Sea Swallow Me and Other Stories Read online

  “’bel,” said Israel softly; he didn’t want to startle her too much. “’bel, I need some cream.”

  She opened her eyes. Even in the shadowed barn, they were lambent. A startling, impossible blue. The stall she’d found had a draft of some kind. It was cool, like the floor of a cave.

  She nodded, and began playing the pink udders of the cow in front of her like a peculiar instrument. The hissing and frothing sounds she made were hypnotic. In the hot stillness, he could almost doze as well.

  When the bucket was full, she skimmed the cream off the top, and put it in another bucket. She did this three times, to three indifferent cows. When she was done, he had a half full bucket.

  “That all you need?” It was the first time she’d spoken to him. This wasn't surprising; Cristabel was known for her moods. She was from one of the islands, and had a faint lilt to her accent, when she bothered to speak at all.

  “Should do for now.” She nodded, and vanished into her small grotto, with one of the smaller cows and a stool.

  This wasn't so bad. Just two buckets, one cream, the other milk. He carried the buckets to the front of barn. Before he reached the line where dark ground became illuminated, he heard Cristabel speak.

  “’Bel? ‘Bel, did you say something?” He paused.

  When he heard nothing, he started again toward the light, thinking of the quarter of a mile in the hot sun. It was cool here, underneath the roof. Chinks of brightness penetrated the roof, but mostly it was dark. Black and greenish-black, like an algae glutted pond.

  “I said, it’s like you never wanna leave.” Cristabel’s voice. He turned slightly. She was peeking out of her little hidey-hole, sleepily. Her eyes flashed in the dark, before she went into her stall. Blue, green, blue.

  When he arrived, with aching arms and sweating body, to the Summer Kitchen, Giggles gave him yet another task. A pound of sugar from the pantry; climb up the ladder and get a few onions. By noon, he was exhausted. Heat had no effect on him.

  That afternoon brought the boring task of setting the table. It went smoothly, until he broke a gravy boat up too high to reach easy. It lay in pieces on the floor. One of the maids swept it up without a word. Israel believed that the Joneses had thousands of the things. The dish closet was the size of his cabin. Candlesticks, silver and linens were laid on the table.

  A quick break for dinner—scraps of chicken, corn pone, a cup of buttermilk—and then the final preparations. Candles lit, dishes laid on the sideboard, a cavalry of maids hovering around the edges of the halo that encompassed the family. Tansy was one of these maids.

  Master Jones arrived first. Not surprising. He was a rotund man, whose beet-red face was framed by thick tufted muttonchops. Mrs. Jones came next, supported by Harte, the porter. She was like a frail doll engulfed by her hoop skirt. Like Bertha, she wore a shawl, though it was sweltering inside. The children—two girls, a year apart, but dressed in matching striped green dresses, bows and pinafores, entered, with wild Master Rufus following. He gave Israel a clandestine scowl before taking his seat. Mrs. Jones led the house in a prayer as solemn and homely as the samplers she incessantly sewed. Dishes were carried to the table, Tansy with sugar snap green peas, another maid with a roasted chicken scented with rosemary, thyme and onion. Israel scuttled around, making sure that water and wine glasses were filled. Discussion centered on the tobacco fields, and upcoming parties. It was apparent that Master Rufus was bored out of his mind.

  “And what did Mr. Snicket teach you, son?” Mrs. Jones inquired.

  “Dunno. Greek mythology, I suppose.” He rattled off his answers.

  “Son, don’t slouch. And answer your mother in full sentences.”

  The almost-twins snickered.

  Dinner ended with Giggles’ blank mange and glasses of port for the adults. The young ladies were led off to bed, soon followed by their parents. Master Rufus sat at the table, swirling his port.

  “Israel, come here.”

  Israel put down the dirty dish he was carrying to the kitchen on the sideboard. “Yes, sir.”

  “Have a seat, boy.”

  He chanced a glance at Master Rufus. Pale, freckled, an unruly mop of reddish-brown hair, there was something clownish about him to make him too menacing. “No, sir. Ain’t right I should be sitting with my superiors.” He looked down at his scuffed shoes instead.

  “Have it your way. But I want you to look at me.”

  Israel looked up into limpid pools of malt-brown. They held his image and a candle flame.

  “I want to tell me the truth. Where’d you get that nasty moonshine?”

  He was about to say from Cletus. The words almost fell from his lips. But the image of the ghostly black man would not leave his mind. A breath escaped from between his lips. He didn’t answer.

  Quick as a snake, Master Rufus snatched his wrists, and squeezed them, constricting the blood. “You don’t wanna talk, that’s fine with me.” His white face came real close to his. Israel smelled the port on his breath. “Just don’t ever do that again, you hear me? If you do, so help me, I’ll beat the black right off of your ass.” His wrists were bracelets of pain, but Israel didn’t whimper. That would make it worse.

  After an especially hard squeeze, Rufus released him. Israel resisted the urge to rub his sore wrists. They were probably purple, beneath his shirt.

  Rufus smiled. Clown-like again. “We’re still friends, though. Can’t be mad at you.” He chuckled, and ruffled the top of Israel’s head. “I know you did that, that joke, cuz you’re in love with Tansy. I’ll tell you what,” Rufus leaned forward, like he was conspiring, “you play your cards right, one of these days you might get Tansy. I’ll make sure you’ll have her.”

  He drained his port, and stumbled off into the rest of manse.

  Israel didn’t have time to collect his thoughts about the scene. Tansy appeared, and whisked him into the kitchen. “What did that bastard do to you?”

  “It ain’t nothing.”

  She didn’t even listen to him. She pulled back the sleeves of his shirt, and clucked concern.

  “Giggles,” she yelled. “Come here and give me one of your poultices for burns.”

  “Somebody got burned, did they, ha ha! Izzy didn’t scorch himself on the candle again, did he?”

  Tansy was resolute. “The poultice.”

  A few minutes later, an evil-smelling, greasy brown concoction was slathered over his wrists. “You still hurt?”

  It was tempting to say yes. He’d probably get to sleep in her bed that night. “Naw. Ain’t nothing. I got to help clean up—”

  “No, you don’t. Just sit on this stool. It’ll be taken care of. I’ll walk you back to Old Mark’s”

  Tansy flounced out of the winter kitchen, into the dining room. She returned with the remains of the blank mange and set it in front of Israel.

  “Here, eat this.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I said, eat this. Or I’ll make you eat it.” She smiled as she handed him a spoon.

  When she went back into the dining room, Israel poked at the ethereal custard. It quivered. It was milk jelly. The first bite went down smooth. He’d never tasted anything so light and sweet. Sugar and vanilla mingled in his mouth. It tasted like breast milk, or at least what he thought breast milk should taste like. But that was silly. As if he’d even had a mother.

  A half hour later, Tansy took him back from the manse to the slave shacks.

  “What did he do that for, Izzy? Why was he bothering you?” She’d stopped him, just before the first of the shacks appeared.

  “Dunno. The moonshine, probably.”

  “Uh.” They started walking again. “Has no business drinking moonshine in the first place. Listen to me.” She stopped again. “If I even hear of him doing something like that, I will personally—I don’t know what I’d do.”

  Her eyes flashed in the dark. Some trick of the moonlight gave them a green cast. He’d never seen her so angry.

&nbs
p; A few more minutes in silence, and they were closer to his and Old Mark’s cabin. Bertha and Tansy’s was a couple of feet away. Rufus stepped out of the front door of that shack.

  “Hey, gal,” he said, slow and easy.

  Tansy’s face was tight. He could feel the dread coming off her in waves. A killing urge welled up in him, hotter than the night, sharper than the sounds of the crickets and cicadas.

  “We can’t,” she said. She moved towards her door, gripping Israel’s arms. “First, it’s my time of the month. ‘Sides, someone’s gotta take care of this child.”

  Rufus chuckled, a bit of smoke escaping his nostrils. Izzy could see the low ember of the mule shit cigarette burning in the night. “I don’t believe you,” he drawled. “And the boy’s just fine.”

  “What don’t you believe?” Tansy raised her voice. “You can look at my bleeding hole yourself, if you want.” She hitched up her skirt.

  “Stop that!” Rufus dropped the cigarette in surprise. A red flake drifted to the ground. “And keep your voice down— ”

  “’The boy is fine,’? How would you know? Did you take care him afterwards? No, you just went up to your room to smoke.”

  “Don’t you talk to me like that!” He walked right up to her. “You’re on thin ice, bitch.”

  She faced him. “So are you. Beating a little boy. Drinking moonshine. Fucking a nigger bitch. I’m sure that your papa would just love to hear that.”

  Rufus swiped at her but she moved out of his reach. “Keep it down,” he growled.

  “Why do I got to keep it down? It’s not like the people here don’t know what’s going on.” Tansy lowered her voice, the green cast in her eye strong. “If you want to keep things private, you best listen to me. I’ll take your cracker-cock. But don’t you ever lay a hand on this child, or any other child again.”

  He punched her then. Hard, right in the stomach.

  Tansy didn’t even blink. She held her ground. This enraged Rufus even more, and he punched her face. Israel closed his eyes. Surely, her face was a ruin of blood and bone. Israel heard another crack against her, and readied to hurl himself at Rufus.

  But Tansy stood tall. Her face was unmarked. Frustrated, Rufus began to choke her, bruising her neck with his fat, grub-pale fingers. Instead she laughed a wicked sound, one that drew out an audience.

  “That the best you can do?” she said. With grace and nonchalance, she pushed him away. A tap on his chest, and his grip on her neck released. Rufus ended up on the ground, looking foolish.

  Tansy took Israel’s hand, and they stepped over Rufus’s prostrate body, a quivering blank mange that whimpered. Low and dangerous, Tansy said, “Just think about what I could do if I put my mind to it.” And she closed the door to her shack.

  The shutting of the door was an ending. Dangerous Tansy evaporated like dew. The fury on what should have been her ruined face relaxed; the tension on her should-have-been bruised neck unknotted.

  “You okay?”

  Israel nodded in agreement.

  “You want something to drink? No? Then wash up, and come to bed.”

  While Tansy set about lighting the kerosene lamps, Israel walked past the dozing Bertha to the basin, and splashed water on his face. What the Hell did I just see? Tansy was meek and sweet. Naïve and God-fearing, as a Negro woman ought to be, probably why Rufus picked her to fuck in the first place. The change of nature was freakish, like a plague of frogs or snow in April. What if it was that moonshine from the man under the briars? She did take a mighty long sip of it. Israel shivered. Excitement threaded its way up and down his spine. A warmth in the belly.

  “Izzy, what you tarrying for? Come to bed.”

  She was preternaturally calm, for a woman who had cussed out the Master’s son, and hit him to boot. As if it hadn’t happened. Israel’s glee at seeing Rufus laid flat on his backside was interrupted by sudden fear. There’d be punishment? Images of past torchlit punishments came into his mind. The lash of the whip.

  They couldn’t trust Rufus not to tell. He was craven; what would stop?

  Israel crawled into bed, and Tansy extinguished the kerosene lamp. She wished him goodnight, and kissed him. He waited until he heard her breathing easy, then a few minutes ‘til his eyes had adjusted to the dark.

  ‘L’il cat,’ Rufus had said. Israel shuddered. He crept out of bed on all fours, and crawled until he reached the corner of the cabin. The elegant bottle of moonshine easy to find. It glowed with green moonlight. Israel uncapped it, and took a long swig. Honeysuckle, wild roses, deep ponds all went down his throat. He could taste guitar notes, and voices raised in song. All the aspects of green, from earth to sky, went down into his belly, settled there, took root. He recapped the bottle, and crawled back to bed.

  That should protect both of us. She'd only had half as much. He closed his eyes.

  - - -

  Green was everywhere, in all hues and saturations. Emerald, chartreuse, and lime. It came muted, with silver or blue or yellow. It floated above him, in leaves or eyes, in every shape imaginable. The green oozed warmth, promised coolness, dribbled and dripped from every surface. It was dizzying, and disorienting. The smell of freshness, cut grass, or pine needles, invaded him, coating the back of his throat. It was too much…

  But slowly, the green focused, gem sharp, and Israel saw the green forming into discernable shapes. He was in a clearing of some kind; surrounded by thousands of trees, or branches… it was unclear, still. Green gave rise to other colors, black and brown (but they still had green in them). A chair, a table, a fireplace. But even those were not what they seemed. The chair, for instance, was a stump, its back a still-living sheath of wood. The table was a log, petrified, with patterns whorled on it. Only the hearth looked normal. A pot of something delicious bubbled away on greenish flames.

  Israel looked up, and saw that the sky itself was green. Light, filtered through hundreds of leaves. The light was guarded by millions of fangs that sprouted from the elegant green and brown serpentine vines.

  He gasped, “Where am I?”

  Movement, out of the corner of his eye. A sleek brown and white shape streaked in the deeper part of the—forest? Whiskers, a round tail. A rabbit. A cough came to his left. Israel turned in that direction. Red and velvet, a fox stepped out of the thicket, into the clearing. It gave another coughing bark, and strode up to him. It sat down on its haunches, like a dog, and cocked its head, as if waiting for him to scratch between its ears.

  “Don’t mind him, he spoiled.” The musky and sweet voice came from behind. He turned around and saw a bare breasted woman garbed in a loose skirt that was white; therefore, it was tinged with the palest green. The color of the bottle of liquor. Her breasts jutted out, large and brown, tipped by tender buds as black as night. He tried not to stare at their hypnotic symmetry. Her hair was wild, a swamp of twisted black braids. She had no face. She had a nose, eyes, and lips—all beautiful—but they wouldn’t stay still. Her face rippled, supplanted by another, even more gorgeous facial features. She glided (or floated, he couldn’t be sure, cause he didn’t see feet) over to the cauldron on the fire before he could get a real good look. It seemed as if she swam the clearing.

  Israel absently stroked the space between the fox’s pointed ears. The fur was soft; it felt good to rub the inverted bowl of its head. The fox’s eyes closed in pleasure.

  He found his voice, “Who are you?”

  She turned her disturbing face to him. He focused on her less disturbing perfect breasts.

  There was amusement in her reply, “My name is…” Then came a spiral of phonetics, firm consonants and liquid vowels, slipped by him, redolent of musk, rustling leaves and sighing seas, all impossible to grasp. “But you may call me Mrs. King.”

  Ah, so he was underneath, within the briar patch, miles below the surface of the earth, imprisoned by thorns. This made sense.

  “Where’s Mr. King?”

  Mrs. King turned back to the pot of bubbling stuff. Israel
was thankful. He found it hard to look at her face, and hard not to look at her breasts.

  “He’s with Tansy.” There was a jealous note in her voice. No, sadder than that.

  “What…” Israel stopped. It made sense, sort of. By drinking the moonshine, he’d been asking for the Devil’s—or Mr. King’s—protection. He’d thought that he would be made stronger, like Tansy had been. But maybe it didn’t work that way with everyone.

  The fox grew bored of his attentions, and sulked off towards the greener gloom. Mrs. King turned to him, with a bowl of steaming stew in hand. She floated/glided over, and sat on a bench across from him. “Sitting” wasn't an accurate description. Even seated, the ends of her white skirt fluttered in an unseen tide.

  She handed him the bowl along with a spoon. The aroma was wonderful. Earthy mushrooms and chunks of carrot floated atop of a rich brown broth. Israel’s stomach growled. But something stopped him from digging right in.

  Mrs. King smiled. “Go ahead and eat. Nothing is gonna hurt you.”

  He took a cautious bite of something soft and starchy—a sweet potato. He ate a few minutes in silence, just enjoying the sensation of knowing that there would be more food. By doing so, he wouldn’t have to look at her shifting face(s).

  When he was finished, he felt her hot green eyes on him. He took a breath, and looked directly at the blurring features of her face.

  “Thank you, Mrs. King.” She gave the barest nod. “It was delicious.”

  She waited expectantly. In spite of her constant motion, she seemed the essence of patience and calm.

  “I have a question. I just—Who… what are you? You and your… husband?”

  The words hung in the glade of green, thick fog on water. Mrs. King fluttered upward, and hovered towards the cauldron. She reached into one of the curling vines, and produced a pitcher. She scooped dirt from the ground, and threw it upon the fire, dousing the flames. Israel stood up with his dish, which was a kind of stone worn smooth, and walked toward her. She remained in front of the cauldron. When he reached her, he tapped her back, to let her know that he was behind her. She spun about, more quickly than he imagined, startling him. He dropped his dish. Stone and spoon fell with a sound absorbed by the earth.