Walter Mosley - 47

As I was crossing the yard someone shouted, in a raspy dry voice, "Hey you, boy."

Coming toward me was a white man with a pronounced limp. As he shambled closer I was able to make out various details about his features. His head was bald, that was the first thing I noticed. After that I made out the eye patch. A shiver went through me and I was so frightened I didn't even think about running.

Closer still I could see that the skin all about the top of the man's head had been sewn like leather.

"Stay right there," the man said, and I knew it was Mr. Stewart.

"You dead," I said.

"Hallelujah and I am risen," he replied, a big smile crossing his ugly maw.

In his right hand I could see the bullwhip. And even though I was healed I could feel the pain of my twelve lashes all over again. He raised his arm and released the lash but before it could reach me before I could even think I was a quarter of the way across the yard looking at Mr. Stewart from the side. After the bullwhip cracked in the air he turned and smiled.

"You lookin' a little taller, Numbah Forty-seven," he said. "Look like you gotta new master too."

Again he swung at me and again I moved faster than I could think.

"Neither master nor nigger be," I said, standing at a spot eight feet from where Stewart's bullwhip bit. "Fool," he said, and then snapped his whip again. Six times he swung at me and six times I avoided the whip. On each swing the lash got closer. The last time I felt the breeze caused by its passage.

But I was ready to run again. What I hoped was that John would hear us and come out. I didn't want to call to him because then Mr. Stewart would have known that I had an ally. If I kept my friend's presence a secret I hoped that we could overcome him by stealth if not by strength of arm.

There I was in the year 1832. There was no electricity yet or flying machines or laser beams; the glorious miracles of the twentieth century had not been invented and so when I looked upon the walking corpse of Mr. Stewart I could only think of magic, evil magic. Somehow a spell had been evoked and Stewart had become a zombie. He was the walking dead and everybody knew that a walking dead man could only be put back in the grave by the use of salt or silver and I didn't possess either one.

The onetime overboss was maybe twelve feet away from me but I was prepared to defend myself. Somehow I had gained the speed of a wildcat. I knew that there was no man in Georgia who could catch me. I waited for him to draw back his whip but he surprised me and jumped!

He hurtled through the air even faster than I could run. I made it four steps and he came down, catching me in the crook of his right arm.

Everything that happened next came to pass in a few

seconds but those few seconds felt like many long minutes.

As Stewart's arm curled around my waist I stepped up

on it and over his grasp. I skipped a step away but before I

could run he caught hold of my ankle. I turned around then and pushed on his hand, moving my foot before he could get a solid hold. We were face to face for a moment. I could see that his skin color was paler than it had been and he smelled wild, like a dog after he's rolled around in something foul. I had no time to consider those things because the one-eyed man pushed me and as I fell he rose up, intent upon falling on me.

I made it into a crouch but I have never in my very long life been in a tighter spot. If I turned to run the human Cyclops would jump and take me down. If I stayed there all he had to do was reach out and seize me.

In that standoff, which lasted no more than two seconds, I noticed that Mr. Stewart's eye-patch was made from wrought iron. All across, the metal was etched with delicate designs. In spite of my situation I wondered, Where could he get such a thing?

Mr. Stewart bent down a bit and I knew he was about to jump. I prepared to avoid his lunge but my chances, I knew, were no better than even.

The slave boss grinned.

"Begone!" The word boomed all around us.

I was amazed by the splendor of that voice but Mr. Stewart grabbed his head and fell to his knees. When he went down I could see John a few paces behind him. He was standing tall and regally.

"Begone!" he intoned again, and Stewart raised up on all fours and scampered away like a cur running from a lion.

"Quickly," John said to me then. "We must be away

from here."

"What about Mama Flore?" I cried.

"There is no time," he said. "Big trouble will be here

soon."

The next thing I knew we were running through the woods, moving quickly between the boughs and branches. My feet were sure and swift and I didn't have to rely on holding onto my friend.

After we had had run for some time I stopped. When he realized that I was no longer following him John stopped too.

"Come on," he said. "We have to get away from here before he comes."

"You already chased Mr. Stewart away," I argued.

"Not the ghoul but his master," John said.

"Who?"

"The one you know as Andrew Pike."

I remembered the tall man on the chestnut mare who had interrupted poor Ned's funeral. For some reason it set off a thrilling in my heart. But I refused to give in to fear.

"Why would he be coming after the Corinthian?" I asked. "I thought he was only after you and that green powder."

"He is," John said. "He thinks we're on the plantation. He'll go there first. In the meantime we can get away. You don't know enough yet to protect yourself from his power."

"But what will he do to the peoples on the plantation?"

"I don't know," John said. "But I'm sure that he will come in force."

"But what about Mama Flore and Champ and all the

other slaves?"

"All we can do is hope that they survive the attack," the strange bronze-colored boy said, hanging his head down.

"Attack? What attack?"

"It's like I told you before. Pike wants something that I have my machine. It has the power to dig into the earth and excavate the green powder. With that he could start a chain reaction that would disrupt the entire universe. He would kill every being on this planet to obtain my machine. So you see I can't go back and help the others."

Something about the light that John put into my chest allowed me to understand his words. I understood the word planet and what that entailed. I could almost see all the species of life throughout the world: trillions of hearts and minds from the lowliest insect to the great sperm

whale.

"But every life is holy," I said, somehow knowing this was the truth. "And without Mama Flore I'm sure I would have died a long time ago. If she had let me die I would never be able to help you and your people."

"We can't go back," John said.

"We have to," I countered.

When our eyes met I understood the relationship between the disguised alien and me. He had seen stars up close and the infinite variety of the place he called Universe. I had seen suffering and hard-won survival for every moment of my brief existence. And, while he knew much more than I did, I had a deeper knowledge of what it meant to be on the brink of losing everything. That's why he needed me, because I would make the choice for living

against any odds.

I think these same thoughts went through Tall John's

mind because he bowed his head again.

"You are the chosen hero," he said. "I must follow." And even though I wanted him to say that he would go

with me to try and help my slave family I had to wonder

why he would do so.

"What do you mean chosen?" I asked. "How was I

chosen and who in hell chose me?"

"The answer, like your true name, Forty-seven, is in your blood. You and a few others like you have the perfect blood code to hold the powers of the Tamal. And you, unlike many others, have a pure heart and an innocent view of the world. Even the fact that you would go back to your friends after almost being killed by Wall's ghoul proves that you have a brave soul and true spirit."