Kindred by Octavia Butler Page A

looked at me.
    “He probably fainted,” I said. “That’s best. He won’t feel the pain for a while.”
    She nodded dully and went back out to whatever she had been doing.
    “She always did like him,” remarked Sarah into the silence. “He kept the children from bothering her when she was little.”
    I was surprised. “Isn’t she a few years older than he is?”
    “Born the year before him. Children listened to him though. He’s white.”
    “Is Carrie your daughter?”
    Sarah nodded. “My fourth baby. The only one Marse Tom let me keep.” Her voice trailed away to a whisper.
    “You mean he … he sold the others?”
    “Sold them. First my man died—a tree he was cutting fell on him. Then Marse Tom took my children, all but Carrie. And, bless God, Carrie ain’t worth much as the others ’cause she can’t talk. People think she ain’t got good sense.”
    I looked away from her. The expression in her eyes had gone from sadness—she seemed almost ready to cry—to anger. Quiet, almost frightening anger. Her husband dead, three children sold, the fourth defective, and her having to thank God for the defect. She had reason for more than anger. How amazing that Weylin had sold her children and still kept her to cook his meals. How amazing that he was still alive. I didn’t think he would be for long, though, if he found a buyer for Carrie.
    As I was thinking, Sarah turned and threw a handful of something into the stew or soup she was cooking. I shook my head. If she ever decided to take her revenge, Weylin would never know what hit him.
    “You can peel these potatoes for me,” she said.
    I had to think a moment to remember that I had offered my help. I took the large pan of potatoes that she was handing me and a knife and a wooden bowl, and I worked silently, sometimes peeling, and sometimes driving away the bothersome flies. Then I heard Kevin outside calling me. I had to make myself put the potatoes down calmly and cover them with a cloth Sarah had left on the table. Then I went to him without haste, without any sign of the eagerness or relief I felt at having him nearby again. I went to him and he looked at me strangely.
    “Are you all right?”
    “Fine now.”
    He reached for my hand, but I drew back, looking at him. He dropped his hand to his side. “Come on,” he said wearily. “Let’s go where we can talk.”
    He led the way past the main house away from the slave cabins and other buildings, away from the small slave children who chased each other and shouted and didn’t understand yet that they were slaves.
    We found a huge oak with branches thick as separate trees spread wide to shade a large area. A handsome lonely old tree. We sat beside it putting it between ourselves and the house. I settled close to Kevin, relaxing, letting go of tension I had hardly been aware of. We said nothing for a while, as he leaned back and seemed to let go of tensions of his own.
    Finally, he said, “There are so many really fascinating times we could have gone back to visit.”
    I laughed without humor. “I can’t think of any time I’d like to go back to. But of all of them, this must be one of the most dangerous—for me anyway.”
    “Not while I’m with you.”
    I glanced at him gratefully.
    “Why did you try to stop me from coming?”
    “I was afraid for you.”
    “For me!”
    “At first, I didn’t know why. I just had the feeling you might be hurt trying to come with me. Then when you were here, I realized that you probably couldn’t get back without me. That means if we’re separated, you’re stranded here for years, maybe for good.”
    He drew a deep breath and shook his head. “There wouldn’t be anything good about that.”
    “Stay close to me. If I call, come quick.”
    He nodded, and after a while said, “I could survive here, though, if I had to. I mean if …”
    “Kevin, no ifs. Please.”
    “I only mean I wouldn’t be in the danger you would be in.”
    “No.” But he’d be