Writers of the Future, Volume 27

by L. Ron Hubbard

  When Hept spilled a drop of coffee, Bess took the cup. Hept said, “How long since . . . ?”

  “You was shot night before last. I was worried somebody would come around and steal me because you was dead. I would have buried you last night, except you was too heavy for me to carry. I didn’t want to dig a hole beside the porch and roll you in it because someone might see the grave and know you was dead. I made up my mind to cut you up in little pieces and bury you down the hill in the woods. Made up my mind a few times, but I kept unmaking it.”

  “How did you carry me from the stables?” She guided Bess’ hand holding the bitter coffee to her mouth—Bess had been making it from roots since the second year of the war.

  “I ain’t carried you, Miss Hept. You walked.”

  Hept studied her. “I walked? Did you see me walk? Are you sure the soldier did not carry me?”

  Bess crossed her eyes as she did when frustrated. “I seen you, Miss Hept. I kept peeking out after I heard the gunshot. And that soldier wasn’t carrying you. You was carrying him.”

  Hept’s hand spasmed, knocking the cup from Bess’ hands, spilling the cold liquid on the sheet that covered her breasts.

  “Oh, my,” Bess said. She scurried toward the kitchen and called back, “You carry him up to the porch, put him down, then lean on the porch rail and die.”

  Hept tried to collect her thoughts. Bess returned and dabbed at the coffee. Hept tried to keep the quaver from her voice when she said, “Is he alive? Where is he?” She sniffed, and caught a whiff of his blood. She saw a dark stain on the porch. “Oh, Bess, did you cut him up?”

  “No, Miss Hept! I ain’t cut no white man up. I took care of him and he drug hisself off the porch.”

  “Which way did he go? You have to find him!”

  “You know I ain’t a tom fool. He’s laid up in your room.”

  Hept’s body went slack. Her head hit the pillows and her hands thudded against the board floor. She had not realized she was straining upward.

  Bess continued, “Got a tanned hide and a blanket under him so he won’t bleed through to the bed. I figured since you was dead and you don’t have no childrens . . . well, I thought maybe he could be the new master and he’d be pleased with me for saving his life.”

  “I want to see him.” Hept felt her forehead for a wound and found none.

  Hept bathed in a washtub in the corner of the parlor, enveloped by the scent of rosewater. After she chased Bess away, Hept found that her legs could support her. She wrapped in a white sheet from the chifferobe—pleased that Bess was keeping up with the wash. Bess had turned the mirror to face the wall, but Hept turned it around and saw by the lantern’s light that her bronze skin was unbruised. No puffiness distorted her slim features and her eyes were not blackened or swollen, as always happened to her immediately after suffering a jarring facial wound.

  She sat on her bench, combed her hair and worked out the details of the conversation she would have with the man. Then she lit a candle and went up to her bedroom, where he lay.

  She slipped in, wanting to look him over for a while, but he woke and said, “Bess?”

  “Hept,” she replied.

  He shifted in the bed and grunted with discomfort. “Bess said Miss Hept died. Are you her daughter?”

  The cotton sheet that covered him glowed in the moonlight, as did her own sheet. Hept blew out the candle and sat on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed.

  “Ma’am? What do you . . . ?”

  She laid her hand on his foot under the sheet. His body stiffened. Hept said, “Bess should not have told you that I died. You would be emboldened to harm us if you were inclined.”

  “The thought never occurred to me.” He relaxed under her hand, but did not move his foot as she squeezed it rhythmically.

  She said, “You are so innocent. I do not wonder that you are not a competent warrior.” Would he rise to the bait?

  His body stiffened. “Not a competent warrior?”

  “If I had not distracted Mosby’s man, he would have killed you.” She brushed his foot with the tips of her fingers.

  He swallowed. “That was really you in the barn? It couldn’t be. That woman’s head was half blown off.”

  “My wound was not as serious as it looked in the darkness.”

  His hair was white in the moonlight. He strained upward from the pillow. She kneaded the arch of his foot. “Calm,” she said. “I will depart if you cannot rest in my presence.”

  He lay back, still looking at her. With his hair tousled, he resembled a little boy—in youthfulness, he resembled a darker-hued young man, the only man for whom, in her long life, she had felt love.

  He said, “You’re right about the barn. I didn’t show myself well. If you hadn’t distracted the reb, he would have killed me. Thank you, Miss Hept. I have people counting on me to come home after the war is over.”

  Impressive. The Creator of Paths had not risen to her goading. She breathed in the night air and began to massage again. “I heard your prayer in the stables.”

  “Prayer?”

  “You apologized for not finishing a path.”

  He cocked his head. “It weighs on me. Nothing frets me more than not to keep faith where it’s due.”

  “You are rare,” she said. “Facing death, your only thought was for a small duty that you had not fulfilled. Your wife is fortunate.”

  “My wife?”

  “To whom you apologized in the stables.”

  “Oh. I was talking to my mother. I didn’t finish the path for her.”

  She exhaled. She had not dared to hope that this one thing could be right.

  She wanted to declare herself. He might leave in days. How could she say it? Women in this age could not speak freely. She said only, “Will you tarry here?”

  His breathing was irregular as he said, “I need to go tomorrow. If Mosby finds me, I don’t want him to hurt you for saving me.”

  She closed her eyes. “Perhaps that is best.”

  When she opened her eyes again, he looked straight at her. “I don’t ask you to protect me. But if they ply you, would you say that you had not seen me?”

  Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks. She heard the same words from four ages ago. A beautiful young son of Pharaoh stood before her, his eyes locked on hers, his tousled hair stirred in the wind, his hands dripped blood. He said, “E’ mem ght’bi en osi. Sama mem bh’gti nefti’m Phol mamin tathtalm E’.” Her heart broke with love for that dark-skinned young man—and, by the god’s alchemy, her heart now broke with love for this light young man.

  She whispered, “I must go,” and stood. But out the window, she glimpsed the stone sundial on the grounds. Though there was no sun, the spire’s shadow lay across the hour of death. The god was showing her the path toward what she had so long desired. He demanded a sacrifice, to atone for her ancient indulgence.

  She rushed, sobbing, from the room. Bess jumped away from the other side of the door as Hept shoved it open.

  Miss Hept?” Bess’ voice died on the dirt floor of the root cellar. Hept felt Bess’ arm around her shoulder. “You was down here all night. You gonna freeze to death in that sheet.”

  Her body spasmed with a suppressed sob.

  “I would have come sooner, but black folks don’t like to go in a cellar at night because of the haints, so I waited ’til the sun come up. You ain’t none scared of the dark.”

  Hept swallowed.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  She shook her head.

  The house above them creaked. Water dripped nearby.

  Bess said, “I thinks a lot about how you ain’t scared of the dark, since I know you ain’t strictly white. You free, naturally, and you can pass with white folks, but I can see it and Jim from the Henry fa
rm could tell, too. When he tell me, ‘Your woman, she got more than a drop of the black,’ I tell him he was full of John’s barleycorns and to git along to Mister Henry. Ain’t none of his worry.”

  Bess patted Hept’s shoulder and hugged her close. “If you talk to me, you feel better, honey. I bring you back some coffee.”

  Bess returned with the lantern and set it on a shelf beside some fig preserves. Hept sat back against the wall, eyes on the ground. She took the hot cup and whispered, “Coffee does not solve everything, Bess.”

  “It ain’t so bad. We give that man upstairs to Colonel Mosby and that solves it.”

  Hept shook her head.

  “Honey?” Bess leaned close to Hept. Bess had flour on her hands from making breakfast. “Oh. You done taken a shine to him?”

  Hept closed her eyes and sipped the bitterness.

  “Miss Hept, he’s just a man. There plenty of mens out there. Mosby’s Raiders skin us alive if we don’t give him up when they come. They burn you house. They steal me and sell me down the river—go to Alabama where they whips me every morning and every night.”

  Hept’s face tightened and tears squeezed out from the corners of her eyes. “He’s not just a man. Oh, Bess, he is the man.”

  “No. No, there ain’t no the man. There’s just one man and then another, and most of them dogs that beats their womens like they was the master.”

  “A long time ago, there was another man—a friend of the God—the One God. I saved him.” Hept took another sip to dissolve the knot in her throat.

  Bess said, “Ohhhh. Oh, I knowed you was older than anybody else. Just from the way you says things and from the way you looks at everything like you was riding by it in a wagon and everything you seen was going to turn to dust before you could stop the wagon.”

  Hept nodded. “It shows. It has always shown.”

  “You can’t pass.”

  “I cannot.”

  “How did you save that man—the old one?”

  Hept took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I saw him kill a man. I was questioned in the matter, but I lied. I was in love with him. I did not tell the king.”

  “King?” Bess’ eyes widened and shone. “Oh, this was old. What king was he—King Solomon or King Caesar or King Feeberum?”

  Hept looked into her eyes. “Bess, if you tell anyone about this, you know I will sell you down the river for a lying slave.”

  “Oh, Miss Hept. You can do all that and you can beat me morning and night ’til I go. Who was he? You got to tell me.”

  Hept decided that it did not matter. Anyone would take Bess for an imaginative black woman. Then they would begin to look more closely at Hept, and they would know. But with Mosby’s men sure to find her, she would soon face even worse scrutiny. “His name was Thutmose.”

  “Thut . . . mose? I never heard of no king like that. Why did your man kill the other man?”

  “He killed the man to prevent him from killing a slave. And since the man I loved and protected was a friend of the One God, the God gave me this long life.”

  Bess nodded. “Well, your man sounds right nice. But I can see how King Thutmose don’t want nobody killing his overseer . . .” Bess’ mouth gaped open.

  Hept sipped a long draught of the coffee. Bess sat like a bug-eyed statue.

  Bess said, “No. It wasn’t. He kill the king’s overseer. It wasn’t Moses that kill that overseer, was it?”

  Hept nodded.

  “And you saved him! Moses is the best man in the world, except for Jesus and maybe Adam. No, Moses is better than Adam. I see why God loves you. And I love you, too. You the best woman in the world, and you my mistress.”

  Hept finished the coffee.

  Bess said, “I just can’t believe it. But I do believe it. I always knowed you looked young but was way much old. God let you live forever just like Moses did because you saved him. But, Miss Hept, what does this have to do with that Bill Yank soldier upstairs?”

  “That soldier.” Hept realized that she did not even know his name. “That soldier killed a man who fights with Mosby’s men, who defend slaveholders. Just like before, I can give the man up for killing the king’s man, or I can protect him.”

  “Then this is as easy as hoe cakes. You protects him like you done to Moses. And God is gonna bless you again. He bless you the first time with living forever. What you think he’s going to bless you with this time?”

  Hept breathed out slowly. “The same blessing.”

  Bess beamed and patted her on the shoulder. “Then we all set.”

  Hept shook her head. “No.”

  A wave of exhaustion washed over Hept. Her lids fluttered. What was this? Was she exhausted from her night of heartbreak? Bess drew close and studied Hept’s face.

  Hept knew Bess would not understand, except for the pain. “King Rameses was my first husband. He wished to partake of my blessing, which only the One God could bestow. Because I could not share with him, he flayed my back with the whip and sowed ants in my wounds, but I healed every night. Cyrus, his sons, and grandsons chained me in the passages beneath the temple to force me to reveal the secrets of life. Tiberius tortured me for his amusement for over two years. He nailed my severed body parts to a wall, saying he would build another woman from them. In another age, Dwenth, my little brown-skinned girl, died from plague. She retched blood until her twisted body ceased shuddering. I was adjudged to be a witch in Copenhagen. My friend, Ebba, was burned for her friendship with me. I still smell her hair as it crackled and the odor of her peeling skin roasting.”

  Her tongue was sluggish. Her eyes closed. “I would have given the God’s gift back to him, but he would not take it. I have prayed to him for an end.”

  “Shhh, Miss Hept. It’s all right. All that can’t hurt you now.” Bess pulled Hept’s head to her shoulder.

  “It does not end until death.”

  Bess kissed her hair and rocked back and forth. She said, “When I lived on the Lawson farm, sometimes I thought about dying, too—going to my rest. I’d feel the same way if I was you. But that man sleeping upstairs don’t change none of that. Why you so brokehearted?”

  “Long ago, the man I saved had dark skin. This man is light. Then, life opened to me for saving a life. Life will now close to me for ending a life. The God showed me last night on the sundial. Long ago, the hour of death showed clear, though the spire’s shadow pointed toward the sun. Last night, the hour of death showed, with the spire’s shadow pointing toward the moon. The God told me. I know his voice. I may now choose to rest.”

  Bess whispered, “If you kill him?”

  Hept replied, “If I kill him.”

  She relaxed into the warm darkness of Bess’ bosom.

  Hept woke, alone in her bed. The moon was just beginning to wane. Just now, she had been in the cellar—Bess had said it was morning. She refused to look at the sundial.

  “Bess!”

  Bess bustled in. “You awake already! Well, ain’t that nice.”

  She sat up in the bed. “Where is he? He was in this bed. He has not departed, has he? Bess! You did not give him to Mosby!”

  Bess turned the sheet back. “He’s fine, Miss Hept. He’s downstairs in the parlor. He was ready to leave, saying he thought you was a fine woman and he wasn’t gonna make trouble. But I told him that you was so smit with him that you swooned in the root cellar and he had to stay and make sure you lived, since you save his life in the first place.”

  Hept looked up at the darkened ceiling and took a deep breath. “Why did I swoon in the root cellar?”

  Bess squeaked, “I put some tonic in you coffee so you can sleep. You was awake for too long.”

  Hept clenched her jaw. “By rights I should lay a curse on you for being a meddling slave.” She reached out. “Help me down
the stairs. The poppies have loosened the sinews of my legs.”

  When she turned her back to the bedroom window, she staggered, and Bess buoyed her up. A sob convulsed her. Bess said, “You not good to walk yet, Miss Hept.”

  “No,” she said. “I can walk. I only realized that I have given up.”

  “What you give up on, honey?”

  “I am rushing downstairs to meet him, like a girl.” She took a breath. “How can I? The God has sent a worthy man to me and I will not sacrifice him. I have given up on taking my rest.”

  Bess kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear. “Miss Hept, my momma and daddy had some love in them. When Daddy got sold over to Chattanooga, Momma just wanted to die—but she didn’t. She kept living, for her babies that she love. And my brothers and my sister got sold, too. And now she’s just living for me. Love keeps you living, Miss Hept. Love gonna keep you living, too.”

  Hept nodded. “I should go down to him. He is prepared to depart and this may be my last chance to hold onto him.”

  When they approached, the man woke in the light of Bess’ candle. He rose and took Hept’s arm, guiding her to the divan. Bess lit the lantern on the parlor table, trimmed the wick, then went into the kitchen.

  He sat beside her and said, “When I carried you to your bed, I was afraid you were sore stricken.”

  Hept was touched—though he had been wounded three days ago, he had carried her—perhaps he really cared for her. She was surprised by the calm that replaced her distress. “Bess dosed my coffee. She thought I needed rest.”

  He nodded. “You have had a difficult time, what with being shot . . .” He leaned forward, peering at her. His breath smelled of strawberries. “Miss Hept, you could not have been shot.”

  “Call me only ‘Hept.’ If you will give me your name, I will tell you of myself.”

  “I’m Ammon. Ammon Granger.” He paused. “You’re smiling.”

  “Take no offense, Ammon.”

  “Oh, no. You have a beautiful smile. You are just so reserved. I didn’t expect it.”

  She felt her smile widen of its own accord. “Nor did I. I was amused by your name. In the ancient days of a people long dead, Amun was the creator—The Hidden One.”