Queen (106 page)

    " Did it hurt?" she whispered, and was surprised to hear him chuckle.

    "Waren't you ever beaten?" he asked her in surprise, and Queen felt almost

    guilty that she, a slave, had not suffered as other slaves.

    " Not really," she said, as if apologizing. "I got the switch a few times."

Davis nodded. "Then you was lucky," he said. "It hurt."

    And yet he did not believe he had the words to tell her how much it had

    hurt, for what words could describe that agony? They said you didn't feel

    it after the first few lashes, that your body and mind went numb, you fell

    unconscious, but that wasn't true. You felt every sting of it, or he did,

    and assumed he was not alone. It cut like a razor across your back, and

    went on cutting and cutting, like acid eating into your flesh, until you

    could not stop yourself crying out in agony, no matter how strong you were.

    And still it went on, pain without end, ceaselessly, unimaginably. You

    couldn't even count the number because it went on and on, and all you could

    feel was

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this terrible pain, and a dreadful anger that someone had the power to do

this to you for no other reason than because you were black.

    If you were lucky, you fainted, but still it went on until you thought

    you must die.

    Then, wonder of wonders, suddenly it stopped, and they cut you down, and

    let you go. You pulled yourself up, struggled to your feet, somehow,

    anyhow, just to try to hang on to some last thread of your dignity, your

    self. You walked away, staggered away, feeling the blood pour out of you,

    running down your back and your legs, and squelching out of your boots,

    if you were lucky enough to have boots. And you hated them with every

    ounce of your being for doing this to you, just because you were black,

    and you swore to yourself a most sacred, solemn vow, by whatever God you

    believed in, or nothing if you did not believe, that someday, somehow,

    somewhere, you would make them pay for what they had done to you. Because

    you were black.

"It hurt like the very devil," he said to Queen again.

    He could not believe it. The power of her gentle hands had sharpened the

    memory of his distress, and he felt that churning, irrational anger

    again, and a desperate, aching sense of injustice. But beyond everything

    else, he felt lonely. He felt tears well up inside him, and fought like

    the tiger he was to control them.

    "I hate them to' what they did," he said, his voice choking with

    unreleased and indescribable emotion.

    The depth of his emotion, his profound distress, pierced Queen's heart.

    She moved her hands around him, and held him close to her, careless of

    the oil that glistened on his back, careless of her modesty, careless of

    everything else in the world but the single driving need she felt to

    alleviate his sorrow.

    "Don't hate," she whispered in his ear. "There's no need to hate now. "

    "It's all there is," Davis said, for hate had become the reason for his

    existence. He lived only for revenge-shapeless, formless revenge-against

    a target he could not define. Someday, somehow, somewhere, someone would

    pay for what they had done to him, but he was patient, for he wanted that

    re-

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venge to be as intense as the pain that had been so casually inflicted on

him.

"No," Queen said. "There is love."

    He nodded gently, as if he were considering what she had said, when in fact

    he was battling an urge to do something he believed must destroy him, for

    if there was not hate, if there was only love, what would he have to live

    for?

    He lost the battle. His need to be not alone was so overwhelming that he

    turned his face to Queen and put his lips to hers, and devoured her into

    him, and she gave her mouth willingly to his, and her body unfolded to him,

    like a lotus to the sun.

    But even as she surrendered to him, she resisted him. As much as she

    trusted him, she could believe he would not hurt her. He sensed that she

    was not ready, and stopped, and looked into her eyes.

    She nodded her head. She loved him so, she was prepared to endure any pain

    he might cause, but he knew the moment had gone, and that she was not

    ready.

    "I will not take what you cannot give," he said. He moved gently, and lay

    back on the floor, and nestled his strong arm around her. She wanted to

    cry, but did not know why, there was no reason to cry. She rested her head

    on his shoulder, and luxuriated in the closeness of him, the feel of him,

    the smell of him. She drifted into a contented sleep, and when she woke he

    was still there.

    He lay on his back, staring at the roof, conscious only that the sweet

    thing lying asleep beside him was a gift more precious than any he

    deserved.

    75

    C~

Nothing seemed to change between them, but Queen believed that something

had. Their lives continued as before, with the ritual they had

established, but whenever she brought him his refreshment in the garden,

he was always outside, and Queen thought he engineered it deliberately,

so he would not be alone with her in the shed again. To let him know how

much she cared for him, and how very much she appreciated his tact and

unselfishness, she would touch his hand sometimes, when they sat together

in the sun. He would respond, and hold her hand for a while, but he never

gave any indication, by word or deed, that he wanted more from her. These

were the most pleasant times for her, and puzzling too, for she wanted

their relationship to be more than it was, but did not want to sacrifice

the simple beauty of what they had.

    He still ate with her in the evenings, only now he would talk a little

    more freely to her, and sometimes offered ambiguous clues to his

    background. She knew he had been a slave, and she knew he resented that

    bondage with a deep and'abiding bitterness, that endured even now, when

    it was over. She knew he had been truculent, and knew he had run away

    several times, only to be caught and lashed for it, and that in itself

    confused her. He was a clever and resourceful man, and she found it hard

    to believe, given his resolute determination in all things, that of his

    many escapes none had succeeded for more than a day or two. It occurred

    to her that perhaps he had not actually wanted to get away, that he

    escaped and allowed himself to be caught again, and endured his

    punishment as if he believed that one day even his Massa must be appalled

    at the torture that had been inflicted on him, and would say enough. It

    would have been a mighty triumph if that had happened, it would have

    destroyed the system from within, but it

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was an impossible dream, which never came true. The fact that he was

prepared to suffer such torment for such an unattainable ideal made her

love him even more, and gave him, in her eyes, the stature of a saint or

a martyr. She sensed his aching loneliness and his feeling of detachment,

of isolation, from other people, and she believed it was her bounden duty

to bring him to peace with his brethren and himself. She was certain that

his place in heaven was secure, even though he was a nonbeliever, for God

could not exclude such a good and caring man. What was not secure was his

place on earth, and she started to think of herself as his salvation, that

she, as a woman, had a redemptive power that would ease his hurt and calm

his soul.

    She wondered about the history of his heart. She knew he had never been

    married and that he had no children, but otherwise he never spoke of

    women. It was possible he had never been in love before, and while Queen

    didn't know if he loved her, she was sure that she loved him. It was a

    generous love, that wanted little for herself, only the knowledge that

    she had, in some way, made him happy. Her faith in her love was so strong

    that she was sure that when she exposed him to it, it would be returned

    a hundredfold.

    Yet she had failed him. She had rejected him because of her own fears of

    physical hurt, and the change she saw in their relationship was that

    since then he had avoided any situation where she might reject him again.

    She had no idea how to achieve her goal, for she was too shy to tell

    Davis of her love in simple terms, fearing he would not understand the

    depth of it. It shocked her to realize that she had never had the

    occasion or the opportunity to tell anyone, except her mother, how much

    she loved them, and no one except her mother had ever said it to her.

    Whatever school there was for love that other people attended, Queen had

    been excluded from it.

She tried to talk about it with Joyce, but it was difficult, for how could

you ask anyone what love is? They sat on the porch one afternoon when the

rest of the family was about their business, rocking in unison, and Queen

wondered, vaguely, about men.

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    Joyce knew the intention behind the quest i ion, and made a

little speech about men, so big and strong and thinking they

could rule the world, but really completely reliant on women.

She stressed the virtues of married life, with its joys and dif

ficulties, but stressed the joys and minimized the difficulties,

for she had another objective. She cared for Queen dearly, and

didn't entirely trust Davis. While she liked the man, admired

him, she saw too many dark forces in him and too much of

the wandering soul in search of some masculine goal, to be

lieve that Davis was ready to settle down with one woman.

And she didn't want Queen to be hurt. Or get into trouble.

    "Still steppin' out with Davis?" she asked casually, in the little

    silence that followed her talk about matrimony.

    Queen nodded, although she didn't know if it was true. They went together

    to church on Sundays, but otherwise they never saw each other outside the

    house. They had different afternoons off, and he never asked her out.

    Joyce didn't care if they were actually courting or not, they were

    constantly in each other's company, and she knew how much Queen loved the

    man. She could read it in her shining eyes.

    "Ain't doin' more than steppin' out with him?" Joyce asked her.

The question irritated Queen, and she shook her head.

    "I don't even know where he lives," she said, as proof of her evidence.

    "Down yonder a ways," Joyce told her, nodding her head in the direction

    of the river, but being deliberately vague. "He got a li'l shack by the

    river, Abram say. 'Tain't much of a place, but Davis say it good enough

    for him."

She could not resist a word of caution to her friend.

    "Be careful, missy," she said. "Don't let him get too close. The man

    don't even love himself. He cain't love anyone else."

But Queen didn't want to hear that.

The following Thursday she made herself as pretty as could be, and left

the house late. She went to see Abram and asked him exactly where Davis

lived, claiming she had a message to deliver from the sisters. She found

her way to the shack, intending to wait outside until he came home, but

it was warm, and she wanted shelter. She tapped on the door, and saw that

650 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN

it was not locked or barred. She opened the door and called out his name,

but no one was there. Feeling both excited and guilty, she went inside.

    It was what she might have expected, a sparse and spartan room, furnished

    with only a rough bed, a chair, and a broken table. There was a small

    trunk that was locked and she guessed that was where he kept his few

    clothes. Although he was always clean and tidy, for Queen did his

    laundry, he didn't have many clothes, and seemed uninterested in them.

    There was a tin plate and mug and a knife, and some bread and cheese in

    a small meat safe. Beyond that, there was nothing to indicate that anyone

    lived there.

    Yet it was redolent of him. The sense of his presence was almost tangible

    to her, and she lay on his bed and put her face to the blanket, and was

    sure there was a lingering smell of him. Or if there was not, it didn't

    matter, because she could believe that there was. Tingling with

    anticipation of him, she lay waiting for him to come home.

    When she heard footsteps approaching, she got up from the bed. She went

    to the small, rectangular hole that was the window, pushed aside the sack

    that covered it, and stared at the nearby river. When the door opened,

    she turned to greet him, but did not smile.