Read Online Walk Through Darkness by David Anthony Durham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Anthony Durham
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near Church Circle, a place that brought back memories he didn’t care for. He tied the hound outside and heard her barking late into the night. He purchased a bottle of whiskey and drank it down entire and lay on his bed with the ceiling spinning above him. He fumbled in his bags and came up with the crumpled letter. As he read it over, the words moved on the page, reordering themselves, incoherent. He mumbled that he should just burn the thing and be done with it, just burn it and get on with his sorry life. But he could not make himself rise to carry out the wish.
He woke up with a head like a metal drum and all the world pounding upon it. The letter was pressed to his chest, crumpled further but not destroyed. He gathered his things and greeted the hound and was again at the gate to the same estate by eight in the morning. He halloed the house, spoke his request and got an audience with the widow herself. She answered his questions shortly, only addressing them at all because runaways were an ever present scourge upon the institution of slavery and all efforts must be made to staunch the flow. Or so she said. She even proposed calling for the woman in question, but Morrison stayed her. Better he just get the woman’s description. Better that he follow her unbeknownst.
And that’s just what he did. The woman left the house via the back entrance. The tracker gave her a good lead and blended his own progress with that of the other pedestrians. He nearly lost her once, when a wagon blocked his path and he missed which avenue she had chosen from a choice of three. He chose one at random, picked up his pace, and found that he had chosen correctly.
The walk took a little over ten minutes, but in that space of time one world merged into another. The large houses disappeared, as did white faces and swept roads and any inkling of grandeur. The woman wove her way into a territory of decrepit shacks, largely empty as the occupants were at work. Stray dogs came out to address the hound and the man kicked them back, all the while keeping an eye on the woman’s form. She stopped at a hut that was little different than the ones near at hand, constructed from materials that had seen better days in other structures long ago. An old woman appeared in the doorway. A swarm of bandy-legged children followed her, clothed in shirts that hung down to their knees. Morrison could just hear the woman’s voice, not the words but the mirthful flavor of them. She bade the young woman to enter.
Morrison motioned for the dog to follow him into hiding. Together they found a place of thick shrubs just off the path that afforded a decent view of the house. They had scarcely settled down in the bushes when the hound grew agitated. Her nostrils flared and quivered and her eyes darted about the woods along the far end of the house. Her front legs pawed the ground before her as if she could rake the object of her interest closer. Morrison had seen this before and knew that she had caught the fugitive’s scent again. He shushed her quiet, for he hadn’t thought it would be this easy. When the dog continued, he slapped her flat-handed on the head and tightened his grip on her collar
The woman reappeared within a quarter hour, shouting a goodbye over her shoulder. On this second appearance Morrison experienced a strange sensation, a sensation he rarely felt as his life was so solitary, and one he shouldn’t have felt for this woman for they had no relation between them. The woman carried the same bundle and walked the same way as before, but somehow she looked different. She moved with a gracehe hadn’t noticed before. He found himself wondering if she bore any resemblance to her sister, thinking that if she did then he could understand the fugitive’s ardor. He watched her to the distance.
In his attentive gaze he forgot the hand over the hound’s muzzle. Feeling the pressure released, the dog tried to pull the man forward. But he held on a moment
He woke up with a head like a metal drum and all the world pounding upon it. The letter was pressed to his chest, crumpled further but not destroyed. He gathered his things and greeted the hound and was again at the gate to the same estate by eight in the morning. He halloed the house, spoke his request and got an audience with the widow herself. She answered his questions shortly, only addressing them at all because runaways were an ever present scourge upon the institution of slavery and all efforts must be made to staunch the flow. Or so she said. She even proposed calling for the woman in question, but Morrison stayed her. Better he just get the woman’s description. Better that he follow her unbeknownst.
And that’s just what he did. The woman left the house via the back entrance. The tracker gave her a good lead and blended his own progress with that of the other pedestrians. He nearly lost her once, when a wagon blocked his path and he missed which avenue she had chosen from a choice of three. He chose one at random, picked up his pace, and found that he had chosen correctly.
The walk took a little over ten minutes, but in that space of time one world merged into another. The large houses disappeared, as did white faces and swept roads and any inkling of grandeur. The woman wove her way into a territory of decrepit shacks, largely empty as the occupants were at work. Stray dogs came out to address the hound and the man kicked them back, all the while keeping an eye on the woman’s form. She stopped at a hut that was little different than the ones near at hand, constructed from materials that had seen better days in other structures long ago. An old woman appeared in the doorway. A swarm of bandy-legged children followed her, clothed in shirts that hung down to their knees. Morrison could just hear the woman’s voice, not the words but the mirthful flavor of them. She bade the young woman to enter.
Morrison motioned for the dog to follow him into hiding. Together they found a place of thick shrubs just off the path that afforded a decent view of the house. They had scarcely settled down in the bushes when the hound grew agitated. Her nostrils flared and quivered and her eyes darted about the woods along the far end of the house. Her front legs pawed the ground before her as if she could rake the object of her interest closer. Morrison had seen this before and knew that she had caught the fugitive’s scent again. He shushed her quiet, for he hadn’t thought it would be this easy. When the dog continued, he slapped her flat-handed on the head and tightened his grip on her collar
The woman reappeared within a quarter hour, shouting a goodbye over her shoulder. On this second appearance Morrison experienced a strange sensation, a sensation he rarely felt as his life was so solitary, and one he shouldn’t have felt for this woman for they had no relation between them. The woman carried the same bundle and walked the same way as before, but somehow she looked different. She moved with a gracehe hadn’t noticed before. He found himself wondering if she bore any resemblance to her sister, thinking that if she did then he could understand the fugitive’s ardor. He watched her to the distance.
In his attentive gaze he forgot the hand over the hound’s muzzle. Feeling the pressure released, the dog tried to pull the man forward. But he held on a moment
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