Fever: Chapter 5 (Ed)

5

    You make twenty miles per day, on foot, on the road to Chevalsboro.  That’s something of a leisurely pace compared to what you were used to in the Army.  You could push yourself harder if you wanted to.  As much as you want to see Zecora again, the thought of not finding her there is making you half reluctant to move faster.
    You’re not the only one on the road.  It's packed with people just traveling by foot.  Most have nothing.  Most are negroes.  They’re leaving their homes, or at least the plantations where they lived.  Many have nowhere to go, and are simply wandering.  Many are looking for a new home or one they used to know.
    You meet one, for instance, as you both stop for the night.  You’re traveling in opposite directions, and you share a campfire and a can of beans.  He’s just a young man, a few years younger than you.  He tells you his story of how, when he was only a child, probably six or seven, he was taken away from his family on one plantation, and sold to another.  Now that he doesn’t have to stay any more, he’s going to go find his family.  Only he can’t remember the name of that former plantation, the name of the master, or how to get there.  So he expects that it might take some amount of walking before he finds it.
    “Where abouts was it?” you ask.
    “In some place called Georgia,” he says.
    In the morning you ask him if he knows the way to Chevalsboro.  He tells you you’re traveling in the right direction, and points west down the road.  Then he asks you if you know the way to Georgia, and you tell him he’s traveling in the right direction too.  When he gets to Baton Rouge he can ask for the best road once he’s there.  He thanks you for the tip, and the beans, and for fighting for the North, and you’re both off once more.
    You ask more people that you meet about Chevalboro.  Most haven’t heard of it.  Those that have point you in the right direction.  None of them recall having heard of a woman named Zecora, which is a little worrying because that’s not the sort of name somebody would forget if they had heard of it.
    You take the pike that circles the bayou.  It’s a weird, foreboding looking place.  To your right are fields of cotton and onions and sugarcane.  The road itself is raised.  To the left is nature run riot.  Odd birds, the likes of which you’ve never seen before, scream and squawk in the thick mass of leaves, and you can barely even hear them above the awful din of a billion chirping cicadas, crickets, frogs, and things you can’t even name.  You’re thankful for the road, you wouldn’t want to enter that place.  That night you camp among the sugarcane, close enough to the embankment that you don’t have to see the glowing will o' wisps in the swamp on the other side of the road.
    You finally reach Chevalsboro the next day, round about noon.  You’re not sure of the time exactly.  It’s not a big enough place to have a town clock.  There are only a few shops, and commercial buildings.  A few houses.  A few streets.  There’s no wonder you had never heard of it before.
    You’re not entirely sure how you should go about finding Zecora, if she’s even here. You can remember Redheart telling you to be careful, and you don’t want to make a big scene looking for her.  It’s bad enough that you’re a stranger in the kind of town where everybody knows everybody else.
    The general store seems to be the only reasonable place to start.  You were getting a little low on food anyway.  You pick up some bread, a couple of smoked sausages, and a pickle to munch on for lunch.  Then you try to strike up a conversation with the proprietor.  He seems conflicted.  On one hand, he’s a good southern salt-of-the-earth type.  Cordiality and a penchant for gossip are taken for granted by folks like him.  On the other hand, you’re a stranger here, and he can sense you’re likely a Damn Yankee.  So while you’re talking about the weather and current events, the man is only just as polite enough as custom demands.
    There’s only so much you know to chat about.  Soon you’ll have to say your farewells.  Just before you do, you ask the man if he knows of a woman named Zecora.  The change on his face indicates that he may just.
    “You got your wife with you, or something?” he asks.  “She birthing a baby?  Need a midwife?”
    “No, nothing like that.  I’m traveling alone,” you say.
    “Oh,” he says.  “Well then what you want with that nigger-woman anyway?”
    “I... well now that’s my own business.”
    “Huh,” he grumbles.  “Huh.  Well that nigger-woman sure won’t be coming into my store any time soon.  Now unless you’re planning on buying something else, you haven’t got much business being in my store either.”  Then he draws himself up as big as he can.  This sort of fellow doesn’t likely kick customers out of his store very often.  In fact, this might just be the rudest he’s ever been to another white man in his entire life.
    There’s no sense in antagonizing him any further.  You tip your hat graciously, and step out of his establishment, into the oppressive Southern sun.  Your heart leaps into your throat.  Oh, putting up with that bastard was worth it.  She’s here!  She’s really here!  Now all you have to do is find her.
    You stroll down the street, trying not to jump into the air and click your heels together with joy, and try looking for somebody else to talk to.  Then you notice the town changes.  You’ve wandered into the negro side of town.  All the people here seem to have divided the town into two separate neighborhoods.  Odd, you didn’t think that was possible in a town so small, but they’ve managed it.
    You meet a couple of people over here.  They’re friendlier than the last guy, much friendlier.  They don’t have the same hero worship of the slaves you freed when you marched to the sea with Sherman, but they’re more than happy to talk to you.  Yes, they say, yes they know Zecora.  First thing they ask you is if you have a wife that needs help birthing.  No, you laugh, no.  She’s a friend of yours, and you’ve heard she lives around here, so you’ve come looking for her.  You’ve got no problem telling them that, and they’ve got no problem hearing it.
    She lives near the town, they tell you, but not in it.  She lives out in the bayou, way out by herself.  They’re not sure where, exactly, they’ve never been there.  It seems she doesn’t like the town much.  She only comes to town every few days.  So there’s not much for you to do but wait, and hope she comes in soon.  They can’t recall having seen her in a few days, so she might just be due for a visit.
    You noticed there was a big flat stump on the corner of the little yard in front of one of their houses.  It’d provide a good view for you to watch a large portion of the town, waiting for Zecora to come in.  You ask them if they’d mind if you sat there on that stump for a spell.  They won’t have it.  Instead, they invite you in for lunch.  They won’t take no for an answer.  All they have is rice and beans, but it’s more than you need, and you don’t want to be rude.  They ask how you know Zecora.  When you tell them of your time in the hospital, they want to know all about your service in the war.
    The memories are still a sore issue for you.  Instead of telling them the truth, you tell them the stories that people want to hear.  There are all sorts of anecdotes that all veterans know.  Exciting ones, sad ones, funny ones.  They’re just yarns, though.  You can’t go around telling people what war is really like.  That wouldn’t be right.  So you tell them the story about the rabbit.  The little one that goes leaping out of the bushes just before the big battle, races in front of all the ranks of soldiers, then off into the distance away from the battle.  The old soldier next to you, you tell them, shouted after it.  “Run, little rabbit!  Run!  If I was a rabbit, I’d run too!”  They like that story.  All the civilians like that story.  It must have been told a billion different times by a million different soldiers.
    After the hottest hours of midday pass, the negroes all leave to go back to work in the fields.  Turns out they’re working the same fields they used to work when they were slaves.  Only now the work they do pays for the rent to stay in their little wooden shacks.  And technically they could leave their jobs if they really wanted, and go somewhere else.  So you suppose it’s not as bad as the slavery they left behind.  If you want to get technical about it.
    It’s fine with them, though, if you want to sit on that stump and wait.  You really do.  Sitting there, you try to think of what you’re going to say when you finally meet her again.  You hope she remember you.  You hope you don’t embarrass yourself.  It’s tough to concentrate, because you keep thinking back to those late night hours when she hovered over your bed in the hospital.
    You suppose it’s late afternoon, and the town is dead quiet, and you hear somebody approach.  It’s not Zecora.  It’s a man, on horseback.  White man.  Nice looking horse, if a bit spirited.  Expensive looking saddle.  He stops short, right in front of your stump.  You tip your hat up to him, friendly like, at least more friendly than him.
    “What’s your name, boy?” he asks down at you, in a rough manner.
    You tell him your name.
    “You a soldier?” he asks.
    “No sir,” you tell him.  “I used to be.  Not no more now, though.  I’ve been discharged.  Same as everybody else.  No more fighting for me, and I’m glad for it.”
    “Where’d you fight at?” he demands to know.
    “Oh, here and there,” you say.  “Mostly in the west.  How about you?  You got a soldierly look yourself.”
    The horse neighs, and chooses that particular moment to spin around in a couple of circles.  The man manages to keep it under control with some effort.  It looks like he’s spent a lot of time in the saddle.  Probably rich gentry type, a local plantation owner.  That would have made him an officer, assuming he fought in the war.  There aren’t many men his age from the South who didn’t, except for draft dodgers.  He’s young.  Probably would have been a colonel, though there’s no way to know for sure without asking.  Plenty of men in their twenties made full general.  Might have even been a cavalry officer.  That horse, though, didn’t serve in any cavalry, neither did the fine saddle.
    “You know what a sundown town is, boy?” he asks, once the horse has settled down.
    You take a little time in answering this one.  Your eyes fall down to the holster near his saddle.  He’s armed with a carbine.  It’s in easy reach.  He could draw that in a second.  That’s a lot faster than it would take for you to get to your rifle, rolled up in your blanket and strapped to your pack behind the stump.  If this man wants to kill you, there’s nothing you can do to stop him.
    “Yes, sir,” you say.  “I know what that means.”
    “What it means is,” he’s going to explain it to you anyway. “No niggers in town after sundown.  They best be in their homes by the time it gets dark.  If they’re seen in the street, they gonna get strung up.  Or shot if they try to run.  That simple enough for you?  That goes for your nigger.  And I declare it’s going to go for you too if you decide to stick around.  You understand that, boy?”
    “Yes, sir,” you say, showing neither sign of fear, nor defiance.
    With that, he reels his horse around, and takes off at a gallop.  You’re not sure why he needs to gallop; to show off you suppose.  You’ve met a few men like him in your time.
    The sun starts its slow descent.  You can’t look at it, but you’re aware of it at all times.  It’s like a big clock, slowly winding down.  If Zecora doesn’t come in before it hits the horizon, that’s it.
    All too soon, and it’s just about there.  The negroes start coming home again from their fields.  They’re walking fast, in a hurry to be home before dark.  They’re not as chatty as they were before.  One of them, though, stops to talk to you.  “That Colonel Morgan didn’t bother you none, did he?” he asks.  “I saw the shop keeper talking to him, and I’d guess it was about you.”
    “Colonel Morgan?  That the bastard with the fancy horse and saddle?”
    The man’s eyes grow huge, and he looks around to see if the Colonel might have overheard.  Then he bursts out laughing.  He laughs so long and hard, you can’t help but start to laugh yourself.  “That’s him!  That’s him!  Don’t let him hear you call him that, though, or there won’t be no end of trouble.”
    “Yeah, well, trouble might come anyway,” you say.  “He says I’ve gotta be out of here by sundown.”
    The man’s smile drops fast, and he turns pale.  It’s such a fast reaction, you can’t help but get goosebumps.  “Did he now?  Well that’s no joke.  You gotta get out of here, sir.  If he told you directly to leave, then you need to leave, post haste.  The man’s got all the Home Guard in the parish with him.  He didn’t do nothing but sit around in the war, but now that it’s over he’s talking ‘bout fighting it all over again.  I’m sorry, but you can’t be waiting around here no more.  You gotta get!”  He tilts his ratty straw hat, then departs in a hurry.
    The sun’s just about to touch the trees now.  You suppose it really is time to go.  You stand up, stretching your knees and sore back.  Then you bend down and heft up your pack.  You never much cared for the climate of the South, but right now that it’s cooling off, things aren’t too bad.  There’s sort of a pleasant, dusky glow to the sky.  The lightning bugs are starting to come out.  You think about Zecora as you walk through town.  She seems to have worked out a life of her own, here in Chevalsboro.  She’s probably quite content.  It’s not a bad place to be, compared to others.  You think it was probably wrong of you to come here, there’s no reason you should have bugged her.  She wouldn’t remember you anyway, just like that nurse.  This whole thing was a big misadventure.  You’re feeling pretty stupid.
    You take one last look down the main street of Chevalsboro.  It’s starting to get dark now, and it’s almost completely silent; no doubt the town won’t wake up again until the morning.  There’s somebody stepping out of a house.  Now she’s walking across the street.  She.  It’s a woman.  It’s tough to make her out in the gloom.  She’s tall.  And negro.  It can’t be.  She stops in her tracks, right in the middle of the street.  You didn’t call out, she simply stopped.
    Then she turns and looks in your direction.  She’s looking straight at you.  She’s got bright, white eyes.  You recognize those eyes, those white eyes looking at you.  It’s her.
    Nothing happens.  She sees you.  You see her.  Then, in a flash, she crosses the street and disappears behind a house.
    You start to breathe again.  You only realize it now, but you were holding your breath the whole time.  She’s here.  She recognized you.  She recognized you, and fled.  No, not fled.  She didn’t finish crossing the street the way she had been going, she went back to the side where she came from.  Of course she did.  She doesn’t dare talk to you in the middle of the street, where anybody can see the two of you.
    She disappeared behind the house so she wouldn’t be seen, so the two of you wouldn’t be seen.  Now your heart’s racing.  You yourself dash back into that little narrow alley behind the houses, general store, post office, and other little buildings.  It’s cluttered with little trees, rain barrels, poorly built back fences, chicken coops, and the like.
   You’re dodging them right and left, trying to make your way.  Up ahead, you can catch glimpses of her, coming your way.  You wouldn’t be able to stop your feet if you tried.  It’s like you’re being drawn forward magnetically.
    Zecora stops short, behind the back wall of the post office.  Her chest is heaving, as if she’s lost her breath.  You stop too, all of your doubts hitting you all at once, just as much as all of your hopes.  Zecora looks you up and down.  You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.  All this time, you never thought of what you were going to say to her.  Zecora looks as if she’s about to cry.  Then, instead, her lips part into a smile, that beautiful, white, angelic smile that’s haunted your dreams ever since your fever.
    You move forward, without having said a word.  She does the same.  You both reach your arms around each other.  It all happens so fast it’s a blur, but the next thing you know, you’ve got her pressed up against that wall, your lips locked with hers.  Two years its been, since your last, fleeting, unexpected kiss.  Two years, but it’s so sweet it was worth the wait.  You feel her hands against your back, they’re clutching you so hard, it’s like she never wants to let you go again.  You feel her breasts against your chest.  They’re soft, warm, and sticky with sweat.  Her nipples feel hard with excitement.
    Your kiss breaks, and you both gasp for breath.  “I thought about you every single day,” she tells you, a split second before you were going to tell her the same thing.  Before you can tell her, she kisses you again.
    Your tongues slide into each others' mouths. Her mouth is so warm and wet and playful.  It’s better than it ever was in your dreams.  Your kiss breaks once more.
    “I dreamed about you always,” Zecora says, before kissing you again.  Again, you never had the chance to tell her the same thing.
    The kiss breaks.  “I was afraid you had forgotten me.”
    The kiss breaks.  “I was afraid you had found somebody else.”
    The kiss breaks.  “I wanted to find you, but I didn’t know where you were.”
    As your tongues press against each other.  Everything she tells you, everything she’s felt, those were things that you felt too.  Every time she tells you what you’ve felt, your heart breaks, then refills – overfills – with the love you’ve always had for her.
    Your kiss now breaks, and you can barely see each other in front of your faces.  It’s gotten so dark.  She rests her head back against the wall.  With her hand on your neck, she pulls you so that your forehead is pressed against hers.  Your mouths are wide open, and you’re both panting for breath.
    “We can’t stay here,” she says.  “They’ll kill us.  You wait here.  For awhile.  Then go back down the pike, the way you came to Chevalsboro.”  You’re confused for a moment, then it becomes clear.  “Go until you see the mile post,” she goes on.  “The one with the strange blue paint.  Then turn and head west.  Straight into the bayou.  The ground is high, and dry this time of year.  Go until you cannot walk any more.  You will be at the foot of a great black tree that has no business in those woods.  Then turn to the north.  Between the trees you will find the path.  There is only one way.  You won’t become lost.  Do not fall in the water.  There are creatures in the water.  Then you will see me again.”
    She kisses you again, closed-mouthed.  It’s affectionate; it’s as packed with long-held emotion, same as the other kisses, yet it’s a kiss goodbye.
    Then, like a ghost, she vanishes from your arms.  She’s gone.
    You’re alone again.  You’ve never felt happier to be alive.  It’s gotten so dark.