeze was at
a loss to know why. He walked slowly back to the shed-room, the blood
beating clear up in his cheeks, but Big Sue sat down in her chair by
the fire to smoke another pipeful. “Set down, April,” she said. “De
night is young, yet.”

She woke Breeze before daylight when the black sky held only a narrow
moon, without any sign of sunrise. A thin gray mist hung over the earth
and all was quiet except a few crickets and the occasional bark of a
dog. Breeze had slept little, but he felt wide awake, breathless, as
he followed April’s slow ponderous steps. April spoke seldom. He seemed
to be brooding over something. Breeze pitied him. A foreman has so much
to think about, so many people to rule, so much land to manage. Sherry
was wrong to be impudent last night.

They turned off from the road into a path which Breeze could barely
see although his eyes worked well in the dark. April led the way, and
Breeze hung close at his heels for the silence in the forest was full
of strange sounds and shapes.

The turkey blind was a great bush heap, with one small opening in its
side, looking straight out on a narrow trench. The bottom of the trench
was strewn with white shelled corn, so when April called the turkeys,
and they got to eating, their heads would be down in a bee line. One
shot might blow two or three heads off. Wild turkeys fly too fast for
any gun to have a good second chance at them.

Breeze sat perfectly still inside the blind, while April yelped and
yelped. Once a hen yelped back, but she came no nearer. Breeze’s feet
went to sleep. Both his legs got cramp. His back ached. The cold
morning air chilled his very bones, but he dared not move so much as
one muscle. April had warned him not even to whisper. The silence made
him drowsy, but when April sniffed and Breeze drew in a long breath of
air, then his body’s discomfort fled! Cold fear took its place, for a
rattlesnake was near.

“Le’s go, Cun April!”

“I’m gwine git dat snake first, son. You set still till I call you.”

Day was coming. Tree branches overhead talked softly to one another.
Leaves brought down by the wind fell rustling. Birds chirped and
twittered. Squirrels barked. Breeze’s blood drummed in his temples.

The forest around them was old and great, most of the trees gums or
poplars, with an occasional pine appearing. The undergrowth crowded
close together, twining and tangling with limbs and branches so dense
the light could scarcely reach the ground.

April found a dogwood tree and cut a long forked stick, then he moved
slowly, stealthily, in the direction of the smell. Breeze thought his
heart would stop beating altogether, so great was his terror. If that
snake struck April and killed him, how’d he ever get home himself? He
didn’t know the way. His hands thrust deeper into his pockets and one
felt his knife. Uncle’s directions for helping a snake-bitten person
came to him. Cut the wound wide open and suck out the poison. Could he
do it? Could he cut April’s flesh and suck his blood? He’d have to, if
it came to the worst.

April thrashed about in the undergrowth with his long forked stick,
calling out as he did so, “Whe’ is you, snake? Hurry up an’ rattle! I
wan’ git you!”

When a clear dry rattle sang out, he laughed. “Now we’ll see who’s de
best man, me or you! Breeze, git you’ pocket knife! Cut a shell open!
Have it ready so if I miss an’ git bit you kin pour de powder in de
bite an’ set em afire. I got a box o’ matches here in my pocket. You
better take ’em. You understand, enty? Burnin’ de pizen out is better’n
suckin’ it out. Fire kin fight em stronger’n you’ mouth.”

The thick-bodied, large-headed snake was coiled, ready to strike. The
rattles on the end of its tail raised and shook angrily. But instead of
dread, April showed a fierce pleasure in the dry ear-splitting whir.
Breeze’s throat went dry, but April laughed.

“You’s too slow, you pided devil! Summer’s gone! I kin kill you easy
as Breeze kills a chicken! Lawd! you is old! You’ rattles looks like a
cow’s horn. Come on!”

He batted the snake’s head to one side with a deft blow, and, putting
the stick’s fork over its neck, held it fast to the ground, until he
could seize it below the throat in a steady powerful grip. As he lifted
it up off the ground, the thick body wound wildly around his arm in a
terrible struggle to wrench loose, the flat eyes glared, the wide mouth
yawned. April stood firm as a tree.

“Fight, boy, fight! Stretch you’ mouth wide as you kin! Dat ain’ wide
enough yet! I want to spit clean down in your belly! Show you’ fangs!
Dey ain’ nuttin! I got blue gums too! You may as well stand still and
pray! You’ time is out! You gwine meet you’ Gawd to-day!”

With a whoop April threw his head back, then he spat straight into the
yawning mouth.

“Dat shot got you!” he cried, and spat again. “You can’ harm me, son!
You is a-weakenin’! I see it! My spit is pizen as you’ own!”

“Come, Breeze! Looka dis scoundrel! Lawd, e sho’ is a whopper!”

The snake’s muzzle was covered with plates, its scaly brown body marked
with yellowish square shapes; its eyes, full of hate, stared out from
the front of its heart-shaped head. Breeze’s own blood had frozen in
his veins, and his legs were almost too numb to carry him.

“You got blue gums, Breeze. Come spit in dis mouth so you’ll know how
to do it next time!”

“Don’ make me do dat, Cun April.”

“You ain’ no gal-baby, is you?”

“No, suh.”

“Den come on. Git you’ mouth full. Now, aim straight fo’ de fork in his
tongue.”

Breeze’s lips twitched so that he missed the snake completely the
first time, but the next effort was a success.

“Dat’s good. You got mo’ grit dan Sherry. Sherry never would try dis.
But den, Sherry ain’ got blue gums like me an’ you.”

The snake’s plunging and twisting grew less violent. The huge body
writhed sluggishly. Had April really poisoned the creature by spitting
into its tongue? Or had he choked it to death? Its life was going out,
that was certain.

Suppose April’s fingers took cramp. What would happen then? April
turned his face toward home.

“Le’s go, Breeze. It’s too late to git a turkey. I’ll take dis snake
to Uncle Isaac. He axed me to git him one to make some tea for his
rheumatism. Po’ ol’ man. Rheumatism’ll make a Christian out o’ em yet!”

Full daybreak shed its light everywhere. Night and stars were gone out
of the sky. The sun would soon be up. But at Uncle Isaac’s cabin, the
doors and windows were shut tight.

The snake couldn’t die altogether until sun-down, but April dropped it
on the ground and used his forked stick to beat hard on the sides of
the house.

“Hey, Uncle! Hey! Wake up!” He shouted until the old man opened the
door. “I got a present fo’ you! A rattlesnake! Me an’ him had a tight
time dis mawnin’! Lawd! Yes! I sho’ love to fight wid a snake!”

Uncle Isaac hopped around, exclaiming over the snake’s size. He was
glad to get him. He’d fix some snake tea to-day.

As they walked home down the avenue, April talked cheerfully. He said
Uncle Isaac had taken so much snake cut that snakes got weak if they
crossed his path. If one came near him it got stiff as a stick, and
helpless. Next time Breeze saw the old man he must look at his ankles
where they’d been cut and cut for snake poison to be rubbed into them.
His feet were full of scars too, but Uncle Isaac had worn shoes ever
since he chopped off a big toe.

April had walked up on snakes that were stricken by getting too close
to Uncle Isaac. They’d be blind and numb, unable to move a step. God
gave Uncle Isaac a strong sweat too. If he had never taken snake cut,
he could send any snake into a trance by wetting his hands at his
armpits and waving them in the snake’s face. They’d faint right off,
and stay dead a long time.

Breeze ought to learn Uncle Isaac’s magic. He’d been born with a
second-sight. Learning magic would be better for him than learning
books. Black magic, as well as white magic; Uncle Isaac knew both.
Uncle Bill too. But Uncle Bill gave magic up for religion. A poor swap.
A deacon or a preacher is not much more than a woman. Not much more!

April’s down-heartedness had completely passed. Loitering along, he
chatted pleasantly. Although the sun had risen he was in no hurry.




XII

DUCK-HUNTING


Sherry promised Big Sue plenty of wild ducks for her quilting dinner if
she’d persuade Uncle Bill to row him.

“Lemme go, too, Sherry. Please, Sherry,” Breeze begged.

“If you’ll kill some ducks, you could go.”

“I ain’ got no gun.”

“Plenty o’ guns is yonder in de Big House. Cun April is got de key.”

“I’ll git you a gun, Breeze,” Big Sue offered, and before the day was
out Breeze went into the Big House with April, through the same side
door out of which April and Big Sue came that first morning.

The side passage led into a wide front hall and a queer feeling of
intrusion seized Breeze as he went past rooms where pictures of white
people looked at him from the walls. Brass andirons and fenders gleamed
out from big fireplaces. Unlit candles left the high ceilinged rooms
in a dim uncertain light. Dark shadows hid under the heavy furniture,
until April pressed a button and a chandelier hung from the ceiling
became hundreds of dazzling icicles, dripping with light.

April took Breeze to a room where a rack held guns of all sizes and
shapes, each one polished, well oiled, ready for work. April handed
Breeze one after the other to try, making him put them up to his
shoulder as if he aimed at something. When one was found to fit, April
cautioned him, “When you shoot, fo’git you’ gun. Fasten you’ eyes on
de t’ing you want to hit, den pull de trigger. Try em now, son! Don’
squint up you’ eyes! Keep all two wide open. Shootin’ ain’ hard work!
It’s for pleasure! You can’ hit nothin’ if you frown.”

Breeze was glad to get out of the silent house with its book-lined
walls and rug hidden floors. He took the gun home, but he could
scarcely go to sleep for happy excitement over the prospect of going
hunting.

       *       *       *       *       *

Uncle Bill sat waiting in the stern of a small narrow boat, but he got
to his feet when he saw Big Sue. While he held the boat steady for
Breeze and Sherry to get in, he kept an eye on Big Sue as he warned her
please not to touch Breeze, and he kept saying to Breeze:

“Mind, son. Don’ put you’ hand on Miss Big Sue. When a man is gwine
a-huntin’, it’ll ruin his luck to let a lady touch him. Be careful!”

He wanted Breeze to sit alone in the bow of the boat, but Sherry
considered and then said, no, Breeze must sit beside him on the narrow
board seat in the boat’s middle. Uncle Bill shook his head and muttered
in disapproval, but Sherry wouldn’t give in.

“No, Uncle Bill, Breeze wouldn’t be safe settin’ in front o’ me dis
morning. My gun feels too ready to shoot. I can’ trust em. It’s so
quick on de trigger it might miss and aim at his head or his back
instead o’ at a duck.”

“Wha’ dat is got you so nervish, Sherry?”

“When my mind runs on some people, I wants to shoot right den!”

“Dat is sinful, son. Awful sinful! I hates to hear you talk so!”

To Breeze, the boat seemed very narrow and the seat scarcely able to
hold two. He knew he couldn’t swim if he fell out, but he said nothing,
and soon Uncle Bill swung them out into the middle of the deep clear
stream.

Instead of being brown-black like the river, this arm of that stream
was filled with the blue of the sky. But its dark depths looked
bottomless and dangerous, and Breeze sat mute, with his eyes staring
down in it until Sherry nudged him and made him look up. “You got to
learn how to swim, son, den you won’ be scared o’ water! You get dis
straight in you’ head now too; when a man starts out huntin’, e mustn’t
never let no ’oman put her hand on him. If e do, his luck is gone.
Uncle Bill is even scared for my right hand to touch you, for you ain’
no more’n a li’l’ gal. But I’ll risk it. My luck kin stand a lot. It
don’ fail me.”

Breeze listened and answered, “Yes suh,” but he did not altogether
understand, and Sherry’s eyes glanced over the water’s surface.

“Lawd! Looka de creek, how blue e is dis mornin’! Winter or summer, e
stays blue. Dat is what gives de plantation de name, Blue Brook. Cun
Big Sue ain’ told you dat yet?”

Behind them Uncle Bill hissed, “Sh-sh,” and Sherry leaned to whisper,
“We mustn’ talk. De ducks’ll hear an’ we won’t git a shot. Is you know
how to load you’ gun?”

In his excitement Breeze had forgotten, but Sherry took it and showed
him again how to slip two neat yellow, brass-trimmed shells into place
in the clean steel barrels, how to make the gun “safe” and “ready.”
Then he took up his own gun and with quick slidings and clickings
slipped half a dozen shells into its snug chamber. Breeze noticed that
Sherry had purple shells and wondered what the different colors meant,
but before he could ask, a sharp “sh-sh” from Uncle Bill hissed behind
them again.

“Go easy,” Sherry’s big mouth buzzed back in a whisper. To Breeze he
mumbled, “Git you’ gun ready, son.”

The tide must have been going with them for they flowed along without a
sound. Breeze saw no ducks until suddenly dark wings flashed everywhere
in front of them. The gun in Sherry’s hands fired, again and again. It
was all quickly over. Echoes banged back and forth at one another, then
died, and everything was still. On the water in front of them three
limp bundles of feathers were floating, not caring at all where they
went.

Uncle Bill’s laughter cackled out. “Sherry, you can’ be beated! Son,
you’s a shot-man, fo’ true! Yes, Jedus! You don’ never miss!”

He shot the boat forward and Sherry leaned far out to pick up the
lifeless bodies of the ducks he had killed. How strong he was! And as
much at home in this cramped-up boat as on the ground.

“Poor creeters!” he pitied, holding the gay-colored bill of one of them
between his fingers. “Ain’ e a beauty!”

“I hope you ain’ gettin’ chicken-hearted,” Uncle Bill twitted, and
Sherry grinned back.

“Maybe I is, Uncle.” Sherry’s big fingers gently ruffled the feathers
on the duck’s breast to show them to Breeze. They were beautiful,
indeed. The trim head had a high crest of purple and green and black
feathers. White lines were above and below the poor death-dulled eyes.
The throat and warm breast, colored soft tan like a chinquapin, and
spotted with white, were bloodstained across the fine black markings.
The bill was bright pink; the feet and legs, bright orange. Sherry said
they were safe to be loud-colored, for they were hidden under water
most of the time.

The drake’s mates were less gay. The brown and gray and white feathers
on their trim bodies were quiet as shadows on the water.

All three of them were quite dead, and Sherry tossed them back to Uncle
Bill who put them far back under the seat, saying as he did so:

“We better hide ’em fo’ true. Dey’s all summer ducks. It’s five hundred
dollars to kill one! Five hundred!”

“Shucks!” Sherry answered, reloading his gun. “Dem white folks way off
yonder to Columbia sho’ do make some fool laws!”

“If de game warden was to slip up on you right now you’d wish you had
kept ’em, dough. Where’d you git de money to pay?”

“Oh, I know I’d go straight to de gang as a martin to his gourd,”
Sherry answered cheerfully. “But I trust to my luck to don’ git caught.”

All three of them laughed, and Uncle Bill thrust the boat silently
on. Once Sherry pointed to a hollow high up on the body of a leaning
cypress. The tree’s feathery top rose far above the mesh of interlaced
vines and branches on the bank of the stream. As likely as not a summer
duck made her nest in that hollow. They choose knot-holes or hollows,
sometimes forty feet high, sometimes near the water. Queer fowls. Hard
to fool.

As they rounded a bend on the stream a faint splash sounded in front.
Sherry listened with pent breath. “Ducks, enty, Uncle?” he whispered.

“Great Gawd, Sherry! Wha’ dat ail you’ years?”

Almost at once they swung into sight of April in a boat much like their
own. He had a load of sacks and packages and its back was piled high
with oysters in the shell. His trousers were inside his laced-up boots
and a silver watch-chain dangled from a side pocket.

Uncle Bill hailed him, “Good mawnin’, son! How come you so dressed up?
I don’ like dem boots. You’s a good swimmer fo’ true, but boots kin
drown a fish. A watch kin fool you too. I wouldn’t trust to no watch.
Not me!”

“I rather drown dan let oyster shells cut my feets all up. Plain shoes
don’ hinder ’em. But how you like dese fish?” He held up a string of
long, smooth, snaky-looking creatures. They could have passed for short
fat snakes.

“Great Gawd, de eels! You sho’ had luck wid you dis mawnin’.”

“Luck stay wid me!” April bragged, but Sherry laughed.

“You must be mean Bad Luck, enty? If I’d catch a’ eel, I’d call it Bad
Luck!”

“How come so?”

“I can’ stand to look at a’ eel, much less eat one. Not me!”

“When did you git so pa’ticular, Sherry? You must be kissed you’ elbow
an’ turned to a lady, enty?” April sneered coolly.

“No matter how long you cook a’ eel, it’ll turn raw soon’s it gits
cold.”

“Who’d let a eel git cold? Not me, I know,” April returned hotly. “Eels
ain’ nothin’ but he catfish. How come you love catfish so good an’
scorns eels?”

“Sho’ dey is!” Uncle Bill affirmed promptly. “Dey’s de men catfish.
Sho’! Anybody’ll tell you dat.” April shoved his boat forward.

“Well, I’m glad you don’ want ’em, Sherry! It would be too bad if you
did. But I tell you, when Big Sue gits dem seasoned up right in a pot
dey would make you pure bite you’ fingers just to smell ’em.”

Sherry said no more, and April’s boat glided on. A bend in the stream
closed its gate behind it, shutting him and his boatload of food out of
sight.

Uncle Bill took a chew of tobacco. “April’s de luckiest man I ever
seen,” he ventured, but Sherry said nothing at all.

Through breaks in the trees Breeze caught glimpses of drab, level,
water-covered spaces. Old rice-fields. Deserted. Marsh-grown. They
lacked the color and the look of life that filled the thick-tangled
growth of trees and thorny-looking vines and bushes encircling them.

“Sherry,” Uncle Bill rested his paddle, “you don’ hold nothin’ against
April, does you?”

Sherry’s answer was slow coming, “Not nothin’ much, suh.”

Uncle Bill began paddling again, and Sherry put down his gun and
stretched, then said that since April and his boat had scared all the
ducks out of this creek, they’d better go across the river into some of
the creeks around Silver Island where lots of ducks raise and there’d
be a chance to get some good shooting.

Sherry’s good humor was gone. He sat dumb, his forehead all knotted up
in a frown. The eels or April or something had crossed him. Breeze was
glad to hear him ask, “Who named Silver Island, Uncle? You reckon any
money’s buried on it?”

Uncle Bill didn’t know. It was named long ago, when each bit of land
here was given a name. These marshes were all fields in the old days.
Rice was planted everywhere then. He pointed to old rotting pieces of
wood that held the tide back until it gurgled as it strained to get
over them.

“See de old flood-gates? De old trunks? Dey used to let de water in and
out. Dey used to know dere business to!” He sighed. “But dey time is
out. De old days is gone. De tide does like it pleases now.”

On an old piece of wood, brown with rot and soaked by the flood-tide,
yet standing guard beside an opening on the bank, several small black
tortoises sprawled out flat, sunning themselves. As the boat got nearer
they all slid into the water for safety.

It amused Uncle Bill mightily. He chuckled and called out that they
needn’t hide from him.

“You like cooters, Uncle?” Sherry asked him with a laugh.

“No, suh!” the old man said shortly, “Not to-day, anyhow. De sky’s too
clear.” He cast his black beady eyes up and scanned the blue overhead.
“I don’ see no sign of thunder nowhere, an’ if a cooter bites you e
won’t never let go till it thunders.”

Sherry laughed. “You know, don’t you, Uncle?” Then he told how once
when Uncle Bill was a boy a cooter caught his toe and held on to it for
a whole day and night.

“Fo’ days, son!” Uncle Bill corrected.

“Was it four, fo’ true, Uncle?” Sherry asked doubtfully.

“Yes, suh! An e’d ’a’ been holdin’ on till now if it didn’t thunder,”
Uncle Bill spoke solemnly.

“What did you do all dem four days, Uncle?” Sherry asked.

“I watched de clouds an’ prayed for de thunder to roll, son.”

When Breeze hoped one would never bite him, Uncle Bill grunted. “You
right to hope so, son. I hope so too. A cooter is a contrary creeter.”

“De people used to say Uncle Isaac was crippled by a cooter. E makes
like e’s plagued wid rheumatism, but I have hear tell e ain’ got no big
toe on one foot. Did you know dat, Sherry?”

“How come so?” Breeze inquired.

“Well, now, I tell you, dis might not be so. But I used to hear de
people say it was. Old man Isaac is a heap older’n me an’ all dis
happened before I was born. But my mammy used to laugh ’bout em. Plenty
o’ times when e’d come hoppin’ up to de house a-talkin’ ’bout how it
must be gwine rain soon by de misery in his knee was so bad, my mammy
use to say his big toe wasn’t buried straight an’ dat was what hurt
Uncle Isaac. T’ings have to be buried right or dey can’ rest at all.”

“Whe’ was de cooter?” Breeze asked.

“De cooter was in de corn-field, son.”

“An’ whe’ was Uncle Isaac?”

“E was in de corn-field too, choppin’ grass.”

“Did de cooter bite his toe off?”

“No, you wait now an’ le’ me tell em my way.”

“When Uncle Isaac was young e used to run round a lot at night instead
o’ being’ home ’sleep, like he had business to be. E used to catch a
nap in de daytime whilst he was hoein’. Plenty o’ people can stand
straight up in de field an’ lean on dey hoe an’ sleep good. I never
could, but a lot o’ people can. Well, Uncle Isaac was gwine long hoein’
a spell, den dozin’ a spell. One time when e opened his eyes to look e
thought e seen a cooter’s head right side his foot. E chopped down hard
to cut em off. But it wasn’t no cooter head dat time. It been his own
big toe! Dat’s how come e’s hoppin’ to dis day. An’ a-lyin’ ’bout em
too.”

“Po’ ol’ man!” Sherry laughed along with his pitying. “I don’ blame em
fo’ lyin’ ’bout dat. I’d be shame’ to tell de truth. Dey say if you
tell a lie an’ stick to it, dat’s good as de truth anyhow.”

“I dunno,” Uncle Bill answered doubtfully, “I reckon sin is easier to
stand dan shame.”

A blue dragon-fly flitted along close to the water.

“Does you know his business?” Sherry asked Breeze. But the fly was
catching gnats and mosquitoes right then and anybody could see what its
business was. Breeze laughed at Sherry’s question.

“You’s wrong,” Sherry laughed back. “You’s talkin’ ’bout his victuals,
not his business. Dat’s a snake doctor. A sick snake is around here
somewhere now. You watch out. We’ll see him. Den we’ll kill him and
hang him up on a limb to make it rain. It’s powerful dry dis fall.”

“If you hang a dead snake on a limb, dat couldn’ make it rain?”

Sherry’s laugh was so merry that Breeze grinned at his own ignorance.

“Great Gawd, boy! You didn’t know dat! Sho’, it will! In less’n three
days too. Won’t it, Uncle?”

“Sho’!” Uncle Bill answered stoutly, but he added there was no use to
bother with the snake, for it was going to rain in less than three
days, anyhow. “The new moon hung in a ring last night and only one star
was inside it. That means it will rain after one day. If they’d find
the snake and kill him he couldn’t die until the sun went down. Neither
can a frog nor a cooter, nor a wasp. Lots of things can’t die if the
sun shines.”

Breeze felt he was learning a lot, and he listened so attentively that
Uncle Bill went on talking.

“Most people have to wait until night to die, and even when night
comes, dey can’t die until de tide turns.”

“How can dey tell if dey’s sick in the bed?” Breeze asked, and Uncle
Bill explained that the people themselves didn’t know. The life that
stays inside them, that knows.

“It knows mighty nigh everything,” the old man declared, “and when de
time comes for it to go, it goes, an’ leaves a man dead as a wedge.”
This statement left Breeze wondering, but Uncle Bill went on telling
how the rice-fields were full of all kinds of snakes, some of them
poisonous, and some not. But the snake he feared most, more than even a
rattlesnake or a moccasin, was a coach-whip.

“If a coach-whip catches you, he will wrap his body round you an’ tie
you to a tree an’ whip you to death wid his tail. Lawd, boy, when a
coach-whip blows dat whistle in de end of his tail, put you’ foot in
you’ hand an’ run!”

“Yes, suh!” Sherry agreed, “I too ’fraid of coach-whips myself. I never
did see one do it, but a coach-whip can outrun a man any day. If you
get to outrunnin’ him, e will grab his tail in his mouth and roll after
you like a hoop to catch you. An’ tie you to a tree an’ whip you. Enty,
Uncle?”

“Sho’?” Uncle Bill was astonished at his asking. “Sho it’s so! I’ve
seen a coach-whip do it plenty o’ times.”

He spat far out into the stream when he had said it, then held one oar
still in the water to wheel the boat to one side, as he asked:

“Did you ever catch one of dose pretty little garter snakes an’ see him
break hisself all up into little joints? Dey go back all togedder again
when dey gits ready.”

Sherry never had.

“Well did you ever burn a blacksnake an’ make him show you his feet.
You must be have done dat, Sherry?”

“No, suh,” Sherry answered solemnly. “I ain’ done em not yet, but I’ve
seen plenty o’ people what has done em.” And after a thoughtful silence
he added:

“Deys one t’ing I do know, Uncle. If a snake bites you and you don’t
die, all you’ hair will drop out every time dat snake sheds its skin.
Dat’s so, ’cause my own done it about ten years until Uncle Isaac told
me to put a boxwood poultice on my hand ebery night las’ spring. An’
dat cured me.”

“Sho’!” Uncle Bill agreed. “Boxwood’s good for most eberyt’ing what
ails you.”

“Poultices made out of boxwood will make you’ hair grow and cure
tooth-ache or either rheumatism. Boxwood tea’ll cure de itch or de
spring fever, too.”

“I heard so,” Sherry approved. “Boxwood roots is good for foot troubles
too.”

“Yes, suh. It’s a good medicine. Sho’! De white people knowed it and
dats how come dey fetched it across de water wid em. All de flowers
gardens on dis whole Neck is full o’ boxwood. Some’s grows high an’
some low. Some ain’ no taller dan my finger, an’ it’s old as de Big
House, too.”

“Lawd, how times is changed! Changed before yunnuh was born. Looks like
all de good old days is done gone.”

“We done well enough till de boll-evils come, enty, Uncle?”

“But de boll-evils is come. Dey ruint de whole crop year befo’ last.”

“De crop was good last year after we pizened ’em.”

“But I tell you, I sho’ don’ believe in pizenin’ ’em. No, suh! Gawd
sent dem here an’ we better leave dem lone. If I was you, I wouldn’t
run no pizen machine. At night too, when de cotton is wet wid dew,
a pizen dust’ll stick to you’ feets. When I look out o’ my door at
night and see dat pizen dust a-floatin’ over de cotton-fields in dem
big white cluds, an’ dat machine a-singin’ like a locust, a-creepin’
up and down de rows, th’owin’ out pizen I git too scared to look. No
wonder de mens hates to take part in it. Dem pizened blossoms is done
killed all de bees on de place, an’ a lot o’ de turkeys and de guineas
died from eatin’ de pizened evils. Better let weeds grow in de fields,
I say. We kin do widout money till we git some crop to take de place
o’ cotton. Cotton’s time is out. I ’member when dey had to give up
plantin’ indigo, and people said we was ruined. But cotton done just as
good. Now cotton is failed, and we ought to wait till we git some kind
o’ crop to take its place.” Uncle Bill heaved a mighty sigh as he said
it. “April is too brazen. E would buck Gawd A’mighty. Don’t you try to
be like em, Sherry. No. If April keeps on, e will land in Hell, sho’ as
e was born.”

“You t’ink de place’ll ever be sold, Uncle?” Sherry asked him presently.

“No, son. Not long as de li’l’ young Cap’n is livin’! E was born wid
two li’l’ teeth, and when dem two li’l’ teeth got ripe an’ fell out, my
Katy took ’em an’ went to de graveyard an’ buried ’em in a clear place
right longside his gran’pa.

“No matter whe’ da li’l’ boy goes or how long e stays gone from here,
dis place’ll hold to him. Dem li’l’ two teeth’ll make him come back
to die an’ be buried right here. You’ll see. It’s so. Just like I’m
tellin’ you. It’ll be dat way. Katy was a wise-minded ’oman.”

The boat moved steadily forward all the time, for Uncle Bill’s arms
didn’t slacken the oar’s paddling once.

As Breeze listened thoughtfully to all that was said, his eyes wandered
unseeing over the beauty that lay thick around him, for he was trying
to understand some of the things he had heard.

The rice-fields blurred by yellow sunshine were tinged with ripeness
and flecked with brilliant color. Purple shadows were cast by crimson
branches, scarlet berries sparkled on slender vines and adorning gray
thorny branches. The bright water, gay with reflections, ran sober
edges under blue cypress.

The tide of the year, more deliberate but as constant as the tide from
the sea, was almost full, almost at its height. It would soon pause,
mature and complete, its striving over, for a little rest; and start
ebbing.

A great owl, roused by the boat’s passing, spread out wide wings and
flew from the shadowy darkness of a dense moss-hung tree. Marsh-hens,
that couldn’t be seen, cackled out shrill strident notes from the
marsh-grown, water-covered mud flats. Solemn blue-and-white herons
stood motionless at the water’s edge, gravely watching the boat. High
overhead, thin lines of ducks sliced across the sky with swift slashing
wings. When the boat rounded a bend where the creek met the river,
Uncle Bill began a careful, precise paddling with his one long oar, and
with settled, even strokes thrust the boat forward into the wide dark
stream.

“For Gawd’s sake, be careful, Uncle! Don’ go too fast against dis
current. I’d sho’ hate to be turned over dis morning. Dat water looks
mighty cold.”

Sherry gave a shiver and laugh as he said it, but Uncle Bill’s reply
was full of reproach. Why would Sherry think of such a thing as turning
over? He was inviting trouble.

The boat had run silently for some little time, close to the river’s
bank, when Uncle Bill broke into a sputter of words. Breeze turned
to look at him. His eyes, two bright black berries in the dull black
surface of his skin, were fixed on something away ahead. Breeze tried
to see it too. He searched the distance ahead. But nothing showed
except miles of wide river swelled out beyond its banks into the flat
old rice-fields. Palmetto trees showed now and then among the willows
and cypresses. Low-lying marshy islands, fringed with vine-covered
scrubby bushes, were cut into patterns by narrow creeks.

Sherry was watching the distance too. “Wha’ kind is dey, Uncle?” he
murmured.

“Bull-neck, son,” Uncle Bill answered promptly.

“I wish my eyes was trained to see good like your’n. I wonder why dey
ain’!”

“I dunno, son. I dunno. I reckon dey ain’ had to look hard as mine,”
and he chuckled with pleasure at the compliment Sherry paid him.

Uncle’s calm black face filled with a warm friendly smile. Uncle’s
bright eyes, keen and cold, flitted swiftly from Sherry’s face to
Breeze’s, then beyond them to the ducks he saw in the distance. Breeze
began to see more in Uncle Bill’s black features than he did at first.
They were more than wrinkled flesh that time had creased and withered,
for not only shrewdness, but wisdom and pity shone in the clear-seeing
eyes; and the old mouth, where so many teeth were missing, tightened
its lips in a way that meant more than caution and prudence.

Breeze gazed at every bit of the surface ahead, starting with the water
where sunshine dazzled close beside the boat and ending where the hazy
sky dropped down to join the earth, but he couldn’t see any ducks.

“Looka right yonder!” Uncle Bill pointed to direct his eyes and he made
out two tiny black specks side by side on the water.

“You must shoot dose two,” Sherry said. “It ain’t against de law to
kill bull-necks, and maybe dey’ll stay on de water until we get in
gunshot.”

“You better shoot ’em, Cun Sherry. I can’t hit ’em.” Breeze hesitated
although his heart was beating fit to burst with excitement at the
thought of shooting a gun.

“No, dem’s you’ ducks. You must kill ’em,” Sherry insisted. “If you do
like I tell you, you can’ miss em. I don’ mind breakin’ de law, so I’ll
hit de summer ducks and you kill de lawful ones.”

“I’m scared I’ll miss ’em.” Breeze’s voice quivered so shakily Sherry
laughed.

“No you won’t. I’ll tell you how to do,” he said gently.

Uncle Bill headed the boat straight for the two small dots which
were swimming toward it, and soon Breeze could see the gray of their
feathers and the bright orange color of their bills. They seemed not
to know their danger even when Uncle Bill stopped paddling and Sherry
whispered to Breeze.

“Cock your gun now and hold em close up to you’ shoulder. Look straight
at de duck you want to kill and pull de front trigger.”

Breeze did just as Sherry told him, but the drake he aimed at sat
quite motionless on the water, as if he had not even heard the gun’s
explosion.

“Fine, son!” Sherry exclaimed. “He didn’ know wha’ hit him. Now, shoot
de hen duck. Hold you’ gun up close to you’ shoulder, den look straight
at em an’ pull de back trigger.”

Breeze’s fingers were trembling but he shot again, and the hen duck
made wild splutterings on the water.

“Po’ creeter! You hit em, but you got to shoot em again. Put us up a
li’l’ closer, Uncle. Load you’ gun, Breeze.”

Breeze’s tense fingers shook as he unbreached his gun and replaced the
two empty, smoking shells with heavy new ones. As the boat swung near
to the wounded duck that swam round and round its dead mate, Sherry
spoke to him sharply.

“Hurry up! Shoot em again!”

How could he do it? The poor wounded fowl was fluttering in agony now.

“Quit you’ triflin’, boy!” Sherry ordered sternly. “Put em out o’ dat
misery.”

Breeze’s fingers tightened on the trigger and the gray-feathered body
quivered into bloody shreds as the swift lead from his gun tore through
it. Breeze felt wretched. Killing that duck gave him no pleasure.

Uncle Bill paddled up close to the two dead bodies and Sherry picked
them up out of the water.

“Dey’s plump!” he commented as his fingers examined the breasts to see.

“We has all de ducks we can eat now, but dis boy ought to shoot one
flyin’ befo’ we go home.”

“Den we’ll go on,” Uncle agreed.

They crossed the river and entered a creek much like the first one. It
branched right and left, becoming narrower all the time. Uncle Bill
began a stealthy creeping around the wooded bends. Sometimes ducks were
there, sometimes not. Breeze shot wildly each time one rose. Sherry
declared he killed two of those that fell. He may have, he didn’t know.
Sherry may have just said so to encourage him.

This was a strange world to Breeze. Gray water, unfamiliar trees,
long stretches of ripening marsh grass where odd-looking birds made
outlandish cries as they passed.

Uncle Bill paddled steadily on with a measured stroke. Past islands
lined with ranges of sand-hills where tall pines above the willows
stood against the sky. Through channels choked with weeds where white
cranes fed. Long streets of water, curving, dustless, houseless,
settled only by light and shade and the images of trees and clouds and
sun they faithfully reflected.

At a sudden “S-st” from Uncle Bill, Breeze looked at the low wooded
hillside and glimpsed a doe, followed by her fawn. They had come down
to the water’s edge to drink. Sheer terror held them rigid for a brief
instant and then both were gone.

“Jedus, Sherry,” Uncle Bill chided. “You could ’a’ got all two if you
had ’a’ tried!”

“I didn’ want dem,” Sherry answered. “We’s done killed enough for one
day. My mammy says if you kill too much o’ t’ings at a time you’ll git
so you smell like death. I don’ want to. I kills a while and den I
stops.”

Uncle Bill laughed, and the silence was so deep that his voice echoed
and reechoed.

Breeze was glad the killing was over, for he’d rather hear the two men
talk than to see Sherry kill.

The boat flowed evenly, almost silently, over the water’s smooth
surface. Uncle Bill kept it close to the bank to avoid the full sweep
of the current in the middle of the stream.

Great dark birds, startled by its passing so close to their homes, flew
up out of the water with a loud flopping of wings, but there was little
talk for the rest of the way.

The water slipped swiftly past them. The small whirling circles made by
Uncle Bill’s paddle widened until they reached the bank’s willowy edges
where vines and bushes wound tight together, choking and strangling one
another as they wrestled for a narrow foothold.

When Uncle Bill paused and cleared his throat Breeze knew he was going
to ask Sherry a question.

“How come you don’ like April, here lately?”

“Who say I don’ like em?” Sherry answered.

“I say so.”

Sherry’s white grin was cold. Hard. His answer slow in coming.

“April’s legs is most too long fo’ de foreman of a big plantation like
Blue Brook.”

“Wha’ you mean, son?”

“Dey kin tote him too far f’om home sometimes.”

“You mean April kin walk too far atter dark?”

“Yes, suh,” Uncle Bill sighed.

“Gawd is de one made ’em long. April ain’ had nothin’ to do wid dat.
Gawd made you’ own not so short, Sherry. Don’ fo’git dat.”

Sherry said no more and Uncle Bill worked faster with his paddling.

The afternoon sun was a great red ball floating among thin smoky
clouds. A light haze was creeping out from underneath the trees on the
banks of the creeks. The shrill call of a cicada rose, swelled into
quick breathless notes, faded away, then was taken up, answered by a
mate. Yellow sunshine fell between lacy blue shadows cast by cypress
trees. Dark green thickets crouched wet-footed, beside narrow winding
paths of tide water.

The marshes were buried. All the sticky miry mud exposed by the morning
was hidden. Through old flood-gates the rising water gurgled and
bubbled into forsaken rice-fields. Grass, vines, trees, bushes rank,
thorny and fetid, crowded and trampled one another, trying to gain
a deeper, stronger foothold down in the broken dikes. Breeze gazed
around him with long looks. As far as his eyes could see the earth was
flooded. Wasted. Unsown. Abandoned.

Uncle Bill sighed. It made him sad to think how the tide had destroyed
the work of years. At first it crept timidly in, hardly enough for its
shallow trickling to show. But it grew bolder and stronger as it took
back the rich land, acre by acre, until it owned them all. All!

The first white men who came here found the whole face of the earth
covered with a thick forest growth of cypress and gum and ash, matted,
tangled with powerful vines, and held by the tides that rose and fell
as they do now, twice every day. Those men bought slaves, Breeze’s and
Sherry’s and his own great-grandfathers and mothers, African people
fresh from the Guinea Coast. The slaves diked and banked up the land
so the forest growth could be removed, then they canaled and ditched
and banked it into smaller well-drained tracts which were planted with
rice. And rice made the plantation owners rich.

For years the lands were held by children and grandchildren of those
first settlers, but nearly every old plantation home has been burned
or sold or abandoned. The rich rice-fields are deserted. The old dikes
and flood-gates that stood as guardians are broken and rotted. The tide
rolls over all as it did before the land was ever cleared. It has taken
back its own.

A whistle not far away gave a shrill ugly shriek. “Lawd, de boat is
lated to-day! Wha’ time it is, Uncle Bill?”

Uncle cast a quick glance up at the sun. “A li’l’ after four, son.”

Sherry considered. “De boat ain’ but two hours lated. Pretty good, for
dat old slow coach, enty?”

“Kin you tell de time, Breeze?”

“I kin tell if it ain’ cloudy, neither rainin’, in de daytime.”

Sherry said there were many other ways to tell; the tide runs true,
rain or shine, morning-glories and lots of other flowers open and close
by the time. Big Sue’s yard was full of four-o’clocks. They’d be wide
open now. Birds change their songs with the turn of the afternoon.
“Listen! You can hear a red-bird whistlin’ right now. Dis morning he
went so----” Sherry pursed his lips and mimicked a bar of bird song.

“Now e says to dis----” And he whistled a few notes that the bird
himself echoed. “Dat bird knows it’s past four. A red-bird knows de
time every bit as good as Uncle. Grass blades moves wid de day too. Dey
leans dis way an’ dat to get de light. A lot o’ t’ings is got mo’ sense
dan people, enty, Uncle?”

“Sho’!” Uncle Bill declared. “If you watch t’ings close, you’ll git
wise. Wise! Take Uncle Isaac; e can’ read readin’ or either writin’ but
he knows more’n any school-teacher or either preacher dat ever came to
Blue Brook.”

“Wha’ de name o’ de church Uncle Isaac b’longs to?”

Uncle Bill smiled gently. “Po’ Uncle! E j’ined de white folks
ch’uch yonder at de gate, long time ago. Dat’s named ’Piscopalian.
Den e went to town on de boat an’ seen a white folks’ chu’ch named
de Presbeteerin. Uncle mixed de two togedder. E calls hese’f a
’Piscoteerin’. Po’ Uncle! If e don’ mind, e’s gwine die in sin yet.
You boys mustn’ wait too long to pray. Pray soon. Git religion young.
It’s a heap easier den. I waited so long I mighty nigh missed gittin’
it myse’f. But I ruther have religion dan to have all Uncle Isaac’s
knowledge. E kin put a ‘hand’ on anybody long as dey’s in dis world. E
kin take a ‘spell’ off anybody long as dey’s dis side o’ de grave. But
dat ain’ so much after all. Dis life is short. It’s de other side o’
Jordan we got to fix for. Dem sweet fields in Eden, yonder in Canaan’s
land. Dat’s de country I’m aimin’ to reach. You boys must try to reach
em too.”

“Uncle, you believe any white folks is in Heaben?”

“Gawd knows, son. White folks is mighty smart people. Dey knows a lot
o’ tricks we don’ know.”




XIII

THE QUILTING


Before day was clean Big Sue got up out of bed and went to the front
door to look at the weather. The cool air was soft and still, trees and
birds were asleep. The earth itself was resting quietly, for the sun
tarried late in his bed. The stars had not yet faded from the clear
open sky, but Big Sue was full of excitement. Only a few hours more and
she must have everything ready at Maum Hannah’s for the quilting to
commence.

Her own big room was almost large enough for a quilting, but it was
better to go to Maum Hannah’s. The meeting benches could be brought in
from under the house where they stayed, to make seats enough for the
company, and Maum Hannah’s quilting poles stood always in the corner
waiting for work to do. Plenty of pots sat on her hearth and two big
ones out in the yard besides. Most of the plantation quiltings were
held at Maum Hannah’s house, the same as the night prayer-meetings.

The raw rations were all ready to cook. Plenty of rice and cornmeal.
White flour and coffee and sugar from the store. She’d pot-roast the
ducks, and fry the fish, and make the turtle into a stew. She’d roast
the potatoes in the ashes. The corn-pone would bake brown and nice in
the big oven on the hearth. With some nice fat white-flour biscuit to
eat last with the coffee, she would have enough to fill everybody full.

Breeze must get up and hustle! She called him and he tried to raise
up his drowsy head, but sleep had it too heavy for his strength to
lift. If she’d only let him take one more little nap! But she shook
him soundly by the shoulder. To-day was the day for the quilting. He
must get up and dress, and get some fat kindling wood to start a fire
under both the big pots in Maum Hannah’s yard. He’d have to fetch water
for those pots too, and tote all the quilts there, and the sack of
newly ginned cotton April had given her for lining the quilts, besides
all the rations that had to be cooked for the quilters to eat at
dinner-time.

With a sleepy groan Breeze rose and pulled on his shirt and breeches,
then his sluggish feet shambled toward the water-shelf where the tin
washbasin sat beside the water-bucket. Big Sue made him wash his face,
no matter how soon or cold the morning was. He might as well do it, and
get it over with.

As he reached a heavy hand up for the gourd that hung on a nail beside
the water-bucket, his arm lengthened into a lazy stretch, the other
arm joined in, and his mouth opened into a wide yawn. Then his fingers
dropped wearily on to his head where they began a slow tired scratching.

Big Sue stopped short in her tracks, and the sparkle in her beady black
eyes cut him clear through to the quick.

“Looka here, boy! Is you paralyze’? I ain’ got time to stop an’ lick
you, now. But if you don’ stir you’ stumps, you’ hide won’ hold out
to-night when I git back home. Dat strap yonder is eetchin’ to git on
you’ rind right now! Or would you ruther chaw a pod o’ red pepper?”

The long thin strip of leather, hanging limp and black against the
whitewashed wall not far from the mantel-shelf, looked dumb and
harmless enough, but Breeze gave a shiver and jumped wide awake as
his eyes followed Big Sue’s fat forefinger. That strap could whistle
and hiss through the air like a blacksnake when Big Sue laid its licks
home. Its stinging lash could bite deep into tender naked meat. But the
string of red pepper pods hanging outside by the front door were pure
fire.

He wanted to cry but fear crushed back the misery that seized him,
and gulping down a sob he hurried about his tasks. First he hastily
swallowed a bite of breakfast, then he took a big armful of folded
quilt tops, and holding them tight hurried to Maum Hannah’s house with
them.

The sun was up, and the morning tide rolled high and shiny in the
river. The air was cool, and the wind murmuring on the tree-tops
strewed the path with falling leaves. Some of them whirled over as
they left the swaying boughs, then lay still wherever they touched the
ground, while others flew sidewise, and skipped nimbly over the ground
on their stiff brown points.

The sunlight smelled warm, but the day’s breath was flavored with
things nipped by the frost. The sweet potato leaves were black, the
squash vines full of slimy green rags. The light frost on the cabin
steps sparkled with tinted radiance as the cool wind, that had all the
leaves trembling in a shiver, began to blow a bit warmer and melt it
back into dew.

This was the second frost of the fall. One more would bring rain. The
day knew it, for in spite of the sun’s brave shining, the shadows fell
heavy and green under the trees. Those cast by the old cedar stretched
across the yard’s white sand much blacker and more doleful than the
sun-spotted shade cast by the live-oaks.

Maum Hannah’s house was very old, and its foundations had weakened,
so the solid weight of its short square body leaned to one side. The
ridge-pole was warped, the mossy roof sagged down in the middle, and
feathery clumps of fern throve along the frazzled edge of the rotted
eaves.

Two big black iron washpots in Maum Hannah’s yard sat close enough to
the house to be handy, but far enough away to kill any spark that might
fly from their fires toward the house, trying to set fire to the old
shack, tottering with age and all but ready to fall.

Inside Maum Hannah, dressed up in her Sunday clothes, with a fresh
white headkerchief binding her head, a wide white apron almost hiding
the long full skirt of her black and white checked homespun dress,
awaited the guests. She was bending over the fire whose reddish light
glowed on her cheerful smile, making it brighter than ever.

“Come in, son. You’s a early bird dis mawnin’. You’s a strong bird too,
to tote sich a heavy load. Put de quilts on de bed in de shed-room, den
come eat some breakfast wid me. I can’ enjoy eatin’ by myse’f, and Emma
went last night to Zeda’s house, so e wouldn’t be in my way to-day.”

The bacon broiling on a bed of live coals, and fresh peeled sweet
potatoes just drawn out from the ashes where they had roasted, made
a temptation that caused Breeze’s mouth to water. But he hesitated.
Cousin Big Sue was waiting for him, and he knew better than to cross
her this morning.

“If you can’ set down, take a tater in you’ hand an’ eat em long de way
home. A tater’s good for you. It’ll stick to you’ ribs.”

Breeze took the hot bit from her hand and started to hurry away, but
she stopped him, “No, son! Don’ grab victuals an’ run! Put you’ hands
in front o’ you, so. Pull you’ foot an’ bow, an’ say ‘T’ank Gawd!’
Dat’s de way. You must do so ev’y day if you want Jedus to bless
you. All you got comes from Gawd. You mustn’ forgit to tell Him you’s
t’ankful.”

Most of the cabin doors were closed, but the smoke curling up out
of every chimney circled in wreaths overhead. Little clouds of mist
floated low over the marsh, where the marsh-hens kept up a noisy
cackling. Roosters crowed late. Ant-hills were piled high over the
ground. All sure signs of rain, even though no clouds showed in the
pale blue sky.

As soon as Breeze’s work was done, Big Sue had promised he could go to
Zeda’s house or to April’s, and spend the rest of the day playing with
their children, and now there were only a few more lightwood splinters
to split. The prospect of such fun ahead must have made him reckless,
or else the ax, newly sharpened on the big round grind-stone, had got
mean and tricky. Anyway, as Breeze brought it down hard and heavy on
the last fat chunk to be split, its keen edge glanced to one side and
with as straight an aim as if it had two good eyes, jumped between two
of his toes. How it stung! The blood poured out. But Breeze’s chief
thought was of how Big Sue would scold him. Hopping on a heel across
the yard to the door-step he called pitifully for Maum Hannah.

“Great Gawd!” she yelled out when she saw the bloody tracks on the
white sand. “What is you done, Breeze? Don’ come in dis house an’ track
up dis floor! Wha’ dat ail you’ foot?”

She made him lie flat on the ground and hold his foot up high, then
taking a healing leaf from a low bush, growing right beside her door,
she pressed it over the cut and held it until it stuck, then tied it
in place. That was all he needed, but he’d have to keep still to-day.
Maybe two or three days.

By ten o’clock Big Sue was outside the yard where Zeda stirred the
boiling washpots. Onion-flavored eel-stew scented the air. The stout
meeting benches had been brought in from under the house, two for
each quilt. The quilting poles leaned in a corner waiting to be used.
The older, more settled women came first. Each with her needle, ready
to sew. The younger ones straggled in later, with babies, or tiny
children, who kept their hands busy. They were all kin, and when they
first assembled the room rang with, “How you do, cousin?” “Howdy,
Auntie!” “How is you, sister?”

Leah, April’s wife, had on somewhat finer clothes than the other women.
The bottom of her white apron was edged with a band of wide lace, and
she wore a velvet hat with a feather in it over her plaid headkerchief.
But something ailed her speech. The words broke off in her mouth. Her
well-greased face looked troubled. Her round eyes sad.

“How you do, daughter?” Maum Hannah asked her kindly. “You look so nice
to-day. You got such a pretty hat on! Lawd! Is dem teeth you got in
you’ mouth? April ought to be proud o’ you.”

But instead of smiling Leah’s face looked ready to cry. “I ain’ well,
Auntie. My head feels too full all de time. Dese teeth is got me
fretted half to death. Dey’s got my gums all sore, an’ dey rattles when
I tries to walk like dey is gwine to jump down my throat. I can’ eat
wid ’em on to save life. De bottom ones is meaner dan de top ones. I
like to missed and swallowed ’em yestiddy.”

“How come you wears ’em if dey pesters you so bad?”

“April likes ’em. E say dey becomes me. E paid a lot o’ money fo’ dem,
too. E took me all de way to town on de boat to git ’em. But dey ain’
no sati’faction.” She sighed deep. “An’ de blood keeps all de time
rushin’ to my head ever since I was salivate.”

Maum Hannah listened and sympathized with a doleful, “Oh-oh!” while
Leah complained that the worst part was she couldn’t enjoy her victuals
any more. She’d just as soon have a cup and saucer in her mouth as
those teeth. It made no difference what she ate, now, everything tasted
all the same.

“Fo’ Gawd’s sake take ’em off an’ rest you’ mouth to-day!” Maum Hannah
exhorted her. “You may as well pleasure you’self now and den. April
ain’ gwine see you. Not to-day!”

“Somebody’d tell him an’ dat would vex him,” Leah bemoaned.

But Maum Hannah took her by the arm and looked straight in her eyes.
“Honey,” she coaxed, “Gawd ain’ gwine bless you if you let April suffer
you dis way. You an’ April all both is too prideful. Take dem teeth off
an’ rest you’ mouth till dis quiltin’ is over. It would fret me if you
don’t.”

Screening her mouth with both hands Leah did rid her gums of the
offending teeth, but instead of putting them in her apron pocket she
laid them carefully in a safe place on the high mantel-shelf.

       *       *       *       *       *

The room buzzed with chatter. How would such a great noisy gathering
ever get straightened out to work? They were as much alike as guinea
fowls in a flock, every head tied up turban-fashion, every skirt
covered by an apron.

Big Sue welcomed every one with friendliest greetings, and although her
breath was short from excitement, she talked gaily and laughed often.

A sudden hush followed a loud clapping of her hands. The closest
attention was paid while she appointed Leah and Zeda captains of the
first quilts to be laid out. Zeda stepped forward, with a jaunty toss
of her head, and, shrugging a lean shoulder, laughed lightly.

“Big Sue is puttin’ sinner ’gainst Christian dis mawnin’!”

Leah tried to laugh, her tubby body, bulky as Big Sue’s, shook
nervously, as her giggling rippled out of her mouth, but her eyes
showed no mirth at all.

“You choose first, Leah. You’s de foreman’s wife.”

Leah chose Big Sue.

“Lawd,” Zeda threw her head back with a laugh, “Yunnuh two is so big
nobody else wouldn’ have room to set on a bench ’side you.”

The crowd tittered, but Big Sue looked stern.

“Do, Zeda! You has gall enough to talk about bigness? T’ank Gawd, I’m
big all de way round like I is.” She cast a wry look toward Zeda, then
turned her head and winked at the crowd. But Zeda sucked her teeth
brazenly. She was satisfied with her shape. She might not look so nice
now, but her bigness would soon be shed. Just give her a month or two
longer.

“You ought to be shame, wid grown chillen in you’ house, an’ a grown
gal off yonder to college.”

“When I git old as you, Big Sue, den I’ll stay slim all de time. Don’t
you fret.” Zeda laughed, and chose Gussie, a skinny, undersized, deaf
and dumb woman, whose keen eyes plainly did double duty. When Zeda
looked toward her and spoke her name, Gussie pushed through the crowd,
smiling and making wordless gurgles of pleasure for the compliment Zeda
had paid her by choosing her first of all.

“I take Bina next!” Leah called out.

“Bina’s a good one for you’ quilt. E’s a extra fine Christian.”

“You better be prayin’ you’se’f, Zeda,” Bina came back.

“Who? Me? Lawd, gal, I does pray.” Zeda said it seriously, and her look
roved around the room. “Sinners is mighty sca’ce at dis quiltin’. Who
kin I choose next?” She searched the group.

“Don’ take so long, Zeda,” Big Sue chided. “Hurry up an’ choose. De day
is passin’. You an’ Gussie is de only two sinners. You’ ’bliged to pick
a Christian, now.”

“Den I’ll take Nookie. E’s got swift-movin’ fingers.”

The choosing went on until eight women were picked for each quilt, four
to a side. Then the race began.

The two quilt linings, made out of unbleached homespun, were spread on
the clean bare floor, and covered over with a smooth layer of cotton.

“How come you got such nice clean cotton to put in you’ quilt?” Zeda
inquired with an innocent look across at Big Sue.

When Big Sue paid her no heed, she added brazenly, “De cotton April gi’
me fo’ my quilt was so trashy and dark I had to whip em wid pine-tops
half a day to get de dirt out clean enough to use.”

Still Big Sue said nothing.

“You must be stand well wid April.” Zeda looked at Big Sue with a smile.

Big Sue raised her shoulders up from doubling over, and in a tart tone
blurted out, “You talks too much, Zeda. Shut you’ mouth and work.”

“Who? Me?” Zeda came back pleasantly. “Great Gawd! I was praisin’ de
whiteness of de cotton, dat was all.”

Two of the patch-work covers that Big Sue had fashioned with such
pains, stitch by stitch, square by square, were opened out wide and
examined and admired.

“Which one you want, Zeda? You take de first pick.”

“Lawd, all two is so nice it’s hard to say.”

Gussie pointed to the “Snake-fence” design, and Zeda took it,
leaving the “Star of Bethlehem” for Leah. Both were placed over a
cotton-covered lining on the floor, corner to corner, edge to edge, and
basted into place. Next, two quilting poles were laid lengthwise beside
each quilt, and tacked on with stout ball thread. The quilts were
carefully rolled on the poles, and the pole-ends fastened with strong
cords to the side-walls. All was ready for the quilting.

Leah’s crew beat fixing the quilt on the poles, but the sewing was the
tedious part. The stitches must be small, and in smooth rows that ran
side by side. They must also be deep enough to hold the cotton fast
between the top and the lining.

Little talking was done at first. Minds, as well as eyes, had to watch
the needles. Those not quilting in this race stood around the hearth
puffing at their pipes, talking, joking, now and then squealing out
with merriment.

“Yunnuh watch dem pots,” Big Sue cautioned them. “Make Breeze keep wood
on de fire. Mind now.”

The quilts were rolled up until the quilting poles met, so the sewing
started right in the middle, and as the needles left neat stitches, the
poles were rolled farther apart, until both quilts were done to the
edges. These were carefully turned in and whipped down, with needles
running at full racing speed. Zeda’s crew finished a full yard ahead.
The sinners won. And how they did crow over the others! Deaf and dumb
Gussie did her best to boast, but her words were stifled in dreadful
choked noises that were hard to bear.

Big Sue put the wild ducks on to roast. They were fat and tender, and
already stuffed full of oyster dressing, the same dressing she fixed
for the white folks. She said the oysters came from near the beach
where the fresh salt tide made them large and juicy.

What a dinner she had! Big Sue was an open-handed woman, for truth.

Some of the farm-hands stopped by on their way home for the noon hour.
Coming inside they stood around the fireplace, grinning, joking and
smoking the cigarettes they rolled with deft fingers.

Everybody was given a pan and spoon. Zeda and Bina helped Big Sue pass
around great dishpans of smoking food, and cups of water sweetened with
molasses. For a time nothing was said except the exclamations that
praised the dinner. Indeed it might have been a wedding feast but for
the lack of cake and wine.

The wild ducks, cooked just to a turn, were served last. Their red
blood was barely curdled with heat, yet their outsides were rich and
brown. Lips smacked. Spoons clattered. Mouths too full dropped crumbs
as they munched.

A grand dinner.

“Take you’ time, an’ chaw,” Big Sue bade the guests kindly. “You got
plenty o’ time to finish de rest o’ de quilts befo’ night.”

       *       *       *       *       *

As soon as the edge was taken off their appetites they fell to talking.
Big Sue did not sit down to eat at all, so busy was she passing around
the pans of hot food, and urging the others to fill themselves full.

As more men came by and stopped, the noise waxed louder, until the
uproar of shouting and laughter and light-hearted talk seethed thick.
When all were filled with Big Sue’s good cheer, they got up and went
out into the yard to smoke, to catch a little fresh air, and to wash
the grease off their fingers. The pans and spoons and tin cups were
stacked up on the water-shelf out of the way where they’d wait to be
washed until night.

The quilting was the work in hand now, and when the room was in order
again, and the women rested and refreshed, Big Sue called them in to
begin on the next set of quilts.

April went riding by on the sorrel colt, on his way back to the field,
and Big Sue called him to come in and eat the duck and hot rice she had
put aside specially for him. But he eyed her coolly, rode on and left
her frowning.

Zeda laughed, and asked Big Sue if April was a boy to hop around at her
heels? Didn’t she know April had work to do? Important work. The white
people made him plantation foreman because they knew they could trust
him to look after their interests. He not only worked himself, but he
kept the other hands working too.

Leah sat silent, making short weak puffs at her pipe.

Maum Hannah’s deep sigh broke into the stillness.

“I ever did love boy-chillen, but dey causes a lot o’ sorrow. My mammy
used to say ev’y boy-child ought to be killed soon as it’s born.”

“How’d de world go on if people done dat?” Bina asked.

“I dunno. Gawd kin do a lot o’ strange t’ings.”

This made them all stop and think again.

The kettle sang as steam rushed out of its spout. The flames made a
sputtering sound. The benches creaked as the women bent over and rose
with their needles. Bina sat up straight, then stretched.

“If all de mens was dead, you could stay in de chu’ch, enty, Zeda?”
Bina slurred the words softly.

Zeda came back, “Don’ you fret ’bout me, gal. Jake ain’ no more to me
dan a dead man.”

“Yunnuh stop right now! Dat’s no-manners talk. Jake’s a fine man, if
e is my gran. I know, by I raise em. When his mammy died an’ left em,
Jake an’ Bully and April was all three de same as twins in my house.”
Maum Hannah spoke very gravely. Presently she got up and went into the
shed-room. She came back smiling, with a folded quilt on her arm. “Le’s
look at de old Bible quilt, chillen. It’ll do yunnuh good.”

She held up one corner and motioned to deaf and dumb Gussie to hold
up the other so all the squares could be seen. There were twenty,
every one a picture out of the Bible. The first one, next to Gussie’s
hand, was Adam and Eve and the serpent. Adam’s shirt was blue, his
pants brown, and his head a small patch of yellow. Eve had on a red
headkerchief, a purple wide-skirted dress; and a tall black serpent
stood straight up on the end of its tail.

The next square had two men, one standing up, the other fallen
down--Cain and Abel. The red patch under Abel was his blood, spilled
on the ground by Cain’s sin. Maum Hannah pointed out Noah and the Ark;
Moses with the tables of stone; the three Hebrew children; David and
Goliath; Joseph and Mary and the little baby Jesus; and last of all,
Jesus standing alone by the cross. As Maum Hannah took them one by one,
all twenty, she told each marvelous story.

The quilters listened with rapt attention. Breeze almost held his
breath for fear of missing a word. Sometimes his blood ran hot with
wonder, then cold with fear. Many eyes in the room glistened with tears.

The names of God and Jesus were known to Breeze, but he had never
understood before that they were real people who could walk and talk.
Maum Hannah told about God’s strength and power and wisdom, how He knew
right then what she was doing and saying. He could see each stitch
that was taken in the quilts, whether it was small and deep and honest,
or shallow and careless. He wrote everything down in a great book where
He kept account of good and evil. Breeze had never dreamed that such
things went on around him all the time.

Yet the quilt was made out of pictures of the very things Maum Hannah
told. Nobody could doubt that all she said was the truth. In the
charmed silence, her words fell clear and earnest. The present was
shut out. Breeze’s mind went a-roaming with her, back into the days
when the world was new and God walked and talked with the children He
had so lately made. As she spoke Breeze shivered over those days that
were to come when everybody here would be either in Hell or Heaven. It
had to be one or the other. There was no place to stop or to hide when
death came and knocked at your door. She pointed to Breeze. That same
little boy, there in the chimney corner, with his foot tied up, would
have to account for all he did! As well as Breeze could understand,
Heaven was in the blue sky straight up above the plantation. God sat
there on His throne among the stars, while angels, with harps of gold
in their hands, sang His praises all day long. Hell was straight down.
Underneath. Deep under the earth. Satan lived there with his great
fires for ever and ever a-burning on the bodies of sinners piled high
up so they could never crumble.

Maum Hannah herself became so moved by the thought of the sufferings of
the poor pitiful sinners in Hell, that her voice broke and tears dimmed
her eyes, and she plead with them all:

“Pray! Chillen! Pray!

“Do try fo’ ’scape Hell if you kin!

“Hell is a heat!

“One awful heat!

“We fire ain’ got no time wid em!

“Pray! Chillen! Pray! For Gawd’s sake, pray!

“When de wind duh whip you

“An’ de sun-hot duh burn you

“An’ de rain duh wet you,

“All dem say, Pray! Do try fo’ ’scape Hell if you kin!”

On the way home through the dusk Breeze stopped short in his tracks
more than once, for terror seized him at the bare rustle of a bird’s
wing against a dry leaf. When the gray shadow of a rabbit darted across
the path and the sight of a glowworm’s eye gleamed up from the ground,
Big Sue stopped too. And breathing fast with anxiety, cried out:

“Do, Jedus! Lawd! Dat rabbit went leftward. A bad luck t’ing! Put dem
t’ings down! Chunk two sticks behind em. Is you see anyt’ing strange,
Breeze?” She sidled up close to him and whispered the question.

Breeze stared hard into the deepening twilight. The black shadows were
full of dark dreadful things that pressed close to the ground, creeping
slowly, terribly. The tree branches rocked, the leaves whispered
sharply, the long gray moss streamed toward them.

“Le’s run, Cun Big Sue.” Breeze leaped with a quick hop ahead, but her
powerful hand clutched his shoulder. “Looka here, boy! I’ll kill you
to-night if you leave me. No tellin’ what kind o’ sperits is walkin’.
I kin run when I’s empty-handed, but loaded down wid all dese t’ings a
snail could ketch me! You git behind me on de path.”

The black smoke rising out of the chimney made a great serpent that
stood on the end of its tail. For a minute Breeze was unable to
speak. His heart throbbed with heavy blows, for not only did that
smoke serpent lean and bend and reach threateningly, but something
high and black and shapeless stood in front of Big Sue’s cabin, whose
whitewashed walls behind it made it look well-nigh as tall as a pine
tree. It might be the Devil! Or Death! Or God! He gave a scream and
clung to Big Sue as the figure took a step toward them.

“Yunnuh is late!” April’s voice boomed out.

“Lawd!” Big Sue fairly shouted. “I was sho’ you was a plat-eye. You
scared me half to death! Man! I couldn’ see no head on you no matter
how hard I look. How come you went inside my house with me not home?”

April grunted. “You better be glad! I had a hard time drivin’ a bat out
o’ you’ house.”

“A bat!” Big Sue shrieked with terror. “How come a bat in my house? A
bat is de child of de devil.”

April declared the bat had squeaked and grinned and chattered in his
face until he mighty nigh got scared himself.

“Lawd! Wha’s gwine happen now? A bat inside my house! An’ look how de
fire’s smokin’!”

She hurried Breeze off to bed in the shed-room whose darkness was
streaked with wavering firelight that fell through the cracks in the
wall. Fear kept him awake until he put his head under the covers and
shut out all sight and sound and thought.

He was roused by a knock on the front door. Big Sue made no answer,
and another knock made by the knuckles of a strong hand was followed
by a loud crying, “Open dis door, I tell you! I know April’s right in
dere!” This was followed by the thud of a kick, but no answer came from
inside. Breeze could not have spoken to save his life, for sheer terror
held him crouched under the quilts and his tongue was too weak and dry
to move.

Where in God’s world was Big Sue? The first of those knocks should
have waked her. Sleep never did fasten her eyelids down very tight,
yet with all this deafening racket, she stayed dumb. Had she gone off
and left Breeze by himself? The voice calling at the door sounded
like a woman’s voice at first, but now it deepened with hoarse fury
and snarled and growled and threatened, calling Big Sue filthy names.
Breeze knew then for certain it was some evil thing. His flesh crept
loose from his bones. His blood ran cold and weak. He realized Big Sue
was not at home. Maybe she was dead, in her bed! The thought was so
terrible that in desperation he lifted up his head and yelled:

“Who dat?”

At once the dreadful answer came.

“Who dat say ‘who dat’?” Then a silence, for Breeze could utter no
other word.

Outside the wind caught at the trees and thrashed their leaves, then
came inside to rustle the papers on the cabin’s walls, and whisper
weird terrible things through the cracks. The thing that had knocked on
the door was walking away. Its harsh breathing was hushed into sobs and
soft moans that made Breeze’s heart sink still deeper with horror.

For a minute every noise in the world lulled. Nothing stirred except
the ghastly tremor that shook Breeze’s body from his covered-up head to
the heels doubled up under his cold hips.

A sudden fearful battering in company with despairing howls, crashed at
the door! It would soon break down! There was no time to waste putting
on clothes! Hopping up into the cold darkness, Breeze eased the back
door open and slipped into the night.

The horrible door-splitting blows went right on. Thank God, somebody
was coming. Running, with a torch. Breeze forgot that snakes were
walking, and leaped through the bushes over ground that felt unsteady
to his flying feet. His heart swelled with joy and relief, for the man
hurrying toward the cabin lighting his way with a fat lightwood torch
was Uncle Bill. Twice Breeze opened his mouth to call out, but the only
sound he could make was a whispered--“Uncle Bill--Uncle Bill!”

Following the torch’s light he could see a black woman cutting the door
down with an ax. Who in God’s name would dare do such a thing? Uncle
Bill walked right up to her and shook her soundly by the shoulder.

“What is you a-doin’, Leah? Is you gone plumb crazy? Gi’ me dat ax!” He
jerked the ax from her hands and she began shrieking afresh, and trying
to push him back. But she couldn’t budge him one inch. Holding her off,
with his free hand he made a proper, polite knock, although the door
was split and the dim firelight shone through its new-made cracks.

“Dis is me, Bill, Miss Big Sue,” he called out, a stern note deepening
his voice.

Leah shrilled out harshly. “You better open dis door! You low-down
black buzzard hussy! You wait till I gits my hands on you’ throat! You
won’ fool wid my husband no mo’ in dis world!”

Fully dressed and quite calm Big Sue appeared. She answered with mild
astonishment:

“Why, Leah! How come you makin’ all dis fuss? You must want to wake
up de whole plantation? You ought to be shamed. I never see such a
no-manners ’oman!”

“Whe’s April?” Leah howled. “Whe’s April, I tell you? Don’ you cut no
crazy wid me to-night! I’ll kill you sho’ as you do!”

“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, Leah! Shut you’ mouth! I dunno nuttin’ ’bout
April. You is too sickenin’! Always runnin’ round to somebody’s house
a-lookin’ fo’ April!”

“Yes, I look fo’ em. You had em here too! See his hat yonder on de
floor right now! You fat black devil!” Seizing Big Sue’s kerchiefed
head with both hands Leah tried to choke her, but Big Sue wrenched
herself loose and with a wicked laugh raised one fat leg and gave Leah
a kick in the middle of her body that sent her backward with a slam
against the wall.

“You’d choke me, would you? I’ll tear de meat off you’ bones!” Big Sue
screamed, but Leah crumpled sidewise and fell flat on the floor, her
eyes lifeless, her face stiffened.

Big Sue had roused into fury. She staggered forward and bent over and
rained blows with both fists on Leah’s silent mouth, until Uncle Bill
grappled her around her huge waist and dragged her to the other side of
the room.

Big Sue bellowed. “You’d choke me, enty? You blue-gummed pizen-jawed
snake! Gawd done right to salivate you an’ make you’ teeth drop out.”

For all the signs of life she gave, Leah may as well have been dead.
She lay there on the floor, limp and dumb, even after Uncle Bill took
the bucketful of water from the shelf and doused her with it. She
didn’t even catch her breath. Uncertain what to do, Uncle Bill knelt
over her and called her name.

“Leah! Leah! Don’t you die here on dis floor. Leah! Open you’ eyes. I
know good and well you’s playin’ ’possum.”

Except for the fire’s crackling and the low chirping of one lone
cricket, the stillness of death was in the room.

“Put on you’ shirt and pants, Breeze. Run tell April Leah is done
faint off. E must come here quick as e kin.”

The darkness of the night was terrible as Breeze ran through it toward
the Quarters. A cedar limb creaked mournfully as the wind wrung it back
and forth. Its crying was like sorrowful calls for aid. Breeze tried
to hurry, to make his legs run faster, but they were ready to give way
and fall. His feet stumbled, his throat choked until he could scarcely
breathe. His brain wheeled and rattled inside his skull. How horrible
Death is!

A few stars twinkled bright away up in the sky, but the waving
tree-tops made a thick black smoke that covered the yellow moon.
High-tide glistened in the darkness, all but ready to turn by now.
Leah’s soul would go out with it if something wasn’t done to help her.

Lord how awful her eyeballs were, rolled back so far in her head!
Jesus, have mercy! The thought of them made Breeze senseless with
terror. Tears gushed from his own eyes and blinded him.

April was not at home, and Breeze raced back, but already Leah was
coming to. She lay on the floor, her fat face, black as tar against
the whiteness of the pillow under it now, was set and furrowed. Her
toothless jaws moved with mute words, as if she talked with some one
the others could not see. She kept fumbling with the red charm-string
tied around her neck, as her dull eyes rolled slowly from one face to
the other.

Breeze longed to fling himself on the bed and cover up his head, but
Big Sue sat storming and panting with fury. Leah ought to be ashamed of
herself, running over the country at night trying to bring disgracement
on her.

“Whyn’t you answer Leah when e knocked?” Uncle Bill asked her.

Big Sue jumped at him angrily. “How’d I know Leah wasn’ some robber
come to cut my throat? Just ’cause Leah is married to de foreman an’
livin’ in a bigger house dan my own, an’ wearin’ finer clothes, dat
don’ gi’ em no right to break down my door wid a’ ax! No. Leah ain’
no white ’oman even if e do buy medicine out de sto’. No wonder e got
salivate. Gawd done right to make dat medicine loosen all Leah’s teeth
an’ prize ’em out so e ain’ got none to be a-bitin’ people up wid.
T’ank Gawd! Bought ones can’ bite. I wish all e finger-nails would drop
off! E toe-nails too! Leah’s a dangerous ’oman. E ain’ safe to be loose
in dis country. No. Leah’d kill you quick as look at you!”




XIV

CHURCH


Sunday morning rose with a pale clear sky, and a sun that glittered
bright and hot as it mounted.

Big Sue was already up when Breeze waked. She was fussing around,
cooking dinner to take to church, fixing a basket, and China dishes to
hold it. Her best clothes, and Breeze’s, were laid out on chairs to be
put on. They must be ready when Uncle Bill came for them in his new
buggy. He had to go ahead of time, for he had charge of the communion
as well as of the Bury League which would be organized when the service
was over and the dinner eaten. The head man of the Bury League had
come to preach and to form a Society to Bury. Big Sue baked rising
bread yesterday in the Big House kitchen stove. The brown loaves,
uncovered, sat in a row on the shelf, waiting to be wrapped up. They’d
turn to Jesus’ own body when the preacher prayed over them, and blessed
them. Blackberry wine, in the two big demijohns in the corner of the
shed-room, would turn into Jesus’ blood. Breeze couldn’t make it out
in his head exactly, but Big Sue said it was so. Breeze had picked the
blackberries that made the wine, and he’d bought the white flour for
the bread from the store. How could they turn to Jesus? But Big Sue
said prayer can do anything. Anything! When a fine preacher like the
Bury League leader prays. Not everybody knows how to pray right, but he
did. Yes, Lord, he did!

Before taking time to swallow down a mouthful of bread for breakfast,
Breeze and Big Sue put the demijohns on the front porch, ready to go
to church. They packed up all the fine dinner in one box, and the
communion bread in another, so when she was dressed in her Sunday
clothes, she’d have nothing to do but sit still and wait and rest.

How different she looked with her body pulled in tight with a great
corset full of steel bands! Like a cotton bale pressed too small. The
frills of her petticoat were lace-trimmed. Over them, hiding them
carefully, was her new purple sateen dress.

She sat down on the porch with a pan of breakfast in her lap and began
to eat. Breeze was back in the shed-room dressing when he heard her
laugh and scramble to her feet to say in her company manners voice:

“How you do dis mawnin’, Reverend?”

Breeze peeped through the open door in time to see her draw a foot
adroitly behind her in a low curtsey to a strange man who answered in a
familiar voice:

“Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Good-wine. How you do this morning?”

“Not so good,” she said sweetly. “Bad luck’s been a-hangin’ round de
plantation lately.”

“Bad luck ought not to pester a lady who can fix frog legs like the
ones you sent us last night for supper. They were elegant.”

Breeze stood still and listened. He knew that voice, sure as the world.
The Bury League preacher was his own stepfather. Hurrying into his
clothes he tipped across the room to the window to see better, but Big
Sue’s antics held his eyes. She was down on her knees, shaking all over
in the drollest way, with laughter that took her breath. Her company
manners were gone. Between gasps and shouts she gurgled, “Great Gawd!
You ought o’ seen dem frogs dis mawnin’. Dat fool Breeze didn’ kill em!
He cut off dey hind legs an’ turned dem loose in de back yard! I liken
to a broke my foot jumpin’ when I missed an’ stepped slam on one!”

“Who did you say done it?” The Reverend was disturbed. The greenish
cast of his long-tailed coat and derby hat spread over his swarthy
face, and he sat down so suddenly on the steps that Big Sue’s roars
hushed and her company manners came back. Scrambling to her feet
and casting a fierce look toward the window where Breeze stood, she
sympathized:

“I’m too sorry. No wonder you’s sick! Eatin’ de legs of a livin’ frog!
But dey’s dead now. I made Breeze knock ’em in de head a while ago.
Breeze is a crazy boy. When I git home to-night, I’m gwine gi’ em de
heaviest lickin’ ever was. I ain’ gwine leave a whole piece o’ hide on
em. No, suh! I’m gwine bust his crust, sure as you’ bawn.”

“Whe’d you git dat boy? Is he you’ own?” The Reverend’s voice was
weakly.

“No, Lawd. My son, Lijah, is got plenty o’ sense. Breeze is a li’l’
boy I got f’om Sandy Island to stay wid me, by I was so lonesome in de
night by myself.”

The Reverend took a handkerchief out of the pocket in the tail of his
long coat and wiped the sweat off his face, then he leaned his head on
his hand. Big Sue was anxious.

“Would you like a li’l’ sweetened water, suh?”

He shook his head.

“How ’bout a li’l’ cookin’ soda? Dat might settle you.” He didn’t need
a thing. He must go now. He and Miss Leah were to talk over the hymns
so she could lead the choir. He was subject to spells of swimming in
the head, but they didn’t last long.

His mention of Leah’s name changed Big Sue’s tone altogether. She
laughed out.

“Lawdy, I bet Leah’ll strut to-day. April took em to town an’ bought em
some teeth. Dey don’ fit good like you’ own, dough. Leah wouldn’ trust
to chaw wid ’em, not fo’ nothin’. I don’ blame em, dough. I’d hate to
broke ’em if dey was mine. Leah is sho’ tryin’ to look young dese days.
E natural hair is white as cotton, but e polishes em wid soot an’ lark.”

Except for Big Sue’s displeasure about the frogs, Breeze would have
told her that the Reverend was his mother’s husband who disappeared the
day his grandfather cut the big pine, but the boy’s one wish was to
have her forget him, and maybe she’d forget the licking she promised to
lay on his hide.

When Uncle Bill drove up to the door with one of the biggest pertest
mules from the barnyard hitched to a one-horse wagon, Big Sue, instead
of praising the beast’s fresh-clipped mane and tail, looked doubtfully
at the cloth strings tying the harness in many places.

“If de mule gits to kickin’ or either runnin’, how you gwine rule em?”
she asked anxiously, but Uncle Bill laughed at her fears and helped her
to the seat in front, putting the basket of dinner and the communion
bread and wine back where Breeze sat on the floor.

At first the mule could not be moved out of a slow walk, but when the
wagon crossed over a root in the road and the wheels made a creak and
a bump, the mule jumped so that one demijohn turned over, its stopper
flew out and some of the wine spilled. Big Sue scolded Breeze for
letting it happen and told him to steady the jugs the rest of the way.
She couldn’t. She couldn’t even bend with her corset on. It cut her
wind and had her so heated she had to take off her big sailor hat and
fan herself to catch air.

The wagon wheels ground slowly along in the deep sandy ruts. White
clouds of dust rose above the slow-moving hoofs of mules and oxen that
toiled along, pulling buggies and wagons and carts crowded with black
people going to Heaven’s Gate Church. Other church-goers were walking,
many of the women in their stocking feet, carrying their shoes in
their hands along with their dinner baskets. Well-greased faces shone,
everybody saluted everybody else, some with simple bows, others with
bows beneath upraised arms.

Heaven’s Gate Church stretched its whitewashed length from the road
clear back to the picnic tables made of clean new boards nailed
together and fastened to wide-spreading trees whose shade made the
grounds cool and darkened. The sweep of the open well was kept busy
drawing water. The churchyard swarmed with people hurrying about like
a nest of ants before summer rain. Women crowded behind the church,
putting on shoes, fixing hair, smoothing crumpled dresses and aprons.
Big Sue sucked her teeth at the sight of Leah who was strutting, sure
enough. Big Sue grumbled bitterly because Leah was not only the choir
leader to-day, but chairman of the lemonade committee. Leah had no
judgment. The last time she fixed the lemonade, she had it sour enough
to cut your very heart-strings. Leah pushed herself. She gave nobody
else a chance. No wonder she got salivated.

The chain of wagons and buggies and carts that had stretched along the
road crowding out people on foot, now filled the churchyard completely.
Every low tree limb, every bush, held a tethered beast. Oxen chewed
cuds. Mules dozed, roused to switch off gnats and stinging flies with
close-clipped tails, then dozed again.

Every bench inside the long low whitewashed church was finally packed
with people, waiting respectfully until the time came for the Reverend
to get up in the pulpit and preach God’s word. He was very different
from Reverend Salty, the kind old preacher who had lately died and left
the congregation of Heaven’s Gate Church like sheep without a shepherd.

Reverend Salty was fat and easy to laugh, but this Reverend was slim
and tall and solemn. He was so educated that he could read scripture
right out of the Book. No word could trip his nimble tongue, but he
said he had to wear glasses because he had strained his eyes searching
the scriptures day and night to find out how to lead the people.

As he adjusted his glasses, carefully placing the curve of the gold
frames behind his small ears, Maum Hannah, who sat next to Breeze on
the front bench of the Amen corner, boomed right out with an earnest,
“T’ank Gawd for life, son! T’ank Gawd! Praise be to His blessed name! I
too glad I could git here to hear you read Gawd’s book dis day!”

The Reverend cleared his throat and stared sternly at her, but when
his eyes slipped a glance at Breeze, they turned quickly to another
direction. Big Sue in the choir on the other side of the pulpit shook
her head, but Maum Hannah was wiping her joyful tears on an apron
string, and she saw nothing until Uncle Bill’s old Louder trotted in
and lay down near her feet, then she smiled and welcomed him with a
gentle, “I glad you come to pray, Louder.”

The first scripture lesson told how Moses led the Children of Israel
over Jordan on their journey toward Canaan, the promised land. The
Reverend stopped, and took off his fine glasses with fingers that
trembled, and it seemed to Breeze the preacher looked more at him than
at Maum Hannah. Getting a white fresh-ironed pocket handkerchief out
of his pants pocket, he unfolded it and made little delicate wipes at
the corners of both his eyes. He polished each spectacle glass, cleared
his throat and coughed until his voice was clear, then he read the
second lesson. April, who had come in late, listened intently. Lord,
how the man could read. He used to read at meeting on Sandy Island
sometimes. He read now, about charity, which he said meant love, and as
the familiar words fell clear on Maum Hannah’s ears, the beauty of them
stirred her heart. Her eyes closed, her body rocked from side to side.
She murmured low praise to God, then louder words of encouragement to
the preacher. “Tell de people, son! Don’ hold back! You’s a stranger in
a strange land, but you’s a child of Gawd! Read em, son, read em!” she
crooned. “Read de word of Gawd. Let de people hear all wha’ Jedus say!
We got to love ev’ybody! Sinners an’ all! Love de sinners! Hate de sin!”

Old Reverend Salty had never objected to Maum Hannah’s taking a part in
the service, but this preacher was new. He didn’t understand that Maum
Hannah’s heart was so moved that she had to speak out. He got more and
more nervous and fretted. Every now and then he turned his head to one
side and cast a disapproving frown toward her, but she was too happy to
notice that anything was wrong.

When he began lining out the hymn:

  “Come ye that love the Lord
  And let your joy be known,”

Uncle Bill leaned close and whispered in the old woman’s ear, “You
mustn’ talk out loud, Auntie. Dis preacher is used to town ways.”

Leah raised the tune, and her strong voice, swelled by the
congregation, made it hard to hear what Uncle Bill said. Maum Hannah
gave him a puzzled questioning look, and her old lips haltingly
inquired:

“Enty?”

Whole stanzas were sung before she joined in with the great volume
of harmony. Did Uncle Bill say she mustn’t talk out loud because the
preacher was used to town ways! Breeze nodded. That was exactly what
Uncle Bill said. Maum Hannah sighed, and mumbled. She didn’t mean any
disrespect. His beautiful reading had moved the spirit in her and
stirred her heart so deep, her tongue could not lie dumb in her mouth.
She’d try not to talk out loud again.

When the hymn was done Reverend stepped to the side of the pulpit to
say he would add something new to the service. The Ten Commandments.
People must understand what the laws of God are before they can keep
them rightly. He would read them, one at a time, and at the end of each
the congregation must pray.

“Do, Lord, help us to keep this law.”

“Does everybody understand?”

A roar of answers came back, “Yes suh, we understan’ good, suh!” but
Maum Hannah shook her head and objected in clear distinct words, “No,
son, dat’s how de white folks pray! Gawd ain’ used to we prayin’ dat
way!”

April smiled, but Uncle Bill was worried. “Hush, Auntie! You’ll git de
preacher all tangled up.”

She gave up. Her eyes fell. Her hands caught at each other and held
fast. The thin-veined, blue-nailed fingers, knotted at every joint,
twisted into a tight uneasy grip, then sank into a fold of her white
apron. Tears ran out from under her shut eyelids.

The preacher opened the Bible, and turned the leaves over for the right
place. When it lay under his eyes he began a solemn,

“‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me’!”

When he raised his eyes to the congregation Uncle Bill led a ragged
wave of voices into a loud, “Do, Lawd, help us to keep dis law!”

The preacher smiled and nodded approval, then bent over the Book to
read the next commandment. It was a long one. The people didn’t know
exactly when it ended, but he started them off, and they responded with
an eager rush, “Do, Lawd, help us to keep dis law!”

The Reverend lost his place, his long forefinger had to help his eyes
find it, but presently he began with a loud, “‘Remember the Sabbath
day’!” He read on and on. The congregation listened breathlessly for
the end, and when his voice fell, every soul broke into the crashing
prayer, “Do Lawd, help us to keep dis law!” April frowned.

Maum Hannah’s head dropped, her chin was on her breast, her eyes were
shut tight, her lips moving in whispers. Breeze could tell she was
praying alone, quite apart from the preacher and the congregation which
had strangely become two beings: one, a lone, black, shiny-skinned,
shiny-eyed man in the pulpit, repeating God’s commandments, in the high
sing-song, and clapping his hands for the people to respond; and the
congregation, now knitted into a many-mouthed, many-handed, many-eyed
mass, that swayed and rocked like one body from side to side, crying to
God in an agonized, “Do, Lawd, help us to keep dis law!” A shrill voice
screamed out of the rumbling body, “Hallelujah! I feel de sperit!” A
chill crept over Breeze. He felt something strange himself. He couldn’t
hear his own voice in the flood of shouted praying, but he knew he was
one with the rest. The preacher’s tall form swayed this way and that,
his long slew-feet patted the floor. He was like a tree rocked by a
strong wind.

“Honour thy father and thy mother,” he chanted. His upheld hands opened
and clenched into straining fists, but the congregation was too full to
wait for the rest. Their fierce, full-throated cry rang out, “Do, Lawd,
help us to keep dis law!”

“Thou shalt kill!” His voice swelled and thickened with hoarseness, his
arms swung about.

“Do, Lawd, help us to keep dis law!”

The preacher’s tongue was twisted by his fervor, the ears of the
congregation deafened by their own shouting.

“Thou shalt commit adultery!” he yelled.

“Do, Lawd, help us to keep dis law!” they yelled back.

Breeze’s blood seethed hot, his heart beat wildly, the whole church
full of people boiled with commotion. Shouts of praise to God broke
into the din and tumult of prayer.

“Thou shalt steal!” came like wind on a flame and the congregation’s
answer sprang hot from the heart, “Do, Lawd, help us to keep dis law!”

Maum Hannah jerked up her head and listened. Her hands wavered apart,
then reached out toward the preacher. She got to her feet and waved her
arms, “You got em wrong, son! Wrong! Great Lawd, don’ say em dat way!”

Nobody paid her any attention but Uncle Bill, and he pulled her by
the arm and made her sit down, “Wait, Auntie! It ain’ time to shout
yet. Set down till after de sermon.” Then he joined in with the
others, whose words lost in feeling, surged back and forth, throbbing,
thundering, until the old church trembled and shook.

“Thou shalt bear false witness against thy neighbor!”

The preacher’s flashing eyes blazed with fire, as they gazed at the
people, his shortened breath panted his words, and the congregation
burst into prayer, “Do, Lawd, help us to keep dis law!”

From his seat in the Amen corner Breeze could see every face. Standing
out by itself, April’s bold daring countenance was lit with a cool
sneering smile.

The Ten Commandments were all said, but the preacher knew others.

“Thou shalt be a father to the fatherless!”

“Do, Lawd, help us to keep dis law!” The holy spirit filled the
close-packed swaying crowd.

“Thou shalt be a husband to the widow!”

The ever-rising tide of prayer rolled into a flood that swallowed
every soul but April. He sat upright. Unmoved. Passionless. When the
preacher’s ranting halted to give out a hymn, April got up and walked
down the aisle, and on out of the door. A no-mannered brazen thing for
anybody to do. Every eye gazed at him, the preacher stared, but Uncle
Bill hurriedly raised the hymn.

The congregation sang it as the preacher lined it out two lines at a
time. When it was finished, then he opened the Bible and took his text.
“Hold fast and repent!” He read it twice and closed the Book, then shut
his eyes and prayed in silence before he asked the question:

“Does all o’ you members fast?” Throughout the church a solemn silence
fell, then a great cry answered:

“Sho’! Sho’! Yes, suh.”

“You can not pray rightly without fasting.”

“No, suh! It’s de Gawd’s truth.”

“The longer you fast, the better you can repent!”

“Yes, brother! You right!”

“The longer you fast, the quicker your sins will be forgiven!”

“Praise His name! Hallelujah!” Leah led the women of the choir into a
low humming tune.

“Jesus fasted forty days and forty nights!”

“Yes, Gawd!” The choir’s humming swelled and spread to the women of the
congregation.

“He got stronger and stronger as He fasted.”

“Yes, suh!” Bodies rocked and swayed to the mournful tune.

“He got strong as the devil!” The preacher’s eyes flashed bright behind
his glasses, but Maum Hannah jumped forward at such reckless words.

“He beat the devil at his own game!” The Reverend shouted as he shook
his clenched fists.

“Glory! Hallelujah!” The congregation cried loud above the women’s
solemn wordless chanting.

“Yunnuh hold fast! Get strong like Jesus!” The preacher stamped on the
floor.

“Yes, Gawd! Praise His name!” The women were getting to their feet and
patting time.

“God’ll feed you on the bread of life!”

“Do, Master!” Maum Hannah cried out so clear, that he looked at her
and caught Breeze’s eye. The holy spirit left him all of a sudden.
Maybe he thought of the frog legs, maybe of old Breeze, but he stopped
short and cleared his throat and fumbled with the leaves of the book.
He presently said the time had come for making their offerings. They
must sing an old hymn, and the people must come forward and lay their
gifts on God’s holy altar, which was a small pine table in front of
the pulpit. They crushed into the aisle, an array of gaudy dresses,
weaving in and out among the dark men. Both aisles were choked with
singing people. Waves of hot breath smote Breeze in the face. Sunday
shoes squeaked. Outside in the churchyard a mule brayed long and loud.
Coins rolled and clinked against one another on the table. One rolled
on the floor and fell through a crack, lost, as Uncle Bill gave Breeze
a brownie to carry up.

The hymn was all sung, and the preacher went behind the pulpit again.
In a high voice he declared that the stay of Jesus on earth was divided
into four parts: the birth, the life, the death and the resurrection.
“Which was the biggest part? Which, brethren? Speak out!” he urged
them, for the congregation was hushed with interest.

“De resurrection!” Uncle Bill shouted.

“De life!” somebody else chimed.

“No, son!” Maum Hannah stood up. “No! De birthin’ was. If his mammy
didn’ birth em Jedus couldn’ live or either die. No, suh! De birthin’
was de biggest part.”

But the preacher wasn’t listening. He blared out his answer to his own
question:

“The resurrection of Jesus took the sting out of death! Brethren!
Sisters! The resurrection brought angels to the tomb! The resurrection
showed Heaven in the sky!”

Breeze’s head ached as the sermon went on. His neck hurt. His feet went
to sleep.

When it was at last ended, sinners were invited to come up to the
mourner’s bench and kneel for prayer, the preacher plead with them
not to wait and be damned, but to come up and promise God they’d seek
forgiveness for their sins until He gave them some sign by which they’d
know they were saved. A multitude thronged forward and fell on their
knees, sobbing and calling on Jesus for mercy.

The preacher begged God to look down. To come near and bring His holy
spirit to save these souls. Breeze’s heart beat hammer strokes against
his breast. He wanted to be saved too. He wanted to go kneel with the
rest of the sinners. The fear of Hell, and timidity, combined, shook
his knees, and broke him out in a cold sweat. All his blood felt
frozen, leaking through his skin as he staggered forward and knelt
down, and shut his eyes, and tried his best to pray.

A rough hand gripped his shoulder, and Big Sue whispered harshly in his
ear, “Is you gone plum crazy, Breeze? Git up an’ go on back an’ set
down. Don’t you jerk ’way from me! You ain’ got no business seekin’! If
you miss an’ find peace an’ git religion you couldn’ bat ball on Sunday
wid li’l’ young Cap’n when he come! Not if you’s a Christian! Git up!
You don’ know nothin’ ’bout prayin!”

Breeze got up sheepishly and went to his seat, but he thought bitterly;
Big Sue didn’t care if he burned in Hell. Many a time she had told
him how those wicked, hell-bent buckras spent Sundays in sin. Riding
horses. Singing reels. Dancing and frolicking on God’s day. Young Cap’n
played ball, baseball, under the trees, on the holy Sabbath, just as
if it were the middle of the week. Big Sue said God didn’t like people
to even pick a flower on Sunday. And now she wanted him to have sin
right along with those brazen white people. She didn’t care how much he
burned in Hell. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. When he got bigger he
was going to pray, no matter what Big Sue said.

The prayer for the sinners was done, and the sinners went to their
seats. The deacons passed the Lord’s Supper; small squares of bread
piled up on a plate, and water glasses full of blackberry wine. Each
member took a crumb and a sip, no more.

Maum Hannah’s fingers shook and fumbled over the bread and a tiny crumb
fell off the plate in her lap. A bit of Jesus’ own body. Broken for
the sins of men. As soon as Maum Hannah stood up, it would fall on the
floor and be trampled under foot. Why not get it and eat it? Nobody’d
know.

Breeze watched it. Once it seemed to move toward him, to creep nearer
to his fingers. The congregation was singing. Their voices rose, some
high, some low, Maum Hannah’s and Uncle Bill’s with the rest.

Nobody was looking. Why not take that crumb and taste it?

Breeze’s unsteady, frightened fingers stole sidewise, following the
apron’s folds until they got in reach of the bit of bread. They closed
over it and eased back to safety, then they slowly, slyly thrust it
into Breeze’s mouth.

It fell on his tongue which kept still, trying to get its flavor. But
it was small. Too small. It melted quickly and slipped down his throat
before Breeze could stop it. A bit of Jesus’ own precious body. The
preacher said it was that. Poor Jesus. Sold by His friend to bad people
who killed Him, hung Him on a cross. He let them do it. He wanted to
show God how sorry He was to see poor sinners going down to Hell.
Hopping. Burning. Weeping. Gnashing their teeth for ever and ever.
Jesus was a good man to do that. Breeze’s heart was rapt with pity. His
body quivered. Tears ran down his cheeks in floods. God must have a a
hard heart to let Jesus suffer so bad.

  “Nee-ro my Gawd, to thee--
  Nee-ro to thee----”

the congregation sang. Old Louder raised up his head and bayed, like
his heart ached too. Nobody noticed him but Maum Hannah who leaned and
patted his head. “Hush, Louder. Keep quiet. Pray easy, son. Easy.”

The service was finally over, the benediction said, people crowded the
aisles, poured out through the wide-open doors, slowly, quietly, until
the church was empty and its yard full.

An empty hogshead, got from the store, was half filled with water from
the spring at the picnic grounds. Lemons were cut and squeezed and
added. A great cloth bag full of sugar was poured in. A great block
of ice was stripped out of its sack and washed clean of sawdust, and
dumped into the barrel with the lemons and sugar and water.

Maum Hannah disapproved again, and some of the old people sided with
her. She said ice wasn’t a healthy thing. But the fine stylish town
preacher said she was mistaken. Once, a long time ago, people used to
think ice was not healthy, but everybody knows better now. In town
people never drink lemonade without ice. Never.

Uncle Bill was worried because the ice’s coldness seemed to soak up
the sugar. The lemonade didn’t taste at all right. There was no more
sugar to put in unless they sent all the way to the store, and this was
Sunday. It would be a sin to buy sugar on Sunday.

The men on the lemonade committee were arguing about what to do, when
the Reverend, who had been walking around through the crowd shaking
hands with the people and patting the children’s heads, came up with
Leah, who was smiling and talking and putting on many fine airs. The
preacher said he was sure, Leah, Mrs. Locust, knew all about lemonade.
She could tell exactly if they’d have to send for more sugar or not.
Just give her a taste. She’d decide for them.

Zeda laughed out. Big Sue muttered something, but both stood aside to
make room for Leah, who giggled happily, and stepped up to the barrel.

The Reverend took up the long clean hickory paddle Uncle Bill had used
to mix it, and leaning over, gave it a vigorous stirring. He must have
stirred too hard, for the cold air rose up out of the barrel into
Leah’s nose, and before she had time even to turn her head, she gave
one loud sneeze and all her white teeth flew out of her mouth right
into the barrel of lemonade.

It was a bad time. Leah said she’d have to have her teeth back right
now. But they were mixed up with all those hundreds of lemon skins
and that big block of ice. Every man on the committee took a hand at
stirring for them, but the teeth rose up and grinned, then hid deep in
the bottom of the lemonade before anybody could snatch them out. The
preacher said pour the whole hogshead of lemonade out on the ground!
The idea! Breeze felt relieved when the committee was firm. Leah would
have to wait. The lemonade would soon be low in the barrel. The people
were thirsty. They’d drink it up in a hurry. Leah didn’t argue but
went off one side and began sniffling and crying with her mouth hidden
behind her pocket handkerchief. Big Sue chuckled out loud. Uncle Bill
stepped forward with a long-handled dipper and filling it brimming
full handed it to the Reverend, with a low bow, “Have de first drink,
Reverend. I know you’ throat’s dry after all de preachin’ an’ prayin’
you done to-day! Gawd bless you, suh!”

The Reverend fell back a step, and shook his head and coughed behind
his hand.

“If you’ll excuse me----” He stammered it, then coughed again, and
walked over to where Big Sue stood with a broad smile on her face.

But April suddenly appeared.

“What’s all dis?” he asked, looking straight at the Reverend, with a
glitter in his eyes.

“Your wife--ah--Mistress Locust--has--ah--met with a little
accident----”

“Didn’ Uncle Bill hand you a dipper o’ lemonade?”

“Why, yes, Brother Locust.”

“How come you didn’ drink em? Don’ you be brotherin’ me, either.”

“Why--ah, I’m really not thirsty, Mr. Locust.”

“You ain’ thirsty, eh?”

“Why, ah, no.”

April’s Sunday clothes made him look even taller than usual. His hair
was newly cut, and his face shaved clean, except for a small mustache.
He made a fine-looking, powerful figure to Breeze’s wide-stretched eyes.

His mouth smiled as he spoke to the preacher, but his words snarled.
It was plain that he was furiously angry. Breeze felt as if he’d choke
with excitement. The breath was squeezed out of his body as the crowd
pushed closer, and his bare feet were trod on until he felt his toes
were mashed too flat ever to walk again.

The stillness was broken only by Leah’s sniveling, and April’s hurried
breathing.

Uncle Bill put up a warning hand when April slowly took off his hat.
“Keep you’ hat on, April. Don’t you dare to butt dis servant of Gawd!
You’ll git struck dead, sho’ as you do!”

April smiled knowingly, then pulled his hat down tight on his head.

“I doubt if Gawd would knock me ’bout dat, but I don’ b’lieve I want to
dirty my skull on such a jackass, not no mo’. I butt him good de last
time we met. E ain’ fo’got.”

“Great Gawd! April, shut you’ mouth!”

“Did you cuss me for a jackass?” the preacher shrieked and darted
furiously at April.

Women screamed out. Children wailed. Men mumbled protests. But before
anybody suspected his intention April leaped forward and seized the
preacher’s head with two powerful hands, held it like a vise, and bit
a neat round mouthful out of the cheek next to him.

Making a horribly ugly face he spat out the morsel of flesh. Old
Louder, Uncle Bill’s faithful hound, caught it and swallowed it down.

A fearful outcry arose. Men groaned. Women shrieked and yelled. Some
went off into trances. The wounded preacher toppled, fell over, limp as
a rag, his high white collar reddening as it swallowed the blood that
streamed out of the hole in his face. Poor man. His face would rot off
now. Poison would swell it up, bloat it, then peel it off.

Uncle Bill scolded Louder terribly and frailed him with a stick until
the poor dog cried out pitifully. Breeze felt sick and faint enough
to die. His hair stood on end. His flesh shook cold on his bones. God
would strike April sure as the world.

The people rushed forward, some calling for water, some threatening
April. Everybody shouted until the noise and confusion waxed loud and
frightful.

Leah and Big Sue vied with each other in stormy torrents of words and
weeping.

April’s fury spent itself with the bite. His strained muscles unbraced,
unbuckled, he cleared his throat and spat. “Dat meat taste too
sickenin’,” he grumbled. Then squaring his shoulders he walked away.
Cool. Master of himself. Alone.




XV

FIELD WORK


All the cotton had been picked except scraps in the tip-top of the
stalks. When these were gathered, the last chance for the women to make
a little money would be over until early next spring when the stables
were cleaned out and the black manure put in piles for them to scatter
over the fields.

The sultry day was saturated with heat. The swollen sun shone white
through a fog that brought the sky low over the cotton field. The
cotton pickers swarmed thick, sweat poured off faces and hands and
feet. Slowly, steadily they moved, up and down the long rows of
tall rank stalks, carefully picking every wisp of staple out of the
wide-open brown burrs.

Everybody was barefooted, most of the boys and men wearing only shirts
and overalls, and the women had their skirts tied up almost to their
knees.

Not the smallest gust of wind stirred the steamy air. Sweat blackened
sleeves and shirts and dresses, yet the talk stayed bright and chatty.

Breeze had picked all morning except for one little while when he
stopped to eat a piece of cold corn-pone and drink a few swallows out
of his bottle of sweetened water. He wanted to pick a good weight, but
the cotton was light and sparse. April was paying a whole cent a pound
instead of the half a cent he paid when the cotton was green and heavy.

If Big Sue would pick faster instead of talking so much, together they
ought to get a hundred pounds. Maybe even a hundred and twenty-five.

Side by side they trudged along, but too often Big Sue stopped and
straightened up her bent shoulders and stretched her arms for a rest.
Leaning over so long had her all but in a cramp. Yet when Breeze
stopped to eat she scolded him. This was no time for lingering. Every
pound picked meant a cent.

“Wha’ de news f’om Joy?” Leah called across the rows.

“Joy wa’n’t so well when I heared last.”

“Wa’n’t Joy kinder sickly all last summer?”

Big Sue admitted it grumly.

“I hear-say Joy have changed e boardin’ place since e went back to
school.”

Big Sue took her time to answer. After picking several stalks clean she
said Joy had changed, fo’ true. She was staying right on the campus
now. Right with the teachers and the professors and all the high-up
people.

Leah spat on the ground. “Lawd, Joy must be know ev’yt’ing by now, long
as e’s been off at school. How much years? Five or six?”

“Joy do know a lot, but ’e ain’ been off but four years. You know it
too, Leah.”

“Joy’s a stylish gal, Big Sue. Even if e is puny.” Zeda was plainly
siding against Leah.

“Joy ought to look stylish, much money as I spent on em. When e went
back to school dis fall, Joy’s trunk looked fine as a white lady’s
trunk. Not a outin’ gown in em! Not a outin’ petticoat! Even to de
shimmys, Joy had ev’yt’ing made out o’ pink and blue and yellow crêpe.
Joy is a fine seamster, if I do say it myse’f. Joy’s clothes is fine as
any store-bought clothes.”

“Wha’s Joy gwine do when e finish college?” Leah asked presently.

Big Sue was uncertain. Joy was working to get a depluma. When she
got that she could be anything she liked. Joy was sickly last summer
because she had so much learning stirring around in her head. Leah
laughed--innocently. There was no need to worry, as long as a girl was
sickly from things stirring in her head.

“Wha you mean by dat, Leah?” Big Sue stopped short and her narrowed
eyes gazed fixedly at Leah who went on picking.

“I ain’ say nothin’ to vex you, Big Sue! You’s too touchous! Joy ain’
gold neither silver.”

“You keep Joy’s name out you’ mouth, Leah!” Big Sue snapped the words
out in a stinging tone that cut through the heat.

Zeda stood still and gave a wide-mouthed yawn and a lazy laugh. “Do
hush you’ wranglin’. When it’s hot like dis, I can’ stan’ to hear
nobody tryin’ to start a brawl. You womens ain’ chillen! Joy’s a nice
gal. Fo’ Gawd’s sake, le’ em ’lone!”

She looked up at the sun hanging low in a whitish glow, then down at
the short shadows and the heat wilted leaves. Not a bird chirped. Not a
locust or grasshopper spoke.

“I bet Joy’ll marry some o’ dem fine professors or either preachers,”
Bina drawled.

“Joy might, fo’ true,” Big Sue bragged.

Zeda said nothing, but her eyes darted a sharp look at Big Sue, then
turned toward the rice-fields where the river crept up without a murmur
or a shimmer of light on its surface.

Breeze picked on and on long after his back was tired and his fingers
sore from the sharp points of the stiff burrs. The crocus sheets
spread out along the road at the side of the field were piled higher
and higher with cotton which was heaped up, packed down, running over.
The last picking yielded more than anybody expected.

Thank God, the sun was setting at last. Wagons were rattling in the
distance, coming to haul the cotton to the big gin-house! This year’s
crop was done.




XVI

PLOWING


Breeze was to do his first plowing, but instead of being up and dressed
and ready to go to the fields when dawn first streaked the sky he lay
sobbing underneath the clean bright quilts, which were all rumpled up
over his bed, the big, high, soft feather-bed in the shed-room where
Big Sue’s Lijah used to sleep.

He was wretched and lonely and sore from head to heels. The feather-bed
hurt wherever it pressed its fat cushiony sides against his naked body,
although that feather-bed was made out of the finest down of wild ducks
and geese. Big Sue liked to tell how she took years to save so many,
for she wanted her Lijah to have the finest feather-bed on the whole
plantation. Whenever the hunters brought wild fowls to the kitchen for
her to roast in the big oven there, she carefully picked the softest
pinless feathers off the breasts, and put them in a bag and kept them
until she finally had enough for Lijah’s bed. Lijah liked a soft bed.
He was like her.

Joy was different. A feather-bed made Joy hot and unrestful, and she
liked to sleep on a mattress filled with cotton tacked tight to keep it
firm and hard and in place. Joy and Lijah were different altogether.
But Lijah left his feather-bed soon after it was made, and went away
to a far country. Big Sue was not sure whether the country was named
“Fluridy” or “Kintucky.” Sometimes she called it “Kintucky-Fluridy.”

The fine softness of Lijah’s bed meant little to Breeze, for he was
homesick and unhappy. He’d a lot rather go back to his mother’s cabin,
on Sandy Island, and sleep on a pallet made out of a ragged quilt
spread on the splintery hard floor, than to stay here with Big Sue and
sleep in this nest of down feathers that had once warmed and comforted
other children with bill and wings and webbed feet.

He turned and twisted and heaved with mute sobs. He felt all alone in
the world. He had learned not to cry out loud. Big Sue had taught him
that people with manners cry low and easy. Manly boys never cry at all.
If Big Sue would only take time to beat him right away when he did
wrong, he could somehow bear the pain better, but to be waked up before
daylight, and stripped naked, and made to stand still under the cuts of
a strap, or a switch, that’s hard.

When she waddled home at night, after the day’s work and pleasure were
done, she was too weary to do anything but drop down in a chair and
rest. Breeze had to undo the wide-strung-up shoes and take them off her
fat feet, and fill up her pipe and light it. She’d smoke a little while
and go to bed, worn-out, too tired to whip Breeze, no matter how much
he needed a licking. She always waited until next morning, when she
woke up fresh and strong, ready to raise Breeze and teach him manners.
Her usual morning greeting was, “Git up, Breeze. Git up and strip. I
want to git down to you’ rind,” his rind meaning his naked skin.

She declared that licking Breeze hurt her as much as it hurt him. She
hated to have to do it, but Breeze was a poor, ignorant, no-manners
boy. She had to beat him to do her duty by him.

A long, thin, black leather strap stayed up on the mantel-shelf, ready
to give lickings. It had a black-snake’s hiss, and a crack as sharp
as a pistol-shot. But this morning Big Sue couldn’t lay her hands on
it, so she broke a switch off the plum tree growing beside the cabin’s
front door. There were all kinds of switches outside. Big Sue could
easily have got a smoother, better one, but she was in a hurry and the
plum switch was in easy reach of her hand.

In the weak morning light she didn’t see that thorns stayed on it when
she pulled off its limbs. Those thorns had sharp teeth, and Big Sue
drove them deep into Breeze’s back and thighs. Now as he stroked his
hurts with both hands he felt blood warm and wet on them.

Breeze’s mother had never talked to him about manners. Big Sue said
she didn’t know them. At Blue Brook plantation, manners are the
most important things in the world, but they stand between you and
everything you want to do. Nobody ever eats the first sweet black
walnuts that fall on the ground, for eating green walnuts makes lice in
your head, and it is bad-mannered to be lousy.

To play with the funny hop-toadies, whose little black hands look just
like a tiny baby’s thumbs and all, makes warts come on your hands, and
it’s bad-mannered to have warts.

If you drink goat’s milk, although it is sweeter than cow’s milk,
you’ll hate water, just like goats hate it. You won’t want to wash. And
it’s bad-mannered not to like soap and water.

If your feet get cold as ice and you can’t get them warm any other way,
you must not put them on the warm black pots on the hearth, because the
soot on the pots will stick to your feet, and it’s bad-mannered to have
sooty feet.

To put a finger in your mouth is bad-mannered. Everything is
bad-mannered!

Breeze’s reflections and sobs were checked by a call from Big Sue to
get up! To make haste too! He hopped up and pulled on his clothes, and
taking a piece of cold bread in his hand, hurried to the barnyard.
Daylight had already spread through the sky, and was creeping over the
earth. The fall day smelled like spring. One old apple tree in the
orchard had been fooled into blooming by the drowsy warmth. Poor silly
thing!

The creek babbled low as the tide swelled it high up near the bank, and
a cow, followed by her new-born calf, ventured in knee-deep, and sucked
up the water noisily. As she lifted her head to look at Breeze, drops
falling from her mouth were suddenly shot through with a streak of
light. The sun was up! He was late! Lord, he must run! Every flower had
its face turned eastward to meet the day. They knew it had come.

Cocks began a fresh crowing. Jay-birds chahn-chahned. Partridges
whistled. A mocking-bird trilled. Tiny brown birds fluttered through
the thickets like dead leaves come back to life. Wagon wheels rumbled
on a road out of sight, the pop of a whip cracked out. Everything was
astir, ready for the day’s work.

In the barnyard a lively confusion of men and beasts made a thick din
that filled Breeze’s heart with excitement. To-day he would begin doing
a man’s work. On Saturday he’d get his pay, like Sherry and all the
other farm-hands.

He could hear the men hailing one another. The mules neighed.
Trace-chains tinkled between shouts of “Whoa” and “Gee” and “Haw” and
“Git up.” On the near side of the barnyard fence a long-legged funny
mule colt went staggering behind old Sally, Uncle Bill’s old bay mare.
When he lagged she whinnied to him to come on.

A litter of pigs huddled around a lean black sow wallowing comfortably
in a filthy mud-hole. They squealed to her to lie still and let them
feed, but she grunted lazily, and rolled still deeper in the mire. Near
by an old dominecker hen clucked sharply to her biddies and scratched
eagerly for worms in the rich black earth. She’d better mind. That old
sow would eat her up, feathers and all, and swallow the biddies down
like raw oysters.

The fine fall day felt like spring. Men and mules stepped briskly, glad
to go to work.

For the first time since the boll-weevils came and pestered the cotton,
the crop had been abundant, and now the field must be cleared of old
stalks for the winter.

The summer’s dry weather had been a big help. No rain came to wash the
poison off. Sherry ran the poison machine over the fields at night when
the cotton was wet with dew and the thirsty weevils drank poisoned
dew and died. It was a scary thing to see these great white clouds of
poison dust rising and settling to kill. The people scarcely dared to
look.

Now, every lock of cotton was picked, and the plows were to turn the
stalks under so deep in the earth the boll-weevils would not have
as much as one lone cotton leaf to eat during the winter. April was
planning already to make such a big crop next year, the gins would have
to run day and night when fall came, to get the cotton packed into
bales by Christmas! Money would be plentiful one more time!

A score of men were plowing, most of them tall strong fellows, straight
and slender as tree-trunks. Their ease and skill made Breeze almost
despair, for plowing was a hard job to him. But Sherry was chaffing
them, calling them scary ladies who stayed at home and slept with the
women and children while he and April fought boll-weevils all night
long.

He wouldn’t hold it against them if they’d work well in the daytime
and plow the crop fast and keep the ground-crust broken and the grass
killed. He and April could attend to the weevils next summer, all by
themselves. With that big poison machine and three mules, he could
poison forty acres a night. Instead of resenting what Sherry said, the
men laughed good-naturedly and declared they were satisfied to leave
the boll-weevils to Sherry and April. Let the devils fight the devils.

Leah’s Brudge was there, right in among the men. He plowed last year
and showed he felt important. At first he scarcely noticed Breeze who
struggled and strove to hold his unruly plow steady and straight like
Sherry’s.

Each man had his own mule, taught to his ways. Sherry’s mule, Clara,
was a beauty. Sleek and trim and spry, she understood every word Sherry
spoke. Brudge had Cleveland, an old brown mule with sprung fore-knees,
but with a steady gait and a nice coat of hair. Breeze had old Cæsar,
a shaggy, logy beast, mouse-colored, except where bald spots marked
his hide black. One blind eye was like a hard-boiled egg and the other
had an uncertain peep, but Sherry said Cæsar had sense like a man. All
Breeze needed to do was hold the lines and the plow handles together
and walk straight behind. Cæsar would do the rest. Breeze wished he
might have had a handsomer beast, but even old Cæsar made his heart
thrill.

The earth had been dried out by the warm autumn sunshine and it sent
up clouds of dust as the sharp steel of the plows cut it deep, and
long rows of rank stalks were uprooted and turned under and carefully
covered with dark smooth soil.

April stood alone, watching the men and mules walking sturdily across
the field, then back. When they neared him, their talking hushed except
for words spoken to the mules.

Overhead a blue sky looked down; the breath of the stirred earth,
scented strong with life, rose and brimmed up, filling the air.

When the plowmen reached the far side of the field again, turning
slowly they moved along, side by side, talking and laughing. Their gay
racket hushed in a hurry when April’s voice floated to them from where
he stood, a tall speck by the trees in the distance. Clear and sharp
his words fell through the sunshine.

“Hey dere! Yunnuh quit so much talkin’ and laughin’. I want all dem
cotton stalks covered up deep!”

Every man of them stepped a little slower, every plowstock was gripped
with a tighter hold after the correction. Merry chatter changed to
stern shouts that chided the patient mules. “Hey, mule!”, “Watch you
doin’s!”, “Gee!”, “Haw!”, “Come up!” The mules pulled harder and the
crunching of the earth as the plows cut deeper took the place of
laughter and gay bantering words.

The day moved on, warm and drowsy, with yellow sunshine still hot
enough to cast black shadows, and draw sweat out of both men and
beasts. April stood watching, hour after hour, while the swarm of mules
and men trudged back and forth from the water’s edge to the woods and
then back again, never stopping for even a breathing spell. The sun
rode high in the sky. Shadows shortened. Breeze longed for the noon
hour, time to stop and eat and drink and rest.

Once or twice as Brudge passed Breeze and Cæsar, he looked at the old
mule and giggled. Then he called out, “Breeze is plowin’ a spring
puppy!” When he had gone a little way past he looked back and said
something that made the plow-hands laugh out. But Sherry stopped Clara
short in her tracks.

“You better shut you’ mouth, Brudge!” he warned. “You gits too big for
your breeches sometimes. Breeze can’ lick you, but I kin an’ I will.”

Breeze couldn’t hear Brudge’s answer, but he caught up in time to hear
the end of Brudge’s outburst of abuse of Sherry. The other men went on
plowing, except one of the older ones, who stopped to shame Brudge for
the vile words he had used.

“What de matter ail yunnuh?” April called.

Nobody answered, so he started walking leisurely toward them.

Sherry stuck his plow’s point deep in the earth, dropped his plow lines
on the ground, then undid the trace-chains and hung them up on Clara’s
collar.

Brudge stood looking at him, then back at April. “I ain’ botherin’ you,
Sherry. You better left me ’lone,” he whined.

If Sherry heard him he gave no sign, but stepped lightly over the
furrows toward Brudge, who gave an outcry and started to run. Sherry’s
long arm reached out and caught him, drew him up close, held him fast,
while Sherry’s words fell fast and hard as fire-heated rocks.

“I ain’ gwine butt you fo’ what you called me. No. I’m gwine crack you’
skull for dat what you call my mammy.” Sherry tilted his head back, and
Brudge gave a shrill yell.

“Don’ butt me, Sherry!” The words were scarcely out when Sherry’s
slender powerful body swayed lightly forward from the hips, and his
forehead crashed down right on Brudge’s skull.

For a second or two after the terrible blow fell home, Brudge made no
sound. Sherry turned him loose, and he staggered a few paces and fell,
screaming at the top of his lungs. Sherry had killed him! His head was
broken to pieces. Prone on the soft plowed ground Brudge twisted and
writhed, like a fish out of water.

Sherry paid no attention to him at all, but went back to Clara, hitched
the trace-chains, took up the rope lines, and clicked his tongue. “Git
up, Clara!” he said quietly, and the mule stepped off.

To Breeze, April was the very greatest man on earth, but all of a
sudden Sherry seemed to grow. His limbs became taller, straighter, his
shoulders broader, his supple waist slenderer. His eyes were terrible
when they flashed at Brudge, ashine with furious light, and his strong
white teeth ground together as if they could bite Brudge’s body in two.

April was coming toward them. A little faster now. What would he say
when he got there? The plow-hands stopped and waited. One shamed Brudge
for his lack of manners, then turned his head away and spat on the
ground with disgust.

April’s long legs strode leisurely across the soft new furrows, his
stout hickory stick stepping lightly beside him. When his eyes looked
at Brudge there on the ground, holding his head in both hands, rolling
up his body and rocking it back and forth, then falling on the ground
again, howling with pain and shame and anger, April’s lips curled up
from his big yellow teeth in a scornful smile.

“What kind o’ plow-hand is you, Brudge? Is dat de way you does a man’s
work?”

“Sherry butt me!--E broke my skull!--I got a bad headache!”

“Do shut you’ mouth, an’ git up off de ground! Unhitch you’ mule an’ go
on home to Leah. Baby!”

Brudge got up slowly, and moaning low but steadily did what he was
told. With April, he was very humble. His trembling fingers fumbled at
the lines and trace-chains, but he kept up a furious sobbing all the
time he worked at knots and links.

“Help him, Breeze!” April’s order cracked out like the snap of a whip.

Breeze hurried forward obediently, not that April had ever mistreated
him, or even scolded him, but because he knew that April ruled
everybody and everything on the plantation with a heavy hand. People,
beasts, even plants and insects, had to bend to his stubborn will, or
suffer.

“Hey, Sherry!” April called. “Come dis way! Left Clara whe’ e is! Git a
move on you, too!”

April was rarely unjust, and sometimes he was almost gentle, but now
his voice stung the air. Sherry had better not vex him further, or
there’d be trouble.

Although Sherry walked without hurry, he was out of breath when he
reached April. His hands shook a little as men do when a chill is about
to seize them.

“How come you butt Brudge?” April asked him coldly.

“You ought to be glad I butt em. Brudge is a no-manners scoundrel.”

“If he done wrong, whyn’ you tell me?”

“I ain’ no news carrier.”

April’s eyes glittered as he shifted his hickory stick from one hand to
the other.

“You ain’ Brudge’s daddy, you know?”

“No.” And Sherry smiled. “I ain’ nobody’s daddy, not yet.”

“Wha’ you mean by dat?” April’s voice rose, and in a sudden burst of
anger he seized Sherry by the shoulder. “You can’ sass me, Sherry!
You know it too! If you wanted to butt somebody, whyn’ you come try
my head, instead o’ mashin’ up a li’l’ half-grown boy like Brudge? I
got a mind to make mush out o’ you’ brains right now. You ever was a’
impudent black devil!”

Sherry’s eyes gleamed, his fists clenched, and he drew closer to April.
“I didn’ had no cause to butt you, dat’s why! But I just as soon butt
you as anybody else.”

April smiled. “I hate to kill you, Sherry. You’s a good plow-hand, an’
I need you.”

Sherry’s answer didn’t lag one iota, and he met April’s eyes with a
steadfast look. “Come try me! Just stick you’ neck out! One time! Just
one time! You t’ink you’s de onliest man got a skull on dis whole
plantation. I got a bone in my head, too. Come try em! I’ll butt you’
brains out same as if you wasn’ my daddy!” Sherry’s eyes glared, his
head crouched between his shoulders, he came forward with a rush. But
April jerked him clear up off his feet, and his big head came down on
Sherry’s forehead with a butt that brought the blood streaming from
both men’s nostrils.

Sherry staggered back a step, then leaped forward, but April’s powerful
outstretched arms hurled him toward the plow-hands, who caught him and
held him fast, for April warned them.

“Yunnuh hold dat boy. If e comes back at me I’ll kill em. An’ we ain’
got time to be diggin’ a grave, not till de cotton’s all plowed under.”

“You mens lemme go, I tell you! I ain’ scared o’ April. Lemme go!”

“Yunnuh ain’ to fight! Great Gawd! Yunnuh’d kill one anudder. You can’
git loose, Sherry. No, suh!”

Sherry struggled fruitlessly. Then he stood still. April wiped his nose
on his shirt-sleeve, picked his ragged hat up off the ground, set it
straight on his head, then quietly buttoned up the neck of his shirt,
for a sudden gust of wind came up cool from the rice-fields.

Casting his eyes up at the sky where a flock of small ragged clouds
hung high and white, he said calmly, “Yunnuh better git back to
plowin’. It’s gwine rain in a few days an’ we must git dis big field
finished befo’ den.”

He tried to speak coolly. Quietly. To hold up his head triumphantly.
But his shoulders had a dejected droop, as he turned his back and went
toward the woods.

After a few steps, he turned around, “Sherry, you an’ me can’ live
on de same place. Not no mo’. I’ll kill you sho’ as we try it. For a
little I’d kill you now. You git on off. I don’ care whe’ you go, just
so I don’ see you, not no mo’! Git outen de field! Right now, too.”

Breeze felt hot, then cold. The blood rose in his throat and choked
him. If he could only help Sherry kill April! But he stood shaking,
shivering, with lips twitching, until April asked, “What is you cryin’
about?” And Breeze stammered weakly, in a thin reedy voice, “I ain’
cryin’, suh.” The glare April gave him made him dizzy like a blow
between his eyes.

“Den git at you’ work! Don’ be wastin’ good time on a mawnin’ like dis!”

Sherry held up his head and fastened his look on April, but the tears
that ran down his cheeks belied his hard reckless smile. In a voice
broken by hate and fury he cried out:

“You stinkin’ ugly devil---- Quit scarin’ dat li’l’ boy! You’s got a
coward-heart even if you’ head is too tough fo’ Hell! I hope Gawd’ll
rot all two o’ you feets off! I hope E will----” Sherry stretched out a
fist and shook it helplessly, then broke into sobs.

“Hush, Sherry! You better left April alone now. You done said enough,”
warned one of the men, but April strode away. If he heard Sherry’s
cursing he made no sign of it. And Sherry walked across the field to
Clara, who stood, still hitched to the plow, waiting for him to come
back. He patted her nose. “Good ol’ Clara. I’m gwine. Breeze’ll take
you to de barnyard, won’t you, Breeze?”

Breeze tried to answer a loud “Yes, Sherry!” but a dumb sob shook his
words.

“Good-by, mens!”

“Good-by, Sherry!”

That was all. Sherry walked away toward the Quarters. As Breeze watched
him go the sunshiny noon grew dim. The plows went on cutting down
stalks, burying them, but the men were silent as death. Birds kept
singing in the forest trees, but their notes had a doleful sorrowful
sound. The day had paled. The rice-fields meeting the sky yonder, so
far away, were hazy and sad. The wind itself wept through the trees.
A flock of crows passed overhead, croaking out lonesome words to one
another.

The field lay dark. Dismal. Its rich earth changed to dry barren land.
The men who plowed it walked in a distressful silence.

Sherry was gone. Zeda’s Sherry. The most promising young man on the
whole plantation. April’s big-doings bullying had run him off. April
would pay for it. He’d poison cotton by himself next summer. He could
make the men do almost anything else, but he’d never get them to poison
boll-weevils. They knew better than to fight Providence. April wasn’t
God. No.

From the Quarters a scream rose and swelled until its long, weird,
melancholy note went into a death-cry! Zeda’s grieving! Breeze had to
clench his teeth to keep from bursting out crying himself. Suppose
April got mad with him some time, and butted him? What would he do? He
couldn’t do anything but stand still and take it and die.

He went on plowing, side by side with the rest in the painful silence
that hung on stubbornly. The soft flat-footed pattering of the men’s
bare feet, the dead flat thudding of mule steps, the sullen waving of
the branches in the wind, the low murmuring of the water, all fell
together into a dull batch of doleful sound.

Flocks of field larks rose up and cried out plaintively as their
feeding-ground was turned under. Old Louder chased them in a slow trot,
sniffed at them, then at some smell in the earth. Coming up to Breeze,
he rubbed against his legs and whined. Breeze gave him nothing in
return, only a low word or two, and a furtive pat on the head, so he
trotted off to one side, and sat on his haunches, watching the plowmen
with sorrowful eyes. He missed Sherry too.

When the bell rang for noon, Breeze was near the rice-fields side.
His mule stopped short and seized a mouthful of grass, as he gazed
toward Sandy Island. It was far away to-day. The haze had every sign
of it hidden. A broad sheet of water sparkled and glittered, as bright
reflections of white clouds floated softly, silently on its shining
surface. All the channels were buried. What was his mother doing now?
And Sis? He swallowed a sob and turned the mule’s head toward home, and
saw Big Sue waddling across the field. She didn’t follow any path, but
came on straight toward him, over the soft plowed earth. Why was she
coming to the field at noon? He had his breakfast long ago, and he
always went home for dinner. Maybe she wanted to talk about Sherry. She
stopped and said a few words to April but she came on to Breeze.

She gave Breeze a hand-wave as she got nearer, but her face was solemn,
without any show of a smile. “April says you kin come straight on home,
Breeze. Somebody else’ll take de mules to de lot.”

Giving his shoulder a gentle pat, she drew Breeze up to her with a
little hug. She didn’t say a word, and her eyes looked wet.

April was waiting at the path, and he walked on home beside them. Tall,
solid as a tree, rugged, tough-sinewed, double-jointed, yet the cruel
look in his deep-sunk eyes that blazed out when they looked at Sherry,
had given way to something else. They glowed bright as he turned back
and looked across the rice-fields toward Sandy Island, and said gently:

“Sandy Island is way back behind de clouds to-day.” His anger with
Sherry had passed.

His voice sounded unsteady, his features were haggard and ashy.

Big Sue looked at him, then at Breeze. “You break de news to Breeze,
April. I ain’ got de heart.”

April shook his head. “Me neither.”

Big Sue’s small eyes blinked. “Son,” she hesitated strangely, and laid
a hot fat hand gently on his shoulder, “you t’ink you got a mammy,
enty?”

Of course Breeze thought so. He was so sure of it. What on earth was
Big Sue aiming at?

“No, son.” She shook her head slowly. “You ain’ got none. You’ mammy
went out on de tide befo’ day dis mawnin’.”

What did Big Sue mean? Breeze felt confused. Where had his mother gone
on that before-day-tide? He didn’t understand what Big Sue was talking
about.

Marsh-hens cackled gaily out in the rice-fields. A crane croaked. A
fish-hawk circled high, then halted to poise himself for a swoop.

Taking Breeze by the hand Big Sue led him on through the greenish shade
cast by the live-oaks over the road and the cabin’s yard. Her bright
cold eyes peeped out sidewise at him now and then. She was trying to be
kind. Once she said, “I’se gwine to be you’ mammy now, since you’ own
mammy’s dead and gone.”

Breeze felt as if he was in a dream, walking in his sleep. His legs
were numb and heavy.

“Hurry up, son! You must walk faster. We got to dress an’ go to de
buryin’, cross de river in a boat. April’ll let Sherry take we across
de river in de boat, enty, April?”

“No, not Sherry. Somebody else’ll take you. Sherry’s done gone off. To
stay.”

“Wha’ dat you say, April? Sherry’s gone?”

“I run em off de place a while ago.”

“Great Gawd! What is dis! April, don’t you know Zeda’s gwine kill you?
Man! I’m glad I ain’t you. You might be strong, but you ain’ strong as
dat conjure Zeda’s gwine put on you.”

Louder had followed them from the field, and now sat on his hind
quarters, listening, watching, snapping at a fly now and then. As a
squirrel ran down the trunk of a tree and across the yard, he jumped up
and ran a few paces, then came back and sat down again, as though he
had done his duty.

“Come on in de house an’ dress, Breeze. I don’ believe you got it
straight in you’ head yet. You’ ma is dead, son! Dead! De people is
gwine put em in a grave soon as dis same sun goes down.”

Breeze looked up at each of the grown people. He felt hurt, as if his
mother had abandoned him just when he wanted to see her most, to go
back home to her. Sherry was gone away. She was dead. Nobody was left,
but Uncle Bill. Leaning toward Big Sue he hid his face in the folds of
her skirt and wept.

“Don’ cry, son,” she soothed him. “Come on an’ eat some dinner. You got
to go wid me to de buryin’. Enty, April?”

She led him inside and made him sit in a chair beside April, while she
fried links of sausage to eat with the bread and cups full of sweetened
water. The sausage had a savory smell, and Breeze bit into it and
chewed it a long time, but he could scarcely swallow it for the choking
lump in his throat. His mother was dead. She was no longer yonder at
Sandy Island with Sis and the other children. She had flown up into the
sky, where Heaven was, and Jesus and all the angels. April washed his
food down with great swallows of water. How dumb he was.

“Lawd!” Big Sue grunted as she came out of the shed-room with her
Sunday dress on her arm. “Ain’ it awful to die in sin? It pure scares
me half to death when I think on Breeze’s mammy a hoppin’ in Hell right
now! Great Gawd! Wid fire a scorchin’ em!”

“How you know?” April thundered out.

“How I know? I know e was a’ awful sinner. You know so too. E got dis
same Breeze right here at Blue Brook whilst a revival meetin’ was gwine
on. You don’ call dat sin?”

April didn’t so much as crack his teeth, and she looked at him with
narrowed eyes.

“You an’ her all two better had got religion dat summer.”

“You better keep you’ mouth shut, now, Big Sue. You’s a-talkin’ out o’
turn. Better help Breeze dress. E’s a settin’ yonder on de floor wid
jaws hangin’ open! Boy, you’s gwine swallow a fly if you don’ mind.”

Breeze was trying to think. His mother, his dear, kind, good mother,
was hopping in Hell. Burning in a fire nine times hotter than the fire
on earth!

“April!” Big Sue called out, “you ought to buy Breeze a nice pair o’
shoes an’ stockin’s to wear to de buryin’.”

“Brudge is got a pair Breeze kin borrow an’ wear. I ain’ got time to go
to de sto’ now.”

“Please go git ’em fo’ me.”

April got up stiffly and walked away. In a little while Brudge came
bringing a pair of Leah’s shoes. He had lost one of his own, but Leah
sent her slippers instead. April said they would do. They were low-cut
and shiny, with high heels and a strap across the instep. Breeze made
such a poor out at walking in them, Big Sue couldn’t help laughing,
although she declared she was not making sport of him.

“Take ’em off, son. Tote ’em in you’ hand till we git to Sandy Island,”
she suggested, and Breeze did.

Uncle Bill rowed the boat that took them to Sandy Island, and although
he pulled hard with his oars, the sun was almost down when they reached
the cabin up on the hill above the river.

Mules and oxen hitched to carts filled the yard, and the house was
crowded with people.

Big Sue made Breeze sit down on the ground and put on Brudge’s
stockings and Leah’s shoes. They made his feet stumble about miserably,
but Big Sue said that made no difference, since they looked nice.

He was terribly excited, but as he walked hand in hand with Big Sue up
the steep path into the yard he could hear people say:

“Lawd, Breeze is grow fo’ true. Looka e fine clothes!”

Seeing his old home made him forget to be polite.

Big Sue whispered, “When de ladies an’ gentlemens speaks to you, bow
an’ pull you’ foot an’ say, ‘Good evening.’ Don’ grin at ’em like a
chessy-cat! Be mannersable!”

When Sis came to the door Breeze broke away from Big Sue’s hand and
ran, half falling up the steps. Sis grabbed him and held him tight. He
put his arms around her and squeezed her, and they laughed and cried
together. Poor Sis! Her body felt like a pack of bones! Where was the
baby? Where were all the other children? Sis whispered they’d been sent
off to a neighbor’s house until after the burying was over. She didn’t
have time to feed them and look after everything else.

Big Sue interrupted the tight hug Breeze was giving Sis: “Come on in,
boy, an’ look at you’ ma. Dey’s ready to put em in de box.”

The cabin was full of a queer smell. Breeze hated to go inside, but Big
Sue held him fast by the arm and drew him toward the shed-room door.
The room was dim, for the one wooden shutter was closed so that very
little light could filter through. Breeze saw only a few solemn-looking
black women standing around the bed. He couldn’t bear to go any
farther. But Big Sue’s firm hand urged him on, its strong jerks making
it useless to draw back.

“Don’t you cut no crazy capers wid me, Breeze. You got to come look at
you’ ma. I want de people to see I raised you to have respect fo’ you’
parents. Open de window, Sis!”

The small room looked even smaller on account of the low ceiling, and
the bed, the only piece of furniture, was pushed out from the wall
leaving a narrow way all around it.

Sis undid the window latch and flung the shutter back. The sun flooded
the white bed with blood-red light, and marked a long slim thing under
a sheet. One of the black women turned the sheet slowly down and
exposed a pinched face. A chin bound with a white cloth. Two bony black
hands crossed on a sunken breast. Two feet whose black skin showed
through thin white stockings. The feet were still, not hopping.

That strange stiffness could not be his mother! Breeze shut his eyes
tight to keep from seeing it.

“Open you’ eyes, Breeze. Stand ’side you’ ma an’ look at em good fo’ de
last time. You ain’ never gwine see em no mo’.”

“No! No! Cun Big Sue! Don’ make me look at em! Please, Cun Big Sue!”

Breeze began screaming in spite of himself. He wanted to be good. To
please Big Sue. To have manners. But that thing on the bed was too
fearful.

He felt himself lifted in Big Sue’s strong arms. Her hot breath puffed
on him as she bore him close to the bed. The terrible scent filling the
house rose in his nostrils. Screams split his throat. He couldn’t hold
them in to save his life. Although his eyelids squeezed tighter shut,
tears poured through them.

Big Sue’s determined fingers tugged at them, pulling them apart, until
his eyes, naked, except for tears, were held over his mother’s face.
Her two dead eyes peeped out from half-closed lids, her black lips
cracked open over a grin of cold white teeth. He strove wildly to get
away, but Big Sue held him until a soft darkness swallowed everything.

When Breeze came to himself he was flat on the ground, so near the cape
jessamine bush that a cool clean blossom touched his cheek.

Where were Big Sue and Sis?

He raised up, and saw men with white gloves on their hands bringing a
long new pine box through the door. They came down the steps and went
toward a wagon. As they passed an old mule, the beast tried to break
his tether and run. A man yelled at him, another jerked him by the bit,
a third got a stick and frailed him, but Uncle Bill called out, “Don’
lick em, son. Dat mule smell death and it fret em. Pat em. Talk easy to
em. Death kin scare people, much less a mule.”

Everybody was leaving the house. They had forgotten Breeze. He couldn’t
stay here by himself, with nothing to keep him company but that strange
smell that followed the box out of the shed-room and settled right in
the cape jessamine bush. It drowned the scent of the blossoms.

Hopping to his feet he ran humbly to Big Sue, and slipped a hand in
hers, “Lemme go wid you, Cun Big Sue. I ain’ gwine holler no mo’.”

Big Sue gave his hand a painful squeeze, “I’m dat provoke’ wid you,
Breeze, I can’ talk. But you wait till I git you home. You’s de
kickin’est nigger I ever did see. But you wait till I git you home. I
bu’sted one sleeve clean out o’ my new dress a-tryin’ to hold you.”

With his heart tingling Breeze tottered on. His eyes blurred. His legs
scarcely could carry him down the sandy road toward the graveyard under
the tall trees.

The afterglow fell clear from the sky on an open grave with dark earth
piled high on each side of it. It was outlined by flaming smoking
torches held in the hands of the mourners, who marched slowly around
it, singing a funeral dirge. One man, dressed in a long white robe,
stood at the head of the grave, his deep voice chanting the solemn
burial service. Breeze’s mother belonged to the Bury League, and all
the members carried a white lily. When the leader gave the sign they
held the flowers, arm high, and yelled, “Christ is Risen!” but the
leader was a strange man, not his stepfather.

A hymn, or spiritual, was raised, and the whole crowd joined in
with great questioning waves of sound, sometimes harmony, sometimes
dissonance. Breeze’s heart ached. He wanted to cry out too, to the
great Creator of Life. He felt bewildered when Sis gave a piercing
shrill wail, that rose high and sharp above the somber death chant.
Her cry had scarcely died away before an answer came echoing from
the opposite side of the grave. Big Sue looked at Uncle Bill with a
mischievous grin that shocked Breeze. How could anybody laugh here? The
very woods reechoed the unearthly death-cries!

The mournful singing gradually changed into a confused din, a whirlwind
of grief. Men and women shrieked and shouted. They shook and shimmied
their shoulders, and jerked their arms and gyrated about in a frenzy
of grief and excitement. Some of the women went wild. They beat their
breasts and cried above the roaring hubbub. But all the time Sis’
shrill, piercing, falsetto wailing kept steadily calling across the
grave. Her screams rose high and then melted into the life of the air.

The tall brown trunks of pine trees around them loomed up until their
plumy tops touched the sky. They waved gently, mysteriously, above the
confused group of people. Red sweaters and blue overalls, green and
purple and yellow dresses, wide white aprons and turban-bound heads,
black hands and faces, were all tinged with a rosy glow dropped over
them by the sky as night began creeping out of the forest.

The strong damp odor of the woods freshened, and mosquitoes stung
Breeze’s face and hands and ankles. He was unhappy. Wretched. When Big
Sue said, “De mosquitoes is too bad. Dey got me in a fever! Le’s go,”
he felt a relief to get away from it all.

Not even Sis paid them any attention as they turned around, facing
homeward. She was too absorbed in grief, in the terrible thought of
Death, that strange mystery which had just stricken Breeze’s mother.

Breeze hurried along the road, fearing snakes less than the sound of
that inferno of mourning which followed behind him.

Sandy Island was quiet; the cabin on the hill empty; the dusk on the
river so deep that the boat was scarcely outlined against the water;
but Breeze could see the old dead pine down on the white sand. It’s
head had fallen. Its whole length rested on the ground.

His brain whirled in his skull. Cold tremors ran through his body. His
mother had buried all her money at the foot of that tree. So had old
man Breeze. But nothing less than strong iron chains could have dragged
the boy one step nearer it.

Uncle Bill helped Big Sue to her seat in the boat’s stern, where she
sat solemn and stiff and ruffled like a sitting hen.

They went in silence. The water whispered in bubbles, but the wind had
died out of the trees.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the cabin, a big fire blazed up the chimney, and a delicious scent
of food came to meet them.

“Who dat in my house?” Big Sue cried out, when April came to the door.

“You got company.”

“Who? You?”

“No. You guess again.”

“I dunno, an’ I’m too weak to walk, much less talk.”

“It’s Joy. E come on de boat dis evenin’.”

Big Sue stopped short in her tracks, dumb-struck. “Great Gawd! You don’
mean it! Whe’ is Joy?”

Instead of hurrying forward she gazed at the cabin with black dismay as
if she turned some terrible thought over and over in her mind, but a
warm laugh gurgled out, and a low voice called:

“What did you tell Ma for, Cun April? I been want to fool em!”

A girl in a bright red dress and with red-stockinged legs came bounding
across the yard to meet them.

“How you do, Ma? I bet you is surprised to see me!” She held her mouth
up to meet Big Sue’s, their kiss made a loud smack, then Uncle Bill
hurried to shake her hand.

“Lawd, Joy! Just de sight o’ you would cure de sore eyes! Honey, you
looks sweet enough to eat!” Breeze stared at her. Deep down in his
heart he felt Uncle Bill spoke the truth. He had never seen any one
like Joy before.

She leaned to pull up one red stocking tighter over a knee, but
she grinned up into Uncle Bill’s face. “Do listen at Uncle Bill!
A-sweet-talkin’ me right here befo’ ev’ybody!” Her eyes beamed, her low
soft drawl was full of friendliness, and she turned to Breeze with a
blithe greeting:

“How you do, son? I’m sho’ glad to see you here wid Ma!” A small bold
hand shot out to meet his, but Breeze cast his eyes down, bashful and
afraid. The hand gave his shoulder a light pat, took one of his and led
him toward the house.

“You ain’ scared o’ me, is you, son? Come on in by de fire. I want to
see you good.”

Breeze couldn’t say a word, but as they walked in April threw a fat
pine knot on the fire to make a better light. The fire blazed up,
crackling merrily, making the room hot and bright, but shyness kept
Breeze’s face turned away from Joy, until with a quick laugh she
wheeled him around and lifted his chin.

“How come you won’ look at me, son?” Her face was so close Breeze could
feel her breath when she laughed again, but his eyes were riveted on
her twinkling shoe-buckles.

“Left de boy ’lone, Joy. E don’ feel like playin’. His ma was just
buried dis evenin’. Come unstring my shoes, son. I ain’ gwine let Joy
plague you.”

As he knelt to unlace the shoes Joy appealed to him: “I ain’ plaguin’
you, is I, Breeze? Me an’ you is gwine be buddies, enty?” Breeze looked
up and met her slanting eyes, and the smile that lit them seemed to him
so lovely, so gentle, he fairly tingled all over. He had never seen
anybody like Joy before. Her slight body in its scant, red satin dress
was not tall, but it had the straight, swift, upward thrust of a pine
sapling. Her slim black arms, bare from the elbows, and held akimbo,
came out from shoulders lean as his own. Her short skirt gave a flirt
and Breeze’s glance darted to the skinniness of her red-stockinged
legs. But her smile had thrilled the fear out of him, and given him
confidence enough to feast his eyes on her gay over-ripe little figure,
from the bright buckles on her shiny black slippers to the short coarse
straightened hair on her small head.

“Set down, honey. Talk to Uncle Bill an’ you’ Cun April whilst me an’
Breeze fixes supper.” Big Sue’s bare feet pattered back and forth from
the hearth to the four-legged safe against the wall, mixing bread,
and smoothing it on a hot griddle, slicing meat and dropping it on a
hot spider, once in a while scolding Breeze for dawdling, or asking
Joy a question about the town or the school. April smiled and joined
pleasantly in the talk Joy led. A necklace of blue glass beads clinked
against the smooth black skin of her neck, gold bracelets glittered on
her slim wrists. Breeze was bewildered, rapt with the glamour of her.
Her sparkling eyes strayed from one face to another until they met
April’s, bold and staring. Joy’s flickered and fell and her laughter
chilled. Like everybody else, she feared him, and his shining gaze,
fixed on her alone, withered all the fun out of her and put something
sober in its place.

Except for the fire’s crackling a hush filled the room. Big Sue
suddenly straightened up from bending over the pots and, looking over
her shoulder, said, “Git de plates out o’ de safe, Breeze. How come
yunnuh is so quiet? Dis ain’ church!”

April laughed and shifted in his chair and his eyes turned from Joy to
her mother. “De victuals smells so good, I’m gone got speechless!”

“Me too,” Joy chimed, but Uncle Bill got up to go. He had already
stayed longer than he intended. He must go see if everything at the
barnyard was in order.

April stood up to say good night, tall, straight-limbed,
broad-shouldered, hawk-eyed.

“Stay an’ eat wid us, Cun April, you too, Uncle Bill! What’s you’
hurry?”

Uncle Bill had to go. He had left Jake to see about feeding the stock,
and Jake was mighty forgetful and careless. Nobody could depend on him.

In spite of the fineness of her red satin dress, Joy took the plates
from Breeze and piling two of them with the collards dripping with
pot liquor, and chunks of fat meat and pieces of the newly baked
corn-bread, she gave Big Sue and April each one.

“Yunnuh must eat all dis I put on you’ plates,” Joy bade them gaily,
but silence had fallen over them. Both their faces wore a troubled
look. April’s eyes held both darkness and light, and a kind of sadness
Breeze had seen sometimes in Sis’ eyes.

“How was de buryin’?” April asked when the edge of his appetite was
dulled.

“Fine! Fine! All but dat fool boy Breeze. E made me pure shame.” Big
Sue’s words were smothered by food in her mouth, but Breeze felt the
sharp sting of their bitter contempt. He longed to get up and go back
into the dark shed-room and hide, but shame chained his feet to the
floor and made his neck so limp his head drooped lower and lower.

“Wha’ dat Breeze done so bad?”

April leaned his head against the mantel-shelf, and listened without a
word to Big Sue’s story. Most of the time he looked into the fire, deep
in thought, forgetting to eat his supper.

When Big Sue’s tale was done, Breeze listened for April’s abuse, but
instead of scolding him, April spoke kindly, gently.

“Don’ be too hard on de boy, Big Sue. Death kin scare bigger people
dan Breeze. I don’ like to look on em myself. Gawd made people so.
Mules too. When Dukkin put pizen in de spring last summer and killed
Uncle Isaac’s old mule, Lula, I had a time gittin’ em dragged off to de
woods. Sherry said he could hitch Clara to em, but Clara was so scared,
e reared up and kicked an’ tried to run away. Sherry had to blindfold
Clara wid a cloth over both eyes befo’ she’d go anywhere nigh old dead
Lula. It’s de Gawd’s truth. An’ Clara is a mighty sensible mule.”

“Po’ li’l’ Breeze,” Joy pitied softly, and Breeze’s heart warmed, for
April and Joy both took his part. Big Sue wouldn’t lick him to-night.
She never did lick him when April was there.

“You-all stop talkin’ ’bout death. You scare me so I wouldn’t sleep a
wink to-night! Whe’s Sherry?” Joy asked suddenly.

Big Sue looked at April instead of answering. April stirred in his
chair, his big feet shuffled on the floor, his slow answer was a growl.

“Sherry’s left de plantation, Joy. I run em off.” His black brows knit
into an angry line.

“Why--why--how come you done dat, Cun April?” Joy’s teeth looked white
and sharp, her red satin dress shimmered in the firelight, her words
were husky, half whispered.

“I had to, Joy. Sherry is a impudent rascal. I’d ’a’ killed em if e had
’a’ stayed here.”

April scratched his head and his eyes turned uneasily toward the door,
but before he spoke, tears welled up in Joy’s eyes, a deep sob burst
from her bosom, and she got up and ran back into the shed-room where
she lay on the bed and wept, in spite of Big Sue’s reproaches.

“Why, Joy! You ought not to take on so! Why, Honey, Sherry’ll be back
befo’ long.”




XVII

HOG-KILLING


Now that Joy had come home for good, Big Sue planned to fix up the
cabin. April sent Brudge to help Breeze whitewash the outside with
oyster-shell lime, burned and crushed right on the beach. Fresh clean
newspapers were brought from the store with eggs and each wide sheet
spread with white-flour paste and stuck fast to the inside walls over
the old soiled worn-out papers that were cracked and broken by last
year’s wind and weather. When this was done, the cabin was snug and
tight. With the window blinds pulled in and the doors closed, not a bit
of cold air could get in except through the cracks in the floor.

But Joy’s blood must have got thin, for she wore her long black cape
constantly, and had spells of shivering in spite of its warmth.

The weather was scarcely cold enough for hog-killing, but Big Sue said
Joy needed some rich food to thicken and hotten her blood. The girl
took little interest in anything. She’d stand and gaze vacantly out
of the window as if her soul were gone far away and her eyes tried to
follow its flight.

Jeems, the shoat in the pen, must be killed. Joy’s appetite must be
tempted somehow before her blood turned to pure water. She ate scarcely
enough to keep a bird alive.

Somebody must have conjured her. Those long half-drowsy spells were not
natural, and sometimes she sobbed in the night, hag-ridden with evil
dreams. Jeems must be killed for Joy to eat.

Big Sue waked Breeze early. She gave him no chance to dawdle, for much
had to be done in preparation. Joy offered to help, but Big Sue made
her stay in bed and rest. Breeze washed the sleep out of his eyes, then
tipped to Joy’s bedside for a word from her, but the dawn showed her
eyes closed, and her quiet regular breathing told him she was sleeping.
He turned his eyes away quickly to keep them from waking her.

Before the sun was up he had the big washpot in the yard, brimming full
of water and a fire built under it. Uncle Bill brought a sound barrel
and laid it slantwise and steady in a dug out place in the ground. He’d
scald Jeems in that.

He took out his great pocket knife and opening its longest blade
told Breeze to look how its sharp point was flashing! That knife was
trained. It had sense like people. It was pure itching to stick in
Jeems’ throat and slice his neck in two. When he had to kill a hog, he
just pointed that knife blade toward the beast and gave it a push. It
would fairly leap to the right spot. It never missed the big vein. His
eyes twinkled with affection for his faithful tool as he ran a thick
thumb lightly over its keen edge and felt its shining point.

“You hold em, Breeze, till I get de ax. De ax has to do a li’l’ work
ahead o’ de knife.”

As he walked toward the wood-pile, Big Sue hurried out. “Do don’ knock
Jeems, Uncle Bill!” She panted anxiously.

“I’m ’bliged to stun em, honey!”

“You’ll ruin all de brains.”

“I can’ help dat, Miss Big Sue. I couldn’ stick Jeems whilst he was in
his right mind. No, ma’am.”

“Knockin’ a hog on de head makes de head cheese all bloody. Please
don’ do dat! Go on an’ stick em. Don’ knock em!”

Uncle Bill stopped and scratched his head.

“I’d do mighty nigh anything to please you, Miss Big Sue, but I can’
suffer a hog any more’n I have to. I got to knock Jeems senseless, or I
couldn’ kill em at all. Me an’ Jeems is been friends too long.”

“For Gawd’s sake don’ be so chicken-hearted.”

“I ain’ chicken-hearted, but I couldn’ stan’ to suffer Jeems whilst he
was a-dyin’. No. Come on, Breeze. Le’s get dis killin’ over wid!”

Jeems’ black snout showed through a crack, and his short impatient
grunts meant he was hungry, for Breeze had not fed him since yesterday
noon. Breeze’s heart ached for his friend. How could Uncle Bill bear to
knock Jeems in the head with that ax, while the poor beast’s eyes gazed
up with such trustful friendliness!

“Jeems, old man! You’ time is out, son. Git ready to meet you’ Gawd!”
Uncle Bill’s voice was sad.

Jeems held his fat face up, straining to see them better, for his eyes,
almost closed with fat, were hampered by ears flapping over them. Poor
Jeems!

Uncle Bill had his coat off, and his rolled-up shirt-sleeves showed the
play of his powerful sinews under the skin. The ax rose high in the
air, then leaped out and tightened, as Uncle Bill brought it down with
a thud on Jeems’ forehead. The squeal in the hog’s throat changed to a
strangled gurgle. The short forelegs staggered and gave way. The great
heavy body fell sidewise to the ground. But Uncle Bill was already
astride it with his knife’s bare blade ready.

A quick sharp stick in the neck brought a spurt of blood which a deeper
thrust turned to a stream. Red, warm with life, its steam rising like
smoke in the cool sunshiny air, Jeems’ blood poured out and wasted in
the filth of his pen, until Big Sue’s cries brought Breeze to his
senses.

“Great Gawd, Breeze! Ketch dat blood! You standin’ like a fool lettin’
em waste! I good mind to kill you! Blood puddin’ is de best o’ de
hog-killin’!”

Breeze scrambled over the boards of the pen, and slipped a pan under
Jeems’ unconscious head, and held it in place in spite of the kicking
death-struggling legs, saving the bubbling red stream for a pudding.
The smell of it made him sick, and he couldn’t meet the look of those
half-closed staring eyes.

Poor Jeems! His time was out. His kicks were getting weaker. His
eyelids were wilting down over his dull sightless eyes. His soul would
soon be gone home to God. Breeze looked up at the sky, but Big Sue
called out to give her the pan before he turned it over. It had caught
enough for a small pudding.

The hog was hurried into the barrel and scalded before the life cooled
out of him, and his skin scraped clean of hair. As Uncle Bill worked
he told Breeze he must always be careful to see that the moon is right
before he killed a hog. A wrong moon will set the hair in a hog’s
skin so no knife on earth could move it. Meat killed on a waning moon
will dry up to nothing, no matter how you cook it. A certain quarter
of the moon will make the meat tough and strong, another will rot it,
no matter how much salt you pack around it. If Breeze would learn all
the moon signs he’d be spared a lot of trouble long as he lived. White
people leave money to their children, but black people teach theirs
signs, which is far better. Money can be taken from you, but knowledge
can’t.

When Jeems was scalded and scraped and washed and cleaned, he was hung
up by a hickory stick run through the white sinews in his hind legs.
The carcass must cool before it was cut up, for meat, like bread, is
spoiled if cut while it’s warm.

Bina had come to help Big Sue, and the two women bent over a wooden
washtub, sorting out the liver and lights and chitterlings, putting the
small entrails aside for sausage casings. The hog’s fine condition made
Big Sue cheerful. She declared she’d make a lot more lard than she’d
expected, for all of Jeems’ insides were coated with fat.

The higher the sun rose the faster they worked, even when the neighbors
dropped by for a little neighborly talk and to see how the hog-killing
went on.

At noon they stopped for a breathing spell and bite to eat. Hot brown
corn-bread and bits of fried liver were washed down with sweetened
water. The grown people smoked one pipeful apiece, then set to work
again, for Jeems had cooled enough to be quartered.

The back door slipped off its hinges made a table large enough to hold
him. Uncle Bill’s big knife cut off the huge head, and separated the
hams and shoulders and sides from the long backbone. He trimmed them
neatly, throwing the scraps of lean meat into one tub for sausage meat,
and bits of firm white fat into another for to-morrow’s lard making.

He wanted to give Breeze the pig-tail to roast on the coals right then,
but Big Sue said Breeze had no time to be playing with pig-tails now.
If he’d work hard Uncle Bill might find the hog’s bladder for him, and
to-night he and Brudge could pleasure themselves blowing it up like a
balloon.

A number of the plantation dogs had gathered, and they had to be
watched, specially the hounds and cur-dogs. The bird dogs were
better-mannered. Big Sue wanted to scald the lot of them for the pesky
way they nosed around, but Uncle Bill wouldn’t let her. God made dogs
so they hankered after hog-meat. It was sinful to be short-patienced
with them.

One pot simmered and stewed with liver and lights and haslets and rice
liver pudding. Another pot slowly, carefully sputtered and spat as the
blood, mixed with seasonings, thickened into pudding. The brains were
taken out of the skull, which was put on for head cheese.

Breeze felt neither sadness nor squeamishness now. His mouth watered as
his nose sniffed at all the appetizing smells.

The sun began throwing long shadows and Big Sue kept him hurrying.
Every single hog hair had to be picked up and saved to plant in the
potato patch next spring. Every hair would make a potato.

The waste had to be thrown in the creek. Breeze cast it in, a bucketful
at a time. Horrid filthy stuff. It made him shiver, but the water
swallowed it down with scarcely a splash, then flowed on smooth and
clear, reflecting the bright clouds in the sky, shimmering in the last
sunbeams, rising with the incoming tide to water its banks, which were
yellow with marsh daisies. The willows were almost bare of leaves, and
the slim naked trunks and branches bent over, looking away down into
the Blue Brook’s quiet depths.

Sunset gilded the earth and cabins and trees, and streaked the white
sandy yard with golden light. Uncle Bill hoped that such stillness
would not bring rain soon, for the hay was in shocks in the field
yet, and the corn not all broken in. He looked up at the sky as he
spoke, and at once a light breeze sprang up to tell him to-morrow
would be fair. He laughed with relief, and the big trees bowed gently,
saying that they knew the little breeze had told the truth. Even the
frost-faded grasses nodded and waved!

To stay fair the weather must turn cooler, and that would be good for
Big Sue’s fresh killed meat. It would have a good chance to take the
salt well. Such big hams needed careful curing.

Breeze must clean up the pen to-morrow and scatter ashes all over it,
so Uncle Bill could bring Big Sue one of Melia’s red pigs to grow and
fatten into a fine shoat by late spring.

Each piece of pork was rubbed well with salt and stored in Uncle Bill’s
small log barn. There, they’d be safe until the morning, when they’d be
rubbed again with salt mixed with sugar, and packed into a barrel to
cure.

Old Louder sat on his thin haunches, patient and polite. He knew better
than to beg, but his long ears failed to hide the pleading, wistful
look in his eyes. Breeze tossed him a morsel of meat now and then and
before one could touch the ground Louder caught and swallowed it with a
deft snap of his jaws. Big Sue fairly screamed out:

“Feedin’ a dog wid my good meat, enty? I seen you. I’ll learn you
better’n dat to-morrow mawnin’.”

As a rule Breeze said nothing, but the falling dusk looked so mournful,
his body felt tired, his legs sore, his back and arms achy with so much
work. This was the time of day he gave Jeems his supper, after the
chickens and guineas were gone to bed. Now the pen was empty. Jeems was
dead.

Pity for Jeems and himself made a sob heave up into his throat. Big Sue
must have heard it, for her big moist salty hand closed over his mouth,
“Shut up dat cryin’. You ain’ nuttin’ but a gal-baby! A-cryin’ here an’
me fretted half to death ’bout Joy! Drop you’ pants. I’s gwine lick
you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning, not a streak of daylight was showing through the house
cracks when Breeze heard Big Sue up, stumbling around, dressing. She
fumbled with the door-bar, taking it down, then went outside. She
wanted to see how her meat was. Breeze turned over, but his dozing
was broken up by a long terrible shriek. Without putting on even his
breeches, he hopped out of bed and ran out to see what was wrong.
Somebody’s house must be afire. Joy followed him, her teeth chattering,
although she had a quilt wrapped around her.

Never in his whole life had Breeze heard such screams as Big Sue was
making. Everybody in the Quarter came hurrying, nobody fully dressed.
At first all stood dumb, panic-stricken with amazement, while Big Sue
wailed out, between body-wrenching sobs, Jeems was gone! Stolen! Not a
hair nor hide was left! The iron hasps holding the chain and lock in
the door were pulled clear out of the door-frame. Outraged shouts broke
from the crowd. Who here was mean enough to do such a thing? They eyed
one another suspiciously. Even fists were clenched, for no such thing
was ever heard of. If a ham or a side or a shoulder had been taken,
that would have been bad enough, but a whole hog! It was too terrible
to think about.

They tried to find some trace, maybe some tracks on the ground around
the barn, but nothing was there plainer than Big Sue’s own flat
barefooted ones.

She shrieked and beat her breast by fits and starts, weeping bitterly
all in between.

Jeems was the finest hog ever butchered! She had never seen one lined
thicker with fat! His meat would have lasted until next summer! And now
it was gone! Stolen!

She jerked off the white cloth that bound her head and threw it down.
Howling with rage she beat her head against the side of the barn until
the blows of her skull had it fairly quivering. The neighbors’ efforts
to console her failed. Not even Joy could make any impression on her
raving. Breeze was at his wits’ end. The sunny day itself got somber.
The birds chirped low and sorrowfully.

Leah was the last person to come. Fat, wabbly, she strolled up, smoking
her pipe, one arm akimbo, and beneath her red headkerchief, her eyes
gleamed strangely.

“Wha’ dat ail Big Sue? E’s gwine on like e got in a hornet’s nest!”

They told her the news, but instead of grieving Leah sucked her teeth.
Big Sue was just trying to make fools of them. Who’d take a whole hog?
How could anybody do such a thing? Just as likely as not Big Sue had
the hog right yonder in her shed-room.

They all looked in that direction, then back at Big Sue, who had paused
in her wailing.

“Wha’ dat you say, Leah?” She was panting with rage, and only a narrow
piece of ground lay between them, but Leah gave a taunting wicked
laugh. “You hear me good enough. It ain’ no use to say all dat over.”

“You low liar! You varmint!” Big Sue’s voice was heavy. Her reddened
eyelids, puffed with fat and tears, squeezed as tight as her clenched
fist.

“Yunnuh hear Big Sue cuss me, enty?” Leah cried.

“Hush, Leah! You come on home wid me!” April stepped up and would have
led her away by the arm, but with the fury of a cyclone, she shook him
off and with a savage yell rushed up to Big Sue and spat in her face.

Like a flash they closed. Arms, fists, heads, bodies, whirled,
staggered, fell, rose. All efforts to pull them apart were useless.
Leah was the first to waver. After an awful blow in the face her arms
dropped. She stood still, then tilted back on her heels trying not
to fall. As she struggled for breath her mouth stretched wide open,
gasping as fish gasp out of water.

April ran up and caught her and eased her gently down on the ground.
Horrible fear rose in Breeze’s heart, for the glazed look in Leah’s
eyes was the same that filled Jeems’ yesterday, when death struck him.

People crowded around her. Somebody ran for a bucket of water and
poured it all over her head and face.

Breeze could hardly see for the mist in his eyes, but he knew Leah was
dying for one of her girls gave a long piercing death-cry.

“You is sho’ ruint now, Big Sue!” Bina said distinctly.

“You spit in my face an’ I’ll kill you de same way!”

“Hush, Ma. Fo’ Gawd’s sake, hush!” Joy plead.

“Leah’s de one stole my hog,” Big Sue bawled, “Leah’s de very one!”

“Hush, Ma! Fo’ Gawd’s sake, hush! Uncle Bill, do come make Ma go home.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning Big Sue was too ill to get out of bed. Joy kept cool green
collard leaves tied on her forehead, and rubbed the palms of her hands
and the soles of her feet with tallow, but she groaned and complained
with every breath.

Joy sent Breeze with some sweetened bread for Leah’s children to eat
with their dinner, but he took a long time to get there. Dread made his
feet lag. He slunk along the path, scared by every moving shadow. Ready
to jump out of his skin at the crackle of a twig.

He felt relieved when he saw Uncle Bill in April’s yard helping make
Leah’s coffin out of clean pine boards lately sawed at the saw-mill.
As the sharp plane smoothed the wood, yellow curls fell on the ground.
One string exactly Leah’s length and another her breadth, showed how to
fit the box to her size.

Breeze finally had to go inside the house to deliver the bread and
Joy’s message that Big Sue would not be well enough to attend Leah’s
burying. He gave both to Bina, who had a wilted mock-orange bough in
her hand, fanning flies away from the bed where Leah lay covered over
with a sheet.

“Big Sue’s right to stay sick. You tell em I say so, too,” Bina said
tartly. But in a more kindly tone she asked Breeze if he wanted to see
Leah. When he shook his head, Bina said Leah looked mighty nice. Just
as peaceful as if she was sleep.

That day was as long as a week. The sun hung still for hours at a time.
There was scarcely a breath of wind. Breeze was afraid to stay alone,
and both Joy and Big Sue kept to their beds. Once he whispered, “Joy,
is you sleepin’?” and she answered gently:

“No, son, I’m wake. Come lay down on de bed ’side me. I know you is
lonesome. I is myself.”

Reaching her hand out to meet him, she drew his burning face down
against her own soft cheek which was cold and wet with tears. He raised
up and met her eyes, and the look in them was so sad, so sorrowful, it
cut him clean through to the heart.

At last the sun dropped westward, setting in Leah’s grave. Curiosity
made Breeze want to see what went on, but fear of death kept him in
calling distance of Joy. He went up the road far enough to see the dust
raised by the funeral procession, but the wailing death-cries ran him
home.

Joy stood by the open window listening. When one lone cry rose high
above all the rest, her full lips twitched, her sad eyes stared more
gloomily and farther away, big bitter tears rolled down her cheeks.

Big Sue stayed in bed in the darkened shed-room, drinking root teas
that smelled strong and rank.

At last night fell. Bedtime came. Breeze knelt down and tried to
whisper his prayers. “O Lawd,” he began, but he got no further for
Uncle Bill’s old hound, Louder, who had been resting and scratching
fleas on the porch, suddenly lifted up his voice in a long mournful
howl, and Breeze jumped into bed and covered his head.

       *       *       *       *       *

Early next morning Bina came, pretending to ask about Big Sue’s health,
but her eyes were round and her breathing quick with excitement. Had
they heard the news? No? Everybody on the plantation was talking about
it!

Somebody had put an awful conjure on April! Leah’s death-sheet had
been folded and laid across the foot of April’s bed. When he woke this
morning, there it was, tucked in at each side so it couldn’t slip off
on the floor. Nobody knew who did it.

April wanted to throw it in the fire, but Maum Hannah stopped him.
Burning a conjure bag, or a death-sheet, is the worst thing you can do.
They have to be drowned. Maum Hannah sent for Uncle Isaac, and they
both tried to make April drown the sheet in the Blue Brook, but he was
too stubborn and hardheaded to mind them. Before they could stop him he
dashed it on the red-hot coals. Uncle Isaac grabbed it out, but it was
all blackened and scorched and burned.

Uncle Isaac took what was left of it and tied a rock up in it to make
it sink. When he threw it in the Blue Brook the water splashed and
bubbled and made a mournful groan, then turned green as grass! That
sheet must have been loaded with conjure poison. Uncle Isaac stood
just so and counted to ten like the old people used to do. Bina got up
to show them. Holding out the fingers of her left hand she counted them
over twice wuth the forefinger of her right, singing as she did it.

  Dis-sem-be! Jack-walla!
  Mulla-long! Mullinga!
  Gulla-possum! Gullinga!
  Sing-sang! Tuffee!
  Killa-walla! Kawa! Ten!

“Uncle Isaac done it just so.”

Big Sue was glad. Anybody could see that. She got up and started
putting on her clothes. She seemed to shed her worries. To get almost
cheerful. Once in a while she sighed. “I’m sho’ sorry for April. Too
sorry. E ought not to ’a’ scorched dat sheet.”

The day turned off rainy, dreary, the whole world was wet and blurred.
Big Sue said rain always falls after a burying to settle the dust on
the grave.

Joy’s head ached, and she went to bed. Big Sue dampened a cloth with
vinegar and tied it on Joy’s forehead, then she went slushing toward
the Quarters.

She had hardly got out of sight when Joy jumped up and began a hurried
dressing. She put on a dark dress, and tied a white towel over her head.

Breeze cried out in astonishment. Where was she going?

“Nowhere!” answered Joy. “If Ma comes and asks where I is, you don’
know nothin’ at all. Nothin’!”

“Tell me whe’ you’s gwine, Joy.” Breeze begged.

With a sad little smile she leaned over and hugged him.

“I’s comin’ back, Breeze. I’m gwine be you’ mammy after to-day. Ma can’
lick you no more. But don’t you tell nobody. I’m gwine to see if de
boat brings me a letter from Sherry.”

“Lemme go, Joy.”

“No, you stay home till Ma comes.”

He let her go, out in the rain. He couldn’t help himself. For a while
he pottered about the room, for there was no use to go out into the mud
and rain. Then he crawled back into bed, and went sound asleep. Once
he roused, and heard the boat puffing on the river. It blew for the
landing and stopped, then went pounding on into the distance.

Big Sue came in at noon, vexed about something or other. She began
abusing Breeze for letting the fire die, soon as she entered the cabin.

“Whe’s Joy?”

“I dunno, ma’am.”

“How come you dunno?”

“I dunno how come.”

“You ain’ got no sense, dat’s how come! Blow up dis fire befo’ I lick
you to death!”

Fear put strength into Breeze’s blowing, and the fire soon blazed up,
cheerful and bright, but Big Sue was bursting with gall which she
vented on Breeze.

He ran about trying to please her, his mouth dumb-stricken with misery.
But her bitter abuse stung him to the very quick and overcame him
completely. He burst out crying, just as the soft mud outside sucked
loud at somebody’s footsteps.

Uncle Bill called in through the door, “Is anybody home?”

Big Sue’s voice shifted into a pleasanter key as she invited Uncle Bill
to come in, then upbraided Breeze for crying like a baby about nothing.

Uncle Bill took Breeze’s part, and with a big red pocket handkerchief
wiped Breeze’s face and eyes with gentlest care, and stroked his hands
and tried to comfort him.

“Don’ cry, son. You’ eyes is like scraps o’ red flannel. Joy’ll think
you’s a baby fo’ true. She wouldn’ b’lieve you kin shoot a gun an’ plow
an’ ride a mule good as a man.”

Uncle Bill slipped off his wet shoes to dry them, and sat in his bare
feet. “Whe’s Joy?”

“I dunno an’ Breeze wouldn’ tell me whe’ Joy went. I reckon e’s yonder
to Zeda’s house a-listenin’ at Zeda’s brazen talk.”

“Zeda’s talk ain’ brazen since Sherry’s gone,” mused Uncle Bill. “No,
Zeda’s down-hearted as kin be.”

His shoes and feet steamed in the heat, and he drew both back to a
safe distance. Then he showed Breeze how his ankles were marked with
tiny scars. “See my snake-cuts? Uncle Isaac fixed me when I wa’n’t no
bigger’n you. You ought git him to fix you next spring.”

He explained how the short gashes were made near a vein, and poison
from a rattlesnake and a moccasin rubbed in. This was repeated until
the dose no longer caused sickness. No snake could ever harm him again.
They knew it. They kept out of his way. Yet snakes had him out in the
rain now, taking a bucket of milk to April’s children. Snakes had been
worse than usual this fall. They were not satisfied with eating all the
eggs out of the hen nests, but they sucked the cows dry too. April’s
cow might as well be dry so far as giving milk for the family to drink.

“April’s got a lot o’ hogs. Hogs’ll suck cows same like a calf,” Big
Sue reminded him.

Uncle Bill was sure the hogs were innocent. And besides, April’s cow
came from a fine breed. She wouldn’t let a hog suck her. But snakes are
tricky. While the cow was dozing, in the night, they’d slip up and
wrap themselves around her leg and suck her dry as a bone and never
wake her. Hogs were too awkward to get all the milk. And a fine nice
cow like April’s wouldn’t stand any foolishness from a hog.

“Maybe de cow is lost her cud. Dat’ll dry up de milk,” Big Sue
suggested again.

Uncle Bill dismissed that with a shake of the head. Cows did lose their
cuds. One of his own cows lost hers every time the hags rode her,
and that was mighty near every young moon. Giving her an old greasy
dish-rag to chew on helped her get it back for a while, but she got so
bad off, even that failed. Finally he had to go to Uncle Isaac and get
him to take the conjure off her. She was conjured, no doubt about that.

“Who you reckon done it?” Big Sue’s ears had pricked up with the word
“conjure,” but Uncle Bill wouldn’t say. It was better not to talk too
much about such things. When they come, rid yourself of them the best
you can, but don’t talk about them after they go. The less they get
into your mind, the better off you are.

“Cows suck dey own se’f, sometimes,” Big Sue went back to the old
subject. “April’s cow might be a-doin’ dat.”

Uncle Bill was certain that wasn’t so. Somebody would have seen her.
Cows did it, he knew. He once owned a fine one that did it and her
mother before her did it. Every daughter she had did it too. They had
to wear pens around their necks, but nothing could ever break them from
the ugly habit. It was born in their blood, just as some dogs are born
gun-shy. It’s in the breed. People and dogs and cows are born to be
what they are. They may cover it up for a long time, but it will come
out sooner or later.

Big Sue nodded, agreeing, “Dat’s how come I went clean over de river
to Sandy Island when I wanted a boy to raise. I knowed Breeze come f’om
good seed. E’s good stock.”

“You’s right. Sho’! If you want to raise corn, plant corn seed, not
cotton seed.”

“April ever was a mighty rash man, Uncle Bill.” Big Sue hinted at
something dark, and Uncle Bill slipped a look at her, then turned
his eyes to look out in the rain, where a mocking-bird was whistling
exactly like a young turkey. Big Sue got her sewing and sat down to
talk.

“April wouldn’ rest not till e pizened dem boll-evils. I couldn’ hardly
sleep in de night all las’ summer fo’ dem machines a-zoonin’. Everybody
was scared to look out de door whilst April an’ Sherry was gwine round
de fields. De pizen dust was same as a fog. Lawd! I slept wid my head
under a quilt ev’y night. April better had left dem boll-evils right
whe’ Gawd put ’em. I don’ kill no kinder bugs exceptin’ spiders. Not
me! Fightin’ Gawd’s business’ll git you in trouble. April’s got off
light so far, but e better quit tryin’ to do all de crazy t’ings de
white people says do. E sho’ better! Bad luck’s been hangin’ round ever
since dat radio-machine at de Big House started hollerin’ an’ cryin’
an’ singin’ year befo’ last. People ain’ got no business tryin’ to be
Gawd. Not black people anyways. Let de white people go on. Dey is gwine
to hell anyhow!”

She took a fresh thread and moistening the tip of a finger in her mouth
made a fat knot in its end. But before she stuck it into the cloth, she
looked at Uncle Bill with bright points of light in his eyes. Her words
troubled him.

“You is talkin’ mighty fast now, daughter. I been workin’ wid white
people all my life an’ I ain’ got no complaint to make of dem. No. Ol’
Cap’n raise’ me to have respect fo’ everybody.”

“Whe’ you reckon Ol’ Cap’n is to-day, Uncle Bill?”

The old man pressed his lips tight together until they puckered, and
shook his head.

Big Sue laughed, “You don’ want to say, enty? I don’ blame you. But
between you an’ me I spec’ e is whe’ I hope e ain’t; a hoppin’ in Hell
dis minute!”

“Shut you’ mouth, gal! Gawd’ll strike you dead first t’ing you know!”
Uncle Bill gave her a hard look. “Ol’ Cap’n had his faults, but e was a
man! Yes, Gawd! A man!”

Uncle Bill wasn’t listening. He had gone back to the past, “Lawd, I kin
see Ol’ Cap’n now. High an’ straight. Slim till de day e died. His eyes
could go black as soot an’ flash wid pure fire when e got vexed, but
dey could shine soft as gal-chillen’s eyes too.” Uncle Bill’s own eyes
brightened as he talked.

“Dat man could ride horses dat would ’a’ killed anybody else,” he
boasted. “An’ Uncle Isaac, yonder, used to be a man too! E drove de
carriage wid a pair o’ coal black horses. When dey’d pass you in de big
road dem horses’ breath was hot as pure steam. Dey nostrils was red as
any blood! De gold an’ silver on de harness would blind you’ eyes same
as a flash o’ lightnin’! You’d have to stop an’ stand still an’ cover
up you’ face. Dem was de days! You young people don’ know nothin’! Not
nothin’!”

A merry laugh crinkled up his eyelids, and filled the hollows in his
thin old cheeks. It tickled him when he thought about the case Ol’
Cap’n was. He was a case. A heavy case! Sometimes his company would get
drunk and reckless with pistols. Cap’n would always caution them to be
careful not to shoot any of his servants. He’d always brag that he had
the best stock of niggers and dogs and horses in the state, and he
didn’t want any of them hurt.

“I ’member. E was powerful big-doin’s. But when death come for him, he
had to go same as anybody else. Whe’s e now, Uncle Bill?”

Uncle Bill made a wry face at Big Sue, “I dunno. An’ you dunno. But
Gawd knows Ol’ Cap’n had a big heart. A good heart. E wan’ no po’
buckra, or either white trash.” A sly smile lightened his solemn face.

“Dat new preacher preaches dat de Great I-Am is a nigger! Don’ let
em fool you, gal. Gawd is white. You’ll see it too when Judgment Day
comes. An’ E ain’ gwine be noways hard on a fine man like Ol’ Cap’n. He
knows gentlemens. Sho’! An’ if Ol’ Cap’n couldn’ exactly make Heaven, I
bet Gawd is got him a comfortable place in Hell, wid plenty o’ people
to wait on him. An’ dat’s all e wants, anyhow. E had plenty o’ milk
an’ honey an’ gold an’ silber down here, an’ e didn’ count none o’ dem
much, nohow.”

The stillness was so intense that when the clock on Big Sue’s mantel
banged out an hour, Uncle Bill jumped with a start at its call back
to the present. He must be going on to April’s house with the bucket
of milk. Time was moving. He had a lot of work to do before the white
folks came. Some of the fences needed patching. Blinds had to be fixed
in the rice-fields for the duck-hunters and the old trunks had to be
mended in places so the ducks could be baited. There were many things
waiting for him to do them.

“Did you hear f’om de buckra lately?” Big Sue’s little eyes got smaller
as she asked it.

“Not so lately,” Uncle Bill admitted, “but I don’ fret. No news is good
news wid dem. I sho’ will be glad to see li’l’ young Cap’n, dough. It’s
hard to believe dat one li’l’ boy is de onliest seed de ol’ Cap’n is
got left in dis world. E’s de last o’ de name. De last o’ de race. It
make me sad to think on dat!”

“Dat same boy is a chip off de ol’ block! Lawd, e’s a case!”

Uncle Bill started up. “You sound like you got somet’ing against de
boy? Dat ain’ right. No. When e mammy died, all o’ we promised we’d
help raise dat baby to know right f’om wrong. You promised de same way
like I promised.”

Big Sue did not answer and Uncle Bill went on, “Ol’ Cap’n, neither
young Miss, wouldn’ rest still in dey graves if we didn’ do right by
dat li’l’ boy. I too sorry his stepma keeps em yonder up-North most all
de time. It ain’ good. It’s a wonder Ol’ Cap’n don’ rise out de grave
an’ haunt em.”

Uncle Bill took up his bucket of milk. He must go. Big Sue asked him to
tarry longer. Dinner was well-nigh done. He refused politely.

He got as far as the door, when he stopped still, “Miss Big Sue, I
gwine tell you something. Ol’ Cap’n was a lily of de valley. E was a
bright an’ mawnin’ star. When Death took him, it took de Jedus of dis
plantation. Blue Brook ain’ never been de same since den. No.”

A soft drizzle of rain sifted through the trees, the wind moaned
drearily.

Big Sue shook her head. “Gawd made Heaven fo’ de humble, Uncle Bill.
Hell’s de place where de proudful goes. When a man, white or black,
gits to trustin’ to his own strength, ’stead o’ Gawd’s, e is done for,
sho’ as you’ born.”

After Leah’s death April seemed lonelier than ever. He passed Big Sue’s
house almost every day, but he never looked in nor spoke. He didn’t
even turn his head, but walked by, stern, unseeing. Big Sue always
stopped what she was doing to go to the door and watch him. She’d nod
her head and wink and shrug. Everywhere on the plantation, the talk was
thick with prophecies that April would walk himself to death. Day and
night he walked, never sitting down anywhere. A bad way for a man to
do. That death-sheet had his feet conjured. They’d never rest again in
this world, or in the other, unless April made a change in his ways.

Joy took to walking too. Not like April, day and night; but in the
evenings, just after sunset, she’d wrap her long cape close around her
and go away down the path. Big Sue paid little attention to Joy for
her own troubles filled her mind. Occasionally she sent Breeze to see
where Joy went, then got in a rage when Breeze reported invariably he
couldn’t find her.

Sometimes Joy walked fast, sometimes slow. Nearly always toward sunset.
Sometimes when she sat down on a tree root to rest, she’d talk to
herself. At last Breeze felt sure she was trailing April, for when she
glimpsed him through the trees she’d stop still, with her eyes fastened
on him.

Breeze wondered if Joy was going crazy. Had somebody cast a spell
on her too! As the days dragged on toward Christmas, she grew more
and more silent. She spent much of the time in bed, but whenever the
boat-whistle screeched out it had reached the landing, she either got
up and went for the mail herself or sent Breeze to ask if any letter
had come for her.

She took less and less notice of people and things, but stood by
the open window for long stretches, looking out at the trees or the
rice-fields beyond them.

Once when she started out alone in the dusk, Breeze offered to go with
her. She smiled kindly and told him to come on, but Breeze felt hurt by
her steady silence for it told him plainly that she cared no more for
his company than for the wind, although his one thought was to please
her.

The first time they met April, face to face, he would have passed
without speaking but Joy stopped him. “Cun April----”

April turned his haggard face toward her and looked down with eyes that
were deep sunken and reproachful instead of bold. “Is you called me,
Joy?”

She stood dumb, motionless, a second, then spoke softly, distressfully.

“Cun April, I want to tell you, Ma ain’ been well, not since Cun Leah
died. Ma frets all de time. Day an’ night. I can’ sleep fo’ de way she
moans an’ goes on. All night long. It’s so pitiful. Please, suh, come
talk to her sometimes. Ma never meant to do such a harm dat day. I wish
you wouldn’ hold such hard feelin’s.”

April had aged a great deal. His shoulders stooped. His feet inclined
to drag. His voice was low and husky. But he answered Joy kindly.

“I don’ hold nothin’ against you’ ma, Joy. Leah was in de wrong too.
Leah had no business to throw Big Sue’s whole hog in de Blue Brook. No.
Leah done wrong, I know dat.”

Joy stared at him. What he said made her speechless with astonishment
at first, but she controlled herself enough to say.

“Stop by an’ see me an’ Ma, sometimes. Please, Cun April. We gits so
awful lonesome after dark.”

April promised he would. Promised in words that were very gentle. Then
he stalked on, a tall lonely shadow, moving under the trees.

April came to see Big Sue that very night, dropping by so unexpectedly
that the sight of him made her dumb for a while. She tried to be
natural, to hide her agitation, but her breath caught fast in her
throat every time she opened her mouth to talk, and her words were
uncertain and stammering.

But April paid little heed to her. He seemed scarcely to know she was
there, for his eyes spent much of the time looking at Joy. Breeze
thought he saw them flash once or twice, but it may have been the
firelight in them.

April declared he had eaten supper and cared for nothing either to eat
or drink, but Joy fixed him a cup of water, sweetened with wild honey,
flavored with bruised mint leaves, from the mint-bed by the back door.
When he tasted it he smiled, and the dull fire in the chimney blazed
up, and everything seemed brighter, more joyful than in many a long day.

When April got up to go Joy followed him to the door. She made him
shake hands with her and promise to come back very soon.

After that when Joy walked out in the dusk she always let Breeze know
she’d rather go by herself. Not that she ever hurt his feelings, but
she made some sort of flimsy excuse to be rid of him. He hadn’t shut
up the coop where the hen and youngest biddies slept, or he hadn’t cut
up enough fat kindling wood, or couldn’t he go fetch a fresh bucket of
water from the spring?

Then Breeze discovered that April walked with Joy. He had forgotten Big
Sue altogether.

Once Breeze saw them walking shoulder to shoulder, arm touching arm.
They talked so softly their words were drowned by the rustle of the
leaves under their feet. When April stopped and bent his face so close
to Joy’s that she drew back a little, Breeze’s heart almost quit
beating. He let them go on unwatched, hidden by the deepening twilight.

When Joy came home Big Sue grumbled as she handed her a panful of
supper and a spoon.

“How come you so love to walk out in de night? It ain’ good. You’ll
ketch a fever or somet’ing worse. You ain’ been home to eat supper wid
me since last Sat’day night was a week.”

But Joy sat mute, looking into the fire, with eyes that gleamed back at
the flames.

After that, Joy was always gentle, but except for her evening walk she
went nowhere, not even for the mail. For days at a time she scarcely
uttered a word. Lying on the bed, or sitting by the fire, she did
nothing but think, all the time. When visitors came she said she wasn’t
well, and went to lie down in the shed-room. Even Big Sue’s constant
scolding got few words out of the girl.

Late one afternoon Big Sue went to see Maum Hannah, whose crippled
knee was being troublesome. In the cabin a bright fire blazed merrily,
and Breeze and Joy shelled parched pindars to make some molasses candy
before time to cook supper. Breeze ran to Zeda’s house to borrow a
pinch of cooking soda to make the candy foam up light. When he came
back he found April talking to Joy in a strangled husky voice. Both
were standing up by the fire, the shelled nuts were scattered on the
floor; the smell of the molasses boiling over and burning, made a
bitter stench in the room.

“Wha’ you say, Joy?” April asked it very low.

Joy stood dumb, motionless, then she lifted her eyes to his face. “Is
you want me fo’ true, Cun April?”

His eyes were on her, so bold, so full of admiration, that she shrank
back in confusion, although her white teeth were flashing with
excitement.

April leaned closer and whispered, and her beaming eyes darted up
sidewise to see by his face if he meant all he was saying. She
reflected in silence, with a downcast look. But when she answered him
softly, she looked straight up again into his eyes.

His breath came quick. His eyes glinted fiercely. Joy drew back, but
she was nodding yes all the time. April caught her and squeezed her to
him and kissed her. She started struggling to free herself, but Big
Sue’s steps sounded outside and April hurried away out of the door.
Joy’s eyes followed him until the darkness had swallowed him, and only
the tramp of his feet could reach her ears. She pulled a chair up to
the fire and sat down, with her eyes fixed on the flames. She sat there
a long time. Once she smiled to herself, then she frowned, but her eyes
stayed glittering like a high spring tide under a full noon sun.

“Joy,” Big Sue called her name sternly, “I b’lieve you’s conjured. I
know April is. Dat death-sheet is had him walkin’ his feet off ever
since Leah was buried. You’s a fool to let dat man talk wid you. I wish
to Gawd e’d stay way f’om my house.”

       *       *       *       *       *

When the boat blew for the landing early next morning on its way to
town, Breeze and Big Sue had gone in Uncle Isaac’s cart to the lime
mill near the seashore to get lime enough to whitewash the front of
her house fresh for Christmas. Every cabin on the whole plantation was
being scoured and scrubbed and dressed up with papers. Big Sue wanted
hers to be the finest of all. Breeze had wrung next year’s supply of
straw brooms out of the old unplanted fields and had swept the yard
clean with a new dogwood brush-broom.

Joy had helped some, but in a half-hearted way. She wouldn’t even ride
out with them to get the lime. Her excuse was that Julia looked wild.
Breeze knew she didn’t mean it, for no mule ever moved more sluggishly.
Breeze had to get a stick and frail Julia to make her trot at all.

Noon had passed when they got back home with their load.

Big Sue called Joy to see what nice white fresh-burned lime it was.
Like flour. Not a lump in it. But Joy was not at home and Big Sue
grumbled.

“Gone to Zeda’s again. Joy keeps hankerin’ to hear news from Sherry. E
may as well quit dat. Sherry’s gone! Fo’ good! E ain’ got Joy to study
’bout! Not no mo’! No!”

When the sun went down, a great red ball, floods of brilliant light
gushed up around it, foretelling a cold night and a windy day
to-morrow. Water birds flew over the rice-fields, crying out in dread.
The trees were full of sighs. The open window blinds creaked dismally.
A puff of smoke came down the chimney. Winter was coming.

Dusk fell and the night closed in dark. Joy’s supper waited on the
hearth. Where could she be so late?

Breeze went to ask Zeda, but she wasn’t at home. Maum Hannah’s house
was dark, so he stopped at Bina’s to ask if any one there had seen Joy
lately.

Bina looked at him with searching eyes, “You is tryin’ to be smart,
enty? A-actin’ fool to ketch sense!” She sucked her teeth scornfully,
but Breeze didn’t understand what she meant.

“Don’ stan’ up an’ lie to me, boy! You know Joy an’ April went off on
de boat dis mawnin’.”

Breeze could scarcely believe his ears heard Bina right.

Joy and April gone? Together? Where had they gone?

Why hadn’t Joy told somebody?

He flew to tell Big Sue.

Instead of meeting the news with an outburst of grief, Big Sue
chuckled, “Who’d ’a’ thought my Joy could catch April! An’ Leah not yet
cold in her grave! Lawd! April’s old enough to be Joy’s daddy! Well,
all I got to say is dis! April was born fo’ luck. E ever did git de
best o’ ev’yt’ing on dis plantation.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The boat was due to return three days hence. When the time came the
whole plantation was at the landing to meet it.

As the old battered hulk hove in sight, around the bend, a hush fell on
the crowd, and every eye was fixed on the lower deck where April and
Joy stood, side by side, smiling happily. April took off his hat and
waved it. Joy fluttered a handkerchief to greet them.

They were both dressed fit to kill. Joy, gay as a peacock, in a dress
striped with yellow bands, and a hat with green ribbons and red
flowers. April looked youthful in a brand-new suit that showed off his
broad shoulders and slim waist well. He held Joy’s hand and led her
carefully over the unsteady gangplank, and she fell into Big Sue’s arms
while April looked on smiling and rubbing his hands awkwardly.

The crowd crushed around them, wishing them happiness, hoping they’d
live like Isaac and Rebecca, wishing them joy and a gal and a boy.
Breeze pressed forward too until he could touch Joy’s hand, and she
bent down and gave him a smacking kiss, then a hug.

“Looka li’l’ Breeze, Cun April,” she said, and April reached out and
shook his hand, and Joy added; “I done told you I was gwine be you’
mammy, Breeze, and Cun April’s you’ daddy, now.”

The people crammed too close around them. Breeze could scarcely
breathe. He got out quickly as he could, and went to the store steps to
wait with old Louder, who sat wagging his tail, and making short whines
of pleasure. Breeze and Big Sue, and most of the neighbors, went with
them to April’s cabin, where a huge fire was built, and the whole room
made light as day.

Big Sue and Bina bustled around cooking supper, and April’s children
and Breeze all helped. Sweetened bread and fried bacon and coffee with
plenty of cream and sugar, were passed around. The cabin was filled
with the fragrance of the food. But Joy couldn’t eat. Big Sue pressed
her to take something, but she said she couldn’t swallow a bite to save
her life.

April had eyes only for Joy. He leaned over and whispered softly, “Is
anyt’ing ail you, honey?”

But she shook her head. She was only weary, too weary to eat.

Some of the young folks suggested a dance, but April said they must
come back another night; Joy was weary. The boat trip was long, and the
chill of the river wind had her trembling yet.

When everybody had something to eat and drink, they said good night,
and tramped out into the night, Breeze and Big Sue last of all.

The dark roads and paths swarmed with merry people, the air rang with
songs and laughter.

“April sho’ is a fool over Joy!” Big Sue grunted as they turned into
the path toward home. “A pure fool. A ol’ fool is de worst fool too.”

Joy and April took supper with Big Sue Christmas Eve, and they helped
fill Breeze’s stocking. He knew, for soon after supper he was sent
to bed. They were in a hurry to get to Maum Hannah’s house where an
all-night meeting was to be held.

Breeze wanted to go too. He wanted to stay up for all the singing and
shouting, and see the cows kneel down and pray at midnight, and the sun
rise shouting in the east in the morning. But Big Sue said he was too
sleepy-headed for her to fool with him, and if he didn’t go to bed like
a good boy old Santy Claw would leave his stocking empty.

They all said good night and went out of the door and Breeze thought
they had gone for good. He was about to hop up and look at his stocking
when Joy ran back in, and, falling on the bed where he was, burst out
crying.

What on earth! Big Sue and April hurried in, and did all they could to
quiet her. Was she sick? Had somebody hurt her feelings? April petted
her and called her tender names, but she cried on even when her tears
were spent and broken sobs shook her of their own free will.

Big Sue called April into the other room and whispered to him. He came
back and asked Joy if she wouldn’t rather stay quietly with Breeze
and rest? He’d stay too if she liked, or go to meeting with Big Sue.
Whatever she wanted was the thing he wanted too. She got up and wiped
her eyes. She’d go home and go to bed. He could do whatever he liked.
Her words sounded cold, almost bitter.

But soon the next morning she came to show Big Sue the Christmas
presents April had given her. A watch to wear on her wrist, and a
diamond ring! The two must have cost twenty-five dollars, if not more.

The winter days passed slowly, many of them dull, gray, with an
overcast sky, where low clouds sailed and cast their murky color over
the ground. The first March day came in bright and warm, with a wind
that roared over the land, whipping the trees, snapping off their
rotten limbs, lifting old shingles off of roofs, sweeping yards and
woods clean, thrashing fields until clouds of dust and sand rose and
floated in the sky. But everybody rejoiced that winter was over and
gone. And besides, a windy March is lucky. Every pint of March dust
brings a peck of September corn, and a pound of October cotton. Let it
blow!

Such a high wind could never last. A March that comes in like a lion
will go out as quiet as a new-born lamb. Let it blow! But watch the
fires! One little spark can easily be fanned into a flame.

New leaves quivered and glittered on the restless boughs. Old leaves,
dead for months on the ground, hopped out from their resting-places
and skipped and flew, making brown leaf whirlwinds that spun around
dizzily, then settled in new sheltered places.

The wind lulled a little at sunset, and the night fell black and
cloudless. A multitude of stars crowded the sky, foretelling rain close
at hand. The rain was waiting for the blustery gale to hold still so
the clouds could gather and agree. In the night the wind rose and beat
against the cabin’s sides. It shook the walls, and whistled and whined
through the cracks. The front door banged wide open, as the nail that
held the bar frame was jerked out by its force. Finally Big Sue made
Breeze get up and get a hatchet and a long nail out of the tool-box
Santy Claw had given him, and she held the door while he nailed it up.

Big Sue was frightened. She kept talking to Breeze, trying to keep him
awake with her, but he was too sleepy-headed to listen. When he woke at
dawn a flood of rain was pouring down, and thunder roared louder than
the rain or wind.

As a fearful crash shook the earth. Big Sue opened the back door and
peeped out and quavered, “Git up, Breeze! Lightnin’ is struck dat big
pine yonder, close to April’s house! It’s afire! Dat bolt shooken de
whole earth. I bet April’ll find it. Lawd! E’s been diggin’ at de roots
o’ struck trees to git a bolt a long time! An’ now one mighty nigh hit
him!”

“What’s a bolt, Cun Big Sue?”

The wind howled as she answered, “Why, son, a thunderbolt is a’ iron
rod. If you finds one, you’ll have de power to rule life an’ death!”

The cabin was closed tight, yet so fierce was the lightning it blazed
through cracks right into the room. Blood-red streaks of light took
turns with others that were blue. Breeze shut his eyes and put the
pillow over his head. He finally dozed off, and slept until the morning
had come, clear of rain and wind, and filled with the warm breath of
the earth.

He was alone. Big Sue had gone to see April’s struck pine, so he
dressed and ran to see it too.

A crowd of people were around the burning tree, and others were coming.
All were talking excitedly. God must have His eye on April to aim a
thunderbolt so close to his house. He had a narrow escape. His house
might catch fire yet, for pieces of burning limbs were falling, and
water could not put out fire started with lightning. Nothing could, but
new milk from a cow with her first calf. Where would April get enough
of that to do any good?

April was brazenly unafraid. He laughed at the notion of getting a
heifer’s milk. He said he’d make water outen this fire, or any other
fire, that bothered his cabin. They’d see.

April sat in front of the fire on his hearth, and when Big Sue
fixed his breakfast in a pan and handed it to him, he called to the
neighbors, standing outside, “Yunnuh come an’ eat some breakfast wid
me. We’s got a-plenty fo’ ev’ybody.” At first all of them answered,
“No, thank you,” but when April insisted, a half-dozen or more went in
and took a piece of bread, or a mouthful of sweetened water.

“How’s Joy?” Bina asked Big Sue politely.

“Joy’s awful nervish since dat tree got struck. I made em stay in bed
dis mawnin’.”

“Joy ain’ been well in a good while,” Bina commented.

Big Sue’s eyes snapped. “Joy ever was a delicate child, Bina. You know
dat good as me.”

The thick high trees, lapping their branches overhead, sheltered the
cabins from a sun that burned down, fierce and bright, drawing a strong
steamy stench up from the heated mud flats left naked by the outgone
tide.

The fields were all too wet for plowing, and the blacksmith shop was
the center for the day’s work. Plowshares needed to be filed and
sharpened. Plow-stocks mended. Mules’ feet trimmed. Manes and tails
clipped short. A few of the older, thinner beasts had got lousy. The
hair must be cut off them and their hides wet with tea made out of
china-berry leaves.

The men laughed and talked and chewed tobacco and smoked, as they
worked leisurely at their different tasks. A difference of opinion rose
as to the best place to twitch a mule to make him stand still for his
hair to be cut off. A twine-string could be twisted around an ear, or
tied to the upper lip. Uncle Bill preferred the lip. He said mules have
pockets inside their ears and a string twisted tight enough to hold the
beast quiet, will tear that pocket in two. April objected to the twitch
on the lip, for it often caused a painful swelling.

The question was still unsettled when Brudge came running hard as he
could, crying out that Joy had been taken with a death-sickness. She
was lying on the bed in a trance. She couldn’t speak a word. Brudge
almost popped out his eyeballs showing how her eyes were rolled away
back in her head. Her hands and feet were cold as clabber. Big Sue said
April must hurry or Joy would be gone before he got there!

April did not wait to hear the end of Brudge’s talk, but flew home
ahead of them all with Breeze close at his heels. Lamentations and
outcries met them as they got nearer. Big Sue’s above all the rest. Joy
was dying. Nothing but a death-sickness could strike a young woman down
so hard.

Breeze was almost petrified with terror, but he dragged himself on to
the cabin, which was already filled with the neighbors. Joy lay on the
bed covered over with a quilt, up to her very neck. Her eyes were shut.
Her head moved from side to side. Her lips whispered things nobody
could hear at all.

Big Sue sat near the bed in a low chair, her fat body rocking. Big
tears rolled down her cheeks as she chanted over and over.

“Do, Jedus! Don’ let Joy dead!

“Oh, my Gawd! Help my chile! Help em!

“Oh, Lawd! Oh, my Gawd!

“Don’ let Joy dead dis mawnin’!”

April broke through the crowd surrounding the bed, and taking one of
Joy’s hands from under the cover felt her pulse, then leaned over to
hear what she was saying. “No. No, honey,” he crooned, “you wouldn’
dead an’ leave me. No. No. I couldn’ do widout you nohow. I wouldn’
’a’ left you last night in dat storm, but I was ’fraid de stables
would blow down an’ kill all de mules an’ horses. De storm is gone. De
lightnin’ didn’ hurt nobody. Death is gone away off now. E can’ take
you. No!”

Breeze pricked up his ears. Was death about to take Joy?

As her life fluttered uncertainly, Big Sue’s wailing and misery were
less hard to bear than April’s fierce resolute manner.

Joy had to get well. No matter what ailed her. If she was conjured,
Uncle Isaac had to take off the spell. If the storm had scared her
until her heart-string was strained, she must keep still and rest
until it went back into place. Nobody must come in the room to worry
her with talking. Send for Maum Hannah. No matter if she was at the end
of the earth instead of the end of the “Neck,” go fetch her! Hurry!
Don’t tarry and waste any more time! Fetch Maum Hannah! Joy had a
death-sickness!

Uncle Bill hitched up the fastest horse in the barnyard to the lightest
cart, and went flying down the road for Maum Hannah, who had gone to a
sick woman some miles away. When he got back, several hours later, the
horse was lathered with sweat, and all but broken winded, but Joy was
still alive.

The room was chock-full, the door choked with people, both windows were
dark with heads. Big Sue’s mourning that had fallen into a low mumbling
prayer to Jesus now changed and livened to:

“Do, Maum Hannah! Help my Joy!

“Do, Maum Hannah! Don’ let Joy dead!

“Do, Maum Hannah!”

Maum Hannah hurried up the steps as fast as her crippled knee would
let her. She was all out of breath, but instead of pitying Big Sue,
she stopped still and eyed her with an impatient grunt. “Do shut you’
mouth, Big Sue! You ought to be shame’ to cut all dis crazy! You can’
fool dese people. No! Everybody knows wha’ ails Joy, ’ceptin’ April.
An’ e ought to take you out an’ duck you good in de creek fo’ makin’
such a fool out o’ him! Dat fine horse is most dead! Bill made em run
so fas’, de wind likened to ’a’ cut my breath off. You people go home.
Gi’ Joy a chance to turn dat chile loose. Joy done well to hold em dis
long but e can’ hold em no longer. Yunnuh go on! Go on, Breeze! Yunnuh
clear de room!”

Big Sue stopped grieving and stared, but Maum Hannah’s talk stung
April to the quick. He stepped up to her angrily, but she stopped
taking off her cloak long enough to pat his arm, “Don’ be vexed wid
me, son. I’m tellin’ yunnuh what Gawd loves, de truth! Joy’s done well
to hold dat chile dis long. You married in de Christmas, enty? Well,
Joy can’ hold em six more months. I know dat. Dat gal’s got to turn em
loose, no matter if it do hurt you’ feelin’s!”

Joy trembled like a leaf in a storm. Her dazed eyes turned from Maum
Hannah to April, who was silent, except for one word. “Bitch,” he
snarled, and his eyes blazed like lightning flashes, as he turned and
left the room.

Breeze left too, but he scarcely knew where he was, or where he was
going. April had cursed Joy and she a-dying!

He dragged himself home and fell across Joy’s own bed, for Big Sue was
not there to stop him. He wept until his tears failed him. He tried his
best to pray, “O Gawd, don’ let Joy die--” but he went fast asleep. He
slept heavily until a harsh hoarse voice waked him. He came instantly
to his senses, and tried to stammer out some excuse, but Big Sue’s grim
swollen face made his words falter, and the slap her hand laid on his
jaw brought shining stars in front of his eyes.

“Git up and go borrow a piece o’ fire f’om somebody! Hurry, too, befo’
I kill you!”

He ran to April’s house, but stopped at the step for a tiny baby was
crying inside. He ran all the way to Zeda’s and borrowed a piece of
fire, then flew home. As he made up the fire for Big Sue, she walked
around the room unsteadily, mumbling between her teeth. If April
mistreated her Joy now, she herself would put a “hand” on him; one
so strong that it would wither his hands! And his feet! She couldn’t
keep still or stop talking. Her tongue lashed April and Joy too, and
each word was a poison sting. Who was he to blame Joy? He had children
scattered from one end of this “Neck” to the other. Now he cursed Joy
as if she were lowest of the low. It was a shame! A heavy shame! Joy
must leave him at once!

The wind had risen and whistled through the trees, tossing the
branches, making them moan. Big Sue talked on and on. Breeze was glad
when she went back to April’s cabin, although she left him without a
bite to eat. He’d go somewhere and get supper. Maybe Uncle Bill was at
home. He’d go see.

To his surprise April was there too, sitting by the fire, miserably
dejected, while Uncle Bill talked to him, trying to cheer him.

Breeze had hardly got inside when Zeda arrived and, brushing past Uncle
Bill, walked up to April and put a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me,
April. I got somet’ing to say to you.” Bitter spite hurried her words.

But April, instead of looking up as she bade him, leaned forward and
spat in the fire.

“Wha’ ails you, now, Zeda?” he asked curtly.

“I kin easy say what ails me; dat new-born child yonder ’side Joy is
my gran’! But e’s you’ gran’, too! Joy had dat chile for Sherry, an’
you ain’ gwine put no dis-grace-ment on em. No. If nobody else can’
hinder you, I kin. I already got you’ feet so dey can’ rest. Wid Leah’s
death-sheet.”

April heard her, and although he didn’t answer, his jaw set his teeth
hard enough to bite a ten-penny nail in two. Zeda smiled.

“You may as well give in, April,” she persisted. “Sherry’s you own, an’
who is Breeze, but you’ own? Ev’body knows dat. It’s a wonder somebody
ain’ cut you’ throat long time ago. If you wa’n’t so lucky you’d ’a’
been in hell wid some o’ dem women you sent dere.”

“How come you meddlin’ in my business so raven?” April suddenly flashed
out.

“Dat li’l’ chile is my business. Joy had em fo’ Sherry, a li’l’
boy-chile, too. You go on home an’ tell Joy to hurry up an’ git well.
’Tain’ no use to hold hard feelin’s ’gainst em. No! Joy’s had you a
gran’son.”

When he did not stir, she blazed out: “You’ neck is stiff, enty! So’s
my own! An’ I hope a misery’ll gnaw you’ heart in two. I hope you’ll
die of thirst an’ hunger. I hope ev’y lawful yard-chile you had by
Leah’ll perish. I hope you’ feet’ll rot----”

“You shut you’ mouth, Zeda. If you cuss me again I’ll choke you’ tongue
down you’ throat.” April got up and fled from her bitter words.




XVIII

JOY AND APRIL


For days after Joy’s child was born, Big Sue kept to her cabin. Joy
had disgraced her, made her ashamed to show her face in company. She’d
never forgive Joy as long as she lived. Never. Joy saw Leah drop dead
in her face, yet she went straight on and married Leah’s husband. A
shame! Joy would sup sorrow yet. She might bewitch April and make a
plumb fool out of him, but she’d pay for bringing disgrace on her
mother who had worked her knuckles to the bone to keep Joy in school!

If Joy had behaved herself, she might have married anybody instead of
a man old as her daddy, and conjured to boot. That death-sheet had put
a spell on April. Sure as preaching. He’d never be the same man again.
He’d have run Joy out of his house if he had been in his right mind.

She talked so fast and loud one morning she didn’t see Uncle Bill until
he was at the door-step. “How come you tiptoes around so easy dis
mornin’!” she asked tartly.

“Gawd knows how I’m a-walkin’, I’m so fretted.”

“Wha’ dat ail you now?”

“Joy sent me to tell you.”

“How come Joy don’ fetch e own answer?”

“Joy’s too troub-led.”

Big Sue shot a look at him and sucked her teeth. “Joy’s mighty late
gittin’ troub-led,” and a hard, wicked smile touched her mouth.

“Joy’s troub-led about April. April ain’ well, Miss Big Sue.”

Big Sue sniffed and said April was due to have something wrong with
him, wicked as he had lived, hard as he had been with everybody that
crossed him. What kind of sickness did April have?

“Somet’ing ails his feets.”

“Dat ain’ surprisin’. April slept wid a death-sheet on ’em a whole
night.”

“Uncle Isaac took dat spell off em.”

“Well, who put dis spell on em, den?”

Uncle Bill sat down on the step. He was so troubled in his mind, it
was difficult for him to say what ailed April. At first it favored
chilblains; then ground-itch, for April went out barefooted in the
dew every morning God sent, and any little scratch that lets dew get
inside your skin may give you ground-itch. But none of the chilblain or
ground-itch cures helped him at all. His appetite was clean gone. He
had eaten nothing but spoon-victuals for a week. He was thin as a fence
rail.

Big Sue made an ugly mouth. What did she care? Why hadn’t April
married a settled woman who could cook decent rations instead of a
scatter-brained girl like Joy who didn’t know the name of one pot from
another? He needn’t be sending word here about victuals. Let April eat
what Joy fixed for him. Love would season up lumpy hominy and make
doughy bread taste good.

Uncle Bill sat frowning, chewing his tobacco wearily, studying. Joy
had said she hated to worry Big Sue. She was sorry for all that had
happened. Joy was a good girl. She had slipped up once, and made a bad
mistake, but any young inexperienced girl is likely to miss and do
that. April did right to excuse her.

Big Sue sneered. Joy had worked one sharp trick. Leah herself couldn’t
have fooled April any slicker. Joy ever was tricky, though. Just like
Silas for the world. Likely as not, Joy had April conjured right now.

Uncle Bill pursed up his lips so tight, they looked as if they’d never
open and speak again, and his eyes were full of worry.

“Whyn’ you go see Uncle Isaac? E might could help April?” Big Sue asked
presently.

“I done seen em. When de bear-grass poultices and de violet-leaves tea
failed, I went an’ got Uncle Isaac. Joy sent me. I don’ like charms. I
don’ trust ’em. I know a Christian man ain’ got no business foolin’ wid
’em. But Joy was so fretted, I done it to please her. I kept a-studyin’
over it; one mind said do it; another mind said, no, I better ask all
de Christian people to hold a prayer-meetin’ an’ ask Gawd to help
April; I listened at dem two minds arguin’ one whole night befo’ I give
in to Joy. An’ now I wish to Gawd I didn’ heed em.”

“How come so? April wouldn’ wear em, I bet you!” Big Sue was listening
with interest now, anxious to know what happened, but Uncle Bill took
his time.

April did everything Joy said. Wilful and unruly as he was with every
one else, he tried to please Joy. And yet when Joy brought that charm
to him and began coaxing him to let her tie it around his neck, he
balked. Joy had to outtalk him.

For a whole day and night April wore it, a little cloth bag, tied with
a white horse hair; but because it didn’t cure his feet right away, he
jerked it off and threw it in the fire. Such a pity. Even strong charms
take time to start working. April ever was a short-patienced man. He
made trouble for himself by hastiness. A man can be hot-blooded and
pettish with people but not with charms or magic.

Joy snatched the bag out of the flames, but it was scorched and a hole
burned in one side. A speck of the mixture inside it spilled out on the
coals and smoked such a strong smoke, April sneezed three times!

Right then, the gristles in April’s feet got hard. Hard as a rock! God
only knew if they’d ever go back to their rightful softness.

Uncle Isaac made Joy take the bag off to the woods and bury it at the
foot of a locust tree, but April got worse and worse. His feet were
numb and hard and dry. Joy wanted to send for a white doctor. They
might get one to come on the boat from town, and with the crop so
promising they’d have money to pay him next fall. But April wouldn’t
have it. He said Maum Hannah knew more than any white doctor.

Big Sue kept shaking her head and grunting shamelessly until Uncle Bill
got up painfully to go. Something in his sad face must have moved her,
for all of a sudden she scrambled to her feet, letting her scraps fall
on the floor. “I made some nice little sweetened breads dis mawnin’.
Take some to April. I sho’ am sorry ’bout his feets. You tell em so.
I’m gwine broil em a fat pullet, too.”

“Ev’y man has to manage his own dueness, but how ’bout gwine along wid
me, to see April, Miss Big Sue? You done chastise Joy long enough. De
gal’s in trouble.”

“I can’ go, not so well, right now, Uncle Bill, but Breeze kin go
if e’ll thread me two or three needles first.” She started to say
more, but she changed her mind and kept silent, her eyes cast down
on her sewing. When she did speak it was to say Joy had been mighty
shut-mouthed about April. Joy had funny ways.

Breeze and Uncle Bill found April with a quilt around him, sitting
alone by the fire, looking at his feet. Looking and looking. His heavy
black brows overshadowed his sad eyes as they lifted and hovered over
Breeze, then Uncle Bill. But as soon as he shook hands and said “thank
you” for the food, they fell, and settled on his feet, which were bare
and on the hearth very close to the fire.

The weather had turned off cool in the night, but there was no reason
for April to keep his feet so close to the fire. Uncle Bill told him
he’d scorch them, but April shook his head and said they felt no heat
at all. Not a bit. They had gone to sleep or something. They felt like
blocks of wood. And he moved them stiffly, as if they were.

He complained that he had no appetite. He was tired too. Sitting still
was the hardest work he had ever done in his life. If he could read, or
if he had somebody to talk to, if he had something pleasant to think
about, it would help pass the time. But he couldn’t read, and he didn’t
want anybody to stay at home out of the field. Cotton needs fast hoeing
during these warm wet days. He wished he could stop off thinking. Stop
short off. He’d like to go to sleep and never wake up any more. He’d go
crazy if he had to stay still and look at his feet much longer. What in
God’s name ailed them! Nobody seemed to know!

Uncle Bill tried to tell him the plantation news, but April’s eyes
stayed on his feet. Uncle Bill offered to teach him to read if he
wanted to learn. Now would be a good time for April to learn how to
write. He ought to learn to write his name if no more. Every man ought
to know how to write his name. But April said he never had much faith
in books and reading. Black people were better off without it. It takes
their mind off their work. It makes them think about things they can’t
have. They’re better off without knowing how. Uncle Bill didn’t argue.

All of a sudden a coal popped out of the hearth with a sharp explosion.
It fell right between April’s feet, as if it could see and did it on
purpose. It lay there, red, bright, like a dare. April opened his tired
eyes wide, and leaned forward and looked at it, for instead of dying
out it burned freer. April carefully raised one long black bony foot
and placed its heel on the coal. He waited a moment; then he lifted it
up and stared at Uncle Bill. His scared eyes told what had happened.
Breeze knew too.

April had felt no heat. His foot was dead. It couldn’t feel fire! April
grabbed the fire shovel, and scraped up a batch of live coals from
under the fire and dropped them on the hearth. He’d see if fire had
stopped being hot. Uncle Bill didn’t raise a finger to stop him when he
lifted his other foot and pressed its heel down on the coals and mashed
hard on them.

The bitter smell of his burned flesh stung the air. April’s eyes
glared, and he laughed a harsh discordant laugh. But a sob quickly
caught him by the throat and choked him. He leaned over and picked up a
live coal in his fingers, then dropped it quickly, for his fingers were
alive. They could feel. The coal burned them. But his feet were dead.
They couldn’t feel even fire!

“Oh, Gawd!” he moaned, and his long fingers knotted and clenched, his
strong tobacco-yellowed teeth ground together.

Joy came in from the field to feed her little baby. Nobody heard her
bare footsteps, until she spoke to Uncle Bill and Breeze. She went up
to April and put a hand on his arm, and asked how his feet were. She
leaned over and looked at them, but he drew them underneath his chair.
He didn’t want her to see. He reached for the quilt on the floor beside
him and covered them over.

“My feets is all right,” he told her gruffly.

But Joy sniffed the air once or twice, she searched the fire with her
eyes, then she swept the hearth clean of the coals. She patted April’s
shoulder, and said gentle things to him. He must have patience. She’d
make some fresh violet-leaves tea and soak his feet. She was sure that
would help them.

Bright tears ran out of April’s eyes, down his thin hard cheeks, and
fell on the bony clasped hands that held tight to each other in his
lap. Breeze could hardly bear to see those tears. Uncle Bill got up
and tried to say something, but his voice broke, and he began punching
the fire. For April was crying out loud. Saying he had given out! He
couldn’t go on any longer!

Joy put her arms around him and held his head on her bosom, and patted
his face and tried to hush him. She wiped his tears away with her
homespun apron, and smoothed his eyelids softly. Her fingers were
trembling, but April became quieter. She stroked his head and begged
him to go back to bed and lie down and rest.

He was hard and sullen, and frowned as if she had insulted him. He’d
stay right where he was. Bed and chair were the same to him now. Joy
stood with her eyes on the red embers, never answering back a single
time, even when anger made the words strangle in his throat. It was
hard for him to bend his neck under such a galling, hellish yoke.

Until now he had never asked a favor of anybody in his whole life. He
had always worked, and made others work. His women and children too.
And now his feet, the feet that had carried him faithfully through all
these years, the only ones he could ever have, had failed him. They
made game of him. And it was more than he could bear. He bellowed out
recklessly, but Joy got a pan and spoon and dipped some hot soup from
a pot on the hearth and urged him to taste it. He shook his head. He
didn’t want soup. He didn’t want anything to eat. He’d rather starve
to death than be helpless. Joy began some pleasant talk. How fast the
cotton was growing. The fields were green. Last night’s shower was the
very thing spring oats needed. He leaned back in his chair, humbled,
crushed with misery. Uncle Bill said he would come back a little later
and bring April some medicine. Some strong medicine from the Big House
medicine chest. It would help those feet.

April reached out and took his friend’s hand. He put it up to his
cheek, but dropped it, for the back log burned in two and broke and a
shower of sparks spun threads of fire that reached out and threatened
to catch the quilt!

“I’ll stay wid em,” Joy said gently. “I’ll warm up de nice chicken an’
rice you brought an’ feed em wid a spoon.”

When Breeze got home Big Sue asked him lots of questions about April.
How his feet looked? Did April seem down-hearted over them? Was
Joy with him? How did she take his trouble? Breeze told her all he
remembered, and she shook her head. She was sorry for April.

It was past mid-afternoon when Uncle Bill came back, and asked Big
Sue to lend him a quart cup and a teaspoon. He wanted to measure some
water and medicine for April’s feet. He was going to soak them in water
flavored with a medicine the white folks used. She offered to lend him
her new tin washtub, but Uncle Bill said Joy had plenty of tubs.

“Dey might not be new an’ clean as my own,” Big Sue insisted. “Joy
ever was careless. A new tub is better anyhow.”

Uncle Bill consented, and Breeze went along to carry it. They found Joy
sitting by the fire patching, and April holding a pan of food in his
lap.

Joy asked them to come in and sit down and talk to April and coax him
to eat his dinner. His appetite was slow. She did her best to talk
cheerfully.

But April’s face was glum, and his voice lagged wearily as he said, “I
don’ wan’ to eat.” With a bony hand he held out the pan, still full of
food. “Take em. I got ’nough.”

Joy took it and moved away without speaking. As she walked toward the
shelf she almost stumbled into a small boy, who hopped nimbly into the
room, laughing and out of breath. She put her hand on his shoulder and
shook him, and he got sober. Soon the other children came trooping in,
little and big, and all in-between size, one with Joy’s baby in his
arms.

“Mind. Keep quiet,” Joy warned. “Pa don’ like no fuss.”

Then they tipped around quietly, and whispered to Breeze to come with
them while they cut some wood and brought it in, and went to the spring
for water. The older ones said, “How you feelin’, Pa?” That was all,
for April did not turn his head or answer.

Every child glanced at his feet. April saw it. And he saw how they all
looked away quickly, except one little boy who giggled out loud.

Joy shook her head vexedly, and motioned to the child to go on out, for
anger crazed April. His own child had laughed at him! He sat up and
blazed out, “Dat’s de way! Let a man git down an’ e’s de butt o’ his
own flesh an’ blood! Dat’s de way! Chillen don’ hab respect fo’ nobody!
Not dese days!”

Breeze felt afraid. He didn’t want to play. He’d rather stay close by
Uncle Bill. When things got quieter again, Uncle Bill suggested kindly:

“April, son, I tell you wha’ le’s do. Lemme hotten some water an’ gi’
you’ feet a good soakin’. You would feel better when dey’s had a dose
o’ dis medicine f’om de Big House.” He held up the small bottle. It had
a skull and cross-bones label. The white liquid in it trembled, with a
glitter.

April did not answer, and Joy filled the big black kettle on the hearth
with water, and pushed it up nearer the red coals.

As soon as it sang out that the water was hot, Uncle Bill poured it
quart by quart into the tub. Then he carefully measured quarts of water
from a bucket on the shelf to cool it. He felt it with his hand, and
Joy felt it too, so it would be neither too cold nor too hot.

“It’s ’bout right,” she said, and Uncle Bill put in the medicine. One
spoonful to every quart of water. How it smelt! Joy pushed the tub
closer to April, then lifted the helpless feet, one at a time, and put
them into the water.

“It’s ’bout right, enty?” she asked him.

“I dunno,” April gloomed. “I can’ feel em.”

And she turned away with a sigh.

The clothes to be patched were on the floor in a pile. Joy mended the
fire, then moved nearer its light to sew. Uncle Bill sat and talked
pleasantly while April’s feet soaked. The crops were promising. Cotton
and corn, and peas and potatoes, and rice all were up and growing.
Everybody ought to be thankful with so many blessings. The fire kept up
a spiteful popping, aiming bits of live coal at each of them. Some fell
into the water and died; others hit Joy’s pile of clothes.

April moved restlessly. “I’m ready fo’ lay down,” he said dully.
“Uncle Bill, you help Joy git me to bed.”

Joy got up, letting her lapful of things scatter over the floor. “Wait.
Lemme git something soft fo’ wipe you’ feet on.” She hurried to an old
trunk in the corner and got out a piece of soft worn cloth. Then she
came back and knelt down by the tub.

April and Uncle Bill both jumped when she gave a sharp outcry and sat
back flat on the floor. She stared. Then she leaned over with squinting
eyes, as if the light hurt her eyes. She gasped like her wind-pipe was
cracked, “Great Gawd, what has you done, Uncle Bill!” Her body was
trembling and her eyes had a foolish roll as they lifted to April’s
face. She was shivering all over. She was having a chill, or some kind
of a stroke!

April told Breeze to call some of the children to come to Joy. He put
out his hand to help steady her. But she sat back on her feet and put
a hand to her head. Maybe she ate too much dinner. Breeze felt giddy
himself, and tired and unhappy. His head swam when he moved. He wanted
to go home, but he couldn’t leave Uncle Bill to bring Big Sue’s tub.

“Set down, Joy. Set down!” April scolded fretfully. “Don’ try fo’ stan’
up. You might fall. None o’ we ain’ able to ketch you if you do. You
haffer take care o’ you’se’f now. I ain’ able fo’ look after you.”

He spoke quickly for his patience was short.

“You must ’a’ strained you’ eye on de sewin’. Lay flat on de floor till
you feel better. I kin wait.” April moved stiffly, with a deep sigh.

But Joy’s wide-opened eyes stared at the tub. She was gone plumb fool!
Plumb daffy!

“Uncle Bill----” her lips shook so they could hardly make his name.
“Looka! Fo’ Gawd’s sake!” she whispered. “De medicine must ’a’ been too
strong!”

Breeze could scarcely tell what she said, for she ran her words all
together and she shook with a chill. Fever makes people so sometimes.

“Do talk hard, Joy. I can’ hear no whisperin’! Who you scared gwine
hear you? A sperit?” April scolded.

Breeze’s eyes followed Joy’s to the tub. He stared too. He saw what
made her teeth click together----

April’s toes.

They had come loose from his feet, and floated around in the tub. In
the clear warm water, sharp-flavored with the strong white medicine.
Breeze felt dazed. His head was queer. The room, the walls began to
move around and wave up and down.

When April saw the toes he began to laugh. An ugly croaking,
high-pitched laugh that chilled Breeze’s blood, and made the water
swish in the tub.

The toes, all loose, free from the feet, swam around swiftly and
circled and danced. One big toe slid next to a little one and stopped!

April half-rose to his feet and shouted:

“Look! My Gawd! Is you ever see sich a t’ing in you’ life? My toes is
come off. Dey runs by deyse’f! Fo’ Gawd’s sake!”

His reddened eyes shone. He tried to step. Then he sat down clumsily.
Heavily. He leaned forward, spellbound, whispering horrified words.
Breeze shook with terror, for April’s words were as strange as the toes
jumbled together. He glared at Breeze, then at Uncle Bill. “Yunnuh
hurry up! Hurry up!” he yelled fiercely, getting up on his feet again.
“Do somet’ing! Quick! My toes is off!”

He tottered, for the bottom of the tub was slippery footing for his
broken feet, and with a crumple he fell forward on the floor.

Joy cried out sharply, and begged Breeze to go call the children. Then
she ran to the open door, and stretching her body to its utmost height,
tilted back her head and sent out long throat-splitting calls that cut
into Breeze’s ears! She stopped to tell Uncle Bill to go fetch Maum
Hannah, who had gone way down the country, catching children.

She wrung her hands and wailed. That medicine must have been too
strong! Too strong! Uncle Bill said maybe that charm did it! April
wore it a whole day around his neck! Did that old hoodoo doctor over
the river have aught against April? That charm was too strong. Maybe
Joy had buried it wrong! Maybe it ought not to have been buried at
all--maybe--maybe--Leah’s death-sheet was to blame.

Breeze tried to help Joy and Uncle Bill get April to bed, then Joy
slipped out of the door. She’d go try to find that charm. But if she
found it, what could she do? April’s toes were off. No charm could put
them on again. That was certain.

Uncle Bill was sure he measured the medicine. Over and over, he said
it; a teaspoonful to the quart of water. That was all he put. It
couldn’t hurt a tender baby’s feet. He had seen the white people use
it, and they have weak skins. But April’s toes were off! And there
was no way to put them back on. That scorched charm must be to blame,
unless poisoning boll-weevils last summer poisoned his feet too. Uncle
Isaac had drowned the death-sheet, and killed its spell--in spite of
Zeda.

April didn’t seem to realize what had happened. He kept saying, over
and over, “How’m I gonna walk widout toes?” He was too stiff in his
joints to bend over far enough to look at his feet. Uncle Bill got the
mirror that hung by the open window. A small square wavy looking-glass
that made foolish-looking images. The old man tried to hold it so
April could see the feet in the mirror, but his hands shook so that
Breeze had to take it and hold it. The horror in April’s face made
Breeze’s own blood freeze. April’s lips and tongue went stiff. They
could scarcely say, “How’m I gonna walk widout toes.”

He asked to see the bottle of white medicine Uncle Bill used in the
water. He took out the stopper and smelled it, touched it to his
tongue. It was too strong! Yes! Too strong! It cut his tongue!

Two days later when the boat came Uncle Bill and Brudge took April to
the town in the river’s mouth, so some white doctor might see him and
cure him. But when they came home Uncle Bill said the white doctor
had taken April to a hospital and cut both his legs off, at his hips!
The doctor said blood clots in the veins of April’s legs had cut off
the blood flow to his feet. That was why they died. The doctor called
it gangrene. He said no charm could cause it, not even a death-sheet.
April would get well after a month or two, and he could wear wooden
legs with steel joints. They’d walk and carry him as well as his old
legs had done, when he learned how to rule them and make them step.
But it would take time. April would have to have patience now. Long
patience.

The white doctor was kind, polite. He would write Joy exactly how April
mended. She mustn’t worry. Everything would come right. April was no
common weak man to give up. Never in this world. The plantation people
must all pray for April to keep in good heart, and not get scared about
himself. And Joy must have faith that April would get safely through
this great trial.

Uncle Bill went to see the preacher April had bitten. His cheek had not
rotted off at all. The white doctor had fixed it. But it looked queer,
for it was drawn up tight like the mouth of a tobacco sack pulled
together with draw-strings.

From that day Joy showed no sign of weakness. She shirked nothing,
yielded nothing to Leah’s children who gave up being impudent to her
face and did their grumbling about her behind her back.

When the stables were cleaned out and the black manure piled out in
the corn-field, Joy went out at dawn with the other women, barefooted,
scantily dressed, a rough crocus sack made into an apron to hold the
stuff, and scattered it all day long, up and down the corn rows,
leading the women as they marched abreast, singing, “Follow me--”
to their chorus, “We’s a-followin’ on,” and ending, “I’ll lead you
gentel-eee home!”

When the cotton was up to a thick stand and ready to be thinned, she
tied her skirt up high out of the dew and took her hoe and chopped row
for row with the best hoe hands, leaving the stalks one hoe’s width
apart and cutting out every grass blade. She hung up eggshells to make
the hens lay well, fed them sour dough to make them set, patched the
garden fence and filled the rich plot of earth with seed.

She set hens and took them off with broods of biddies and dusted them
with ashes to kill the lice. For one so frail-looking, Joy did wonders.

Everybody praised her but Leah’s children, who had naught against her
except she had married April, and Big Sue, who kept her distance,
pretending that Joy had disgraced her. But Zeda said Big Sue was
jealous of Joy’s getting April.

Joy visited few of her neighbors except Maum Hannah and Zeda, and she
took no part in the plantation quarrels and disagreements, or in the
arguments about what had caused April’s trouble. People asked her a
thousand questions, but she was a close-mouthed woman. She didn’t
know anything about anything, to hear her tell it, and she listened,
mute, dumb, when they came to her, wondering if the death-sheet or
the scorched charm or the white folks’ medicine had ruined April? Joy
agreed with them that charms were dangerous. But store-bought medicine
is not to be trusted either. Leah got herself salivated by taking one
lone teaspoonful of a scentless, tasteless white powder. It looked weak
as flour, yet it loosened every tooth in her mouth and made them all
drop out, whole. If April hadn’t been a mighty faithful man he’d have
left Leah altogether right then. Where’s another man would stick? Leah
was a fool to prank with things she didn’t understand. April did well
ever to look at her again, for no man could be raven about a salivated
woman, yet he even took her to town and bought her new teeth. No man
could have done more than that. They cost more than a bale of cotton.
Leah was ever contrary. Jealous. Maybe it was Leah that had tricked
him now. Who could tell? She died too hard to rest easy in her grave.
And she never took her eyes off of April while she lived. No doubt her
spirit was after him still.

The weather was exactly right for the cotton; mornings wet with dew,
noons fever hot; nights still and steamy and stifling. Except for the
accursed boll-weevils the crop was most promising. The tender leaves
multiplied and widened, and from morning until night they lifted their
faces to get every bit of sunshine they could hold. The three-cornered
squares clustered on the limbs, but not a blossom showed, for swarms
of boll-weevils punctured these buds and made them drop off before a
creamy petal could form. Well-nigh every fallen square held a grub.
A few days more and they’d be weevils, ready to lay more eggs in new
squares, and hatch more weevils. Unless something was done to stop
them, the crop might as well be thrown away.

Uncle Bill and Uncle Isaac were upset. What were they to do? They sent
every man and woman and child on the plantation to the field to pick
the squares and try to catch the weevils, but the squares fell off
behind them as fast as they picked those in front, and the pesky weevil
fell off the stalks on the ground, too, as soon as anybody came near
them. They played dead like ’possums, and they were colored so near
like the dirt, the sharpest eyes couldn’t find them.

Uncle Bill walked up and down the rows watching, and frowning darkly.
At last he stopped beside Zeda, and asked her where Sherry was. He’d
have to come home and poison the cotton or the whole crop was done
for. Not enough money would be made on the whole place to buy a pair
of rope lines. Sherry would come back if he knew how bad things were.
He wouldn’t hold hard feelings against April if he could see him. God
had punished April enough to wipe out every sin he had ever done in his
life. Sherry must forgive him too, and come back and help fight the
weevils. Zeda listened coldly. She looked at Uncle Bill, then at the
others.

“Uncle Bill is talkin’ out a new side o’ his mouth to-day, enty?” She
tried to laugh indifferently, but everybody knew Sherry’s going had cut
her to the quick and she’d be glad enough to get him back.

“You’s right, Zeda. I is talkin’ a new talk. But de ox is in de ditch.
An’ de ditch is deep. De plantation is in distress, an’ nobody can’
save em but Sherry.”

All the people stood still heeding every word, now and again making low
remarks to one another.

“You’s right, Uncle. I know I don’ relish plowin’ f’om sun to sun not
lessen I’m doin’ some good. De more we plow, de more de cotton grows
an’ de more it puts on squares to feed de boll-evils. April pizened
’em last year. Sherry helped em den. Le’s send at Sherry to come home.
Git a letter wrote to em an’ tell em if he would come home we mens’ll
make em foreman. How ’bout dat?” asked Jake, Bina’s husband.

The men looked at him, searched one another’s faces, growled among
themselves. The women fell into groups, the loudest talkers laying out
opinions, some for, some against, Sherry’s being made foreman. True
enough, they needed a foreman. No plantation as large as Blue Brook
could half-way run without a man to head the hands and be their leader.
Sherry was young. Wild. Head-strong. He wasn’t even married and settled.

Zeda called out impatiently:

“Talk it over good! Make up you’ minds! Sherry’s comin’ or not comin’
is one to me! E’s got a fine job, yonder up-North. E’s makin’ money
hand over fist. His wages fo’ one day is more dollars dan e would see
in a month here at Blue Brook.”

Her words struck home. After a few silent moments, the people began
saying:

“Write em to come, Zeda!”

“Tell em we want em fo’ foreman!”

“Tell em de crop’ll be ruint widout em!”

“We sho’ do need em!”

Casting a side-glance toward Joy, alone at one side, saying nothing,
yet keeping track of every glance that passed between the others, Zeda
stood a little straighter, and cleared her throat that her words might
be plain.

“One more t’ing; I ain’ told nobody before. Not yet. But Sherry is
married to a gal yonder up-North. She might not be willin’ to come to
Blue Brook.”

Joy’s body stiffened, her eyes widened, her arms fell to her sides, but
the others laughed and joked over the news until their voices ran into
an excited chorus.

“Write Sherry to bring dat gal on home!”

“Lawd, dat news sho’ do surprise me!”

“T’ink o’ Sherry takin’ a wife in dat strange country!”

“Lawd, dat boy done fast work! Jedus!”

“Who’s gwine help Sherry pizen de cotton if he do come?” Zeda was in
earnest.

“All o’ we!”

“All de mens!”

“Sho’! Ev’ybody’ll help em!”

Zeda bowed. That settled it. She’d get Joy to write a letter to send
off by the next mail.

The crowd felt such relief, they broke into gay laughter. Merry jokes
were cracked. The boll-weevils were left in the field. Sherry would fix
them.

The people all turned home. In groups of three or four they talked and
laughed boisterously, boasting what a good crop would be made this
year. The cotton plants were strong. Able. The grass well-nigh killed
out. Poisoning would do the rest.

Every trace of down-heartedness was gone. Discouragement forgotten.
Sherry would come back and kill all the boll-weevils. Blue Brook would
roll in money next fall.

Joy plodded home, stopping at times as if she didn’t see the path
clearly. Once or twice she stumbled. The whole way, she stayed mute. At
April’s house she stopped, but instead of going in, said to Breeze:

“I’m gwine an’ ax Ma to let you come stay wid me. I want you to mind my
baby. Brudge an’ dem other chillen is so awful careless wid em. You’ll
come, if Ma says so, enty?”

Breeze opened his mouth twice to answer before he got to speak out loud
enough for her to hear.

“Sho’, I’ll come, Joy.”




XIX

AT APRIL’S HOUSE


The first night Breeze spent in April’s cabin was a bad one, although
he slept in the same room with Joy and her baby.

Joy wrote to Sherry for Zeda that same afternoon, and when she mailed
the letter she bought some sweet animal crackers from the store for
supper. She had a good supper. She pressed them all to eat a-plenty,
and when they were done, she bustled about briskly, washing dishes,
straightening things; but she had nothing to say to a soul. What was
she thinking about, to stay so silent?

She and Breeze and Leah’s children sat by the fire for a while. It
burned low and dim, for the night was too hot to keep it bright. Nobody
talked. Now and then one of the flies sleeping on the newspapered wall
roused and buzzed. The leaves on the trees outside made a timorous
noise. Brudge darted glances at Breeze and cleared his throat again and
again, but everybody was polite.

One by one they went off to bed until only Joy and Breeze were left.
She got up.

“Come on, Breeze. Le’s go to bed. Me an’ you an’ de baby, we stays in
here.”

Breeze slept on a cot in the corner of the room and Joy in the bed
where Leah’s dead body had been. Where was Leah now? Breeze gazed at
the dark. He could hear things moving about in the yard. Something
fumbled at the door. The latch rattled. The steps creaked. Somewhere in
the distance a dog howled. Joy’s little baby cried out, but she patted
it and sang softly:

  “Bye, baby buntin’
  Daddy’s gone to de cow-pen
  To git some milk fo’ de baby.
  Go to sleep.”

Breeze lay open-eyed. Restless. The cabin was stifling hot. Fear had
him sweating.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the long night, baked with heat, passed into a warm, dewy morning,
the baby woke and Breeze took him to see the men pass with the mules
and plows on their way to the corn-field, then to watch Leah’s children
and Joy stick sweet-potato cuttings into the ground. Time went slowly.
If one morning could be long as this, when would those cuttings ever
make a crop? The baby’s weight burdened his arms. His shoulders ached.
He’d go sit on the step and sing it to sleep, then he’d rest. “Bye
an’ bye, when de mawnin’ comes!” Breeze sang, and the baby’s eyelids
drooped. “Bye an’ bye, when we’s gathered home!” The eyelids closed
down tight. “We’ll t-e-l-l de story! H-o-w we over-come,” Breeze sang
it softly, the baby was ready to ease down on the bed. His tired arms
could rest a while. He might take a nap himself.

The day was so quiet when he sat on the step again and leaned his head
back against the door-facing that the old tree, bending its head across
the yard toward the cabin, whispered every time a breath of air stirred
it. A wood-pecker’s tapping made a tumult of sound. The twitterings
of a pair of wrens with a nest in a knot hole under the eaves made a
distinct clamor. Drowsiness glazed Breeze’s eyes, stopped up his ears.
The morning flowed on by.

When the noon bell rang he jumped, awake, with the bare shadow of a
gasp. Then he remembered he was living with Joy, not Big Sue, and he
stretched his mouth in a lazy yawn.

The Quarters soon bustled with people coming in from the fields. The
women, first, with hoes on their shoulders, then the men. Hens cackled,
telling of eggs they’d just laid. Ducks quacked. Pigeons wheeled in low
circles.

Joy arrived ahead of the children, her arms drooping, her steps lax and
careless, her eyes noting naught around her, not even Breeze, who got
up to let her pass. Then something on his head made her heed. “Wha’
dat on you’ head, Breeze! Who put em dere! Great Gawd, Breeze whe’ you
been?”

Breeze put up a scared hand and felt all over his head. There was
nothing so far as he could tell. “Wha’ e is, Joy? I ain’ feel nothin’.”

“Looka!” Joy lifted a white horse hair and held it in front of his
eyes. “Take em an’ drown em, Breeze. Drown em quick. I bet Brudge done
dis. De scoundrel! Brudge is tryin’ to scare you. Dat’s all. He can’
do you nothin’. No. Brudge don’ know how to cunjure nobody. But you go
chunk dis in de Blue Brook anyhow. Tie em on a rock an’ chunk em far in
as you kin. But don’ le’ Brudge know you done it.”

Breeze writhed with cold fear. That short white horse hair was a burden
to his shaking fingers. He shifted it from one hand to the other, until
he reached the Blue Brook’s bank. When a lizard scurried under a log to
hide, its light rustling made Breeze almost drop his load. But he found
a pebble, twined the hair around it, and after looking all around to
be sure nobody saw, he cast it into the water.

As it fell with a light plop a giggle broke in the stillness. Breeze’s
blood turned hot with fury. If Brudge had dared to follow him, watch
him, laugh at him, he’d get a stick, a rock, something that could kill,
and kill the scoundrel.

His eyes searched the surroundings, but nothing was at hand. Festoons
of trailing moss floated from the limbs of the enormous live-oaks,
making a weird canopy over his head; a cicada chanted shrilly in
a clump of vine-tangled shrubbery; huge coiling, writhing roots
spread around great rough trunks, then dropped out of sight, burying
themselves in the earth. No weapon for him to use was anywhere in
sight. He’d hunt until he found one. A narrow bit of a short blue skirt
flickered from behind a tree-trunk and disappeared. Emma’s! Maybe it
was she who had tricked him, not Brudge! He stopped short with a sharp
indrawn breath. He’d slip up on her, catch her, hold her--maybe push
her in the water!

Tipping stealthily forward, he went toward the tree, holding his breath
for fear Emma might hear him and get away. He’d make her pay for
teasing him, scaring him, making him believe somebody had put a conjure
spell on him with that white horse hair.

When Emma peeped out to see where he was, he grabbed her by the arm so
suddenly she gave a little frightened cry.

“I got you! Now I’m gwine drown you!” he growled, but instead of
pulling away, trying his strength, her eyes filled, her mouth quivered.

“I was jus’ playin’ wid you, Breeze--you oughtn’ to be mad wid
me--a-jerkin’ me----”

The moss waved softly overhead, the grass heads leaned sidewise in
the gentle wind, two round drops of water dreaned out of Emma’s eyes
and ran down her cheeks. They cut clean to Breeze’s heart, startling,
paining him. The small arm inside his fingers was soft as Joy’s baby’s.
He wouldn’t hurt it for the world.

“I ain’ mad. I’m a-playin’ wid you, too,” he explained.

“Enty?” Emma’s smile was so sudden, so merry, Breeze felt confused,
troubled.

The Blue Brook trickled on with a soothing purl, its surface shimmering
as the wind stirred it into rolling ripples. Roses and honeysuckles
added fragrance to the stench of decaying leaves and wood. A deep
stillness began spinning a web over them all.

“Oh--Breeze!” Joy was calling.

“Ee--oo! I’m a-comin’!” He answered, and Emma was gone.

Joy sent him to the post-office, and when he came back with a letter,
she snatched it out of his hand, but it was from the hospital and said
April was improving. He’d soon come home, and he sent messages to all
his friends. He craved to see them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dewberries were ripe, wild plums reddening, maypop vines had the
roadsides purple with bloom. The day drowsed with heat, the rice-fields
smelled sweaty, the sun, half-way between noon and sunset, drew out
perfume from the grass and flowers.

Breeze was in the pasture picking berries for supper when the
boat-whistle made a long extra blow for the landing. He stood up and
held his breath to listen, for he knew something unusual had happened.
It wasn’t long before Brudge came in sight, waving his arms and
shouting, “Sherry’s come! De boat fetched em just now!”

Breeze sprang up in such haste, he spilled every berry in the bucket
and had to stop and pick them up.

“How do e look, Brudge?”

Brudge made a face. “E look ugly as ever to me.”

“I got a good mind to choke you,” Breeze threatened.

“Come on an’ choke! I’ll mash you’ goosle flat! Wid one hand! Ha! Ha!”

Burning with hate for Brudge and joy over Sherry’s coming, Breeze flew
home by a short-cut. Joy sat on the steps, feeding her baby, but it
was plain she knew Sherry had come, for her words halted so she could
hardly speak, and her eyes were wide and bright.

“Sherry’s come!” Breeze panted, all out of breath. “I’m gwine to see
em.” She stroked her baby’s fat little legs, then clasped both small
feet together.

“Tell em--tell em---- No, don’ tell em nothin’. I’ll go tell em myself.”

She laid the baby face down across her lap and began unfastening him in
the back. “Go git me some clean clothes fo’ em befo’ you go.”

She leaned quickly and kissed the back of the tiny neck where the head
joined the plump body, leaving a hollow shaped just right for her mouth.

She slipped his one garment off his soft rolly body, slipped the clean
one on over his head, laughing at the way his head wabbled, then
suddenly cuddled him close in her arms. She held him so tight, his
restless arms and legs squirmed to get loose.

Breeze hurried to Zeda’s cabin so fast he had no wind left to tell
Sherry how glad he was to see him. Sherry gave him a hand-shake, then a
mighty hug that squeezed Breeze into a happy laugh.

“Lawd, boy, you is growed! How’s Clara? Did e kick you yet?”

Breeze could do nothing but grin. How much bigger Sherry looked! How
much finer! He was a town man now, with shoes and cravat and a white
straw hat, and presents for everybody. Breeze was so happy blowing his
new mouth-organ he didn’t see Joy until she asked, “You don’ know me,
Sherry? Is I changed dat much?” Her words shook, her smile trembled.

“No, Joy, you ain’ so changed. No---- But I didn’ know you had a
baby----”

“Sho’ I is. Look at em. Ain’ e de fines’ t’ing you ever see? E kin
’most talk, enty, Breeze?”

Breeze could hardly take his eyes off Sherry long enough to answer her,
but the baby cooed and his wabbly head bobbed back and forth against
Joy’s arm. His toes stretched out in the hot sunshine, and both tiny
balled-up fists tried to thrust themselves into his small drippy mouth.
He gnawed at them, then let them go, and a disappointed wail suddenly
wrinkled up his small face and made it so funny-looking, even Sherry
had to laugh.

“Wha’ e name, Joy?”

“E name Try-em-an-see, but I calls him Tramsee fo’ short.”

“Whe’ you git dat name?”

“Maum Hannah helped me to make em up. It’s a lucky one, too.” Joy
turned away suddenly, and her full short gingham skirt twirled about
her thin legs. They were bare and matched her small wiry body well,
and her face had been greased until its black skin shone hard with
glints of blue in the sun. Her ripe breasts strutted full under her
tight-fitting dress. Her bare head had its wool wrapped into tight
cords with white ball thread. She looked very different from the
stylish town-dressed Joy who came home just before Christmas. No wonder
Sherry stared at her.

All her town airs were gone. She was as countrified as Zeda. Sherry
gazed at her so hard, Joy dropped her eyes. Her lips twitched and the
hollows at the corners of her full mouth deepened.

“I’m sho’ glad you come home, Sherry. Whyn’ you bring you’ wife?”

The slim fingers of one hand plucked at a button on the back of the
baby’s dress. Her voice, raised and strengthened, sounded clear and
hard.

“E wouldn’ come South, Joy. But I thought you had mo’ sense dan to go
take Leah’s husband. You’d sleep in dat house fo’ Leah to hant you? You
kin rest dere?”

Joy’s eyes flickered and shifted in a side-glance toward him, then
beyond him, where trees fringing the rice-fields shimmered blue like
trees in a dream.

“Sho’, I kin rest dere. April’s a fine man, Sherry. E treat me white
too. I wish to Gawd e didn’ got sick. De crop has been a-needin’ him
bad.”

“Whe’ e is now?” Sherry’s eyes were cloudy, his voice dull.

“To de horspital.”

The china-berry tree full of purple blossoms cast a pool of hot shade
at Joy’s feet. Reddish scions, sprung up around the root of the crêpe
myrtle, gave out a sickly scent as Sherry’s restless feet trampled and
bruised them. The yellow afternoon glare stressed a stern look in his
eyes and marked a swift-beating pulse that throbbed with tiny strokes
in a vein of his thick strong neck.

It was a relief to hear Joy say coolly, “April’ll be glad you’s come.
De boll-evil is swarmin’ in de cotton.”

And Sherry answered, “I’m glad to git back, Joy. Yonder up-North ain’
like home.”

“Stay an’ eat supper wid us, Joy. You an’ Breeze all two,” Zeda invited
cordially.

Breeze looked at Joy and waited for her answer. “You stay, Breeze,” she
said. “But don’ stay late.” And she walked on home to April’s cabin.

Sherry slept a good part of each day, but at night the big poison
machine hummed over the cotton-fields, puffing out clouds of white
poison dust until every stalk was covered, every leaf silvery. The dry
weather was a help. No rain came to wash the poison off. Plows kept
the middles of the rows stirred and the fallen squares buried. After a
week’s rest the poison machine ran all night again. The cotton throve.
The stifling nights were perfumed with the honey of cotton blooms.
Already bolls were showing, some as large as hickory nuts! April
himself could have managed no better than Sherry.

Joy bustled about working hard all day, but she sang at her work and
night found her unwearied. Brudge got more and more sullen and surly.
He was often impudent to Joy, but she paid him no attention. One night
when the supper things were washed and put away she slipped out of the
door and walked off in the darkness alone. When the others had gone
to bed Brudge barred all the doors so she couldn’t get in. As if she
were not April’s wife and the mistress of the house. But even then she
laughed and treated it as a joke.

The next day her baby lay on the bed sleeping. Brudge walked up and
looked at it and called it an ugly name. Joy heard and before Brudge
had time to catch his breath, she grabbed him and gave him such a
beating he yelled for mercy.

After that Brudge spied on her all the time, even jumping out of bed to
see if anybody came home with her at night. And Joy drove him to his
work every day as if he were a lazy mule. They quarreled constantly.
The cabin became a wretched place to Breeze, except those times when
Joy sat on the steps in the dusk and talked to him and told him how
much she thought of him and of the help he had been to her.

With her face wreathed in smiles and her eyes bright with gladness,
she’d look up at the stars shining through the tree-tops and Breeze
would hold his breath and listen at her voice and sigh with love of
her, and forget that life was ever painful or burdensome.

One night Sherry walked home from meeting with Joy, but when they
reached April’s house she didn’t ask him in. He stood by the step and
rolled a cigarette, lit it and walked away. Brudge watched him with
eyes full of cunning and when he was out of hearing laughed: “Sherry
t’inks he’s somebody. My Gawd!”

“Sherry is somebody,” Breeze defended. “Sherry is de foreman now.”

“You wait till Pa gits home. You’ll see who de foreman is den. Me
an’ Uncle Bill is gwine to town to git Pa befo’ long. I bet a lot o’
t’ings’ll change den. You’ll see it too.”

The moon glittered thin and sharp in the sky. Crickets chirruped.
Katydids droned long shrill cries. A whip-poor-will called and called.
Breeze was so fretted that he forgot Joy sat on the step beside him. He
jumped when she spoke, although she spoke quietly: “Sherry an’ Uncle
Bill is gwine to town on de boat to fetch Cun April home. You is not
gwine, Brudge.”

Joy’s voice was husky, perhaps from the dew or from singing so long at
meeting. Brudge made no answer, but in a little while he got up and
slunk off to bed without even saying good night.

       *       *       *       *       *

The people met the boat to welcome April home just as they met it when
he brought Joy, a bride. All except Joy herself. She stayed to have
everything ready for him at the house. She knew he’d be hungry and the
soup must be kept hot, the chicken nice and tender but not too done.
Unwatched rice is easy to scorch. And besides, the chicken’s raw heart
had already mysteriously disappeared! Out of the pan! After she had
washed it and salted it! She told Breeze this in a whisper.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sherry picked April up in his arms and brought him ashore. April was
not much longer than Joy’s baby, now, and tears poured down his cheeks,
but he seemed not to care at all who saw them. Lord, he was so glad to
get home! There was no place like Blue Brook!

The close-packed crowd listened, motionless and hushed, for April’s
voice was low and broken and his words like somebody else speaking.
Lord, how the man was changed! His lean body with its broad bony
shoulders and long thin arms was a shocking sight. No matter what
wrongs he had done, he had been punished enough. More than enough!
Uneasy and curious, but filled with respect, they pressed around him.
They fed their eyes on his terrible plight. April was no longer a man.
Poor soul! God’s hand had fallen hard, heavy, upon him.

A grave silence held most of them, but April, so full of joy at getting
home again, called out cordial greetings to every one of them by name.
He was so glad to hear the crops were good, so glad Sherry was back, so
glad for the dry weather.

When he paused to take breath, their sorrowful pitying words fell:
“Do, Jedus!” “I too sorry fo’ em!” “My Gawd!” “I ain’ never see sich a
t’ing!”

Breeze’s heart shrank smaller until it felt no larger than the heart of
a mouse in his breast. Old Louder gave a long sad howl. The birds sang
no more. The sun in the west hid under a dark drab cloud.

April was the only cheerful person in the whole crowd.

“How yunnuh likes Sherry fo’ de foreman?” he asked brightly.

No answer came at first, then Jake cleared his throat and spoke out:

“Sherry does de best e kin, but e ain’ got no time wid you, April. No.”

Then many other answers chimed in, “Shucks, nobody livin’ could make de
foreman you was!”

“Dat’s de Gawd’s truth!” Sherry’s voice praising April as loud as any.

Uncle Isaac had Julia hitched to Uncle Bill’s buggy to take April home,
and when the old mule became terrified at the boat’s whistle, April
laughed at the beast’s lack of sense. Poor Julia! So old and so foolish!

Breeze had never realized how much April loved everybody. “How all o’
yunnuh do?” he asked affectionately. “How’s all home?” He had to choke
back a sob as he looked into their serious faces.

Sherry put him on the buggy seat beside Uncle Isaac, who held the
reins, but April couldn’t keep his balance, and Uncle Bill had to get
in and hold him steady.

April excused himself by saying he was weak and nervish from lying flat
down on his back so long. A bed draws a man’s strength in a hurry. Even
a chair will do it.

Over and over he said how good everything looked. He breathed deep of
the smell of the woods full of bay-blossoms. The splash of Julia’s feet
in the shallow branch made the water come into his eyes. Everybody who
walked alongside the buggy could see it.

When they got in sight of the barnyard, Julia broke into a trot. It
was her supper time and she was in a hurry to eat. April laughed at her
sudden willingness to go. “No, Julia. You can’ stop at de barnyard, not
dis time. You got to pull me home. You don’ know I can’ walk, enty?”
But his voice broke, and Uncle Bill began telling about the crop, how
fine it was, how loaded with fruit. When he got stronger, April must
take Julia and the buggy and ride everywhere. Sherry did very well, but
he was young and needed advice about a lot of things.

Joy and Leah’s little children stood waiting out in front of the cabin
to meet him. A quiet awed group. April was the only one who felt at
ease.

“How you do, honey?” he said gently to Joy, who came forward first, but
she looked uncertain what to do or say. “I reckon I is look strange to
yunnuh. But I’m thankful to git home widout comin’ nailed up in a box.”

The children huddled together watching April as if he were a perfect
stranger.

“Come speak to you Pa, chillen,” Joy bade them, and they came forward
slowly, shyly. Brudge snuffled and sobbed right out loud, so moved was
he, but one of the littlest boys looked at his father’s shortened body
and giggled. Joy grabbed his shoulder and shook him soundly and sent
him behind the house, just as she did when he laughed at April months
ago.

“E don’ mean nothin’, April. E ain’ got so much sense. E’d laugh if e
was a-dyin’ himself. His mammy must ’a’ marked him so.”

Joy spoke kindly, but April’s face changed. His mouth quivered; a
strange weary look wrung all the life out of his eyes. His own child
had made sport of him. Laughed at his shame. The last time it happened
he had reared and pitched, but this time his bosom heaved and he wiped
his eyes with his sleeve.

Joy helped Sherry to take him inside the cabin and lay him on a bed in
the shed-room. It did look inviting. The feather mattress was puffed up
high and covered with a clean white spread. April sighed deeply as he
sank in its soft depths, and he closed his eyes in enjoyment.

His head was too low to see well, and he asked Joy to get him another
pillow. She looked at the long empty trousers that twisted about
foolishly over the white counterpane. April whispered to her that she’d
have to cut them off shorter for him, or pin them back. Joy didn’t
answer, but she got a quilt from another bed. When April saw what she
was going to do, he protested that it was too hot to lie under a quilt.
But something he saw in Joy’s eyes made him change his mind, and he let
her cover him up.

Big Sue came to see if there was anything she could do for April’s
comfort. She spoke kindly to Joy and told Breeze he looked well and
grew fast. April hardly heard Big Sue’s offer, for his friends had
crowded into the room and called to him from the open windows. They
meant to be kind, still no one of them could conceal astonishment and
horror that April had no feet, no legs, at all. There were gentle
murmurs of:

“God bless you, son, how’s you gwine do widout legs?”

“I’m sho’ glad you lived to git home, but what’s you gwine to do?”

April’s pleasure at being home was somehow chilled. He kept saying he
thought two or three times he’d never see them again and he had to pull
hard to do it, but his cheerful tone had faded into gloominess.

Uncle Bill suggested that the people had better leave. April had had a
long trip. He was tired. He had been very weak. He wasn’t strong enough
to stand much excitement. They were all good-mannered about it. They
passed out of the door with little to say, and their tones were subdued
when they spoke.

When the last one had gone, April burst out crying. He held Uncle
Bill’s hands and blubbered out he was nothing but a baby! He had no
manhood left at all! He couldn’t even stand kindness! Everything made
him cry! Everything!

Joy came back into the room and stood by the bed and looked down at him
and he reached up a long arm and took her hand uncertainly and called
her by name. No eyes were ever more appealing, no voice in the whole
world ever plead for tenderness as April’s did then.

“Joy, you don’ mind me bein’ dis way, enty? I’m gwine git wood legs
befo’ long.”

Joy stood silent, a shudder ran through her, her fingers lay limp in
April’s. April groaned and let her hand go.

Then Joy tried to smile bravely and say she didn’t mind. She had
fretted herself half to death about him and now she was happy because
he had come. But it was too late. She couldn’t fool April. He had seen
how she felt; and he drew away from her as from a stranger.

She turned and went briskly out of the room, and April turned his face
to the wall. His thin breast lifted, while one deep bitter sob after
another shook him. He had fought a long hard fight with Death, and now
he was sorry he had won! If he had known how things would be, how Joy
would feel, he would have given up, but it was the thought of Joy that
made him try to live.

       *       *       *       *       *

April stayed on the bed in the shed-room day after day, looking out
over the rice-fields where the tides rose and fell. Breeze’s work was
changed from minding Joy’s baby to staying with April, keeping the
flies off him, handing him water to drink.

Few plantation sounds could reach this shed-room at the back of the
cabin and when staying by April became unbearable, Breeze would go
outside and walk as far as the water’s edge, or stand by the window
watching cranes and kingfishers. One old bald eagle spent much of his
time on a branch of an old dead tree and when a fish-hawk dived and got
a fish the eagle took it from him.

       *       *       *       *       *

April complained little. Once when the night was damp and the sound of
the poison machine louder than usual he got very restless. He said it
was hard to lie helpless. Without legs. Flat on his back. Most of the
time alone. While another man took his place. But except for sighs and
a few moans, that was all.

At first the people on the place came often to see him. They brought
him things to eat. A chicken, a few eggs tied up in a cloth, a bottle
of molasses, whatever they had that they thought he might enjoy.
Occasionally some friend put a piece of money in his hand. But his
persistent low-spiritedness and down-heartedness did not encourage them
to come back. Soon they stopped only long enough by his window to say,
“How you do to-day, April?” or “How you feelin’?” as they passed by,
with troubled glances.

Uncle Bill was the exception. He came very often and he’d sit and
listen as long as April wanted to talk about his weariness or his
misery.

April never grew tired of telling over and over his experiences at
the hospital. About the nurses and doctors, their kindness to him and
interest in him. How he had fought through the long dark nights with
pain. At first it was a steady fight, then after a while the pain came
in showers. But he had thought out many things. He’d learned that
every man has to bear his suffering alone. He realized that the doctors
could not help him. Neither could his children, nor any friend. He had
to go the whole way through by himself--to the very end.

When April first came home, Joy stayed with him every night, then she
began going to parties and birth-night suppers once in a while, and
finally, every night as soon as the supper was over and the dishes
washed and put away, she’d tip quietly down the steps and go. Without a
word.

April said little about it. Nothing to Joy herself. What was the use?
What was he? Just half a man, that was all. He had no right to expect
Joy to stay always at home with him. Breeze was always there to mind
the flies or give him a drink of water, or tie a collard leaf on his
aching head.

Joy shirked no household duty. She had learned to cook almost as well
as her mother. He had no cause to complain of the food she gave him. It
was well seasoned enough for those who had appetites to eat. Joy was
young. She had to pleasure herself. He hadn’t the heart to forbid it.
And nobody could say she was a gad-about. She kept the house clean, the
clothes washed and patched, and she did her full share of the field
work too.

April talked fairly enough to Maum Hannah and Uncle Bill and Zeda, even
to Big Sue, who came to see him once in a while. But all of them could
see that jealousy was disturbing him, making him fretful and suspicious.

Hour after hour he stared doggedly out of the window, moaning, sighing,
wishing he could go to sleep and never wake up. His gloom filled the
whole cabin. Breeze could hardly bear to stay with him, and Uncle Bill
came in as often as he could spare the time.

One night Uncle Bill begged April to pray. It was the only way to find
peace, to be satisfied. If he would do like Jacob, and give God no rest
day or night until he had some sign his prayers were heard, his whole
heart would be changed and filled with rejoicing.

April answered that he had lost faith in God’s fairness. What had he
ever done to make God deal with him so? Would any decent man on the
plantation treat a dog any worse than God had treated him? Or suffer a
worm as much?

Uncle Bill admitted God had laid a heavy hand on April. Had smitten him
hard, but if April’s suffering would make him pray, and save his soul
from everlasting torment, then all suffering would be gain. Pure gain.

Joy had a Bible and Uncle Bill could read well enough to teach April
to spell out a few verses. At first he learned a few of them by heart,
then he strove to learn how to find the right place in the Bible and
to read them there. “The Lord is my Shepherd” was the first one he
located. It was the easiest of all to find and learn. Next he learned
“In my Father’s house are many mansions.”

Sometimes Uncle Bill read a whole chapter to him, but it was a hard
task for them both, labored work for Uncle Bill to read and for April
to understand.

The one April liked best was “Behold, He that keepeth Israel shall
neither slumber nor sleep.”

Breeze wondered who Israel was and who kept him, but he durst not ask.

One day Uncle Bill stumbled on this verse: “As a man chasteneth his
son, so the Lord thy God chasteneth thee.” The words were scarcely
spoken before April put up a hand.

“Don’ read dat one, Uncle. E’s done me too bad. E ain’ treat me fair.
Looks like E ought to let up on me. E done suffer me so long----”

April turned his face toward the window to hide the tears that poured
out of his eyes, and there was Sherry in full view, riding the sorrel
colt and holding Joy’s baby in his arms!

April’s face went a ghastly gray, his moist features shriveled. Tremors
shook the muscles in his jaws, but he said nothing.

Uncle Bill stroked out the fingers of one long, blue-nailed hand, but
they curled back into the palm as soon as they were released.

“You must be gittin’ a chill, April.” Uncle Bill’s eyes were full of
fear. “How ’bout a mustard plaster on you’ back?”

“Nemmine, Uncle. Nemmine,” April chattered.

As the dusk fell Zeda came to inquire about April, but she found him
shaking as with ague. He said he was cold through and through and his
insides felt wrung and twisted. The very heart in his breast ached
sorely.

Zeda said if April had a chill Joy had better give him some red-pepper
tea. She’d go home and make some tea out of her own red pepper. Her
pepper was strong, hot, she had gathered it at noon on a sunshiny day.

The jangle of a cow bell broke through the still night. On and on it
rang, saying it was meeting night. Uncle Bill had promised to lead, and
when he got up to go, Joy suggested that Breeze go along with him. Not
that Breeze cared especially for the singing and praying, but anything
for a change would do him good.

Maum Hannah’s house was crammed. Half the people had to stand outside,
and heads crowded the windows so not a breath of air could come in or
go out. The night was stifling hot and sweat trickled down Uncle Bill’s
forehead as he read the Bible by the dim smelly flame of the smoky
lamp. He read about a man named Jonah who sinned, and a great whale in
the sea swallowed him whole! God sent the whale to get him!

Uncle Bill closed the book when the chapter was ended and talked
slowly, sorrowfully, about the sin that prevailed on the plantation.
The people bickered with one another instead of living in love and
charity. Instead of praying for each other, they spent good money for
charms to conjure one another. They danced and sang reels instead of
shouting and singing spirituals and hymns. Unless they changed, no
telling what would happen! God is patient. Long-suffering. He gives
men every chance to get saved. But they had overlooked every warning.
They had forgotten that the jaws of Hell were stretched wide that very
minute, craving to swallow every soul in that room just as the whale
swallowed Jonah. Jonah got out of the whale after three days, but no
man ever gets out of Hell. Sinners spend eternity burning in fire and
brimstone.

Why not give up sin? Why not trust in Jesus instead of putting fresh
stripes on His bleeding wounds? Every sin cut Him to the quick! Not
only the sins of grown men and women, but the sins of little children.
Jesus was crucified over and over again by the sins of people right on
Blue Brook Plantation. And yet He had died on the cross to save them
from that awful place where there was nothing but weeping and wailing
and gnashing of teeth!

The members moaned and groaned until Maum Hannah lead the spiritual,
“God sent Jonah to Nineveh Land, Jonah disobeyed his Lord’s command.”

The congregation sang answers in a solemn refrain.

Verse by verse the whole story of Jonah’s awful punishment was told.

Breeze had never heard it before and he shuddered from head to foot
with horror and pity for poor Jonah. God seemed as cruel and awful as
the Devil. Between the two, there was small chance for any safety. Poor
Jonah! Poor April! Poor Breeze!

On the way home through the night he held to Uncle Bill’s hand so
tight that Uncle Bill asked what was the matter. Breeze admitted he
was afraid. Afraid of the dark, of God, of the Devil, of everything,
especially while it was night.

“De spirit is strivin’ in you’ heart, son. Strivin’ to convict you of
sin. You start prayin’ to-night. Soon as you git home. Rassle wid God.
To-morrow, you go off by you’self in de woods. Wallow on de ground
an’ pray. Don’ rest, not till you done found peace, so you won’ never
be ’fraid no mo’. I’ll come stay wid April to-morrow whilst you seek
salvation. Start to-night, son. Pray hard as you kin. Ax Gawd to le’
you be born again. You is a human chile now, subject to sin an’ death
an’ hell. When you’s born again, you’ll be Gawd’s chile. Free! Nobody
can’ touch you or either harm you. Nobody!”

The cabin was dark and silent. Joy opened the door and whispered that
April was asleep. Uncle Bill whispered back he’d come next day and stay
with April. Breeze was going to start seeking.

“Brudge come in just now an’ said he was gwine seek too.”

“Well, I declare! Dat is de best news I heared lately! De sperit is
workin’ fast to-night.”

Joy put the door-bar in place and Breeze went to bed. As soon as he
crawled under the covers he tried to begin his praying for the dread
of Hell racked him as bitterly as the fear of God. A round spot of
moonlight fallen through a hole in the roof made an eye on the floor. A
round, shining eye, that stared at him, winkless.




XX

SEEKING


It was early dawn when Joy woke him. He must get up and fetch plenty of
water, and cut some wood. By that time Uncle Bill would be here to stay
with April and he could go to the woods and seek.

Breeze sat up and rubbed his eyes and tried to listen, but it was all
he could do to keep from sinking back deep under the covers and pulling
them over his head. He didn’t want to seek, he’d a thousand times
rather sleep. But April spoke:

“Git up, Breeze! You don’ hear Joy talkin’ to you!” And Breeze opened
his heavy eyes and sprang to his feet. He dressed, then put his bed in
order, and went at his work. By the time it was done, Uncle Bill had
come, and he was set free to pray.

Cocks were crowing, birds chirping, crows cawing. Uncle Bill said they
were saying their morning prayers. Breeze must listen how earnestly
they did it, and learn how to pray just as hard.

Everything out-of-doors was silvery with dew, and the early sun gave
the earth a mysterious radiance that dazzled Breeze’s drowsy eyes
as he dragged himself slowly along. The woods looked far away. In
the distance their hazy darkness blent into the sky. The path to the
corn-field was shorter, and it led toward the sunshine, whose warm
yellow light drew every flower face toward it.

He reached the corn-field before the morning dew was dry. The black
furrows between the tall green rippling blades felt cool and damp. As a
light breeze blew, the corn rustled and waved and the silks added their
perfume to the fruity blossomy fragrance in the air.

Breeze sat down on the ground and looked up at the sky overhead,
pondering. He couldn’t remember his sins. He hated Brudge, but that
couldn’t be sinful, mean as Brudge was. Anybody who knew Brudge would
hate him.

“Oh, Lawd,” he began, then halted. If he knew how to pray it would be
easier. Where was Jesus? How could he make Jesus hear him? The blue sky
where Heaven was looked high and far and empty.

Getting on his knees Breeze closed his eyes and repeated the words
of Uncle Bill’s prayer as nearly as he could remember. Over and over
he said them, until in spite of all his striving to keep awake, the
stillness overcame him and he fell into a gentle doze. Something
tickled his nose, then crawled across his lips. He jumped, hit at the
pest, a straw. The sun’s midday light was a hard hot glare; the black
shadows short. Emma stood over him, her white teeth shining in a broad
grin that vexed him bitterly, a wisp of dry grass in her fingers.

“How you duh sleep! You ain’ gwine pray?” Emma giggled as she asked it.

Breeze rubbed his eyes and looked all around. He hated being caught,
and Emma had no business tickling his face while he slept. Stung to the
quick with shame and vexation, he snapped out angrily:

“How come you duh grin like a chessy-cat? Who you duh laugh at so
frightenin’?”

His ill humor sobered her and she made haste to explain, “I ain’
laughin’ at you. I’m a-laughin’ at Brudge. Brudge is done found peace
in dem woods back o’ we house. Lawd, e hollered so loud, I thought
sho’ e had got in a yellow-jacket’s nest! Jedus, you ought to heared
em!” Emma’s laugh rippled out and shook her slim shoulders so that
the beads Joy had given her chinked merrily against the hot black
skin of her little black neck. Her three-cornered face glowed with
fun, her slanting eyes sparkled as they met Breeze’s, but he shrugged
disdainfully. “I know dat ain’ so. Brudge didn’ start seekin’, not till
dis mawnin’. E couldn’ find peace, not dat quick. You can’ fool me.
Shucks!”

“I ain’ tryin’ to fool you. Gramma made me go see wha dat was ail
Brudge, made em squall an’ holler so loud.” Emma’s face had got
serious, her teasing eyes grave.

In spite of the too-big, ugly dress she wore and the long awkward
sleeves that hung over her small hands, the child had a half-wild grace
and lightness, and as she knelt down in the soft dusty furrow and one
hand crept out from the folds of her dress toward Breeze, he grabbed it
and held it before it could draw back.

“Breeze----” her husky little voice made his name a new thing. He could
feel a smile twitch at his mouth. “Breeze--if you’d find peace, you
wouldn’ be scared to git baptized?”

Breeze knelt beside her and he glowed, all on fire with courage now.
“Who? Me? Lawd, I ain’ scared o’ nothin’. Not nothin’!”

Emma’s eyes widened with wonder and respect for his boasting. “You ain’
scared o’ nothin’ in de world?”

Breeze turned his head and spat far away like a grown-up man. “Not
nothin’ in de world.”

Breaths of hot air drove the clouds along over their heads. A
grasshopper played shrill faint music, a dove mourned softly, the corn
blades rustled gently.

Breeze dropped her hand and grasped her thin shoulders, but she tore
herself from his hold with a breathless laugh. Then he caught her arm,
but she was stronger than he thought. The muscles in her small arm
tightened under his fingers and, wriggling herself loose, Emma went
flying down the corn row, calling back mockingly, daringly:

“Better go on an’ pray. A witch might git you!”

And Breeze answered boldly, his fear of God and the Devil all forgotten,

“I ain’ gwine pray. No! Wait on me, Emma! Don’ run so fast! You t’ink
you kin outrun me! Good Lawd, you can’ do dat! I’ll show you so right
now!”

       *       *       *       *       *

At the cabin a crowd of people gathered. Breeze could hear them
babbling together, then keeping silent while one voice rose high.
There was no making out what it said, and Breeze went as fast as he
could, eager to know what was the matter. He found Brudge telling his
experience. The boy had told it over and over until his voice was
hoarse and trembly, yet he kept on, excitedly, as the people, mostly
women, urged him to tell them again what God had done for him. Brudge
said he was away off in the woods praying. Down on his knees with his
eyes wide open, looking up through the trees at the heavens, begging
God to hear him, to give him some sign, to let him know his sins were
forgiven, just as Uncle Bill said he must do. He had been there for an
hour or two, calling on Jesus with every breath, when all of a sudden
the light cut off, just like the lights in the Big House at night when
the white folks go to bed. Everything was pitch black dark. There was
not one sound anywhere. He thought he had died and it scared him so
he raised up and hollered loud as he could; the light came back quick
as a flash, with such a brightness he was mighty nigh blinded. All
the trees over his head began waving their arms and shouting. All the
clouds up the elements broke in half, and in the middle of them he
could see people, crowds of people waving their arms and shouting. He
jumped up and shouted with them! He felt light as any feather! The wind
fair blew him along as he ran home to tell the people what he had seen
this morning!

“Great Gawd, what a vision dat boy did have!”

“Dat’s de first time anybody on dis place ever did see right spang into
Heaven!”

“Son, Gawd is sho’ blessed you to-day!”

“It makes me pure scared to hear de boy talk!”

“It sounds to me like Brudge is called to preach!”

“De Holy Sperit sho’ did knock em on de head. Listen how de boy talks!”

“Now ain’ it so? Brudge must l’arn how to read an’ write.”

“Sho’! A preacher has to read readin’ an’ writin’ too.”

“Don’ you know Leah is happy in Glory to-day!”

The mention of Leah’s name brought pitying groans.

“Po’ Leah. Gawd took em home too soon. Leah ought to be here to-day.”

Brudge’s ranting became louder, more breathless, as he declared God had
made him so strong he could lift up a mule by himself. He would pray
for April’s legs to grow back. God would answer his prayer. The people
would soon see. April would be well.

April lay on the bed by the window, his short body covered over with a
quilt. When Breeze peeped in at him, he threw out his long arms with an
impatient gesture that made the flies rise with a buzz.

“Tell Uncle Bill I say come here!” he ordered, then he groaned and
put his clasped hands under his head. Breeze felt vaguely uneasy.
He whispered to Uncle Bill to hurry, and the old man’s feet stumbled
up the steps, for Brudge’s unexpected conversion had him shaken and
bewildered. But he steadied when April burst out furiously, “Whyn’ you
make Brudge hush dat fool talk? Brudge’s mind ain’ never been solid,
an’ now yunnuh’s gwine run em clean crazy! Tell dem people to go on
home! Brudge went to sleep in dem woods. E ain’ seen nothin’ but a
dream! No!”

Uncle Bill patted his shoulder and tried to cool his heat. “Brudge is
just happy, son. Dat’s all. I know ezactly how de boy feels. I felt de
same way when I found peace. You ain’ never been saved. Dat’s how come
you don’ un’erstand. Brudge is called to preach, April. Sho’ as you’
born. You ought to be so t’ankful!”

“Great Gawd!” April fairly bellowed. “You is fool as Brudge! Whe’s Joy?
Tell Joy to make Brudge hush dat fuss! I can’ stand so much racket! No!”

April’s eyes glowed fever bright and his forehead held drops of sweat.
Nobody but Uncle Bill would have dared to cross him, and even Uncle
Bill was upset.

“You mustn’ fret dis way, April. You’ll git you’ liver all hottened
up. I’ll make Brudge stop talkin’, but you mustn’ holler like a baby.
People’ll t’ink you’ mind ain’ solid. Anybody else but you would be
rejoicin’!”

The yard was soon empty, the cabin still. Only Joy and Uncle Bill sat
outside on the steps, talking in whispers.

That night Joy went out in a blustery wind and rain, and did not come
home until late. The heavy steps that always left stealthily came
inside along with hers. Doors creaked sharply. There were little
hissing sounds like whispers. Maybe it was the wind.

April raised up on an elbow. Listened. Leaned toward Joy’s room and
listened. Crawling out of bed on his long thin arms, he crept across
the floor and strained his ear against the wall between his room and
the room where Joy slept.

He crouched and listened but he made no sound. It was not the wind that
he heard.

Suddenly, something inside him seemed to break. Something in his head
or his breast. With a yell he beat on the door, and tried to break it
down. Then he lost his balance and fell back on the floor where he lay
and raved and cursed himself and Joy and God.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the days that followed, April’s darkened room was filled with
his wild delirium. Joy sat by him for hours at a time, brushing the
flies away, wiping off his face with a cool wet cloth, trying to hush
him, to lower his fever with the root teas Uncle Isaac brewed for him.
Outside in the heat, the trees slept, the moss on them hung limp, the
tree ferns were brown and lifeless.

Whenever Joy flung herself down on Breeze’s straw mattress in the
corner to rest, Uncle Bill took her place, watching, waiting for some
change to come. His big rough hands, blue at the nails and knuckles,
squeezed each other distressfully, or stroked April’s restless fingers
trying to stop their plucking, plucking, at the cover. Coaxing them to
stand still. His old ears constantly listened at the window for the
marsh birds to tell him if the tide came in or went out and his eyes
were dim with pity and sorrow and love for April, who tossed on the
bed, mumbling, raving.

Sometimes April thought the mules were loose in the fields and
trampling the cotton, and cried out to stop them! Once he thought he
had swallowed Joy’s fine diamond ring and it was cutting his chest to
pieces. He babbled of boll-weevils and poison and ginning the cotton.

Uncle Bill tried to hold the weak nerveless hands, to steady them and
keep them quiet. Over and over he prayed to God to have mercy on April,
to give him back his right senses, not to let him die out of his mind,
and at last his prayer was heard.

The night was sultry, the cabin parching hot. Joy had broken down,
panic-stricken, and she knelt on the floor with her head on Uncle
Bill’s knee. She burst into a storm of weeping that drowned out April’s
raving, but Uncle Bill put his arms around her and took her into
another room and made her go to bed. She must sleep. He’d wake her if
he needed anything. Breeze would sleep with one eye open and jump up
the minute Uncle Bill called him. Zeda and Jake were both coming at
the first turn of the night after midnight. Joy must not fret and wear
herself out. She’d poison her breast-milk and make her baby sick.

Midnight must have passed but dawn had not come when April called Uncle
Bill so distinctly Breeze woke up, leaped to his feet, but Uncle Bill
was at April’s bed.

“Uncle,” April called again weakly, “you’s wake, enty?”

“Yes, son, I’m right ’side you.” Uncle Bill took both April’s hands and
held them close, while he leaned low to hear every word the sick man
spoke.

“My time’s come, Uncle. I ain’ got much longer----” April’s voice
climbed up, then dropped.

Uncle Bill looked up at the rafters. “Do, Jedus, look down. Do have
mercy!”

“Don’ stop to pray! De time’s too short now!” April’s short patience
had come back, but his shortened breath held it in sudden check.

“Uncle--my feets is cold--I feels death up to my knees----”

“Son, you ain’ got no feets; neither knees! Is you forgot?”

“No, I ain’ forgot. But I feels ’em--dey’s cold---- Listen, Uncle----”

April’s sense had come back. He was in his right mind, even if he did
feel the feet and legs that had been gone for months. His low husky
words were earnest.

“I ain’ scared to go. I’d sooner go dan stay. My time’s out. I’m done
for. I know it. I got one t’ing to ask you. Not but one. You’ll do it,
enty? I couldn’ rest in my grave--if you fail me----”

His breath cut off his words and he closed his eyes as it came with a
rattle through his teeth. Uncle Bill called Breeze to open the window.

“Open em easy, son. Don’ wake up Joy, not yet,” he cautioned.

“Not yet,” April’s whisper echoed.

Outside, the black trees sounded restless. An uneasy pattering and
rustling ran through the dry lips of the leaves. Flying insects buzzed
into the room and beat against the walls with noisy humming wings.
Moths flew wildly about the glass lamp on the floor at the foot of the
bed. They were crazed by its smoky yellow bitter-smelling light.

“Uncle----” April’s breath stifled, his eyes widened with the strain,
but he forced his lips to twist out the words he wanted to say.

“Bury me in a man-size box---- You un’erstan’?-- A man--size--box----
I--been--six--feet--fo’--Uncle---- Six feet--fo’!”

The blaze in his eyes fell back, cold, dim. A long shudder swept over
him. The tide had turned.


THE END




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.