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.