Passage to Natchez Page 4

  “Well … yes. If you want to tell me.”

  “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you all about Junebug Horton, from the start! Then you’ll see why I ain’t a good man. It ain’t my fault at all. It’s my mammy’s.”

  “I want to hear,” she said, not only because she wanted to win his good graces, but also because knowing who he was and how he thought might help her protect herself from him.

  “I was hard on you this evening, knocking you about and all,” he said. “I’m sorry I was so rough. But I’ll tell you, you don’t know what a beating is! But I know. As a boy I come to know right well what a beating was.”

  “Your father?”

  “Oh no, girl, no. He was a good man, my father. Never lifted a hand to hurt me. But he died when I was six, seven year old, and my mammy took up to living with his brother. Uncle Jimbo, we’d always called him. I was named after the sorry old goat.”

  “It was him who beat you?”

  “Yep. Black and blue, he’d make me, and for no more reason than that I’d belched at the table, or looked at him sideways, or touched something that was his.”

  “It must have been hard, living like that.”

  “Hard, I reckon! That man taught me how to hate. I ain’t ever forgot how, neither. Hate was the one and only gift he ever give me apart from them beatings.” He paused, suddenly looking sorrowful. “No, that ain’t true. There was one more thing he left me, thanks to my mammy. I still carry it today. Right down in here.” He slapped his chest. “I can feel it like a knot inside me.” He fell into silent brooding.

  Celinda didn’t think she should ask him directly what he was referring to, but she wanted to keep him talking somehow. “Where were you raised?” she asked.

  “Huh? Oh … South Carolina, right near the ocean. Big old thing, the ocean—you ever seen it? No? Well, it’s a big old ugly thing, and stinks. Some folks like the smell. I hate it. To me it smells like whuppings and big ugly faces spitting and cussing at you, and drunk-man’s knuckles busting your jaw. Don’t care if I never smell that smell again.”

  “Did you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Two. One a brother, about ten year older than me. He left home when our pap died, and I never laid eyes on him since and likely never will. And I had an older sister, Beth. But she got killed. Uncle Jimbo shot her dead, right before the hearth of our house while she was stringing beans into a bowl.”

  “Shot her!”

  “That’s right. But he didn’t mean to, or so he said. He was cleaning on his rifle, and blam! There she lay, blood just a-pooling around her. He looks at her and says, ‘I be squashed if I ain’t kilt the gal.’ Then he looks around the room and said, ‘Now, warn’t that a death throe! Look how far she flung them beans!’ That’s all he had to say on the matter. Never even said he was sorry. I believe he thought it was right funny he had killed her.”

  “That’s awful. It’s sad.”

  “Yes indeed. And it was after that he took to beating me so bad, too. Sometimes it was such a hellacious way to live that I wished it had been me instead of Beth who’d died on that hearth. That’s the gospel truth. That’s the life I knew, girl. It was hell on earth, pure and simple. He gave me hell in this world, and thanks to Mammy, he’ll give me hell in the next world, too.”

  There—another cryptic and curious comment. Celinda eagerly awaited the rest of the tale, but to her regret, Horton opened his flask again and drank some more in silence. She thought he was through talking.

  Then he rose, came over and sat down beside her. She wanted to move but knew that would offend him. Huddling into the smallest bundle possible, she endured his presence silently. He held silent, too, for a time, swigging on his flask and looking ever more maudlin. Eventually he sniffed and a tear rolled down his face. Celinda felt even more uncomfortable.

  “I’ll tell you now ’bout the wicked thing my mammy did to me. It happened when my uncle Jimbo was sick to dying—and I was glad he was dying, I’ll tell you. I longed to be free of him. But then Mammy called me in to where he lay, just as gray and sunk in as a corpse already, and there sat an old hag woman who lived in a swampy little woods along the river, and I knowed her for a witch and it scared me half to death. All the young ones thereabouts knew this witch and was afraid of her. She had some kind of mix of bloods in her so that she wasn’t a full darky, nor an Injun, nor a white woman neither, but all of them together, and she talked mighty strange. I stood staring at her, and trying not to look at my uncle on the bed because he was so ugly to see, and because I hated him so and hoped he’d die while I was there, so I could watch. My mammy, she says, ‘Junebug, you’re going to do something good for your uncle here today.’ I says, ‘What?’ And she says, ‘This here witch woman is going to take some of his blood and put it in a potion, and you’re going to drink it.’ My eyes bugged out big and I backed off, and she grabbed me by the shirt and said, ‘Don’t you go running—you’re going to do it and that’s that.’ I says, ‘But why?’ and she says, ‘I’ll tell you after.’

  “The old witch woman leaned over Uncle Jimbo and pricked at the fleshy part of his arm with a knife, and dripped three or four drops of blood into a little bottle, mumbling and saying strange things the whole time. She took that bottle and held it up and mumbled some more, then let out with a scream that made me jump like I don’t know what, and then she took that blood and mixed it up in a cup with some foul mess that was already in it, and raised it above her head. ‘The blood is the life!’ she bellowed out, and then, ‘Without the shedding of blood there is no remission of sins!’ And then she handed me the cup and said to drink it, and not to retch back a bit of it, no matter what.

  “It was the hardest thing I’d ever done to choke that foulness down my throat without spewing it all right back up again. Knowing there was blood in there was bad enough, and wondering what was in there that I didn’t know about was worse. But I drained it on down and held it. They gave me a big drink of water after that to help settle my belly. I asked again, ‘Why’d I have to do that?’ and Mammy looked sorrowful and said, ‘I’ll tell you after Jimbo is dead and buried.’

  “He had his traveling time early the next morning, and we buried him that same day in a plot out near the house. I asked my mammy again about what I’d done, and she commenced to crying all of a sudden and didn’t want to tell me. I kept on asking, and after a time she said, ‘That witch woman put all your uncle’s sins in that blood she drained, and when you drunk it you took them in yourself to spare him from having to go to hell for all his wickedness. So when you die, you’ll go to hell in his place, and there ain’t nary you can do about it, because you’ve took his blood into yourself of your own free will. I’m sorry, Junebug,’ she said. ‘I did it because I’d come to love Jimbo so much that I couldn’t bear to think of him going to hell. Junebug, I’ve damned you in his place.’” Jim Horton broke off his talk for a moment and visibly shuddered. He turned up the flask and took a long swallow.

  “I tell you, girl, no boy has ever cried the way I cried that evening and for two or three days after. There I was, no more than ten year old, and bound for hell for the sins of a man I hated. Carrying his burden of sin, and no way to shrug it off. My own mother had made a sin-eater out of me, and I knew that knot I begun to feel in my chest was Uncle Jimbo’s burden of sins, all down inside me like a nest of snakes. All I could do was sit and feel them sins in there, and cry and dread the day of my judgment.”

  “It must have been hard for you,” Celinda said. The rationalistic streak she had inherited from her father had her mentally deriding Horton for actually believing in such wild notions, but she dared not let that show.

  “I cried a mighty lot, then after I had wept myself dry, I commenced to thinking. I thought, well, if I’m bound for hell and there ain’t no escaping it, why not just make the best of it? Might as well take what life I’ve got and get all the pleasure I can from it, without worrying about the wrongs and rights. I could spend a whole life being righte
ous and it wouldn’t do me no good. And so I upped from there, determined to do whatever came my way that would give me pleasure. If it was to hell with me, then as far as I was concerned it was to hell with the rest. And so it’s been ever since. Me taking care of me. It’ll be that way to the day I die. No need to worry over what can’t be changed, and I reckon there’s worse things a man could live with than a knot inside his chest.”

  He took another swallow, twisted his head and looked at her with bleary eyes. “Well, what do you think of me? Devil of a man, ain’t I, bound for damnation no matter what I do, so I may as well do whatever I want. What do you think about that?” He edged closer, making her tense. “You know, there’s some women I’ve met, they like that kind of wildness and freedom in a man. Like it a lot. You like it, too, I believe. I can see it in your face.” He winked and took another drink, and Celinda filled with dread.

  I wish I was away from here—I wish my father hadn’t died, and I had never met this terrible man. I’m afraid he’ll kill me before I can away from him. She dared not give voice to such thoughts. “I don’t know what I think.”

  “You know, girl, you’re a right appealing little thing even if you are scrawny. Sure wish you’d let yourself take a shine to me.”

  “I liked you better when you were a preacher.”

  “A preacher! Hah!” He laughed wheezingly, shaking his head. “Can you believe a man like me, a preacher? That’s a sweet jest, yes indeed.”

  She seized on the chance to shift the subject matter away from herself. “How’d you come to pretend to be a preacher?”

  He laughed again. Now that he had divested himself of his woeful tale, his spirits seemed brighter. “Let me tell you about that, girl! Back upriver, maybe fifteen, twenty miles, there’s a rough old inn that sets back from the river alongside a little creek. I happened to be spending a night there when in comes this man who said he was the Reverend John Deerfield. We was setting at the supper table when he come in. He asked if there was room for him, and the innkeeper says, ‘There is if you’ll share a bed with this gentleman here,’ and pointed at me. That preacher looked me over like I was Satan’s stepson, let out a big sigh, and said he’d do it if he had to. Right then and there I took a dislike to that psalm-singing jackass. But the way things worked out, I’m glad he come alone.

  “He was one of these full-of-talk souls, and he told us all about how he was bound for Natchez, where some folks had gathered up money to build a big church that he was to be the preacher at. Any talk of big money pricks my ears, and I wished it was me instead of him who was going to Natchez. But I never thought serious about it until that night, when all at once he quit his snoring and took to moaning. I sat up and asked him if he was well, and he just moaned some more. I went down and fetched the innkeeper.

  “This preacher was bad sick. The innkeeper looked him over, yanked his tongue out and studied it, lifted up his eyelids and said, ‘This man will die in the next ten and one-quarter hours.’ And right then I seen my chance. While they was all busy with the dying preacher, I fetched his packs and took his horse and his coat and hat and lit out. From then on I was the Reverend John Deerfield, bound for Natchez and a potful of money. And that’s where I’m still going, and you with me.”

  “But won’t the people in Natchez know you ain’t the real preacher?”

  “I had that same fear myself, until I found a letter in the preacher’s packs, writ by a Mr. Moses Mulhaney of Natchez, telling the good preacher that they was ready for him and looked forward to seeing his face for the first time. I knew then that they didn’t know the man by his features. And the fact is, he wasn’t much older than me nor made all that different anyways, so I could pass even if they’ve heard a description. So I’m setting real pretty. All I got to do is voyage to Natchez, fool the good saints long enough to get that money, and then I’m off, rich and ready to live like a man should. And now you’ll be with me, girl. I like you, Celinda. You’re a sweet, thing, you are, and I’m glad I found you.”

  He reached over and stroked her hair gently, smiling blearily. She refrained from shuddering only with great effort.

  “I’m sleepy,” she said. “And I don’t feel good.”

  “Don’t feel good? What ails you?”

  In truth she was well, but she said, “My belly hurts.”

  He pursed his lips. “It is getting late, and we do need our rest, I reckon. I’ll make us up a sleeping place. I’ll make a roll near the fire. Going to be cool tonight.”

  “Where will I sleep?”

  “Where do you think? Right beside me. You know I ain’t a holy man, so there’s no use to keep up acting like I am.”

  “I can’t sleep the same place as you. That’s for married folk.” She felt dangerously bold for denying him, but the thought of spending a night with him was unabidable.

  He studied her darkly. The firelight gleaming over his rough features also glinted in his liquor-reddened eyes and made him look devilish.

  “I could snap you between my very hands, girl. Look at you, all frail and thin—and you think you can deny me what I want?”

  A seemingly miraculous inspiration came. Perhaps because of Horton’s earlier reference to feeling his uncles sins like a “nest of snakes” inside him, a story stirred up from Celinda’s memory, an incredible tale told of a girl who had lived and died a few miles from the Ames cabin. Astounding as it was, the story was accepted as true throughout the community. “Very well, then,” she said rising. He stood as well, grinning in anticipation. She glanced at him sidewise and, as offhandedly as possible, said, “I only hope you don’t wind up with my snake getting in your belly.”

  “Snake? What are you talking about?”

  “The one in my belly. It’s been there for years, and nothing has been able to get rid of it. It’s what keeps me scrawny. That’s why my belly’s hurting now. It’s stirring around in there.” She hoped she sounded convincing. She herself strenuously doubted the story about the snake in the girl’s belly—but if Junebug Horton could believe that an old witch woman could put a man’s sins inside a little boy, he could probably believe this, too.

  He wasn’t convinced yet, though. “How could there be a snake in your belly? That sounds like some kind of fool Indian notion, or something.”

  “It’s the truth. It slid down my throat once when I was drinking from a creek. I was just a little child. I recall feeling it going down, just a tiny little thing, like a string. It’s been there ever since, living inside me. It’s a full-grown snake now.”

  “No! I never heard of such a thing! Snakes don’t live in folks’ bellies.”

  “I swear it’s true.” She pulled more of the story from memory, and adapted it even in the telling. “My father and mother even saw it sometimes, while I was sleeping. It would come up out of my throat and stick out of my mouth, waggling its head all around. Pap tried to grab it and yank it out, but it was slick and he couldn’t get a hold on it. It would turn and slide right through his hand and back down inside me. You can believe it or not. I know it’s true. You’ll know it, too, if you see it … or if it goes from me into you.”

  Horton looked bewildered and thoroughly disgusted. “I can’t figure how a snake could live inside somebody’s belly!”

  “It’s a water snake. I reckon that’s how it can survive. It swims around in there, all the time.”

  He looked at her with brows knitted. She wondered if she should have picked a more readily believeable tale. Then abruptly he turned away from her and shuddered. “A snake, coming up out of your mouth!” he said. “Sweet Moses on the mountain! Does that happen much?”

  He believed her! Her relief, though unrevealed, was tremendous. “Not much, but whenever it did, my father said that he figured the snake was looking for a man’s body to go into. A man has a bigger belly than a girl has. If I was you, I’d … well, no point in saying more. If you’re bound to have me sleep beside you, I don’t know how I can stop you.” She paused, gave him a quizzica
l look and asked, “Do you sleep with your mouth open?”

  He turned away. “I’ll sleep by myself tonight.”

  He tied Celinda to a tree before he retired. He did provide her a blanket to keep her warm, his only kindness. Any lingering thoughts of escape were rendered moot, and the question of her status settled. She was most assuredly a captive.

  But a clever captive, she reminded herself. By benefit of wits far superior to those of her captor, she would sleep unmolested. There were strengths other than physical ones, and she had used hers well, and felt proud.

  The next morning, he freed her, handed her his knife, and told her to cut off her hair. She complied, fighting tears; her hair was the only part of her person she had ever thought was truly pretty, and now it was gone. He took back the blade, hacked on her tresses some more, smoothing out the ragged job she had done. He picked up her shorn hair from the ground and tossed it into the fire, where it blackened and sizzled and curled into ashes.

  “Your name is George, now. George Ames. When we reach Natchez you’ll be an orphan from Kentucky that the Reverend Deerfield has took under wing. Before then, at the cave, you’ll be a cousin of mine. And you’re a mute—can’t have your voice betraying you. Here, smear some dirt on your face to cover that smooth skin … that’s right. Yes, that’s better. You look more a true boy now.”

  “Why do I have to do this?”

  “You’ll thank me when we get to the cave. If they knowed you for a girl, things would happen to you. Know what I mean?”

  She nodded.

  “All right. Now here. These are some of my extra clothes. Change into them.”

  “Where is the cave?”

  “On up ahead a few miles, on the far side of the river. It’s there we’ll take our passage on a boat and be off for Natchez.”

  “How long will you keep me with you?”

  “Why, where else would you want to be? You stay with me, girl, and you’ll be better off than your daddy ever could have made you. We’ll get that snake out of you, flesh you out some, and you might make a decent-looking she-male yet. Mark my words, Celinda, you’ll bless the day you met Junebug Horton. Someday you will, when I make you rich.” He paused and looked at her deeply. “I know we don’t much know each other yet, but time will take care of that. You and me, we was meant to be together. I felt that almost right off after I met you. I care for you right much, girl, and you’ll soon enough come to care for me. Ain’t that right?”