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sunsaver
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Here is the new story so far. Not sure where i am going. I promise to post the complete story when i get there. Most of you will not want to waste your time reading this post.
A Tale of Fiction:
The free man dragged his legs through the swamp. Sometimes up to his waist and often just puddles of mud that clutched at his feet: the brown water was an alligator infested mine field. Miles of nothing but dark water, bugs, and massive cypress trees with trunks that looked like wrinkled gray elephants, blocking his way and making him walk twice as far going around. He had seen elephants one time at a circus, when he had to clean the defecations from their cages, and he remembered looking into the eyes of one old buck. 'Help me?' The giant animal had asked.
'There's nothing i can do!'He thought back.
'Leave the door open on your way out.'
'Then what? Get arrested for letting a wild animal loose on the streets? Where would you go? No. I'm sorry, but i can't help you!'
It was a disturbing, imaginary mental conversation with an intelligent alien from some other world called "Africa". He shuddered with the creeps as his skin crawled up into goose pimples, invisible fur standing up on his back and spine. Do animals have "souls"? It was a bizarre irony that he would remember that old elephant, especially considering everything that had happened to him since then. Was this divine irony, or just some odd twist of fate. He started praying in his mind, as he stubbed his toes, over and over, on hidden cypress knees beneath the murky waters of the swamp. ' Dear God, give me the strength to...'
Slowly the land began to rise. His fear of gators had proved unwarranted, as there was little prey available in the oxygen deficient swamp, but things changed when he came upon a small bayou, running west to east. A dozen turtles and at least two gators splashed into the water as he came crashing loudly through the brush like a frightened deer. He started to remember other strange and horned animals from the circus. Antelope heads, monkey heads, gorillas and other strange trophies. He had spent his entire life in cotton fields. He had no idea what evil creatures might lay in the woods beyond. The forest was suddenly a primal and terrifying place filled with unknown monsters, bears and wild cats, killer hogs. It was the first time in his life that he was truly afraid.
But he soon pulled himself together. He had a mission and a goal, and the bayou was in his way. He backed up, took a long run and jumped as far as he could. To his surprise, he landed only ten feet from the opposite shore, and was able to stand on the muddy bottom of the shallow stream. He ran through the muddy water like trying to run in a nightmare. It seemed to take forever to reach the other bank, and crawling out of the muck, he collapsed from exhaustion.
His mother came walking out of the house, carrying a freshly baked pie. His whole family was there, celebrating some occasion that he just couldn't put his finger on, some national holiday, but it didn't seem to matter. The smell of good food was surrounded by an overwhelming sense of peace and love, as if he was in heaven. 'This is the best!' He thought.
Then he heard a squirrel barking. Suddenly he was wide awake, and the events of the last couple of days came crashing down on him like a cut tree that had twisted in an unexpected way, cutting off his legs. Wide awake and alert, he jumped to his feet and held his breath, as he listen to the sounds of the forest around him. His heart was racing in a sudden panic, and time seemed to come to a complete stop.
He knew they were barking at a predator of some kind. A snake, a fox, a coyote, wolf, cougar, a bear! His panic was taking flight, and so did he. a new surge of strength electrified his legs, and he took off running as fast as a horse, away from the sound of the barking squirrel. The land was still rising, leaving the swamps behind, forever he hoped. He didn't let up until he came into a thicket of wild blackberries. Food at last! He was free, and now his first meal as a free man would be sorely needed medicine. An idea came into his mind, that he would just stay there until the berries were gone, then move on to some area where other fruits would be. Did he really have to go north? Could he not just stay in the woods and live off the land? His grand mother had taught him how to fish. She would always say, "teach a man to fish, feed him for a lifetime!"
He was fishing that day when the girl had been killed, and the thought of it made him shudder in disgust and anguish. It was such a beautiful day, the sun dancing off the waves and kissing his face like flashing angels. It was so heavenly before things had turned for the worse. He hadn't cought a thing because of the windy weather, and so he tossed his pole and twine in the Henderson's pond. He could make a new pole anytime. No sense in carrying it home. Daniel had met him at the crossroads, coming back down the road from the Henderson's place. "Which way you headed?" He asked.
"Just going home. Been fishing."
Daniel looked at him and saw no fish or fishing gear. He just shook his his head in confusion, and said: "well, see you later".
He took no notice of the strange look that Daniel had given him. White people always had a way of treating him like a friend or a pet at one time, and a soulless piece of farm equipment at other times. He was comfortable with life back then, when everybody knew what was expected from everybody else. Men and women, blacks and whites, all had cleanly defined roles and expectations. The war had changed things and brought about the promise of freedom, uncertainty. Families were escaping and moving north, and that just seemed to be the thing he must do. He shook off the memory of that fateful day, and continued on his trek north, thankful that he was a free man at last. Two iron clasps on each ankle and two sections of a broken chain clinked behind him, as he dredged his way through the woods towards the north, and permanent freedom.
As he topped a large hill, the woods opened into scrub brush and he found before his eyes a panoramic view that seemed to disappear into infinity. The smell of burning wood and cooked meat was rising from a small valley below. It was the first real sign of civilization that he had come upon since the day he had escaped. The smell of smoked meat made him think of his granny. She would salt down pork shanks and smoke them in a shed. Then she would cure them in the cellar for months, rubbing them with salt. The lure was irresistible, and he found himself climbing down into the valley, searching for the smoked meats.
The summer heat was pressing on his chest, making it difficult to catch his breath. It was the weight of a lifetime that never seemed to go where he wanted or expected it to.
But he was free now, and that was all that mattered. The smell of cooking meat was coming from a cabin striding a mountain creek at the bottom of the Appalachian valley. How had he come from southern swamps to clear mountain creeks so fast? He thought about his mother, who had died when he was only four years old. His entire life seemed to stretch out before him like a strange play on a foreign stage. What could he do?
It was a devine comedy. Dante's inferno. So what? The real world was more interesting than any fiction that his mind could come up with. The smoky haze of bacon was wafting up the ridge like a kiss from an old friend. He imagined his granny cooking pancakes, topped with butter and maple syrup. It seemed that he had spent more time and energy on preserving his childhood memories, than growing up and conforming to normal social expectations. The rocks made natural hand holds, as he worked his way down into the valley, and a confrontation with the cabin owner.
He knocked on the door. No answer. He walked around the structure. It was hand-made from chopped trees and mud, and more crude and primitive than any of the southern plantation homes that he was used to. Logs and dirt? What was the allure of such crude freedom?
He suddenly realized that he could die up here. Far away from his family and friends. A lonely death, immediate and mysterious. His murder was possible, even probable, with so many powerful enemies below the Mason/Dixson line. Being free and being black was a recipe for death. He shook off the fears. Being free was all that mattered. The color of his skin didn't matter. Where he might live didn't matter. The things that had happened in his past didn't matter. Just then, he realized that food really matters. Food is the only thing really matters. He tried to look in, but every window of the log box was covered by a cloth. Finally he decided to take a chance, and grabbed at the front door latch. The door opened! He held his breath. He was violating the sanctity of an American home, and his emotions twisted his gut, rising up to choke his throat. He knew it was wrong, but the burning hunger for food helped to justify the intrusion. He would eat and take only what he needed. He would return someday to pay the cabin owner for his indiscretions. It helped to justify the crimes in his mind, as he stuffed his pockets with fresh fruit and bread from the dining room table. Fully stocked with food, he turned his attention to looking for weapons.
Suddenly, the door flew open and he found himself confronted with a double-barreled flint lock! "Boy! What are you doing trifling 'round my place?' The white man was huge and hairy as a bear, if not larger. His facial hair was reminiscent of General U. S. Grant, and seemed to be a popular look in the north back in those days, long hair. "You done come to the wrong house, nigger!"
"Please sir, i was just looking for some food sir!" His own voice echoed in his head like a voice of some stranger. He felt so ashamed of himself for begging for his life. And some life indeed! Had not God punished his every good deed? Had not his life been cursed from the very day he was born? And here he was, begging his new slave owner to forgive him. He suddenly became so angry with himself and his situation that he decided to give up and shut up. 'Just shoot me!' He thought. But he said nothing. For the first time in his life, he was not afraid to die. Death would be a sweet release from the agony of his twisted and perverse experiences of life.
"If all yer needing is some food, why you gotta break in o' my home?" The man turned around to look at the latch, and realized that he had forgotten to lock it. Suddenly he was unsure of himself. Was this just some hungry poor person? He turned back to the stranger and drew tight on the trigger. "I got nothing personal against coloreds. Where you from?"
It was hard to even think about talking with a shotgun in his face, but he managed to mumble out, "Alabama."
"Never been that far south. I heard you got some pretty ladies down there?"
It seemed like a provocation, so he kept his mouth shut.
"Say something boy!"
"Yes, Sir. We sure got some pretty ladies." Pathetic again, but he was fighting for his life. He would say anything that he thought the giant man wanted to hear.
His captor looked down and saw the iron clasps and broken chain. "What you runnin' from boy?"He demanded.
The word ripped at his heart and rattled his brain. It made him angry. 'I am not a "boy" 'he thought. 'I am a man!' Just then, his emotions overcame the fear of death, and looking down those double barrels, he shouted out: "I am a man!"
His captor sank back in shock and amusement. He was a mountain man, and not used to seeing African slaves in the Appellation range. His curiosity was taking over, and the flint-lock was gradually lowering. "So 'man', what happened to you?" The weapon in his hand gave him the confidence and security to ease back and listen to the long story before him.The black man in chains begain with the story of the circus, and his good friend Daniel.
A Tale of Fiction:
The free man dragged his legs through the swamp. Sometimes up to his waist and often just puddles of mud that clutched at his feet: the brown water was an alligator infested mine field. Miles of nothing but dark water, bugs, and massive cypress trees with trunks that looked like wrinkled gray elephants, blocking his way and making him walk twice as far going around. He had seen elephants one time at a circus, when he had to clean the defecations from their cages, and he remembered looking into the eyes of one old buck. 'Help me?' The giant animal had asked.
'There's nothing i can do!'He thought back.
'Leave the door open on your way out.'
'Then what? Get arrested for letting a wild animal loose on the streets? Where would you go? No. I'm sorry, but i can't help you!'
It was a disturbing, imaginary mental conversation with an intelligent alien from some other world called "Africa". He shuddered with the creeps as his skin crawled up into goose pimples, invisible fur standing up on his back and spine. Do animals have "souls"? It was a bizarre irony that he would remember that old elephant, especially considering everything that had happened to him since then. Was this divine irony, or just some odd twist of fate. He started praying in his mind, as he stubbed his toes, over and over, on hidden cypress knees beneath the murky waters of the swamp. ' Dear God, give me the strength to...'
Slowly the land began to rise. His fear of gators had proved unwarranted, as there was little prey available in the oxygen deficient swamp, but things changed when he came upon a small bayou, running west to east. A dozen turtles and at least two gators splashed into the water as he came crashing loudly through the brush like a frightened deer. He started to remember other strange and horned animals from the circus. Antelope heads, monkey heads, gorillas and other strange trophies. He had spent his entire life in cotton fields. He had no idea what evil creatures might lay in the woods beyond. The forest was suddenly a primal and terrifying place filled with unknown monsters, bears and wild cats, killer hogs. It was the first time in his life that he was truly afraid.
But he soon pulled himself together. He had a mission and a goal, and the bayou was in his way. He backed up, took a long run and jumped as far as he could. To his surprise, he landed only ten feet from the opposite shore, and was able to stand on the muddy bottom of the shallow stream. He ran through the muddy water like trying to run in a nightmare. It seemed to take forever to reach the other bank, and crawling out of the muck, he collapsed from exhaustion.
His mother came walking out of the house, carrying a freshly baked pie. His whole family was there, celebrating some occasion that he just couldn't put his finger on, some national holiday, but it didn't seem to matter. The smell of good food was surrounded by an overwhelming sense of peace and love, as if he was in heaven. 'This is the best!' He thought.
Then he heard a squirrel barking. Suddenly he was wide awake, and the events of the last couple of days came crashing down on him like a cut tree that had twisted in an unexpected way, cutting off his legs. Wide awake and alert, he jumped to his feet and held his breath, as he listen to the sounds of the forest around him. His heart was racing in a sudden panic, and time seemed to come to a complete stop.
He knew they were barking at a predator of some kind. A snake, a fox, a coyote, wolf, cougar, a bear! His panic was taking flight, and so did he. a new surge of strength electrified his legs, and he took off running as fast as a horse, away from the sound of the barking squirrel. The land was still rising, leaving the swamps behind, forever he hoped. He didn't let up until he came into a thicket of wild blackberries. Food at last! He was free, and now his first meal as a free man would be sorely needed medicine. An idea came into his mind, that he would just stay there until the berries were gone, then move on to some area where other fruits would be. Did he really have to go north? Could he not just stay in the woods and live off the land? His grand mother had taught him how to fish. She would always say, "teach a man to fish, feed him for a lifetime!"
He was fishing that day when the girl had been killed, and the thought of it made him shudder in disgust and anguish. It was such a beautiful day, the sun dancing off the waves and kissing his face like flashing angels. It was so heavenly before things had turned for the worse. He hadn't cought a thing because of the windy weather, and so he tossed his pole and twine in the Henderson's pond. He could make a new pole anytime. No sense in carrying it home. Daniel had met him at the crossroads, coming back down the road from the Henderson's place. "Which way you headed?" He asked.
"Just going home. Been fishing."
Daniel looked at him and saw no fish or fishing gear. He just shook his his head in confusion, and said: "well, see you later".
He took no notice of the strange look that Daniel had given him. White people always had a way of treating him like a friend or a pet at one time, and a soulless piece of farm equipment at other times. He was comfortable with life back then, when everybody knew what was expected from everybody else. Men and women, blacks and whites, all had cleanly defined roles and expectations. The war had changed things and brought about the promise of freedom, uncertainty. Families were escaping and moving north, and that just seemed to be the thing he must do. He shook off the memory of that fateful day, and continued on his trek north, thankful that he was a free man at last. Two iron clasps on each ankle and two sections of a broken chain clinked behind him, as he dredged his way through the woods towards the north, and permanent freedom.
As he topped a large hill, the woods opened into scrub brush and he found before his eyes a panoramic view that seemed to disappear into infinity. The smell of burning wood and cooked meat was rising from a small valley below. It was the first real sign of civilization that he had come upon since the day he had escaped. The smell of smoked meat made him think of his granny. She would salt down pork shanks and smoke them in a shed. Then she would cure them in the cellar for months, rubbing them with salt. The lure was irresistible, and he found himself climbing down into the valley, searching for the smoked meats.
The summer heat was pressing on his chest, making it difficult to catch his breath. It was the weight of a lifetime that never seemed to go where he wanted or expected it to.
But he was free now, and that was all that mattered. The smell of cooking meat was coming from a cabin striding a mountain creek at the bottom of the Appalachian valley. How had he come from southern swamps to clear mountain creeks so fast? He thought about his mother, who had died when he was only four years old. His entire life seemed to stretch out before him like a strange play on a foreign stage. What could he do?
It was a devine comedy. Dante's inferno. So what? The real world was more interesting than any fiction that his mind could come up with. The smoky haze of bacon was wafting up the ridge like a kiss from an old friend. He imagined his granny cooking pancakes, topped with butter and maple syrup. It seemed that he had spent more time and energy on preserving his childhood memories, than growing up and conforming to normal social expectations. The rocks made natural hand holds, as he worked his way down into the valley, and a confrontation with the cabin owner.
He knocked on the door. No answer. He walked around the structure. It was hand-made from chopped trees and mud, and more crude and primitive than any of the southern plantation homes that he was used to. Logs and dirt? What was the allure of such crude freedom?
He suddenly realized that he could die up here. Far away from his family and friends. A lonely death, immediate and mysterious. His murder was possible, even probable, with so many powerful enemies below the Mason/Dixson line. Being free and being black was a recipe for death. He shook off the fears. Being free was all that mattered. The color of his skin didn't matter. Where he might live didn't matter. The things that had happened in his past didn't matter. Just then, he realized that food really matters. Food is the only thing really matters. He tried to look in, but every window of the log box was covered by a cloth. Finally he decided to take a chance, and grabbed at the front door latch. The door opened! He held his breath. He was violating the sanctity of an American home, and his emotions twisted his gut, rising up to choke his throat. He knew it was wrong, but the burning hunger for food helped to justify the intrusion. He would eat and take only what he needed. He would return someday to pay the cabin owner for his indiscretions. It helped to justify the crimes in his mind, as he stuffed his pockets with fresh fruit and bread from the dining room table. Fully stocked with food, he turned his attention to looking for weapons.
Suddenly, the door flew open and he found himself confronted with a double-barreled flint lock! "Boy! What are you doing trifling 'round my place?' The white man was huge and hairy as a bear, if not larger. His facial hair was reminiscent of General U. S. Grant, and seemed to be a popular look in the north back in those days, long hair. "You done come to the wrong house, nigger!"
"Please sir, i was just looking for some food sir!" His own voice echoed in his head like a voice of some stranger. He felt so ashamed of himself for begging for his life. And some life indeed! Had not God punished his every good deed? Had not his life been cursed from the very day he was born? And here he was, begging his new slave owner to forgive him. He suddenly became so angry with himself and his situation that he decided to give up and shut up. 'Just shoot me!' He thought. But he said nothing. For the first time in his life, he was not afraid to die. Death would be a sweet release from the agony of his twisted and perverse experiences of life.
"If all yer needing is some food, why you gotta break in o' my home?" The man turned around to look at the latch, and realized that he had forgotten to lock it. Suddenly he was unsure of himself. Was this just some hungry poor person? He turned back to the stranger and drew tight on the trigger. "I got nothing personal against coloreds. Where you from?"
It was hard to even think about talking with a shotgun in his face, but he managed to mumble out, "Alabama."
"Never been that far south. I heard you got some pretty ladies down there?"
It seemed like a provocation, so he kept his mouth shut.
"Say something boy!"
"Yes, Sir. We sure got some pretty ladies." Pathetic again, but he was fighting for his life. He would say anything that he thought the giant man wanted to hear.
His captor looked down and saw the iron clasps and broken chain. "What you runnin' from boy?"He demanded.
The word ripped at his heart and rattled his brain. It made him angry. 'I am not a "boy" 'he thought. 'I am a man!' Just then, his emotions overcame the fear of death, and looking down those double barrels, he shouted out: "I am a man!"
His captor sank back in shock and amusement. He was a mountain man, and not used to seeing African slaves in the Appellation range. His curiosity was taking over, and the flint-lock was gradually lowering. "So 'man', what happened to you?" The weapon in his hand gave him the confidence and security to ease back and listen to the long story before him.The black man in chains begain with the story of the circus, and his good friend Daniel.
You're a good writer. I'll enjoy the sections as they come, then read through the whole thing when it's done.
not be happy with me right now. 
