A Horse Made of Smoke

JJ Amaworo Wilson

A god made of grain. A mind made of salt. A throat made of clay. Figures in the wind cross the bridge between waking days and dreamtime. A heart made of leaves. A head made of sand. A horse made of smoke. And we, the righteous dreamers, walk in the grooves you shaped on your way to the edge of the world.

Trans. from the Yoruba “Tales of Woe and Dreaming” - Anon.

 


Wind blowin’ down, rows o’ trees bustlin’, leaves shakin’, everbody waitin’ for rain. Ain’t nothin’ grow wi’out rain. 

Matilda be my name, though some call me Tilly. Others call me Matty. Others Tilda. It don’t matter what folk calls me. I’s one hunnerd an’ twenty year old. By the time you git that old, nothin’ matter much. 

I done buried four chillen. When they come from my womb they was made o’ the Lord’s clay an’ I done lef’ ‘em in clay, so they’s home. One were only a toddler. He the one I regret. He never did have no chance. The others, well, they lived they lives an’ died when they was suppose to die.

I done buried three husbands too. The firs’ he were no good. Josiah died as he lived – knee deep in moonshine. He weren’t even forty year old when the Lord took him, an’ I swears as they close the casket I smells the whisky that done pickled him head to toe.

The secon’ husband, I guess he were a fine man. Least everbody say so. He were the father o’ five o’ my seven chillen. He tall, upstandin’, honest. Everbody say he had a good temperament. I don’t even know what that mean but everbody say, “That Charlie Douglas, he have a good temperament. He never git mad, not even wi’ they chillen runnin’ wild all day long.” Well, sho’, he had a good temperament, but he din’t have good lungs, cos they done collapsed afore he turn fi’ty an’ he spend the next ten year in bed an’ me waitin’ on him hand an’ foot. He always say please an’ thank you, but still. Even a fine man wi’ a good temperament need a pair o’ lungs. 

My third husband were perty good too. He give me my las’ child, Little Lady, the best o’ them all, an’ a gift from the Lord which I done received when I were close to fi’ty year old. Now this third husband he up an’ die o’ old age at eighty-eight an’ afore he die he turn on his side on them white sheets where he was alayin’ an’ where I’s alayin’ right now an’ he look at me wi’ them grey eyes full o’ mist an’ sawdust an’ say, “See you soon in the afterlife.” Well, forty years done pass an’ I ain’t seen him yet. Come to think o’ it, I ain’t heard from him neither. Then agin he always did have a poor sense o’ direction, so his ghost may be awanderin’ aroun’ in the wrong neighborhood callin’ me by my many names. But it don’t matter none. By the time you gits to one hunnerd an’ twenty, nothin’ matter none.

What is it I be wanting to say to you, Matilda or Tilly or Matty or whatever I’s to call you? That the ghosts ain’t never quiet in this house? But you knows that already. An’ I knows you miss me an’ Josiah, James, Belle, Roberta, Charlie Junior, Willard, yo’ Momma an’ Poppa, all yo’ dead. One hunnerd an’ twenty years on this planet an’ you talkin’ wi’ us ghosts day an’ night because you be closer to the dead than the livin’. An’ I, who up an’ died at eighty-eight, yo’ Charlie, yo’ Charlie wi’ a good temperament, why everbody say so, who spent half my life waitin’ for you, in the kitchen, in the grocery store, in the tree-shaded lanes where we done walk in the mornin’s, I’s still awaitin’ for you.

I still goes for walks along a row o’ trees not far from my family property. Some folks don’t go there cos they scared o’ encounterin’ the ghost o’ Billy Jarvis, who were hung on a oak tree there in 1926. Phooey, they say he done look at a white woman the wrong way an’ nex’ thing he know he swingin’ from a tree. When the coroner cut him down, he say Billy weigh twice as much as he did when he were alive cos he full o’ lead from the white men shootin’ him up after he dead. 

So the people ain’t come here now. But I goes there all the time, says hello to Billy when I sees him. He ain’t so scary. His ghost ain’t swingin’ from that tree, but sittin’ under it eatin’ a red apple an’ lookin’ content wi’ everthin’, like he done forgave those fellas what killed him.

Yes, I still walk even at one hunnerd an’ twenty. The trick is not to be thinkin’ ‘bout yo’ age. It be jus’ like walkin’ – one step at a time an’ soon you done walk a mile an’ then two. Jus’ don’t think to yo’se’f I gots to walk two mile cos tha’s when you gits to sayin’ oh my knee hurt, oh my back hurt, oh my rheumatism killin’ me, oh this oh that. Just git up an’ walk. Just git up an’ walk.

I’m lookin’ down on you an’ thinkin’ you sho has a better life than we did. You made it to one hunnerd an’ twenty. How in the name o’ the Lord you manage that when me an’ yo’ Daddy din’t make it to sixty? You spent mo’ years on this earth n both o’ us put together, baby Tilly! I see you in the kitchen bakin’ greens, on the loom makin’ clothes for the little uns, walkin’ on an’ on through them trees. What keeps you goin’, girl? You done buried four o’ my grandchillen an’ who knows, you may bury three mo’ afore you go.  

In our little church I first seed Josiah when I were but sixteen year old an’ I falls in love wi’ him right away. He say he been watchin’ me for two month but I never notice him. That day he done come home wi’ my family an’ we done eat corn bread an’ carrots for dinner an’ he sho look happy. Momma wouldn’t let me walk to he house so I jus’ set an’ wave goodbye but I knowed then that he gon be my husband. An’ I were right, for weren’t two weeks later he done ask me to marry him. I say yes. An’ he say but you gotta ask yo’ momma an’ pappy. An’ I say I already did. 

Josiah go celebrate wi’ a whisky bottle. Lord know where he get a whisky bottle, but it weren’t the firs’ an’ it weren’t the las’ an’ eventually I comes to know that he weren’t married to me, he were married to that whisky bottle.

You know what done drove me to the moonshine, Matilda? When we lost our land I was but a bitty child. But my mammy an’ pappy was so miserable they took to drink. An’ I took to drink wi’ them. I din’t mean no harm to nobody, but I couldn’t git my life goin’. Went from farm to farm lookin’ for work an’ sometimes even found some, but it weren’t never enough to feed us all good like I wanted. I worked on the railroad diggin’ pits. Worked on the riverboats loadin’ an’ unloadin’. I worked from sun to sun, but it weren’t never enough. So instead o’ food I bought whiskey an’ it done cured whate’er it was that ailed me till it be the drink itse’f that ailed me. An’ then I up an’ lef’ the world wi’ you an’ the child still in it.   

Now I’s gotten old, they be one thing crossin’ my mind agin an’ agin. One thing I ain’t gotten used to in all my one hunnerd an’ twenty year, an’ that be the horse. This horse runnin’ through my dreams my whole life an’ now it begin runnin’ through my wakin’ times, too. When I close my eyes, I sees it. The thing so beautiful it caint barely be true. White wi’ black hooves an’ movin’ so close to the speed o’ light that maybe it be made o’ light, smoke flyin’ off o’ its back. But when I look closer I understan’ it ain’t made o’ light an’ it ain’t smoke flyin off o’ it. No sir. The horse be made o’ smoke. An’ I jus’ knows it be a ghost horse, but who it belong to? Do it belong to anyone or do it jus’ belong to itse’f, like the earth an’ the trees an’ the pine cones an’ the eagles? Why do a horse need to belong to anybody?

Now I not only sees it. I hears it, too. Hears the drumroll o’ its black hooves poundin’ the dry land. An’ sometimes I smells it. That smell o’ horse so musky an’ grainy, a smell so fine it done make me weep one time. When the horse snort, the air turn blurry an’ smoke rise up the sky. That horse be more real to me than my wakin’ times, than my nieces an’ nephews, than my chillen now gone, than the stove in front o’ me that I been cookin’ on for eighty years. That horse be gallopin’ inside o’ me, the thing so beautiful it caint barely be true.

Three blind mice. I remembers all yo’ songs, Momma! Do you remember? After I got sick an’ you couldn’t play wi’ me no more, you done sing to me every day. You sing about three blind mice. An’ ring around the rosie. An’ you feed me from the porcelain plate liftin’ the spoon to my mouth when I gets too weak to do it myse’f. I remembers that spoon an’ that plate an’ everthin’ you ever fed me. Oatmeal an’ berries, rice an’ turnips, cabbage wi’ a egg on top. Every meal were a feast, Momma, cos you made it so. An’ I remember my brothers an’ sisters wearin’ homespun shirts an’ britches, three of us sleepin’ in one bed, head to toe, a bed made o’ hewed logs wi’ lines o’ rope twisted ‘cross it. I passed away into the nex’ worl’ in that same bed, an’ I was jus’ a child an’ you cried an’ cried an’ cried till there were nothin’ lef’ in you to cry. Yo’ tears dried up like the creek in summer an’ you din’t sing no more neither. Where all them songs go, Momma?       

They be many myst’ries in this life. How be it that I live so long? I ain’t had a easy day my whole life. But I be fixin’ to die perty soon here on these clean white sheets. Jus’ as soon as my livin’ chillen come an’ soon as I figure out the horse. Why it be visitin’ me now in my wakin’ time, why it be makin’ so much damn noise, ‘scuse my language, when it be made o’ nothin’ but smoke. It ain’t that I’s feelin’ my age. I feels good. Jus’ that all they folks acallin’ me from yonder – my husbands callin’ me to cook for em an’ the chillen awaitin’ for they momma, an’ the nieces an’ nephews askin’ so many questions from the nex’ worl’. The only ones I don’t wanna see is the overseer an’ the masser an’ mistress o’ the house but I figurin’ I ain’t seein’ them anyways cos they gone to the other place down below. At leas’ that what I be thinkin’. But who knows? They be many myst’ries in this life.  

You sure liked to dance when you were a child, Tilly. When I and the master had guests at the Great House I used to put a glass tumbler full of water on your head and have you waltz around the room. You danced so smoothly you didn’t spill one drop. But a child that dances is also a child that runs. And it doesn’t do no good to have a child that runs. Before we know it, you’re running away.  

I remembers my peoples runnin’ away time an’ agin. They always git caught an’ tha’s when the masser bring out The Paddle an’ The Cat. They done buckle you to a barrel an’ hit you naked wi’ a cobbin paddle, which were made o’ hardwood an’ had forty holes. An’ when they hit you, them forty holes done made forty blisters. Then they bring out the cat-o-nine-tails wi’ its nine lashes. They lash you till the blisters pop, till the blood be runnin’ down yo’ ankle. Nex’ thing they boil up a big ol’ tin pail o’ salt water thick enough to hold a egg an’ they wash you in it so the salt season yo’ wounds. Once I seen it an’ heard a man screamin’ from the pain, I never run away.

We still be waitin’ for rain. Ain’t nothin’ grow wi’out rain. The fields bone dry, the sky heavy like a blanket the Lord fixin’ to drop on yo’ head, but no rain come. Jus’ like my chillen ain’t come. I’s awaitin’ long enough.

These be days o’ locusts. They be everwhere. You open yo’ door an’ they be jumpin’ off the roof an’ onto yo’ porch like them acrobats that come down one time from Tennessee in a cart wi’ two black Clydesdales in June o’ 1848 when I were a child. I remember them acrobats doin’ cartwheels an’ flips so quick on the back o’ that cart an’ the chillen standin’ there agoggle-eyed watchin’ till the masser tell us go back inside. These be days o’ locusts.   

We lived in log cabins near the Great House wi’ chimblies made o’ red mud an’ skinny branches. Our beds was rough wood wi’ a mattress full o’ hay an’ lynn bark that prickle yo’ skin at night.

There was a ol’ lady what look after the chillen while they mammies work in the field. She had a horn what she blowed when it be time to eat an’ all the chillen come runnin’ for they grits an’ taters or corn bread an’ pot likker. We was jus’ chillen so we din’t do no heavy work, jus’ sweepin’ the yard an’ fetchin’ wood. An’ once a week if the masser be in a good mood, we gots to pet the horses, stroke they manes so fine like strands o’ silk in the wind. I’m guessin’ it was then I firs’ saw the white horse, but I cain’t remember. I’s one hunnerd an’ twenty an’ things git mixed up. Now where my livin’ chillen at? They needs to be here afore I forgets they names.

Yes, Matilda. I am a ghost horse. A horse made of smoke. I was alive once and now I am dead. You, who remember so much, don’t remember me. I was a horse made of flesh that came chasing you and your kin. We chased you over the fields and through the marshland and across the stream with its white stones slippery as soap. Explosions of water from my hoofs and wind in my mane. A sun so high it flooded the land with light. You were young, barely a living thing, in your mother’s papoose. But I remember when we gained ground on your mother, she turned, you opened your eyes, and you saw me just as I saw you. And if it wasn’t fear in those eyes of yours, it should have been because I was fearsome once. But the overseer I belonged to, he was more fearsome still. When he wasn’t on my back, he was wading in blood deeper than the canyons of hell. But you, Matilda, you outlived him. You outlived him and me and everyone else. You outlived us all.

One of ‘em myst’ries I done spoke of is land. The land I sit on now weren’t the land I grew up on. A person jus’ know it. Even if they caint remember nothing o’ they childhood, they know they ain’t where they roots are. When it be time to die, a person want to return to where they was raised jus’ like them turtles do. After a life o’ wanderin’, when they turtles gon die they return to the beach where they was borned. But I don’t know exac’ly where I were borned an’ raised. I jus’ know it weren’t here. Here be nothin’ but locusts an’ dry ground an’ the chirrup o’ cicadas as the moon rise. An’ me waitin’ for my chillen, the livin’ an’ the dead.

You be right, my child. You wasn’t raised here. You was raised some miles away, you who never rode a car or a train or even a horse. You never went nowhere yo’ feet din’t take you. Those two feet be the only locomotion you know. But it weren’t your feet that took you away from the place where you was born. It were my wife’s, your mother’s. An’ she were runnin’, not walkin’.

Somethin’ done triggered my mind this mornin’. It were the sound o’ engines. From outside my room I hears a automobile arumblin’ an’ arevvin’ an’ I figurin’ it be my child Marybeth. I ain’t never had the pleasure to ride in one o’ they automobiles, but I sho’ hears ‘em. Someone tol’ me once they was powered by gasoline. An’ tha’s what done triggered my mind. 

When they find oil on this land, the white men claim it were theirs. It always be theirs. The Lord done ordained it were theirs. Preacher Dale Goodman o’ this parish preach it were theirs. The press man J. Hogan Lansberry done wrote that it were theirs. Sheriff Robert B. Boondoggle announce it were theirs. Judge Theophile Mills Murdoch agree it were theirs. The barber who knowed everbody an’ cut everbody hair who name I forgit say it were theirs. The rag n bone man who slep’ under the dime store in his rag n bone suit say it were theirs. The only folk who say it weren’t theirs be the black folk livin’ on the land an’ the ghosts o’ the Indians who was wiped out by the white men so’s the white men could git the land in the firs’ place.

An’ cos the white folk an’ the black folk caint agree about whose land it be, that’s when the white folk set their horses an’ dawgs on the black folk. 

An’ now it come to me clear as a baby’s skin: the hooves o’ that horse, they weren’t black. It were the oil the horse be runnin’ through, it done turn they hooves from white to black. That very same oil the white man want so bad he gots to chase the black folks off o’ they own land.  

You ever see oil jump out o’ the earth? It don’t jump. It come asprayin’ wild like a geyser or a explosion. Why Tilly, ain’t nothin’ like it! The earth givin’ up its riches o’ black gold. An’ I say whatsoe’er come from so deep a place done come from Hades, which in old money is what you call Hell. I be yo’ preacher an’ yo’ uncle, too, though you won’t remember me. Yo’ uncle David Silver an’ ne’er a man did have such a misbegotten name cos I aint never had a lick o’ silver nor gold my whole life.  

I knows who you are, white horse wi’ black feet. You be the one who done chase me offa my land when I were but a bitty child. I don’t blame you. It were someone else pullin’ the reins. It were someone else done steer you onto the path my mother made across the fields an’ the babblin’ water. It were someone else raisin’ the shouts an’ pullin’ the trigger. It weren’t you, horse that been in my dreams my whole life. Now I gittin’ ready to go. I gittin’ ready to see my loved ones who been waitin’ so long. An’ maybe I see you, too, white horse, an’ come pet your mane so soft it be silk in the wind. Yes, you be a thing so beautiful it caint barely be true.