little louder now that his head was raised. He craned his body around and looked over toward Lemuel. That’s when he saw them. The two men lay half-prone. Even in the dim light he knew who they were: Saxon and his companion. They seemed to be engaged in some delicate work, the little one especially. He leaned in closer to the object than Saxon, and hisshoulders moved backwards and forwards, like a man working with a tiny saw.
As if feeling the touch of his eyes, the two men stopped their work. Their heads turned toward William in unison. There was little expression in their faces, neither threat nor surprise, nor any message that William could discern. He held their gazes for a moment, then looked away and lowered himself back down as if to sleep. A few moments later he heard the noise again.
He closed his ears to it and looked up at the sky. He tried to think of nothing, but instead found himself thinking of many things: a flock of pigeons that had once darkened the sky from horizon to horizon in passing, a child from his youth who’d been his companion but was lost to him now, the shape of Dover’s back viewed from the side, with candlelight warm on her contours. He remembered all these things and many more, but eventually his mind settled on the limbs of the tree that had supported his childhood house. Nan told him that the tree house had been his father’s idea. That white man had dreamed it. He pleaded with Nan’s master for permission to build it, striking a bargain wherein he gave much of his own labor into the man’s service. He became a slave of sorts, so that he might live as man and wife with another slave. Though he knew little of housing construction, he set himself to the study of it. He couldn’t pay for proper lumber and made do with cast-offs from the mill. No two boards were ever of the same length or thickness. He accepted oak or pine or even lesser woods, and he used what tools he could borrow or rent. They were rough implements whose functions he learned or invented to suit his needs. He worked early in the morning and late in the evening, constructing around and into that great tree a strange, squat structure that seemed part of the tree itself. It was filled with cracks and weaknesses and was lopsided in a variety of ways. But for all that it did have its own charm. It didn’t take life too seriously, and yet it had as its central pillar a living tree so old it predatedwhite settlement of the Chesapeake. Off to one side were the glistening waters of a harbor, and in the opposite direction lay the Bay itself. In summer what breeze there was found its way to the house, and in winter there was just enough shelter to break the force of the gales. The house suited Nan and she loved her white man for having been its architect. She used to tell her boy-child that if fate had been different he and his father would have fished together from the beach. On starlit nights they might have sat on the shore and watched the play of light across the water. If fate had allowed them a little peace, life just might have been tolerably beautiful.
But William couldn’t feel the same way. As much as he loved his mother, he could not share in her adoration of this man. He had no image of him, no drawing or engraving. They had never spent those idyllic evenings fishing together. He was a man composed of nothing save Nan’s words. And on this her words were not enough. They lived in a world divided by race. Of course, he knew of many violations across the color lines, but these were crimes of lustful owners upon the owned. That was very different to the tale of love between the races that his mother claimed. There was nothing in it that he could twin with the world around him.
William tried to roll to his other side, but was trapped by his chains and couldn’t complete the motion. He shook his head to clear it. Yes, he wanted the memory of that house, but he wanted nothing to do with the man who had built it. He
As if feeling the touch of his eyes, the two men stopped their work. Their heads turned toward William in unison. There was little expression in their faces, neither threat nor surprise, nor any message that William could discern. He held their gazes for a moment, then looked away and lowered himself back down as if to sleep. A few moments later he heard the noise again.
He closed his ears to it and looked up at the sky. He tried to think of nothing, but instead found himself thinking of many things: a flock of pigeons that had once darkened the sky from horizon to horizon in passing, a child from his youth who’d been his companion but was lost to him now, the shape of Dover’s back viewed from the side, with candlelight warm on her contours. He remembered all these things and many more, but eventually his mind settled on the limbs of the tree that had supported his childhood house. Nan told him that the tree house had been his father’s idea. That white man had dreamed it. He pleaded with Nan’s master for permission to build it, striking a bargain wherein he gave much of his own labor into the man’s service. He became a slave of sorts, so that he might live as man and wife with another slave. Though he knew little of housing construction, he set himself to the study of it. He couldn’t pay for proper lumber and made do with cast-offs from the mill. No two boards were ever of the same length or thickness. He accepted oak or pine or even lesser woods, and he used what tools he could borrow or rent. They were rough implements whose functions he learned or invented to suit his needs. He worked early in the morning and late in the evening, constructing around and into that great tree a strange, squat structure that seemed part of the tree itself. It was filled with cracks and weaknesses and was lopsided in a variety of ways. But for all that it did have its own charm. It didn’t take life too seriously, and yet it had as its central pillar a living tree so old it predatedwhite settlement of the Chesapeake. Off to one side were the glistening waters of a harbor, and in the opposite direction lay the Bay itself. In summer what breeze there was found its way to the house, and in winter there was just enough shelter to break the force of the gales. The house suited Nan and she loved her white man for having been its architect. She used to tell her boy-child that if fate had been different he and his father would have fished together from the beach. On starlit nights they might have sat on the shore and watched the play of light across the water. If fate had allowed them a little peace, life just might have been tolerably beautiful.
But William couldn’t feel the same way. As much as he loved his mother, he could not share in her adoration of this man. He had no image of him, no drawing or engraving. They had never spent those idyllic evenings fishing together. He was a man composed of nothing save Nan’s words. And on this her words were not enough. They lived in a world divided by race. Of course, he knew of many violations across the color lines, but these were crimes of lustful owners upon the owned. That was very different to the tale of love between the races that his mother claimed. There was nothing in it that he could twin with the world around him.
William tried to roll to his other side, but was trapped by his chains and couldn’t complete the motion. He shook his head to clear it. Yes, he wanted the memory of that house, but he wanted nothing to do with the man who had built it. He
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