Fiction March 2014

Where the Map Ends

Runaway slaves find shelter on their journey—but for how long?
More
Eric Ogden

They had been on the run for six days, traveling mainly at night, all the while listening for the baying of hounds. The man, if asked his age, would have said forty-eight, forty-nine, or fifty, he wasn’t sure. His hair was cut short, like gray wool stitched above a dark face. A lantern swayed by his side, the twine that secured it chafing the bullwhip scar ridging his left shoulder. With his right hand he clutched a tote sack. His companion was seventeen and of a lighter complexion, the color of an oft-used gold coin. The youth’s hair was close-cropped as well, the curls tinged red. He carried the map.

As the foothills became mountains, the journey became more arduous. What food they’d brought had been eaten days earlier. They filled the tote with corn and okra from fields, eggs from a henhouse, apples from orchards. The land steepened more, and their lungs never seemed to fill. “I heard that white folks up here don’t have much,” the youth huffed, “but you’d think they’d at least have air.” The map showed one more village, Blowing Rock, then a ways farther a stream and soon a plank bridge. An arrow pointed over the bridge. Beyond that, nothing but blank paper, as though no word or mark could convey what the fugitives sought but had never known.

They crossed the bridge near dusk. At the first cabin they came to, a hound bayed as they approached. They went on. The youth wondered aloud how they were supposed to know which place, which family, to trust. The fugitives passed a two-story farmhouse, prosperous-looking. The man said walk on. As the day waned, a cabin and a barn appeared, light glowing from a front window of the cabin. Their lantern remained unlit, though now neither of them could see where he stepped. They passed a small orchard, and soon after the man tugged his companion’s arm and led him off the road and into a pasture.

“Where we going, Viticus?” the youth asked.

“To roost in that barn till morning,” the man answered. “Black folks nor white wants strangers calling in the dark.”

They entered the barn, let their hands find the ladder, and then climbed into the loft. Through a space between boards, the fugitives could see the cabin window’s glow.

“I’m hungry,” the youth complained. “Gimme that lantern and I’ll get us some apples.”

“No,” his companion said. “You think a man going to help them that stole from him?”

“Ain’t gonna miss a few apples.”

The man ignored him. They settled their bodies into the straw and slept.

A cowbell woke them, the animal ambling into the barn, a man in frayed overalls following with a gallon pail. A scraggly gray beard covered much of his face, some streaks of brown in his lank hair. He was thin and tall, and his neck and back bowed forward as if from years of ducking. As the farmer set his stool beside the cow’s flank, a gray cat appeared and positioned itself close by. Milk spurts hissed against the tin. The fugitives peered through the board gaps. The youth’s stomach growled audibly. “I ain’t trying to,” he whispered in response to his companion’s nudge. When the bucket was filled, the farmer aimed a teat at the cat. The creature’s tongue lapped without pause as the milk splashed on its face. As the farmer lifted the pail and stood, the youth shifted to see better. Bits of straw slipped through a board gap and drifted down. The farmer did not look up, but his shoulders tensed and his hand clenched the pail tighter. He quickly left the barn.

“You done it now,” the man said.

“He gonna have to see us sometime,” the youth replied.

“But now it’ll be with a gun aimed our direction,” Viticus hissed. “Get your sorry self down that ladder.”

They climbed down and saw what they’d missed earlier.

“Don’t like the look of that none,” the youth said, nodding at the rope dangling from a loft beam.

“Then get out front of this barn,” his companion said. “I want that white man looking at empty hands.”

Once outside, they could see the farm clearly. Crop rows were weed-choked, the orchard unpruned, the cabin itself shabby and small, two rooms at most. They watched the farmer go inside.

“How you know he got a gun when he hardly got a roof over his head?” the youth asked. “The Colonel wouldn’t put hogs in such as that.”

“He got a gun,” the man replied, and set the lantern on the ground with the burlap tote.

A crow cawed as it passed overhead, then settled in the cornfield.

“Don’t seem mindful of his crop,” the youth said.

“No, he don’t,” the man said, more to himself than to his companion.

The youth went to a corner of the barn and peeked toward the cabin. The farmer came out, a flintlock in his right hand.

“He do have a gun and it already cocked,” the youth said. “Hellfire, Viticus, we gotta light outta here.”

“Light out where?” his companion answered. “We past where that map can take us.”

“Shouldn’t never have hightailed off,” the youth fretted. “I known better but done it. We go back, I won’t be tending that stable no more. No, suh, the Colonel will send me out with the rest of you field hands.”

“This white man’s done nothing yet,” the man said softly. “Just keep your hands out so he see the pink.”

But the youth turned and ran into the cornfield. Shaking tassels marked his progress. He didn’t stop until he was in the field’s center. The older fugitive grimaced and stepped farther away from the barn’s mouth.

The farmer entered the pasture, the flintlock crooked in his arm. Any indication of his humor lay hidden beneath the beard. The older fugitive did not raise his hands, but he turned his palms outward.

The white man approached from the west. The sunrise made him squint.

“I ain’t stole nothing, mister,” the black man said when the farmer stopped a few yards in front of him.

“That’s kindly of you,” the farmer replied.

The dawn’s slanted brightness made the white man raise a hand to his brow.

“Move back into that barn so I can feature you better.”

The black man glanced at the rope.

“Pay that rope no mind,” the farmer said. “It ain’t me put it up. That was my wife’s doing.”

The fugitive kept stepping back until both of them stood inside the barn. The cat reappeared, sat on its haunches watching the two men.

“Where might you hail from?” the farmer asked.

The black man’s face assumed a guarded blankness.

“I ain’t sending you back yonder, if that’s your fearing,” the farmer said. “I’ve never had any truck with them that would. That’s why you’re up here, ain’t it, knowing that we don’t?”

The black man nodded.

Jump to comments
Presented by
Get Today's Top Stories in Your Inbox (preview)

CrossFit Versus Yoga: Choose a Side

How a workout becomes a social identity


Join the Discussion

After you comment, click Post. If you’re not already logged in you will be asked to log in or register. blog comments powered by Disqus

Video

CrossFit Versus Yoga: Choose a Side

How a workout becomes a social identity

Video

Is Technology Making Us Better Storytellers?

The minds behind House of Cards and The Moth weigh in.

Video

A Short Film That Skewers Hollywood

A studio executive concocts an animated blockbuster. Who cares about the story?

Video

In Online Dating, Everyone's a Little Bit Racist

The co-founder of OKCupid shares findings from his analysis of millions of users' data.

Video

What Is a Sandwich?

We're overthinking sandwiches, so you don't have to.

Video

Let's Talk About Not Smoking

Why does smoking maintain its allure? James Hamblin seeks the wisdom of a cool person.

Writers

Up
Down

More in Entertainment

More back issues, Sept 1995 to present.

Just In