Date: Sun, 14 Dec 2014 09:05:59 -0800 From: Seth Kirkcauldy Subject: Weeping Willow 4 Weeping Willow - Part 4 of 4 copyright 2014 Seth Kirkcauldy seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This story may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the author's permission. The author grants the Nifty Archive a non-exclusive, worldwide, royalty-free, perpetual, and non-cancellable license to display this work. This story is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are a product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously. This story contains erotic situations between intergenerational males of differing racial backgrounds. If it is illegal for you to read this, or you just think it's yucky, please leave now. Please donate to the Nifty Archive. At the end of the longest day of James' life... The tears streamed steadily down his face as he nailed the lid onto Mud's plain, wooden casket. The pine box was nearly white, glowing in the flickering lamplight of the barn; and the knot in the boy's throat would hardly let him swallow around it. Losing Mud was somehow greater than the losses he'd already endured, and the heavy silver knife in his hand provided a needed anchor, keeping the whelming misery from carrying him away. He held the knife carefully in his hand, blinked through his tears, and began to carve upon the lid. Much earlier that same day... "I shot a nigger in the cotton last night," the commander announced over breakfast that fateful morning. With his fork he punctured a fried egg yolk into his grits and shoveled the sodden mixture into his mouth, painting his beard with stripes of yellow. James gasped before he could think about it, and his aunt quickly shook her head at him in alarm. He knew it could not be Mud, and silently chastised himself for the reaction. "An escaped slave, probably," his uncle replied, misinterpreting James' dismay. "Doc Galen is patching him up before he gets put in jail to await his owner. There should be a fifty-dollar reward, at least; maybe a hundred. We'll probably see a lot more; folks are saying the Underground Railroad has had a big break in the line and all the hiding niggers are starting to get desperate. I hope they all run through here; it's like hunting jackrabbits." He chortled to himself at this, and James' eyes sought out his aunt's; but she was watching her husband in a manner that indicated she had learned never to take her eyes off him. She shivered as the tines of the man's fork scraped against the plate, steel on bone. "I'm heading into town to see that Doc Galen is taking care of my trespasser. You finish up quick, boy. I want the mule's stall cleaned before lunch and a second coat of paint put on that wagon." James nodded, and got a rough cuff on the side of his head for it. "You say 'Yes, Sir' when I speak to you." "Yes, Sir." The commander's expressionless gaze moved off of James and on to his wife, but only hovered there a moment before he turned and left the house. They waited hardly a breath before they were whispering. "Mud?" She asked frantically. James shook his head. "He's in a hole we dug under the floorboards of the barn. He hasn't been going out in either day or night since the commander got home. But even so, I'm going to go check to be sure. Do you have breakfast for him?" Mary rose from the table and retrieved a large paper packet out of a cupboard where she had been hiding Mud's food since the commander had surprised them a few weeks prior with his early return. Grease darkened the paper, and the package still felt warm in James' hands. He also grabbed a tin cup and raced out into the yard to fill the bucket by the pump. With his hands full, he still managed to pull the door to the barn closed behind him, ensuring they'd have at least a bit of warning if the commander made an early return. He set the bucket on the floor and prised up the boards, revealing the sweaty and frightened face of Mud. "Water?" The man rasped hopefully. James dipped the tin cup in the cool water and brought it to Mud's trembling lips. The man's large hand grasped James' smaller one in a moist grip as he gulped down the water. "More," he rasped, and then drank the second cup as quickly as the first. His eyes met James' as he finished it off and he nodded gratefully. "Thank da good Lor'; He done sent His angel a mercy." "You look about dead," James told him in a furious whisper. "I'm so sorry." "I don' know how long I can last like dis. I's bein' baked alive. Least the groun' is a bit cooler dan da barn." "Good thing you dug out that hole like I asked." Mud rolled his eyes as he stood from the excavation, stretching. "Yeah, ya's a genius. Will ya douse me?" James obligingly took the bucket and poured most of it over Mud's head, but saved enough for another drink or two. Mud sighed in relief, and then laughed in pleasure, closing his eyes for a moment to relish the feeling. "I know you hate it, Mud, but you have to stay out of the commander's way." "Do dat man have a name?" James looked at him in puzzlement. "I don't know. I've never heard anyone call him anything but Commander. Now, you stay in this hole and you stay quiet." Mud narrowed his eyes and grumbled, "I knows someone else who could wear dat name." "Don't be ridiculous; I'm an admiral at the very least." James paused a moment and then asked tremulously, "Have you ever wanted to fuck an admiral?" Mud chuckled, but squinted at him with a pained expression. "Boy, I ain't ever felt less sexy dan I do right now." James sighed in disappointment but said, "I miss being with you, is all; I should probably get my chores done, anyway. Now you stay hidden. He'll kill you. He shot someone in the cotton last night." Mud frowned, his brow crinkling across practiced lines. "I knows it; I heard 'im do it. Dat boy live?" "Yes. He's being patched by the doctor so his owner can come get him." "Prolly a re-ward. Dey say folks is huntin' escaped slaves fer da bounty." "We'll get you out, Mud. I've come up with a plan; Aunt Mary and I are working on it." Mud grasped his hand and kissed it. "Don' get hurt, now; I don' want dat at all." "We'll be careful." *** James' uncle was a bastard when he was sober and a dangerous bastard when he was not. James became convinced that his uncle was possessed by a demon. For the most part, the dark evil lay coiled inside the man, looking out at the world with its cold, dead gaze, simply waiting; and in the early days of Commander Willett's return, James found himself nervously wondering what the lurking entity waited for. He did not have to wait long: it was whisky. The alcohol was a fire that burned away the demon's ropes; and through the slits of his uncle's half- lidded eyes James could watch the creature uncurl from its captive crouch and stretch its misshapen limbs to fill his uncle's skin. It attached itself inside the flesh with its thorny appendages of lowered inhibitions and unwarranted confidence. The demon had trouble speaking with the commander's mouth, its words an incomprehensible slurry of hate and filth; but it excelled at controlling his arms and legs. It brutally struck the things for which it aimed. The commander generally drank at home; but on this night he wished to celebrate his capture of the escaped slave, and so he only drank enough to fray the demon's bonds before he faltered out the door to head into town. James and his aunt both heaved a sigh as the door closed, the weight of evil having been momentarily lifted from their chests. "Are you all right?" James asked his aunt, indicating her bruised cheek. She flinched from his hand. "I'll be fine. When he goes too far, I'll stop it." "He's gone too far," James answered her, but she wouldn't meet his eyes, so he grabbed a wrapped packet of food from its hiding place and left the house to check on Mud. Although the sun was down, the barn still greedily held the heat; James was sure it was enough to bake his aunt's breakfast biscuits. He idly checked that Buchanan had water even as he knelt on the floorboards and once again pried up the wooden slats of Mud's cage. He wasn't there. James' heart stuttered in his chest and fear ran an icy finger up his spine. Lurching to his unsteady feet, he swung his gaze around the dark corners of the barn. "Mud!" He hissed, as loudly as he dared. "Mud?" He was blind with panic when he staggered into the dark yard and toward their spot by the river. "Mud!" The guardian cattails cut at his arms with their green knives, flaying his skin in his hurry. But when he stumbled to his knees in their bed of soft leaves, he gasped in relief and took in the sight before him. Mud was bathing in the river. The man was close to the bank so that the moonlit water covered him from the waist down. The river was a sinuous tongue of mercury that didn't cover him modestly so much as tease and tempt with quicksilver licks. Massive black muscles appeared blue, painted in soft light from the rising moon. Mud sluiced water along his skin and hummed a hymn softly. The lascivious water gurgled throatily in reply. James' panic did not recede; it got devoured. His lust rose up within him and swallowed every other emotion he had. Even his anger at being so frightened was consumed in the flames that suddenly roared in his ears. "Mud." The man turned to the sound, and his face broke into a welcome grin, white teeth glowing metallic in the reflected light. "Hello, James." "Come here," his young voice was shaking. His prick was throbbing. Mud assessed him a moment, and then his full lips quirked into a challenging smirk. "Come an' get me." He turned his back on the boy, and stretched his arms upwards to the sky, letting the water lap contentedly at the dark crease beneath his rounded buttocks. James groaned low in his throat, and then started yanking at his articles of clothing, trying to remove them all without ever letting his eyes off of the beautiful man in the moonlight. With his frantic fumbling he managed to scatter his shirt, pants, and drawers; but he had to sit down to pull off his boots. Mud scooped a handful of water and let it dribble over his strong shoulders and back, tracing his scars as if they were a silver intaglio. "Ya comin', boy?" James groaned again, but this time in frustration; then was finally free of the boots - which went flying - and he waded in the cool Mississippi River toward Mud. The silt of the riverbed squeezed between his toes, a silken morass trying to impede his progress; but a naked Mud was his goal and the jealous river had no chance at all. James pressed his face against the warm, solid back and wrapped his arms around the rippled muscles of Mud's stomach. He groaned a third time as his hard teenage cock slid smoothly up against the man's thick leg, and he held it there as Mud pushed his leg back against him, grinding wickedly. "Good Lord," James groaned and Mud chuckled happily. "I don' think ya ever said dat befoe ya met me." James huffed, his amused breath roiling hotly across Mud's cool skin. "I think I've learned to say a lot of things from you. Will you fuck me, Mud?" With his face pressed up against the warmth of Mud's back, he could feel the reaction in the big body. The solid heartbeat seemed to stutter a moment, and then began pumping blood double-time, as if there were an emergency demand somewhere. James smiled and dropped his hand from Mud's stomach to where the very proud erection now stood at attention. He ran his fingertips around the bottom of the shaft and finally earned a groan of his own. "Yeah, I can do dat fer ya." Mud's voice was ragged when James' other hand dropped to his sac and squeezed the orbs gently. "Ahhhh. But I's gonna try somethin' else first." Mud turned slowly in James' arms and bent down and kissed him deeply, sending his thick tongue to paint the boy's mouth with his own saliva. "Wow," James breathed. "I been thinkin' I need ta do dis dif'rently dan I been." He seemed a bit nervous, and kissed James again. While their mouths were sealed, Mud backed them up a few more steps so the water only lapped at the tops of James' thighs. Mud dropped to his knees in the silt and faced the boy's stiff prick determinedly. "Ya gots a nice prick, James. I don' want ya ta ever think I don' like it." "I don't think thaGOOD LORD ALMIGHTY." Mud's mouth was the softest, wettest, and hottest thing that James could ever imagine. It swept down the shaft to engulf him whole while Mud's tongue twisted all around it. James missed the look of utter concentration on Mud's handsome face because he couldn't take his eyes off the spot where Mud's plump lips nuzzled in his pubic hair while the man sucked slowly. He was fascinated and in a state of disbelief. While it felt absolutely amazing, he wasn't sure how he felt about having this muscular, beautiful man kneeling in front of him. Mud's eyes opened and sought out his, and at the look on James' face, his mouth widened into a grin, still full of James' hardness. He drew back slowly and kissed the tip, never letting his gaze falter from James'. "I love ya," Mud said simply, letting his tongue slide out to wrap around the head. The man's big hands rubbed up James' chest to stroke at his face. James looked down to watch the large mouth devour him again, and he decided he liked Mud kneeling just fine, after all. Mud didn't have a lot of technique, but James didn't need much. The warm suction drove him out of his mind. While the rest of his body had been stretched upon the rack of adolescence, he had not yet grown very large down there, so Mud had no problem engulfing him all in his mouth to nurse gently and rhythmically. What drove James over the edge, though, was while in that position, Mud slid his tongue under his testicles to lap at them slowly. "Good Lord," James hissed the borrowed phrase, and then proceeded to do some sharing of his own. His whole body was bucking and shuddering as Mud drew back from the organ, and his contractions hurled a pearly spear completely over Mud's kneeling body to join the Mississippi River. The next volley only made it to the heaving black shoulder, draping across it like an African warrior's ivory necklace. James continued to be wracked by spasms as Mud took hold and used his large hand to gently pump the remaining semen between them. James' eyes were squeezed closed and his nostrils flared as he tried to breathe. Mud chuckled again. "I see dat li'l Davy has a point about yer nose." But now James was regarding Mud solemnly, his chest still heaving. He leaned toward the man, and Mud got ready to pull him into a kiss, but James pressed his mouth to Mud's shoulder instead, at the juncture of his neck, where he bit him lightly. Then using his tongue, he gently lapped up the necklet of spend from the muscular flesh. When he had finally finished and stood straight, his eyes were wide and his breathing had not improved, but now he didn't quite look Mud in the eye. For his part, Mud looked at James' shiny lips, and then he raised his large hand to his own mouth and sucked a bit of the white liquid off it. His eyebrows shot up and he took a second taste. James watched him do this silently, his mouth slightly parted; so it was an easy thing for Mud to move his hand to the boy and gently feed him the rest of it. The soft tongue lapped at him hungrily, bathing the dark skin dutifully. "Ya like dat, eh?" Mud's voice was scratched by his desire. "Yours is better," James whispered, sucking Mud's thumb completely in his mouth to slurp the last of his fluid from him. Mud rose from the water and lifted James easily in his arms, carrying him to their soft bed beneath the willow. He lay beside him and stroked the boy's chest absently, letting the warm night breeze dry the river from their bodies. "You scared me tonight," James said somberly. Mud propped up on his elbow, chin in hand to look at him. "Did ya think I was gonna bite it off?" James giggled unexpectedly, but as he'd done once before, stopped himself from the childish sound, and became serious. "You weren't in the barn. I couldn't find you." "I just cain't stay in dat hole so long. I's real sorry I scared ya, but I just cain't stay dere all da time." "He'll kill you, Mud; or send you back." "I knows it. I hid until he left fer town. I's not taken a bath fer a lon' time, and was needin' one fiercely." He grinned then. "I's been thinkin' about doin' dat ta yer prick fer a while; I gots no regrets." "Why'd you do that?" James finally asked, and then noting the look of concern on Mud's face, he elaborated. "I loved it. There's only one thing I've ever liked better and you promised to do that next. But... well, I just never thought you'd be interested to... you're not really like me. I don't want you to do things that you don't want, Mud. That wouldn't make me happy." Mud's large fingers circled a small, pale nipple and plucked it gently. James almost forgot what he was asking about and hissed and thrashed instead. Mud stopped, though, so he could get James' full attention. "I want ta make ya happy. More dan anythin', I want ta see ya get all dat ya deserve. I love ya." Mud sighed heavily and shook his head. "I dunno how much time we gots left; stories like ourn don' get happy endin's. But I never want ya ta think dat I was just usin' ya. When ya think about dis later in yer life, ya might hate me fer what we done, but I hope ya at least remember dat I love ya." James shook his head. "I could never hate you. Why would I hate you for making me the happiest I've ever been? And I'm the one who started all this!" "Yer a boy now. Things look dif'rent when ya's a man. Ya might change yer mind about what happened here." "When I'm a man, I plan to come find you, wherever you end up." Mud smiled sadly. "Is dat so?" "Yes. Why do you look so unhappy?" "I feel Mississippi wakin' up after a long, slow sleep. It's shakin' off its laziness, an' dat ain't a good thin' at all." Mud leaned over to kiss the boy, covering the pale, lean body with his dark, larger one and relishing the sweet feel of James' groan. He ground the head of his organ at the juncture of those thin legs and then slowly proceeded to give the boy exactly what he needed. It was an hour later that James stumbled through the dark toward the house, an ache deep inside him that testified smugly to his intelligent insistence to have whale oil in his pockets at all times. Their coupling tonight might have killed him if he had not had it handy in his discarded clothes. Mud had pummeled him so hard... it was... he shivered and grinned. He pulled open the front door and entered the house to be confronted with his uncle sitting in a chair before the fireplace. The commander's feet were kicked out on the hearth, his boots soaking in the heat of a small fire he had going on an already-hot summer's night. "Where have you been, boy?" The man drawled lazily, but danger stalked behind every word. The commander's eyes regarded him dispassionately, but it was the demon's shadow that flitted within their whisky-colored depths. "I've been out walking around." "Doing what?" The words were thick and slurred, but the eyes were alert and canny. "Am I not allowed to walk at night?" The man smiled slowly at this and then threw some kindling from a small pile in his lap into the fire. It crackled and hissed as it burned, trying to provide a warning. "Now that you mention it, no. I want you in the house at sundown. You'll stay indoors until daylight. With escaped slaves running around, you could easily get mistaken in the dark; you'd get a bullet through your head." He took more kindling from his lap, and lobbed it in the flames to punctuate the new rule. James gritted his teeth but nodded. "You say 'Yes, Sir' when I speak to you." "Yes, Sir." The man watched James carefully, his half lidded gaze and pseudo-smile frozen as he reached to take another piece of kindling, this one shaped like a perfect mule, and tossed it into the fire. Only the train and star sculptures remained in the man's lap. "Those are mine!" James roared in shock, stepping forward, and it was the move for which the demon had waited. The commander's hand swiped through the air, the back of his knuckles cracking James solidly on the jaw and sending him spinning across the floor. "Everything in this house is mine," the man told him levelly, "and you'd best not forget it." James trembled with fury as tears burned his eyes. He looked up at his uncle with hatred, his jaw throbbing. The commander returned the look with unconcern. "You're too old to play with toys." The man slowly rose to his feet and tossed the last two willow figurines in the fire. He took the rifle leaning beside the door and went to hunt runaways in the cotton. James scrambled to grab the poker and fished out the mutilated gifts from the ashes, hoping to salvage them. But they were all lost, the clever twisted limbs unfurling as the water within them expanded and turned to steam. He sat and watched them burn, grasping the iron poker in his fist, his knuckles white with fury. It wasn't until the figurines were completely consumed that he roused himself from the floor and went to bed, taking the poker with him. He only slept for an hour, fully dressed with his weapon beside him. He was awakened when the bedroom door opened slowly, and he waited only two breaths before he lurched on the bed to his knees, bringing the sharp iron spear up in front of him. It greeted the wide, startled eyes of his aunt. She froze in the doorway for just a moment until the tip of the poker dipped to rest on the bed. "I'm sorry," he said. She shook her head and entered the room fully before closing the door behind her. Stepping barefoot across the floorboards, she sat on the edge of the bed next to the poker and looked at it for a moment before nodding. "Good," she said. She cleared her throat awkwardly and withdrew from her dressing gown a silver knife. "I had brought you this to keep under your pillow to protect yourself, but I see that you aren't going to need it." She spoke softly but distantly, not meeting his eyes now; she really hadn't for days. James had noticed as time passed with her husband, she seemed a bit more indistinct: grey and gauzy. He had the uncanny feeling that she was a ghost that had drifted in, a pale memory of a vibrant person. He reached for the knife and hefted it. It gleamed in his dark room, but was not merely ornamental; the blade was very sharp. "It's beautiful," he murmured. "Your mother gave me that as a wedding present." James felt an unexpected laugh bubble inside him. "My mamma gave you a knife?" The wisp of a smile touched her lips, merely a half-remembered recollection of something that used to be common there, but was now a fleeting stranger. "She told me: 'Women need a good husband, Mary, but many get a bad one; and if a woman happens not to get a good husband, well then, she needs a good knife instead.'" James' throat felt thick, and he desired nothing more than to have warm arms around him. "She was a quite a woman." "Her son is quite a man." He sought out her eyes in the darkness, but they were fixed on his quilt; she was frowning and in deep thought. "I'm not going to let him hurt me, Aunt Mary." "I know," she said quietly. "I'm not going to let him hurt you, either." She rose from the bed and James held out the knife to her, but she shook her head. "I'd feel better if you had it." "I prefer the poker," he replied. "Please keep it. Mamma knew what she was doing when she gave it to you." The knife disappeared inside Aunt Mary's dressing gown, but before she could speak, her eyes focused over his shoulder and out the open window. James turned to see an orange glow lighting the sky about a mile away. It looked to be in the vicinity of the town. His aunt's eyes grew wide and her hand went slowly to her mouth. "What are they doing now?" She asked. James scrambled to pull on his boots and then hopped out the open window. "I'll let you know," he told her across the sill, and then loped quickly away from the farm, fervently hoping his uncle didn't shoot him. When he reached the road, he could hear the voices of a crowd carried toward him on the night's breath; their jeers were exhaled around him before being whisked away to the river. James knew the sound of hatred, and although the wind was warm, he shivered. The glow in the sky was also not encouraging. Unlike the green firefly light from weeks ago, this orange glare twisted and licked at the darkness; its source was obviously a fire and it must have been a large one. He feared Doc Galen's house might be burning, and that thought made him jolt into a run that took him quickly past the patient fields of cotton. The twisted stalks added their tired moans to the growing cries of the night. It was all happening at the Hanging Tree, of course, a gnarl of angry people shouting accusations at someone. The light was coming from a bonfire, burning hotly with donated wood as well as some of the empty coffins that had been dragged from the doctor's workroom; and in its hellish glare James could see the doctor himself. He was tied and held upright by one man's fist on the back of his torn shirt. "What's happening?" James stumbled to a halt and gasped his question to a boy he thought he recognized from school. It was hard to tell in the dark, though; everyone was merely a silhouette against the blaze. The boy glanced at him. "The doctor's finally going to get it. He let that nigger of your uncle's escape. He says he ran away, of course, but everybody knows he let him go. They'll hang him for sure." At the mention of his uncle, James nervously looked around to see if the commander was part of the mob; but it was hard to see individuals in the amorphous black swell. "How did they even know the Negro was gone?" The boy laughed deep in his throat. "They went to get the nigger to hang him, and when he wasn't there, they brought the doctor instead." James closed his eyes to shut out the angry people and took a shaky breath, feeling fear twisting in his stomach like a snake. It wanted to strike out at someone with its bitter poison, and he found himself shaking with the effort to contain it. He finally focused on the doctor who had his head bowed against the fury of the town. Most of the old man's face was hidden by the darkness, but the flickering light revealed his kind mouth twisting with the same fear James felt inside himself. The man holding Doc Galen by the collar shook him and yelled to the crowd, "This nigger-lover let that boy go free!" "That's Mr. Adams, Davy's father," the boy beside him whispered. Before he could respond, the crowd lurched forward at Mr. Adams' accusation, trapping James amidst the bodies and carrying him forward into the suffocating miasma of people. Their self-righteous indignation was thick in the air, clogging his lungs; they were certain they were right in doing wrong. The dark croon of the mob's hatred called seductively to James' own hostility; and it began to claw out of him, drawn from his depths by the harsh shouts and the stifling press of sweaty bodies. He used his elbows ruthlessly, cutting a path for his slim frame to slip through the undulating coils of the creature that the mob had become. It had somehow evolved into a single monster devised of many parts; and as he fought his way through its entrails, an adult grabbed his arm to teach him a lesson about rudeness, but his sweaty limb slid free of their grasp. "Does anyone doubt it? Does anyone doubt this man let that nigger run away? We all know how he treats them. We all know he thinks they're just as good as us regular folk. Does anyone doubt he did it?" The horde vomited James out, so that its throat was free to roar its reply to Mr. Adams. James found himself only a few steps from the doctor, and he was appalled to see blood seeping down the elderly face, clotting the normally pristine white mustache. He caught the blurry gaze of the doctor who looked at him with confusion, and James trembled with dread and he knew the night would end badly; probably for both of them. But he also knew he couldn't let his friend stand alone. He swallowed the cold tendrils of fear within him and lifted his chin. "James, no!" the doctor whispered in panic. "No!" His warning hushed the mob, and it leaned forward hungrily. Before James could say a word in reply, a gunshot severed the quiet, slicing through the darkness like a razor. It originated from the Willett Farm, and the sound hit James as if it were the bullet itself. The breath left his lungs as fear exploded within his chest. "Mud," he croaked. There were shouts in the distance and a cry. All the faces of the crowd were now drawn away to look into the darkness, their anger draining to confusion. Davy's father did not like that; he spat noisily on the doctor's face, regaining the fickle attention of the beast. "It sounds like Willett shot another nigger in his cotton. Get another rope ready; we'll have two necks tonight. You watch; he'll bring that nigger down here to us." "I'll do it," an elderly man announced. He looked like a kindly grandfather, except for the blood on his knuckles. James wondered if he had struck the physician earlier in the night; he seemed awfully eager to help. "If any of the boys want to learn to make the knot, they can watch." At his words, there was a general shuffle as three boys came forward and squatted in the light of the fire to watch the tight plaits of the hangman's knot. Each loop seemed to squeeze something in James' chest. He was finding it hard to breathe. Through the dark lens of his mind's eye, James could see the mule being readied at the farm, the body of Mud being flung roughly into the cart, and his uncle heading toward the Hanging Tree to feed the carcass of his lover to the ravenous throng. The old man and his students finished their work and threw the rope over one of the muscular arms of the tree, letting it dangle beside an identical one which James had somehow not seen until now. They looked like the twin skeletons of children, white bones twisting against the black sky. At the sound of the nearing wagon, the people of Notting turned once again to look off toward the road; their murmuring was a deeper shadow within the dark. As the wagon approached, the chiming of Buchanan's harness informed James that his time was up. His dread had solidified inside him, something he could no longer breathe around. Commander Willett lurched to a stop on the road outside the field and jumped quickly from the wagon, staggering unsteadily to the rear to hoist a body in his arms. He weaved uncertainly toward the mass of townsfolk with his burden. "Is the doc there? I need the doctor! I shot young Davy Adams behind my barn!" The words were slurred, and at first James thought he had misunderstood them. Davy's father released his grip upon the doctor's shirt, letting the old man fold upon himself to the ground. He floundered forward to meet James' uncle and took his son from the man's arms. "You stupid drunk bastard," He gasped as the limp arms and legs dangled down like the ropes, blood dripping from the small fingertips to pool on the ground. The man was white with shock and terror. "He was sneaking around my barn in the dark," the commander repeated, an apology that forgot to sound sorry. Mr. Adams turned slowly to face the doctor, carefully cradling his son in his arms and looking much like Abraham with his offering. Doc Galen raised his head and tried to focus with his swollen eyes. "Take him to my surgery," he said brokenly, angrily. "I'll do the best I can for the boy." Although the pallor never left his face, the terror faded from Mr. Adams gaze, and his expression hardened. He looked down at Doc Galen and said, "You're not touching my son with your nigger-loving hands. You're not using that tainted equipment in your office on him. He's all I've got." Clutching the small body to his chest, he stalked through the darkness toward the town, the swarm of townsfolk parting before him. The people he left behind whispered uncomfortably, and over the next few moments the outer edges of the throng began to fray as souls drifted off into the night. James knew he should be horrified that his friend Davy had been shot. He could easily imagine the boy trying to discover the secret of the barn just as he, himself, had done. But he could not feel much outside the enormous relief that Mud was not the one bleeding. As gratitude washed over him, the adrenaline abandoned him and his knees threatened to drop him to the ground; but he knew the movement would catch his uncle's eye, so he slowly drew back from the commander, withdrawing into the crowd, and eventually disappearing into the cotton fields to escape home. James was very tired, but he lay trembling in his room listening to the night sounds of Mississippi. They were the sounds of lonely cicadae out of cycle, chirring ceaselessly for mates still slumbering; they were the sounds of the mighty river gurgling ceaselessly about its journey from the Minnesota headwaters; and they were the sounds of a warm wind laughing at a boy who thought the events of the night had finished. "James!" The drunkard had returned home with the cart and a mule and stood outside the barn. James wearily roused himself to go unhitch the animal, but took the iron poker with him. He was surprised when his aunt joined him at the door and they walked out to the yard together. "I think he just needs me to take care of Buchanan, Aunt Mary; I'll be fine." Her lips were pressed into a tight pale line, bloodless; she shook her head. "Was it the doctor they had down at the tree? Did they hang him?" James shook his head, but she didn't notice; her eyes were locked on her husband who regarded her with a frown as they approached him. "I didn't call you." She said nothing in reply, and James moved forward to the mule, but was stopped abruptly by his uncle's bruising grasp around his arm. "I saw you at the tree tonight after I told you to stay inside; did you think I was blind?" The question hung in the air, full of venom and danger while the crushing grip attempted to squeeze an answer from the boy's body. "You're not hitting me again," James said firmly, raising the poker with his other hand. "Is that right?" His uncle laughed, but released his arm. He gestured at the Navy revolver in his waistband. "You'll do as I say and you'll leave that poker by the fireplace where it belongs." Aunt Mary's voice was the ephemeral one James had heard earlier, hollow and distant. "Stop threatening him with your gun; haven't you shot enough children this evening?" Commander Willett's backhand across his wife's mouth cracked the air so loudly that James thought the pistol had gone off. He stood immobile, watching his aunt's spray of blood baptize the ground before she joined it there, crumpling to a limp mound of fabric and flesh. The commander blinked at the knoll she formed in the dark, and so was not fully prepared for James' swing of the poker. Still, the man had training, and while he took most of the blow across his arm, he reacted swiftly, grabbing the iron bar and wrenching it out of James' grasp. It went sailing into the night. "You little bastard," he snarled, recapturing the boy's arm before he could run, and then wrapping both of his large hands around the thin neck. He squeezed so that James saw bright spots across his vision. James futilely grasped the merciless hands with his own smaller ones, flailing, but could not break loose; and as he looked directly into the eyes of the demon, he was certain he was going to die. There was no human mind behind those half-lidded eyes anymore; there was only the hatred, the rotted soul, and the alcohol; and they were ruthless. But the demon was no match for Mud. The muscular man was a portion of the night. Detaching from the dark fabric, he smashed into the commander, grabbing him around the waist and ripping him away from the boy. His flying attack launched them several yards away where they rolled on the ground punching one another with concussive blows. It would have been an easy victory for the escaped slave if the commander had not managed to pull his gun. It wavered in the man's hand, causing the moonlight to dance lightly along the barrel. He rose slowly to his feet in the dirt, his aim wobbly and his vision blurred by blood. "Another nigger who thinks he's a man," he spat, coating Mud's handsome face with crimson froth. James couldn't breathe; he couldn't move. "Please, no," he whispered as he saw his uncle's eyes narrow with purpose. He could see what was about to happen, and didn't want to watch it; but he seemed trapped in his body, an immobile witness to the unfolding tragedy. James, Mud, and most certainly the commander, were surprised that the next sound was not that of a gunshot, but rather that of a wet perforation and the softly scraping echo of steel on bone. Blood gurgled and then fountained from the commander's mouth as he stumbled in shock, and then he pitched forward into the dirt, exposing his wife behind him clasping a gory wedding present. Her hands shook visibly, even in the darkness, followed by her whole body trembling as she gasped for air. "Miss Mary?" Mud asked softly. He rose from the grass and gently took her arm, but she immediately collapsed again. "I'll go get the doctor," James gasped, thinking hard and trying to get his own tremors under control. "I'll be okay," his aunt grunted. "I just... I just..." "Ya'll be fine," Mud told her. "Well, HE sure doesn't need a doctor..." She started to say, gesturing at the body of her husband, but then she laughed loudly, and smothered it with her bloody hand. "Oh, Lord." She stilled for a long time, blinking in shock at the threads of possibility that suddenly hung around her. After several moments of gasping, she seemed to calm, and her thinking caught up to her nephew's. "Oh..." James answered her unspoken question. "The parts of the plan we were missing..." She snorted and wiped her bloody hands on the grass. "I wish I could tell him he was helping a slave escape. The evil bastard would hate that." She took a deep, shaky breath and raised her head, showing the iron will and practicality James had seen that first day on the train platform. "Mud and I will take care of the body in the river; you go get the doctor. After tonight, I'm sure he'll be the driver. I'm guessing that Doc Galen is ready to leave Mississippi now." She was right, James knew. The missing pieces of his plan had just fallen into place during the endless night. "Yes, Ma'am," he whispered, looking over at Mud who sat upon the grass tending his aunt gently. Exhaustion began to burn in James' eyes; and then, for what felt like the thousandth time since morning, he climbed to his feet. * * * "But I's gonna have ta stay in dere da whole time?" "No, Mud. I already explained this. You're not listening; this won't be like the hole in the floor. I know you have trouble being closed in like that, and I'm sorry. You can't think about that part of it; but try to listen, it's important." "I's listenin'," Mud lied weakly. "The top will be nailed on tight, but the doctor and I built the bottom with these levers and latches; see? You just twist these five levers and the bottom lets go and you can get out of the casket. I came up with this part of the plan a few weeks ago." They were in the barn where James and the doctor had just placed the casket they'd made. The doctor had retreated home for some final preparations, and James finished his demonstration in the pine box, showing how the separate levers locked the bottom of the casket to the rest of the frame. "You don't have to be inside at all," he told the man, "but if someone stops the doctor's hearse during the trip, you just climb in the box and lock down the sides. They won't pry up the nailed lid, and if they lift out the coffin, you'll be secure inside." "But the air..." "Twenty-five nail holes, Mud. I drove twenty-five nails all over this box and then pried them back out again." "No one'll believe he's takin' a dead body all da way ta New York..." "No. That's why if he's ever stopped he'll tell them he's just going up to the next town with the body. He'll do that until he's past the blockade that's been halting all the escapes. He may choose to take you with him all the way up to New York, but that would be a long, dangerous trip. He'll probably have to leave you at the next working Underground Railroad Station, which we think is in Tennessee." "But why do da doctor wanna..." "They were lynching him, Mud. His time here is up; he has to leave. He asked me to take care of most of his belongings until his son comes down to collect them. And he's a good man. He's been part of the Underground Railroad the whole time he's lived here. He wants to leave with a passenger." "Please, Mud," James pulled the pine lid onto the box and his voice broke. He laid his head on his arms as the sorrow overwhelmed him. "I... I don't know how to say goodbye to you; please don't make this harder." Mud stilled, his panic ebbing as the boy's crested. He moved to James' side and wrapped him up in his strong arms. "Hush now; I's sorry. I'll do it all. Anythin' ya want." "All I want is you. I want you safe. I want you free." "But I's sorta got used ta belongin' ta ya," Mud said softly, cradling the boy's head in one of his large hands. "I'll come find you in New York. Someday, when I'm grown... I'll..." "Dat's a nice thin' dere, James; it really is. But I'll not let ya make dat promise. Ya's very young an' ya've a lifetime of loves ahead of ya. Maybe one of dem'll be a girl ya can love right out in da open." James lifted his red eyes to meet Mud's and asked pointedly, "Do you really think that will happen for me?" Mud glanced away. "It don' matter what I think..." "It's all that matters to me. I don't think I'll love anyone the way I love you." Mud smiled at that, but sadly. There was nothing like the conviction of youth, especially at the experience of new love. Each youth was sure he alone had discovered this depth of emotion. "I once said dat same thin' ta a good woman," he told the boy. "An' look at me now: lovin' ya wid all ma heart." "I know you won't want to wait, but..." Mud groaned aloud, unable to withhold his frustration. "It ain't me, boy. I'd wait fer ya da rest of ma days. But yer only a lad an' everythin's about ta change fer ya." James' head was already shaking in negation, but Mud stopped him with a kiss. "Listen ta me now. I'll be in New York if ya wanna come find me someday." His thumb traced James' mouth, memorizing the shape of his sadness. "I'll be dere. I'll hang a sign fer ya as big as a buildin' so ya can find me. But... I'd be satisfied knowin' ya was happy. Even if it ain't wid me. Fall in love; please be happy, boy. Oomphhh." The boy in question threw himself upon the man, and clung to him tightly. "The doctor's coming back in just a few hours to collect you. Please do not spend that time telling me you want me to be with someone else." For the first time since he'd met him, James saw Mud's eyes brim with tears. "Anythin' ya want. Anythin' at all." "There's not enough whale oil in the ocean for what I want." Mud clasped the boy tightly and let go of his sorrow, allowing it to seep from him as he quietly cried. They spent a couple hours in their hay bed, bodies tightly entwined, limbs looping through one another as if to prove knots could be used for higher purposes than making nooses. But then Mud rose and left the barn to "take care a somethin'," and so James pulled himself up to complete one final task on this endless night. The tears streamed steadily down his face as he nailed the lid onto Mud's plain, wooden casket. The pine box was nearly white, glowing in the flickering lamplight of the barn; and the knot in the boy's throat would hardly let him swallow around it. Losing Mud was somehow greater than the losses he'd already endured, and the heavy silver knife in his hand provided a needed anchor, keeping the whelming misery from carrying him away. He held the knife carefully in his hand, blinked through his tears, and began to carve upon the lid. The break of dawn found the two hauling the coffin out into the yard as the doctor pulled up with the hearse. His two horses stamped impatiently at the morning, wanting to get started before the heat rose. Aunt Mary joined them in the yard and asked them a final time if they couldn't have breakfast; but the doctor's blackened eyes looked haunted. His spirit had already fled the state, and he was anxious for his body to follow. He handed Mary some papers, and James a book. "The papers explain that I examined your husband after being called to the farm, and determined his cause of death from the bite of cottonmouth snake," he explained softly. "Further, I worked up a statement of billing for transporting his body for burial. It should prove I took his body with me when I left." "Thank you," Mary murmured, "I'll have to write letters to the Navy and the commander's sister." Mud hefted the pine casket into the back of the hearse, but stopped when he felt Mary's hand upon his arm. It rested there lightly before moving to the lid to trace the engraved willow tree. "I'm not very good at it," James muttered, embarrassed by her attention to it. "How did you do this? I think it's very good." "The knife. I used that knife." "But why would you use a coffin of all things as your canvas?" James' smile was tremulous. "I had a choice. Beauty or ugliness." The chuckle of pure happiness that rumbled from the man beside him steadied the boy's smile, but brought tears to his eyes. Mud climbed in the back beside the casket and lay down so that no one could see him. The box was ready should he need to hide within. James pressed the book into his hands and offered him a watery grin. "Something to practice your reading during your journey." Mud looked at the cover of Twelve Years a Slave, and his thick lips trembled. He nodded gratefully, but was unable to utter a word. It was later, as James was walking to his spot under the willow tree that he realized he'd not truly said goodbye; not the actual words, anyway. His legs kept walking woodenly toward the place where he could cry his exhausted tears. The bed of leaves was soft with decay and redolent of change, and upon it was a final willow sculpture: an exquisite heart made of two halves that fit together like puzzle pieces. The wind swept down the river carrying smells of wet earth, cooking smoke, the faintest curl of gunpowder, and a tang that could have been ozone or blood. James suspected he was inhaling something ominous. He feared that he held the answer, and looked at the two pieces of the sculpted heart, broken so that he held half in each hand. The left had been stripped of bark so that it was the stark white of the wood beneath, and the right had been blackened with soot, as dark as pitch. He tried to fit them back together again, but could hardly see through his weeping. EPILOGUE: August 31, 1867 William stacked the books carefully on the shelf in his small shop, looking up occasionally to see if the handsome customer had arrived yet. It was stupid, he knew, being infatuated with the young man; and even in the unlikely event that the stranger shared his proclivities, the chance he'd be interested in the older bookworm was fairly slim. Still, William couldn't help looking forward to the daily visits. He walked to the door to peek out at the bustling New York traffic, peering through the crowds of people and horses for the white-blonde curls. Although it had been a couple years since the end of the war, still the tide of humanity washed up on the shores of the Hudson River, beaten, battered, and searching for the half of itself amputated by the sharp edge of the Mason-Dixon Line. So many people seemed to be wandering the streets of New York these days, looking for something. William wondered wistfully if someone who was not overly particular might find him in the search. He caught a glimpse of his plain, sharp-featured face in the glass and sighed. It was not likely. A bright flash of white in the crowd caught his attention, and his thin lips stretched into a grin as he shuffled quickly behind his counter, smoothing his hair self-consciously. He pulled a New York Times from the stack and managed to look as if he'd been casually reading when the little bell above the door rang cheerfully. "Good day," the young man greeted William with his voice that was a rich, southern drawl built upon a northern foundation. It was devastating alone, but when added to the bright smile, blue eyes, and broad shoulders, it put William in a state of continual torment. He guessed the man to be about twenty or twenty-one which meant he had probably done some fighting before the nation concluded its horrific experiment with fratricide. But he certainly didn't look as if he'd seen any battle; he was perfect. "What a nice surprise," William said to him, "I was just reading this article about the punishment of 'Durgan the Murderess'. They finally put an end to that woman who killed the physician's wife." "It seems the whole city is talking about it. Everyone seems to know about the Irish maid, but no one knows of my friend." "No luck?" The light dimmed in the blue eyes and the young man frowned and shook his head. "Everyone knows of an escaped slave, of course; they seem to be everywhere in this city. But none are my friend." "I'm sorry," William said, and meant it; he'd do about anything to see that smile again. It suddenly occurred to him that he had the means to coax one from the beautiful mouth. "I have some new books; they just came in from the publisher. I stacked them up this morning right over there, figuring you might want to take a look." He was successful in his endeavor. Those pink lips parted in a grin that tightened William's chest as well as his trousers. He was glad he'd taken refuge behind the counter. How this man made him ache! He watched the young face closely as he neared the stack of books, so he saw the tongue peek out to lick his lips in anticipation. It almost caused William to embarrass himself, and he shifted uncomfortably behind the counter. Then he saw the young man go completely still. His fingers trembled as they brushed the insignia on the spine, and he grabbed one up and flipped to the copyright page. His clear, blue gaze flicked up to meet William's hungry stare. "What is this?" William cleared his suddenly dry throat. "That one is a collection of Negro short stories. The others have poetry, memoirs. There's a novel in that stack, too." "Are they all the same publisher?" The finger traced the golden little emblem of a willow tree down the spines of each book in the stack. William thought it an odd choice for a new publishing house; it was clearly a tree but looked like an etching, and it didn't even match the name of the company. "Yes. Firefly Press. They're just a few blocks over on Broadway. They opened about a year ago and this is their first run of books. I sure hope they..." The young man dropped the book on top of the stack and in a startling dash to the door, yelled his thanks over his shoulder. Then with a gleeful crowing, he yanked open the door and vaulted over the threshold into the street. William wandered in his wake, watching through the doorway as the beautiful young man rushed past the crowds as if his future depended on it. * This part concludes Weeping Willow. I appreciate hearing from people who are reading my stories. Shoot me an email and let me know what you think. Your feedback is the only way I know you're reading and whether or not it makes sense to continue. I have other stories, too. Look up Seth Kirkcauldy in the author's section. seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net