Slave Graves

by Thomas Hollyday

“We better see. It may be more trouble,” said Frank. He walked quickly with Maggie and the Pastor towards the fencerow. As they got closer they could hear angry voices churning at each other from beyond the honeysuckle.

  Frank pointed through a break in the foliage. “There’s the reason for all the commotion,” he said .

  Several farm trucks and some cars coming from opposite ends had met face to face at the center of the single lane bridge. The drivers were walking around the roadway, agitated in the heat and shaking their fists. More vehicles coming up to the bridge were expanding the traffic confusion. From the gate area, the Terment Company guard, sweating in his green coat, was trying to wave cars away. One car had tried to turn around and was hopelessly snarled against oncoming traffic in the narrow road.

  “Stoplights were changed,” said the Pastor. “There’s a switch box up there. Someone’s prank.”

  They stood behind the high mass of honeysuckle, unseen by the motorists. More drivers got out of their cars and milled around. The screaming and cursing was increasing in the summer heat. Frank watched this for a few more minutes, then turned to Maggie and said, “I think these folks are going to be here all afternoon, the way they’re going.”

  Maggie pointed across the road where, gathering on the lawn in the shade under the ancient trees, were a few persons dressed in the orange and black butterfly costumes. More were coming from behind the old white house and lining up. As they did, they adjusted their wings and stood side by side across the yard, parallel with the road. Then together the human butterflies slowly moved their eight foot wings. The color of the costumes was a startling contrast to the deep dark green of the yard. The clutter of automobile and motorist noise continued to increase. Seeing the butterflies, the drivers who were still sitting in their cars honked their car horns again and again. Others began to shout at the orange and black costumes which, in turn, continued their waving motion.

  Behind the line of human butterflies, the door to the white house opened and Mrs. Pond walked out and looked at the cars on the road, her arms folded. She turned and spoke to someone standing behind her in the dark interior, someone Frank couldn’t see. Frank watched her call to one of the butterflies who walked back to the porch. Frank could see the costume from behind, the human underneath who was dressed in a black shirt and trousers with straps holding the wings. The person stood in front of Mrs. Pond, then nodded his head and proceeded back to his fellow human insects. They gathered in a simple huddle and were given what appeared to be instructions. In a few minutes some of the butterflies began to cross the road through the crowd of angry drivers. They lined up directly in front of the hedgerow which hid Frank and his companions.

  The owners of the jammed vehicles, becoming more angry, milled around, kicking at the stones in the gravel road, little clods of dust lifting at each kick and drifting down like small parachutes. Judging from the smile on her face, Frank assumed Mrs. Pond was pleased with all the confusion. He watched her walk down the steps of her porch and stride imperiously towards the human butterflies and the drivers. With her was her companion, a tall black man, dressed in African robes.

  One of the drivers who was also black, pointed at the African saying, “Who is he? I ain’t never seen him around River Sunday.”

  Frank heard a driver near him muttering almost whispering, “What does she want? Everybody knows she’s crazy. Just a crazy old rich lady.”

  Mrs. Pond walked into the center of the road and stared at the drivers. The human butterflies gathered around her. Then she proceeded alone towards the bridge. The drivers, quieter, nervously made a path for her. She moved up under the stoplight, looked up at it and then at the switchbox on a metal post at the side of the bridge. Then she turned toward the drivers and spoke, her voice shrill like a bird.

  “This bridge work must stop at once. Yours are not the only lives that matter.”

  One of the drivers spoke up, a young black farm worker. “You don’t have no right, Mrs. Pond. No Ma’am. We don’t care nothing about no animals. I’ll hunt them all down for you and put them out of their misery. You are crazy, you old lady.” The driver moved towards her, his arm raised as if to strike. Another man restrained him, wrestling with him, saying, “You don’t know what you are saying, man. You’re going to get into a lot of trouble.” The man was held on the ground, kicking, by several of the men.

  The butterflies began moving towards Mrs. Pond, their wings raised. Her face showed no alarm although the crowd was becoming more violent. Frank thought that the butterfly people and the drivers would start fighting momentarily.

  Then he heard the police siren. At that moment a River Sunday police sedan arrived along the wrong side of the road, moving deftly by the stopped cars and trucks, its stern faced occupant motioning to different drivers he passed. The car stopped beside the group of butterflies, separating them from the drivers. The policeman whom Frank had seen at the meeting during Jake’s speech, stepped out. In the sunlight, he was a large tough looking man carefully dressed in his uniform, his holster and belt leather glinting.

  “Hello, Mrs. Pond,” the office said, in a friendly manner.

  She did not answer him and instead called to the African, who had remained several yards from the road, waiting up on the lawn in the shade. “Doctor,” she said haughtily, “as you can see we have no support from our police.”

  The African grinned and held up two small books from a pocket in his robe. From the distance Frank could see what looked like a butterfly on the cover of one. The African nodded vigorously to Mrs. Pond. Yet after a few moments of this movement of his head, Frank realized the man was dazed, his mind elsewhere, unable to do anything more than stand there and bob his head up and down. About once a minute, he methodically thumbed the books, ready, it seemed to Frank, to look up the specifications of a butterfly as if that was the best answer to his friend’s moment of distress.

  With the coming of the officer, the crowd had calmed. Mrs. Pond had returned safely to the side of the African. She touched his arm almost in apology for disturbing him and turned finally to speak to the policeman, who stood patiently, as if he had been through this type of experience several times before.

  “Billy, the Doctor teaches in London,” she said. “He’s one of the world’s greatest lepidopterists, his specialty being migration of butterflies. He graciously agreed to stop in River Sunday on his tour around the United States. He could tell you how important it is for all of us to leave these insects in their habitat. He could tell you what will happen to all of us if we do not respect nature’s ways, its rules. He could tell you so much.”

  Billy, the officer, sweating in the sun, looked at her and the African, then around at the people in costume. “Mrs. Pond, we’ve been through this before. I’m sure your guest doesn’t want any trouble.”

  The African, quickly nodding his head, selected a page to read, the picture of the butterfly on that page particularly colorful as the limp paper hung over his large hand. He read softly to himself in careful English. The tall woman looked down at the officer who was easily a foot shorter.

  “You have no idea how much trouble there will be in the future if you do not act,” she said, her voice like that of a shrill bird.

  “Mrs. Pond, I don’t know what happened here. I expect one of your people got a little carried away again. You know better than to do this sort of thing. We got to let these cars go or I’ll have to start arresting your people.”

  Her look was one of pity mixed with authority as though she were the policeman and were letting him go. She slowly turned away, then motioned to the butterflies and walked back towards her house. The human butterflies fell back into their original solid line away from the road and on the lawn by the house. By then Mrs. Pond had reached her porch. She turned and watched, her hands on the porch railing as the butterflies began to move their wings and sway from side to side. Frank could hear them chanting.

  “Say the word and the bridge will be stoppe
d,”

  “Say the word and the bridge will be stopped.”

  Billy began backing the cars off the bridge.

  “It’s all over. Let’s get back to work,” said Frank. He led the others back to the site.

  “With all her concerned heart,” the Pastor said, “That lady doesn’t have any idea about the poor folks here. So maybe that’s why I don’t care too much about her animals, her butterflies.”

  Then his face turned into a broad smile.

  “What?” asked Maggie.

  “You two look like slaves,” said the Pastor.

  Frank and Maggie looked at each other.

  “I guess he’s got a point,” said Maggie.

  “The old folks worked just like the two of you in this heat,” said the Pastor. “They were always filthy from the working conditions and the dirt floor huts they lived in. Their clothes were not any different, Maggie, than the ragged shorts and shirts that you two are dressed in. Look at yourselves. Bare feet, rags, covered with dirt. Yessir, you could pass for a couple of field slaves working up here before the Civil War.”

  Chapter 13