The End of the World and Beyond Page 10

  I snatched up my hoe and resumed working.

  The old man stood in silence, but when I peeked behind, the frown on his face suggested he was finding grievous fault. Moreover, I sensed it was me he considered most closely.

  Sure enough, he called out: “You, Oliver, you’re doing that wrong.”

  I stopped my work and looked round. I had no idea what I was doing wrong, and therefore had no notion as to what might be the proper way. When he gave no instruction, I looked to Bara for guidance, but he continued to work without a glance in my direction. Even so, I was sure he understood what was happening.

  I turned to Fitzhugh. “What . . . what do you wish me to do, sir?”

  He lifted his rod and pointed. “Against that tree.”

  Uneasy, I stole another squint at Bara. That time, he peeped up. I was sure I detected a small movement of his head, which I decided meant, “Do as he says.”

  Now alarmed, but with no true grasp as to what was unfolding, I did as I was bid.

  “Take off your jerkin,” Fitzhugh ordered. “Back to me.”

  Beginning to comprehend what was about to occur, I appealed to Bara with yet another look, a frightened one.

  “He won’t help you,” the old man called out. “Do as you’re told.”

  Then he proclaimed: “You’re my property. I can do with you what I want.” That said, he flexed the rod in one hand, put his other hand on his pistol butt, and advanced. By then his meaning was all too clear.

  Trembling, heart pounding, I took off my shirt and stood against the tree, the bark chafing my thin, bare chest. Even so I tried to see what he was doing. No sooner did I do that than he drew close, braced his legs, and used the rod to flog me fiercely across my back.

  The pain was as if a bolt of lightning cut through my body. I gasped for breath. My knees buckled. I began to cry.

  He gave me five lashes. By the fifth, if I had not been leaning against the tree I would have fallen to the ground.

  Fitzhugh stopped. “Keep to work,” he cried, “or it will go worse for you.” Then he added, “Bara will do nothing to stop me or help you.” Without another word, he went off.

  For some dazed, unbearable moments, I remained leaning against the tree. Benumbed by the blows and throbbing pain, I struggled to recover my breath. I was helpless, angry, and mortified all at once. The words “You’re my property. I can do with you what I want” echoed and re-echoed in my head.

  Let it be said: To suffer unjust punishment in silence is to fall into a pit of fury. Make someone feel helpless and he will become helpless and, even worse, believe it.

  Though my back still burned, I found strength enough to push myself from the tree.

  Bara said, “Turn round. Let me see.”

  I did so.

  “Bad,” he said.

  I reached behind. My touch smarted. I felt a slippery wetness. When I looked at my fingers I saw blood.

  Bara turned from me and lifted his shirt. What I saw was that his back was marked with stripes and welts: signs of much flogging. There was also a scar on the right side of his neck, another on the left side. On one shoulder a burn mark.

  I understood: Fitzhugh had beaten and abused him many times much the same way. I could only guess what made the other scars and burn.

  Bara said, “He wanted to show you what he could do. If you’re wondering why I did nothing, he’s a man who becomes enraged at resistance. He wants you to fight back so he can beat you down the more.”

  “How . . . how have you survived?” I stammered.

  Not answering, Bara threw down his hoe and said, “Follow me.” He headed off in a westerly direction.

  My whole body throbbing and burning so that I could barely stand, I held back. “Where you going?” I called.

  “Just come.”

  I looked to where Fitzhugh had gone. “Won’t he mind?”

  “He’s taught his day’s lesson. He’ll spend his time with drink.”

  Struggling with rage and misery, I smeared my tears, took a deep breath, and trudged after Bara, my eyes on his heels, limping along as best I could. Every step gave a jolting hurt.

  We walked for perhaps a third of a mile.

  When at last Bara stopped, I came up to his side. Only then did I raise my head and look about. What lay before me was something such as I had never seen before: the swamp.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  In Which I Look upon the Strangest World.

  No matter where I gazed, all I saw was still water, water the color of thin blood, even as the air was tinted green. No sky, only a high roof of interwoven branches growing from gigantic trees—some five feet round—of reddish hue, branches thick with countless needles. Dark green bushes, reedy grasses, vines, and floating plants were below, while here and there white and red flowers grew along with plants with tufted ends. Oddest of all were countless woody points, which poked up and out of the murky water. It was as if an army stood submerged, and all that remained were the visible tips of their spears.

  I smelled the dampness of universal decay. I heard a constant soft gargle of water, plus the steady hum of little flying creatures, and now and again the chirp of unseen birds.

  At the base of the gigantic trees, which I came to learn were called cypress, were what seemed like bloated, fluted hands—I hardly know how else to describe them—fingers of root that reached into the murky waters, as if seeking to grasp whatever lay beneath. Elsewhere, countless rotting logs, impossible to know if floating or resting on some unseen bottom.

  Swarms of insects flew about, among them a kind of glittering needle. On the water surface, bubbles broke, suggesting something lived below.

  Birds appeared, the most striking a bright golden color. A spotted turtle sat motionless on a floating log. A large black snake appeared, wiggling sinuously across the water, head up, hook-like.

  I started back.

  “Cottonmouth,” said Bara. “If it bites, you’re dead.”

  I heard a terrible roar.

  “What’s that?” I cried.

  “Big cat,” said Bara. “Probably smells us.” He said it as if the beast was only to be expected.

  I said, “Are you trying to frighten me?”

  “Just so you know you don’t want to go in there without a gun or knife.”

  Red mud oozed between our toes, making a gross sucking sound when we moved. Indeed, when I chanced to shift my foot my leg sank down, as if being swallowed. Along with fresh alarm, the effort to extricate my foot brought back sharp pain.

  Bara bent down and scooped up a handful of red mud. “Turn your back to me,” he said. When I did, he smeared the mud over the bloody welts that came from the beating.

  At first it stung, enlarging the pain, but it soon became cool and soothing.

  “That’s better,” I mumbled, deeply grateful. And just as that lashing brought tears, so did Bara’s kindness.

  To distract myself, I looked at the swamp. Hard to say which it did more: astonish or frighten me. Was this what my messmate on the Owners Goodwill talked about? A way back to England?

  I said, “How big is this place?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where does it go?”

  “West.”

  “Would it get me to England?”

  Bara gave a snort. “Why would you think that?”

  “On my transport ship, someone told me that.”

  “He was a fool.”

  I tried to grasp what this swamp was. Its strangeness filled me with disquiet, enough to tell me I wanted nothing to do with it.

  “Best get back to work,” said Bara.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  In Which I Run Away.

  During the next two days, my pain subsided somewhat, but remained sharp enough to be a constant goad to my plan, which was t
o run away as soon as possible. I was convinced I could not endure another beating. I’d seen runaway notices. Had not others escaped? Why not me? Nor did I confide to Bara. I hardly knew him and didn’t know if he could be trusted. Rather, during the next two days I held my thoughts and tongue and concentrated on tobacco labor.

  Two nights after I had sustained the beating, my back still sore from the lashing, I forced myself to stay awake until late. From where I lay, in the loft of the house, I heard nothing but nighttime crickets and Bara’s sleeping breath.

  I have no idea the hour when I sat up, crawled to the ladder, and began to descend. Halfway down, I paused and listened for sounds of the old man. His steady grunts and gargled breath informed me that he slept. My beating heart counted out my fears.

  I continued down, slowly, noiselessly, until I reached the lower floor. Once there, I stood in place, waiting, very tense, my thoughts full of Moco Jack’s attempted escape and wondering if my fate, for good or ill, would be the same. I also listened for any change in the old man’s breath or movement.

  Nothing I heard caused me to retreat.

  How long it took me to cross the house floor I don’t know. You may be sure I did so with utmost caution, hands before me, feeling the untouchable darkness, my breathing soft and shallow.

  My fingers found the door. I unlatched it. My way now clear, I eased it open, so its groan was slight, then stepped outside, shutting the door behind me almost without sound.

  Standing beyond the house, I took a deep breath. The air was mild, scented by living things. Easeful light came from the low, sickle-shaped moon and stars, which sparked the sky. My relief was intense, my heart pounding. Hardly a wonder: This was the first moment after many months that I was truly free. My sense of liberty was such that I wished only for wings that I might fly through the nighttime air and perch upon the moon, free of the earth.

  That said, I was not so water-witted as to think I could make my way to complete freedom in such darksomeness. My plan—such as I had formed it—was to get sufficiently away from the house, wait for the first blush of dawn, and then move north as fast as my legs would take me. First, however, I allowed myself to become accustomed to the outside gloom, trying to gain some sense of the land—and steady my pounding heart.

  After some moments, I began to walk toward the only way I knew, to those places where Bara and I had been seeding. I reached them easily enough. From there, I moved in the direction of the swamp since once again I knew that way. I was willing to be pursued, knowing I could not go far in that direction, but no one need know. Let them suppose I went into the swamp and perished. It seemed a likely outcome.

  It wasn’t long before I sensed I was approaching the swamp; not so much by sight, but by the ground becoming soft and wet beneath my bare feet. The air was dank.

  I listened intently. A frog croaked. The hum and buzz of insects grew. Some animal barked or growled, a reminder which way not to go. I also thought about that snake.

  When I got as near to the swamp as I dared, I turned to what I judged northward, moving slowly, since this was land I did not know. Indeed, after going for a brief time, I paused. Not only was I now unfamiliar with the place; it was all deep murk and I did not wish to put myself in greater jeopardy than I already was. The night’s chill and my tension had me trembling.

  Dizzy with the lack of slumber and constant soreness, reminding myself I had not slept, I rested my arms against a tree, put my head on them, and forced myself to wait until further light. But then my eyes closed. I fell asleep.

  How long I slept I don’t know, but woke with a jolt, all too aware of the danger in which I’d placed myself. A red-edged dawn glowed to the east. The light, though faint, allowed me to perceive the land that lay before me, a world of mostly shadow, an intermingling of blacks and grays. The brightest thing was an eddying, ashen fog, which rolled upon the ground before me, rather like an earth-clinging cloud. I listened hard, but heard nothing save the shift of leaves bestirred by placid breezes.

  An owl hooted. It did not bother me. I also heard what sounded like a breaking branch. Alarmed, that time I waited. I recalled Bara’s words about needing a knife. I wished I had one. When the sound was not repeated, I willed myself to believe no one was about and that I had no need of weapons. I was free. Just not free enough.

  Go on, I told myself.

  My eyes adjusted to the slowly brightening light.

  In the open space before me, a mound rose rather like a bulging bubble of earth. Its modest peak was cresting above the mist, so that—I thought—if I stood on it, I might see farther, and thereby seek a safe line of escape.

  I went on with care, my bare feet sinking slightly, making a slight sucking sound each time I lifted them: Was I too close to the swamp? I paused briefly then pushed on, wading through the white vapor, heading for that mound.

  I reached it, then climbed with ease to its top. But no sooner did I reach the small summit than the earth gave way, and I plunged into a pit, down as far as my chest.

  First came the shock of the sudden drop. Next came relief that I had not been hurt.

  As my breath recovered, I looked about. Dawn had strengthened enough for me to see where I had fallen. That was when I realized I was surrounded by human bones, including a human head to which skin and hair was still attached. The jaw was open, so it seemed to be screaming. The stench was revolting.

  I had fallen into a new grave.

  My heart all but bursting in my chest, I fairly leaped out of the pit. Once on top, I peered down. I saw decayed flesh and shreds of what must have been clothing. It was a human—a boy by the looks of him—a Negro.

  On the instant, my thoughts went to that murdered boy, Clark. What had Fitzhugh said of him? “Never got off my land.”

  Here—I had no doubt—he was.

  My will to escape shrank to nothing and was replaced by terror. Too frightened to go on, I all but flew back to Fitzhugh’s house. Breathing deep and fast, heart atumble, I snatched up a hoe that was leaning against the building and held it across my heaving chest, as if I could ward off horror with it.

  Eyes squeezed tight so as to blot away the dreadfulness of what I’d seen, my thoughts were spiraling. I knew nothing of Clark, save that he was a boy like me who had tried to run away. Even so, I was engulfed by anguish for him while simultaneously understanding that Fitzhugh was nothing less than a monster.

  I do not consider myself irrational, but I could not muster the thought of fleeing in that northerly direction. Or any other way. It was as if that ghastly grave had turned into many graves and extended across all the land. I was sure there was no way to escape.

  None.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  In Which I Receive a Spark of Hope.

  Full dawn bloomed in reds, purples, and pinks. Feeling ill, I remained sitting against the house until Bara opened the door and came out. The sound made me start, but my relief was great. I looked up at him, knowing all my sadness and shame must have been revealed in my imploring eyes.

  He gazed at me, but said nothing. Though I could not read his face, I had no doubt he knew I had tried to escape. After a moment, still not speaking, he took up the other hoe and started off to the fields.

  I got up and followed him.

  “What about the hogs?” I said.

  “For once, they can wait.”

  It was only when we’d gone some ways from the house—out of Fitzhugh’s hearing distance—that Bara halted, placed a hand on my shoulder, looked me straight in the face, and said, “What made you come back?”

  “I . . . I fell into a grave.”

  That took him by surprise.

  I said, “I think . . . I think it’s that Clark.”

  “Show me.”

  I led him to where I’d been.

  Bara gazed into the pit. He was breathing hard.

 
I whispered, “Is it him?”

  Bara continued to stare down. His face was tight, as if he were clenching his teeth. Abruptly, he turned from me and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders jerked. He dropped to his knees and crossed his hands over his chest, as if hugging himself. His body rocked slightly.

  I wanted to comfort him. “Bara . . .” I said.

  He shook his head, letting me know he did not want me to say a word.

  After some while he stood up.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You could cover the world with ten feet of sorry, wouldn’t make a difference.” Then he said, “We’d better put it the way it was. Don’t want the old man to know we found it. No telling what he’d do.”

  In silence, we filled the grave.

  Afterward, still not talking, we went to where we were meant to be weeding the tobacco field and set to with our hoes. Bara still said nothing but when I glanced at him I saw tears run down his face.

  I said, “He was your friend, wasn’t he?”

  Bara nodded. He seemed to be struggling for words. Only after some while did he say, “Fitzhugh beat him the way he did me, and you. One time when it was worse than ever, Clark screamed at him, ‘I won’t stay. I won’t stay.’

  “Next day he was gone. I guessed, but didn’t know what happened. I’d warned him. He wouldn’t listen. I was hoping he got away.”

  I waited for Bara to speak again. It took some moments, during which he wiped more tears away.

  “Hope you’ve learned something,” he finally said. “You can try going, but it’s near impossible going off by yourself. Too many dangers for one. If we’re going to go, it has to be both of us.”

  “Do you want to leave?”

  “You think I want to be here?” he said. There was contempt in his voice. “I was hoping to go with Clark. You saw how far he got. Then I was wishing Fitzhugh would get someone big and strong. He got you.”

  “I’ll get bigger,” I told him. It must have sounded woeful.