Song Yet Sung (28 page)

She awoke with a shudder and dropped to the ground, her back burning. It was as if she had received the blows herself.

—Lord have mercy, she said. I'm losing my mind.

Then she sensed him. Close by. And this time she knew who it was.

She crawled on her hands and knees now. The fog lifted, the moon peeked from behind the clouds, and she saw, on the sandy beach, in full illumination just for a moment, a man, sitting with his arms draped over his knees, silent, watching. He appeared in full view of the moon, which ducked behind the clouds, but as she crawled towards him, she saw his eyes and realized that he was not who they said he was.

—You should have told your master your dream, she said. Even if it was a lie, you should have told it to him.

The Woolman said nothing. He sat in a ball, breathing deeply.

—Everything I know is a lie too, she said softly. Every truth is a lie. And every lie is the truth. I heard that said. Only tomorrow is truly truthful.

The Woolman shifted slightly, and as he did, she saw his face crease in discomfort and heard him grunt in pain, and she crept close. In the moonlight she saw his arm glistening. When she touched it gently, he leaned away, sucking in air with a soft, fragile hiss.

—You been cut, she said.

The Woolman looked away, shy and embarrassed, as she examined his cut arm and back.

—Where is your son? Liz asked.

The Woolman sat mute and unmoving, head drooping, eyes downcast.

Liz lifted his wounded arm. It felt like a solid piece of oak. When she let go, it dropped to the ground as if it were dead.

—You're losing blood, she said.

She reached into her calico sack, pulled out the knotted rope that he had given her, and tied it tightly around the arm, cutting off the flow of blood. She ripped off a piece of her dress, stepped over to the creek, dipped it in the water, and wiped the arm clean, then the cuts on his back as well. He regarded the wounds in the moonlight.

—They're clean cuts, she said. But they're deep.

She saw his head sink into his shoulders, rise, sink, and rise again.

—You got to sleep? she asked. Go ahead, then.

The Woolman lifted his head to regard her with a baleful stare, his eyes blinking slowly. With effort he slowly got to his feet, beckoning for her to follow.

He slowly led her through the grove, stumbling slightly as he walked, exhausted. From behind, she saw the loincloth, the legs as thick as tree trunks, his muscular back, and said to herself,
God have mercy, this is a man—much of a man.

He led her to the edge of the woods where the forest met high, marshy grass. Far ahead she saw the Choptank River and beyond it the lights of a sidewheeler making its way up the Chesapeake towards Baltimore.

The marsh grass ended at a sandy beach. Just before the grass ended at the sandy beach, the Woolman stopped. He pointed to a projection of rock that could be seen around the curve of the land where it met the Choptank River, then sat down, crouched in a ball again, arms around his knees.

—What is it? she asked.

But the Woolman had already lain down on the earth. He turned on his side, placed his head down in the high grass, and slept.

A
storm was coming, and Denwood sensed it would be a bad one. The mosquitoes rose out of the bog like clouds, and the ducks, wrens, and herons seemed thick as flies, all of them busy, scrambling for last-minute forage. They knew very well what was coming. It was the longest stretch of wet weather Denwood could remember. Spring comes slowly to the eastern shore, and March seems to take to spring the hardest—one day snow, the next day spring. For that reason he couldn't stand spring: it reminded him of too many promises unkept, lies told, hearts broken.

He had traveled behind the Sullivan Negro nearly four hours. They had two horses now, the Negro riding on Joe's, since Joe no longer needed his, but even with two horses it had been rough going, most of it on foot. The swamp made it nearly impossible for the horses to navigate in most places, and Denwood wanted to stay clear of any trail and out of Patty's way. She did not know this land. This Negro did. When instructed to stay clear of the trail, he'd circumvented the old logging road and the main road and followed Sinking Creek until they reached the Indian burial ground and encroaching darkness stopped them. The Negro led him to a large oak tree where a hole had been carved in the side, large enough for two people to fit. Denwood announced that they'd camp there. The Negro was as silent as a summer evening. He collected firewood without being asked and tethered the horses expertly.

Over a small fire in the burrow, safely out of plain sight, they made coffee and cooked the last of his food while Denwood considered the next day's plan. It would not do to tarry. By avoiding the logging trail and staying out of Patty's way, he'd slowed his pace. The plan was to take a quick look at the Indian burial ground and the surrounding area, then hurry back to Cambridge City and pay a visit to the blacksmith, with whom he'd about had enough. Now they were stuck at night and unable to move. Another day wasted. The whole thing stank, and he was sorry he'd taken on the job.

He peered out of the burrow, down the long wall that ran along the grassy field. The wall, built by the Indians years ago as protection for their graves, stretched westward into the woods and beyond where, Denwood assumed, Blackwater Creek lay on the other side and, farther on, the Choptank and the Chesapeake. He turned to Amber, who was tending the fire. It was time to stoke this Negro to see what he knew.

—Say, you go by Amber, do you?

Amber nodded.

—I don't know this land, Denwood said. How much further out before it reaches water?

—Quite a bit, said Amber.

—How come ain't nobody living out this far, then? It's close enough to the water. There's a wall here. Somebody built it to mark off their land and walked away from it, maybe?

—Used to be there was someone here, so I heard, Amber replied. The red man. Built that wall to keep the bad spirits out. So it's said.

—What happened?

—Oh. Don't know, sir.

Denwood nodded. The usual game of cat and mouse. The colored was playing it close to the vest. Maybe the bad spirits came anyway, Denwood said, trying to draw him out.

—Well, sir, come winter, when the tide comes up, some of the land goes underwater. We're a little inland here, but I seen it come up to my neck certain parts of November and December not more than a half mile from here. So I reckon this is hard land to settle. It's hard settling in a place if you don't know whether there's gonna be water in your sitting room or not.

It was the first conversation they had had, and Denwood noted silently that this was a bright colored, which meant he'd have to work him carefully. Bright, he knew, did not always translate into honest, although the man was the property of the Sullivan woman, whom he now found interesting. His mind wandered back to Kathleen standing on the porch, the handsome face, crow's-feet around the eyes, the brow set in sorrow and despair, staring at him, her lips uttering his name, his insides trying to ferret out if those lips would lie, the ache that accompanied the thought clattering about his heart like a spoon in a metal can, his insides hoping, even if just for a moment, that what he'd sensed from her was real. A need. What he had was a need. What he would give for some relief, he thought, a remedy for his need. Not a physical need—he could get all of that that he wanted in places like Crisfield and St. Michael's, where the women in the three-room whorehouses that lined the sandy, smelly streets dipped snuff and smoked pipes, servicing watermen from Maryland and Virginia with blunt crudity for a pound of salt or a peck of pickles. But a mental need. A need for someone to mitigate his loneliness. Then again, he thought bitterly, I always ran towards a dollar and not to who I am or what I really need. My own father said it.

He waited a moment to let the bright, colorful, happy thoughts fade from him and the grim, grey feeling of his own reality settle on him again before he spoke.

—How well did you know Liz Spocott? he asked.

—The Dreamer? Oh, tolerable well, Amber mumbled.

—You ain't lying, now, is you?

The young man looked at him with such sadness that Denwood had to look away. What was happening to him? He couldn't stand it! He had no plans to feel for this nigger. Didn't want to know his troubles, not after plugging Joe Johnson for him—for which he'd certainly have to answer to the constable. Romance between niggers? He didn't want to know.

—Surely ain't, sir. I ain't lying.

—Everyone's in love with this girl, he said bitterly. And she's slipperier than drum fish. Hell, I'm in love with her, too, in a way. I'm in love with the money she's gonna make me.

—Yes, sir.

Sullen, Denwood tossed a twig into the fire. He was flat broke now. The money the old captain had forwarded was gone with what they'd just eaten. He suddenly remembered why he'd gotten out of the slave-chasing business: it was too complicated. When he was younger, he didn't care about the consequences of chasing and catching them. It was his son who had awakened the whole moral question for him. The moment the five-year-old understood what the word
work
meant, he'd asked, Pa, has you done many types of jobs? That's when the heat began. The memory of his son asking, inquiring about his job, scorched him like a hot iron, and he suddenly needed a drink.

He saw the Negro glance at him and then at the ground again.

—How long you known the Dreamer?

—I knowed her when she come into this country nine days ago. Seems like a year.

—Why so?

—Well, she…outright said she was bad luck. And she was right, I guess, what with Jeff Boy going missing and Miss Patty and Woolman running around. In my heart I know the Dreamer ain't got nothing to do with it. But now that the cat's out of the bag and seem like trouble's marching to and fro across these parts, I guess it's fair to say she did call it out herself. She did say it was coming.

—You shoulda thought of that when you harbored her, Denwood said. I wouldn't harbor a runaway for a pinch of salt. You looking at five years in prison.

Amber watched Denwood's lantern flicker as a breeze blew it, the flame nearly dying, then flaring up again full.

—Yes, sir. I knows it. But I can't turn my back to God's dangers any more than I can keep a bird from snatching a crumb off the ground. Never did have no pets. Dogs, cats, nothing of the kind. Heart's too soft. That's why I kept most folks away from me. To turn someone away looking for help, I reckon, is to do God wrong.

Denwood chuckled bitterly. You people and God: I wanna get mud-eyed, he said.

—Sir?

—Taste the moonshine, son. Joy juice. Get happy. Suck sponge. Swig one. Power my way up the tree.

—Yes, sir. Won't do you no good, though. If it ain't got God in it.

—I don't believe in God.

—Yes, sir. Every colored round here knows that. But God believes in you.

—Sure he does. Lucky for you I ain't a slave owner. There's your God lovers! Slaving bastards. Meaner than the Devil, most of 'em. Bunch of yellow-bellied frauds. Got big boats now, that's their new hobby. They done found oysters. The poor man's last refuge. They dredging the Chesapeake now with brogans, schooners, even striker boats. They gonna scoop every oyster off the bottom. Bottom of the bay's gonna be cleaner than the inside of a peanut shell when they done.

—Yes, sir.

—You reckon it's the same God that governs them that governs you?

The young man glanced at him. I reckon so, Amber said.

—How does that work on you?

—It don't work on me a bit, Amber said. All God's things, His mosquitoes, His bugs and snakes, is beholden to Him, sir. God put them here to wake man up to what his limits is. He gived man knowledge and a soul to save. How man rule in them things is up to man, not God. How man rule another man is up to God, not man.

—Are you a preacher? Denwood asked.

—No, sir. I just stand on God's word like most colored do.

Denwood glared at the roaring fire, its embers snapping and spitting towards the sky.

—I had a son, you know.

—I heard it, sir. He got put in a basket with a dog, and then he died.

—How'd you know?

—Most colored knows you, sir. What you do has a heap to do with us, if you understand my meaning.

Denwood suppressed a grim smile. You hate me, don't you? he asked.

Amber looked into the darkness outside. I expect if the Dreamer is to get captured, I'd rather you do it than somebody else, he answered. Don't matter how far she runs, you gonna run her down. I know you ran Mingo all the way up to Canada and brung him back, and Mingo's something.

—I ain't gonna do nothing but turn her in and collect my money.

—I know it. I wish I could tell you where all the riches was in the world, so you could collect them instead of her. If I could, I would do it.

—I'd be the biggest fool in the world to work against myself, Denwood said. I gave my word to the man who owns her and took his money. All's I got is my word.

—Yes, sir.

—Where is she, then? Denwood asked.

Amber looked at him in surprise: You don't know?

—Stop hot-footing around. If I knew, would I ask it?

—She's already gone north. Out this country. Towards Delaware.

Denwood, holding a coffee cup, nearly dropped it. Anger shaped itself around his long jaw. Why'n't you tell me earlier? he hissed.

—You didn't ask where she went!

—You let me caterpillar all round this swamp and didn't say a damn thing about it. What the hell is wrong with you?

—I thought you wanted to find Jeff Boy! Didn't you say that a while ago? Ain't that what you was asking when you was asking about Miss Kathleen?

Denwood stifled an urge to pull Joe's five-shot Paterson from his oil slicker pocket and level it at the Negro's face.

—I ain't come out here to let you think for me and lead me round like a barb-tailed mule. Finding him's the constable's job. He's likely dead anyway.

—So's the Dreamer, once that old captain gets ahold of her.

—Don't give me the odds and ends 'bout what you think a white man's gonna do! What difference does it make?

—Makes a big difference, said Amber. No matter how the cut goes or comes, the Dreamer's gonna get caught if you the one running her down. But Jeff Boy, he ain't but a child. The constable ain't gonna find him. He's out here, surely. You said it yourself. And if somebody's gonna find him, surely you can do it.

—Don't tell me you care 'bout a white boy so much you want me to find him over the Dreamer. I seen how you talk 'bout her, wanting her in nature's way and all. You think I'm stupid?

—What you seeing is true, Amber said. 'Cept I'm heading straight over the Devil's back now, no matter what. Prison's ahead for me, or a hangman's noose. You know it. And the Dreamer, well, like I said, there ain't no place in the world she can run that you can't find her. If I'm going to prison or God's kingdom, I want to do the best I can for everybody I cares about. I done my best for the Dreamer. God willing, I will meet her by and by. But if Jeff Boy ain't found, my nephew Wiley's likely going to prison, and my sister Mary's sold down south, and Missus, she's down the river too. She can't run the place alone. They're my family in this world. All of 'em.

Denwood listened in silence, then said, You sow an awful lot of sugar with your thinking, son, and I don't believe it.

—Wanna hear a dream, sir? Amber said excitedly. The Dreamer told me. She dreamed of tomorrow. You wanna hear it?

The fog was rolling in, thick now, and Denwood, staring out of the burrow of the tree into the night, was tired and confused. This was not what he had in mind. But he could not resist. He supposed it would be just a matter of riding to Spocott's plantation in the morning and dipping in the old man's copper trousers once more for a few more chips. He'd done it before. Besides, there might be a clue in this Negro's story as to the girl's whereabouts.