Queen (102 page)

    welcome oblivion.

    She didn't slip, she didn't fall. She had no idea of where she would go,

    or what she would do, but she would go somewhere and she would do

    something, because she could not

    QUEEN 619

believe that God intended anything else for her.

    She picked up her bag and walked across the bridge, a distant memory

    ringing in her ears. The talk she used to hear among the slaves was her

    drumbeat.

North. North. North.

    North was the promised land to a slave, and if she could get to the

    North, her troubles would be magically, mysteriously, over.

    The road to the North led to Huntsville, and Queen trudged along, a weary

    pilgrim making her lonely progress.

    It was hot. Heat haze shimmered on the road, and dust from the passing

    carriages sprayed into her hair, into her wounds, calming them, binding

    them, but no one who passed by offered a ride. Blacks thought she was

    white, and whites thought she was trash, and the only person she had to

    talk to was God, but she cursed her friend now, for what He had brought

    her to.

    She walked slowly and rested at the roadside frequently, because every

    step was painful, and by the end of the day, she had only covered a short

    distance. As a bloodred sunset swept the land, she couldn't go on

    anymore, and when she saw an old barn by a deserted farm, abandoned in

    the war, she went to it, to find some little comer in which to rest.

    Others, a few blacks, were there before her. In these postwar, postslave

    days, thousands had become drifters, searching aimlessly for the

    fulfillment of the promise of freedom. Any barn, any deserted building,

    any roof that offered shelter for the night was temporary home to an

    aimless community of stragglers.

    A group of men sat round a fire, and a woman was boiling some roots and

    a rabbit. Queen limped toward the group, uncertain of the protocol. She

    looked for some separate shed in which she could hide, and be alone, and

    lick, like a dog, her bruised body and battered heart.

    The blacks stared at the new arrival in contempt, because she was not

    black. A white woman here was dangerous, but Queen stood her ground.

"I need somewhere to sleep," she said.

    No one spoke for a while, and then a man jerked his head toward the old

    pigsty. Queen was not shocked by such a lodg-

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ing, or asharned to accept it, and the animals were long gone. As she walked

toward it, she heard the blacks whispering among themselves, and some women

giggling

    She walked into the pigsty and almost fell to the ground, too exhausted to

    go on, now that she had found her haven. She rested her head against the

    wooden pen, and dozed for a while. When she woke, it was dark, and the

    blacks at the camp fire were eatinp. The smell of the food made her realize

    how hungry she was. She stood unsteadily, and walked a few paces toward

    them.

    The woman who had made the stew looked at her. Her face was expressionless,

    showing neither compassion nor contempt.

    "Is yo' hungry?" she asked, and Queen nodded her head, thinking the woman

    might be kind, as Pearl had been to her, in the forest.

    But the wornan was not Pearl. She looked at the plate of food in her hand,

    and again at Queen, and she hurled the plate to the ground.

    "Eat that, whitey," she sneered. The simple gesture contained all her anger

    at the things her Massa had done to her when she was a slave. She hated

    white folk.

    Queen was beyond insult now, and accepted what the world had to offer. She

    saw a couple of pieces of bony meat in the mess at her feet, picked them

    up, brushed the dirt from them, and went to the pigsty to eat.

    She heard the women laughing at her distress again, and the men talking in

    frightened whispers of things she did not understand, and the woman who had

    thrown the food was being told off.

    "Shoulda bin mo' friendly," she heard a man's voice say. "If'n dey come

    tonight and she tell 'em what you done, could go bad fo' you.

    "Here, girt," he said, and threw some half-eaten corn husks into the

    pigsty. Queen did not understand his change of heart, nor did she care. She

    gnawed on the food until it was gone. She found some old straw, fashioned

    it into a rough bed, and lay down to sleep.

They came while she was asleep, the three white men, on horseback, with

scarves tied around their necks and pulled up

    QUEEN 621

to hide their faces. They carried burning brands, and rounded up the

blacks who had been sleeping in the barn, chased them with fire, and made

sport with them.

    Queen woke to the screams of some of the women. Tucked in a comer of the

    pigsty, she peered out and saw a white man ride up to the barn and throw

    a burning brand at it. The old dry wood of the building caught fire like

    tinder, the hay in the stalls speeding the progress of the flames. The

    blacks left inside scrambled for safety, and the night rang with their

    screams.

    One woman didn't get out fast enough, and was engulfed in flames. All

    this Queen saw from her hiding place, as in a daze, a perverted dream,

    a nightmare of horror. She saw the white men round up the blacks and

    force them from the property. The blacks begged for mercy, but the white

    men were resolute. The blacks were not welcome here. They had wanted

    freedom and they'd got it. But not here.

    Satisfied with their night's work, the white men galloped away. The

    blacks, scared to return to their camp, and having no reason to now,

    stared at the burning barn and then drifted into the night to find some

    other shelter.

    Queen was transfixed by the fire. The flames of the burning barn merged

    with the fire of the campsite in the forest and the brands of her

    pursuers, and she heard Henderson's laughter again, and the insults of

    his friend.

    The firelight glittered in her eyes, flames that would haunt her forever.

In the day she walked on toward Huntsville, without any sense of direction

except the elusive North. It was harder this day. Her bruises had

developed, and her injuries were sharp and scraped at her body like

razors. The small energy that had come to her with her determination to

get away from Decatur had deserted her with her night's rest. The sun beat

down on her, and her lips were dry. Every step was an achievement.

    She could see the city in the distance, but it gave her no joy, for she

    couldn't imagine that it held any promise for her. She began to believe

    that she could not go on, and that there was no point. Still she didn't

    stop. Scattered farms gave way to scattered houses, and there was more

    traffic on the road, but no one stopped for her.

622 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN

    She thought that even God must have deserted her, and then she heard a

    choir singing a hymn, and saw a little church in the distance. It was a

    rough-and-ready building of unhewn timber, hastily put together, but a

    small steeple surmounted by a wooden cross announced its purpose. Queen

    could tell it was a black church from the sound she heard; whites never

    raised their voices like that. She expected to be evicted from it if she

    went in, but she had no choice. She could not survive the parching, noonday

    sun.

    The Preacher was a dedicated man, who had honed his sermons at services

    held in the open cotton fields that some Massas used to allow their slaves

    to attend. He had developed a stentorian voice, and could make his sermons

    ring to the open sky that had been the roof of his makeshift churches. His

    ministry was to bring hope to his people, not in this life but in the

    glorious peace that was to come.

    " Our troubles in this mortal world can last a day, or a year, or a

    lifetime," he shouted at his congregation, and they vociferously agreed.

    " But they cannot last forever," he told them. "Forever is eternal, and our

    mortal misery is but a moment in the blinking of God's eye. And when that

    moment we call life is done, we will be taken up into the bosom of His

    sweet love, in glory, and our troubles will be banished forever."

    The congregation roared its agreement, and no one noticed a tiny white

    woman sneak into the church through the open door, and fall against the

    wall at the back.

    " Taken up in Glory!" the Preacher yelled again. "We will dwell in the

    eternal sunshine of God's love, in Glory! And we will forget our agony, and

    we will forget our pain, and all the misery of our human days, because we

    will live in His eternal Glory! "

    The crowd was clapping now, and cheering him on. The woman at the old pedal

    organ looked at the ecstatic congregation, her heart awash with the love of

    Jesus. But she was puzzled to see a little white woman, bruised and dirty,

    leaning against the wall near the front door of the church.

    "Not just for a moment," the Preacher cried. "Or a day, or a year, or a

    lifetime. But fic'ever. And fo'ever. And fo'ever! In Glory!"

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    "Hallelujah," the people sang, raising the roof. "Oh, glory hallelujah!

    "

    "Let us pray," the Preacher exhorted them. His flock fell silent, and the

    Preacher noticed the strange white woman near the door. He stared at her,

    because white women didn't come into black churches. Gradually, the

    congregation turned to Queen, until every eye in the building seemed to

    be staring at her.

    She had to do something to make them understand; she had to let them know

    how much she needed help; she had to say something to stop them from

    throwing her out, for here was her only salvation. But it was so hard to

    say. Despair and defiance struggled in her heart, and she was shaking

    with emotion. When she spoke, it was in a whisper that only those close

    to her could hear.

    "I's nigra," she told them. And when no one responded, she said it again,

    louder now.

"I's nigra!" And louder again. "Nigra! Nigra! Nigra!"

Only the Preacher replied.

    "Hallelujah, sister," he said. The crowd chanted and clapped its

    approval.

    The simple relief that flooded through Queen astonished her. She felt as

    if she had found home, after years lost in the wilderness.

    72

Joyce, who played the organ at the church, was a motherly

woman, and took charge of Queen. She took her to her ram

shackle home in the black shantytown on the outskirts of

Huntsville, ordered her children to clean up the shed and make

up a rough bed for their new guest, and told them that they

were not to bother Queen. She tended Queen's injuries, bathed

her bruises and bound her wounds. She made Queen sit in an

old rocking chair on the rickety porch, and fed her hot soup.

    624 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN

She didn't. ask how Queen came to be in such a state, for she knew the

girl would tell her in her own good time. What she needed now was to be

alone in caring company. The tribe of children obeyed their mother, but

were curious about their visitor. Two of Joyce's girls sat in the yard

pretending not to stare at her and, at their mother's suggestion, watching

out for her welfare. Although Queen never guessed it, for the time she

stayed with Joyce she was seldom out of someone's sight. Abram, Joyce's

husband, came home in the evening, and was told of Queen and introduced

to her, and politely offered her the hospitality of his home. He had been

a slave, like his wife, and was an expert blacksmith. After the war his

former Massa, appreciative of his skill, set him up in his own business,

and Abram worked seven days a week to provide for his large family and pay

off his loan.

    After a rowdy family meal, Joyce took her to the shed where a comfortable

    bunk and a clean blanket awaited her. She undressed Queen, checking her

    injuries and clucking her disapproval of whatever had caused them. She

    tucked Queen into bed, as Easter used to do, and stroked her pretty hair,

    and hummed a soft, sweet lullaby, as Easter used to do. Her undemanding

    charity and patient care broke Queen's reserve. She turned her head to

    the wall and began to weep, but Joyce took her into her arrns, and held

    her while she cried, as a mother holds her child. As Easter used to do.

    Joyce was a simple, honest woman who had found a simple honest man to

    love. Their life on the plantation had been hard, but now, as their own

    Massas, they were determined to reap all the benefits that the precious

    freedom offered. They tried to find goodness in everything about them,