Virgil — knows — the — game.
But that ain’t gone help him much at all.
Dig! Virgil holler.
I take the spade and get cutting. The ground good and mealy, praise Jesus. It ain’t but a quarter-hour’s work. First they water in the hole, then clay.
We sure didn’t plant him deep, Virgil mumble.
Another cut and I catch a scrap of cotton.
That’s enough, Virgil say. Scrape the clay off of him.
The carcass kept up pretty well, account the clay. First I think it withered some, it so frail and childish—; but that just the measure of the Deemer.
Pull him loose, Virgil say. Put the spade by, Doddsbody. Use your hands now. Get hold of him.
No heavenish way C. B. Dodds gone touch that item.
Virgil give a sigh. You’re just not afraid of me, are you, Charlie.
I drop the spade. You less to me, sir, than a rarebit of the field.
Step aside, then. Will you step aside?
I do.
He snatch the spade up and bring it down again quick. Worrying the Deemer into bits. The sound of it like a butcher working on a chop.
What you aim to fix that way, little rarebit? I say.
Virgil give a laugh. Fix? he say, and give a laugh again. I’m long past fixing things.
You dug up a heap of dead troubles. That’s all you done today.
Virgil don’t answer, just hackety-hackety with the spade.
I’d love to know what Parson’s promised you, Dodds. If I were you I’d be gone away long since. Gone for good across the river.
Why you still here then, Virgil? They the river yonder.
He stop and smile. You know full well.
She not the cause of nothing. You want a old nigger tell you why?
He give a laugh. Yes, Dodds. Tell me why. I’d be beholden.
Nobody ever leave the Trade. Not ever.
I reckon I might be the first, he say. He hush a spell. I’d like to see outside of it one day.
They ain’t no outside! We floating in it, all of us. Like fishes in a tub.
Yes, that’s the gospel, Virgil say, poking at the Deemer. The gospel according to Thaddeus. We all know he was his own archbishop.
Trade eat archbishops for supper, I say.
And archbishops eat bankers, he say. And bankers eat politicians. And politicians—
Ain’t no man, woman, nor child never left the Trade. Never, Virgil. Not a one.
Let’s send this child ahead of us, then, Virgil say, pouring lantern-oil top the pieces. On a voyage of discovery.
I don’t say nothing then.
I wish you a safe and speedy transit to the bottom of the Pit, Virgil hisper. Then he let a lit match fall.
I SCUFFLE BACK UP TO THE HOUSE. A week ago it were mischief in every room, but now the house right quiet. Delamare laid up with the shivers. Miss Clem hispering through she window at the Lord Christ Jesus. Parson in he attic laying out for Charlie Dodds.
What is it, I say.
Parson sigh. It’s Kennedy.
I know. Kennedy tomorrow.
Kennedy’s done, Parson say. Kennedy’s done already.
Done? I say. How done? Murthured?
Parson set quiet. Done. That’s all.
Put in a hole?
Parson shake he head. We’ll have to do without.
I hush a spell. Put me in, I say. Put me down in place of Kennedy.
He laugh. We still have need of you, Charlie. Kindly remain alive a few more hours.
You swore a oath, I say. My blood go pricklish. You swore!
Parson give a smile. And the Redeemer will make good on that promise, Charlie, when he comes.
When he comes hell, I say. We short two holes. He gone skip two steps when he come down?
He’s skipped two steps before.
Before? I holler. Before when?
He hand come over my mouth like nothing. Do you fancy this is his first transfer, nigger? Were you not listening when I explained to you the fruitings and the harvestings of the Trade?
Just tell me who come next, I mumble. Tell me who.
Next you take something to the prisoner. Keep his body working.
What you mean, something? Water?
Yes. Water, Parson say, like it he don’t care if it be fire.
An idea come to me then. We could use him, I say. That Foster. To fill the next hole up.
Parson make a cluck. No, Dodds. The prisoner is set aside.
What for?
He cluck again. A lower purpose.
I FETCH AJAR AND HOBBY-NOB IT DOWN. The cellar door wide open. They the prisoner, deathly quiet. Water! I say. Like talking at a deaf. Mouth hung open, tongue stuck out, lips gone dry and cracklish. I dip two fingers and rub them on he lips. I set the jar down in the dirt. I fixing to go when he hand come up back of my poor bald head.
Dear Lord! he hisper.
I brung water, I say. On the floor, Foster. Drink it.
He hand on my neck. What are you, sir? A slave?
That’s right, I say. But I be mancipated soon.
Soon? he say.
Yes sir. My marse coming down. Then I be put to rights.
Now he hand on my throat. Where is he? Up those stairs?
Who? I say. Parson?
It so fierce on me now I can’t catch my air. Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?
Parson just upstairs—
Upstairs? Can he hear?
Not if we quiet. Ease up on me, sir!
He say nothing then. Just hide under the steps.
PARSON LAYING FOR ME STILL. Nesting. He look up at me and yawn.
Well?
He awake, I say. Foster.
Parson give a stretch. Well! I should go and see him, then.
You gone pour the Deemer in him, ain’t you.
That would be telling.
Virgil burnt the other one, I say. The carcass.
Yes. That’s all correct and proper.
His promise, I say. The Deemer’s. You aim to keep it, Parson?
Parson in high spirits all up a sudden. He laugh. I haven’t forgotten it in the last quarter-hour, Doddsbody.
You aim to keep it?
He give me a whistle. He give me a wink.
I make a breath and groan and drop down on my knees. Let it be tomorrow, I say. I won’t bear another hour, sir. I can’t. I’ll dig the rest they holes tonight. Ah! Let it be tomorrow, Parson. Learn me how to speak the tongue!
Parson study me a good long while with he tom-cat face and he pebble eyes.
It was always going to be tomorrow, Charlie, he say at last. He reach under himself and come out with my bottle. They a powder in it now.
Angel of mercy! I hisper. Sweet righteous angel!
Dig your holes, pilgrim, that you may rest.
VI
Parson’s Witchery
MY LAST DAY AT GEBURAH BEGINS SOFTLY, Virgil says. I’ve been sitting in the lampless parlor half the night when the house-door sighs open, delicate as hackled lace. A moment later Parson flutters by. He glances into the parlor as he passes, shading his eyes, but fails to see me slumped over in the dark. He moves on down the hall. The cellar door opens, then shuts, and I draw in a breath. I rise from the settee more carefully than a spinster. A draft curls about my shins, leafy with the smell of coming rain. Something is going to happen. It sits like a clot of river-bottom in my throat.
Parson is quiet as dust on the cellar steps but he can’t keep them from creaking subtly as he descends. His oversight has given me an advantage over him, the first in our long acquaintance, and I’m determined not to let it pass. I steal lightly down the hall. He’s left the cellar door unlatched. I reach the top of the steps just as he gets to the bottom.