"John, how can I help you?"
"Touch ..."
"What?"
"Touch my head ... with your hands," he said.
I reached out and felt around until I could feel the pulse in his temples. One beat, two beats, three beats, four... and then there came a bright yellow light that filled our foul cell. I could see John sagging down in his chains with his eyes closed and his breath coming fast and short like the panting of a winded dog.
Then I was gone from the tomb and free from my bonds. John and I were sitting side by side in crudely built rocking chairs out in front of a small, ramshackle cabin that stood on a rise looking down over a pine forest. There were larks singing and fat clouds floating in the blue sky overhead. John was there next to me.
At first I thought that I had swooned and fallen into a dream.
"No," Tall John from beyond Africa said, answering my thought. "You are not dreaming. We are here together in our minds."
"Where are we?" I asked John. "I don't know. Don't you recognize this place?" Suddenly I realized that we were in front of Britisher Bill's place; a cabin that Una Turner's father had given to the slave, Britisher Bill, when he earned his freedom. I used to go there with Big Mama Flore and Mud Albert when I was very small. Master Tobias would send us with a basket of food that the old master had promised to deliver to Britisher Bill every fourth Sunday for the rest of his life.
Flore and Albert would walk hand in hand and every once in a while they'd stop and Flore would kiss Albert's cheek. Once they sat on a log and hugged for such a long time that I got bored and asked them when we were going to leave.
"How did you know about Britisher Bill's cabin?" I asked John.
"I didn't," he said, "the memory is in your mind." Britisher Bill appeared in my mind then. He was older than Mud Albert by far and he spoke in an accent that people said was English. The old master had gone to Jamaica long ago and purchased Bill for his personal manservant. He became so fond of the slave that he brought him back to the Corinthian.
"But," I said, shaking the image of Bill from my mind, "if you too weak t'work your magic then how did we get here?"
"The power is in your mind, Forty-seven. Your mind brought us here. I merely showed you the way."
"So can my mind bring us water an' food?" I asked. " 'Cause you know I sho am hungry an' thirsty too."
John leaned back in his rocker and sighed.
"You could imagine eating chicken," he said, and somewhere I heard the cackle of a hen, "but when we go back to our chains you will be all the more hungry."
"So we ain't got aloose from the Tomb?" I asked. "We just daydreamin'?"
"Don't you like it better here than in that hot cell?" I looked around at the peaceful yard and the forest beyond and thought, Yes, this is better than chains.
"Back there," John said. "I'm almost dead. I wouldn't be able to give you my last words, my council."
"You not gonna die, John," I protested, but in my heart I feared his words were true.
"I should have listened to you, Forty-seven," he said. "I am well over three thousand years old and so I thought a boy of fourteen couldn't tell me anything. I was so sure that I could master Tobias just as he had mastered you. My pride was my downfall and now I have put the entire universe in jeopardy."
"You cain't be worried 'bout no universe when we in trouble right now in the Tomb," I scolded.
"Right again, Forty-seven. I can feel my mind fading. I must tell you what you need to know before I pass on to the Upper Level. Listen closely.
"I had intended to give you guidance and power with which you could fight against Wall and keep him from his mad plan. Now it's too late for that. I will die in Tobias's chains but you may yet survive. If you do I want you to find my yellow bag and study its contents. Certain items therein will speak to you "
"Things gonna talk to me like them oil seeds you use for healin'?"
"You will see something," John said patiently, nodding slightly as if he were tired and soon to fall asleep. "And after a while you will have a nagging feeling at the back of your mind. And soon you will know how to go about using that thing."
I noticed that the sun was setting. This was odd because when we first came to Britisher Bill's cabin, only a few minutes before, it was high noon.
"Time is running out for me," Tall John sighed. "I was arrogant. I didn't listen to our hero."
"You not gonna die, John," I whined. "We gonna both make it through this. You just tired, that's all. You just sleepy. If Tobias meant to kill us he'da send us to Mr. Stewart's killin' shack. All you gotta do is sleep an' build up yo' strength. Tomorrow he'll prob'ly send us back to the slave quarters. You'll see."
I helped John out of the rocking chair and laid him out on the ground.
He smiled at me and said, "So you forgive me for delivering you into Tobias's hands?"
"Ain't nuthin' to forgive," I said. "It was me wanted t'come back. It's my fault we here."
Hearing this John smiled and then fell into a deep sleep. As he closed his eyes the sun set on Britisher Bill's cabin. In the darkness the pine forest and the sky faded, becoming the close walls of our cell. The scent of pine was replaced by the odor of human suffering. As the darkness descended I realized that our cell might be an actual tomb for both of us.
When the night came the heat didn't let up and even the little light that had filtered in with the sun was gone. I came awake, lamenting my sad fate. There I was chained by my ankles with no water or food, dying. And what had I done wrong? I had helped to save the master's daughter. I had come back home even though it meant a life of slavery.
"Numbah Twelve?" came a voice from outside of our
hotbox.
"Eighty-four?" I answered.
"Is Johnny in there wit'you, Forty-seven?" she asked through the door.
"Yeah but he out. It's 'cause'a no watah I think."
"I brought you an' him some watah an' two apples," she said. "Mud Albert sneaked out an' unchained me an' give me this here from Flore."
And with that the food slot opened. I could feel the cool breeze of night coming in through there. She handed through a small water skin and two apples. Because my hands were free I was able to reach out and take her gifts.
"Tell him that I be prayin' for you. I sure will."
The girl that John called Tweenie closed the food slot and I held the jug to his lips. At the first taste of the water on his tongue he made a sound in his throat and roused. I held the cup to his lips until he drank every drop.
When he realized that he'd finished the water he asked, "Did you drink already?"
"Yeah," I lied. I figured that he needed the water more than I did and, anyway, the fruit that Eighty-four gave us had water in it too.
We each ate an apple. I devoured mine, core and all.
This is another moment that I have to stop and explain the crazy contradiction of the pain of slavery. Those apples certainly weren't the best that I've ever eaten. I have traveled, in my many years, near and far across America and beyond. I have eaten the most delicious fruits that our rich soil has to offer. But that mealy little apple that Eighty-four fed us in our prison was the sweetest, most delicious thing that I've ever tasted. No great meal of succulent pork and sweet potatoes could ever be so satisfying. That's because we were starving. We were near death. And those small spotted fruit contained the taste of salvation.
In the morning the door to our cell was opened and we were dragged out into the light of day. All around the yard stood the field slaves, in chains. The house slaves were also there Fred Chocolate, Big Mama Flore, Nola, and the rest of the servants. Sitting on fences and wagons all around were Mr. Stewart and a dozen or so white riflemen. Dead center of the yard was a huge wagon wheel leaned up against a hay wagon.
When I saw that big wheel my heart went cold.
John and I were thrown to the ground and Master Turner came out wearing a black suit like Andrew Pike had worn the day he interrupted Ned'
s funeral.
"We are here today," Tobias said, "to punish the disrespect, thievery, and mutiny of these two niggers, Number Twelve and Number Forty-seven. They are bein' punished for talkin' back, for stealin' a handkerchief, and for runnin' away while on business for their master. I have brought out all you other slaves so that you will see and learn, so that you will remember not to forget your place in the scheme of things as God has decreed.
"I have to punish these boys because it's the responsibility of the white man to keep the black from forgettin' his place. But I am not unfeelin'. I could have both of you boys whipped until you were dead. But I know that po' Forty-seven was led astray by this new nigger here. So the punishment for Number Twelve is twenty-four lashes and a visit to Mr. Stewart's shack .. ."
"No!" Eighty-four shouted. I saw her try to run out into the yard but her chains and the women around her held
her back.
"And as for Forty-seven, he is to receive just twelve
lashes "
Mama Flore ran out into the yard yelling words that made no sense to me. She was tearing at her breast and running right for Tobias. A big white man stood forward and knocked Flore down with the butt of his rifle. The moment he did that Mud Albert ran out. The rifleman swiveled and shot Albert in the chest.
All of this was almost too much for me to take in and so when Champ Noland also broke line and was beaten to the ground by other white men I hardly noticed. All I could see was Mama Flore like a lump on the ground and Mud Albert crawling toward her and bleeding like a well-pump bringing up water.
Albert made it almost to Flore's side but then he stopped moving. I'm sure that was the moment of his death.
"Get on with it!" Tobias Turner shouted then.
John was dragged to the wagon wheel and chained to i hand and foot. Mr. Stewart counted out the lashes as a bi& white man named Thaddeus Murphy worked his bullwhip in a hideous way.
John didn't cry or shout. He just took the lashes and hung down. When that was over they put me in his place.
I cried and shouted for Mama Flore. I begged and screamed and finally I passed out. Before I lost consciousness I had a vision of myself as a young child sitting on Flore's lap and playing with her ears.
"You got big ears, Mama Flore," I remembered saying.
"You got little bitty ones," she said, "like chocolate sea-shells."
And then I passed out.
16.
My back was on fire when I came awake in the slave cabin that afternoon.
"You niggahs really messed up," Pritchard said.
I couldn't see the lame carpenter but I knew that he was standing there behind me.
"Yessiree," Pritchard cackled, "you niggers just had to act all uppity and now you see what you get. Mud Albert dead, Champ Noland in the Tomb. They say that Mama Flore is in her closet gettin' ready for her harp."
"Mama Flore dyin'?" I cried. "Naw it ain't true."
"You see?" Pritchard said. He came into view on my left side, leaning on his crutch and grinning. "You see? Talkin' back to your betters is why you got them sores on yo back. That's why Numbah Twelve out in Mr. Stewart's killin' shack right now. That's why Mud Albert is dead in the barn."
My heart was devastated. Mud Albert dead, Mama Flore dying. Champ Noland, the most powerful man anyone had even seen, chained and beaten. All of that happened because I asked John to save Eloise. And even though he had saved the girl and even though I was happy that she was alive, I was miserable at the cost of her survival. Everyone I had ever loved was destroyed.
I was in terrible pain but still I lifted myself from the slave cot. I wasn't surprised that my feet weren't chained. The wounds on my back were so bad that they probably expected me to die. The bullwhip does dreadful damage to human skin. It tears all the way down to bone. I was bleeding from a dozen crisscrossed tears in my flesh, but still I got to my feet at the foot of the bed.
"Are you crazy, niggah?" Pritchard cried. "Git back in that bed before somebody white sees you."
"Get away from me, Pritchard," I said. "I'm small and I'm hurtin' but I will find a way to get back at you if you get in my way."
"It ain't me you got to worry 'bout, boy. It's Tobias an' Stewart and every white man from here to the border of Tennessee that's gonna be after you."
I made my way to the cabin door. Every step I took I worried about falling down. But I kept on walking because of the hatred in my heart. I had never felt like that before. Tobias had taken everything from me, everything except John and I would die before I let Mr. Stewart destroy him.
I had never been to the killin' shack before but I knew where the path was that led there. I stumbled out behind the slave cabin and then down the trail that had been the doom of so many black souls. There were birds crying at my passage but to my wounded heart they sounded like
the tormented voices of all of the slaves Mr. Stewart had tortured and killed.
I didn't know what I would do when I got to my destination. I probably wouldn't live out the day but I didn't care. My friend needed me and I would not let him down.
I lumbered through the vegetation, feeling the raw wounds on my back with every step. When I looked down I could see the blood trickling to my feet. But that didn't stop me. I just took one step after another down the evil lane.
After some time I came to an open yard. Across from where I stood was a dilapidated cabin. I knew that was where I'd find Mr. Stewart and Tall John. I reached down and picked up a throwing rock that had sharp corners on two sides. I took one step and then someone grabbed me by my arm. I turned to hit that someone with my rock but before I could swing I saw that it was Eighty-four standing there in her worn blue dress.
"What you doin' heah, Forty-seven?" she cried, pulling me from the road.
"I came for John."
"Me too," she said.
"That's the killin' shack," I said.
"I s'pose it is," Eighty-four agreed. "Mr. Stewart is in there right now killin' my baby."
"I guess we got to go in there if'n we wanna save him," I said.
"Yeah," she said.
But neither one of us moved. Faced with the certain death of the killing shack we were frozen. Our entire lives we had been trained to fear Mr. Stewart. Our entire lives we were told that the white overboss had complete power over us. Our fear was like an invisible wall standing in the middle of that yard.
Eighty-four reached out a finger and touched my cheek.
"You cryin'," she said.
It was her touch that pushed me past the line of our fear.
"You git a big stick," I said. "Git a big stick and then we gonna go up on that porch. I'ma go in an' th'ow my rock an' when he chasin' me out the do' you try an' hit 'im on the head."
Eighty-four nodded and looked around for a stick. She found a tree branch that was as big as a club. That was the first time I looked at her as something other than chattel. She was a young woman and beautiful as Tall John had said. She was stronger than many men I knew and the love in her heart for John found a companion in me.
We strode toward the door of the cabin. Eighty-four moved to the side and I pushed the door wide.
When I got into the room I took in everything at once. The first thing that assailed me was the smell. It was as if Mr. Stewart had stored rotted meat in the walls. It stank and burned my eyes. There was a long table in the middle of the floor and John was stretched out across it. The leather bands lashed to his wrists and ankles were attached to
heavy baskets that had cannon balls in them for weight. My friend wasn't screaming but I could see the pain in his face.
Mr. Stewart was standing over the table with his back to me. When I hefted my stone I realized that my strength was waning. I had only one chance to hit Stewart and then run. I doubted that I would have been able to make it across the yard.
I threw the stone. But even as the missile left my hand Stewart must have sensed my presence, because he turned as the rock flew through the air. Every
thing worked together and my rock met his left eye. Stewart grabbed at his head and then fell to the floor.
I staggered to my friend's side. On a shelf next to the table was a knife. I used this to cut the bonds that held John's hands. I expected the basket connected to his wrists to fall but I was surprised when he was dragged down to the other end of the table. Then I realized that the heavy basket tied to his feet no longer had the counterbalance of the other basket and it pulled my friend to the other end.
John sat up and grabbed his ribcage.
"It hurts," he moaned. "It hurts. So this is what it means to suffer."
"Can you git up?" I asked him.
"Pain," he replied.
I used the knife to cut the bonds around his ankles and then I helped him to the side of the table. He tried to get to his feet but his legs gave out like they were rubber. I got down on my knees to help him but just as I did a shadow fell over us.
"I'll kill botha you niggahs!" Mr. Stewart shouted.
He was there above us, blood coming from his ruined eye.
Before I could do anything he was on me. I felt his hands close around my throat.
"Damn you!" I shouted, thinking that at least I could condemn his evil soul to hell before he killed me.
"Huh!" he exclaimed, and his grip loosened.
I thought that maybe my curse had instant effect. Stewart fell to the side and there above me stood Eighty-four, the club clutched in her hands. She dropped the log and helped both me and John to our feet.
"Take me to my yellow sack," he whispered in my ear as we went through the door.
John could hardly walk and I was weak from the bleeding wounds on my back. Without Eighty-four we would never have made it. She nearly carried John and I supported myself by holding onto her shoulder.
After a long time we came upon the tree where John kept his shiny yellow sack. He opened it up and took out a little red lacquer box. From this he brought out a metal disk that stood upon a spindly tripod. He did something with the legs, and the disk started turning slowly. Then he collapsed.
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