Zeely

by Virginia Hamilton

  “You were like me?” Geeder said. “Were you just like me?”

  Zeely smiled. “I mean that because you found this picture, you were able to make up a good story about me. I once made up a story about myself, too.”

  “Miss Zeely!” Geeder said. “I wouldn’t have told a soul if I hadn’t found that picture. The picture is proof!”

  Carefully, Zeely ran her long fingers over her robe. “My mother’s people were Watutsi people out of Africa a long time ago,” she said quietly.

  “Just like the lady in the picture!” Geeder said.

  “Yes,” said Zeely, “and I believed that through my veins ran the blood of kings and queens! So it was that my mother came to make this robe for me,” Zeely said. “I had asked her many questions about her people—I talked of nothing else for quite a while. She made this robe exactly like the ones they wore.” Then she added, “I put it on today because wearing it, I can be more the way I was. You may touch it, if you like.”

  And very gently, Geeder touched it.

  “It’s just the most pretty thing,” Geeder whispered, “it’s the most pretty dress in the world!”

  Zeely laughed. It was a quick, dry sound. Ever so slowly, the pleasure faded from her. A sadness came over her. Geeder sensed Zeely moving away to a place within herself.

  “When I was your age,” Zeely said, “my mother died.”

  “Oh!” Geeder said, “I’m awfully sorry, Miss Zeely.”

  Zeely didn’t say anything for a time. Then, she began again. “I was tall,” she said. “The children laughed at my skinny arms and my long legs. I wore my robe all the time, for I thought it beautiful and I wanted the children to believe about me what you have come to believe.”

  “But you are a Watutsi,” Geeder said.

  “Yes,” said Zeely, “but wait . . .”

  “You just said you came from Africa,” Geeder said.

  “Wait!” Zeely said. “We all came out of Africa—what of it?”

  Geeder was quiet. She wasn’t sure what was happening and she wished, suddenly, for Toeboy.

  “I remember,” Zeely began, “some time before my mother died, I wore my robe every day. My mother didn’t like that. She would say, ‘Zeely, you must wear clothes like other children, you must play and be like other children!’ I would say, ‘No, mama. No!’ and one day she sat me down and told me a story.”

  “A story?” Geeder said.

  “Yes,” said Zeely. “One day, when my mother was very sick, she called me to her. She had this story to tell me. I remember she cautioned me to listen closely and I knew by the look in her eye that this was to be the tale I had always hoped for.”

  Zeely looked long and hard at Geeder. “It’s an ancient tale, like these old trees around us. It means everything to me. Will you listen?”

  Geeder said, “Yes, Miss Zeely, I will listen.” She didn’t understand all that Zeely had said. But she listened now, and waited, content for the time with the simple rise and fall of Zeely’s soft voice.

  14

  ZEELY TAYBER TOLD her story. Geeder listened, hardly breathing for fear she would miss some of it. Never had she heard such a tale. It was about the beginning of the world and it told of a young woman who waited for a message to come. The message would tell her who she was and what she was to do.

  “In the beginning,” Zeely said, “there were only a handful of people in each corner of the world. The Voice High Above had commanded them to wait for a message that would tell them their station in life. They were to sing while they waited so they could be found more easily. The Voice High Above had sent many couriers with messages. For each person, there were three couriers. The couriers for the young woman of my story were a gecko lizard, a coypu rodent from South America and a man whom The Voice High Above had not yet given a language to speak.

  “The three couriers set out at once with their messages for the young woman,” said Zeely. “The tiny gecko lizard’s name was Ecko. He was nocturnal and travelled only at night. He had to sleep and hide from the light during the day, and he didn’t make good time the first week of the search. The going became even harder for him when he left his country of Malaya. The climate changed too quickly for him to adjust to it. So it was that far from his home he died. His message for the young woman was buried forever beneath heavy snow.”

  “Miss Zeely, that’s so sad!” Geeder said. “He should of known he couldn’t make it!”

  Zeely smiled but said no more about the gecko. She shifted her position so as to sit more comfortably and then continued her story.

  “The coypu lived all his life in water,” Zeely said. “His name was Coy and he did well the first week of the search. He swam through familiar rivers and lakes, stopping off to dine with relatives along his way. He was sure he would deliver his message in fine time.

  “When Coy reached the edge of his continent, he swam swiftly to the Atlantic Ocean and began the hard part of his journey.”

  Geeder leaned forward, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She sensed by the change in Zeely’s voice that something serious was about to happen.

  “Coy headed south,” said Zeely, “and used winds and currents for faster travel. But unknown to him, he was trapped in the powerful Brazil Current. He drifted northward and swam many days in chilly waters. One awful night, he was tossed about in the cold current of the Gibraltar Strait. He grew sick and feverish and was forced to seek shelter on the Rock of Gibraltar. After a short illness, he died from exposure. His message blew away with the wind,” Zeely said, “never to be found.” She lifted her hands above her head, held them there a second or two and then let them fall heavily into her lap.

  Geeder understood the meaning of Zeely’s hands in the empty air. She was silent, thinking of the poor coypu. It was a long time before Zeely resumed her story. When she did, the tone of her voice was full of suspense.

  “We come now to the last courier,” Zeely said. “He was the man and he had no name, for The Voice High Above had given him no name as yet, as He had given names to the animal men.”

  “What are animal men?” asked Geeder.

  “Why, they are men the same as human men, except they are animals,” said Zeely. Then she continued with her story.

  “The man was confused by the time he completed the first week of travel. He couldn’t find anyone to ask directions of. He had no language and could not talk to the animal beings, who spoke many tongues. Still, he travelled on, trying to somehow find his way.

  “He was a man almost eight feet tall. Think of it!” Zeely said to Geeder. “He was that tall and he didn’t know his height was unusual. There were no other people around to tell him. He was thin of limb, with skin as black as the darkest tree bark. Oh, he made a striking figure against the ice and snow!”

  Zeely rocked from side to side as she said this, and Geeder could almost see the man walking in that cold place, a man black as night and tall as trees.

  “The cold chilled the man to the bone,” Zeely said.

  “Cold wind whipped at him, causing him to feel much pain. He was lonely, travelling so far by himself. It wasn’t long before he realized that the country in which he found himself was not his own.

  “One day, the man came upon an animal which had fallen on the sharp end of a broken sapling and died. The man tenderly took it in his arms and buried it beneath the snow. After this happened, there grew in his mind a picture of a long, wood shaft with a sharp point. At once, he set about making the shaft and fixed a sharp stone to its tip with strips of sapling bark. With the shaft, he could scrape a hole through the ice on any water he came upon and spear the fish beneath. This was how he was able to eat and survive. Then, many pictures grew in the man’s mind. He began stalking a huge, white animal he had seen. The animal was a bear and he had seen it following him. He had no fear of it, for he had no way of knowing it was hungry and a danger to him.

  “As you see,” Zeely said, “the man learned quickly. He took to hunting as though he
had done such work all his life. He tricked the bear into falling down a deep trap he had dug. At the bottom of the trap were sharp poles which killed the bear when he fell on them.

  “From the bear’s fur, the man made a long cloak and warm shoes. He felt comfortable, then, and could travel more quickly. Many more cold weeks and months passed before he reached a place we know as Labrador. In front of him lay a mighty body of water. He was about to turn back—he knew nothing of swimming—when he heard a sweet, pure voice on a wind that was not cold.”

  “It’s the girl!” Geeder said. “It’s the girl he was supposed to find!”

  “It was the young woman,” said Zeely, “and the man recognized the wind as the wind of his homeland. He couldn’t understand the voice because he had no language, but the wind was fresh with the scent of hills and grass.

  “The man built a boat with sails made from the hides of animals,” Zeely said. “He set out on the water, sailing with the wind, which grew warmer, and with the voice, that now taught him language. Soon, he threw away his cloak and shoes but was careful not to lose the message he carried in a pouch around his neck.

  “One day,” Zeely said, “the wind left him. He drifted for months and months. He lived from fish of the water, birds of the air and sudden rains from the sky. Always, the voice was with him and always it told him not to be afraid.

  “Early one morning the man awoke to find that he was in sight of land. He shouted his happiness and the voice at his ear laughed with pleasure. The land he saw was the coast of a continent; he landed at its northernmost port. Here, he found many peoples, for couriers had already delivered their messages. Mankind had begun to multiply.

  “All kinds of people, seeing his great height, wondered if he were their king. They bowed to him and clung to him, begging him to lead them. He had no way of knowing what they spoke and turned sadly from them. He walked on and on until he came to a land oddly silent. There seemed to be no people anywhere, but something about the land felt comfortable. He stopped long enough to make himself a garment to wear, sandals for his feet and a staff to lean on. He walked many days in a wide valley and many nights through mountains. Often, he stood still and silent, looking down into this warm land he found so peaceful.

  “One day,” Zeely said, “the voice that was always with him seemed very close by. He looked down at his feet and on every side. At last, he looked up and there he found her, high above him on a green hill. Her figure against the deep blue sky was the most perfect image he had lived to see. Most pleasing of all to him was that she was as tall and dark as he.

  “After such a long journey, the man had to climb the hill with his last strength. When he reached the young woman, he fell to his knees, trembling in every limb.

  “ ‘Ho, traveller, welcome,’ she said, ‘I have waited years and years.’

  “ ‘Ho, sister,’ he answered slowly, for words didn’t form quickly in his mind, ‘I have travelled years and years and I have brought a message for you.’

  “The man stood up then, bowed deeply and sat down. The young woman bowed and kneeled at his feet.

  “ ‘You will please read the message,’ she said, and this he read:

  “Young woman, you are of this man. You shall wed him, keep his house and bear his sons. You will trek many moons before you find people like yourselves. When you find them, you will join them and be good subjects to your king and queen.”

  15

  GEEDER’S THOUGHTS HAD gone far, far away to the land of the courier and the young woman, to the green hill on which they first met and to the tribe of people they would have to search for. When Zeely stopped talking, Geeder sat waiting. Then, the clearing with its berry bushes came back to her in a rush of green and insect sound. She waited for Zeely to go on but Zeely did not.

  “Is that all?” Geeder asked. “That’s not the end of the story!”

  “That’s all,” Zeely said, “and it’s the truth as my mother told it to me.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Geeder said. “What’s the truth?”

  “My mother said she and I were descended from the girl the courier found.”

  Geeder sat quite still, with the photograph of the Watutsi woman on her lap. She had held her hand pressed against it when Zeely first began her tale. Now, she smoothed her fingers over the photograph. “Oh, Miss Zeely,” Geeder said, “I thought you were special even before I found the picture.” It was as if she spoke to herself and not to Zeely.

  Zeely stared at Geeder. “I asked you to come here because I wanted to tell you the tale my mother told,” she said. “It means everything but you don’t seem to care about it.”

  “Well, it really is a nice story,” said Geeder. “I mean, I like it so much, with all that snow and that man and the girl.” She clutched the photograph with both hands and then thrust it away to the ground. “But it’s only a story. I came here today because . . . because you wanted me to! You wanted me to come to be with you, Miss Zeely!”

  Zeely’s eyes widened suddenly. Her long fingers covered her mouth in surprise. “Ahhh, now I see!” she said. “I did not realize that was why you came.”

  “You are the most different person I’ve ever met,” Geeder said.

  Zeely laughed softly. She drew her long legs up under her chin and folded her arms around them. In this way, she rocked slowly from side to side. Her eyes closed and there was a smile upon her lips.

  Geeder watched her. All the time that Zeely had told her tale, she had sat stiff and tall in her long robe. Her shoulders had stood out sharply; her face had been all angles. Now, her features seemed to soften and flow into the deep shadows the trees made. Her hands and forearms were hidden in the long grass around her legs. Geeder looked at Zeely’s black, black hair, dark as night, and it became a part of the darkening leaves above her head.

  Geeder said, “It’s you that comes down the road way late at night, isn’t it, Miss Zeely?” She spoke into Zeely’s ear.

  Zeely nodded her head but did not open her eyes. “I come to look after my pigs,” she said.

  “And you carry a feed pail,” said Geeder. “The moon going down slants onto it and it looks like it floats in the air. The moon is behind your back and so you don’t have a face. It looks just like you don’t have a head or any arms and you glide right above the ground.”

  “So,” Zeely said, “you have seen me? I have seen you.”

  “You go by the house just before dawn,” Geeder said. “You come early in the morning, anyhow. Why must you come so way late at night?”

  “And why must you sleep there in the grass,” Zeely asked, “so way late at night?”

  “I like the stars,” Geeder said, “and the moonshine.”

  “I like the night,” said Zeely. She opened her eyes and stretched out her legs. Her shoulders drooped forward and her head fell back, slightly, as she studied the trees.

  “Where I came from,” Zeely said, “Canada, there was a lake.

  “Oh, it was not a large lake,” she said. “You could swim it, going slowly, in about fifteen minutes. I have done that. I have swum it when there was no moon or stars to light my way. Do you know what it is like to swim at night?”

  “No,” Geeder said, “I don’t swim well, yet.”

  Zeely smiled, her eyes still in the trees. “It is like no other where,” she said. “It is being in something that is all movement, that you cannot see, and it ceases to be wet. You must be very calm or you will not find your way out of it.”

  “Is that why you like the night?” asked Geeder.

  “You see,” Zeely said, looking at Geeder now, “the children wouldn’t often swim in that lake, even in the daytime. A tiny old woman lived beside it. She wore a big bow in her hair that was very dirty. On top of the bow she wore a man’s straw hat. She walked, bent forward, with a big cane for support. Often, she cackled to herself and pointed her cane at things. The children were afraid of her but I was not. Sometimes, I’d be swimming in the lake in the daytime, and s
he’d come upon me. ‘Zeely Tayber,’ she would call, ‘I see you!’ And I would call back to her, ‘And I see you!’ Then, she would call again. ‘One of these times, I’ll catch you!’ she would say, and she would cackle and point her cane at me.

  “Oh, no,” Zeely said, “I was not afraid of her like the others were. I thought of her as a friend, almost. Then . . .”

  “Then, what?” Geeder said.

  Zeely looked away from Geeder. Her eyes turned inward upon themselves as Geeder had seen them do before.

  “One night,” Zeely said, “I had finished swimming and was pulling on my clothes when I heard footsteps on the path. I heard a cackle and I knew who it was. All at once, fear took hold of me. I had not ever thought of that little woman walking around at night, you see. At that moment, I was terrified. Quickly, I gathered my clothes and stood between a bush and tree, well hidden, I thought. And there she came along the path.”

  “Oh,” said Geeder, softly. Her eyes were wide.

  “She did nothing for a moment,” Zeely said. “She stood there beside the lake looking at the dark water. Then, she looked around. She went up to a stone lying there beside her and touched it with her cane. It moved. It was a turtle and it scurried into the water.”

  “No!” said Geeder.

  “Oh, yes,” Zeely said. “And there was a fallen branch, twisted upon itself there, right next to the path. Vines grew over it. She poked one vine with her cane. It rippled. It was a snake and it slithered off into a bush near where I stood.”

  “No!” said Geeder.

  “I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Zeely said, “I was so amazed by what I had seen.”

  “You must have been just scared to death!” Geeder said.

  She leaned against Zeely now, looking up at her, and Zeely leaned against Geeder. Neither realized how close they had become, sitting there under the great trees.

  “I was scared,” Zeely said. “The woman kept cackling. Her back was turned to me. But I must have choked out loud on my fear, for suddenly she was silent. She spun around and stood there, facing the darkness where I was hidden.