stood looking down at me. And you know what, so disappointed was he to be robbed of the good time he’d looked forward to, of torturing me, that he turned on the man who shot me and hit him. Right there, as I was dying, they began to fight.
This is what I want you to remember, he said. Not how painful having my teeth pulled out must have been.
Kate shook her head.
I don’t understand, she said.
We are very old, our people. Not many could have suffered as we have and survived. We have had many lifetimes as human beings to learn of the many, many ways we do not wish to be.
But we are human, she said, and therefore we already are every way there is.
That’s true, he said, but there is still a bit of room for choice. Which is why it is worthwhile to remain in contact with your ancestors.
They were now walking on the same road, side by side. A pale, full moon was setting.
Did you realize ancestors have jobs? he asked.
I bet the slaves who died didn’t want to hear that! she said, and laughed.
He smiled, and a bit of blood dropped in the red dirt.
Do you think when a tree dies all its work is finished? Of course not. It then has the work of decomposing, of becoming soil in which other trees grow. It is very careful to do this, left to itself, and not hauled off to a lumberyard. If it is hauled off to a lumberyard and if nothing is left to decompose and nurture the young trees coming up . . . Disaster!
She thought of clear-cutting. Clear-cuts she had seen along the Klamath River in northern California. The landscape that had been so lush and powerful was left bare and desolate; the young trees coming up had no shade to protect them from the blistering sun that baked the earth to ash. They were as brittle as matchsticks and unable to grow tall. They would never know the grandeur of the parents and grandparents who preceded them. How would they ever guess what their true nature was?
Our job is to remind you of ways you do not want to be, he said. Sometimes I think this message is the hardest to get across because it flies in the face of our need to have revenge. There is also the question of loyalty to the dead. We feel we need to avenge, to make right. To heal by settling a score. Healing cannot be done by settling a score.
As he said this, he laughed, as if the very thought were absurd. Blood flew all over the place, some of it flecking her white dress. But in just that moment her dress changed into a buffalo skin and the flecks of blood didn’t show. Hmmm . . . she thought. Looking down, for just a moment, there was a hoof.
What’s your name, by the way? she asked.
Remus, he said.
Remus? Like Uncle Remus? You’re kidding.
No, he said. I know that name is considered a joke by some people. It was a common name for slaves. The masters liked it because it made us seem ridiculous.
The original Remus was suckled by wolves, she said, and with his brother Romulus, he founded the city of Rome.
Really, he said. I’ve never been to Rome.
Where have you been? she asked.
Only here, he said. Only with you.
They were now passing an enormous field of corn. Remus was barefoot and wearing ragged gray cotton trousers. Kate walked behind him looking at his footprints. Each time he lifted his foot one print would fill with water and the other with blood.
In the one that filled with water she saw her own face.
They sat abruptly at the side of road near the cornfield. Kate found an ear of corn in her hand. She began to strip its husk.
I used to have to plant, harvest, shuck, and shell a field of corn this size every year, said Remus. After shucking so much corn it took the rest of winter for the palms of my hands to heal, to grow new skin. Consequently, I hate corn.
No, you don’t, said Kate. You hate having been forced to deal with it. Corn is innocent. It had nothing to do with enslaving you.
Remus looked down at her. Who’s the ancestor here? he joked.
We living have jobs too, she said, beginning to pull the
This is what I want you to remember, he said. Not how painful having my teeth pulled out must have been.
Kate shook her head.
I don’t understand, she said.
We are very old, our people. Not many could have suffered as we have and survived. We have had many lifetimes as human beings to learn of the many, many ways we do not wish to be.
But we are human, she said, and therefore we already are every way there is.
That’s true, he said, but there is still a bit of room for choice. Which is why it is worthwhile to remain in contact with your ancestors.
They were now walking on the same road, side by side. A pale, full moon was setting.
Did you realize ancestors have jobs? he asked.
I bet the slaves who died didn’t want to hear that! she said, and laughed.
He smiled, and a bit of blood dropped in the red dirt.
Do you think when a tree dies all its work is finished? Of course not. It then has the work of decomposing, of becoming soil in which other trees grow. It is very careful to do this, left to itself, and not hauled off to a lumberyard. If it is hauled off to a lumberyard and if nothing is left to decompose and nurture the young trees coming up . . . Disaster!
She thought of clear-cutting. Clear-cuts she had seen along the Klamath River in northern California. The landscape that had been so lush and powerful was left bare and desolate; the young trees coming up had no shade to protect them from the blistering sun that baked the earth to ash. They were as brittle as matchsticks and unable to grow tall. They would never know the grandeur of the parents and grandparents who preceded them. How would they ever guess what their true nature was?
Our job is to remind you of ways you do not want to be, he said. Sometimes I think this message is the hardest to get across because it flies in the face of our need to have revenge. There is also the question of loyalty to the dead. We feel we need to avenge, to make right. To heal by settling a score. Healing cannot be done by settling a score.
As he said this, he laughed, as if the very thought were absurd. Blood flew all over the place, some of it flecking her white dress. But in just that moment her dress changed into a buffalo skin and the flecks of blood didn’t show. Hmmm . . . she thought. Looking down, for just a moment, there was a hoof.
What’s your name, by the way? she asked.
Remus, he said.
Remus? Like Uncle Remus? You’re kidding.
No, he said. I know that name is considered a joke by some people. It was a common name for slaves. The masters liked it because it made us seem ridiculous.
The original Remus was suckled by wolves, she said, and with his brother Romulus, he founded the city of Rome.
Really, he said. I’ve never been to Rome.
Where have you been? she asked.
Only here, he said. Only with you.
They were now passing an enormous field of corn. Remus was barefoot and wearing ragged gray cotton trousers. Kate walked behind him looking at his footprints. Each time he lifted his foot one print would fill with water and the other with blood.
In the one that filled with water she saw her own face.
They sat abruptly at the side of road near the cornfield. Kate found an ear of corn in her hand. She began to strip its husk.
I used to have to plant, harvest, shuck, and shell a field of corn this size every year, said Remus. After shucking so much corn it took the rest of winter for the palms of my hands to heal, to grow new skin. Consequently, I hate corn.
No, you don’t, said Kate. You hate having been forced to deal with it. Corn is innocent. It had nothing to do with enslaving you.
Remus looked down at her. Who’s the ancestor here? he joked.
We living have jobs too, she said, beginning to pull the
Similar Books
