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Green Thursday

GREEN
THURSDAY

Stories by

JULIA PETERKIN


NEW YORK

ALFRED · A · KNOPF

1929



COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.

PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1924
REPRINTED ONCE
NEW POCKET BOOK EDITION, MAY, 1929

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA



To the memory of
Maum Lavinia Berry

Contents

Ashes	9
Green Thursday	26
Missie	50
Meeting	62
Mount Pleasant	79
Finding Peace	94
The Red Rooster	103
Teaching Jim	115
Cat Fish	123
Son	132
A Sunday	143
Plum-Blossoms	170

Ashes

AN OLD PLANTATION WITH smooth-planted fields and rich woodlands and pastures, where little shaded streams run, lies right at the edge of a low wide swamp.

Steep red hills, rising sheer above the slimy mud, lift it out of the reach of two yellow-brown rivers that sprawl drowsily along before they come together to form one stream.

The rivers are hidden by huge trees garlanded with tangled vines, and the swamp seems a soft, undulating, colourful surface that fades into a low line of faint blue hills far away on the other side.

Those hills are the outside world, but the swamp is wide and pathless.

The two rivers commonly lie complacent, but on occasion they rouse and flood low places with furious, yellow water. They lunge and tear at the hillsides that hold the plantation above them until their violence is spent; then they creep back into their rightful channels, leaving other sodden acres desolate and covered with bent, ruined stalks that show where fields of cotton and corn were ripe and ready for harvest.

The old plantation sits always calm. Undisturbed. The rivers can never reach it. And the outside world may wamble and change, but it cannot come any nearer.

Years pass by and leave things unaltered. The same narrow, red roads run through cotton-and cornfields. The same time-grayed cabins send up threads of smoke from their red-clay chimneys. Summer brings the same flowers to bloom around doorways, and china-berry and crape-myrtle blossoms to drop gay petals on little half-clothed black children.

Fields lush with cotton and corn are enlivened by bright-turbaned black women. Sinewy men with soft-stepping bare feet laugh and sing as they guide patient mules up and down the long rows.

When winter browns the fields and brings cold winds up from the swamp, women and children huddle over uncertain fires or gather on sunshiny doorsteps while the men creep down to the swamp in search of food and adventure.

There is nothing to hint that life here could be sweet or that its current runs free and strong. Winter, summer, birth, death, these seem to be all.

The main road on the plantation divides. One straggling, rain-rutted fork runs along the edge of a field to a cluster of low, weather-beaten houses grouped under giant red-oak trees. The Quarters, where most of the black people live.

The other fork bends with a swift, smooth curve and glides into a grove of cedars and live-oaks and magnolias, whose dense evergreen branches hide all beyond them but slight glimpses of white columns and red brick chimneys.

Right where the two roads meet is a sycamore tree. Its milk-white branches reach up to the sky. Its pale, silken leaves glisten and whisper incomplete cadences in the hot summer sunshine.

When frost crisps the leaves and stains them and cuts them away, they flutter down, leaving golden balls to adorn every bough.

There is hardly a sign of the black, twisted roots. There is not a trace to be seen of their silent, tense struggle as they grope deep down in the earth. There is nothing to show how they reach and grapple and hold, or how in the darkness down among the worms they work out mysterious chemistries that change damp clay into beauty.

 

A little one-roomed log cabin sitting back from the crooked plantation road was gray and weather-stained and its shingled roof was green with moss, but its front was strangely like a cheerful face.

Its narrow open front door made a nose, at each side a small square window with a half-open wooden blind made an eye, and the three rickety steps that led from the door into the front yard made a very good mouth.

The face was warped and cracked with age, but it looked pleasant in the bright morning sun. The gnarled crape-myrtle tree that hugged one corner and almost hid the cabin’s red clay chimney was gay with pink blossoms. The front yard, divided in the middle by a clean-swept sandy path, was filled with rich-scented red roses and glossy-leaved gardenia bushes, whose white, waxen blooms perfumed the air.

This was old Maum Hannah’s home. Most of the land around her had been sold. But the space she occupied was very small, she was no trouble to anybody, and there was really no reason to disturb her. A few hens, a cow, a patch of peanuts, and a vegetable garden fenced around with hand-split clap-boards made her independent. The cross-roads store was not far away, “des a dog’s pant” she called it, and there she exchanged well-filled peanuts, new-laid eggs, and frying-size chickens for meal and coffee and plug-cut tobacco. And she was always ready to divide whatever she had with her friends, or with anybody in need.

To a stranger her old arms might look weak and withered, but they were strong enough to wield an ax on the fallen limbs of the trees in the woods back of the house, and the fire in her open fireplace was never allowed to go out, summer or winter.

On this spring morning she sat in a low chair by the fireplace and warmed her crusty bare feet by the charred sticks that burned smokily there among the ashes. She held her breakfast in a pan in her lap and ate slowly while she talked to herself and to the gray cat that lay on the clay hearth by her feet. The cat opened its eyes and purred lazily when she spoke, then drowsed again.

At a sudden rumbling sound outside, the cat jumped up and stretched and walked slowly to the door to look out.

“Who dat?” Maum Hannah asked, and she turned to look out too.

Two strange white men were driving up to the house in a buggy. When they got out, they hitched the horse to the clap-board garden fence.

“A nice house spot,” one of them said, looking around him.

“Yes,” the other agreed, “and the darkies say there’s a fine spring coming out of the hill right behind the house there.”

Maum Hannah was a little hard of hearing, but her eyes were keen. She put down her pan of breakfast and stood in the door. Her astonishment made her forget her manners, until one of the men called out sociably:

“Good morning, Auntie.” Then she dropped a low curtsey and answered:

“Good mawnin’, suh.”

“We’re just a-lookin’ around a little,” the man continued in an apologetic tone, for her old eyes, puzzled and alarmed, were fixed on him.

“Yes, suh,” she said politely, but she leaned against the door-facing for support.

“It must be a healthy place. That old woman looks like she might be a hundred years old,” one said facetiously, and they both chuckled as they walked back into the woods behind the house toward the spring.

Presently Maum Hannah saw them coming back into the front yard. She watched them step off distances. They drove down a few stakes. When they had finished, one of them came to the doorstep and held out a silver coin to her. She bowed gravely as she took it.

“Buy you some tobacco with this, Auntie,” he drawled, and he turned away awkwardly. Then he faced her again, and cleared his throat as if embarrassed.

“Auntie,” he hesitated, “I hate to tell you this—but you’ll have to make arrangements to go somewhere else, I reckon.” He did not meet her eyes.

“You see,” he continued, “I’ve done bought this place, and I’m goin’ to build my house right here.”

Maum Hannah stared at him, but did not reply.

“Well, good-by,” he added, and the two men got into the buggy and drove away.

Maum Hannah watched them until they were out of sight, then she held the coin out in her wrinkled hand and looked at it. It shone bright against the dark-lined palm.

Tears welled up under her shriveled eyelids and hesitated, as if uncertain which path to take through the maze of wrinkles on her cheeks. One shining drop fell with a splash on the silver in her hand. With a sigh she dropped the money into her apron pocket, wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron and turned inside. Taking a handful of meal from a large gourd on the shelf by the door, she scattered it on the ground near the doorstep where a hen with tiny, fluffy chickens around her clucked and scratched.

 

The very next day, white men with wagonloads of lumber drove into the yard. They had red, sunburned faces, and their shoes and blue overalls were worn and dusty. Maum Hannah looked at them.

“Po-buckra,” she said to the cat.

The men sawed and hammered and mixed mortar and smoothed it between red bricks with clinking trowels. Day after day they came. Yellow pine boards made the air fragrant and soon the frame of a new house cast its shadow over Maum Hannah’s gardenias and red rose-bushes.

“I ’f’aid dey gwine stop bloomin’ now,” she said sadly to the cat.

At last the house was finished. One of the men who first came walked up the narrow, clean-swept, sandy path and tapped on the side of Maum Hannah’s house with a stick. She came to the door and listened as he drawled nasally:

“Auntie, my house is done now. My folks want to move in next week. You’ll have to be movin’. You know I told you that at first. We can’t have you a-livin’ here in our back yard. Of course, if you was young enough to work, it ’ud be different, but you ain’t able to do nothing. I’ll need your house anyway to put a cook in. I thought you’d ’a’ done been gone before now. I told you in time, you know.”

Maum Hannah listened attentively. She heard only part of what he said, but she understood. She must go. She must leave home. It was no longer her home, but his.

Her loose old lips trembled as she bowed in answer to him.

She did not go to bed that night. She sat in the low chair by the clay hearth where a pine knot fire wavered and flickered. She filled her cob pipe and puffed at it briskly until it burned red, then she mumbled to herself until it died out and grew cold in her fingers. Rousing up, she’d light it with a fresh coal, smoke for a few puffs, then, absorbed in her trouble, she’d forget it and let it go out.

The cat on the hearth looked up and blinked sleepily whenever Maum Hannah repeated:

“He say dis he place an’ I haffer go f’om heah. Whe’ I duh gwine? Who kin tell me dat? Whe’ I duh gwine?”

There was Killdee. “My niece,” she called him. He was her sister’s son and her neighbor. Killdee might come and take her to live with him. But his cabin was very small. Rose’s voice was sharp sometimes. No, she could not go there. If Margaret were living—or if she knew where any of her boys were—she might go to them.

She thought of the peaceful graveyard and lifted her old, wrinkled hands above her head in prayer.

“Oh, do, Massa Jedus, he’p me fo’ know wha’ fo’ do. I ain’ got no place fo’ go. I ain’ got nobody fo’ tell me. I don’ haffer tell You de trouble I got. You know, I ain’ got nobody fo’ he’p me but You. I know You mus’ be gwine he’p me. I eber did been do de bes’ I kin. Mebbe sometime I fail.—But, Jedus! Gawd! I know You couldn’t hab de hea’t to see me suffer! Widout a place to lay my haid.” She intoned her prayer and rocked from side to side as she plead for help.

Then she stood up. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Do gi’ me a sign fo’ know wha’ fo’ do. Please, Suh! Do, Massa Jedus! Gi’ me a sign! All my chillen’s gone an’ lef me heah——”

Her bony arms were raised high and her knotted fingers held the cold pipe. Her supplications were emphasized with tense jerks of her arms. With a start she became conscious that ashes from her pipe were trickling down through her fingers and falling on the floor. She stopped and looked at them.

Ashes! Cold ashes! She had asked for a sign and the sign had come! It was ashes! Plain as the dawn that streaked the East! There was no doubt of it!

The thought stimulated her like a drug. She went to the door and looked out. A young day reddened the East. The sky was red like fire! “Another sign,” she thought. A sign from Heaven.

She lifted her arms and, with tears streaming, said softly:

“Yessuh, Massa Jedus, I understan’ You, Suh. You say it mus’ be ashes! Ashes an’ de fiery cloud! Yessuh, I know wha’ You tell me fo’ do.”

Without hesitating, she went to the hearth and took up a smoldering brand of fire. Walking quickly to the front of the new dwelling and stumbling up the steps, she laid it with trembling hands near the front door. Then she went back into the yard and gathered up an apronful of shavings. She sprinkled these carefully on the smoking pine, and knelt and blew until her breath fanned it into flame. Then she went for more shavings and blocks of wood. When the fire grew strong, she left it and went to her own cabin.

She did not sit down but unlocked a trunk in the corner.

Selecting a clean white apron from the clothing there, she put it on, put a stiff-starched white sun-bonnet on her head, and tied the strings carefully under her chin. Then she locked the trunk again and put the key in her apron pocket.

The crackle and the roar of the fire outside was startling, but she made herself take time. She closed the wooden blinds of the cabin and latched them on the inside. She pulled the chair away from the hearth, then went out of the door and closed it and locked it behind her. She stepped carefully down the steps, walked past the flaming house, and then on, and on, down the narrow road.

Once she stopped to look back at the flames that already rose high in the sky, but she did not change her steady gait.

 

“Jedus! It’s a long way!” she complained when the road got sandy and her breath became short, but she kept up her pace.

At last the village came in sight. The open spaces became smaller. Low, white-painted cottages huddled close together. She walked slower. Then she stopped and gazed ahead of her, uncertain where to go.

A man driving a team of mules to a wagon was coming. She waited until he reached her, then inquired calmly:

“Son, kin you tell me which-a-away de sheriff lib?”

“Yes’m,” the man answered. He stood up in the wagon and looked toward the houses in the little town.

“You see da’ kinder high-lookin’ house up yonder on da’ hill? De one wid de big white pillar in f’ont ob’em? Da’s de place. De sheriff lib right dere.”

Her eyes followed where he pointed.

“T’ank you, son,” she said; “Gawd bless you,” and started on toward the house he indicated.

The man watched her a minute, then he clucked to his mules to move on. She was a stranger to him. What did she want with the sheriff? Such an old woman. He couldn’t imagine.

The sheriff had just finished breakfast when she reached the back door and asked to see him.

“Who is she?” he asked the servant who told him.

“I dunno, suh,” was the answer. “A old ’oman. Look lak ’e come a long way. E seem out o’ breat’.”

The sheriff lit a cigar and went to see for himself.

“Good morning, Auntie,” he said pleasantly in response to her profound curtsey. “What can I do for you this morning?”

The old woman looked at his kind face, and tears came to her eyes.

“Cap’n sheriff,” she began brokenly, “I too troub-led, suh.”

Her dry old hands held to each other nervously.

“I dunno wha’ you gwine do wid me, suh——” She swallowed a sob. “I reckon you haffer put me on de chain-gang—— I done so ol’, too—— I wouldn’t be much ’count at you put me on——”

The sheriff smiled behind his hand.

“Why, Auntie, what have you been doing?”

“A po-buckra man de one done it, suh. He de one. I lib all dis time. I ain’ nebber do nobody a hahm t’ing een my life, not tell dis mawnin’. No, suh. You kin ax anybody ’bout me, suh, an’ dey’ll tell you de same t’ing.”

“Well, what have you done now?” the sheriff insisted.

She came nearer to him, encouraged by his gentleness. She spoke in a low tone.

“Dis is how it been, suh.” She looked around to see that nobody heard, then began to tell.

“A po-buckra man come an’ buil’ ’e house right een my front ya’d. ’E say it he place, now. ’E say I got to go way. I been lib een my house eber sence I kin ’member. Ol’ Cap’n sell de plantation, but ’e tell me fo’ stay whe’ I is. I stay. Dis po-buckra man come an’ tell me I mus’ go. Whe’ I gwine? My peoples is all gone. Mos’ o’ dem a-layin’ een de grabeya’d. I dunno why Jedus see fitten to leab me heah all dis long time——” She lifted her apron to wipe her eyes.

“Las’ night I call on Him, up yonder. I beg ’em fo’ he’p me. Fo’ tell me wha’ fo’ do. I rassle wid ’em tell ’E gi’ me a sign. Yessuh! ’E answer me! ’E gi’ me one!”

Her puckered old face lighted up with emotion. Her voice quivered.

“’E gi’ me a sign f’on heaben, yessuh. Ashes! Ashes an’ fire! Him up yonder tell me so!”

Then she leaned forward and whispered: “I put fire to de man house. I bu’n ’em down same lak Jedus tell me fo’ do. Yessuh! Den I come right on heah fo’ tell you I done ’em.”

“Did your house burn too?”

“Oh, no, suh. Jedus sen’ a win’ fo’ blow de spark de udder way.”

“Who are you, Auntie?” The sheriff’s voice was pitying. Gentle.

“Dis duh me, Hannah Jeems, suh. I one o’ ol’ Mass Richard Jeems’ niggers, suh. My white folks is all gone. Gone an’ lef’ me. Times was tight. Dey had to sell de plantation an’ go.”

She stood before him awaiting sentence with her eyes cast down.

“You walked all the way here from the James plantation this morning?”

“Yessuh. Quick ez I set de house on fire, I come heah fo’ tell you, suh.”

“Why did you come to tell me?” he asked.

“Well, suh,” she hesitated and a far-away look filled her eyes, “when I was a chillen I heah ol’ Mas’s Richard say, de niggers ain’ know, but he know. De sheriff is de bes’ frien’ de niggers is got een dis worl’, next to Him and Jedus. Mas’s Richard been a mighty wise man.”

The sheriff looked at the pathetic figure before him. At the mesh of fine wrinkles on her face. At the small, black, frightened hands, clasping and unclasping. At the bare, old, dusty feet. They had walked many a weary mile since life for them first began. His own clear eyes became moist.

“Come on into the kitchen, Auntie. The cook will give you a cup of coffee and some breakfast. Then, we’ll talk things over.”

“T’ank you, suh,” she said gravely as she followed him.

When he reached the door, he faced her again and held up a finger.

“It’s best not to talk much, Auntie,” he warned her.

She smiled at him brightly.

“Ef da man didn’ been a po-buckra ’e wouldn’ do me so,” she said wistfully.

His brow was knit as if he were uncertain what to say.

“Auntie,” he spoke slowly, distinctly, “you believe in the Bible, don’t you?”

“Oh, yessuh,” she affirmed solemnly, “I can’ read ’em, but I b’lieb ’em.”

“Did you ever hear how the Bible says you must not let your right hand know what your left hand does?”

“Oh, yessuh,” she said reverently.

“Can you remember that passage of Scripture? I think you can.”

She looked at him shrewdly, then she smiled and bowed very low.

“T’ank you, suh. T’ank you! An’ may Gawd bless you, suh!”

The sheriff was embarrassed. He cleared his throat and awkwardly flicked the ashes off his cigar.

“Auntie,” he hesitated, “I’m thinking about riding up that way this morning. I might take you back home.” Maum Hannah bowed again.

 

The distance to the cross-roads store was soon covered by the sheriff’s high-powered car. He stopped.

“Jim,” he called out to the proprietor, “I hear one of your neighbors lost his new house by fire last night. Did he have any insurance on it?”

“Yes, sir,” Jim answered. “Wasn’t he lucky to have it?”

“How does he think the house caught?” asked the sheriff.

“He doesn’t know, sir, unless it caught from a spark out of Maum Hannah’s chimney. It seems she was gone off for the night.”

“Yes,” said the sheriff, “she came all the way to me hunting for a place to stay. I’m taking her back home now. She may as well stay on there for the present, don’t you think so?”

Jim nodded his head confidently.

“I tell you, sheriff, I don’t believe anybody’d build a house there again. It’s a bad-luck place. It always was.”

 

When Maum Hannah got out of the car in front of her home, a great pile of ashes still smoldered there. She held to the sheriff’s hand with both of her quivering ones when she told him good-by.

“Gawd bless you, son! Gawd bless you,” she sobbed gratefully, and bright tears followed each other down her old cheeks.

“Come back to me if you ever get in trouble again,” the sheriff told her.

“T’ank you kindly, suh,” she answered, “but I ain’ gwine nebber risk gittin’ in trouble no mo’. Not me.”

She unlocked her door and fed the cat, and added a few pieces of wood to the fire; then she scattered meal for the frightened hen and little chickens.

When the fire blazed bright, she drew up the little chair before it and sat down. She was tired. She sat still and smoked and nodded. As she dozed, she said softly to the cat:

“Ashes is de bes’ t’ing eber was fo’ roses.”

Green Thursday

THE day was bright and hot. Cotton-and cornfields glittered green. Dancing, quivering heat waves blurred the distant woods and cabins.

Killdee could not see a single soul anywhere. He was the only man working to-day. Green Thursday.

Slowly, steadily, patiently, he walked behind his plow. Up and down the long rows. Back and forth. Thinking. Reasoning with himself. Was he right or wrong to work to-day? The day Jesus went back to heaven.

He watched indifferently the spurts of red dust that rose with each step his mule took. The ground was dry. Baked. Parched. The stiff clay broke into clods as the plow’s edge cut through its rigid crust. The lumps of earth that fell awkwardly away from each other were fettered with tough, jointed grass. Tense grass roots had burrowed deep. They had wound a strong net to choke and strangle the crop. They were sucking all the moisture out of the ground. They were eating all the fertilizer. They’d leave nothing but starvation for the cotton and corn.

The grass had to be killed. Every root must be torn up and cut. Every green blade must be turned under and buried.

The sun stood blinding white straight overhead. The sun was a friend in the fight against the grass. Its heat to-day would kill every root that was cut.

The long shadow that had started out traveling beside him early this morning had shortened and darkened until now it crept small and black right under his feet. It seemed to be trying to hide from the sun. It must be near noon. Time for Mike and himself to stop and eat and drink and rest.

With a low-spoken “Whoa, Mike,” he reined in the tall, bony beast that he plowed and cast a swift glance up at the sun. Yes, it was noon. He could tell, although the sun’s brilliance clouded his vision.

“Le’s go home, Mike,” he said, and he stuck the plow’s point deep into the earth to stand alone until noon was over.

The loosened joints of the old plow stock creaked with the strain and reminded him to be careful how he wrenched them. They were giving out in the hard fight with the grass. If they came apart, broken, no good, he had no money to buy new ones. He must remember to be easy with them.

He unhooked the trace chains from the singletree and tossed them over Mike’s back. As he slipped the frayed rope lines through the rings in the bit, Mike’s rib-marked hide swelled with a grateful sigh. Mike’s long, shaggy neck stretched and his cloudy eyes closed as he gave a long whicker of approval.

Killdee laughed. His strong white teeth gleamed through the soft sparse beard that covered his mouth and chin as he murmured:

“You hongry, enty, Mike? I is too. Come on. Le’s go home. You got sense like people, son.”

He smoothed the rough hair on the hollowed back and stroked the haggard neck while Mike nibbled at grass in the furrow ahead.

When Killdee started across the uneven ground toward the line of woods where a tiny, drab-colored cabin showed dim in the smoky distance, Mike stopped eating and followed him.

Killdee scanned the quiet fields. Not a soul was in sight. He and Mike seemed to be the only living things in the world to-day.

Small cabins scattered at intervals over the landscape showed no sign of life at all. Narrow red roads that ran by them were empty. Idle. The day itself was still. Stiller than Sunday. Green Thursday. Ascension day. The day Jesus went back to God.

Maybe it was a holier day than Sunday.

All Killdee’s life he had heard that to stir the earth on Green Thursday was a deadly sin. Fields plowed, or even hoed to-day would be struck by lightning and killed so they couldn’t bear life again. God would send fire down from heaven to punish men who didn’t respect this day. Yet here he and Mike were plowing. Risking the wrath of the great I-Am.

Everybody else on the whole plantation had gone fishing in the river swamp. Dry weather made the fish bite fast. Rose would have been trying her luck too if she had been able to walk so far. But it was near time now for her to “go down.” She wouldn’t risk walking so far from home.

 

Rose asked him to hitch Mike to the wagon and take her and baby Rose to fish for a while. Meat was mighty scarce and when a woman is pregnant, fish bite better for her than for anybody else. Rose wanted to go and try them. She wanted to go even if the crop was eaten up with grass. She was worried and hurt right now because he and Mike were out in the field plowing.

Last night he lay awake and thought it all over. He made up his mind. He would fight the grass this year to the end. He would make a crop. God ought to know Rose hadn’t been able to hoe a lick since the crop was planted. And how old and slow Mike was! Mike couldn’t step fast like the grass. He never had plowed on Green Thursday before. Never. But this year he was too far behind to miss a day. God ought to know how it was.

Clear drops of sweat trickled down Mike’s thin flanks and down Killdee’s lean black face. Killdee’s faded patched shirt was blotched with wetness. It clung to his shoulders and outlined his strong, straight back. Its unbuttoned, open neck let the hot breeze reach his big throat and breast.

Ragged overalls turned high at the bottom slouched along with each step he took and laid open their torn places for the sun to shine through on the firm black flesh of his narrow hips and sinewy legs.

He stopped where a path divided. Instead of going straight home, he took the path that dropped down the steep hill behind it.

The trees made a cool, dark shade. Leaves fluttered and let bits of white light fall on the ground. The path became even and wet and comforting to his hot, bare feet.

He trampled on ferns and white violets as he hurried forward and dropped on his knees to drink from the spring that bubbled out from under great brown rock. Water ran smooth for the length of an old rotting trough, then fell with a bright splash on its bed of white sand and clean pebbles.

When a spring puppy clung to the side of the trough not far from his mouth, Killdee laughed.

“You better be glad dis is me ’stead o’ Mike, son. I kin see you. I ain’ gwine swallow you. Mike ain’ got good eyes like me. You’d be ruint ef you got een dat big, ol’ mout’ o’ his’n. It ’ud sen’ you down dat big ol’ t’roat an’ Mike wouldn’ know nuttin’ ’bout it.”

When his own thirst was quenched, Killdee sat and watched Mike’s shaggy throat forcing the water up until Mike raised his head and looked at him with gentle, somber eyes. He was ready to go home and eat dinner.

Man and mule suddenly paused stock-still while a snake writhed through the green shadows. Tufts of grass and slender vines with satiny leaves almost hid its silent, stealthy slipping.

Killdee watched with serious eyes, then spoke to the reptile.

“I know I ought to kill you an’ hang you up on a limb to mek it rain. De groun’ is awful dry. De plow can’ ha’dly cut ’em. But I ain’ got de heart fo’ kill nuttin’ to-day. I gwine le’ you go home to you’ fambly.”

As Killdee got to his feet a strong-smelling he-goat rustled through the bushes and stopped to look.

“Hey!” Killdee called to him.

“How-come you dis close to water, ol’ man? You better come wash. You smell powerful rank to me. I don’ see how lil Nan kin stan’ you. No, my Gawd! But ’oman is strange. Nan t’ink nobody ain’ fine ez you. Nobody. An’ you know dat, too.”

Killdee picked up a pebble and threw it and the goat scampered away. Killdee laughed. Preachers say sinners are like goats and Christians are like sheep. He’d a lot rather be a goat than a sheep. Goats have sense.

Old Bill yonder went home to sleep with the other goats at night. He was afraid of the dark. But in the daytime he ran around by himself and went where he liked and ate what he pleased and had a good time. He was too smart to huddle with others of his kind. Bill was a sinner maybe, but he was better off than the foolish, scary sheep that stayed in a flock all the time.

Mike’s head was close to his shoulder. Killdee looked at the quiet, smoky eyes. One of them was covered over with a milky film and the other was dim and cloudy. Soon Mike would be blind. Good, faithful, old Mike. God ought not to make Mike blind. Not a good fellow like Mike.

Mike’s ribs stuck out bold too, and the corn pile was low, and the new crop didn’t promise much. If it didn’t rain soon, everything would dry up. The corn’s hands were shut tight to-day. The corn’s feet were scorched till they were yellow. The cotton leaves were hanging limber.

Maybe that was the way they all prayed for rain. And yet—if it rained, the grass would eat them up.

Killdee looked at the path leading up the hill to his cabin. He was tired. Rose would be cross, vexed with him, because he had plowed Green Thursday. He’d lie down and rest here a little while in the shade. He took Mike’s bridle off and dropped it on the ground, saying sadly:

“Pick roun’, Mike, an’ git a lil fresh grass fo’ taste you mout’. You teeth is too bad fo’ chaw cawn anyhow.”

Killdee stretched himself out on the damp ground. It was good to lie here in the cool, green shade. There was scarcely a sound but the water flowing over the pebbles.

It sounded so fresh. So cheerful. Not tired a bit. All day, all night, it ran like this. Creeping out of the earth like a living thing. Weak. Small. Yet too strong for anybody to hold it back. It was like life itself.

Two years ago this very month his little baby Rose was born. As soon as the moon changed, another baby would come. His baby too, the same as baby Rose was his.

Maybe this next child would be a boy-child. He hoped it would. Every man needs boy-children. Wants them.

Not that he didn’t love baby Rose. He loved her better than life. God, yes! He would do for her what he’d do for nobody else in the world. He’d slave and sweat and struggle for her. He’d do anything to provide for her.

Yes, he’d plow on Green Thursday for her. He’d go to hell for her if he had to do it!

Funny how he felt about her at first. When Maum Hannah first told him a girl-child was born his heart fell. He wanted a son. But when the teeny little fingers closed tight over one of his big ones as he slipped it inside them that morning, his heart mighty near broke with joy. He shook all over, and laughed. He cried a little bit too.

That baby knew then he was hers. That they two were the same flesh. She was so like him. He could see it. Her little hands, her little feet, even her face, were all shaped like his from the very first.

The wonder of it made him feel humble and helpless and weak, yet it fired his pride and courage. He made up his mind to fend for her. Work for her. Suffer for her if it came to that. And he would. He was no poor fool of a sheep. No. He was a man. He’d plow to-day and not be afraid. If God was, He was fair. Kind. God would like a man better if He saw him doing his best.

He must soon go get Maum Hannah to come stay with Rose. He must take a bushel of corn over to Daddy Cudjoe and swap it for a quart of whiskey. Rose would soon need it. Maum Hannah said it helps a woman to “birth” a child better if she has a little whiskey to deaden the pain.

Rose wanted a bottle of castor oil from the cross-roads store, too. There was no money to buy it with. He’d have to take corn for it too. The corn pile was low. He and Rose and Baby Rose had to eat. Mike too. Grass got the crop last year. Mike crept too slow to keep up with the grass. But this year, he’d kill that grass or die trying! Plowing every day was the only way. Let lightning strike where it pleased!

Fire burned a house in Maum Hannah’s yard yesterday. Nobody knew how it caught. Maum Hannah said Jesus burned it. How could fire know Jesus wanted it burned? And yet, the little baby that was coming would know when the moon changed. It would come then. Baby Rose came on the change of the moon.

How do things buried deep know when the moon changes? Seed in the ground know. The water in the river knows. The weather knows. The wind knows. All know more than men. Maum Hannah said Jesus tells His children a lot of things.

Killdee lay on his back and a spot of sunshine fell right in his eyes. The noon hour was passing and neither he nor Mike had eaten dinner. What a fool he was to lie here thinking!

He got slowly to his feet and looked around. Mike had wandered away to find grass that was tender and sweet. Killdee called him.

“Come on, Mike. You got to go home and eat some cawn. Grass won’ gi’ you de strengt’ to pull de plow t’rough da tough grass. Come on. You too greedy. You gwine miss an’ eat a pizen weed ef you don’ mine. Den you’ll hab belly-ache.”

While Mike came, Killdee knelt beside the spring and with cupped hands dipped up water and cleansed his dusty face, then he trudged up the hill with Mike following behind him.

Once he stumbled on a root in the narrow crooked path. Thinking had made him unsteady. He had plowed on Green Thursday.

Already the sky was darkening. Thunder rumbled far over the river. It had a threatening loury sound.

Raising his eyes, he looked at his home. The low roof was half-hidden with smoke that rose out of the red-clay chimney at its side. Rose had a fire trying to keep his dinner hot for him there on the hearth inside. He was late to-day. As he hurried forward, a flick of lightning was followed by muted thunder. What if lightning should strike that cabin—burn it—burn all he had within it! God, what a thought!

Shucks! Thinking had made him a coward. When had he ever feared lightning? He was no woman. No. He was a man. Hadn’t he promised himself he’d be like a goat? Not a sheep. Not a frightened, huddling, scary fool. No.

The crop needed rain and it was coming. He’d feed Mike first, then eat himself. He had let the snake go, but it would rain anyway. The cloud was rolling nearer every minute.

As he got further up the hill, he could see that the back door had been whitened with some of the clay from the gully down near the spring. The wooden blinds, half open on each side of the chimney, were whitened inside and out. How nice it made the house look!

Rose had done it all since morning. She liked to have things clean. She was getting everything ready for her venture. Childbirth. Poor Rose! Soon pain would wrench her!

Some of these days he would build Rose a better house. If the crop made anything this year, he would “wash-white” the house all over and maybe build another shed room there at the back.

When he opened the door of Mike’s stable, a shed room added to the log barn, streaks of light shone through the roof. Mike must have a better stable before next winter. Mike was old, but he was faithful.

If the crop was good, it might seem hard-hearted, but he must try to arrange somehow to get a better mule. The thought made Killdee feel guilty.

He shucked a few ears of corn and put them into the trough and watched Mike’s feeble efforts to bite the grains off.

“You teet’ ain’ no count, not no mo’, Mike. It make me sad fo’ see you strive fo’ chaw.”

He’d have to take a sack of corn to mill and get it ground up for Mike. Mike’s old teeth were worn out. They couldn’t crack corn any more.

Killdee sighed as he closed the barn door and walked toward the cabin. The sun shone out with a sudden, dazzling flash of brilliance. The china-berry tree beside the doorstep made a round, thick spot of shade. The wild-cherry tree cast light, leafy shadows that played up and down over the red-clay chimney.

Rose called out of the window:

“How-come you so late to-day? You been to see Maum Hannah? I know you didn’ plow so long an’ it Green Thursday.”

Killdee shook his head wearily and walked inside.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I been plowin’ sence sunrise tell twelve o’clock. I lay down by de spring fo’ res’ a lil while.”

Rose shook her head dolefully, then leaned to dip his dinner out of the pot. Her brows were knotted with a frown. She dropped a few peas on the clean hearth as she helped a pan for him. She was cross. She thought he had done wrong.

“Somet’ing bad’ll happen to you sho as Gawd’s een heaben. People ain’ fo’ plow to-day.”

“Somet’ing bad’ll happen ef I don’t plow. Grass is got de crop now.” Killdee answered meekly, but Rose’s anger was not easy to quench.

“I know you mean I didn’ he’p you none wid de crop, but I ain’ able fo’ do nuttin’——” She began crying.

“Now, now,” Killdee went forward and petted her shoulder, “I didn’ say nuttin’ ’bout you. You mus’n fret, honey. No. You fo’ be happy. Look wha’ a nice lil gal we got. Mebbe dis time nex-week we would hab a nice lil boy. ’Member how de people say when we was ma’ied: ’I wish you joy, a gal an’ a boy’? We gwine hab all two.”

Rose drew away from him. She was not to be appeased so easily.

Killdee went and stood by the bed where Baby Rose, covered over with a patchwork quilt, lay asleep. Flies crawled over the child’s delicate features. They rose and buzzed and crawled again.

“Whyn’t you git on off!” Killdee growled angrily at them. He waved his hands violently to frighten them off.

“Do don’ wake em, Killdee. Le’em sleep. Da chile ain’ been still all day. ’E keep me busy watchin’ ’em. I done tired. Le’em sleep. You come on an’ eat you’ dinner.”

Killdee took the pan of food from Rose’s hand and sat down in the doorway to eat. He looked at the cow-peas and bacon and cornbread and stirred among them absent-mindedly with his spoon.

Rose didn’t look right. She was vexed because he had plowed to-day, but she didn’t look well. Maybe he was wrong to worry her.

He glanced toward her heavy, bulging body, at her swollen ankles, and pity for her stirred him.

How could she breathe like that? Of course she couldn’t hoe. No. Yet she had struggled up and down the hill bringing water to scour the floor. How clean it’s bare boards were!

She had whitened the windows and doors. Getting her house ready. Poor Rose. She needed help here at home. Baby Rose was a frisky baby. The hill was long and steep. Bringing up water was hard work. After this he must bring it for her before he went to work in the field.

“Come set heah by me an’ le’s talk,” he suggested kindly.

“I ain’ able fo’ set low ez dem steps, not now,” Rose said with a wistful sigh.

“I haffer set high een cheer now.”

As she drew a chair to the door a flash of lightning lit the cabin and a peal of thunder crashed close behind it. Rose shivered and put up a hand.

“You see, enty!” she whispered. “Lightnin’s gwine strike you field!”

Lightning flashed again and Rose’s eyes shone white in the glare as she quavered.

“Git up out de do, Killdee. De wedder is too cross. ’E might miss an’ strike you. I so faid em, Killdee....”

Killdee wiped his mouth on his sleeve and got up. He put an arm around her and led her to the bed where Baby Rose slept peacefully.

“Lay down by de baby an’ res’, Honey. Don’ be faid. Nuttin’ ain’ gwine hu’t you. No. Rain’ll do de crop good. De cawn an’ cotton’ll grow. Next fall I gwine buy you a fine dress and shoe an’ hat. I’ll git a wagon an’ harness an’ hitch up ol’ Mike an’ tek you to Mount Pleasant Church. De people’ll say: ’Who is dat dress’ up so fine comin’ yonder?’”

Rose’s fingers rested on the strong thews of Killdee’s forearm. With him close beside her like this, she felt comforted. Dress—shoes—hat—she smiled to think of them all.

But the heavy cloud darkened the cabin. Lightning blazed in through the open windows and door. Thunder clapped savagely.

“Do shet de do, Killdee—an’ de window——”

As Killdee got up to do it, there were muffled bangs from Mike’s stable. He listened, then ran stumbling down the steps. Had Mike gotten fastened in a crack of the stable?

Hot stench filled his nostrils when he opened the stable door. Flies sung over the moist dung where Mike lay kicking, groaning, rolling with pain. Mike’s belly was puffed with colic.

Bad corn. Bad teeth. Or—was it because Mike stirred the earth on Green Thursday? Something must be done. A mule can’t last long swollen up like this.

Killdee shouted through the wind:

“Rose! Rose! See ef a kerosene is lef’ een de bottle! Fetch em quick!”

Rose came hurrying across the yard, panting, trembling, ashy, with a quart bottle in her hand.

The wind twisted her skirts and blew the stable door shut with a bang. Killdee opened it and took the bottle from her shaking fingers.

“Jedus,” she sobbed, “Ef Mike dead, wha’ we gwine do!”

Killdee knelt and pulled the mule’s great black lips open. He forced the worn, yellow teeth apart and poured the kerosene down the unwilling throat.

“Git up on you feet, Mike!” he called sternly.

“You can’ leddown wid colic. You mus’ walk ’em off. Das do only way.”

Mike lay prone. Moaning, rolling. Killdee got the bridle and put it on him. He shook the bit and coaxed:

“Get up, Mike. Don’ mek me git a whip. You mus’ git up and walk, son.”

Lightning blazed, and wind, mean and wet, sung through the cracks of the log barn. Rose whimpered and clung to Killdee’s arm.

“You mus’ go back to de house, Rose. De lightnin’ know good you is faid em. Dat mek em do wusser. Go on een de house. I can’ lef Mike fo’ go wid you. Go leddown on de bed side de baby. Kiver up you haid. Try fo’ go sleep tell I come.”

Rose went and Killdee led Mike out into the yard to keep him walking. Spikes of water drove against his cheeks. Things dazzled a little before his eyes. He felt confused. Distracted. He must pull himself together. Mike and Rose depended on him. He must be strong. Not afraid. Rain fell in a solid flood and Mike stopped and tried to lie down. Killdee was firm and urged him on. Round and round the barn they went. Walking, walking.

Sheets of water hid the cabin. Beat and slashed on his shoulders. Chilled the very flesh on his bones. Made him shudder foolishly.

Something braced him. Maybe shame. Was he a man or not? What were wind and rain and thunder and lightning that he’d fear them?

Women and children mind such things. Not strong men.

Mike must not lie down and die. He must walk this colic off. Plowing Green Thursday had nothing to do with his sickness. Bad teeth. Rotten, weevily corn. They were worse than lightning. Or plowing Green Thursday.

Rose was scary. Chicken-hearted. All good women are so. It was right for them to be afraid of things. Right.

The rain battered down and Mike and Killdee walked on and on unheeding.

A voice piped shrill above the storm’s roaring. Killdee smiled. Rose wanted him. She thought he could keep harm away from her. He’d go to her soon and put on dry clothes. A fire was still in the chimney. He would build it up and its light would make the cabin bright and cheerful. Mike was getting better. His belly was less near bursting. Soon he could go back to his stable. Thank God!

Rose was running toward him! Screaming! Was she sick? No, she had Baby Rose in her arms. She held Baby Rose out to him.

Killdee felt numb. Dazed. What had happened? He couldn’t think. He was stunned—or drunk——

As he went into the cabin a fog of smoke filled his eyes. The air was rank with the smell of burned cloth—burned meat——

He stumbled to a chair and sat down in it. He was holding Baby Rose’s fire-blackened, scorched little body in his arms. What must he do? What?

“Go git Maum Hannah,” Rose said between teeth that chattered.

Killdee put the baby on the bed and went staggering blindly across the fields through the storm. Lightning mocked him. Thunderbolts flouted him. Made him go the wrong way. Made him stumble. Made him afraid. Told him it was Green Thursday, and this morning he stirred the earth!

At last he reached Maum Hannah’s cabin. It sat safe behind the pile of ashes where a man’s house had been. Fire burned that house, yesterday. Maum Hannah said Jesus burned it.

 

All night Killdee and Rose sat beside the bed. Rose moaned incessantly. Her own burned hands were held out in front of her. She didn’t seem to know he was there.

Maum Hannah kept putting white hog lard and white cotton over the little crisp ears and fingers. Mary West held the pan. The pan itself kept shaking. Killdee took it and tried to hold it steady, but it shook in his hand just the same.

Baby Rose never cried at all. Her breath came easy. Soft. Like whispering. It made Killdee weak and sick to hear the long gaps that came between.

All night he listened for it. Then just before day, it stopped. He kept trying to hear it. Just one more time. His own breast cramped with an effort to catch air! Baby Rose wasn’t breathing! No! She was gone! Gone!

Rose got down on her knees and prayed and begged and called to her to come back. Not to go. Not to leave her. But she was gone. Gone.

Rose got up and shrieked and cried and waved her arms. She said God was hard. Unfair. Killdee had done wrong. He had stirred the earth on a holy day. He should suffer. Not her. Not her child. But Baby Rose lay still. Dead.

Maum Hannah talked to Rose and tried to quiet her. She told Rose that it was to be. The child’s time had come. God called Baby Rose because her work here was over. Her time was out. To question what God had done was a sin. Rose must bear her sorrow with patience.

Killdee sat in the doorway and looked out at the thick, black night. His muscular hands shook helplessly and clutched at the rough board step. His strength had left him. He felt weak. Shaken. Afraid. The darkness came up close. It filled his eyes and ears and nostrils. It slipped past him into the fire-lit room. The fire still burned. There was no other light to be had. But darkness filled the corners. Silent darkness. Black, dumb darkness. It told nobody what it was, or what it was doing. It was like death. It came. It went. Nobody could keep it away. Nobody.

The wind had died. Faint flashes of lightning low in the sky were followed by thunder that muttered and mumbled. Killdee’s heart was black. Bitter.

If God wanted to call Baby Rose, why did He burn her to death? She had never harmed God. Or anybody. She had never done anything wrong. She was too little to sin. If God was mad with him for plowing Green Thursday, why didn’t He strike him with lightning and kill him? That would have been easy enough. But to burn a baby—it wasn’t square.

How could God have the heart to burn a baby? Who made the baby so she loved to play in the fire, if God didn’t? Yes. God did it!

Rose gave her other things to play with. Rose made her a pretty little cloth doll. He had gotten an empty cigar box from the cross-roads store and made her a nice little doll wagon. But she loved the fire more than anything else.

She didn’t know it would burn her. He told her it would. Rose told her too. But she was a baby. She didn’t understand.

Maybe she wasn’t playing with fire! Who could tell? Rose was on the bed with her head covered up to keep from seeing the lightning. A gust of wind might have sucked a flame out to catch her little dress. The lightning might have sent a tongue of fire in through the window to kill her.

Rose didn’t know. Rose was on the bed. With her eyes shut. Scared. A coward. She let her baby burn to death. She was to blame. Rose and God.

Something inside him made him shake and shiver as he sat there trying to think things out. Something kept telling him he had plowed the ground on Green Thursday. He had stirred the earth on a holy day.

Keen, blasting grief wrung him to the core. Resentment heated his blood like a fever. Burnt the marrow in his skull. Emboldened him. With set lips and rigid muscles, he glared at the overhead darkness. He was helpless. Yes. He had to take whatever came. There was nothing else to do. Nothing! He could fight men. Settle with them. But God—Ha!—that was a different matter. God kept out of reach. Yes. He did his worst. He cut men at the very roots. Blighted them. He burned tender girl-children. And nobody could ever get even with Him. Up there in the sky, He had the whole world in His cold-blooded reach.

 

A star blinked out between flying clouds and was gone. Where was baby Rose? Was she up there? No. She was inside on the bed. Dead. Dead.

Maum Hannah laid a light hand on his shoulder.

“Son,” she said, “better come eenside now. De night air’ll gi’ you a chill. Day’ll soon be clean. Andrew mus’ come mek a lil box to fit de baby. You haffer lay em way, you know.”

Her hand waited. It must have felt his misery, for it shook just a little. Killdee knew she pitied him as she murmured:

“Try to fret out loud, son. You could bear de pain mo better ef you would cry. Eenside frettin’ kin bus’ you’ heart open.”

 

They waited until the sun had set in the little grave, then Killdee and Andrew placed the small pine box that held Baby Rose, carefully down in the earth. Together they filled in the damp, red clay, and smoothed it over the top, into a mound. When it was done, Killdee fell to his knees on the ground and wept bitterly. But Andrew said solemnly to him:

“Don’ cry, Killdee. De Lawd hab gi’ em. De Lawd hab tek em away. Bressed be de name ob de Lawd.”

Andrew walked home with him to Rose, who strove with Maum Hannah’s help and encouragement to bring another child into the world.

Maum Hannah looked up at Killdee when he walked in, and said:

“Some duh comin’ an’ some duh gwinen. Him up-yonder duh tek an’ sen. Be tanksful, son. Be tanksful.”

But Killdee’s eyes were fixed on a small cloth doll that had fallen out of its cigar-box wagon and that lay face down on the floor.