Free Dessa Rose by Sherley A. Williams Page A

the baby’s neck…. She…
    A rooster crowed; the conch sounded. Dimly, so softly at first it might have been the echo of her own crooning, she could hear the people assembling for work, a mumbled word here, the chink of a hoe, the clunk of one implement hitting against another. A warbled call soared briefly above the dawn noise; sometimes this signaled the beginning of a song, one voice calling, another answering it, some other voice restating the original idea, others taking up one or another line as refrain. She never heard more than fragments of these songs; whatever commentary they contained did not carry beyond the Quarters, but she recognized many of the tunes. Now and then she mouthed the words or soundlessly improvised a response of her own. She came to recognize some of the voices, a nasal soprano she learned was Jemina’s, a full-throated voice that skipped from baritone to soprano in a single slurring note, the clear tenor that ascended to falsetto and yodeled across the dawn much as Kaine’s had done. He could have made another one, she thought as the tenor rose briefly and was silent. Kainecould have made another banjo; he had made the first one. Why, when they had life, had made life with their bodies—? The question gnawed at her like lye. She shut her mind to it; it would eat away her brain, did she let it, leave her with nothing but a head full of maggots.
    On impulse, she moved to the window, her chain rattling behind her, and standing on tiptoe looked out. She could see nothing except the dusty yard that sloped away from the cellar, but she sang anyway, her raspy contralto gathering strength as her call unfolded:
    Tell me, sister; tell me, brother,
    How long will it be?
    She had never sung a call of her own aloud and she repeated it, wondering if any of them would hear her:
    Tell me, brother; tell me, sister,
    How long will it be
    That a poor sinner got to suffer, suffer here?
    There was a momentary silence, then the tenor answered, gliding into a dark falsetto:
    Tell me, sister; tell me, brother,
    When my soul be free?
    Other voices joined in, some taking up the refrain, “How long will it be?,” others continuing the call; her voice blended with theirs in momentary communion:
    Tell me, oh, please tell me,
    When I be free?
    They had begun the chorus a second time when another voice, a rough baritone that Dessa did not recognize, joined in, singing at a faster tempo against the original pace.
    Oh, it won’t be long.
    Say it won’t be long, sister,
    Poor sinner got to suffer, suffer here.
    The words vibrated along her nerves; was this really an answer? She sang again:
    Tell me, brother, tell me,
    How long will it be?
    Again the voice soared above the chorused refrain:
    Soul’s going to heaven,
    Soul’s going ride that heavenly train
    Cause the Lawd have called you home.
    Startled, Dessa drew away from the window.
    â€œOdessa.”
    The voice cut across the singing and she was still a moment, heart thudding. “Who that?” she called. No one called her Odessa but the white folk; only Jemina came to the window.
    â€œOdessa.”
    It came again and she bundled the chain in her arms and moved soundlessly back to the window. “Who that?” She saw the pale blur of a face at the window even as she recognized the voice of the white man.
    â€œI’m leaving in a few minutes.”
    â€œYou don’t be coming back?” Jemina had not told her about this. She moved closer to the window, letting her chain drop noisily to the ground.
    â€œOh, I shall indeed return in a few days and we will resume our conversations then.” He paused a moment as though waiting for some response from her; when she made none, he continued. “We are going in search of a maroon settlement.”
    â€œMaroon?” She caught at the unfamiliar word for he seemed to put special emphasis on it.
    â€œAn encampment of runaway slaves that’s rumored to be