Read Online The Story of Land and Sea: A Novel by Katy Simpson Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katy Simpson Smith
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should, I’m older.”
Helen lifts her head from the water. “How much?”
“Eleven. You wasn’t even born when I was.”
“And you know your catechism?”
“I know more than that.”
Helen tries to tread water, keeping an eye on Moll to make sure she doesn’t do any tricks. She once had a friend who did somersaults in the water and always splashed her. “Most folks are slow,” she says, “so that’s about all we can teach them before their heads are full. First business is God, since that’s who’ll watch over them.”
“He watches over black folks?”
“Black and white both,” Helen says. “And heathen Indians. Everyone who believes in him goes to heaven.”
“And them who don’t believe?”
“They will. That’s our duty, Moll. We are handmaids of the Lord.”
“That like slaves?”
Helen lets her feet drift down to feel in the weedy muck, and stands. She lowers her head so only her nose breaks the surface of the water, her loose hair hanging in strands around her face. She looks at the dark reflection of her own eyes. “I suppose,” she says, and with her hands pushes a ripple of waves toward Moll.
“Don’t you get it in my ear.” Moll paddles away from Helen, keeping her head above water like a muskrat.
“Watch out for the big hole over there,” Helen says. “Snapping turtles live in it, so don’t put your feet down.”
Moll paddles quickly back. “You’re lying.”
“This creek is mine, and you don’t know anything about it.”
“That’s enough of that, then,” Moll says, heading for the bank.
“Wait!”
The girls watch each other. Moll makes a noise of exasperation and dives beneath the surface. She comes up a few seconds later with a shell in her hand. “Didn’t see any snappers,” she says. She scoops water with the shell and pours it on her other hand. This is to show that she is not afraid.
Helen smiles and dips down so the creek brushes her chin. “It’s almost like you being baptized. Here, what’s your name?”
“Don’t be foolish.”
Helen claps her hands on top of the water, sending up a plume of spray. “What’s your name ?”
“Moll!”
“And who gave you this name?”
“Some white man.”
“No, you say, ‘My godfathers and godmothers in my baptism.’”
“Don’t have no godfathers.” Moll drags herself onto the river bank, her pale shift turning brown from the silt. Her hair is wilting.
“Well, it’s what you say. If you want to teach it to the others, you need to learn. Here, I’ll be your godmother, and I’ll name you Moll.”
The girl on the bank throws her shell at the girl in the water. Helen recites the next few questions, then races herself to a half-sunken log, where a sprig of oak leaves is still growing green.
It is 1771, and Long Ridge sits on the edge of the sound, siphoning the water for its mill, and pushes back through marsh and bottomland into flatwoods, where pines are tapped for turpentine. The house was built to be temporary, but in the years since its hasty construction by his forebears, Asa has added two wings, a classical facade, and a brood of outbuildings. A staircase sweeps ten feet above the root cellar to a shaded porch and a wide white door that faces the sea. Narrow steps behind the house lead from the servants’ pantry to what Asa calls the acres, where the smaller pines and scrub trees have been cleared to create pathways among the towering longleaf. This is where boys would have played, if he had had sons.
Asa was born on this land, when the house stood on four posts and was just rough boards pegged together and covered bit by bit, when his father had time, in cypress shingles. His family logged and built ships and began the project of acquisition that Asa would inherit. Turpentine was the business of the future. It required only a few bound slaves of his own and the rest hired, so it allowed Asa to join the ranks of coastal planters without their fear of black hands slashing white
Helen lifts her head from the water. “How much?”
“Eleven. You wasn’t even born when I was.”
“And you know your catechism?”
“I know more than that.”
Helen tries to tread water, keeping an eye on Moll to make sure she doesn’t do any tricks. She once had a friend who did somersaults in the water and always splashed her. “Most folks are slow,” she says, “so that’s about all we can teach them before their heads are full. First business is God, since that’s who’ll watch over them.”
“He watches over black folks?”
“Black and white both,” Helen says. “And heathen Indians. Everyone who believes in him goes to heaven.”
“And them who don’t believe?”
“They will. That’s our duty, Moll. We are handmaids of the Lord.”
“That like slaves?”
Helen lets her feet drift down to feel in the weedy muck, and stands. She lowers her head so only her nose breaks the surface of the water, her loose hair hanging in strands around her face. She looks at the dark reflection of her own eyes. “I suppose,” she says, and with her hands pushes a ripple of waves toward Moll.
“Don’t you get it in my ear.” Moll paddles away from Helen, keeping her head above water like a muskrat.
“Watch out for the big hole over there,” Helen says. “Snapping turtles live in it, so don’t put your feet down.”
Moll paddles quickly back. “You’re lying.”
“This creek is mine, and you don’t know anything about it.”
“That’s enough of that, then,” Moll says, heading for the bank.
“Wait!”
The girls watch each other. Moll makes a noise of exasperation and dives beneath the surface. She comes up a few seconds later with a shell in her hand. “Didn’t see any snappers,” she says. She scoops water with the shell and pours it on her other hand. This is to show that she is not afraid.
Helen smiles and dips down so the creek brushes her chin. “It’s almost like you being baptized. Here, what’s your name?”
“Don’t be foolish.”
Helen claps her hands on top of the water, sending up a plume of spray. “What’s your name ?”
“Moll!”
“And who gave you this name?”
“Some white man.”
“No, you say, ‘My godfathers and godmothers in my baptism.’”
“Don’t have no godfathers.” Moll drags herself onto the river bank, her pale shift turning brown from the silt. Her hair is wilting.
“Well, it’s what you say. If you want to teach it to the others, you need to learn. Here, I’ll be your godmother, and I’ll name you Moll.”
The girl on the bank throws her shell at the girl in the water. Helen recites the next few questions, then races herself to a half-sunken log, where a sprig of oak leaves is still growing green.
It is 1771, and Long Ridge sits on the edge of the sound, siphoning the water for its mill, and pushes back through marsh and bottomland into flatwoods, where pines are tapped for turpentine. The house was built to be temporary, but in the years since its hasty construction by his forebears, Asa has added two wings, a classical facade, and a brood of outbuildings. A staircase sweeps ten feet above the root cellar to a shaded porch and a wide white door that faces the sea. Narrow steps behind the house lead from the servants’ pantry to what Asa calls the acres, where the smaller pines and scrub trees have been cleared to create pathways among the towering longleaf. This is where boys would have played, if he had had sons.
Asa was born on this land, when the house stood on four posts and was just rough boards pegged together and covered bit by bit, when his father had time, in cypress shingles. His family logged and built ships and began the project of acquisition that Asa would inherit. Turpentine was the business of the future. It required only a few bound slaves of his own and the rest hired, so it allowed Asa to join the ranks of coastal planters without their fear of black hands slashing white
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