“Hush,” father said. “Lock the door and put out the lamp and go to bed.”
“I scared of the dark,” Nancy said. “I scared for it to happen in the dark.”
“You mean you’re going to sit right here with the lamp lighted?” father said. Then Nancy began to make the sound again, sitting before the fire, her long hands between her knees. “Ah, damnation,” father said. “Come along, chillen. It’s past bedtime.”
“When yawl go home, I gone,” Nancy said. She talked quieter now, and her face looked quiet, like her hands. “Anyway, I got my coffin money saved up with Mr. Lovelady.” Mr. Lovelady was a short, dirty man who collected the Negro insurance, coming around to the cabins or the kitchens every Saturday morning, to collect fifteen cents. He and his wife lived at the hotel.
One morning his wife committed suicide. They had a child, a little girl. He and the child went away. After a week or two he came back alone. We would see him going along the lanes and the back streets on Saturday mornings.
“Nonsense,” father said. “You’ll be the first thing I’ll see in the kitchen tomorrow morning.”
“You’ll see what you’ll see, I reckon,” Nancy said. “But it will take the Lord to say what that will be.”
VI
We left her sitting before the fire.
“Come and put the bar up,” father said. But she didn’t move. She didn’t look at us again, sitting quietly there between the lamp and the fire. From some distance down the lane we could look back and see her through the open door.
“What, Father?” Caddy said. “What’s going to happen?”
“Nothing,” father said. Jason was on father’s back, so Jason was the tallest of all of us. We went down into the ditch. I looked at it, quiet. I couldn’t see much where the moonlight and the shadows tangled.
“If Jesus is hid here, he can see us, cant he?” Caddy said.
“He’s not there,” father said. “He went away a long time ago.”
“You made me come,” Jason said, high; against the sky it looked like father had two heads, a little one and a big one. “I didn’t want to.”
We went up out of the ditch. We could still see Nancy’s house and the open door, but we couldn’t see Nancy now, sitting before the fire with the door open, because she was tired. “I just done got tired,” she said. “I just a nigger. It ain’t no fault of mine.”
But we could hear her, because she began just after we came up out of the ditch, the sound that was not singing and not unsinging. “Who will do our washing now, Father?” I said.
“I’m not a nigger,” Jason said, high and close above father’s head.
“You’re worse,” Caddy said, “you are a tattletale. If something was to jump out, you’d be scairder than a nigger.”
“I wouldn’t,” Jason said.
“You’d cry,” Caddy said.
“Caddy,” father said.
“I wouldn’t!” Jason said.
“Scairy cat,” Caddy said.
“Candace!” father said.
The End
III. THE WILDERNESS
Red Leaves, William Faulkner
Red Leaves
I
THE TWO INDIANS crossed the plantation toward the slave quarters. Neat with whitewash, of baked soft brick, the two rows of houses in which lived the slaves belonging to the clan, faced one another across the mild shade of the lane marked and scored with naked feet and with a few homemade toys mute in the dust. There was no sign of life.
“I know what we will find,” the first Indian said.
“What we will not find,” the second said. Although it was noon, the lane was vacant, the doors of the cabins empty and quiet; no cooking smoke rose from any of the chinked and plastered chimneys.
“Yes. It happened like this when the father of him who is now the Man, died.”
“You mean, of him who was the Man.”
“Yao.”
The first Indian’s name was Three Basket. He was perhaps sixty. They were both squat men, a little solid, burgher-like; paunchy, with big heads, big, broad, dust-colored faces of a certain blurred serenity like carved heads on a ruined wall in Siam or Sumatra, looming out of a mist. The sun had done it, the violent sun, the violent shade. Their hair looked like sedge grass on burnt-over land. Clamped through one ear Three Basket wore an enameled snuffbox.
“I have said all the time that this is not the good way. In the old days there were no quarters, no Negroes. A man’s time was his own then. He had time. Now he must spend most of it finding work for them who prefer sweating to do.”
“They are like horses and dogs.”
“They are like nothing in this sensible world. Nothing contents them save sweat. They are worse than the white people.”
“It is not as though the Man himself had to find work for them to do.”
“You said it. I do not like slavery. It is not the good way. In the old days, there was the good way. But not now.”
“You do not remember the old way either.”
“I have listened to them who do. And I have tried this way. Man was not made to sweat.”
“That’s so. See what it has done to their flesh.”
“Yes. Black. It has a bitter taste, too.”
“You have eaten of it?”
“Once. I was young then, and more hardy in the appetite than now. Now it is different with me.”
“Yes. They are too valuable to eat now.”
“There is a bitter taste to the flesh which I do not like.”
“They are too valuable to eat, anyway, when the white men will give horses for them.”
They entered the lane. The mute, meager toys — the fetish-shaped objects made of wood and rags and feathers — lay in the dust about the patinaed doorsteps, among bones and broken gourd dishes. But there was no sound from any cabin, no face in any door; had not been since yesterday, when Issetibbeha died. But they already knew what they would find.
It was in the central cabin, a house a little larger than the others, where at certain phases of the moon the Negroes would gather to begin their ceremonies before removing after nightfall to the creek bottom, where they kept the drums. In this room they kept the minor accessories, the cryptic ornaments, the ceremonial records which consisted of sticks daubed with red clay in symbols.
It had a hearth in the center of the floor, beneath a hole in the roof, with a few cold wood ashes and a suspended iron pot. The window shutters were closed; when the two Indians entered, after the abashless sunlight they could distinguish nothing with the eyes save a movement, shadow, out of which eyeballs rolled, so that the place appeared to be full of Negroes. The two Indians stood in the doorway.
“Yao,” Basket said. “I said this is not the good way.”
“I don’t think I want to be here,” the second said.
“That is black man’s fear which you smell. It does not smell as ours does.”
“I don’t think I want to be here.”
“Your fear has an odor too.”
“Maybe it is Issetibbeha which we smell.”
“Yao. He knows. He knows what we will find here. He knew when he died what we should find here today.” Out of the rank twilight of the room the eyes, the smell, of Negroes rolled about them. “I am Three Basket, whom you know,” Basket said into the room. “We are come from the Man. He whom we seek is gone?” The Negroes said nothing. The smell of them, of their bodies, seemed to ebb and flux in the still hot air.
They seemed to be musing as one upon something remote, inscrutable. They were like a single octopus. They were like the roots of a huge tree uncovered, the earth broken momentarily upon the writhen, thick, fetid tangle of its lightless and outraged life. “Come,” Basket said. “You know our errand. Is he whom we seek gone?”
“They are thinking something,” the second said. “I do not want to be here.”
“They are knowing something,” Basket said.
“They are hiding him, you think?”
“No. He is gone. He has been gone since last night. It happened like this before, when the grandfather of him who is now the Man died. It took us three days to catch him. For three days Doom lay above the ground, saying ‘I see my horse and my dog. But I do not see my slave. What have you done with him that you will not permit me to lie quiet?’”
“They do not like to die.”
“Yao. They cling. It makes trouble for us, always. A people without honor and without decorum. Always a trouble.”
“I do not like it here.”
“Nor do I. But then, they are savages; they cannot be expected to regard usage. That is why I say that this way is a bad way.”
“Yao. They cling. They would even rather work in the sun than to enter the earth with a chief. But he is gone.”
The Negroes had said nothing, made no sound. The white eyeballs rolled, wild, subdued; the smell was rank, violent. “Yes, they fear,” the second said. “What shall we do now?”
“Let us go and talk with the Man.”
“Will Moketubbe listen?”
“What can he do? He will not like to. But he is the Man now.”
“Yao. He is the Man. He can wear the shoes with the red heels all the time now.” They turned and went out. There was no door in the door frame. There were no doors in any of the cabins.
“He did that anyway,” Basket said.
“Behind Issetibbeha’s back. But now they are his shoes, since he is the Man.”
“Yao. Issetibbeha did
