Walk Through Darkness

by David Anthony Durham

  NINE A little after dark, William decided he had waited long enough. The hours and days, weeks and months that preceded this moment all assailed him. He was more full of doubts and questions and fears than he had ever been, even more so than on that night some months ago when he had first stolen away from his hut and fled Humboldt and Kent Island. He sat counting the minutes, knowing that he was not ready for this, but knowing also that one never could be ready for such moments. He could only step forward into it. If he was strong and God was willing, he might step through it and might one day be able to live the life of a normal man.

  He slung the sack that contained his few belongings over his shoulder, cast his eyes about the dark lair that he had come to know each corner of by heart, and then he cracked the door open and slipped out. The night expanded around him with a great rush, as if the sky and the stars and trees and all the animals and insects in them had been huddled just outside the door to the carriage house and had jumped back when he emerged. The whole world hung about him in this façade of distance and indifference, a great charade to trick him into believing that he went unwatched, to convince him that this night was not about him and him alone. He crouched just outside the door for a moment, listening to the chaos of chirps and whines and buzzing, trying to search through it all for some other noise, a voice, a snapped twig, the crackle of weight pressing down upon dry leaves. But there was nothing, nothing save a million insects shouting out their existence.

  He moved forward, tentatively at first, crouched over and sly, using the shadows beneath the trees, swishing through the tall grass at the very edge of the field. But the further he moved from his hideout, the bolder he became. He found that he did not really fear his own detection by some slave catcher. He could deal with that. He would run or yell out or fight as he had to. He would grapple with the man and strangle the life out of him, bash his head in on a rock, or stab his fingers into his eyes, drive them so hard and deep those orbs would pop beneath his thumbs. There were so many things he would do if confronted, and he almost hungered for the chance to have it out, to unleash these pent-up emotions in a barrage of physical acts. Perhaps something in the purgatory of the past months had nurtured in him a desire for bloodshed. At least in this he was equal to any man. At least his own hands were not ruled by a nation’s laws, by histories he had never been taught and grand notions he had never seen realized. Yes, he thought as he jogged forward, let there be blood, freedom or bloody death, but never again that life in between.

  He followed the winding road at times, cut forward through the trees at others. Before long he began to pass those great houses. And shortly after that he found himself on paved streets, smelt the coal and wood fires, heard the shouts of men and the clatter of hooves and carriages. He walked forward, amazed that he could so easily return into this cramped world of humanity. The first people he saw seemed like phantoms, apparitions that moved in the shadows, under hoods and hats, with eyes that never looked directly at him, but which always seemed to be following him. He tried to keep his head lowered, but he couldn’t help searching out each passerby, wanting to recognize friend or foe before they recognized him. A person coming out of an alleyway nearly collided with him. The man looked up, his white face startled at first, then scornful a second later. He showed William the length of his cane in threat, and then walked away muttering curses against all things black.

  It was not easy retracing the route he and Redford had taken up to the hideout. The man had quizzed him during their last discussion together, asking him to describe the route he would take and the landmarks he would pass, trying to ensure that William could find his way regardless of the weather or time of day or any other factor. He did his best to recall the landmarks: certain shapes in the roads and signs, a round chapel and an enormous house garishly painted. He took the back streets as far as he could, walking fast over the rough stones, through dimly lit alleys, trying to hold his course while still secreting himself away, as if he were stalking his route instead of following it. At one point he dropped down into a trench that moved him forward at a level just beneath the city, as if he were under its skin. He slopped forward through muck that he didn’t dare look upon, that he knew only by its texture under his feet and the smell of it in his nose. He stumbled through it and soiled his hands and found himself trembling and tried to take deep breaths but then rejected the air for its foulness and moved on.

  When he emerged from the trench he recognized nothing. The road he had been following had diverged some time ago. He was in an area of thoroughfares that thronged with people, with carriages and horses and railway cars. He pulled up facing a main street and clung to the shadows away from the gaslights. A block away the sky opened above a park of some sort, and in that park was a brass band playing a tune he vaguely recognized. Behind him, in the opposite direction, came some other form of music, the tinny sounds of cheap bells and the rhythmic clapping of hands. And added to this was the murmur of all those voices and the clopping of hooves and the grinding progress of iron over stone and a sound that was a chorus of laughter brought about by some street act that he could not see. This was not right. This was not the right area at all. He had never heard such a commotion before. Almost without thinking it out, he slipped back down into that trench and followed the winding course it led him on.

  He climbed out of it some time later, in a much quieter area. He began to roam without direction, taking turnings at random, on hunches but with no clear vision anymore. He felt like he had those first few days in the city, a tiny being lost in a maze of inhuman proportions. That creeping fear plagued him again, like on the first night as he ran from the hovel and crossed the Bay. It appeared behind him, dodging and hiding, just out of sight, but somewhere behind him, keeping time with him, laughing as he grew more and more disoriented. It was like a living thing, like some carnivorous animal. He heard its breathing, felt its warm tongue licking at his back, waiting for him to stumble and fall and give in. It was this, above all else now, that kept him moving forward.

  He didn’t recognize the alley until he was already half way down it. The realization sent a wave of exhilaration through him. He paused and placed a hand against the wall just next to him. He asked his heart to slow, to calm and return to him and not race away as it was doing. He walked forward, little stealth left in his posture, and finally he saw Redford’s apartment. There was no window on the back, and for a moment he thought of going around to the front to see if the lamp was on. But he didn’t.

  He approached the house slowly, one hand trailing along the rough stone and mortar of the opposite side of the alley. There were pedestrians at either end of the alley, but they moved by without so much as a sideways glance, framed for a second in attitudes of motion, then gone. The alley itself was dark and deserted, quiet enough that William could hear the rats scrounging through the garbage. He eased forward, reached out toward the gate of the tiny courtyard behind the apartment. It swung open before his fingers, and he carried the motion forward, easing to the staircase and up.

  His knuckles rapped on the door. He waited a few seconds, and then knocked again, a little more firmly this time. Still nothing. He placed his ear against the door and tried to listen through the dead wood, but there was nothing save the pressure of his head against the door and the great noise that made. He pulled back and knocked again. In the silence that followed he realized two things. First, that he had forgotten about the fear the moment he realized where he was, and, second, that the fear was returning. He felt it tracking him through the alley and he knew it could smell him again. It had lost him for a second, but here it came again. And this time, there was nowhere to run to.

  A noise behind him drew his attention. He turned to see a man emerging from the bushes on the other side of the alley. He walked forward with something in his hand, kicked open the gate to Redford’s back garden, and strode on toward the steps. Behind him, William heard noises from inside. He looked over the far edge of the balcony
and thought he could jump from there into the neighbor’s yard. He took a step that way, but then heard the door open. He turned to yell an alarm.

  But it was not Redford who stepped through the portal, nor Dover, nor any person of color. It was a thin-shouldered white man. He had his shirt opened down to his navel and his arms were bare to the shoulder. He looked wholly inbred, pale and ill figured, with an expression of joyful rage on his face. And he came armed. He stepped onto the porch swinging an ax handle. The first blow caught William at the base of the neck. The next landed on his back as he spun. The third cracked atop the center of his skull. William saw the railing elude his grasp, saw it rising toward him and felt it bouncing off his chest. He tried to grab it, to steady himself and spring over it, but his body no longer heeded him. He slipped sideways and felt the ax handle dig into his side and felt something shove him. For a moment he saw nothing but the sky above him, as if he were floating into it. But then the world came back into view, flew past him, over his head and under and over him, battering him all the time. He hit the bottom of the steps flat on his back, looked up and saw the two shadows descending toward him.

  ONE The Virginian leaned against the doorjamb, hat raked forward to shade his face from the mist, a guard, but an inattentive one for he concentrated mostly on the mug of coffee he cupped before his face. Morrison stepped out of the night so near at hand that the boy started and spilled his coffee. Goddamn, he said, you a spooky son-a-bitch. But he forgot his fear in a second, asking how it went at the ship, cursing his luck for being left to guard the Negress, though she was chained anyway and he didn’t see the use. Ya’ll get them sons-a-bitches?

  Morrison ignored his questions and asked the boy how things had really proceeded with the woman, the true story and not that shit he had dribbled out for Humboldt. Acknowledging no insult in the tone of the question, the boy told him how they snatched the pregnant woman from the sidewalk across from her mistress’ house and dragged her through the streets. She screamed and spat and fought and called out to passersby, who watched her with shocked faces and did no more. They put her in chains in the cellar just below them, stretched her arms wide and fastened her to the wall. One of the men pulled her backside around toward him and pressed his groin against her and told her all that he would do to her, the manner of torture he would choose and the pleasure he would take from it. He whispered these things close to her ear, like some lecherous lover to his mate.

  It was a sight to see, the boy said.

  But the woman would have none of it. She spit in their faces and belittled their manhood and made oaths of blood she couldn’t possible actualize. For this response she got a good beating. They whipped her with a razor strap across the arms and legs and …

  Morrison interrupted him. You beat her?

  The boy said he hadn’t beaten her himself, but that several of the others had. He said they might have taken it all further except that Humboldt was a peculiar son-a-bitch and they hadn’t wanted to stir his ire.

  I see. Morrison considered this for a moment, then told the boy to wait on where he was. He began to push past him but the boy asked him where the hell did he think he was going? Morrison just said for him to wait where he was.

  What you gonna do to her? You do something to her I ain’t taking the blame for it. Humboldt’ll be on your ass. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  Morrison found the woman in a cell at the rear of the old gaol. She was bound by each of her limbs. The chains were long enough for her to sit up, with her back against the wall, her legs straight out before her. He was struck by the heaviness of her pregnancy. He didn’t know much of such things but it was obvious she was nearing the end of her term. She cradled her belly in her arms and hummed a lullaby that died on her lips when the white man appeared. She sensed him, but did not look up. Her clothes were tattered, torn at the shoulders and ripped across the bodice and stained by what fluids Morrison was not sure. He knelt down a little distance from her. Her nose ran with a mixture of blood and mucus, and her jaw hung open slightly, as if that was the only position that didn’t cause her pain. It was obvious that her captors had used more than a razor strap.

  Morrison left the room and returned a moment later with a tin cup of water. He knelt and offered it to the woman. At first she seemed not to notice. The man inched forward, the cup held in both hands. He drew close enough that it almost seemed he would put the cup to her lips, but then the woman moved. With one gesture—a sweep of her hand so quick he didn’t see it coming—she knocked the cup from his hands and sent it clattering into the far corner of the room. He sprang back. The woman returned her arm to her belly and all was as before.

  The man was silent for some time, and the two just sat: an aging white man, a hunter of animals and humans, and a slave woman almost nine months pregnant with a child. Morrison thought he could hear her crying. It was a faint sound, far away, as if it came from outside the room, a low whimpering that seemed to him that much sadder for the lengths she went to hide it. But when he gazed at her he wasn’t sure. She was motionless. He couldn’t see her face, as it was downturned and hidden behind her hand and her hair. Perhaps she was not crying. Perhaps his ears were playing tricks on him, for the sound went on, so faint and constant it might have come up from within the floor of the cell, from the earth itself. He didn’t know what to make of it, but he knew that they could not stay this way, at least not if they were to have any say in the future careening toward them. When he opened his mouth to speak he was not at all sure of what he was going to say.

  I don’t for the life of me know where to start. I could try to apologize for the things those men have done to you, but I doubt that apology would mean much to either of us. Wouldn’t be coming from them, anyway. They’re vile men, right enough, and they’ve no remorse to speak of.

  The woman didn’t acknowledge him.

  I do have some things to apologize for myself, he said. And I will do. I will do. But first I need to tell you a tale. Then you and I can figure out just how we’re going to sort this all out. And we don’t have much time, either. You mind if I talk a wee bit?

  She raised her head and spat at him.

  Morrison wiped the spittle from his chin with his fingertips. He looked at the moisture and then cleaned his fingers on his britches. She had given him an answer, but he had to tell his story anyway. I can’t ask anything of you, he said, but I’m going to make you hear me out. This story starts way off in another country, a fair many years ago. It’s about me, aye, but in a way it’s about you as well. Just hear me out.

  Morrison introduced himself slowly, starting all those years back, across the ocean, in the land he had first called home. He told of the hardships his family faced under the Laird, of their poverty and displacement, of their slow deaths. He spoke of his brother and of the voyage those two made together, of the dying time that was his introduction to America, and of their first years living along the Bay. He recalled the early work they took, as slaughterers of horses, as chimneysweeps and hewers of wood, and then as haulers of manure and, finally, as diggers of graves. He told her all of this in his somber cadence, not rushing it, but moving steadily forward through the years. As far as he could tell, she listened to him.

  His tone changed, however, when he entered a new area of his story. He spoke more hesitantly of the young woman his brother loved, as if he were learning his way through the events even as he gave them voice. He had spoken so many words against her, he admitted, but what he really wanted was for her to be with him. He wanted the strength to draw her to him, and then to stand with her against the world. He wanted to take the world of men by the neck and throttle it, to beat sense into it, to reorder the universe and make it right. This was a strength he didn’t have. Not even by half But his brother did. That frail poet, that dreamer of a brother, he who cried tears freely and without shame. He had a strength Morrison did not. And this became a wedge between them. He felt the fabric of his brotherly bond stretched to breaking,
and one evening, fired by the warm liquor inside of him, he went to the cabin and found the woman alone. He spoke easy to her, and then he spoke hard to her, and then he shouted at her the things that troubled him. She laughed at him. He said things to her that he did not mean, things meant to hurt her, but still she laughed at him. He struck her with the flat of his hand, and she struck him back with a clenched fist. And then he grasped her in his arms and breathed her in and that consuming hunger came upon him again. He lifted her in the air and ran his hands over her body and told her she was a whore, a slut, a nigger. She said she might have been all of these, but that his brother was a better man to judge than he was. His brother might have been younger, frailer, his emotions might dwell just behind his eyes: but he was still more of a man than he was. For this he slapped her, open-handed, but with all the force he could muster.

  Morrison had been looking at the floor beneath him, but now he looked up and studied the woman. Nothing in her posture had changed. Her face was still hidden. He tried to read the lines of her body for some message, but there was nothing other than the mute refutation that she had shown him thus far. He wanted to explain himself in some way that went beyond the words he was speaking. He wished he could get to the other side of them, so that she would understand him from the inside and know that he knew how wrong he had been. He wanted her to hear how much he cursed himself for uttering those words against her. And mostly, he wanted her to understand that he would give his life never to have touched her that way. It was unforgivable, and yet in speaking it aloud to this woman, this black woman, he was not only telling. He was also asking. He wanted to be understood and punished, chastised and damned and forgiven all at once.

  The woman didn’t respond.