Date: Sun, 2 Nov 2014 08:39:34 -0800
From: Seth Kirkcauldy <seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net>
Subject: Weeping Willow 1

Weeping Willow - Part 1 of 4
copyright 2014 Seth Kirkcauldy
seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net

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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
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Soil is the skin of the earth.  It is dark, rich, and black as an African,
although James would not tell that to the other white folk in Mississippi.
To hear the Southerners talk, nothing good came in that particular pigment,
not even their land.  They let their Negro slaves bleed into their soil
until the red blood mixed with the black dirt in an alchemy that formed the
rust-coppery mud of the river delta.  James was not to discover this evil
for a while, however; and by then, mud would hold an altogether different
meaning for him.

Before James knew anything of Mississippi, he stood on a train platform
feeling lost and very afraid.  He would think of this terrifying day later
in his life and not recall that the clouds of memory were literal.  Steam
from the surrounding trains in the New York station engulfed him in a warm,
albeit damp embrace; and the tears streaming from his blue eyes wet his
face further, blurring the scene.  He could not even read the ticket he
clutched in his hand.

"Where did you say she was?"  He tried to remain polite, but his adolescent
voice quivered weakly.  He had only asked the question to say something; he
really did not wish to hear the man's words repeated.

It was the late spring of 1860.  He was merely a boy - only thirteen - and
it was before he knew anything of hate, war, or love; but that education
was stalking him on all fronts, and would pounce long before he was ready.
James was to discover that was the very nature of education: one learns
what is necessary as a result of not knowing it when it is needed.

Upon his tremulous inquiry regarding the whereabouts of his mother, the
lawyer replied rather stone- facedly, "She is deceased.  You are going to
live with your aunt in Mississippi."

"But..."  James floundered.  His schoolmaster had delivered him to the
station in New York City without a word of explanation, turning him over to
this well-dressed man with the curious name of Mr. J.W.  Baldwin, Esquire.

"But, Sir..." James tried again.

"Mr. Baldwin," the man sighed.  "My last name is Baldwin.  Your mother has
passed away.  You have your ticket, a letter of introduction, and that
envelope there has some money for you.  Now, you must get on this train.
Hurry along!"

That is how he found himself on the train; it is how he discovered he was
an orphan; and it is how he relocated to Mississippi mere months before the
War Between the States erupted.

He would recall the train ride as a seemingly-endless journey of his
personal grief mixed with public political arguments among the passengers.
The grief was a constant and heavy blanket over him, smothering the natural
excitement he would have had for such a journey; the arguments, however,
flared sporadically and fiercely, offering a diversion from his internal
misery.

 It started when a handsome man with a generous mustache declared loudly on
the second day: "Lincoln has been nominated by the Republicans for
President!"

James' fellow riders in the train car were aghast at the development.
Those from New York who were headed south were appalled by the loss of
their native son, Seward; while those riders from the south who were now
returning home were horrified by the obvious attack on their liberties.

"It shall not stand!" the handsome man said.  He was the one who had
received the telegram, so he seemed to feel obligated to soothe the riders
with his opinion.  "The stake is life or death.  Lincoln must be defeated
at the polls, or there will be war."

James was not soothed by this, but felt that anyone with such an impressive
mustache must know what he was about.  That he equated facial hair with
gravitas was something that would baffle him later in life, but for the
moment James merely hunched down in his seat in a display of despicable
posture and tried not to be noticed by the loud anti-abolitionists.

He had begun to grieve over his personal losses on the first day of the
journey until his fellow riders had had their fill and said so.  People
died every day in America, a woman reminded him coldly.  He was
uncomforted, but silenced.

It was a relief to change trains in a city called Cleveland where he
exchanged the large group of callous adults for a smaller group of
indifferent ones.  He had almost boarded the wrong train, but a kindly
porter checked over the route guide and then led him to an altogether
different railroad company with much more comfortable cars.  James would
never have found it, and thanked the young porter profusely.

"It's my job," the porter explained in a rich voice that rubbed its sinuous
self along James' spine like a cat against a tree.

"Oh," James replied.  His dejection at hearing the man was paid to be nice
to him was much greater than he knew it should be.

But the man smiled kindly at him and placed his large hand on James'
shoulder.  "You have to change trains three more times before you reach
Mississippi.  Let me have your route guide and I'll mark the transfer
stations and the names of the trains.  You should also try to find a porter
like me in each station and ask him to help you."

"I doubt they'll be like you," James said quietly, making the young porter
regard him closely.

"I don't know why anyone would put you on a train by yourself, young man;
but we'll make sure you get there in good shape.  Now, let me have that
guide book of yours."

James turned fourteen while traversing Indiana; it was deep in the night
while gliding past towns whose names he did not know.  He looked out the
darkened window hoping to catch a glimpse of something warm and familiar to
mark the occasion, but saw only his own gaze reflected back at him in the
glass; and those wide, hollow eyes looked like nothing he recognized.

"Happy birthday," he whispered against the glass, watching his own lips
forming the words while he pretended they were a friend's.

Eight days after Mr. J.W. Baldwin, Esquire had placed him on a train in New
York, James arrived in Vicksburg, Mississippi in the early morning hours
amidst thick clouds of steam and coal fumes.  James was among only a few to
disembark at the station, and he held his bag in one hand, standing
straight, tall, and still while the monstrous engine behind him came back
to life and pulled away.

From where he stood, the city of Vicksburg looked much like New York:
people and horses moving in all directions.  The buildings were quite
different, however; the architects seemed inordinately fond of columns
here, and James wondered whether they were utilized to dress up or to hold
up the otherwise plain structures.  The city was on a hill overlooking the
Mississippi River, and James could see the giant waterway slithering into
the distance, leaving an argent serpentine trail in the bright morning sun.

James' Aunt Mary met him on the station platform in an outfit quite unlike
what he expected.  His mind's eye had pictured a woman who looked like his
mother, but surrounded by voluminous hoop skirts and fanning herself with
one hand while holding a parasol with the other.  The actuality was a thin
blade of a woman who shared the bright blue of his own eyes, but otherwise
looked like a stranger.  Her simple blue cotton dress had long sleeves and
a high neckline; the skirt and bodice were of-a-piece.  The dress fell to
the dirty boards of the station, sparing gentlemen from the unseemly view
of her thin ankles; and her hair was under a sensible bonnet.  Where the
occasional unruly strands peeked out, he could see dark locks very unlike
those of his mother, or his own disorderly blonde curls.  She did wear a
cameo brooch made of salmon-colored shell that looked to be a portrait of
his grandmother; his mother had worn one like it.

Her cool eyes locked on his and she studied him up and down for a moment.
His lip trembled then, but he was immediately locked in a hug, pressed up
against her bodice and suddenly smelling his mother.  Despite that, it
wasn't altogether comforting to be in his aunt's embrace, as it was rather
like being hugged by a gardening implement: iron, unyielding, but quite
practical.

She released him and dabbed at her eyes.  "Welcome, James.  You must be
tired after your long journey?"

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered, not yet in full control of his vocal chords.

She nodded once.  "Let's get you home, then; and some food, perhaps?"

He nodded gratefully, and tried a tentative smile.  She responded with one
of her own that lit her whole face and softened all the sharp angles.  She
was suddenly beautiful.

James tightened his grip on his very small traveling bag as she took his
free arm and led him to her farm wagon and mule.  She clicked her tongue
and encouraged the mule by calling his name quietly.  James snickered when
he heard "Buchanan", and he noticed his Aunt's mouth curled up as she
gauged his reaction out of the corner of her eye.

"I couldn't call him James; after all," she murmured reasonably, "he's an
ass."  And James laughed again.

The wagon trip from Vicksburg to the small town of Notting was much like
the way the people talked and the river flowed here: slow, easy, and
meandering.  Mississippi was another world to James' young eyes.  The trees
were strange monoliths of tulip, sweetgum, and magnolia, with winged sumacs
sweating yellow petals from their numerous blooms.  Although it was late in
the spring, the wildflowers were still a bedlam of prairie phlox, and
butterfly milkweed, screaming their purples and orange upon the
otherwise-quiet air.  The one thing that was constant on the long ride was
the heat; it was everywhere.  The trees stretched upward as if seeking
distance from the heat reflecting off the ground; and the Negroes in the
fields hunched downward, sheltering either from the blazing sun or from the
expanse of sky that stretched overhead like unreachable freedom.

Notting was nestled against the great muddy Mississippi River deep in in
the sweltering cradle of Warren County.  It took them long hours with the
plodding mule to make the trip, and it was nearing noon when they arrived.
The Willett farm was small; their actual income was generated by James'
uncle, Commander Willett, who served in the US Navy aboard the USS
Massachusetts.  He was only home a month or two at a time, as his naval
career kept him from his wife and homestead.  Aunt Mary assured James this
worked just fine; in a tone of voice that communicated she would be quite
pleased if the Commander did not even come home for that.

When they were stopped in front of the small homestead, she showed James
how to unhitch the mule.

"You can help unhitch him from the cart, but I'll always put Buchanan away
in his stall," she told him.  "You're not to go in the barn.  It's the only
place on the farm that's off limits to you; the Commander keeps some
dangerous equipment in there.  I'll find you other chores to do, though."

She then pointed out the borders of her farm, which James was to later
discover was quite small for Mississippi, but larger than anything he'd
ever seen in New York.

"With the Commander often gone," his aunt told him, "I lease the land to a
nearby plantation, so you needn't do any planting chores.  They bring
slaves in the spring and fall to work the crops, and during the summer
months, I usually see someone out in the fields once a week or so.  They
check for blight and boll worms.  I do keep a vegetable garden on the other
side of the house, and you can help with that."

"You'll also need to keep the woodpile stocked for the stove."  She
gestured at the dwindling stash under a rain-protecting lean-to next to the
house.

The house itself was a fairly small building compared to the large
plantation homes they had passed on their way from the city.  It was merely
a single level, a very simple cabin that seemed out of place in the
larger-than-life South.

"It's been rebuilt twice," Aunty Mary said in explanation and something
that sounded like an apology.  "Being so close to the river is both a
blessing and a curse.  After the last flooding, we decided upon a much
simpler structure."

She gave him a brief tour of his new home, showing him all the necessaries,
and then relieved him of his bag to shoo him back outside.  "Let me get
some food made, now."

James waited until she had closed the door before he began the first task
universally adopted by boys who find themselves in a new home: finding his
spot.  The difficult but worthwhile chore was to locate that perfect
geography where the earth could cradle the body of a boy, yet the
surroundings would be interesting enough to stretch the mind into that of a
man.  The spot was used for thinking, day- dreaming, hiding from chores;
and perhaps most importantly, claiming the sharp pleasure between the legs
that belonged to a man, but with the frequency and frenzy demanded by
youth.  It must be far enough from the house to allow privacy and the
illusion of solitude, while being close enough to be aware of emergencies.
A boy like James wanted to be alone, but still ensure he was available when
needed.

James found his spot out past the barn, across the fields of healthy plants
he did not recognize (but would later learn were cotton and tobacco), and
down on the bank of the river.  He thought it might be the right spot when
he spied the large black willow tree which sheltered the area from the
brutal force of the sun.  His confidence grew with the discovery of the
thick wall of cattails serving as a barrier against prying eyes; and even
more so when he worked his way in to find a soft bed of willow leaves that
created a cushiony mattress of decay.  It was dry and comfortable and
allowed him to look up at the rays of the sun filtering through the willow
like a halo of green and gold.  But he was absolutely certain it was his
spot when his eyes started stinging with the tears that he had held for
days, and suddenly he was mourning the death of his mother in full.  He
collapsed to his knees in the bed of leaves, and the wind sighed through
the bulrushes, a perfect accompaniment to his tears.  The breeze touched
his hair with soft caresses of comfort.

He sat up some time later when he heard his name being called, and he
thrust his body through the cattails as if it were a machete blazing a
trail.  The sharp leaves left small blood-beaded cuts on his bare arms.

"Hello?"  He called back, when clear of the wall of greenery.

"Supper, James!"  His aunt's voice warbled across the fields announcing the
fulfillment of her promise to get him something to eat.  His stomach
growled in gratitude.  He wiped at his eyes to ensure they were clear of
unmanly tears, and then tromped to the pump in the front yard to wash his
hands and face before entering the small house to claim his meal.

James was to learn that supper was the largest meal of the day in
Mississippi, served anytime between one and five o'clock.  It was sometimes
followed before bed with a light meal the Southerners called dinner.  But
dinner was more like a snack, and James learned to eat his fill at supper.
He sat down at the table for a hearty meal of beef stew with potatoes,
carrots, and warm fluffy biscuits.  It was the first real home-cooked food
he'd had since New York and he moaned his appreciation as he bit into a
biscuit, knowing it was rude and blushing in embarrassment.

His aunt glanced at him and smiled.  "I'm glad you like it," she said
quietly, then said nothing else for the remainder of the meal.  It wasn't
until James began to gather up the dishes for cleaning that she spoke
again: "I'll get those.  You may go back outside."

James sat still for a moment, not sure how to vocalize that he would like
to do something useful.  Finally, he rose from his chair and left the table
obediently, pausing only a moment at the door.  "Thank you for supper.  I
think that's the best food I've tasted in my whole life."

His aunt's lips parted in surprise, and then she gave him a shy smile.  He
suddenly had the feeling of usefulness he'd been craving, and he went
outside to reclaim his spot.

If anything, the heat had escalated.  He'd never encountered anything like
it in New York.  It was thick and syrupy, oozing into his ears and slowing
the turning cogs of his brain.  It filled his lungs and made him feel as if
he were drowning.  His feet seemed stuck to the ground with it; each step a
heroic battle against the laziness that sought to claim him.

He slowly made his way across the hot fields to the banks of the muddy
river, pushing his way back through the sharp guardian cattails to the
beckoning bed of leaves.  It was there that he found more than just a
respite from the afternoon sun beneath the black willow tree.  He also
found two clever figurines that had been twisted from fallen willow
branches into easily discernable shapes: a train and a mule.  The train was
just the engine, but had recognizable wheels where the branches had been
pulled into loops and tied with smaller branches; as well as a smokestack
that rose from the body of the train, formed by a well-placed knot about
the width of James' thumb.  It was clever and beautiful.

But it was the small construct of Buchanan that made him gasp.  The same
artful hands had twisted and wrapped branches until they were a perfect
likeness of the mule, with natural little buds popping out right where the
eyes should be.  The long, dried leaves of the willow had been carefully
wrapped into the framework so that they served perfectly as a flowing mane
and tail.

The figures had been set carefully on the mound of leaves that James had
used as his pillow, where he had sobbed out his grief and loneliness.  He
felt that there was one to haul those emotions back to New York from where
they'd come, and the other to keep him company in this new and frightening
place.

The lethargy he'd been feeling under the blanket of heat seemed to fall
away, and he scoured his surroundings for other signs of the intruder; but
found footprints in neither the bed of leaves nor the soft mud of the
embankment.  He looked up into the great branches of the canopy, but found
no one looking back at him.  He went over to the flowing river and found
only opaque water that babbled incessantly, yet refused to give up any
secrets.

It seemed to him that the willow itself had shed some of her hair-like
branches and gifted him with these sculptures.

He collapsed on his bed of foliage, confused but strangely happy, studying
his treasures with his mind filled with the mysteries of Mississippi.  He
looked up into the green and gold bowers of his benefactress and whispered
his thanks.

James awoke as the horizon's lid was closing on the malefic eye of the sun.
The willow tree seemed to shudder with relief as the relentless glare was
finally darkened.  With the train and the mule tucked safely in his
pockets, he wormed his way through the razor maze of bulrushes and
approached the house just as shadows were stretching across the fields.

His aunt was at the door of the barn and had two buckets of water on the
ground beside her while she wrestled with the latch.  The surface of the
buckets sent trails of steam into the evening air, adding heat and moisture
to an atmosphere already saturated with both.  James slowed to a stop,
sinking into the shadows to watch what she was doing; her secrecy regarding
the barn caused him to adopt his own stealth.

She emerged shortly with empty buckets, closed the barn door carefully, and
returned to the house.  Being a curious boy, James' first thought was that
it was time to explore the forbidden barn.  He contemplated that option for
a few minutes, and so witnessed his aunt take another trip across the yard
laden with full, steaming buckets.  This time, he chose to intercept her.

"I can help you with those," he said, walking to her.

She yelped in surprise, sloshing some hot water on the lower part of her
dress.  She quickly went from yelping to hissing, and set the buckets down.

"Did you burn yourself?"

"No... it's not that hot, really.  I'm just not used to having someone else
around." She squinted through the gloaming at him until she grew visibly
uncomfortable and quickly gestured at the buckets. "I'm just giving
Buchanan a bath."

James' mouth fell open at the lie, but he was too polite to say anything
about it.  The idea that she was giving a bath to a breed of animal that
hated getting wet - inside a barn and in the dark - left him just a bit
stunned.  His aunt blinked at him repeatedly as if daring him to challenge
her falsehood.  When she saw that he was not, her shoulders relaxed and she
grimaced guiltily.

"Why don't you go inside now while I finish up out here?  I put a cold
dinner out on the table for you; it's not much, but I noticed you like your
food."

"I like YOUR food," James replied, and was rewarded again with her smile.
All of her expressions were very economic, James thought, except her smile
which was quite generous.

"You must have gotten your charm from your father, because your mother had
none," she told him fondly; but it stung James in a way that wasn't
intended.

She took in the look on his face.  "I loved her dearly, James; and I've
missed her for a long time.  I'm so sorry she's gone.  I'm so sorry for
your loss."

He bit his lip and nodded gratefully.  He decided that she deserved to have
her secrets left alone for the night, and so he turned and let himself into
the house, slumping into a chair at the table where a plate awaited him.
It held a sausage patty squeezed into one of the leftover biscuits from
supper.

He fished out the artful willow figurines from his pockets and set them on
the table so he could look at them while he ate.  The odd assurance that
someone was watching over him brought him comfort; and after feeling so
alone for the past week, he was grateful to his unseen friend.

It was difficult to make out the detail of the sculptures inside the house;
the sun was almost completely set and the only light he had was from the
guttering whale oil lamp on the table and the red glow that slithered from
the door of the cast iron stove like a dragon's tongue.  But he could see
enough to gently pet his mule's brittle mane as he chewed his supper
thoughtfully.

The pots upon the top of the stove were quite large, James noticed.  They
were the type used to heat and preserve foods in those new jars that
everyone was talking about; or even to heat enough water to fill a bathtub,
he considered, seeing how there were three of them elbowing for space on
the crowded stovetop.

He narrowed his eyes as he wondered how long he'd be able to keep himself
from exploring the barn.  He was a good boy, he knew, but not a great one.

When Aunt Mary returned, she showed him which of the two small bedrooms was
his and wished him a restful sleep, shutting his door.  The room was
smaller than the one he'd had in New York, and while it held a bed, a small
desk, and a window, it did not hold what he most needed.  He placed the
mysterious willow gifts on the desk, peeled off his clothes and leaned on
the window ledge looking up at the stars.  They seemed brighter against the
pitch-dark Mississippi sky, like diamonds sewn onto a black velvet drapery,
a curtain from behind which his mother watched and waited.  He observed the
slow turning of the skies for most of the night, finally dropping into his
bed just before dawn.

Much later, when he had stumbled blearily into his spot by the river, he
found an exquisite willow star placed carefully upon the bed of leaves.

***

He lasted three days before the curiosity burned a hole through the fabric
of his good intentions.  He might have resisted longer except that on the
fourth evening in his new home his aunt hoisted out her three large pots
and started some wood burning in the iron stove to heat them.

She accepted James' offer to fill the pots with water from the pump, and he
did so by taking many trips back and forth with the buckets.  He filled the
pots on the floor, and then together they maneuvered each one onto the
stovetop.

"I bet the other Buchanan is not nearly as clean as ours," James said
lightly without looking at his aunt.  Out of the side of his eyes he saw
her bite down on her lip nervously, although she did not reply.  He was
sorry that he'd teased her with it.

When the water was heated, he helped her to move it back to the buckets;
but she alone hauled them out to the barn.  When she had only one trip
remaining and the pots were light enough to be easily handled, James wished
her a good night and went to his room and closed the door.

He was out the open window very quickly, where he immediately crouched
silently until her last load of water was delivered.  When she had returned
and closed the door of the house behind her, he slunk out of the dark haven
and made his way behind the barn.

Although the few windows were covered with fabric to prevent someone from
seeing inside, the gaps between the boards in the old building were
sufficient to tell that there was a lamp being used.  The light flickered
and danced with the shadows at James' feet, a pirouette of contrasts that
was so infused with portent that James watched the two cavort in wonder for
many long minutes.

Irritated at himself for being so easily distracted, he shook his head
clear and remembered his purpose.  It took only brief tugging on the back
wall to find the area of loose boards that would serve as his entry.  While
the panels were new and strong, the beam into which they'd been nailed was
rotting.  The nails pulled away silently, and he squeezed his thin build
into the opening of the barn.

It smelled of sweet hay and old dust; a dangerous combination that sent his
nose itching.  He quickly pinched his nostrils, squeezing tight until the
itch subsided.

Buchanan's stall was on his right, seen by the light of two lamps that lit
the rustic interior.  On the left was another stall with a hay bed and
blankets atop it.  Outside the stall, immediately in front of where James
was standing, there was a large bathing tub with a man sitting inside it.
He was a Negro, and his back was to James.  While the tub was very large,
so was the man and he barely fit within; his knees were pulled up to his
chest.  But he seemed comfortable, scrubbing away at his dark, shiny skin
and humming softly.

James watched the muscles in that broad back ripple like waves across a
pond, sending the crisscrossing scars that marked the entire surface
undulating.  He had never seen such a strong-looking man.  He was standing
close enough that with only a few steps he could reach out and touch that
wet skin; his fingers twitched with the notion.

It suddenly dawned on him that he had broken in uninvited and was watching
this large, muscular man take his bath, and that might not be the best idea
he'd ever had.  He decided he should leave as quietly as he'd arrived.

"I's glad ya here, James," the man said without turning.  "I could shore
use a bitta help wid ma back."

The voice was deep and rich like the mighty river itself.  The timbre of it
vibrated something within James so that his bones thrummed an accompanying
chord; a two-part harmony in a song he did not yet know.

The man twisted his torso around and grinned in welcome.  "I's Mud," he
said.

The oddness of the name did not penetrate James's mental fog; but the
blinding white of Mud's smile managed to serve as a beacon, and James
stumbled forward a few steps to shake the offered hand of the man taking
his bath.

The giant, calloused hand closed around his small white one and shook it
carefully, as if Mud held something he considered precious.

"I tole Miss Mary ya'd be in here by da first week's end like any boy
woulda; she dint listen ta me."

His accent was thick and he talked slowly, as if his deep voice was too
heavy to move more quickly.  While James could understand him, the words
were pronounced differently from what he was accustomed; letters seemed to
get dropped, presumably to lighten the load.

"You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen," James whispered, and then
blushed in horror when he realized what he'd said.

Mud's eyes widened in surprise and then he sputtered with laughter.

"Glory!"  He shook his head in wonder.  "Dere be someone thinks dis body a
mine is purdy.  I'da never thought it true if I ain't heard it.  I might'a
been purdy enough ta not scare all da babies, but dat was befoe da
lashin'."

"Aunt Mary's helping you escape," James said.  It was a statement and not a
question, and it hung in the air around them.

James moved around to the front of the tub so that Mud didn't have to keep
his body twisted at such an odd angle.  Mud had gone completely still and
suddenly looked at the middle of James' chest rather than his eyes.  James
didn't like that at all.

"Yessir," Mud said simply.  "Yer aunt was plannin' ta tell ya, but wanted
ya ta have time ta see how things were fo' colored folk.  She want ta find
out ya own feelins an' see if we'd be safe."

"Safe?"  James asked, bewildered.

Mud's eyes rose to meet the boy's.  "If ya tole anyone, James, yer aunt an'
me'll hang."

The two just stared into each other's eyes for a very long time.  James had
never seen a warmer color than the golden brown of that gaze.  He finally
nodded bashfully and looked away, but stepped up closer to the tub.

"That water must be cooling off pretty quickly; did you say you needed me
to do your back?"

"Yessir, I did.  If ya don' mind."

James' breath was suddenly ragged at the very thought of it.  "The only
thing I'm minding is you calling me sir.  Please don't do that."

"Yessir."

"Mud..."

"Sorry."

James took the small, wet cloth that was currently perched on the peak of
Mud's right knee, and then looked into the water for the soap.  He gasped
quite loudly.

Mud frowned and looked to find the issue; then he smirked.  "Ya ain't seen
a man befoe?"  When James didn't immediately answer, Mud nodded to himself
and added, "Miss Mary tole me ya Daddy die a long time ago, so ya prolly
ain't seen one."

James' face was burning hotter than he'd ever remembered it.  That thing
down there between Mud's legs was huge; and it was getting hard like his
own got when he wanted to pleasure himself, but it was so long and so large
that it didn't look like what James had at all.

His hand fumbled through the water, sliding on slick skin while he tried to
catch the soap; it kept shooting out of his shaking fingers.

"Might fine dat a bit easier if ya looked at da soap stead of ma prick,"
Mud said casually.  James glanced at his face to find him grinning, and he
flushed deeper in response.

Embarrassed, but not a bit sorry, James dropped his eyes back to the water
and secured the soap.  While he rubbed it on the cloth, he looked his fill
between Mud's legs.  The ebony thighs had been parted so that they rested
against the sides of the tub, offering a wide and unobstructed view into
the dark valley between.

After a bit, Mud cleared his throat.  "Water's gettin' purdy cole now,
James, an' ya's gonna be outta soap befoe ya use any on me."

That spurred James into motion and he went to stand behind Mud's shoulders.
He smoothed the excessive soap over the strong mounds of muscle and bone,
feeling the strength of the man before him.

It was there in the guttering light of an oil lamp that James learned more
about himself than he had gleaned in his prior fourteen years.  He learned
the meaning of beauty; that it was a bashful thing that hid itself behind
raggedy garments and layers of dirt.  He learned that excitement could be
caught and passed on; swollen male organs were contagious.  He learned that
water drops on dark skin made his mouth unaccountably dry, and that a broad
nose and full lips made him ache inside.  In short, James learned that he
was not like most other boys and he finally understood the ways in which he
was different.

It was full dark when James walked through the front door of the small
house, eschewing the cowardly bedroom window.  His aunt was seated at the
table when he came in, and she sighed a bit fearfully as he closed the door
and sat down with her.

"I'm sorry I broke the only rule you gave me; that makes me look pretty
wicked, I know.  You and Mud don't have a thing to fear from me.  I'd like
to help you."

She let out a deep breath and took his hands.  Hers were shaking a little.
"I'm sorry I didn't trust you, James.  So much is at stake and I didn't
really know you yet."

"I understand; truly.  Are you part of that railroad that helps the slaves
get to the North?"

She nodded again.  "You need to understand the danger.  I know you're
smart, but this is not an exciting game.  The slave owners see their way of
life being threatened and they're being backed against the wall by the rest
of the country.  They're going to fight back and they're going to be
ruthless.  Many people will die, and people who help escaping slaves will
be the first."

"And how many people won't die because we do this?"  He asked, his voice
thick and fierce with all he had learned on this night.

She considered him with a shaky smile and her eyes grew bright with tears.
"You remind me so much of her that it hurts my heart sometimes.  Thank you,
James."

"How long will he be here?"

"I don't know, exactly; too long, honestly.  It's dangerous for everyone if
they don't keep moving, but the line was broken somewhere ahead.  There was
a raid at an important juncture and our passengers need to stay where they
are until another route is found.  I'm hoping he's moving along soon, but
we have to find him another place by late summer, before the Commander
returns home."

"I see," he said, realizing that he really did.  He understood now that
while his body groaned and stretched slowly over many years, his mind could
grow in a single evening.

"Aunt Mary, I mean no disrespect, but you're not very good at being sneaky.
If anyone ever had a slight suspicion about you, they'd know in a quick
minute that there's someone in the barn.  I figured it out on the day I
arrived here; I was only curious about who it was."

She let go of his hands, sat back, and bit her lip.  "I know it.  Mud's
told me the same thing.  I'm only used to having a person there for a night
or two.  This is different."

"Do the people in town all know about me coming here?"

She nodded.

"Why don't you start telling them that I decided to sleep in the barn?"

"Why would you do that if I have an extra bedroom?"

"Who knows why crazy Northerners do anything?"

She laughed at that.  "That would work, actually.  You've already learned
something about the people around here."

"I figure if people know I'm staying out there, they won't have any reason
to poke around.  And if someone did happen to see a blanket, a lamp, or a
tub of water, it wouldn't seem out of place."

"You don't mind sleeping out there?  It's old and rather offensive to the
nose."

James tried to control his expression, but his voice wavered just a bit
when he answered: "No, Ma'am; I don't think I'd mind that at all."



* 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
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I have other stories, too.  Look up Seth Kirkcauldy in the author's
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