That time I was coming back from Scylla’s,

scared to open my mouth, you said:

“What’s your hurry?” And then you said,

“You’re trembling,” and I said, “I am?”

—just like you did now.

What’s your hurry?

Heading up to the House again?

Sit yourself down, then.

Rest a spell.

You sure be up there a long time.

At the Big House, I mean.

Oh, yes, we talk about everything—

weather and the science of navigation,

recent history and ancient literature.

It’s simple: she wants to tame me.

And if I get better treatment

than the rest of you,

all my talk about Haiti

won’t hold much water.

So she think she can get us

to fighting amongst ourselves!

Seems plenty folks want things

just the way they are.

Alexander keeps his distance, lately.

Alexander’s seen his share of sorrow.

He just wants to live in peace.

I ’spect so. Who doesn’t?

Oh, that’s right—

you and Death gonna walk outta here

hand and hand!

Alexander don’t mean you no spite.

And Scipio—Scipio say

you his man, any time, any place!

You shoulda seen him the other day,

putting voodoo spells on the chickens!

Then he pick up the milk bucket

and pranced around, serving up

revolution lemonade! Now there’s

a body need of some occupation!

’Course, you got Diana’s heart.

She thinks the sun and the

moon set in your face.

Hmmpf! Woman had me nearly crazy,

clamping my mouth and wiping my

footsteps

so I ended up getting nowhere.

As far as I’m concerned,

Scylla can roll her eye and talk conjuration

till the summer go cold and the cotton pick itself!

The first time I saw you,

I thought to myself:

“That’s not the spirit of a slave.

That’s a pure flame.”

Tell me—how did you land

on the Jennings Plantation?

Much as any of us got

a home on this earth.

My father was sold before I was borned.

Mama . . . it’s a long story.