The Amalgamation Polka (5 page)

As Liberty grew,
so, too, did the radius of his rambles. By the age of ten he could have picked his way blindfolded through the surrounding woods and hills. When Roxana asked just what it was he did on these solitary excursions, Liberty replied, “Prospecting.”

One clear summer day, utterly absorbed in following the track of some clawed, padded animal the consequences of a possible encounter with he had not given a single thought, Liberty happened by chance to notice, sprouting in the shadow of a large rock, a strange bushy plant of no recognizable species, a heap of gray, stringy tendrils and leaves that seemed, as he approached, to be exhibiting a slight quivering movement curious on such a windless afternoon. The boy hesitated. Had the creature he’d been tracking taken refuge inside this bush? Was it even now tensing for the wild leap out at him, fangs and talons bared? Then, just as he was preparing to back away, Liberty noticed amid the odd pile of breathing vegetation an eye of singular blue of a decidedly human character. He stared, rapt; the eye stared back. “Aye,” declared a reedy voice from inside the bush as it began to increase in height and advance toward him, “you caught me, you did, fair and square, no denying that.” A bony hand emerged from within the thready foliage which Liberty now realized was, in truth, an unbarbered cascade of gray human hair. “You are, no doubt, in a positive mystification as to whom you have the honor of addressing—Arthur Fife, gentleman of fortune, at your service, young lad.” Liberty stepped forward, accepted the grimy hand, then examined his own and wiped it on the seat of his pants. “I’ve seen you before, lad, many a time, passing through the territory, but you haven’t seen me, no, you haven’t.” He shifted restlessly about on filthy bare legs, the mass of hair swaying gently to and fro, parting just enough to reveal he wore no undergarments. “I’ve been the commissioned captain of this forest for more than half a century now. Try to guess my true age. Bet you can’t. Go ahead, try.” His bearded cheeks continued to move even after he ceased speaking, as if he were chewing on something particularly tough and sticky.

Liberty attempted to imagine an age of impossible longevity. “Seventy?” he ventured.

Fife responded with a chuckle that sounded like water rushing over a bed of stones. “I am one hundred and forty-six years of age. Incredible, isn’t it? Do ye believe me?”

Liberty looked the man slowly up and down. “Yes,” he said.

“Come, lad, follow me. Got something to show ye.”

He led the curious boy up the steep hill through brambles and across fallen branches to the summit, where at the rotten base of a dead oak dismantled by lightning rested a bale-sized boulder that Fife pushed aside as easily as a bag of leaves, revealing a hole in the ground into which he disappeared quick as a frightened gopher. “Come, come,” called his high, urgent voice from the darkness within.

On hands and knees Liberty scuttled through a short damp passage and found himself in a surprisingly ample underground chamber, the floor a soft carpeting of fresh moss, the walls reinforced with planks but for one side where an exposed network of roots bare and white as skeletal fingers held back the black dirt. The low ceiling was decorated in an expanse of embroidered white flowers, an upside-down field of Queen Anne’s lace that Fife had obviously plucked and replanted overhead from wall to wall. The space was quite comfortable, large enough for a boy, though the top of Fife’s head kept grazing against the pendent blossoms of those ornamental weeds. Fife himself was seated cross-legged on a pile of animal skins, having lit the stub of a tallow candle which, though sputtering, provided illumination sufficient to reveal the fascinatingly rustic decor of this furnished hole in the ground, as well as the queer smile fixed upon the proprietor’s partially obscured face.

“I see you have discovered my treasure chest,” declared Fife, gesturing toward a wooden box in the corner that Liberty had not in fact noticed at all. “All my worldly possessions are contained therein,” he added, dragging the chest toward him. “Would you care for a peek? Frankly, my boy, it’s not often I entertain visitors here in my dark abode, especially not ones so clever as you, cultivated lads who can appreciate the valuables collected over a bloody lifetime of frolic and folly.” He leaned forward to offer a conspiratorial aside: “For I was a pirate, you see, under the black flag with Calico Jack and Bartholomew Roberts.” With some degree of difficulty he managed to pry open the lid of the chest, releasing a choking cloud of fine dust and the perfume of the ages. Reaching inside, he removed a short cylindrical object which he presented with a certain ceremonial gravity. “The finger bone of Henry Morgan,” he intoned. Liberty turned the object in his hand; to him it resembled a stick. “A lock of Teach’s beard,” said Fife, passing over a second relic. To Liberty, a piece of hemp. “A gold doubloon from Kidd’s treasure.” To Liberty, a clay-encrusted stone. “I was there, you know, when they turned the captain off the scaffold at Wapping. Terrible business. The rope broke, and they had to launch him out anew. Hope never to see the like again. It was a sordid life, lad, and I’ve been paying for it ever since. But there were times, oh, there were times, even though they put a pistol to my head to sign the articles, when the life was a glory never to be imagined.

“Now, of course, I’m the man marooned by society, and you, my boy, have found me out on my enchanted isle. Yes, I am guilty, a horrid sinner damned in the eyes of God and man. I deserve no better than what you see before you.” He waved a languid hand about to indicate the mole’s lair in which they sat.

“What are you guilty of, sir?” asked Liberty.

“Why a life of unrestraint, of course. I refused to acknowledge the word ‘No.’ It was ‘Yes’ with me, lad, ‘Yes’ forever and always. I knew no hindrances, I brushed aside all societal obstacles, people were as shadows before me. Those were the grand days of riot and debauchery. I strode through the world with flask unstoppered, cutlass unsheathed and breeches unbuttoned. Lookee here.” Leaning out into the flickering candlelight, Fife pulled aside a curtain of hair to disclose, crudely etched into his very flesh, a primitively drawn skull and crossbones. “Old Inky did that on me at a table in The Flaming Bucket back in the roaring Port Royal times.”

“But how did you end up here in upper New York?”

“How? How, you say? I suppose I took a wrong turn at New Providence.” Then he opened his mouth, exposing a gumful of dark, ragged teeth, his begrimed face crinkled up as if in laughter while his shoulders shook, but not a sound could be heard. He searched around behind himself and hauled into view a white clay jug which he lifted to his lips, took a long gulp from and then offered to Liberty. “Care for some belly timber?”

Liberty, ever adventurous, swallowed a healthy sip. The liquid burned and smelled of turpentine and when he choked and coughed the droplets spewing from his mouth flared up brightly in the candle flame.

“Takes a mite getting used to,” explained Fife. “But it clears the head and warms the soul. In a few minutes you’ll be thanking me. They always do.”

Through the prisms of the boy’s tears Fife seemed to Liberty some hairy shimmering apparition that could devour him in one mad gulp. Then his vision cleared and Fife appeared much as he had before except that each strand of his numerous hairs stood out separate and lucent.

“And now,” announced Fife rather eagerly, the glittering of his eyes a bit more pronounced than seemed possible in this dim tallow light, “now that we’ve properly introduced ourselves, attended to the required conversational strictures, shared a drink—care for another by the way? No? Well perhaps later—now we may turn to the reason I have invited you to my quarters today.” From within his tent of hair he produced a leather pouch and extracted a sheaf of yellowed papers he dramatically waved in Liberty’s face, then reverently placed in his hairy lap.

“I have often observed you traveling through these woods in the company of a black man. Once you passed no more than three feet from where I squatted, performing a rather successful impersonation of a pile of leaves which I had meticulously arranged throughout my tresses, and on more than one occasion I heard this man whom I noticed you were attending carefully, turn and call out to you, ‘Liberty!’ Is this not correct?”

Liberty, in awed silence, merely nodded his head.

“Is ‘Liberty’ indeed your Christian name?”

“Yes,” the boy managed softly.

“So I assumed. You have been granted a great gift and a great responsibility. By the spark in your eye I see that you understand this. So, I now wish to honor you by officially inducting you into the ranks of the Liberi. Here are the articles.” Again the sheaf of papers was flourished about. “Here, read them, examine them. I can assure you all is in perfect order.”

The boy hunched forward into the light. Scanning the brittle pages, he saw the words: “Birthright…the Sweets of Liberty…the Fruits of Labor…a Share of the Earth.”

“But what is this all about?”

“Ah, you are unacquainted then with the reputation of the great Captain Mission and his noble efforts to save humanity from itself?”

“Who is he?”

“It’s ‘was,’ I’m afraid, boy, ‘was.’ Horrible engagement. Many a good lad gone to dive for the eternal peace. Last I saw of Captain Mission he had a saber in each hand, a gash across his cheek and a smile on his lips. A truer man never paced the quarterdeck. Under him we founded a paradise, can ye believe it? Libertalia, it was called, right there hard off the east coast of Africa, exactly where the ancient prophecies said it would be. Free and easy those times were, I’d give an eye to have ’em back again. Every man same as every other man. Share and share alike. What a wild larksome crew we were, white and black and yellow and red and all the shades between. A nation of banded brothers slashing a lane of freedom through this shackled world. You should have seen the slavers running before us, hising up their skirts and scampering for home. And, do you know, not one escaped us. How can I explain to one so young the joy of the pursuit, the thrill of our cannons toppling those bloodstained masts, ripping through their ranks, the lead and splinters and screams, the jubilation of the slaves at their unexpected deliverance. Mental champagne I don’t look to taste again this side of the bar. And every one of those slaves eagerly joined our crew, best damn sailors in all the world’s navies. But what we would sometimes do to the captain and his mates would give a lad like you night fits for a month. One foul word to Captain Mission and off they’d go over the side to the fishies and the sharks. Once the slaves started talking we’d know who to do up right, haul ’em up to the yardarms, ‘sweat’ ’em around the deck. Not a pretty picture for delicate souls but, by God, the fun we had. And what was done to them devils was a precious kindness to what they done to the poor lads in the hold, but we rescued hundreds of ’em from the irons and I can live with that. Of course that’s why they was all after us so fierce, not a country with ships on the sea didn’t want to see us hanging in chains before the tide. This globe’s a prison, child, and those who wish to break out are the sworn enemies of all governments.

“Now, from the look of your rigging and the company you keep, you strike this old dog as a lad enlisted on the side of malefactors one and all. And all you have to do to officially join up is place your mark at the bottom of the articles. Here.” He thrust the sharp yellowy nail of his soiled forefinger down upon the bottom of the page where was gathered a bizarre collection of illegible signatures.

“But what shall I write with?” asked Liberty.

Fife plucked a random twig from his hair, held one end to the candle flame until the wood smoked and blackened. “Nature’s writing implement,” he answered, passing the twig to Liberty who, as conscientiously as he could, spelled out his name in sooty flowing script on the brittle parchment.

“Does this mean I am a real pirate?” Liberty asked.

“Welcome aboard!” cried Fife, solemnly shaking the boy’s hand. “And now, lad, go and spread havoc throughout the main, always bearing in mind Captain Mission’s immortal words, ‘Death to all tyrants, freedom to all in bondage and to us a fat chest of glittering gold,’ eh?” Fife eased himself back onto a bed of moss. “Go, I say,” he repeated, making brushing motions with his hands. “Go, you’ve got important duties to be about.”

Once home Liberty dared not tell his trusting parents he had from this day forth turned pirate. Let them continue to believe he still sailed under the old colors. That was how your true buccaneer operated, waiting until the gullible prey ventured too near to flee, then running up the Jolly Roger. This would be his special secret, a surprise to spring on unsuspecting malefactors everywhere once the time was ripe.

From the opening of
consciousness Liberty had never known a home in which parents were not coming and going with casual regularity, so like all children he simply assumed that his life was the life of every child. Of course, he missed his mother and his father when they were away and though he had grown quite accustomed to their eccentric schedules, these frequent absences created holes in the evidence every child requires to try to solve that initial and most crucial puzzle of life: the mystery of parents.

His father was a big man with big hands and a big voice, but beneath his bigness was something small and quiet and tender which revealed itself most often when they were alone, in a certain look Thatcher passed to his son with the seriousness and gravity of presenting an invaluable gift, in the posture he assumed at his desk and the manner in which he gripped his pen when composing a speech, in the grace with which he modestly took Roxana’s hand and held it for a moment in his own, and on countless other fleeting occasions when, with the humblest of gestures, the briefest of words, all that was good and true in human life was allowed to peek out for an instant from behind the bars that kept such recognition sadly, needlessly, cruelly, incarcerated.

But just as the sun must set and night come rushing in, there were periods of unfortunately longer duration when Liberty’s father, or the self he chose to think of as his father, was partially obscured by what the family referred to euphemistically as Thatcher’s “grumpers.” Something deep inside the man became eclipsed by something else and the whole household had to move like mourners within its captive shadow. Then Thatcher sank into a curdled silence which no one dared break, stretched out on the worn horsehair sofa in his study, a wet cloth folded across his eyes. Liberty never really comprehended what was going on inside his father during these alarming interludes, but he did know this: Father, in this prone position, was not, under any circumstances, to be disturbed. No laughter, no loud voices.

But what Liberty would remember best was the feel of his own small hand gathered in the warm, comforting grip of the man, those times alone when all of Thatcher’s potent attention was concentrated on his son, as something inside Liberty always insisted, occasionally to contrary evidence that it should be, their trips together, their talks, the information about the sorry state of the world Thatcher shared reluctantly, almost sadly, with his son and heir out of a conviction that I do not enjoy having to tell you these things, but it is important you hear this news, no matter how distasteful, because, unfortunately, it is the truth, whereas it is lies and the promulgation of lies that will make you and the people in your life sick.

From the front porch the lonely Liberty could often watch children passing along the road at the foot of the hill. Since his near accident with hooves and wheels he had been sternly and repeatedly warned by both parents and his aunt, under pain of a punishment so severe he could not possibly imagine it, to never, under any circumstances, dare to wander down onto that dangerous pike, no matter what the temptation.

Of course temptations were many and Liberty’s years few, so eventually there came the day when, ignoring all adult authority, he yielded to his own. It was a warm, drowsy summer morning, banks of clouds sitting motionless off to the south like a succession of white reefs, Liberty on the porch rocking leisurely in his mother’s chair and quietly contemplating the grasshoppers sailing erratically across the long uncut yard when two boys, shirtless and barefoot, came meandering up the road, brandishing sharpened sticks which each deployed against the other as if engaged in the most furious sword fight. Startled by their whoops and cries, a cloud of sparrows erupted skyward from nearby trees as the boys, thrusting and lunging, gradually disappeared from view. Not a thought in his head, Liberty abruptly stood up out of the chair and let his willful legs carry him down across the yard and onto the road, following the junior cavaliers at a respectful distance. At the crest of the next hill the boys turned, looked back at Liberty for a moment and went on. Insects buzzed in the weeds. Butterflies chased one another into the shadows of the woods. Liberty paused to retrieve a fallen branch which he waved dramatically about in the air as he walked. The boys vanished around a bend, and when Liberty caught up he discovered them posed on the front porch of a weathered frame house, one on either side of a lean, red-faced woman who was regarding him with the severe look normally reserved for cheating husbands, disobedient children and bad dogs. Bravely, Liberty approached. The boys looked expectantly at their mother. A large yellow hound slunk out from beneath the boards of the house and began to bark. “Hush!” snapped the woman, and the animal instantly stopped, sat back on its haunches and assumed a canine version of the same suspicious gaze mother and sons were directing at Liberty.

“What do you want?” the woman called harshly.

Ever the mannerly youth, Liberty replied politely, “I’ve come to play.”

“Well, you get along now and go play somewhere else. We don’t want your kind playing around here.”

Each of the boys had taken hold of one of their mother’s hands.

“Now go on from here before I sic Chester on you.”

“Go back to your nigger hotel!” yelled the taller of the boys.

The smaller boy stepped down off the porch, picked up a rock and threw it at Liberty, which missile he easily dodged. But never having encountered such puzzling hostility, Liberty remained temporarily paralyzed, unable to move, unable to think.

The older boy was looking for a good-sized rock for himself when suddenly the woman shrieked, “Get him, Chester!” and in an instant the hound was up and bounding forward in a furry streak of fangs and claws, followed closely by the boys who, gathering stones as they ran, proceeded to let fly an erratic barrage at Liberty, now several hundred yards down the road, the maddened hound yelping, foaming, snapping at Liberty’s feet and hands until one of the boys’ rocks came sailing in directly on the pointed peak of its head and the animal dropped to the dirt like a bag of seed, horrified mother and howling sons gathered about the unmoving carcass as Liberty, with hardly a backward glance, flew over a hill and was gone.

For all its enthusiastic ferocity the dog had failed to even penetrate Liberty’s skin. His wounds consisted of a couple bruises and a few angry-looking scratches which Thatcher washed and dutifully kissed, and then, sitting attentively in his study, with Liberty perched on a pillow in a chair opposite, listened to the sorry tale of his son’s morning adventure. When Liberty finished Thatcher said not word, simply watched the boy’s flushed face for a long minute. Then, sighing, he placed his hands on his knees, leaned forward and said:

“Now, Liberty, I have something of grave importance to convey to you and I would urge you to pay close attention. Are you listening?”

The boy nodded solemnly.

“Good. Now first, as an experiment, I want you to say the word ‘nigger’ for me.”

Liberty stared blankly at his father.

“Go ahead, it’s all right. I want you to say it for me.”

“Nigger,” Liberty said in a near whisper.

“Louder. Say it the way the boy said it today.”

“Nigger,” he repeated with a certain force and heat.

“Listen,” Thatcher advised. “Listen to how you sound when you voice those syllables. See how the word seems to naturally lend itself to being pronounced with anger. Now say it again and notice how your lips, the muscles of your face, feel. To even mouth the word is to shape your countenance into a leering mask of ugliness and hatred. Now, most importantly, observe how you feel deep inside when speaking such a word, the ugly shape it makes of your insides, and imagine also what it is doing to the insides of the person so addressed. How did you feel when you heard your home called a ‘nigger hotel’?”

“Bad.”

“Yes, and though you didn’t even really know exactly what the word meant, yet still it produced its intended result. So, I would like for you to always bear in mind the pernicious effects of this insult. Will you do that?”

“Yes.” His voice barely audible.

“Because, as I hope you now understand, the word ‘nigger’ is the most foul sound that can be formed by human lips and tongue. There is no comparison with anything else. It is the verbal equivalent of a raised whip. Not all the blasphemies uttered by all the infidels of the world against God and all the churches and ministers and priests can equal the hatred embedded in that singular word. I don’t want you to ever employ that word in any manner whatsoever upon any other person, no matter what slight or crime you think they may have committed against you. People who do so are callous fools deformed by ignorance and fear and not worth associating with by day or night. I know you feel bad about what happened to you today, but believe me, those boys would not have made suitable playmates. Their souls are soiled, as are no doubt the souls of their parents, their relatives, their friends. All touched by the curse that has been laid against this land. I know it hurts, but sometimes, Liberty, all one can do before such malignant idiocy is be polite as possible and gracefully withdraw. There are certain terrains where the wise general seeks to avoid battle. Because there will come other days, other fields, where one will be presented with the opportunity to beat back the tide of hatred and work to lift the curse that weighs heavily as chains upon us all, free and bonded alike.”