A Chariot of Fire
I
SKY PILOT
The man traveling through the Louisiana swamps is often appalled by the deathlike stillness of the woods.
Slimy creatures crawl in the muck under his feet without a croak or hiss. Gaudy birds fly from living trees to dead, gaunt stumps without a note of music. The fox and wolf which sometimes make the woods vocal with their barking, slink away at the approach of man in silence. The whole place seems to be engaged in the deepest conspiracy to accomplish something which the slightest sound would disturb or frustrate.
Generally, a negro walking through the woods alone will bawl a song at the top of his voice. For some reason he feels that there is safety in sound, just as the Chinaman beats a tin pan to chase the devil away. But no negro ever has the courage to shatter one of these conspiracies of silence when he finds it in the swamp. If everything else begins to make a racket, he will, too. But he won’t start anything.
Which accounts for the fact that two negroes, not two hundred yards apart, were walking through the Little Moccasin Swamp, and were unaware of each other’s presence.
One negro was troubled. He stopped, removed his high silk hat, and mopped the sweat from the top of his bald head. He lowered his head and listened, then he raised his head and listened. For a moment he thought he heard something, then he found the silence more intense than ever.
“Dar’s somepin gittin’ ready to happen aroun’ dis woods,” he whispered to himself. “I been listenin’ in dese here swamps all my life, but I ain’t never heard no sound like dat ontil now.”