All he could usually remember was how it felt to stand with her skirt wrapped around his face and her mama smell. And how she said, “Take care of your friends, Luke baby. A friend is a blessing from the Lord in this evil world.” He could almost hear her saying it. He tried to remember her laughing. She had a high thin laugh.
She used to think he was a funny boy. Told him he was smart and funny, and to be careful cause White folks didn’t like that in a Black person. He closed his eyes real tight so he could remember his mam before her sickness in the head came on. He could feel her hands scrubbing his face clean, washing his arms. It made him sad that he couldn’t remember her face.
Somewhere in this remembering he realized that something was moving near them. At first he heard it only in that part of him that said it wasn’t so. And then he knew it was so. There was no fire and no wood near him. Something coming closer. Luke picked up his rifle. Thank you, Jesus, he thought, it was loaded and ready.
Leaves cracked and rustled, and the moist smell under them reached up to Luke’s nostrils. He could smell everything—their sour clothes, mold and decaying trees—and he could even see outlines of rocks and bushes in the dark. His sweat smelled like salt. Unc Steph had said animals could smell fear on you. He could taste his own saliva.
Where was the thing? He didn’t dare move. Caswell murmured in his sleep about Mamadear. Luke was too far away to hush him up. God, please God, he prayed. Don’t let him start whining and get up.
Then he saw them. Two yellow eyes through the underbrush. He was afraid whatever it was could hear his heart, it was beating so fast. The angels, the god of winds, some good something blew across the moon and uncovered it. And now he could see it was a mountain lion. The light brown fur, the pointed ears, the arched back. They stared at each other.
Luke knew with a country boy’s instinct that the thing would attack if it was afraid. The cat had probably come down out of the mountains to find food. If it was hungry, it would be bold. He waited, praying, “Lord Jesus . . . ,” trying to remember what Aunt Eugenia had told him about praying, but he could only remember, “Oh, Lord Jesus, oh, Lord Jesus,” so he said that over and over.
The big cat started over toward Caswell, slowly sniffing, not desperate, only mildly interested in human aroma. It gave Luke a chance to lift his rifle and get ready to fire.
Caswell whimpered. If he fired and missed, Caswell would be a dead boy. The cat sniffed again. Something in his body told Luke there was no more time. He knew if Caswell woke up with that cat in his eyes, he would holler and bring death down on all of them. He fired.
The explosion echoed violently, ringing through the dark woods, a hawk shrieked somewhere, leaves trembled and fell, and startled birds went crashing through the foliage. For once, Massa Higsaw had done something good, and he didn’t even know it. He had probably saved three children by teaching Luke about guns. The cat screamed in a death dance and fell on top of Caswell. The smell of the cat’s blood rushed out into the dark.
Daylily cried out and at the same time, Luke was trying to load the rifle again, packing it with his musket ball, but it wasn’t necessary. The cat was dead.
Luke pulled the hysterical Caswell out from under the cat’s belly, and while the little boy clung to him and wailed, and Daylily hung on to his neck, Luke realized he was glad Caswell was alive, really glad. He was awfully glad Daylily was alive too.
Glad they were together in the lonesome forest, where, truth be told, nobody knew for sure if they’d ever come home again anywhere, or see anybody they called family. He felt they were all kin now. And right then in the middle of the trees under the moonlight, with the smell of dead mountain lion and pines all mingling together, he was sure he knew what his mama had meant when she said, “Take care of your friends, Luke baby. A friend is a blessing from the Lord in this evil world.”
CHAPTER 13
FEVER
On the eighth day, they walked until close to sunset, still following the river on their left. Trees were not as thick as they had been on the right, and there was a farm in the distance, but on the other side of the river were trees thick as ever, and also there was a peculiar-looking hill. From where they stood, Luke saw a small cave or maybe a place that had been dug out in the dirt on the side of the hill, and sticks laid across the dugout, like somebody had made a place to sit out of the rain.
“Can you swim, Daylily?” Luke asked, looking at the river. She shook her head violently.
“Not me.”
“I can swim,” Luke assured her. “I can save you. You swim, Caswell?” Caswell moved his head up and down slowly.
Dalylily said, “You lying, you can’t do no such thing.”
“Can too,” insisted Caswell, his small chin sticking out as far as it could go. He was determined to prove himself. “You don’t know anything about what I can do!”
“Us should cross over,” Luke said, pointing to the place in the hill that looked like a perfect campsite. The river was not deep here, and there was a fallen tree that formed a perfect bridge. “This is what us gon do. Us can use that log for a bridge.”
Daylily peered sideways at him. She didn’t like this, but a place to stretch out and rest sounded wonderful, and she still didn’t feel good. She was tired and hungry. They could make a fire there. She nodded her agreement. She was to go first and then Caswell, then Luke so he could watch them both and hang on to Caswell’s pants to make sure he didn’t fall in. The log was wet and looked slippery, but nobody thought about sitting down and scooting until it was too late. It looked like it’d be easy.
The log seemed wide enough to walk. Daylily stepped out on the log, but she was suddenly as stiff as a tree, and her legs wouldn’t work for her. She was scared to move. The cold water running under the dead tree had her hypnotized.
“Hurry up,” Luke yelled. “Hurry up!” You makin it harder! Just walk natural like you goin cross a field!”
But she couldn’t look down into the bubbling water without getting dizzy. The water looked as deep as the well back at the Riversons’ place. If she drowned, would she go to Heaven? Then all at once, rigid with fear, she was over the side into the river.
“Hold on to the log!” Luke screamed. “Hold on to the log, it ain’t deep!” The water was shallow, but it was fast moving, and she was fighting for her life with her eyes closed.
Luke jumped the last two feet onto the bank, holding Caswell around the waist, and set him down on the ground. Daylily was already three or four feet downriver, sputtering, arms fighting the water with every gasp for air.
“Stand up!” Luke was screaming. He threw off his coat and jumped in trying to get to her. “It ain’t deep! Stand up!”
She finally heard him and found the bottom. Still close to the bank, Daylily saw that land was within reach, started toward it and fell again. The heavy waterlogged coat she was wearing pulled her down. She reached out for an overhanging branch before Luke could get to her and pulled herself up. As soon as they saw she was all right, Luke and Caswell broke out laughing. They were all hysterical with relief.
Daylily’s hair dripped into her eyes, and the heavy coat streamed with river water. She lay on the riverbank, coughing and laughing. Crying and sputtering, too exhausted to move. “Ooh, Lordy,” she said, “I thought I was a goner for sure!” She suddenly realized how wet she was between coughing and spitting up water. “Got to get out of these wet clothes. It be cold now. Night comin on.”
“Silly gal, I told you to stand up! Givin me and Caswell such a turn! Wouldn’t that be somethin!” Luke laughed, taking off his wet shoes. “Drownin in two feet of water! You take my coat,” he said. “I’ll make the fire. Come on, Caswell, us got to hurry!”
Luke walked off barefoot, moving like someone used to walking in the woods with no shoes. The trousers would dry in the breeze before nightfall. Stripped down to her shirtwaist, Daylily wrapped up in Luke’s coat.
The cave they thought they had seen was really a small indente
d place in a hillside. Luke went first to check it. He walked slowly to the dugout. And now he could see there was more than one. Soldiers been here, he thought. They dug these places in the side of the hill, just big enough to lie down in or maybe to load a gun. He could see where wooden boards had been put up to keep the dirt from falling in.
“Don’t y’all come any closer,” he called to them. “Wait there for me.” He walked around a little farther on the other side of the hill. Inside the dugout on the ground was a pile of old rotten cloth. He kicked at it. And then he gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. It was a human skull. Then he could see there was more. A whole soldier’s skeleton, someone left dead a long time ago, maybe when the war had started two or three years before. He backed away silently. He could hear Daylily calling him.
“Luke, where you?”
“I’m comin,” he yelled shakily. “I’m comin.” When he got back to where they were standing, he lied. “Nothin round there. Let me look in here,” and he walked into the first dugout they had seen. It was empty and dry. “This is good,” he said. “We can stay here tonight.”
By the time they had a fire going, night crickets were starting up and the waning moon was showing behind some clouds. They could hear the Shenandoah flowing over the rocks. At least Luke hoped it was the Shenandoah; that’s what he’d heard folks called the river that ran through the mountains. If it was the Shenandoah, that would mean they were in Virginia, and that would mean they were closer to the north. It should be Virginia by now, he thought. They had been walking for eight days.
Luke’s shoes were propped up on some stones near the fire. Daylily slept heavily in Luke’s coat, and he stuck three dead branches into the ground and draped her coat and dress over them, facing the fire. He took a small piece of soggy, leftover fish from his pocket and divided it with the younger boy.
Daylily coughed under his jacket. The sound of her coughing came and went, but it was gentle. An owl hooted, and Luke thought about bears and wondered if there were any in this part of the woods. These woods were pretty thick.
Caswell whispered, “Luke, you know any more stories? Gran Susie used to tell me stories. She used to tell about the mud turtle and about the rabbit.” He had stretched out on his coat on his stomach.
“Don’t know no mud turtle,” Luke muttered.
“I can’t sleep,” Caswell whined. “Sweetbriar could tell stories too,” he said wistfully. His eyes filled with tears, and he wiped his face with the back of his hand and left a streak of dirt on his cheek.
“All right, don’t tune up,” said Luke. “Guess what? I knew a story about a White slave boy once had pink eyes and white skin. You don’t wanna hear it though—you be scared.” Luke’s long legs stretched out toward the fire, and he scratched an itch on his elbow.
“I won’t,” Caswell retorted.
“Aw, shoot, Caswell, you be scared if I tell you that out here in the dark.”
“I won’t be!” Caswell answered. He sat up on his coat. “If he’s White, he can’t be a slave. I know better. You just try me. Tell it, Luke; I wanna hear it.”
“Well,” Luke started, “was a boy on the place.”
Daylily turned and coughed again in her sleep.
Luke looked quickly in her direction before continuing. “Boy on the place I come from? Us called him Pink Eye. Say his mama was a cat cause-a them eyes.” Luke looked at Caswell’s face.
Caswell was paying very close attention.
“Everybody say his mama was a cat, cause he didn’t have no mama that us knew about. Pink Eye lived with Buster and Jim Jim in they cabin long as I know him. And you know what?”
“What?” Caswell said, leaning forward.
“He’s white as you and he’s a slave,” said Luke. “I swear it’s the truth. White, white skin, and yaller nappy hair. And far’s I know that ole Pink Eye’s a slave today.”
“I knew somebody like that,” Caswell said. “His name is Michael. He looked like a White boy, but he was really Black. I know cause my daddy sold him, and you can’t sell White people. There aren’t any White slaves, are there? You must be joshing me, aren’t you, Luke? And nobody has a cat for a mama!”
Daylily coughed a little louder.
Luke looked over at her. “He still a slave,” Luke said. “Massa Higsaw sold him down the river to New Orleans. Slave trader say he buying freaks for a freak show. Gon show him as a nigger boy with a white cat for a mama. Ole Pink Eye. Now go on to sleep. That’s all my story. Be quiet. Us got to listen for bears.”
At the mention of bears, Caswell lay down wide awake. Luke stretched out as near as he could to the fire, with one hand on the rifle. He tried very hard to keep his eyes open, but he kept losing the struggle. After a few minutes they all dozed. All through the night Luke would nod and wake up, and nod and wake up.
Daylily’s cough got more and more frequent and more and more rough. Once in the middle of the night she sat up and looked around wildly, and then fell back into sleep. Luke woke up all the way, suddenly startled. Then he realized what had awakened him. It was Daylily’s cough. He remembered hearing sick folks in the quarters when they got the croup. That’s the way it sounded. He remembered his mama told him Miss Barbara’s baby had died of the croup. Aunt Eugenia said that was when Luke was a baby, died in twenty-four hours.
Luke got up and felt Daylily’s head like Aunt Eugenia used to do when he was sick. He knew that if it was hot, that was bad. Daylily had thrown back his coat and was exposed to the dew in only her shirtwaist and bloomers. She was crying out in little yelps and squeaks. “No,” she said, and “no” again.
Luke didn’t know much about doctoring folks, but he knew she was really bad off. Her face was as hot as his got from the fire’s heat, only now the fire was just smoldering coals. He pulled the coat around her again. She should have some tea, some soup, something to drink.
He had watched Aunt Eugenia tend to folks enough to know that. She used to grind up some kind of leaves to make a tea. He set himself the task of finding something that looked like the herbs he had seen his aunt use. In the firelight he could just barely see that creecy greens were growing wild a few feet from them.
Luke looked for his canteen and poured a little water in the cup. He tore a few of the greens into small pieces and put them in as well, and put the cup on the hot coals. Then he woke Caswell up and sent him to gather twigs to build up the fire. In a few minutes the tea was warm, pieces of the leaves floating in it.
“Come on, gal,” he coaxed, “you got to eat somethin.” Her face was damp. She smelled like sickness to him. “Just a little somethin; come on now.”
Daylily’s eyes opened slightly; she turned her head away from Luke’s face. “Granny,” she mumbled.
“Now come on,” he insisted, feeling desperate and forcing her head around to the cup. She knocked the cup onto the ground. Her tangled hair was wet with sweat, and her dark brown eyes were ringed with darker circles.
“Now see what you done,” Luke chided. “You more stubborn sick than you is well.” He wanted to cry. The fish from yesterday was all gone, she had wasted the drink he had made and he couldn’t get anything much into her mouth from his canteen. It kept dribbling down her chest. She had lost her canteen cup when she fell in the water. And her hat too. At least her dress had dried in front of the fire. “We got to get this dress over her head,” he said to Caswell. She was still making little noises and flinging her arms around. “Stop looking so scared, Caswell, and come over here and help me.”
Caswell was almost frozen with fear. His mouth was open, but nothing was coming out.
“Just set up now,” Luke said, trying to calm her. “Got to put on your dress. Us ain’t goin to hurt you.” Luke raised her up gently. She seemed almost asleep, but she wouldn’t be still. He motioned again to Caswell to come nearer, and together they stretched the little cotton frock over her head and pulled it down as far as they could.
Then Luke had an idea. He took the carve
d figurine, his mam’s mojo, that he was wearing, and laid it gently over her head and around her neck. He thought it would be all right with his mam, and maybe it would help Daylily.
Caswell looked at the wooden carving on her neck. “You oughtn’t to put that devil’s charm on her,” he said to Luke. Before he could get any more words out of his mouth, Luke had grabbed his arm and dragged him a few feet away from the sleeping girl.
“You hurting me, Luke,” he whimpered. “Let me go!” He tried to pull his arm away from Luke.
“What you callin a devil’s charm was my mam’s mojo.” Luke’s voice was low and deadly serious. His words came out like they were squeezed through his teeth. He held on to Caswell’s shoulder. “You try to take it off or even touch it, I’ll fix you so you can’t see or talk, ever. You hear me? All I got to do is pray over that mojo and you be ‘fixed.’ So you keep your mouth shut about my mam. You hear me? Now I got to try to get some water into that gal.” He went to get his canteen and left Caswell standing in silence, afraid to argue or even move from that spot.
At dawn, Luke tried again to get a few drops of water into Daylily’s mouth from her canteen. All that hot and muggy day he fed her drops of water and tried to keep the bugs off her. Mosquitoes were the worst, and she was sweating from her fever. She would lick the water from around her mouth and cry out for Granny.
Just when he couldn’t stand it any more, he remembered sassafras. That’s what he needed. Something that would cure the shaking and burning up of fever. If only he could remember what it looked like.
He called Caswell to watch her and went looking for the herbs again. He had to find them before night came. “Call out for me if she tries anything,” he ordered. “And don’t you move a muscle from her. Try to keep her cool, and fan her with your hand, like this.” He showed Caswell what to do and headed into the wooded area.
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