Part 8

Eager to get back and tell Lizzie the outcome of his visit to Tempe, Chester took the short cut across the pasture. The moonlight was so brilliant, he could trace the entire length of the worn pathway through the shining dew-dripping weeds along its edges. A cool breeze was blowing from the woods, and the dampness of the grass causing him to feel chilly, he pulled up his coat. As he walked along, singing, he was conscious of being pleased that he had accomplished something. He had spoken his mind and felt satisfied that Tempe would stop talking, and no blame would be attached to his name. Lizzie would be glad to know how he straightened things out with Tempe, and she would stop worrying about his getting into trouble.

When he reached home, the door was closed and the house was in total darkness. Lizzie had gone to bed; and he knew he would have to go in quietly, because if he wakened her, she would be cross and make a racket.

Disappointed that he would have to wait until morning to tell her about his visit, he undressed quietly and got into bed. The sound of snoring in the next room told him that Lizzie was in her “first sleep”; so he knew that it would be a long time before she would awake. Thinking he might forget his disappointment, he began to pray.

However short and simple of form his sincere appeal may have been, it served him as might any formula of cabalistic worth. Bringing to his childish mind not only quiet forgetfulness; but quick, conquering somnolence, with a myriad train of fantastic visions; tantalizing his superstitious soul, and holding him in helpless captivity until the mystic hour of midnight came to break the spell.

A rooster, high up on a branch of the persimmon tree in the side yard, looking out across the pasture, and seeing the moon slipping down the heavens, flapped his wings lustily and gave a ringing salute that floated off on the wind to tell his fellow-fowls that morning was on the way to greet the sleeping world.

Chester heard the clarion sound in the tangle of his dream, and awaking with a start, he jumped out of bed and ran to Lizzie’s room, calling to her excitedly:

“Lizzie! You ’wake?” He shouted, going to the bed-side, and shaking her roughly. “Wake up, for Gawd sake; an’ lemme talk to you!... Did you hyeah dat noise jes’ now befo’ I come in de room?”

Lizzie sat up quickly and answered in an angry tone:

“Boy, you mus’ be losin’ yo’ min’, ain’t you? W’at you mean, comin’ hyuh an’ wakin’ me out my slumbers, axin’ me ’bout any noise, like somebody done gone crazy?... Go back to bed, yonder in yo’ room. An’ damn you an’ dis kind o’ humbug; way in de middle o’ de night like dis!... You ain’ walkin’ in yo’ sleep, is you?”

“Lizzie, for Gawd sake lissen at w’at I’m try’n to tell you,” he pleaded. “Ain’t you hyeah’d de noise,—like somebody callin’ for help?... Callin’ an’ moanin’ so pitiful, it woke me out a heavy sleep.... Gawd knows. I could hyeah it plain as day.... An’ ’long wid de moanin’ I could heayh de soun’ like water splashin’.... Gawd knows, Lizzie.... An’ I dunno w’at make you ain’ bin able to hyeah it, loud an’ natchal as dat thing was soundin’.”

Becoming suddenly aware of the humor of the situation, Lizzie began laughing with keen enjoyment.

“Nigger, you mus’ bin had de night-mare,” she told him. “You better go look an’ see if you ain’ knocked over dat bucket o’ water on de table yonder.... Talkin’ ’bout hyeahin’ water splashin’.... Go back to bed, boy, an’ lay down. An’ quit dis foolishness, an’ lemme git some mo’ sleep.”

Determined to convince her that what he heard was no imaginary sound, he persisted:

“Lizzie, w’at make you think I wan’ joke on somh’n seerus like dis thing is?... I tell you de noise I hyeah’d was a reel, _natchal_ noise. An’ it kep’ up de whole time I was gittin’ out o’ bed till I got hyuh an’ shuck you ’wake. An’ w’en I commence walkin’ ’cross de room, it look like all my laigs was stingin’ me, same as if somebody bin switchin’ ’um wid stingin’-nettles.”

“Chester, git out o’ hyuh, wid yo’ lyin’ self!” Lizzie commanded, with a show of irritation. “Hyuh you done laid up in yo’ bed half de night in a crooked position, till yo’ blood done gone to sleep; an’ come tellin’ me ’bout somebody switchin’ yo’ laigs wid stingin’-nettles!... Git out o’ hyuh.... ’Cause I know if I raise up out dis bed an’ shove you thoo dat do’, you sho Gawd will go lay down, aft’ my han’s done fell on you.... You hyeah w’at I’m say’n?”

“I hyeah you,” he answered forlornly. “But you watch if you don’ hyeah bad news tomorrow mornin’.... A callin’ noise like dat noise I hyeah’d, sho do puhdick somh’n.... An’ Jesus goin’ be my witness I ain’ lissen at nothin’ on-natchal dis night o’ my good Lawd.”

Leaning over the side of the bed, Lizzie trailed her hand along the floor until she found one of her shoes. Suspecting her intention, Chester started to leave the room, when she fired the shoe at him, shouting:

“Git out o’ hyuh, I tell you! An’ don’t you lemme hyeah you say another word tonight.”

Unable to sleep, he lit a candle on the mantelshelf, and sat down on the side of his cot, trying to calm himself. He tried to pray, but he could not concentrate, his mind was so disturbed. The room was cold, and the dim cheerless light of the candle made him uncomfortable. Maybe if he lit a fire and made some coffee he would feel stronger, he thought.

Taking some dried leaves and chips from the box in the corner, he put them on the hearth between the andirons; laid a few branches over them and lighted the fire with the candle. As the bright flame leaped up the chimney, brightening the room with a cheerful glow, and streaking the floor and ceiling with long quivering shadows; he sat down before the hearth and began humming softly.

Seeing the reflection through the open door, and hearing the low rumble of his voice, Lizzie called to him impatiently:

“Chester, if you think you goin’ hol’ a all-night swaree yonder in dat kitchen wid nobody but yo’ fool-self, you better come close dis do’, so dat light won’ keep me from sleepin’.”

He got up and closed the door quietly; went over to his cot and took the quilt; and after wrapping it about him, he drew a chair before the fire and sat down. The genial warmth and the soothing crackling of the burning branches set his mind to thinking of other things; and very soon he found himself tranquilly sinking into utter forgetfulness; snugly enfolded by the “fifty revelashuns of de forty-seven wonders.”

The season for growing things being almost over, only a few vegetables were left in Nat’s garden. Several beds of sweet potatoes and pumpkin vines told that a few yams and cashaws remained to be gathered; and there was still a small supply of succulent spinach, bordered with rows of bright green parsley; and plenty of glossy red peppers on the sturdy bushes growing along the side fence.

Before seven o’clock in the morning, with a warm sunshine falling over everything, Nat was at work with Tempe’s mule hitched to the harrow; trying to get the ground ready for lettuce planting before the first frost fall.

Up and down the long rows of lumpy ground he followed the harrow, singing pleasantly to amuse himself; apparently satisfied with the mule for the work he had in mind. The sunshine was bright and comforting; and nothing disturbed his meditations except the playful sniffing and barking of his three dogs, Leave-it-lay, Scawl and one-eye Companyun, following at his heels, hunting out toads and ground-puppies under the newly-broken clods.

At length, the click of the iron latch on the front gate attracted Nat’s attention; and looking up, he saw a woman with a _marchande_ basket coming down the grassy path. As she came nearer, Nat recognized Scilla, coming to buy vegetables to take to the City to sell. She was walking hurriedly, and seemed to be excited. Before reaching him, she called out breathlessly:

“Lawd, Unc’ Nat! W’at you reckon done happen?... An’ had to fall on me, to be de firs’ one to see de thing; an’ go spread de news, yonder in Gritny.”

Unmoved, Nat looked at her, and answered quietly:

“Ooman, take yo’ time; an’ don’ trip ove’ yo’ words so fas’. W’at excitement dis is, you done brought hyuh so soon in de mawnin’?”

“Unc’ Nat,” Scilla continued with growing animation, “ain’t you hyeah’d ’bout Tempe gittin’ drownded in de street well, yonder by Miss Collamo cawnder?”

“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’! gal,” Nat exclaimed. “Is you come hyuh jokin’? Or is you tellin’ somh’n w’at happen for-true?”

“I ain’ play’n, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla assured him. “Tempe drownded yonder in de well. An’ nobody ain’ know nothin’ ’tall ’bout it, till I comed along soon dis mawnin’; an’ seen Tempe body floatin’ on top de water, hol’in a bunch o’ stingin’-nettles, tight-shet in one ’uh han’s; like she mus’ bin grabbed ’um off de side de well w’en she was fallin’ in.”

Nat contemplated her face for a second, still doubting the information. “Gal, go ’way,” he said to her. “I bet you ain’ seen nothin’ but a bunch o’ weeds, or somh’n-nother floatin’ on top de water, made you think ’twas Tempe body; dark like it mus’ bin w’en you peeped in de well.”

But Scilla was positive about what she had seen, she told him. Saying that she had started away from home very early, on her way to Nat’s garden after vegetables; and seeing the well uncovered when she reached the corner, and fearing that someone would meet with an accident; she stooped to cover it. As she was putting the wooden lid in place, a ray of sunlight, slanting through the opening, attracted her attention to a strange-looking object in the water. Getting down on her knees to look at it more closely, she discovered that it was Tempe’s body; with one arm pointing upward, and the hand clutching a bunch of nettles.

“I was so sk’yeard, Unc’ Nat, I start to run an’ holler for help,” Scilla went on, with dramatic effect. “W’en jus’ ’bout dat time, I seen Mr. Gully baker wagon come ’roun de cawnder, an’ I call him to come see.

“Mr. Gully got down off de wagon, an’ looked in de well. An’ w’en he seen for hisself ’twas Tempe body, he tol’ me go call somebody. So I went got two or three mens; an’ dey all fetched a rope an’ things from Tempe yard; an’ dey commence strug’lin wid de rope, till dey got it hitched roun’ Tempe body. An’ aft’ a li’l w’ile, dey pulled ’uh up.

“Den dey all took Tempe to ’uh house; an’ I went got some wimmins livin’ close-by, to look aft’ ’uh an’ fix ’uh nice for de burryin’.... So aft’ I had did all I could, I lef’ ’um all yonder, an’ come hyuh to git my vegetables to carry over to New Leens to sell.”

Nat looked at her in thoughtful contemplation.

“Nobody ain’ said nothin’ ’bout how Tempe come to fall in de well?” He asked her.

“Some de people say ’twas a accident. An’ some say Tempe bin so bad-off for so long, she was jus’ natchally weak-minded, an’ mus’ bin commit,” Scilla advised him.

“I gotta go yonder dis evenin’, an’ see ’bout de funeyun,” Nat murmured softly, as if talking to himself. “Tempe ain’ got nothin’. An’ she bin too good a ooman to leave dem don’-care-fied niggers lay ’uh away, yonder in potter’s fiel’.”

“Tempe got life-in-sho-ince, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla informed him. “One de wimmins foun’ de paper in Tempe berow draw. An’ dey done sont word ’cross de river to de Met-luh-policy man, to come see ’bout it befo’ dey take Tempe to de church.”

“Dat ain’ got nothin to do wid me,” Nat answered abruptly. “Dis Tempe mule you see hitched to dis harrow I’m fol’rin behin’ dis mawnin’. An’ de secon’ payment ain’ made yet; an’ de money still owin’ to ’uh. So Nat gotta go yonder to Gritny an’ do de right thing; an’ see dat Tempe laid away like people. Not dumped in a hole like no-count cattle.”

“Dey say dey lookin’ for de Met-luh-policy man to git dah ’bout twelve o’clock,” Scilla told him. “So Unc’ Nat, if you goin’ take charge de in-sho-ince money, you better go yonder soon’s you kin.”

Nat looked at her with a scowl of annoyance.

“Gal, stop tellin’ me ’bout de Met-luh-policy man,” he told her, sharply. “I ain’ got no business wid none o’ Tempe in-sho-ince money. I’m goin’ yonder wid Nat’s money.... Money w’at b’lonks to Tempe, for dis mule you see stannin’ hyuh.... Money w’at goin’ puhvide de carriage for all dem niggers to ride in; an’ give Tempe a good-lookin’ funeyun like people.... Da’s w’at Nat goin’ for.”

“Well, I sho wan’ try be dah w’en you come, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla assured him. “So come on, an’ gimme my vegetables, an’ lemme go yonder an’ sell ’um, an’ git thoo soon’s I kin.”

Scilla selected the vegetables she wanted, arranged them in her basket, gave Nat the money for them, and put the basket on her head and left. As soon as she had gone, Nat went back to his work.

“Come on hyuh, ole mule,” he called, taking up the reins from the harrow and giving the mule a light slap. “You gotta make quick tracks, an’ lemme git thoo dese las’ few rows. ’Cause I wan’ hurry yonder an’ take Tempe out de han’s o’ dem searchin’ niggers, befo’ night come.... Git up hyuh, now. An’ lemme see you move like you un’stan w’at you doin’; an’ got yo’ min’ on w’at Nat talkin’ ’bout.... You hyeah me?”

Carmelite had finished another patch-work master-piece,—a “Jacob ladder” pattern of many-colored gingham and calico scraps; and being in need of money, she was giving a “raffle meetin’” at her house. She said she was sure to “take up five dollars ’munks all de members w’at say dey was comin’.” Because cold weather was not very far off; and people never could have too many quilts. And ten cents a chance was so little, she knew none of the members would overlook the inducement. Besides, everybody was bound to have a good time at Carmelite’s raffle, “singin’ an’ jokin’ an’ drinkin’ coffee an’ eatin’ cake.” And rich cake, at that. The same kind Carmelite made for the white folks’ table.

Duck eggs always made a cake taste better, she declared with authority. They gave it such a fine yellow color; and kept it from looking like “cheap grocery-sto’ cake.” And Carmelite enjoyed hearing her friends talk about it; and liked to hear them “give ’uh de praise for ’uh cookin’.”

Nobody’s duck eggs were like Aunt Fisky’s. They were always so big and fresh. And Carmelite knew that she could get as many as she needed, in exchange for anything she had to offer. Aunt Fisky was too old to bend over and beat brick to sprinkle on her floor; and Gussie was so busy running around with the women, he never had time to stop and sit down and pound it for her. So a bucket full of brick dust was always a desirable article of barter. A bundle of fat pine splinters for lighting the fire was another thing to be desired; scarce as fat pine was most of the time. And a pan of Carmelite’s hot cornbread, almost as good as the cake she made, was a thing Aunt Fisky would accept gladly, in exchange for a half dozen duck eggs.

Having finished nearly all the preparations for the evening raffle, Carmelite wrapped a newspaper around a pan of hot cornbread just out of the oven, and started away, after the duck eggs for the cake she was going to make for her guests. She would hurry back, she told herself; and the cake would have time to get cool after she finished baking, and it would “cut nice” for the frolic.

Half way across the green she met Aunt Fisky, driving home her ducks from the pool of water near her house. It was a wide stretch of ground in the open green, where the earth had been dug away during high water time, and carried off and banked against a weak spot in the levee. Being near the river, the pool was always filled with water and crawfish; and it became a favorite resort of the ducks, geese and colored children of the neighborhood.

Coming up near the old woman, Carmelite greeted her with a pleasant smile, saying:

“Aun’ Fisky, yo’ ducks sho look w’ite an’ healt’y today.”

“Dey ain’ jew to look no yuther way, daughter,” the old woman answered. “Plut’rin in de water like dey is all day long from soon in de mawnin’.”

“You sho lucky to live so close by de pool out hyuh whah de crawfish an’ bugs so plennyful,” Carmelite went on. “It keep you from buyin’ a whole lot o’ cawn an’ things for yo’ ducks. High as chicken feed is dese days.... Dey sho is a fine flock o’ ducks, for being nothin’ but plain puddle ducks. Ain’ dey?”

“Yas, daughter. Dey is healt’y an’ nice,” Aunt Fisky answered. “But de ole ooman gittin’ too feeble to be worry wid raisin’ ducks much longer. You can’ keep ’um from stray’n off. An’ de crawfish so temptin’ to ’um; dey looks like dey fo’gits to come back home. So I has to go fetch ’um. An’ hyuh lately, I bin feelin’ so po’ly, it mos’ plays me out to walk even fur as dis pool hyuh, ’cross de green.”

“You ain’ got de rheumatism, is you?” Carmelite asked, sympathetically.

“I ain’ sho, daughter,” Aunt Fisky replied, dubiously. “But I bin rubbin’ my back an’ my two knees wid some ni’ntment Unc’ Bendigo gimme; try’n to see if it goin’ ease de miz’ry. But I ain’ notice no change yet, since day-befo’-yistiddy.”

“Some kind o’ drug-sto’ n’intment?” Carmelite inquired.

“No. ’Tain’ nothin’ bought,” Aunt Fisky advised her. “Somh’n Unc’ Bendigo bin makin’ to rub wid, way yonder since Reb-time. Somh’n he say ain’ miss cu’in nobody ever bin use it. An’ so simple, too,” she went on to explain. “’Tain nothin’ but plain inch-worms out de groun’, mixed wid chop pa’sley an’ a pinch o’ smokin’ tobacco, fried altogether in hog lard. An’ you gotta rub wid it in a downwuds direction, to’ads de feet; so de miz’ry pass out thoo de toes.”

“Sho soun’ like it mus’ be some kin to hoo-doo,” Carmelite remarked, laughing.

“No it ’tain’,” Aunt Fisky corrected her. “Unc’ Bendigo don’ play wid no hoo-doo. It des a natchal n’intment he say de ole folks learn ’im how to make.”

“But w’at good it ’tis, if you say it ain’ help you none?” Carmelite inquired.

“But how kin I say ’tain no good, if maybe I’m usin’ de thing for somh’n I ain’ got?” the old woman argued. “I ain’ sho dis no-count feelin’ I got come from de rheumatism.”

“Maybe yo’ stummic is tight; an’ you needs purgin’,” Carmelite suggested.

“Might be,” agreed Aunt Fisky; opening the gate, and driving the ducks into the yard.

“Y’oughta eat you a few dese pumma-crissuls you got hyuh in yo’ yard,” said Carmelite, pointing to a castor oil bush in full fruit, growing along-side the fence. “Dey sho physic you nice. An’ dey eats good, too.”

Aunt Fisky stood silent, watching the line of ducks marching on to the back yard. Seeing the newspaper package in Carmelite’s hand, and guessing the object of her visit, the old woman pushed the door open and told her to go in.

Carmelite laid the pan of cornbread on the table and sat down, looking about the room slowly. She was impressed with the clean, orderly poverty of its furnishing. Save for an old table and two chairs, the place was almost bare. Some iron pots on the hearth gave evidence that all the cooking was done in the open fireplace, on the level with the floor, and greatly in need of repairs.

Aunt Fisky drew a chair from the corner by the chimney and sat down. Carmelite looked at her without speaking, thinking of her tired old body and the weary expression on her kindly wrinkled old face. Her guinea-blue dress was patched in many places, but was clean and carefully ironed. Her head-handkerchief, once a bright piece of yellow-and-brown plaid gingham, now old and faded, was tied with care; the two tabs in front drooping over like a tired butterfly resting after a long flight.

“Daughter, I’m sho glad to set down,” Aunt Fisky sighed, after a brief silence. “I’m so played-out till I got de swimmin’ in de head.”

“Aun’ Fisky, yo’ stummic mus’ be ain’ workin’ right,” Carmelite advised her again. “W’at make you don’ take a couple o’ dem pumma-crissul off de bush you got yonder, an’ eat ’um; an’ see if dey don’ help you? Dey sho is good w’en somh’n be wrong wid yo’ intwuds.” (Inwards.)

“Daughter, I know de things is good,” Aunt Fisky answered; fully mindful of Carmelite’s well-meant interest. “But I’m des natchally ’fraid to meddle wid ’um,” she continued. “Ever since ole Unc’ Jo Mingo died from eatin’ pumma-crissul seeds off de bush in ’is yard.... I don’ trus’ ’um. So I don’ wan’ tamper wid ’um.”

“But, Aun’ Fisky, ain’t you b’lieve greed’ness had a whole lot to do wid Unc’ Jo Mingo death?” Carmelite asked her. “It look to me like pumma-crissul kilt ’im ’cause he ain’ use no jedgment ’bout eatin’ ’um,” she went on. “Ain’ sattafy eating two or three seeds, w’en somebody tol’ ’im dey was good for certain sickness; had to keep on eatin’ ’um, aft’ he done found out he like de way dey tas’e; till he done et a _whole han’-full_.... ’Tain no wonder Unc’ Jo Mingo died. Wid all dat castor oil surgin’ up an’ down ’is body.”

But Aunt Fisky’s judgment was going to be her protection. She knew that palma Christi seeds were good medicine. She had heard the white folks talk about it, she told Carmelite. But she was afraid to meddle with them, and would rather use some remedy she knew better. Okra seed tea was just as good; and she would try a dose of that, if old Uncle Bendigo’s ointment didn’t bring relief after a few days more.

Carmelite advised her to be careful about what she ate; and seized the occasion to call her attention to the pan of corn-bread. Aunt Fisky got up and unwrapped the present; thanked Carmelite for her thoughtfulness, and asked her if she needed any eggs. Carmelite told her about the raffle she was giving; and said she wanted to bake a cake, and would take a half dozen duck eggs, if Aunt Fisky could spare them.

The old woman brought the eggs from the next room; and after turning the cornbread out on the table, she put the eggs in Carmelite’s pan, and sat down again for a chat.

“Do Gussie know anything ’bout de raffle at yo’ house to-night?” Aunt Fisky inquired.

Carmelite hesitated slightly, uncertain what to answer.