“You be very young.”
He untied the little bag and carefully shook out its contents into the palm of his hand—dust, fine as powder, a bit of shriveled herb and several smooth, round pebbles. Then he held out the upturned hand to Frederick.
“Look now!” he said. “Soil of Africa—come cross the sea close by my mother’s breast.”
Holding his breath Frederick bent his head. It was as if a great hand lay upon his heart.
“And here”—Sandy’s long fingers touched the withered fragment—“seaweed, flowered on great waters, waters of far-off lands, waters of many lands.”
Holding Frederick’s wrist, Sandy carefully emptied the bits upon the boy’s palm, then gently closed his fingers.
“A thousand years of dust in one hand! Dust of men long gone, men who lived so you live. Your dust.”
He handed Frederick the little bag. And Frederick took it reverently. With the utmost care, lest one grain of dust be lost, he emptied his palm into it. Then, drawing the cord tight, he placed the pouch inside his rags, fastening the cord securely. He stood up, and his head was clear. Again the black man thought, He’ll do!
The boy stood speechless. There were things he wanted to say, things he wanted to promise. This day, this spot, this one bright morning was important. This man had saved his life, and suddenly he knew that his life was important. He laid his hand on the black man’s arm.
“I won’t be forgettin’,” he said.