Perry Mozay of Pepperwick

1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-0983-1987-8
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 294 Seiten

As companion to a rice planter's son, Mozay Deas sits in on the boy's lessons at Pepperwick Plantation in 1850's South Carolina. When he hears a rumor that Clarence Little will be leaving Pepperwick for boarding school he knows where that will leave him: a servant for life. Mozay wants to keep learning. When he meets a group of abolitionists he sees a pathway to escape, provided he can complete a difficult task they assign him.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Perry, Jean

Leseproben

Chapter Six

Territory

On Saturday, as usual, my parents return home early from their tasks.

The open window lets in the remaining light. I sit at our table with my mother, shelling pecans. My father, on a bench near the unlit fireplace, cuts a piece of leather. His tall, sinewy body, lit by the sun, casts his shadow on the wall. I like seeing him take his ease.

A knock at the door makes us look towards it.

“Who’s calling?” my father asks, getting up.

“Hello, Arkeem.” I know the voice but can hardly believe my ears.

“Why, Master Clarence . . .” is all my father can get out.

My young master has never come to our door, I taste fear in my mouth, strong and acidy.

He wears a pair of old trousers, a long-sleeved shirt rolled up to his elbows, and old lace-up boots.

We sit with our mouths open for a few seconds, none of us sure whether to invite him in or ask why he’s come to call.

“I’m here for Mozay,” he says smoothly, his piercing brown eyes bounding beyond my father and finding me. My parents look fearful, but I’m already at the door.

“Let’s walk,” he says and I go with him, forgetting to look back at my parents to reassure them.

We walk from the Quarters into the forest. We trudge a little ways up a trail. Clarence stops and kicks what seems to be a bunch of sticks at the base of a tree.

“Territory,” I ask? “You want to play Territory?” That’s a game we made up when we were little kids. It seems silly to play it now, but I go along with him.

He picks up something.

“What have you got there?”

“Birch bark torches,” he says. “We’re going to play Territory by Torchlight.”

We always played earlier in the day. It’s almost twilight. This could be interesting.

His thin lips curl into a strange smile. “Don’t worry; we won’t burn ourselves or the forest. We know these trails by feel; we’ve been running up and down them for years. As for the torches, I’ve tied the sheaths of birch bark tightly with thin strips of more birch. But of course, we’ve got to keep them vertical, and look where we’re going.” He winks.

The danger intrigues me. I wonder if this is his way of saying goodbye to Pepperwick, one last run through the hills before he departs for some academy, or tour of Europe. I start a spark with some ash wood sticks he’s brought for the purpose.

Our torches lit, we begin. Whoever claims the most territory before reaching our tree wins.

“To the Oak!” he calls out first and takes off running.

“Oak!” I holler and run up the trail behind him. He seems determined not to let me pass.

“This is my territory,” he yells.

I hold out my stick and whack the first bush I come to. “Mine!” That’s one.

Clarence flies by as though hounds are at his heels, whacking rocks, and trees, and stumps, shrieking “Mine! Mine! Mine!” That’s three.

The trail widens and I catch up with him.

“This is mine,” he yells battling me for a tall tree coming up.

“Mine!” I call out, whacking it first. That’s two.

“Mine!” He squawks, walloping the next one. That’s four.

I almost trip, spanking a rock. “Mine!” I say. I got four too.

“No mine!” he answers.

“I got it first,” I tell him. “These pebbles under our feet—they’re yours!”

“That kudzu round that tree trunk, that’s yours,” he shoots back.

His stick, now a living thing, knocks hanging vines: “Mine!” Raps clumps of leaves, “Mine!” Bats at and wallops open space: “Mine! So that makes seven!”

“You can’t declare open space,” I say, “so for you that’s six!” I wallop two stumps. “Mine five, and mine six!” I yell. “We’re even.”

“Whoever gets to the old oak first will break the tie and win,” he calls out. “Let’s go!”

The oak tree, the object of our game. Clarence rushes at it as though it might run off. I take a second to look at it in the twilight. I can make out its height, though in this light the green leaves look black. The tree is so old and twisted that its branches creep along the ground, like the bony fingers of an old witch out to grab her prey.

“There she is,” he bellows.

I check my torch and in the seconds it takes to look away from the path, Clarence passes me, calling out “It’s mine!”

“Not if I get to it first,” I say. I’m almost past him when he turns and charges at me.

“Sir, a duel!” he demands, thrusting his stick as though it’s a sword. His words are hardly spoken, when my stick is almost at his throat. He ducks and swipes furiously. If only we didn’t have these torches. Mine is throwing me off balance.

“I will have that tree, sir,” he warns, lunging and pointing at my stomach.

“Fight fair,” I challenge him, “the way MacGonigle taught us.”

“I’ve got you now, sir,” he says, with a chopping motion that almost makes me drop my stick-sword. “You’d best surrender.”

“Sir,” I bark, “you speak too soon. We’ll fight until . . .”

Thump.

A pebble stings my forehead. I feel a lump rising already.

Coming toward us, is Addah-Mae. She sticks her tongue out. I look behind her, expecting to see her aunt, Mistress Teazell, but she’s alone.

“I don’t like you,” she says, pointing at me. “I don’t like you one bit.” She sticks out her tongue again and makes a nasty face.

“Me, born white and free, has been stuck, till this very moment, in that stupid shack with my two sisters to watch and you, a black slave, out here have’n fun. I want to play too!” She picks a switch off a bush and pokes me with it, every which way. “Clar-a-a-rence. Let me play!”

“Addah-Mae, quit!” Clarence says. She rolls her eyes at me, then slings the stick away.

“Why y’all out here play’n anyway,” she says sweetly, wrapping Clarence around her little finger. “Ain’t play’n for lil’ kids?”

“We are not little children,” I jump in.

“He don’t talk like he’s black,” she whines.

“He sits in on my lessons,” Clarence explains.

“Why, whoever heard of educate’n a darky. Whatever for?”

“He’s a companion to me. Helps me . . .”

“Oh stuff and nonsense! He oughta’ be make’n hissself useful, drive’n a mule cart, or watch’n my kin. Anyways, my daddy says it’s against the law for them to learn to read and write.”

“He’s not learn’n, he’s sit’n in, thas’ all.”

“None of them are full human beings! My daddy says so! They,” she points to me, “are only three fifths human. The last two fifths is beast. Some folks is scared of ‘em but not me.”

“You come along at a bad time, Addah-Mae,” Clarence says. “You get along home now, you hear?”

“Everybody round here knows how y’all baby him. Like he’s some kind’a fancy ol’ dog, my Daddy says. Do you mean to tell me . . .”

“Addah-Mae, hush-up and go!”

“Oh stuff and nonsense! Aw right.” She starts off, and then stops. “Clarence, can I come ‘round tomorrow? I want to learn this game, betcha I kin out run yah.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday Addah-Mae. We don’t play on Sunday.”

“Hey, I got a brand new Jacob’s Ladder from my auntie—you kin play that caint ‘cha?”

“Sure I can, just not tomorrow. Maybe next Sunday, okay?”

“Aw right,” she says in a sing-song voice, “bye Clarence.”

She stops and faces me. “Don’t think you can hide behind Clarence forever.”

I watch Clarence watch her sashay back through the trees.

I have feelings for Ora so I can’t blame him if he likes Addah-Mae. Even if her ways are ugly, she does have a pretty face—round as the moon and framed with the blonde bangs she’s cut for herself and which Lemuel complains about to everybody on the place. She’s spunky, too, taking care of the cabin and her two little sisters since her momma died last year from the summer fever.

I don’t know if Clarence has had enough of playing Territory, but I’m yearning to get home to those pecans.

Then, without warning, he takes off again. I run alongside, like a pup afraid of being left behind. We race past our target, the old oak tree. He’s forgotten our goal—to see which one of us can get to the old oak first—and even the game itself. Holding our torches high, we chase each other without motive. He seems to be running from something he can’t name. I feel I’m running towards something I know nothing about.

We come to a pond. Clarence lobs in what’s left of his torch. It catches hold to some water lilies and flares up for a moment, then sizzles and drowns. I hold onto my torch. He was right to have bound the thin sheaths of birch bark with a string made of the same stuff. I guess he’s wrapped mine more tightly; it’s holding together and will light our way back.

He sits down. I use a rock to dig a hole, secure the torch in it, and sit beside him. The heat is unpleasant but it will drive off the mosquitoes.

“I love Pepperwick, Mozay, but I can’t wait to leave here and get my life started.”

Have we finally come to the reason he’s brought me out here?

“I’ll be go’n to Mansfield Military Academy this fall. I’ll miss...