Christopher Buehlman - Those Across the River

HE WAS IN the library. The big, bald colored from the town square. The one who sniffed at me and stared at Dora. The one they had gone to lynch. She squatted near him now, at his feet, not looking up at me at first. Then she did and her eyes filled with tears and she looked down again, wiping her eyes with the end of her dress. Her own dress was on her now, but unwashed. His concubine. I saw my pistol on the small table that also held his ashtray. He was smoking a cigar, wearing a silk robe. The robe was opened on his broad, muscular chest, and I noticed that he was branded. A fleur-de-lis inside the lower loop of an S .

Savoyard.

“You were right,” he said to the woman. “He is pretty.”

I clutched the blanket tighter, afraid they were going to strip it off me.

“I want you to look at me, nigger,” he said to me. “You are most definitely my nigger now. I think you know that. But I mean to make sure. You are too young to have known your kin, Old Marse Savoyard. But I knew him. I belonged to him. And I killed him. But killing doesn’t end some things.”

“He was evil,” I said. “Now it looks like you are. Hector. That’s your name, right?”

“He was more than evil. He was turned. I figured it out. But I was turned killing him. With that.”

He pointed with his cigar to what looked like a small harpoon hanging above the bookcase. It had a shiny tip.

“And my name is Hector, but you won’t call me that again. My name is not for you. I’ll take a tooth out of your head if you say it. I got pliers I made myself. I was your kin’s blacksmith.”

Blacksmith. I looked down at his arms and hands and noticed the burn scars on them.

“He ran niggers out in the woods on the full moon and chased them, cause you have to chase something. Man and a woman every month. People around here thought he was a speculator, buying slaves and selling them again. But they didn’t go anywhere. Just out in those woods and in his belly. We used to sing hollers about the moonshine killing us, but called it the sunshine so Marse wouldn’t know what we were singing about. We knew it was a monster killing us. Knew there were two of them. Him and this boy that stayed out in the woods. We were all scared of the boy. Used to come lookin at us through our windows at night and we’d say if the yellow boy caught your eye, you were next to die.

“But one day I was talking to the house nigger who said how Marse ate with brass spoons and forks and I got thinking about why he wouldn’t use silver like everyone else. Some of the slaves was Creole, from New Orleans, had belonged to his daddy. They said he was his daddy, his own daddy. Said the boy in the woods was his boy, followed him from Louisiana, and my nose tells me that’s true. Said Marse was real old, two hundred years or more, that he came from France. He liked to fight in wars because he was hard to kill. Got to be a hero instead of a monster. Paid the doctors to cut his wives barren so he could pretend to die, then show up as his son and inherit his own money.

“He didn’t mind having bastards, though, cause bastards don’t inherit. Like your granddaddy. Like the boy. Funny, though. That makes the boy your kin, too. Your yellow little great-uncle who spends more time on four legs than two.”

This struck him funny.

I wasn’t in the mood to laugh.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because it’s going to get bad for you, and I want you to know why. I hope you appreciate what a gift that is. So much happens in life and the reasons are hidden from us. But you’re mine now and you’re going to understand why your life is given into my hand.”

“I don’t understand why you hate me so much. I never did anything to you.”

“Nigger, I don’t hate you. I hate him. But I can’t hurt him no more.”

“The boy’s his kin, too.”

“The boy’s one of us. Even if he keeps to himself. Once you’re turned, you’re one of us. You want to be one of us?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Because if you said yes, I was going to make you beg me to turn you. Then if you did, I was going to eat your eyes out of your head because you were already broken. You still have a little spirit, so you get to stay alive awhile. But I was thinking about that silverware. I knew Marse would run me. One day I tested him. He was back from the war, and wouldn’t turn loose of us. He had fought Uncle Billy’s soldiers off and I thought maybe he was planning to kill us all and run. He came to see his horse, which I had just shod, and I gave him a silver dollar I had hoarded up. Said I found it in the ground, but it was his ground, so it was his dollar. He put a glove on before he took it and I knew Holy silver could kill him. Used my other two dollars to make that sticking pole up there and got preacher to pray over it. Put silver on pitchforks, too. And a scythe. All of us went, women, too. He shot four dead. If I had a pretty gun like yours, I wouldn’t have had to get that close. He wouldn’t have bit me dying. None of this would have happened.”

“If it’s worth anything, I wish none of it had,” I said.

“You know the best word I got from all Marse’s books? Alas. That is a good word. Full of helplessness and beauty. And that is the word I have for you. Alas. Now you will go back to your cage and I will enjoy your wife again. By the way, I think you should know that she came here alone. I was going to go into town and take her. But she knew what she was now. And she came to be with her own.”

THE NEXT DAY I had what a historian of the States’ War might regard as a unique and completely undesirable opportunity to study the past firsthand; I was flogged with a bullwhip. Hector oversaw it, but I could tell he wasn’t going to swing the whip himself. The black man with the bad haircut tied me to a tree while Hector smoked a homemade cigar and chuffed foul clouds about his head. He was almost genial, asking me where I was born, did I have any brothers. I thought about Johnny. I didn’t answer. The other man turned me and tied me and Hector whistled appreciatively at the shrapnel scars on my back.

“Where’d you get these, boss?”

“Potato masher,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“What, don’t you mash potatoes down here?”

“Alright. That sass is alright. But you had better be respectful when I ask you to say the names of the ones your great-granddaddy put down. Because I’m feeling generous, I will only give you one lash for every dead friend.”

“Say Mittie,” he said.

Silence.

The Negro hit me with a bullwhip, making a sick, wet sound and hurting as bad as anything I can remember.

Whack!

I whimpered.

“Nigger, this man’s gonna hit you til we get through twelve names. And that’s just today. Miss Mittie died of fever cause Marse’s overseer wouldn’t let her rest when the corn had to come in, and didn’t let us chop wood and make a fire cause he wanted us strong for the corn. Now say Mittie like you miss her, too.”

“Mittie.”

Whack!

“Say Oscar.”

“Oscar.”

Whack!

“Hey, that was good!” the man whipping said. “I almost feel like he mean it. Don’t worry, nigger, I don’t know no Oscar neither.”

And so it went.

In the end, I got fourteen lashes, and the skin was lain open. It felt like my scars had split. Then they shackled me to that goddamned wheel and spun me until I was half nuts. I was making noises I couldn’t reproduce now if I had to. I was talking, but I don’t remember what I said. This went on for a long time. When they were ready to take me down, some of my wounds had begun to dry. They had to peel me off the wheel. Then they stuck me back in the cage where I put my belly down on the rust-flaking iron and sobbed until I passed out, thinking that at least I was at the bottom of it.