“I declare to Gawd, my cripple knee is so painful I don’ know ef I could git in a boat.”
“Den I’ll tote you, but you sho’ got to come.”
“I’m mighty ’f’aid o’ boats an’ water in de daytime much less at night.” She leaned down to fix the sticks on the fire, but he caught her roughly by the arm.
“Don’ you tarry, Hannah. You come on right now!”
“What kind o’ boat you got?”
“De boat’s narrow an’ de river’s high, but you got strong heart, enty? You’ll be as safe wid me in dat boat as ef you was settin’ right here by de fire in your rockin’ chair. I promised my li’l’ gal to fetch you an’ you’ birthin’ beads ef e would hold out till I git back. You better come on! Gramma’ll hant you sho’ as you fail me to-night!”
Maum Hannah sighed deep. “I know I got to go, scared as I is. A boat on a floodin’ river is a turrible t’ing, but I sho’ don’ want Gramma’s sperit to git no grudge against me. Catchin’ chillen is Jedus’ business anyhow, an’ de river belongs to Jedus, same as me an’ you, I reckon. You wait till I git de beads out de trunk. Sometimes I wish Gramma didn’ leave me dem beads. It’s de truth!”
She groped her way to the shed-room and fumbled in a trunk, then called out that she needed a light. He broke a splinter off from a stick of fat lightwood on the hearth and, lighting it, took it to her. The small flame blazed up, sputtering and hissing, and spat black drops of tar on the clean floor, on the quilt covered bed, on the wide white apron she was tying around her waist. The shaking hand that held it was to blame.
“How come you’ hand is a-tremblin’ so, Breeze?” she asked gently. “You is pure shakin’ like a leaf. Trust in Gawd, son. You’ gal b’longs to Him, not to you. Jedus ain’ gwine fail em now when e have need.”
The light wavered wildly as he raised an arm to draw his shirt-sleeve across his eyes. Big teardrops rolled down his cheeks, and his face twitched dumbly.