The Conjure Woman - Charles W. Chesnutt (top novels of all time txt) 📗

“Po’ Ben wuz so ’sturbed in his min’ dat he couldn’ hahdly eat any clay dat day. He couldn’ make out w’at wuz de matter wid Dasdy but he ’lowed maybe she’d heared he wuz dead er sump’n’, an’ thought he wuz a ha’nt, an’ dat wuz w’y she had run away. So he watch’ by de side er de road, an’ nex’ mornin’ who should come erlong but little Pete, wid a reed over his shoulder, an’ a go’d-full er bait, gwine fishin’ in de crick.

“Ben called ’im; ‘Pete, O Pete! Little Pete.’

“Little Pete cocked up his ears an’ listened. ’Peared lak he’d heared dat voice befo’. He stahted fer de woods fer ter see who it wuz callin’ ’im, but befo’ he got dere Ben stepped out an’ retched fer im.

“ ‘Come heah, honey, an’ see yo’ daddy, who ain’ seenyer fer so long.’

“But little Pete tuk one look at ’im, an’ den ’menceter holler an squeal an’ kick an’ bite an’ scratch. Ben wuz so ’stonish’ dat he couldn’ hol’ de boy, who slipped out’n his han’s an run to’ds de house ez fas’ ez his legs would tote ’im.

“Po’ Ben kep’ gittin’ wus an’ wus mixed up. He couldn’ make out fer de life er ’im w’at could be de matter. Nobody didn’ ’pear ter wanter own ’im. He felt so cas’ down dat he didn’ notice a nigger man comin’ long de road ’til he got right close up on ’im, an’ didn’ heah dis man w’en he said ‘Hoddy’ ter ’im.

“ ‘Wat’s de matter wid yer?’ said de yuther man w’en Ben didn’ ’spon’. ‘Wat jedge er member er de legislater er hotelkeeper does you b’long ter dat you can’t speak ter a man w’en he says hoddy ter yer?’

“Ben kinder come ter hisse’f an’ seed it wuz Primus, who b’long ter his marster an’ knowed ’im as well as anybody. But befo’ he could git de words out’n his mouf Primus went on talkin’.

“ ‘Youer de mos’ mis’able lookin’ merlatter I eber seed. Dem rags look lak dey be’n run th’oo a sawmill. My marster doan ’low no strange niggers roun’ dis yer plantation, an’ yo’ better take yo’ yaller hide ’way f’um yer as fas’ as yo’ kin.’

“Jes den somebody hollered on de yuther side er de crick, an’ Primus stahted off on a run, so Ben didn’ hab no chance ter say no mo’ ter ’im.

“Ben almos’ ’lowed he wuz gwine out’n’ his min’, he wuz so ’stonished an’ mazed at none er dese yer folks reco’nizin’ ’im. He went back in de woods ag’in an’ stayed dere all day, wond’rin’ w’at he wuz gwineter do. Oncet er twicet he seed folks comin’ ’long de road, an’ stahted out ter speak ter ’em, but changed his min’ an’ slip’ back ag’in.

“Co’se ef Mars Marrabo had been huntin’ Ben he would ’a’ foun’ ’im. But he had long sence los’ all hope er seein’ im ag’in, an’ so nobody didn’ ’sturb Ben in de woods. He stayed hid a day er two mo’ an’ den he got so lonesome an’ homesick fer Dasdy an’ little Pete an’ de yuther dahkies⁠—somebody ter talk ter⁠—dat he jes’ made up his min’ ter go right up ter de house an’ gib hisse’f up an’ take his med’cine. Mars Marrabo couldn’ do nuffin’ mo’ d’n kill ’im an’ he mought’s well be dead as hidin’ in de woods wid nobody ter talk ter er look at ner nuffin’. He had jes’ come out ’n de woods an’ stahted up dis ve’y road, w’en who sh’d come ’long in a hoss ’n buggy but ole Mars Marrabo, drivin’ ober ter dat yuther brickyahd youer gwinter see now. Ben run out ’n de woods, and fell down on his knees in de road right in front er Mars Marrabo. Mars Marrabo had to pull on de lines an’ hoi’ de hoss up ter keep ’im f’um runnin’ ober Ben.

“ ‘Git out’n de road, you fool nigger,’ says Mars Marrabo, ‘does yer wanter git run ober? Whose nigger is you, anyhow?’

“ ‘I’s yo’ nigger, Mars Marrabo; doan yer know Ben, w’at runned erway?’

“ ‘Yas, I knows my Ben w’at runned erway. Does you know whar he is?’

“ ‘Why, I’s yo’ Ben, Mars Marrabo. Doan yer know me, marster?’

“ ‘No, I doan know yer, yer yaller rascal! W’at de debbil yer mean by tellin’ me sich a lie? Ben wuz black ez a coal an’ straight ez an’ arrer. Youer yaller ez dat clay-bank, an’ crooked ez a bair’l-hoop. I reckon youer some ’stracted nigger, tun’t out by some marster w’at doan wanter take keer er yer. You git off’n my plantation, an’ doan show yo’ clay-cullud hide aroun’ yer no more, er I’ll hab yer sent ter jail an’ whip.’

“Mars Marrabo drove erway an’ lef’ po’ Ben mo’ dead ’n alive. He crep’ back in de bushes an’ laid down an’ wep’ lak a baby. He didn’ hab no wife, no chile, no frien’s, no marster⁠—he’d be’n willin’ ernuff to git ’long widout a marster, w’en he had one, but it ’peared lak a sin fer his own marster ter ’ny ’im an’ cas’ ’im off dat-a-way. It ’peared ter ’im he mought jes’ ez well be dead ez livin’, fer he wuz all alone in de worl’, wid nowhar ter go, an’ nobody didn’ hab nuffin’ ter say ter ’im but ter ’buse ’im an’ drive ’im erway.

“Atter he got ober his grievin’ spell he ’mence ter wonder w’at Mars Marrabo meant by callin’ ’im yaller, an’ ez long ez nobody didn’ seem ter keer whuther dey seed ’im er not, he went down by de crick in broad daylight, an’ kneel down by de water an’ looked at his face. Fus’ he didn’ reco’nize hisse’f an’ glanshed back ter see ef dey wa’n’t somebody lookin’ ober his shoulder⁠—but dey wa’n’t. An’ w’en he looked back in de water he seed de same thing⁠—he wa’n’t black no mo’, but had turnt ter a light yaller.

“Ben