Hunting Midnight

and finally caught a glimpse of over in Portugal.

The strangeness of this man just got worse and worse, don’t you know. Because while flipping through his sketches of birds I discovered a drawing of Papa himself. He had talent, I’d give him that, assuming he was the one who drew it. He’d been able to put something of my father’s spirit right on the paper. But it wasn’t the man I’d known. Because staring at his face through my tears, I realized that this was my papa before I’d come into the world. He might have been only thirty years old. He could have outrun a deer back then.

Not only that, but there was a note scribbled at the bottom: Why can’t Midnight talk?

I couldn’t figure how this mud-minded slave-trader had a drawing of my papa that must have been made twenty or more years ago, maybe even before he reached River Bend. Most peculiar of all: How could he have known Papa’s name wasn’t Samuel when he lived all the way across the ocean?

XLVIII A Whole House of Memories Just Got Too Filled Up

I was wormstupid not to understand sooner that the stranger with my papa’s arrow was a little boy turned into a man and come from a long ways away. But when I did, I ran out of the house and across the cornfield and through the slave gardens and along the path to the river. I found him sitting on a rock, and he turned to me like he was scared of what I might do. Maybe he thought I had a knife.

“You’re John, aren’t you? You’re John the gemsbok!”

His eyes glistened and he stood up. “Yes, I’ve come from Portugal. And, Morri, you don’t know how glad I am that I’ve found you.”

I held up his sketch of Papa. “You have his arrow too.”

“I’ve come to find your father. And to take you home if you’ll come with me.”

He walked to me, slowly, tears falling down his cheeks, but looking worried, too, like he was afraid of hurting me. He hadn’t much of a voice left. “May I touch you, Morri?” he whispered.

I nodded, but I wasn’t sure if I ought to trust him. He put his hands on my shoulders, then rubbed them down my arms. He was feeling the shape of me, like he was making sure I was real. He was real gentle — too gentle. It scared me.

He smiled then, quick, and wiped his eyes. He looked older now than I’d first thought. He must have been near to thirty-five. I did some calculations in my head and that seemed about right with what Papa had told me.

“What … what can I do for you?” I asked, real cautious.

Then he brought my hand to his lips, kissed my palm, and closed it into a fist, like my papa used to do now and then. That convinced me more than anything else that this had to be John the gemsbok.

“You keep that with you always,” he said.

“I will,” I said, my feelings all tangled up and tussling with each other. I kept thinking that this was John, and I ought to trust him because my father had, but the truth was that he was a white man and I didn’t.

*

We sat by the river talking for nearly two hours, and I ended up telling him all I knew about my father disappearing, which was near nothing, and about Master Edward sending me away. I confused him with how quick I spoke, because my heart was hopping around with nervousness, so I had to go back and tell him how everything had started — about my father coming to River Bend and his heel-strings being cut, and the murders of Big and Little Master Henry after their terrible spells. I didn’t want to, but everything just sort of tumbled out of me, as if a whole house full of memories had just got too filled up. I even spoke about things I ought to have kept secret — like seeing Big Master Henry soaked with blood, with my empty glass of lemonade on the floor by his hand.

John excused himself real politely and ran off a ways by the river when I told him about my father being crippled for trying to run away before I was born. I thought he was relieving himself, but then I heard gagging sounds. He called to me and asked me if the water was safe to drink, and I told him it tasted mean but didn’t do any harm. When he returned, he apologized for leaving me alone.

Sometimes while talking to him I wondered where I was. Because it didn’t seem like this could happen at River Bend. I mean, a big tall white man listening to me as if what I said might change the world.

When he asked me who I thought had done the murders, I said I’d suspected Little Master Henry of killing his father, but then when he’d been murdered the same way … Well, it was a long time ago and nobody knew.

I wanted to put that subject behind us, so I asked about his journey from Portugal to South Carolina. Pretty soon, he figured out that I was mostly interested in hearing about Papa before I’d known him, so he started to tell me everything he could, which was a whole lifetime more than any white man I ever thought would remember about an African. He began with their first supper together and ended with the trip our papas had taken to England.

Then it was his turn to get all careful. He asked me if Papa told me what his father had done to him in London. I told him what I had heard. He said that that wasn’t the way it happened, that Papa may not even have known the whole truth. Then he told me how his father had arranged for him to be kidnapped and sold as a slave to Mr. Miller in Alexandria. Before he told me, he said, “I only hope that you will not hate me when I have finished this terrible story.”

I’m not sure what I felt after hearing it. I didn’t hate him, no. And I told him that. “If my papa hadn’t come here, I wouldn’t have been born. And he’d have never met my mamma. He loved her something fierce. I reckon nothing of the past can be changed now. So I don’t hate you or even your papa. I rightly ought to, but I don’t.”

“Morri, how do you think good men do evil things?” he asked. “Because what I haven’t yet said about my father was that he was a generous and kind man. And I would not want you to think he didn’t love your father. I know he did.”

I tried to think of what Papa would say but couldn’t come up with anything good enough. When I said I didn’t rightly know, John stood up, all determined like. “Morri, I cannot go home till I find your father — or discover what happened to him. If he is a slave somewhere, I shall buy him his freedom. But with all you’ve told me, I still don’t know where to start looking for him.”

“I think he must be up North. You might have to go back to New York and start looking there.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Me? Master Edward isn’t about to let me sail on up to New York just now. Maybe after supper,” I said, laughing.

“You don’t truly think I’d leave you here now that I’ve found you? I shall offer any price to Edward for you. Though I apologize for speaking of you like that.”

His intentions rightly scared me, don’t you know, because any day now Beaufort was going to be leaving a ribbon at our gate. Not that I could tell him that, so I said, “I can’t go with you. I have to stay here — in case my father comes back for me.”

“But if he were, he would have by now. You said yourself that he must think you’re dead.”

“I was just saying that because … because I get scared sometimes being here without my parents. But he’s going to come for me one day. You can be sure of it.”

I wasn’t saying what I really thought, which was that even if Papa was alive, Master Edward had outfoxed him. My lying got all mixed up with my fear and made my voice snarl. John looked at me as if I’d put a bullet in him. Then I remembered the letter my papa had left for him. But I couldn’t very well give it to him without making him want me to go with him even more.

“You are angry at me,” he said, like he was a little boy who’d just done something bad.

“No, I’m not, but I can’t go with you.” I stood up, thinking of those guns hidden under the piazza. “I’ve got to get back to the house now. You don’t want to see Master Edward furious with me. He might just do something terrible this time.”

“No, Morri,” he replied, speaking like there was years of hate in him, “I think I would like to see him furious