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“Only answer I got, too.”
“I can’t walk down the street with my girl. Can’t even go into some towns.” Memphis flicked a glance Henry’s way. “You can’t walk down the street free, either.”
Henry’s cheeks burned with embarrassment that Bill knew this about him now, that he liked boys. Bill seemed like a man’s man, like his father. And Henry hated that he could punish himself with shame like this. He was who he was, and he had no intention of not being who he was. So why was he letting shame call the shots?
“Usedta think I could make a difference,” Bill said. “’At’s how I ended up workin’ for them Shadow Men. Found out real quick they jus’ wanted to use me up and spit me out when my sight was gone and my body weak. But when I look at Isaiah, you and your friends, well… then I git to thinkin’, maybe y’all be the ones to fix it.”
Memphis found Bill’s answer unsatisfying, though. “Tired of healing things.” Right then, there was only one place for that anger to find release. While Henry lay on the ground and sang a song to keep himself from feeling too lonely and Bill patted the sides of a stump like a drum for accompaniment, Memphis took out his notebook and started to write.
The earth of Georgia is red
Red like a wound that’s bled
And scabbed over
Bleed again, bleed again,
And again
Some wounds just won’t heal
He wrote until he could barely keep his eyes open and a new poem had been born on the page, one that told of their walk through the Delta with all its ghosts. He was planting his own seeds. When he had finished, he signed it The Voice of Tomorrow.
“What’re you doing?” Henry asked on a yawn.
“Starting a revolution,” Memphis joked.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Henry said.
“Just telling my story,” Memphis said.
Bill couldn’t say what it was that woke him, only that he’d come out of sleep alert and uneasy. The fire was out, but there was a glow coming from deeper in the trees. He remembered that they were not too far from a sundown town, and that made him very nervous. That glow could be a cross burning. There might be a whole klavern of white-hooded thugs nearby, just waiting for a chance to egg one another on, to prove to one another that they were men in charge, men who would do whatever it took to stay in charge.
And here he was with two boys they might use to make their point.
An owl hooted from some unseen spot. Except for that glow in the distance and the small sliver of new moonlight, it was pitch-dark. Anything could be hiding in those woods. Bill knew he needed to see for himself what was there among the trees. Leaving the boys behind, he moved as stealthily as he could toward the strange phosphorescence and wished for the comfort of New York City’s bright lights. The April chilliness mixed with the damp had brought up a light fog. Bill heard voices. It was impossible to say where they were coming from, how far or near. They seemed to bounce around in the fog. The voices faded, and in their place, Bill heard weeping, a deep, mournful lament. The crying, too, came and went. It changed in tone and timbre, but the pain was always the same.
Something brushed across his shoulder. Bill whirled around. “Who’s there?” he demanded. He fumbled in the dirt for a rock, just in case. If it came to it, he had his hands. Places had an energy. As a Diviner, Bill knew this. This place was drenched in sorrow and hate and horror. His arms began to shake. He needed to get away. To get back to Memphis and Henry. Didn’t matter that it was still dark; they’d go, walk down the center of the railroad tracks if need be. Safer than here.
A deep, guttural moaning surrounded him. It gained power, getting louder. Louder still. Bill dropped the rock and put his hands over his ears. The brush—one, two—across his shoulder again. He whirled around and looked up, his mouth opening in a soundless scream.
Ghostly bodies hanging from the trees.
Puckered skin where eyes should be.
Bloated, fingerless hands.
The keening poured from the ghosts’ mouths on thin ribbons of fog. And in that fog, under this collective hymn of rage and witness screamed into the woods long after death, there were dogs barking and men laughing, there was pleading to no avail, the sound of the land refusing to stay silent.
It brought Bill to his knees. He struggled to stand. He backed away. As one, the men’s heads snapped up. They spoke with one hissing voice: “Ghosts on the road, ghosts on the road, ghosts on the road!”
With a cry, Bill turned and ran back toward the camp.
The next morning, Memphis had to shake Bill out of a deep sleep. The big man woke with a start. He sat straight up, gasping for as much air as he could fit into his lungs. He put his hands to his throat.
“You all right?” Memphis asked.
Bill glanced over his shoulder at the perfectly ordinary woods. He looked out at the distant railroad tracks and the sundown town sign looming over them. Who could be all right knowing the things I know?
