Kindred

by Octavia Butler

  There was talk in the clearing now, and I began to distinguish words over the distance and through the unfamiliar accents.

  “No pass,” said one of the riders. “He sneaked off.”

  “No, Master,” pleaded one of those from the cabin—clearly a black man speaking to whites. “I had a pass. I had …”

  One of the whites hit him in the face. Two others held him, and he sagged between them. More talk.

  “If you had a pass, where is it?”

  “Don’t know. Must have dropped it coming here.”

  They hustled the man to a tree so close to me that I lay flat on the ground, stiff with fear. With just a little bad luck, one of the whites would spot me, or, in the darkness, fail to spot me and step on me.

  The man was forced to hug the tree, and his hands were tied to prevent him from letting go. The man was naked, apparently dragged from bed. I looked at the woman who still stood back beside the cabin and saw that she had managed to wrap herself in something. A blanket, perhaps. As I noticed it, one of the whites tore it from her. She said something in a voice so soft that all I caught was her tone of protest.

  “Shut your mouth!” said the man who had taken her blanket. He threw it on the ground. “Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?”

  One of the other men joined in. “What do you think you’ve got that we haven’t seen before?”

  There was raucous laughter.

  “Seen more and better,” someone else added.

  There were obscenities, more laughter.

  By now, the man had been securely tied to the tree. One of the whites went to his horse to get what proved to be a whip. He cracked it once in the air, apparently for his own amusement, then brought it down across the back of the black man. The man’s body convulsed, but the only sound he made was a gasp. He took several more blows with no outcry, but I could hear his breathing, hard and quick.

  Behind him, his child wept noisily against her mother’s leg, but the woman, like her husband, was silent. She clutched the child to her and stood, head down, refusing to watch the beating.

  Then the man’s resolve broke. He began to moan—low gut-wrenching sounds torn from him against his will. Finally, he began to scream.

  I could literally smell his sweat, hear every ragged breath, every cry, every cut of the whip. I could see his body jerking, convulsing, straining against the rope as his screaming went on and on. My stomach heaved, and I had to force myself to stay where I was and keep quiet. Why didn’t they stop!

  “Please, Master,” the man begged. “For Godsake, Master, please …”

  I shut my eyes and tensed my muscles against an urge to vomit.

  I had seen people beaten on television and in the movies. I had seen the too-red blood substitute streaked across their backs and heard their well-rehearsed screams. But I hadn’t lain nearby and smelled their sweat or heard them pleading and praying, shamed before their families and themselves. I was probably less prepared for the reality than the child crying not far from me. In fact, she and I were reacting very much alike. My face too was wet with tears. And my mind was darting from one thought to another, trying to tune out the whipping. At one point, this last cowardice even brought me something useful. A name for whites who rode through the night in the ante bellum South, breaking in doors and beating and otherwise torturing black people.

  Patrols. Groups of young whites who ostensibly maintained order among the slaves. Patrols. Forerunners of the Ku Klux Klan.

  The man’s screaming stopped.

  After a moment, I looked up and saw that the patrollers were untying him. He continued to lean against the tree even when the rope was off him until one of the patrollers pulled him around and tied his hands in front of him. Then, still holding the other end of the rope, the patroller mounted his horse and rode away half-dragging his captive bebind him. The rest of the patrol mounted and followed except for one who was having some kind of low-voiced discussion with the woman. Evidently, the discussion didn’t go the way the man wanted because before he rode after the others, he punched the woman in the face exactly as her husband had been punched earlier. The woman collapsed to the ground. The patroller rode away and left her there.

  The patrol and its stumbling captive headed back to the road, slanting off toward the Weylin house. If they had gone back exactly the way they came, they would have either gone over me or driven me from my cover. I was lucky—and stupid for having gotten so close. I wondered whether the captive black man belonged to Tom Weylin. That might explain Rufus’s friendship with the child, Alice. That is, if this child was Alice. If this was the right cabin. Whether it was or not, though, the woman, unconscious and abandoned, was in need of help. I got up and went over to her.

  The child, who had been kneeling beside her, jumped up to run away.

  “Alice!” I called softly.

  She stopped, peered at me through the darkness. She was Alice, then. These people were my relatives, my ancestors. And this place could be my refuge.

  4

  “I’m a friend, Alice,” I said as I knelt and turned the unconscious woman’s head to a more comfortable-looking position. Alice watched me uncertainly, then spoke in a small whispery voice.

  “She dead?”

  I looked up. The child was younger than Rufus—dark and slender and small. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and sniffed.

  “No, she’s not dead. Is there water in the house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go get me some.”

  She ran into the cabin and returned a few seconds later with a gourd dipper of water. I wet the mother’s face a little, washed blood from around her nose and mouth. From what I could see of her, she seemed to be about my age, slender like her child, like me, in fact. And like me, she was fine-boned, probably not as strong as she needed to be to survive in this era. But she was surviving, however painfully. Maybe she would help me learn how.

  She regained consciousness slowly, first moaning, then crying out, “Alice! Alice!”

  “Mama?” said the child tentatively.

  The woman’s eyes opened wider, and she stared at me. “Who are you?”

  “A friend. I came here to ask for help, but right now, I’d rather give it. When you feel able to get up, I’ll help you inside.”

  “I said who are you!” Her voice had hardened.

  “My name is Dana. I’m a freewoman.”

  I was on my knees beside her now, and I saw her look at my blouse, my pants, my shoes—which for unpacking and working around the house happened to be an old pair of desert boots. She took a good look at me, then judged me.

  “A runaway, you mean.”

  “That’s what the patrollers would say because I have no papers. But I’m free, born free, intending to stay free.”

  “You’ll get me in trouble!”

  “Not tonight. You’ve already had your trouble for tonight.” I hesitated, bit my lip, then said softly, “Please don’t turn me away.”

  The woman said nothing for several seconds. I saw her glance over at her daughter, then touch her own face and wipe away blood from the corner of her mouth. “Wasn’t going to turn you ’way,” she said softly.

  “Thank you.”

  I helped her up and into the cabin. Refuge then. A few hours of peace. Perhaps tomorrow night, I could go on behaving like the runaway this woman thought I was. Perhaps from her, I could learn the quickest, safest way North.

  The cabin was dark except for a dying fire in the fireplace, but the woman made her way to her bed without trouble.

  “Alice!” she called out.

  “Here I am, Mama.”

  “Put a log on the fire.”

  I watched the child obey, her long gown hanging dangerously near hot coals. Rufus’s friend was at least as careless with fire as he was.

  Rufus. His name brought back all my fear and confusion and longing to go home. Would I really have to go all the way to some northern state to find peace? And if I did, what kind
of peace would it be? The restricted North was better for blacks than the slave South, but not much better.

  “Why did you come here?” the woman asked. “Who sent you?”

  I stared into the fire frowning. I could hear her moving around behind me, probably putting on clothing. “The boy,” I said softly. “Rufus Weylin.”

  The small noises stopped. There was silence for a moment. I knew I had taken a risk telling her about Rufus. Probably a foolish risk. I wondered why I had done it. “No one knows about me but him,” I continued.

  The fire began to flare up around Alice’s small log. The log cracked and sputtered and filled the silence until Alice said, “Mister Rufe won’t tell.” She shrugged. “He never tells nothing.”

  And there in her words was a reason for the risk I had taken. I hadn’t thought of it until now, but if Rufus was one to tell what he shouldn’t, Alice’s mother should know so that she could either hide me or send me away. I waited to see what she would say.

  “You sure the father didn’t see you?” she asked. And that had to mean that she agreed with Alice, that Rufus was all right. Tom Weylin had probably marked his son more than he knew with that whip.

  “Would I be here if the father had seen me?” I asked.

  “Guess not.”

  I turned to look at her. She wore a gown now, long and white like her daughter’s. She sat on the edge of her bed watching me. There was a table near me made of thick smooth planks, and a bench made from a section of split log. I sat down on the bench. “Does Tom Weylin own your husband?” I asked.

  She nodded sadly. “You saw?”

  “Yes.”

  “He shouldn’t have come. I told him not to.”

  “Did he really have a pass?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “No. He won’t get one either. Not to come see me. Mister Tom said for him to choose a new wife there on the plantation. That way, Mister Tom’ll own all his children.”

  I looked at Alice. The woman followed my gaze. “He’ll never own a child of mine,” she said flatly.

  I wondered. They seemed so vulnerable here. I doubted that this was their first visit from the patrol, or their last. In a place like this, how could the woman be sure of anything. And then there was history. Rufus and Alice would get together somehow.

  “Where are you from?” asked the woman suddenly. “The way you talk, you not from ’round here.”

  The new subject caught me by surprise and I almost said Los Angeles. “New York,” I lied quietly. In 1815, California was nothing more than a distant Spanish colony—a colony this woman had probably never heard of.

  “That’s a long way off,” said the woman.

  “My husband is there.” Where had that lie come from? And I had said it with all the longing I felt for Kevin who was now too far away for me to reach through any effort of my own.

  The woman came over and stood staring down at me. She looked tall and straight and grim and years older.

  “They carried you off?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Maybe in a way I had been kidnapped.

  “You sure they didn’t get him too?”

  “Just me. I’m sure.”

  “And now you’re going back.”

  “Yes!” fiercely, hopefully. “Yes!” Lie and truth had merged.

  There was silence. The woman looked at her daughter, then back at me. “You stay here until tomorrow night,” she said. “Then there’s another place you can head for. They’ll let you have some food and … oh!” She looked contrite. “You must be hungry now. I’ll get you some—”

  “No, I’m not hungry. Just tired.”

  “Get into bed then. Alice, you too. There’s room for all of us there … now.” She went to the child and began brushing off some of the dirt Alice had brought in from outside. I saw her close her eyes for a moment, then glance at the door. “Dana … you said your name was Dana?”

  “Yes.”

  “I forgot the blanket,” she said. “I left it outside when … I left it outside.”

  “I’ll get it,” I said. I went to the door and looked outside. The blanket lay where the patroller had thrown it—on the ground not far from the house. I went over to pick it up, but just as I reached it, someone grabbed me and swung me around. Suddenly, I was facing a young white man, broad-faced, dark-haired, stocky, and about half-a-foot taller than I was.

  “What in hell …?” he sputtered. “You … you’re not the one.” He peered at me as though he wasn’t sure. Apparently, I looked enough like Alice’s mother to confuse him—briefly. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  What to do? He held me easily, barely noticing my efforts to pull away. “I live here,” I lied. “What are you doing here?” I thought he’d be more likely to believe me if I sounded indignant.

  Instead, he slapped me stunningly with one hand while he held me with the other. He spoke very softly. “You got no manners, nigger, I’ll teach you some!”

  I said nothing. My ears still rang from his blow, but I heard him say, “You could be her sister, her twin sister, almost.”

  That seemed to be a good thing for him to think, so I kept silent. Silence seemed safest anyway.

  “Her sister dressed up like a boy!” He began to smile. “Her runaway sister. I wonder what you’re worth.”

  I panicked. Having him catch and hold me was bad enough. Now he meant to turn me in as a runaway … I dug the nails of my free hand into his arm and tore the flesh from elbow to wrist.

  Surprise and pain made the man loosen his grip on me slightly, and I wrenched away.

  I heard him yell, heard him start after me.

  I ran mindlessly toward the cabin door only to find Alice’s mother there barring my way.

  “Don’t come in here,” she whispered. “Please don’t come in here.”

  I had no chance to go in. The man caught me, pulled me backward, threw me to the ground. He would have kicked me, but I rolled aside and jumped to my feet. Terror gave me speed and agility I never knew I had.

  Again I ran, this time for the trees. I didn’t know where I was going, but the sounds of the man behind me sent me zigzagging on. Now I longed for darker denser woods that I could lose myself in.

  The man tackled me and brought me down hard. At first, I lay stunned, unable to move or defend myself even when he began hitting me, punching me with his fists. I had never been beaten that way before—would never have thought I could absorb so much punishment without losing consciousness.

  When I tried to scramble away, he pulled me back. When I tried to push him away, he hardly seemed to notice. At one point, I did get his attention though. He had leaned down close to me, pinning me flat on my back. I raised my hands to his face, my fingers partly covering his eyes. In that instant, I knew I could stop him, cripple him, in this primitive age, destroy him.

  His eyes.

  I had only to move my fingers a little and jab them into the soft tissues, gouge away his sight and give him more agony than he was giving me.

  But I couldn’t do it. The thought sickened me, froze my hands where they were. I had to do it! But I couldn’t …

  The man knocked my hands from his face and moved back from me—and I cursed myself for my utter stupidity. My chance was gone, and I’d done nothing. My squeamishness belonged in another age, but I’d brought it along with me. Now I would be sold into slavery because I didn’t have the stomach to defend myself in the most effective way. Slavery! And there was a more immediate threat.

  The man had stopped beating me. Now he simply kept a tight hold on me and looked at me. I could see that I had left a few scratches on his face. Shallow insignificant scratches. The man rubbed his hand across them, looked at the blood, then looked at me.

  “You know you’re going to pay for that, don’t you?” he said.

  I said nothing. Stupidity was what I would pay for, if anything.

  “I guess you’ll do as well as your sister,” he said. “I came back for her, bu
t you’re just like her.”

  That told me who he probably was. One of the patrollers—the one who had hit Alice’s mother, probably. He reached out and ripped my blouse open. Buttons flew everywhere, but I didn’t move. I understood what the man was going to do. He was going to display some stupidity of his own. He was going to give me another chance to destroy him. I was almost relieved.

  He tore loose my bra and I prepared to move. Just one quick lunge. Then suddenly, for no reason that I could see, he reared above me, fist drawn back to hit me again. I jerked my head aside, hit it on something hard just as his fist glanced off my jaw.

  The new pain shattered my resolve, sent me scrambling away again. I was only able to move a few inches before he pinned me down, but that was far enough for me to discover that the thing I had hit my head on was a heavy stick—a tree limb, perhaps. I grasped it with both hands and brought it down as hard as I could on his head.

  He collapsed across my body.

  I lay still, panting, trying to find the strength to get up and run. The man had a horse around somewhere. If I could find it …

  I dragged myself from beneath his heavy body and tried to stand up. Halfway up, I felt myself losing consciousness, falling back. I caught hold of a tree and willed myself to stay conscious. If the man came to and found me nearby, he would kill me. He would surely kill me! But I couldn’t keep my hold on the tree. I fell, slowly it seemed, into a deep starless darkness.

  5

  Pain dragged me back to consciousness. At first, it was all I was aware of; every part of my body hurt. Then I saw a blurred face above me—the face of a man—and I panicked.