“Am I so utterly lost? An assassin! of him who has the right to command not only me but also all the Pequod ’s precious human cargo to follow him to the depths.
“And when I go there—for we shall know the cold depths—what will save me then? I would go home, home, not there. But God will be there waiting—let Ahab make no mistake about that—and He will read the treachery of my heart. Go there—I will—before I lift my sword to Ahab’s heart or gun to his head. Yes, Starbuck follows Ahab, not murders Ahab. And sunk to that cold place, though hand be unsullied with violence, must I, Mary, show a murderous heart to God?
“This prayer perhaps I’ll make before the Throne: That Thou knowest murder was in my heart, even the hottest desire for murder, yet knowing, ye forgive! I did not strike. Mary would forgive! Mary!
“Writ to Mary! To be known, all in all, by Mary.”
“Where are those pages?”
“The beak of a nightmare seabird swooped the white pages from my hand as though they were flat slices of Lebanon bread.”
“But spared your flesh.”
Before he began the second recitation, he worried his lip, glanced anxiously at me. Then began Ahab’s words:
“Una, the monster flies before me—a hump like a snow-hill he will appear! A hill I must climb. We will beach the whaleboat on his back. What if the act be futile! It is my will, my will, most futile folly or fated victory, or I am not Ahab. I know the loss of thee, Una—I know and yet I pursue—for I’ve seen my wife and child reflected in the eye of Starbuck, that mirror of humanity. And yet I am compelled forward! I will give chase as long as time requires till I see that miracle-swimming white hill-hump caked with snowy age, and him I will mount!
“But I see thy figure, Una, already ascended to the crest. How now? Thou art dark as a cinder! A candle with a black flame! Burnt like a widowed Hindee? Black? Thy feet in snow? Even thou art rendered all paradoxical! Is even my Una finally undecipherable? That thought is greatest torture, worse than the hot harpoon of revenge that embedded itself here! Here where I smack my palm, and again, as though to awaken a human—a husband’s—heartbeat.
“Nothing walks in my chest, no steady, human, home-turned, determined plod.”
Unhesitating recitation! That profundity I had glimpsed in the merchant sailor’s eye. A reservoir of words. Ishmael continued speaking for Ahab.
“So, quietly I will fold this page and slip it into the tarry slot. Starbuck has shown me the way. Would that he could show me the way back to Nantucket, to thee. But he lacks the language for it.
“And I! I have the picture that draws me on. A hump like a snow-hill! Moby Dick! I shall add my stature to his height! Ahab, not Una, let me picture there. Though legs fail, my hands, like mitts of flintstone, will pull me to the summit! Leviathan! My hands are harder than thy flesh! Leviathan! I shall make thee bleed, even as my own manly blood poured from my leg as from a funnel-spout! Moby Dick! When I top thee, THEN, let my punishment begin, for I embody the great Lie: Hate, revenge, my wounds—they are greater than Love. Together let us, like a mountain—higher with Ahab’s added height than you ever reared before—be brought low.
“Brought low, we’ll storm the shadow valley, we’ll harrow the depths…these depths…whose mere surface lies before me now and all about me. What depths lie below—layer after watery layer of increasing cold. And the floor reached, into what valley do water…whale…Ahab…fall then? And who will exalt the crevasse that on the ocean floor opens itself to step yet again toward unthinkable depths? And who will exalt that valley?
“But I will lift up my eyes, for now.
“See how all womanly the ship glides through the waves, her skirts lifted? So might my Una run toward me through the shallow waves.
“See the towering sails filled with the breath of night. ’Tis speed, I think, that thrills the body into spirit. ’Tis beauty.”
CHAPTER 156: Letter from Susan, Forwarded
Dear Una,
I am home. And have been home for many a day, week, month, two years, I think. Again, I hope and long for freedom. But I am home. Did you get my first letter? Are you well?
I still have Nature, the book I borrowed. It been my grammar and my speller. I’ve taken the sentences all apart so that they are just a string of words. I’ve learned them all. Now I can put them back together to make my own meanings instead of those of Mr. Emerson, the author. I want to write my story for you, Una, up to this point, because you taught me my first letters. If I could, I would write to Mr. Emerson who has given me so many words. Thoughts, too. Now I take a back-stitch and go back a little before where I left off last time.
As I retraced my journey to the north side of the Ohio River, I prayed it might be froze again, for I doubted my ability to transcend were it not. More than froze, it was completely still and filled over with snow. At both banks, the snow curved up in drifts, so that the river seemed more like a trough of snow. A long swale. Nothing there but me and all that white snow glittering in moonlight, just a sickle moon, and starlight.
When I stepped off the bank, I sunk up to my chin, but my feet landed firm. I held up my basket, had my tin honeycomb box and the patty-pan in it, and commenced to plow across. Moses parting the snow. Going back to Egypt, though. That snow lying on the river ice was light as white feathers. I stopped in the middle and looked back at the furrow I made. Whole world was quiet, quiet. Got to the other bank and the ice rotten. I felt my foot going through, tried to hold on but might as well try to grab a cloud. When my shoulder hit, that thin ice just crack open. I knew I was swallowed up. All alone, nobody to help me. Whole land shout, “One basket-toting, home-sick, Mam-sick, blackgirl—she nothing.” Shout, and echo, too.
I don’t know how Nature did it, but she speeded time for me. When I look up through the cold water, I see the full moon. Must have been Moon didn’t want Earth to swallow me up. Moon pulled me out. I brought my face up out of that ice water. I felt the freezing against my scalp soon as I came up. My feet on slippery mud underneath, but I slip and I claw, I break back ice like a loose tooth till I get to firm. Run! That’s what my bones told me.
I knew I must run all the way to your cabin. I have to tell myself Lift knees, Push feet! Over and over. My clothes freezing. I made myself run. I drive myself like no whip in hand driver ever drove nobody. Faster, faster. Feet like cold flatirons. Lift knees, lift. Dress froze stiff on my thighs. And there it was. Smoke in the chimney. I burst in. Half dead.
Well, there wasn’t any Una there, but there was Daniel, running north. He build up the fire, wrap me in warm blankets. We get acquainted, and I make a long story short. He never forced me, but one evening when he was sitting in the rocking chair, I just climbed up in his lap because I wanted to. Wasn’t too many nights till we sharing the bed.
Maybe a week passed. He begged me to run back north with him, but I explained I had to go back for my mam. I see a new kind of owning, the way he look at me. Man owning woman type of owning. What I didn’t know for a long time was I was carrying his child with me. I said good-bye to Daniel standing in the snow on the riverbank. Hole in the ice still marking the spot where I went under, just a little skin of clear ice over the water. We tried to fork up my basket with my tin honey box you gave me and the patty-pan the Shakers gave me, but we couldn’t get it. Daniel chose a new spot, put down logs in case the ice rotten all along. Then he walked peaceful as could be over the river. Got in my old track where the snow still rumpled. Stars watched with me, Daniel climbing the north bank, gone into the snow and woods. Last sight, him slipping round tree trunks.
I walked south. Met the Spring and then the Summer. Folks helped me again, and I saw some I couldn’t help but would have if I could. A great drove of Indians walking west. They had dogs to pull their loads, hardly any horses. I saw a family stop, dig a hole, bury a child, knees to chest. I listen to the mourning song. Torn from the side of suffering was what I thought. The line walked around them while they buried by the trail. I was hid
under a mountain laurel. Knees pulled up to my chest. Finally the family fell in with the line, walked on west. I cried.
I planned what to say if I was caught. “Please, oh do please, take me home. I was stole away.” But I wasn’t caught. Everything looked right to me, farther on south I traveled, the kinds of trees, the bushes, the slant to the sunlight. It was all way too pretty, I thought, couldn’t be all bad. One night the lightning bugs came up to meet me. One other night, though, I see this glowing that was too big for lightning bugs, and I wondered Baby Haints. All in a cluster, pale and bleary. They bobbed and swayed a little in a group. Scary, but I had to see what. When I got closer, I see this was a gourd vine over a blackberry bush. Those little gourds had whitish ends, and the ends reflecting moonlight. I decided to stop there, sleep under that glowing—you can find little rooms inside where blackberry canes curve over.
In the morning, hanging in the vine was a pair of shoes.
“Who left these shoes here?” I say to the woods.
“I did.” I see an old black man sitting on the ground, head screwed sideways, cheek on his knees, grinning.
“Haint?” I ask.
He shook his head No.
“Who?” I asked, and I wanted to laugh, like all this a big joke. “Why?”
“And how?” he said, mocking at me. “And when?” He had a high-pitch cracked voice.
I wanted to hear him talk, so I just kept my peace.
“I, the Shoeman.”
“You got many customers in these woods?”
“I gib away,” he said. His voice sink down so deep and muddy I could hardly understand him. “Bout here, long this stretch, where shoes gib out. I gib anybody a pair of shoes, if he need them. Them soles is polly-wally wood.”
I unhooked the sandals from the vine, slipped my foot onto them, nice shaped foot bed, tied the laces threaded through the ends of leather straps. “They fit.”
“Girl, you think I make something don’t fit?” Voice all high. “I measure your footprint.” Voice sinking low. “But you headed the wrong direction.” Voice at the bottom, thick.
I told him I was going home. He just shook his head. He didn’t say no more. I look away, I look back. He gone. Nothing but space where he was. But he didn’t take the shoes.
When I walked the last mile home in the dark, a mockingbird commenced to sing. I knew that was a bad sign. Seemed like he followed me. I wanted holy quiet. But that bird just kept shooting off his mouth. When I looked in the window, I see a candle and a woman sitting at a table, sewing. My mam worked the field, she didn’t sew. I saw she squinted her eyes, and my mam never did, and I saw she was stout, and my mam never was, but it was my mam.
The window was swung open on the side hinges and I just ducked down and stood in that little wedge space between the glass and the opening. I breathed home air. Saw children sleeping round the room, big quilting frame. Saw her skirt hem resting on the floor. Head bent.
She didn’t look up, but my mam said, “Is that you?” still sewing. “Susan?”
Una, it was my mam, and she knew me without looking.
Oh, I sat on her lap, and she told me get the buttermilk pitcher, get the cornpone off the shelf, and it had her own handprint over the pone top. I knew she watched me stretch up to the bread shelf, and she said, “You come home to born a child into slavery!” Her words just burst out. Mean as sparks.
I said, “I come for you.”
“Look here,” she said, and she pulled up her skirt. I standing there with the pitcher in my hand. Where they should have been a foot was only a stump wrapped in rags. “Now you grow me a new foot while you grow that baby. Maybe then, we run.”
My heart broke. “You want me to kill ’em?” I said. My voice sunk low like a growl I never heard. I heard the mockingbird sing, too, Una. So shrill. Like it want to scream but not got the throat for it.
She didn’t answer me straight. “I try to run. They catch me. Take my foot.”
“You want me to kill ’em?”
I cried myself stupid, on her lap. “Sho. Lets think about killin em.” She rock me, spoke it over and over, like a lullaby song. “Lets think, lets think.” I listen to the children sleep. Some my own kin, some she must of been keeping. “Lets think bout it.” Finally I breathing with the younguns. My mam told me to get in bed, over against the wall. She said she was so stout now couldn’t anybody see over her to see me. I got in, and then she used the ladder-back chair to help hop. Three hops. And her way too heavy to hop at all.
When morning come, my anger was melted down to sorrow. For her. Night melted me. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. Only a sorrow lump left. Grief was for me, too, cause I couldn’t leave her.
I did what I had to do, her standing in the door calling “Wait now. Lets talk this over. Lets plan.” I went through the quarters to the overseers house. Knocked on his door. I looked at the ground like I was ashamed. Orange tigerlily blooming by his step. Door opened, I mumble so humble never looking in his face, “I was stole away, sir, but I done found my way home.”
He knock me down. “Reckon I best brand you,” that’s what he said, “so nobody won’t steal you off again. Get up.” I follow him inside his cabin.
He sat me on the three-legged stool by the fire, heated up the branding iron till it was white, and sunk it in my cheek. His wife gave me a wet, cool cloth, folded in a square. Walking home, there the mockingbird. Hopping in the dust. He see me, he jump quick into air, two white fans spreading out of his two wings. My cheek with an oak leaf. Burning. Burning bad. For Thousand Oaks. The name of this place where I am. But you mustn’t use it for address, lest I be beat. I find you someday, Una. When freedom come. If you could buy us all, I would pay you back. And I got a baby. When she was born, I say to my mam, “This baby’s name is Liberty.” I named her for yours. I shamed to born her to slavery, but that name helped, so I could smile a little.
My mam say, “Lets name her Liberty Lee, and we’ll jus’ call her Lee. Time being.”
She smiled so big, and so did I. So would you. All sneaky. We will have freedom, and we will have it right this time. I have no doubt. My faith is firm. My mam called in the children and holding up my baby girl to the sun in the window she said to all them what I say to you, “This is the day the Lord hath made. Let us rejoice, be glad in it.”
My girl is growing, and sometimes I whisper other names in her ear, magic names whose meanings I don’t know. “Orpheus Eurydice,” I whisper, for she is the sweetest life I know.
In love and hope abiding,
Susan Spenser Oaks
Susan’s letter had been held for me at the Mitchells’, and I could not help but explode into tears there in their apartment after reading it. As soon as I could speak, I consulted with Mr. Mitchell about how to find Susan, for her letter mentioned Thousand Oaks plantation, but not the state. Mr. Mitchell’s reference books supplied me with the names of all the counties in Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia, and Maria and I immediately began to pen letters to the sheriff of every county, saying only that we were trying to locate kin who were staying at a farm called Thousand Oaks. With great urgency, we wrote letters for three days, and then I came back to ’Sconset.
CHAPTER 157: The Roof Walk
ONE NOVEMBER NIGHT, I felt so anxious that I knew I must walk the widow’s walk. I left the trapdoor flung open to the pit of light below, and I wore a blanket around me like an Indian to swaddle myself from the breeze. I grieved for Susan. For my own innocent baby, alive three days; and for Frannie’s. For Susan’s Indians, moving west. Susan, be safe.
What are your houses, dear readers—if ye exist as other than wisps in my mind—but platforms to lift you up? Walk above your house, and the heavens are open to you. Let what might seem like roof for your head become floor for your feet.
The wind wanted to blow me clean. How I had loved the wind when aloft at sea, and how, with sails, one could fly before such a wind! I clutched the flapping blanket under my chin. Smeared by the
wind, my vision bleared the stars. I loved the wildness of it all. Among you, among you, my spirit sang.
I thought of my boy and of Jim, of my friends Robben and Austin as dear to me as brothers, all of whom were now someplace on the ocean. I did not feel afraid for them, though, ironically, they sailed in a ship named the Liberty. It tormented me to think of Susan waiting for help. Worse was to think she’d run again, was captured, parted from her child. Sold. Killed. And she had appealed to me.
But gradually my pacing brought me calm. The vastness of the heavens seemed a haven for all of us. Surely Susan was somewhere. Be safe. And I thought of Margaret Fuller’s letters from Europe, of Charlotte and Kit, and of Frannie’s letters, of Aunt Agatha and Uncle Torchy tending their lighthouse. We were not fragments, or if we were fragments we were in-gathered. I stood still and felt them all gathering home. If my mind called their names, they seemed with me. I felt us all in-gathered by the glittering universe.
Alone on my platform, I knew myself to be in motion, though I stood still. My motion was rooted in the earth and its journey. Not just my house, but the world itself was my ship traveling airy waters which rarefied beyond air into sheer blackness. And beyond and all about me in deep black nothingness were sources of light, they, too, moving. What a rushing, what a rushing we all made, like this Nantucket wind, immediate, crisping my cheeks and ears. And none left behind, nor could they be. We are embraced even before we can embrace.
I heard footsteps, which I knew well, pass through the house. From the first night in my bed, we had known the depths of each other; my body had whispered to me as his had to him: This is marriage. It needed no courtship.