The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2: The Testimonial (9 page)

Hark's hand grabbed Nat Turner's shirt and pulled him back before he stepped out of the cover of the trees. He had not realized that he was walking toward the pond.

After that day he could not stop saying her name. Cherry. He
found excuses to say it. Cherry. Every breeze, raindrop, even the sunshine reminded him of her.

When he saw her again, Nat Turner made his intentions known to her. She took his hand as though she had been waiting all the time. Cherry kissed him. His lips and then his neck, and he forgot all the promises and vows he had made. He forgot what would happen to him and to his children. With a kiss it all melted away.

Hope was the nectar on her lips, and each one of her fingers touching his face told him that things would be better. Hark helped him to laugh, but Cherry helped him to forget. When she smiled, the burden lifted. There was sweet life in Cherry.

A
fter years as a bothersome little girl, Cherry finally stole his heart away.

Then, just as suddenly, she seemed to change. All her life Cherry had been following him. Now she ignored him. She made it hard for him, walking away when she saw him.

He did not want to marry anyway, Nat Turner told himself. It was too much trouble, too hard. But he could not get Cherry out of his mind.

Then he remembered what his mother had told him. “It is the nature of men to only value what is hard to come by. We Ethiopian women know it is true. Anything worth having is worth working for.”

But it made no sense to him. Always Cherry had been there, always waiting for him.

“A woman who gives herself easily to you will give herself easily to another,” his mother said.

It made no sense to him. Why should things be so complicated?

“In Ethiopia,” his mother told him, “your father would search for the perfect wife for you, a woman of great value. As her intended, you would offer gifts—gifts for her and her family. Our two families would meet to be sure you were both suitable and to discuss the bride-price. You would court your bride—an honorable woman wants to know that she is important to you, that you value her. The very best maidens come with a very high price, a price that cannot be paid by just anyone.”

Nat Turner had no father to find a bride for him. He had no expensive gifts to give to Cherry. He took her a sunflower. She
smiled and then walked away. He caught a butterfly and carried it to her. She kissed his cheek and walked away.

She knew he had nothing. What did she expect from him?

He sneaked and gathered apples for her, apples for which he might have been beaten if he was caught—sweet, red apples with no blemishes—and left them on a trail for her. He left them at special places for her—on a stone, in a tree hollow, beneath a mulberry bush. Cherry hugged him when she found them all, and then walked away.

He found a honeycomb hidden in a tree and sneaked her wild honey. He scooped some with a finger and she allowed him to drizzle it on her tongue. She smiled at him, kissed him, and then walked away.

It was too hard. What did she want from him? It was too much work, this courting. But he could not forget her or the taste of hope on her lips.

He saw her walking on a path one night; the moon followed her. He walked beside her, half-hidden among the trees. “You are black and comely. ‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes.'”

Cherry stopped to listen to him.

“‘As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.'” She smiled, turning her head, arching her neck to see him. He whispered the words. “‘The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.'”

Cherry beckoned to him, and Nat Turner stepped into the moonlight. “Sing to me,” she said.

He shook his head—he never sang. He spoke again. “‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from mount Gilead.'”

Cherry kissed his cheek.

“‘Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.'”

Cherry wrapped her arms around him.

“‘Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.'”

She touched his face with her hand.

He breathed her in. “Marry me,” he said.

Cherry stayed.

I
n Ethiopia weddings lasted seven days. There were feasts and prayers, and priests playing timbrels, dancing, and beating on drums. Nat Turner imagined that he and Cherry were marrying in his mother's way. In Ethiopia, he would not have been able to marry her if she was his cousin within seven relations. He would not have been able to marry her if he could not pay the bride-price. How would he have ever hoped to pay for and marry such a woman?

Her eyes were hope's promise, and when she smiled and said his name, he knew that God loved him. Nathan Turner knew, when he breathed in Cherry, that God knew his name. When she, his wife, snuggled onto his lap, he knew that everything his mother had told him about Ethiopia was true.

The skin on her legs was hairless, smooth, and cool, but the tips of his fingers felt fire. She wrapped around him like brown ribbon. Her kinky hair was his pillow. She made him more of who he was than when he was alone.

At night she entwined one leg with his and slid her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. In the dark, he saw fireflies. When they were alone, Cherry sang him made-up songs. “My love is prince of Ethiopia,” and Nat Turner, Negasi, forgot where he was.

When he was with her, they were clouded in silks and there was gold on their fingers. There were roses and orchids, spices and sunsets. In the distance he watched elephants and giraffes promenade, and zebras, leopards, and antelope lope by. When he was with Cherry, he left Virginia far behind.

Ethiopia was a paradise, and her colors kissed the sky. Her
mountains bore the sweetest fruit, and all her valleys were myrrh. Stars crowned her head, and flowers kissed her feet; she lived in the midst of a rainbow. Solomon bowed at her beauty, and the Nile was the cradle and the birthplace of all life. Cherry was a garden, and Africa lived in her hair.

WHEN TEN FULL moons passed, Cherry bore their first son, Riddick.

In the woods, far away from the barn and underneath the moonlight and the boughs of trees loaded with spring blossoms, Cherry moaned as Riddick fought his way into the world.

Not far away, but as though she were in Ethiopia, his mother prayed ancient prayers in Amharic and sang songs her mother had taught her. She lifted prayers to protect and comfort Cherry, to welcome the baby into the world.

Nat Turner held his baby in his arms, his son, his tiny son. Tiny perfect fingers curled around one of his own. Brown eyes full of wonder looked into his—eyes that believed him, that trusted him, that thought he was a king.

He kissed his son's forehead and kissed his hand. “Things will be different for you,” he whispered to Riddick. He kissed his precious son and then slowly lifted Riddick to present him to the village, to his ancestors far away, and to God.

Beside Nat Turner, his mother spoke words and sang songs to honor her grandson, Amharic words forbidden in America.
Born today is the son of nine generations of warriors! Born today is the son of eleven generations of prophets! Born today is the son of eight generations of wise women! The son of ancient fathers who walked with Abba Selama! Behold their aspects bloom in him!

Nat Turner lowered his son to his shoulder. “I promise. Things will be different for you.” He enfolded Riddick in his arms. “On my own life, I promise you a better one. On my own life, I promise you a better way.”

Cherry was a quiet wife, and he hoped no one would notice
her with the scarf around her head and her rags on. He did not talk about her to others because he wanted to keep her for his own. Riddick was a quiet baby, and Nat Turner kept him close. He was quiet with his family; he did not want others to notice them.

But he knew. They had already taught him. A slave could not have anything.

NAT TURNER LOOKED across the room at Cherry and, though it was winter, he smelled apple blossoms. She bent over the stove in the kitchen, helping with Christmas dinner. Watching her, her brown hands and sweet brown face, still did the same things to him. When she combed her hair, when she smiled, when she touched his hand, she still took his breath away. As he was to his mother, she was his shame and his glory.

He came back to do the will of God. But in truth, he also came back for Cherry. He came back to never leave her, to be a man who would never abandon her, no matter the cost.

His presence was his sonnet to her. She read it; he could see it in her eyes. He came back for her and for his son.

Plymouth Church, Brooklyn Heights

1856

T
he service over and all the visitors and congregants greeted, Harriet retired to the pastor's study with Henry and Frederick Douglass. Henry, still full of life, bounded through the door and onto his favorite sitting place, the sofa, in his favorite position—on his knees, curled almost into position like a Cheshire cat. “Hattie, do take off that atrocious bonnet, you look like a country schoolmarm.”

She glanced at Mr. Douglass to see how he was receiving her brother's foolishness. “Henry, please!”

“Oh, Hattie, settle your feathers. You are both at home here and we are all family.” Smiling, he reached for a nearby plate. It appeared to have once been full of cookies, but now there were only two left. “Here, a peace offering.”

“No thank you, brother. We have business to attend to.”

Henry half pouted, half smiled. “Don't be cross with me.” He turned to Frederick Douglass. “You see, a prophet is without honor in his own family.” He turned in the seat like a five-year-old, not like a world-famous pastor. “Please have one. They are delicious ginger cookies. See the crumbs? But I saved these last just for the two of you. I knew you would be famished. Take one, and then pour tea so that you will be refreshed.” He beamed at the two of them, his blue-gray eyes sparkling. “I thought of everything.” He pouted again. “Please, Hattie.”

When they each had tea, Harriet and Frederick accepted the last two cookies. Frederick nodded at Harriet. “Please, ladies first.”

Harriet sipped her tea and then bit into the cookie.

Henry leaned forward, one eyebrow raised. “Delicious?”

Harriet frowned and then, without thinking, she spit crumbs onto the floor.

Henry clapped his hands, lifting partway from his seat. “Perfect!”

She gulped tea to wash the taste from her mouth. “Henry, the cookies are horrible!”

“I know.” He giggled. “One of the good church ladies baked them for me.” He looked back and forth between Harriet and Frederick. “The sweet woman's eyesight is not what it once was. I believe she reached for the salt when she thought she had the sugar.” He laughed out loud. “I threw most of them away, but I wanted to share my good fortune with friends.”

Frederick Douglass attempted to cover his laugh with his napkin.

Her younger brother had always been a prankster, and age had not cured him. “I should have known better.” She looked at Frederick. “Did you know about this, Mr. Douglass?”

Frederick shrugged, trying not to smile. “This is a family matter. I never step between brother and sister.”

“You are both children. I am here on a serious matter, and you both waste time with silly games.”

The two men laughed aloud. Henry bounced on the sofa like a child, sputtering, “‘A m-m-merry heart doeth good like a m-m-medicine.'”

Frederick wiped tears from his eyes as he chuckled. “‘The joy of the L
ORD
is our strength.'”

“How can the two of you laugh when there are such heavy matters before us?”

Henry and Frederick began to outdo each other, quoting Bible passages.

“‘They that sow in tears shall reap in joy!'”

“‘Make a joyful noise unto the L
ORD
, all the earth: make a loud noise, and rejoice, and sing praise.'”

They paid no attention to her. “Henry, behave!” With each
round of quotes, the two got louder and louder. “Hush, you two, anyone about will think you have gone mad.” They ignored her and continued.

“‘But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice: let them ever shout for joy!'”

“‘Be glad in the L
ORD
, and rejoice, ye righteous: and shout for joy!'”

It was unseemly. The two of them were shouting now. “What kind of example are you two gentlemen—if I may call you that—setting?” Her protests were futile. “You are infants! I have come all this way to discuss the letter I have with me, and the two of you are playing whirligig and rolling the hoop.”

Frederick Douglass stood and bowed. “‘Rejoice in the L
ORD
, O ye righteous: for praise is comely!'”

“Henry, you have had a terrible influence on Mr. Douglass. You have turned a perfectly intelligent gentleman into a jokester, like yourself.”

Not to be outdone, Henry stood this time and sang his quote in a booming baritone.
“‘Hitherto have ye asked nothing in my name: ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.'”