Through Darkest America-Extended Version (2 page)

A low growl stuck in the buck's throat and he threw himself against his bars. The mare grinned, spread her legs, and put one hand between them. Howie flicked the-whip along her back and she skipped away. Again, he laid the leather easily over her shoulder, snapping it lightly, so there was more noise than damage. A back full of welts told a clear story to a buyer.

The mare quieted, glanced once more at the buck, and went to the back of her pen to urinate. The recently gelded buck looked up blankly at Howie, touching the spot between his legs where the red scar was still healing. Howie watched them a moment longer, then walked back up to the bow. His father took the whip without comment, but
Carolee
stared at him, wide-eyed.

Oh,
Lordee
, Howie thought darkly, if she says anything I'll fair drown her right here, sister or no sister!

Chapter Two

I
t was near ten at night when the barge bumped up against the docks at
Bluevale
and an hour or more after that before Howie finally got to bed. The time didn't matter. He couldn't have slept, no matter what. His eyes popped open every time they closed and his head was full of wonders.

The inn was near the river, just on the edge of town, so there wasn't much to see. A little, though, was plenty for Howie. One glimpse toward the square, lit bright as day.
Lordee
,' more lanterns than you could count, all strung out on wires across the street! Blues, reds, greens, yellows and what all! And people, still up and about. Fiddle music. And laughing.

Somehow that seemed more peculiar than anything. He couldn't remember hearing that many people laughing at one time.

"Couldn't we stop? Just a minute? Just
one
minute, Papa!"

Papa grinned and laid a big hand on his shoulder. "You'll get plenty of fair come morning, boy." He gave Howie a broad wink. "Does sound like they're having fun, don't it, now?"

His mother, with
Carolee
asleep on her shoulder, hurried along. "I reckon fun's what you make it out to be," she said coolly.

"They're just feeling their oats and having a good time," Papa told her. "That's what a fair's all about,
Ev
."

His mother didn't answer. But he could hear them whispering long after they went to bed. They spoke too softly for anyone to listen, though, for the inn was crowded, and there were twenty or so travelers bunked in the big raftered room.

"I suppose you're going to see it," Papa muttered darkly, "come hell or high water." He shook his head and dug into his pocket for coppers. For a long moment, he brooded over the pile of coins. Like they were covered with bugs or something, thought Howie, and grinned. He loved Papa to act mad when he really wasn't.

When he was angry was something else. Papa was a big man, so tall he had to duck to get in most places, and sometimes his broad shoulders scraped both sides of the door. His face was dark from the sun, his long hair a shock of yellow, and his eyes nearly too light to be blue. He and Howie's mother looked like they'd been born on opposite sides of the world. In truth, though, they'd both been raised less than ten miles apart.

Papa reached down and raised
Carolee
high in the air. "Well, honey, you want to see it too, I reckon?"

Howie's mother showed concern. "Milo, I don't know . . ."

"Papa-papa-papa-papa!" shrieked
Carolee
. Her little legs pumped air.

Howie glared at
Carolee
, then studied the sign above the door. It was painted on cloth in big red letters and nailed to the store front:

SEE THE ANSHINT NIGGER
IN HERE. RIL AS LIFE!

"Papa. I
gotta
take
her
?" He knew it was the wrong thing to say before he said it, but it just came out anyway.

"Howie!" frowned his mother, "is that nice, now?"

Tears started in
Carolee's
eyes, which were big and dark like her mother's.

"Howie. Men take care of women."

Howie reddened. Papa wasn't mad-sounding at all, and that made it worse. He looked down at his feet. Papa tousled his hair and dropped two coppers in his hand. "We'll be waiting out here," he said. "I sure ain't
gonna
see it again.
Carolee
. You hold on to Howie and don't let go."

Blankets had been hung inside to form an aisle toward one corner of the room. The rest of the store was empty, but there were bare wooden shelves on one wall, and broken boxes all about. The air was heavy and musty, like the room had stayed wet a long time.

A short man with eyes like a bird took Howie's coins and pointed him toward the back. A farmer was just coming out, and Howie studied him for some clue as to what they might see. If the man felt anything, though, he didn't give it away.

Carolee
began to cry the minute she saw it. Howie tried to make her stop, but it was no use. She shrieked all the louder and wrapped her arms around his legs and buried her head. Howie was thoroughly disgusted. It was like walking around with a big rock tied to your foot.

He tried to control
Carolee
, and look at the stuffed nigger at the same time. In the dim light of the lantern, all he could see was a lean body standing stiff against the wall— leathery, shrunken; pleated features under a gray layer of dust. The eyes were closed, but someone had painted bright staring pupils on the lids. For some reason, that seemed to give real life to the thing, and make it more than something that had been dead and dried out for a long time.

Howie jumped when the short man pulled the blankets aside. He glared at Howie, then at
Carolee
. "Listen, you're
gonna
have to get her out of here."

"I haven't got to
see
nothing yet!" Howie protested.

"Out," said the man. He threw a finger over his shoulder and held the blanket aside. Howie jerked his sister to her feet.

"You went and ruined it," he said harshly, "I hope you're good an' happy!" She pulled away and he wrenched her back, hard enough to hurt.
Carolee
screamed and broke for the door. Howie's mother scooped her up and gave him a questioning frown.

"Howie pulled my arm and broke it!"
Carolee
sobbed. "I didn't do nothing," said Howie.

"Son, did you hurt your sister?" asked Papa.

"I didn't do nothing," Howie repeated. He stuck out his chin to
Carolee
. "
She
made such a fuss the man threw us right out an' I didn't even get to see the nigger."

Howie's mother soothed
Carolee
and rocked her gently. "See, Milo?" She looked at her husband through a dark veil of hair. "I said it wasn't something for a girl to see. You just wouldn't pay any mind. She'll have dreams, now, and be up all night."

"Not 'less you tell her she will," Papa muttered. "Let's get on and out of the street. We come to the fair to have fun an' by God we're going to do just that!"

Later, he asked Howie, "Well, what'd you think? About the nigger?"

"I don't know, Papa. It was all shriveled and funny looking. And black." He looked up at his father. "Why's it all black?"

Papa shrugged. "I reckon that's what color they was." "Why?"

"Don't know, boy. They just was."

"You ever see one? I mean, live?"

Papa laughed. "
Godamn
, boy that was all 'fore the
War
. Your daddy's not
that
old." He pushed Howie forward and announced they could have sweets if they wanted—red sugar candy or the big loops of
blackgum
, whichever.

There was more to see than Howie had even imagined. The town was crowded with people. Papa said some had come from as far as High River and across the Ridge at
Calliesville
and
Newpack
. Even if there hadn't been a fair, Howie decided, there was plenty to look at.
Bluevale's
main street was lined with wooden stores, some with another floor stacked on top of the first. And all had been freshly colored in reds, greens, yellows, and bright blues. Howie wanted to stop and look at each one. He hadn't realized you could get paint in anything but white.

There were booths and stalls everywhere. They sold metal knives, and bright clay dishes that had been colored and glazed until they shined brightly in the spring sun. There were strips of glass buttons, bolts of patterned cloth, and a hundred things Howie couldn't even put a name to. Papa bought his mother a fine set of bone and wood forks and spoons, though she flushed and lowered her dark eyes and said she wouldn't know what to do with something that fancy. Papa just laughed his big laugh and said she'd surely figure some way to show them off right.

There were smells Howie had never smelled before. Pepper, cinnamon, thyme, and sage. There were booths offering fresh fruit pies and red candied apples and small cakes with white sugar on top. It made his mouth water just to walk by, but he didn't ask Papa to stop.
Carolee
, though, wanted one of everything.

Toward noon, his mother took
Carolee
back to the inn for a nap. This pleased Howie greatly, though he was careful not to show it. Papa was relieved too, he was sure, but he kept his face just as straight as Howie's. Little sisters were all right, as far as they went. But they cried a lot and got tired easy and were always in the way when there were men things to do.

Howie was proud to walk down the long board sidewalks with his father. Papa seemed to know everybody. Howie noticed, too, that most of the men had to look up a little when they spoke to him. He walked close on his father's heels so everyone would be sure and know he belonged with this giant of a man with long yellow hair tied at the neck in leather and eyes that were sometimes blue and sometimes the lightest of gray.

Chapter Three

I
f there was a bow, or a set of metal arrowheads, or a bone- steel knife in
Bluevale
that Howie and his father hadn't seen, he decided it wasn't worth looking for. Papa told him, with a broad wink that said this was not information to be shared with anyone else—meaning his mother—that after the meat market, tomorrow there just might be some extra coppers that could go for a few dozen arrowheads, or maybe even that
bluebone
belt knife Howie said fit his hand like it was made to lie there.

In late afternoon there were contests on the edge of town—archery shoots at wooden targets and the axe throw at a white circle on a big oak. Howie's father said it seemed fair enough if a man wanted to pay good money to show off in front of everyone he knew—or make a fool of himself, as the case might be—but as far as he was concerned these were things a man was supposed to know anyway, and it didn't matter much if someone else knew he could do '
em
or not.

Howie wanted to tell his mother all he'd seen in town, but he sensed right away it wasn't a good time for that. You could tell when she had something on her mind; and when she did, it was best to go about your business until whatever it was had run its course.

Howie's father knew the signs, too. And usually what caused them. It was an important something this time, Howie knew, because
Carolee
was left in his charge while Papa and his mother walked a ways toward the river to talk.

Howie was worried. He was twelve and figured a lot of things out for himself, even when they were things he wasn't supposed to think about at all. This had something to do with the fair, he knew—which his mother hadn't wanted to come to in the first place. And it had a lot to do with what his mother had said on the barge the day before. About Colonel Jacob. Though what that could be, he couldn't say.

A small knot grew in his stomach and stayed there until Papa and his mother got back. They were gone an uncommonly long time and every minute gave him the chance to think about maybe
not
getting to see the rest of the fair— which was the very best part. There was The Gardens, where you ate without cooking anything yourself. People just brought things right to you, whatever you wanted. And then the parade, with government soldiers and real horses. Besides that, there'd be pictures from Silver Island pasted up by the Courthouse. You might even recognize someone you knew, who'd gone there. People from all over won all the time and it might be someone from
Bluevale
or a farm right next to your own.

Howie decided that if his mother made Papa take them home and they missed everything he'd never say anything to her again no matter what. He took that back right away, though, and told God he hadn't meant it, and not to write it down anywhere.

The Gardens was a special place, built for the duration of the fair. There was an open tract across from the Courthouse, between
Holdern's
Market and the
Metalsmith's
. The land had been scraped and graveled, and wooden picnic benches set about. A string of colored lanterns added soft light, and there was usually a fiddler or two on hand for the diners.

Papa ordered for everyone. There was a fair cut of meat, charcoaled in the open, generous helpings of potatoes and greens, and a cold fruit punch that had been iced in barrels in the river.