At first she thought the lump in the road was clay thrown up by a trucker's wheel. Then Beatrice saw the mess of feathers. Six or seven geese stood in the right-of-way, staring at the blood, their black heads rigid above white throats. Unmoved by passing wind or familiar violence, they fixed their gaze on dead flesh and something more, a bird on the wing. It whirled in a thicket of fog that grew up from fields plowed and turned to winter. It joined other spirits exhaled before dawn, creatures that once had crept or flapped or crawled over the land. Beatrice had heard her mother tell of men who passed as spirits. They hid in limestone caves by the river, hooded themselves inside the curved wall, the glistening rock. Then just at dark they appeared, as if they had the power to split the earth open to release them. White-robed, faceless horned heads, they advanced with torches over the water, saying, We are the ghosts of Shiloh and Bull Run fight! Neighbors who watched at the bridge knew each man by his voice or limp or mended boots but said nothing, let the marchers pass on. Then they ran their skinny hounds to hunt other lives down ravines, to save their skins another night from the carrion beetles, spotted with red darker than blood, who wait by the grave for the body's return to the earth. Some years the men killed scores, treed them in the sweetgums, watched a beast face flicker in the starry green leaves. Then they burned the tree. Smoke from their fires still lay over the land where Beatrice travelled. Out of this cloud the dead of the field spoke to her, voices from a place where women's voices never stop: They took my boy down by Sucarnochee creek. He said, "Gentlemen, what have I done?" They says, "Never mind what you have done. We just want your damned heart." After they killed him, I built up a little fire and laid out by him all night until the neighbors came in the morning. I was standing there when they killed him, down by Sucarnochee creek. I am a mighty brave woman, but I was getting scared the way they were treating me, throwing rocks on my house, coming in disguise. They come to my bed where I was laying, and whipped me. They dragged me out into the field so that the blood strung across the house, and the fence, and the cotton patch, in the road, and they ravished me. Then they went back into my house and ate the food on the stove. They have drove me from my home. It is over by DeSotoville, on the other side in Choctaw. I had informed of persons whom I saw dressing in Ku-Klux disguise; had named the parties. At the time I was divorced from Dr. Randall and had a school near Fredonia. About one month before the election some young men about the county came in the night-time; they said I was not a decent woman; also I was teaching radical politics. They whipped me with hickory withes. The gashes cut through my thin dress, through the abdominal wall. I was thrown into a ravine in a helpless condition. The school closed after my death. From the fog above the bloody entrails of the bird, the dead flew toward Beatrice like the night crow whose one wing rests on the evening while the other dusts off the morning star. They gave her such a look: Child, what have you been up to while we were trying to keep body and soul together? But never mind that now. Here's what you must do: Tie a red flannel string around your waist. Plant your roots when the moon is dark. Remember your past, and ours. Always remember who you are. Don't let those men fool you about the ways of life even if blood must sign your name.
Minnie Bruce Pratt - 1946-
Walking Back Up Depot Street
In Hollywood, California (she'd been told) women travel on roller skates, pull a string of children, grinning, gaudy- eyed as merry-go-round horses, brass wheeled under a blue canopy of sky. Beatrice had never lived in such a place. This morning, for instance, beside Roxboro Road, she'd seen a woman with no feet wheel her chair into fragile clumps of new grass. Her legs ended at the ankle, old brown cypress knees. She furrowed herself by hand through the ground. Cars passed. The sky stared down. At the center of the world's blue eye, the woman stared back. Years revolved, began to circle Beatrice, a ring of burning eyes. They flared and smoked like the sawmill fires she walked past as a child, in the afternoon at 4 o'clock, she and a dark woman, past the cotton gin, onto the bridge above the railroad tracks. There they waited for wheels to rush like the wings of an iron angel, for the white man at the engine to blow the whistle. Beatrice had waited to stand in the tremble of power. Thirty years later she saw the scar, the woman who had walked beside her then, split but determined to live, raising mustard greens to get through the winter. Whether she had, this spring, Beatrice did not know. If she was sitting, knotted feet to the stove, if the coal had lasted, if she cared for her company, pictures under table glass, the eyes of children she had raised for others. If Beatrice went back to visit at her house, sat unsteady in a chair in the smoky room, they'd be divided by past belief, the town's parallel tracks, people never to meet even in distance. They would be joined by the memory of walking back up Depot Street. She could sit and say: I have changed, have tried to replace the iron heart with a heart of flesh. But the woman whose hands had washed her, had pulled a brush through her hair, whose hands had brought her maypops, the green fruit and purple flowers, fierce eyes of living creatures-- What had she given her back, that woman, anything all these years? Words would not remake the past. She could not make it vanish like an old photograph thrown onto live coals. If she meant to live in the present, she would have to work, do without, send money, call home long distance about the heat.