Thetemplesofnadir Yanovelweebly

The Temples of Nadir
By Eric Theis
Eric Theis 2016
THE TEMPLES OF NADIR by ~e.theis
Approx 52,000 words

Note: Images are available to add throughout the story to
engage younger readers.
Eric Theis
3902 Paus St. Madison, WI 53714
Phone (608) 212-2080
etheis@uwmalumni.com
SYNOPSIS
Nathaniel, a kind but misled teenager from present day Madison, WI, is sent to find himself on
a family farm in North Carolina. On the farm he learns of two determined teenagers, Samson and
Emma, who had certain dreams for these plots during the 1880s. America was struggling with its
own adolescent identity during this Reconstruction era and sharecropping was its way of coping
with the loss of free slave labor. The two dreamers design an art and music institute to liberate
other African American youth from the shackles of sharecropping. Although he lives 130 years
later, Nathaniel feels his destiny is intertwined with the dreams these teens started long ago. But
will Black folks trust this White teenagers motivations to repair the legacies of slavery? And
will White folks agree especially if it costs their precious privilege and power?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many names and places used herein are fictional though may bare likeness to real people,
places and events from history. Some creative license was used at times, thus this book may not
be used on your history exam. Sorry.
Inspiration was found from an African American literature class with Ms. Myra George at
the Milwaukee Area Technical College. I was already enthralled with Zora Neale Hurston but
now Charles Chesnutt and others were added to my list of literary superheroes. I am appreciative
for all the music borrowed (legally, I swear) from traditional spirituals. They are all cited with
web links in the addendum for easy listening.
Thank you to my four parents who taught me how to love, think, entertain and listen,
respectively. Thank you to all the family and friends who supported my efforts in editing this
story, including Kira, Jeff, Nick, Chris, Carrie, Nora, Jen, Frank and countless others.
And, of course, to my Beloved, my LP, my wife, Cody who puts the muse in music. I am
lucky to have you as my consigliere. She took most of the photos featured in this novel
www.castphotography.com. Thank you for listening and listening (and listening)
Thank you to my students for the real feedback you have given me.
And to all the cast, crew and community involved in producing this as a play: Joel, Lamont,
Desiree, Emily, Kid Beat Box, Natasha, Karl, Jeanie, Lauren, Perre, Carrie, Aaron K, Devon,
Lily, Shakerah, Nicole, Paul, Andre, Dana, Alchemist Theater, Westside Academy, UW
Milwaukee, WYFC and others.
Love to my sassy, silly sons: August & Emmett.
~e,
2016
If you have come here to help me, then you are wasting your timeBut if you have come
because your liberation is bound up with mine, than let us work together.
-Australian Aboriginal Activist, Lila Watson
I am the Lordwho says of Jerusalem, It shall be rebuilt, and of her temple, Let its
foundation be laid.
-Isaiah 44-45
PROLOGUE
It is the late 1880s, twenty years after the Civil War. After slavery was abolished the
South began the Reconstruction of their half of the house, ratifying the 13th, 14th and 15th
amendments which granted equality and voting rights to most African Americans. However, the
1880s are known as the Post-Reconstruction era, when those recent rights are rescinded due to
systems of oppression and fear. This is when most of our story takes place.
During the Post-Reconstruction, Black families own land in what is called sharecropping.
Black workers rent small shares of land from a White landowner, who was often their former
master during slavery. Instead of getting paid monetarily, sharecroppers receive a portion of the
harvest as their payment. This system continues the cheap/free labor in Southern states where
land is plentiful but money has become scarce without the income of slavery. Critics call
sharecropping slavery by another name.
During the Reconstruction and Post-Reconstruction, around 30,000 Black Southerners
own land usually as small plots whereas four million others do not, despite the promise by
some officials (including Union General William T. Sherman) that land was to be granted to
African Americans after their emancipation. General Sherman awarded many freed men 40 acres
of land each. Unfortunately, this was Southern land and President Andrew Johnson overturned
Shermans decision in 1865, evicting countless Black families.
Many Southern state legislatures refuse to abide by federal laws that protect Black
people's equality; these anti-Black rulings are known as Black Codes. As part of the Black
Codes, many states and landowners require Black workers to sign yearly labor contracts that
subject them to financial servitude and debt (for the use of tools and supplies, crops lost, and so
forth) that many workers arent able to overcome. If Black workers do not sign a contract, they
are at risk of being labeled a vagrant and subsequently fined, imprisoned or lynched by groups
such as the Ku Klux Klan. Thousands of Black men are snagged into the web of forced labor and
many become part of the convict leasing program, which is the genesis of the modern day
prison-industrial complex. Black men are shackled disproportionately, especially due to the Pig
Laws, which felonize misdemeanor offenses (such as stealing a pig).
Slavery may be abolished federally, but state-by-state, city-by-city, farm-by-farm, and
home-to-home, it is still the mentality of many Southern White landowners in the 1880s and
beyond. And those White landowners are not going to give up their land, or their assumed right
to cheap labor, without a fight.
CHAPTER 1 SENT AWAY FOR THE SUMMER
The act that catapulted 14-year-old Nathaniel onto this farm outside Asheville, North
Carolina was simple, artistic even; it also happened to be one of the most immoral things he has
ever done. A fellow 8th grader nicknamed Bruno tried to sit at his stool in the Tech Ed
classroom, but nothing was there. Like a matador swishing his cape, Nathaniel swept the stool
from beneath him. But Bruno wasnt a bull. He was a boy with Asperger's Syndrome, and like
many others with this diagnosis, he was used to set routines. Bruno didnt expect the unexpected,
and Nathaniel didnt expect to feel as awful as he did after it happened.
As the near-giant Bruno plunged backward, he clanged his head on the metal stool, and
the 8th grade boys at Nathaniels table congratulated him,
BRUNO! BRUNO! BRUNO!
If the boys hadnt chanted Brunos name, the Tech Ed teacher Mr. Wascinzki wouldnt
have looked over from the miter saw he was supervising. But it was the last week of school and
mischief like this was common. What Mr. W saw was one boy, Nathaniel, with his shaggy
brown hair and thick eyebrows, helping another boy off the ground. It seemed innocent enough.
But then he saw the hurt on the tall, autistic boys face, the one they call Bruno. And the guilt
on Nathaniels.
Mr. W stormed over to Nathaniel, grabbed him by the collar and virtually dragged him to
the Assistant Principals office. Nathaniel would have gone willingly he wasnt proud of what
he did or who he was at that moment. He knew Bruno was different. Everyone knew. So
Nathaniel didnt fight back or try to look tough. He didnt swear or hit anything. He just walked,
repentantly, as if this was all supposed to happen, and he was merely playing his part.
***
Nathaniel yanks the rope tighter around the neck of his teepee.
Come on, you cotton pickin bastard!
But it loosens again, nearly unraveling the home he made two months ago. He refuses to
let it collapse not on his last morning here. His scrawny body spreads across several poles and
he fastens the top knot just before falling onto the earth.
Pffffft! His khakis rip down his backside as he stands. Fortunately, the sun hasnt risen so
no one sees. Unfortunately, he was in such a rush this morning he forgot to put on boxer shorts.
And theres a cool breeze blowing.
Oh, well, natural air conditioning he winks at the on-looking tomatoes.
He rubs his back then admires the self-standing structure. It took his first week on this
Appalachian farm to figure out how to build it. It would have been quicker with help, but his
uncle insisted, A boy becomes a man when he provides a roof over his head. So, over the
course of several days, he climbed and sawed off the thickest, straightest pine branches he could.
He ended up with 15 poles altogether, between six to eight feet each. It took a few wet nights for
him to learn how to wrap the canvas so the smoke escaped and the rain ran away. But he did it.
This dwelling, and the socially anxious 14-year-old who fashioned it, grew stronger over
the summer. Immovable. While June melted into August, Nathaniel shed his worries of what his
friends would say about his make-shift home, or the grubby farm clothes he wore. He even
tossed his bottle of Xanax his mom packed for him.
But as he walks around his teepee, stomping each pole further into the ground, he dreads
tonights flight home to Madison. What if the walls holding up this new, confident version of
himself collapse? Will he have the strength to rebuild? He nurtures a song he penned on this
Carolina farm and lets the lyrics and worries debate
Im afraid of walking out onto this tarmac
Cause once I take off I may never turn back
Its me against the birds
And their science hurts
Next week when you read my obit
Ill probably forget to omit
If I was given it all to do again
Id probably still board this plane
Now Im scared
But no ones here - to hold me
To shake some sense or scold me
To break the fence thats got control of me
Im afraid of dying too soon ...But Im afraid of flying first
He inhales a full breath then rides it out slowly as he thinks about home. His hippie mom
said this summer was going to heal him after what he did to Bruno. At first he didnt feel much
healing on the farm, only isolation. While his friends were playing video games or at
waterparks, he was in the middle of nowhere, fending for himself. Aunt Annabelle and Uncle
Richard told his mom lavish tales of how living their minimalist lifestyle would set Nathaniel
straight. Growing his own food and building his own home would connect him to the Earth.
Being sent to this farm was a bit extreme, to be sure, but his mom had to try something. It
was his last summer before high school, when small decisions have big consequences.
Nathaniel steps into his reinforced teepee to change his torn pants. As he does so his
sleeping bag tempts him.
Just a quick nap, he convinces himself, and his sore body crawls into bed.
A moment later, with his eyes closed, he hears the howls of the farm dogs Pachemama
and Brown Tail. Then, a chorus of womens voices rings out. Decibel by decibel it floods
Nathaniels teepee. The crescendo climbs, guided by an accomplished alto,
My Lord, what a morning /
When the stars begin to fall
Youll hear the trumpet sound /
To wake the nations underground /
Looking to my Gods right hand /
My Lord what a morning /
Although to any onlooker, or on-listener, this maidenly melody would soothe the tightest
fist or rock the heaviest load, Nathaniel holds his breath. He blindly feels around his teepee for
something to defend himself. Cautiously he unfurls the canvas door to the unknown.
His toothbrush at the ready, he valiantly steps into the dawning light. His bare foot
squishes down on something he wishes he had cleaned up earlier, a dog pie, definitely from
Pachemama, the looser-bowelled of the two.
Repulsed, Nathaniel scrapes his soiled foot against a spot of gravel, hoping that will solve
his problem. Instead it layers his foot with pebbles, like crunchy toppings on a very unappealing
sundae. He clenches his weapon and hastens toward the dog kennel. With luck he will find both
canines in there already. Then, with a tainted victory, he will fasten their doggie-door as the only
way he can think to tie the score.
However, before Nathaniel can hop on one foot to the kennel, a handful of bass voices
wallops him.
When Israel was in Egypt land, (Let my people go)
Oppressed so hard they could not stand (Let my people go)
Go Down, Moses, WAYDOWNTOEGYPT LAND!
Tell Ol PharaohTO LET MY PEOPLE GO
Momentarily Nathaniel is listening. He isnt sitting, he isnt standing, for all he can tell he
isnt even breathing. Just the singular act of listening. He does not hear the angelic music with
his ears, but from a source within. The resonance arrests Nathaniel between space and time.
THWACK!
Then he falls on his butt. Nathaniel was brought up somewhat religious, occasionally
attending Sunday services with his dad. He was baffled how some folks, sinning all week in their
mortal lives, could believe on the seventh day all was miraculously restored. Before the incident
with Bruno, he found a place to grow goodness in his heart. He trained himself to act justly to
dear friends and strangers, expecting (most times) nothing in return but the satisfaction of
service. He practiced carrying it within, letting the good do the navigating.
And now, several states from his Madison home, he remembers the sacred word,
HOLY HELL!
He expects an answer. This haunting chorus is shaking him to his core.
Approaching catatonia, he rocks back and forth, attempting to make sense of these
voices. Then, beside him in the dusty ground, a line is mysteriously drawn by an unseen finger.
Then another line. Then the lines create shapes and a sketch of sheet music appears. This isnt
helping to un-crazy his morning.
Before Nathaniel takes another breath a fresh image appears. It is a young man, he looks
like a farmer, could this be him? A fair question, for the resemblance is impeccable. It captures
his olive skin and tousled dark hair. People often mistake him as Latino, and sometimes even
start speaking to him in Spanish before Nathaniel stops them with his prepared apology, No
hablo Espaol. Lo siento. Nathaniel adjusts his spot on the earth. Without thought, one of his
hands, he doesnt know which, seizes a teepee post behind him. Hoping to steady himself, he
hangs onto an object he knows is real, something of mass and matter.
The dirt swirls again, by some kind of magic. A building appears impressive,
monumental, like a castle. He is sure that with such architectural detail this is a structure of
grandiosity. Brick by brick the drawing is revealed, as if the morning sun is pouring itself over a
splendid French Chateau. What grace the architect of this palace has taken! Lets just say its
better than the smiley face houses Nathaniel usually draws.
The drawings flash once more on the ground: the sheet music, the farmer and the great
building. Without delay the specks of the illustration drift upwards and in the direction of an
opening in the field.
Oh, great. Nathaniel watches the soot float lazily in between the crops of sweet
potatoes. With a deep breath, which is all that can be expected of someone who is trying not to
go bonkers, he stands. His hands gently brush the brown grit off his backside. Neither his aunt
nor uncle have come to the field yet. Most likely they are still soldering metal sculptures in the
workshop near the animal barn.
As a result, Nathaniel has no one to tell of these extraordinary events.
The length of land stretching from Nathaniel to the opening in the field has become
decidedly vast. In it lie strange inhabitants. It is no longer just three rows of sweet potatoes, a
few beds of tomatoes, and a couple of apple trees; it is now some sort of holy ground.
Were those the voices of angels he heard? Ghosts? Demons? Has something possessed
this soil? Or is his mind playing tricks on him?
Unlike a cemetery, this farm posts no markings of its dead.
Nathaniel doesnt know where to step. Each footfall may have a name, every speck a
story. A chill of heat shakes his shoulders. He disregards his doomed footsteps and faces the
clouds. That isnt much help either. His morning of tranquil skies has been taken hostage by a
surging storm. In moments, a mafia of clouds will ambush Nathaniel and these unknown voices
below. A couple of pre-meditated steps later bring him to the opening in the field, where the
drifting dirt has piled up.
Nathaniel spots a leaf of paper poking out of the loose dirt. He carefully removes it and
sees it is sheet music, like the drawing beside his teepee. He begins to read the notes when the
chorus of voices surrounds him again, overtaking him, and everything goes black.
10
CHAPTER 2 KILLING A DREAM
Samson squeezes the roosters neck then snaps it down like his papa taught him. His
large hands hold the bird close, comforting it in its last moment. And as the skies brighten from
slate grey to a translucent white, it will be okay. There will be no rooster song this morning, but
Samson sings in its place,
I got-a wings, you got-a wings, all God's chillun got-a wings
When I get to heav'n I'm goin' to put on my wings
I'm goin' to fly all over God's Heav'n
Heav'n, Heav'n Ev'rybody talkin' 'bout heav'n ain't goin' to Heavn...
A rogue fiber comes undone from Samsons straw hat as he plucks. It floats from his
bushy brown crown, down past his mahogany eyes. Loosely it rides his dented dimples, which
are the give away of a young man who either frequents a smile or has a one-liner standing by.
All livestock are put down eventually and 15-year-old Samson is learning to tell when an
animal is sick or just getting on. Sometimes there is hard breathing, coughing or even vomiting.
This roosters red comb had been drooping for weeks and become lethargic. It was time.
The sick ones must be killed to prevent the healthy ones from getting infected, something
Samson and other sharecroppers on these Carolina farms cant afford.
Smothering a dream is another matter, particularly a stubborn, squawking dream like his.
Samson wonders: Does it take more strength to nurture my dream and let it fly? Or
mercifully kill it before it contaminates those around me?
His strength is not of biblical proportions, as his name implies; instead he possesses an
exuberant outlook on life an inner strength that will soon force him to wrestle his stubborn
dream. For better or worse.
***
Fellow sharecroppers say Samsons strength stems from his relationships with Jesus and
music, respectively. Sunday after Sunday he and his three teenaged friends perform solos or
11
ensemble pieces written by the prodigious Samson. It took more than ten years, but Samson has
sharpened his songwriting. He remembers his first song, when he was barely five years old on
this same sharecropped farm, possessing the same stubborn grin.
The melody simply arrived.
I PRAISE the lord everyday!,
Sure it knocked first, as a formality, but that would be the last time.
Especially on Sunday DAY and NIGHT
From then on, young Sammy would eagerly await its arrival, like an expectant father.
I got here with you
He hadnt spent much time coercing the words into lyrics, but witnessing his
downtrodden
fellow field hands, his onye oru, encouraged him to deliver music to their door.
Monday through Saturday when Im feelin proud,
Jesus just let me boast MIGHTY loud,
But its work thats meant for two
He hoped they would feel the same commotion he felt Joy despite hardship.
Victory, Victory, SOOON will be ours.
Victory, Victory, through God and people power
After nearly every Sunday service some elder, proclaiming to be wise in the ways of the
world and the transience of dreams, chipped away at Samsons stubbornness,
Get yoself to one them schools for music, yhear! or
I heard-tell bout a place up in Tennsee what take talented youth like you. Why you
squanderin Gods gift on some plantation!?
In truth, Samson has thought a good deal about the esteemed choirs and colleges in
Tennessee, Atlanta and Alabama, but his dream always steers him back home. Despite being the
young celebrity of the Burnsville-Asheville area, he knows a longing such as a Negro going to
school wastes as much effort as say, asking one of the good-looking Clark girls to kiss him. Both
are a boys fantasy, to be sure, but it doesnt stop him from wading in either pool once in awhile.
Somehow, though, it happened. Samson shaped or let himself be shaped by this dream,
and he wants it more than a kiss from any girl. He wants to sing and learn alongside a first-rate
troupe, one that is better trained than the simple quartet he pieced together. Outwardly he tells his
community that he aint runnin nowhere, rather hell stay on the farm like a dutiful son an
brotherwith my family.
On Sunday, April 2, 1887, these words and his strength are to be tested.
12
CHAPTER 3 THE GREAT ESCAPE
Samson and his quartet conspire in the pine grove huddled behind their house of worship.
They relax their young, herculean bodies against the slender trunks, not minding the sappy
resistance. Their parents, and other shareowners outside of the Jenkins plantation, wanted
something permanent after the emancipation. So they planted the church and surrounding
shade-bearers as part of their sacred legacy. The Carolina pines have grown fifty feet in the past
twenty years, nearly 10 times the size of the young men scheming below.
Who sick a workin day and night for nothin but scraps?! We nibblin on pigs feet
while Master Jenkins over there feasts on da whole hog!? Bilford, the first tenor, pounds his
dark fist into his palm.
Slavery over but Jenkins dont act like it! Aint nothin gonna change! White folks in
the South always gonna see as subhuman! This is Bigsley, the lead tenor and Bilfords cousin,
whose copper skin glazes through the branches.
These two cousins, Bilford and Bigsley Newberry, are inseparable. They were born a few
months apart and have spent most of their youth together: same home, same bed, same dreams.
They were nearly identical until their adolescent bodies went on diverging paths. Bigsleys body
became more defined and muscular over the past few months. And this fitness brought a
cockiness that his lanky cousin resented, but certainly didnt admire.
They elaborate their plot of escaping the man who holds their families, the good
Reverend, and a few others as his sharecropping employees.
This gonna be it!/ Listen up yall!
The boys begin simultaneously.
Is gonna tell em. Is older! Bigsley raises his voice.
No! Is the better singer. You done sound like a donkey givin birth in church today! .
Taint so! Is tryin to hit that high part!
Bilford, an able impressionist, parodies the best donkey-giving-birth accent he can, And
grace thATLEAds. meee..HO..ho..HOME.
13
Boy, I may not sing as good, but least I aint no half-wit like you. Bigsley looks to his
audience. Yesterday dis fool ask me, Bigs, where de pendent? I hear Negroes sayin they aint
free till they in da pendent, I lied an told him a pendent just another name for a barn so he
better get in it. Then ol fathead here marched right into Master Jenkins barn and woulda spent
all day there if the Clark girls hadnt shooed him out. I heard him screamin But I gots to be in
de pendent!
Thomas, the fourth member and bass of the group, howls from this likely story. But he
refuses to verbally slander either cousin, mostly to avoid becoming a target himself.
Bigley continues, strutting between the tall pines, Somebody oughta throw a sign round
yo neck that says TOO DUMB TO WORK and toss ya to de dozens!
Some say the tradition of Black folks playfully mocking each other started so Whites
couldnt hurt them emotionally. It was safer to vent their frustrations at each other than at a man
holding a whip or a gun. Others say to be tossed to the dozens was the ultimate insult a
reference to slaves that were sold by the dozen because of irreparable injuries. And some, like
the Newberrys, just did it for fun.
BILFORD: Da dozens? You wanna throw me to da dozens?
Lets go line fo line, my off-keyed cousin.
BIGSLEY: Come on Bill, dont try to insult,
When ya pittle yo pants it wont be my fault.
BILFORD: Oh, Bigs, please...
When Is done youll be on your knees...
Beggin oh, no, oh geez, why you gotta tease!
BIGSLEY: Dat all you got?
Ya still got no shot.
Ill toss ya down de river
Like a piece a rancid liver
And yo mammall cry n quiver
When she sees what I deliverd.
...
Ya nothin but a boy thats broke
Tryin to cash yo last joke
So stop while ya ahead, or in yo case afloat
Youll drown when I insult who you love the most
14
OHHHH! The onlookers roar. Bilford hates it when anyone talks about his mother. It is
kind of out-of-bounds. But it is also Bigsleys aunt. So he gets away with it.
In return, Bilford repeats his mule-like impression of Bigsleys singing. The two are
about to get physical when Samson intervenes.
Boys! Come on now! Ya know ya cant get violent DANG! You bothll be gone by
nightfall if ya keep actin up. Lord almighty!
Like a strict father, Samson reprimands his quartet when they act out of line. Samson is
becoming increasingly like his father. In looks, respect, and personality, but he has yet to match
his muscle perhaps one day.
The two cousins, as casually as if changing shirts, alter their temperaments. They dont
need reminders of what happens when Master Jenkins property becomes defective.
Okay, Bigsleys voice commands with steady reason, This plans as simple as
snatchin a hot biscuit from Bilfords mammys winder sill.
Samson rolls his eyes.
What? Thats a compliment! Bigsley smiles then points eastward. As soon we finish
the rail yonder on a Sunday night
Like tonight, Bilford cuts in.
Yep, like tonight. Bigsley agrees, One of us scream that we seen a wildcat along the
woods, just behin the second water well the well where me an Bilford used to hide from his
mean ol mammy when she was fixin to whoop us. Ooh! She a mean ol grizzly when she
mad!
This time Bilford takes a step but Samsons disapproving look backs him down.
Now, when overseer Johnny Boy, that dumb whipcracka, come a-lookin for the
imaginaried cat, we grab him tight an shove him into da well. Everythang hunky-dory after that.
An we run our Black behinds up North.
Bigsley notices his cousin peering up at the sky.
No. North aint up, stupid. Just follow us or youll end up back in Africa.
I knows where North is! Betcha I set my foot on a Northern state fore you do,
challenges Bilford.
The two cousins and the fourth youth, Thomas Rustling, buzz cheerfully.
Hunky-dory?! Samson pops the effervescent quartet.
What if dumb whip cracka Johnny Boy scream his loud mouth an some other cracka,
like Master Jenkins, come a-lookin for him? Huh? An he start puttin big ol bullets in his
workers big ol heads? Or what if yall get caught without working papers? You willin to risk
jail? Death?
The cool light of reason. Not an outright disagreement, but a petition for more planning.
Reckon thats why we dont look back till we free menno more workin for
scrapsno more Jenkinsjust eatin high on the hog! What you think, Tommy? Bilford asks
the meekest member of their group.
15
Solemn Thomas Rustling chooses his words carefully, This sharecroppin life aint for
us, Sammy. You know I aint too keen on spendin the rest of my days tilling some farm I dont
even own. An I dont wanna join the military like Pa. I aim to study law like my uncles. My
Uncle Hank know a Black man over there in Chatham County writin legislation to get rid a
lynchin. I reckon Ill get my education and come back to help folks here in Buncombe County.
See. Even straight-laced Tommy runnin. If he aint skeered then you shouldnt be
neither. Bigsley pats Thomas on his back. An besides I aint usin this empty ol thang no
how. He pokes himself in the head. Exceptn to rest my hat on. Id rather get it shot off
learnin how to use it rightthen never knowin how it works tall.
Bigsley pauses his logic to place a calloused hand on Samsons shoulder. Dont ya
wanna be free, Samson? Really free?
Samson stares into his friends unsmiling eyes: the eyes that have tested his leadership
since the quartet was formed a few years ago. The eyes that yearn, and deserve, more than they
see on this destitute farm.
Then you know we gotta leave. You can head to one them Negro colleges people always
talkin to you bout. Heck, folk say a Negro can be whatever he want up North.
The two young men look at each other without the clumsiness of words. Samson wants to
counter with stories hes heard of other states granting rights to Black people. He has only heard
each account third, fourth or fifth hand, but still, he bathes in this sweet gossip. Samson wants to
convince his friends that the same could be true for North Carolina any day if they just wait
and how Faith is so vital. Ultimately, Samson holds his tongue in place of what would be seen as
treason.
His eyes ice over as he envisions his wearisome young body out of its tattered clothes
and into a pressed shirt and pants. His hair is slicked and parted to one side, as he once saw in
town on a distinguished Black man. Sitting against a tree with a notebook, he writes melodies
and lyrics all day, no one owning his time or his mind.
He could die holding a pen instead of a sickle. An educated Negro.
Reverend Hollow asked me to say a few words today, Samson announces, breaking out
of his daydream. Yall better not act no fools while Im up there. An keep a lid on this runnin
away business. You hear?
Yes, Sammy, is their obedient, collective reply.
***
Inside the church, Samsons mentor, Reverend Edgar Hollow, waves him to the podium.
As he does so the congregation unanimously applauds their beloved son.
Is it a SIN?! Samson pummels the podium.
The congregation hushes.
Is it a SIN for a FORMER SLAVE to want something more!? Or the childrens of former
slaves to want something MORE out of life!?
16
Is it a SIN for a SHARECROPPER to want EQUALITY?! For a MAN to be treated

like a MAN? And a WOMAN to be respected as a WOMAN!?
AMENs soar from the congregation. He brushes the hair that recently arrived on his face.
He has matured from the little boy singing to them in the fields, to one of their lay leaders on this
pulpit. Why should he run toward some foolish school when his people need him here?
This church aint GOT no SINNAS! Cause the devil aint got no way to wriggle his
skinny behind up here! That ol scratch cant sneak through these floorboards... Reverend
Hollow made right sure of THAT!
The congregation erupts. They know this church is Reverend Hollows crafted soul:
whitewashed walls, a single glassless window (worn from overuse) and a hardwood floor.
Reverend Hollow and the churchgoers went halfway to hell to cover his church with planks of
wood instead of being left bare like most structures in the quarters. Every board laid was scrap
from the Great House. One mans trash is anothers mans deliverance.
Every woman, child, and man sends pleas to Samson, the young orator. He does his best
to receive their prayers. Each call and response, perfectly timed, encourages him further.
Do YALL wanna make sure the devil aint welcome? A few shouts glide his way. I
said, YALL wanna make GOOD N SURE that Devil aint messin THIS HERE WAY?!
The parishioners clap in unison.
Then yall gotta do me an the LORD a favor. Ya gotta STOMP those feet of yours
AND MAKE GOOD AN SURE that devil know he aint allowed in here!
They stomp.
Go head! Stomp that hardwood! Thats ours. We built that. Aint no one can take away
somethin you built. Not Master Jenkins. Not the State of Carolina. Not President Cleveland!
The worshippers oblige once more and the one-room sanctuary inches towards heaven, as
it does most Sundays.
AND WE GOTTA PRAISE the LORD for lettin us BE here today!
The walls groan.
We gotta PRAISE the Reverend for preachin the good news!
The open window moans.
WE gotta keep the youth in our thoughts today. ALL the boys an girls safe from those
wicked men up in their fancy mansion yonder! GOD gonna deal their hand. But we gotta be
ready for ours! Freedom comin! Just round those Blue Mountains. But we aint waitin... No.
We aint waitin to OWN our land. We aint waitin to BUILD on that land. Nows OUR time!
Samson calms himself then walks to the front door for post-service hand-wringing. A
long line forms with people eager to congratulate the gifted young preacher. Samsons mother
and father, Nettie and Delroy Fairchild, are at the back of the line, proudly watching their son.
A heightened wind sails over the nearby pines as Gods agreement to grant them
freedom.
Eventually.
17
CHAPTER 4 WRESTLING A DREAM
Two Sundays later, greased and grimy, the quartet finishs a late night of fastening steel
rails to their sleepers along Jenkins sprawling property. The scant Fairchild, Newberry and
Rustling plots run beside his plantation like trailing ellipses. Serfdoms of the 19th Century.
Railwork is not a weak mans job, even with the sun at bay. Only a dozen or so men are
plucked from their fields, but it is a revered choice. Some sharecroppers pray for it and the cash
money it offers, instead of their usual meager payment of a fraction of the harvest. Others pray
not to be chosen and tuck away from the grueling work. Still, when overseer Johnny Boy points
his finger at a man on a Sunday afternoon, the decision is over.
Before work, the chosen laborers are hustled to the washhouse, so as not to tarnish any
tools used that evening. When the toiling begins, it begins with a song. The melody has a cheery
note despite the demanding chore before them. The melody could not know the stinging: in the
hand from hammer against rail, in the chest from quieting the reverberation. The melody could
not feel the non-elastic stretching across the biceps. It could not borrow the longing, for a train to
somehow arrive before the track is in its place, to take them North.
These are the strains only a laborer knows, yearning to hop to Freedom, or Back. Back to
the days when life did not mean captivity.
However, the purpose of this new rail is not for carrying sharecroppers to freedom. Its
purpose is for Landlord Jenkins to easily transport his cotton and tobacco to Atlanta and beyond.
And within the next two years he will be the richest man in Buncombe County, so long as his
health ensures him.
Despite looking in his mid-50s, Henry Jenkins is enjoying his late 60s. He was blessed
with gaunt cheekbones that disguise his true age, and his diet of pig and egg is coupled with what
he calls an arduous pursuit of relaxation. However, the demand of keeping a field of nearly
100 bodies and three overseeing sons in check, not to mention the stress from a wife and two
unwed daughters, all keep his mind sharp but do nothing for his physical health.
18
His bulk arrived after retiring from the U.S. Army. His pension as an Officer of Arms in
the Mexican War was enough to secure a piece of this piedmont in the Appalachians. The weight
accumulated as acreage did the same, but his wife insisted this made him all the more attractive.
She was drawn to large, bearded men like Stonewall and The Great Tycoon. She found their
confidence irresistible. So Jenkins confidently used his Manifestly Destined right to absorb this
plot from the dwindling Cherokee tribe.
He soon joined his brethren in making considerate acquisitions of the bestial Afrikans.
They came from Guinea, Benin, Biafra, wherever he could finagle. But after many purchases
proved to be inefficient, he sought guidance elsewhere. Through what he deemed Providence, he
found management from the well-traveled sailors of Charleston Harbor. Seeing as the Trade
became increasingly difficult to navigate both nautically and legally by the 1840s, these pirates,
familiar with the most covert routes, recommended the stalwart chattel reared in Senegambia. All
talks between Jenkins and the pirates became the discourse of textile merchants. The finest breed
of humans was coded as the finest fabric, and Jenkins, in his wealth, would settle for nothing less
than the supplest of silks.
His land between these mountains, as well as his choice Afrikans, made for a popular
pilgrimage amongst his fellow slaveholders. Far and wide people came to tour his fertile soil, his
black gold as he called it, for its rich and muscular fertility. Businessmen from North of the
Mason-Dixon, 49ers from the West, and a score of Southerners celebrated his properties.
It was an unusual visit that didnt also incorporate a first-hand viewing of the robust
purchases tilling the black gold. The impressive pedigree of laborers proved a veritable
investment. Within a 12-hour window of sunlight, they turned 300 acres of cotton into a
respectable margin of profit. And besides their diligent efforts on the balmy fields, they were
entertaining!
Each group of visiting slaveholders was given an exclusive opportunity, near the end of
their tour, alongside refreshments of sweet tea for the ladies and scotch for the men, they took in
a show. Sure, the songs lacked Southern repose, but the guests found it amusing nonetheless.
When the White men grew bored, as they inevitably did, their wives were set atop the backs of
the laborers. There the slaves maintained perfect pitch while hoeing tobacco! This was always a
crowd favorite and a delightful showpiece at the end of the tourists exhausting day.
These games stopped for Jenkins after the emancipation, but he found other ways to keep
himself entertained. In fact, over the next two decades he would become proficient in the sport of
pitting his White tenants against his Black, spreading rumours and lies to keep them at odds with
each other. He couldnt afford a united front, not if he wanted to keep his crown.
***
Tonight, Samson and his quartet are far away from slave owners turned landlords. He
quietly pilots the trip from the steel rails back to their respective quarters. The smirking moon
lights their path alongside the rocky terrain. The land isnt ideal for a rail, having few
19
straightaways, but there is enough flat ground to get the job done. Where the ground isnt yet
flat, it is up to Samson and these men to make it so.
Samson is preceded by the sluggish and dim-witted John Jenkins, the overseer for Sunday
night shifts. John Boy, as he is affectionately called by his family, and carefully by workers
behind his back, is half-walking, half-stumbling back to the Great House, where his
goose-feather pillow and comforter await.
John Boy dopily dreams in advance of trout, his favorite catch. It has been weeks since he
angled a few of these saltwater treats. In his slumbering stroll he makes kisses at the air, as if
communicating to his underwater friends. Samson glances at John Boy then rolls his eyes. He
has seen John Boy do some bizarre things since becoming their overseer. On more than one
occasion he has been known to talk to thin air, or so the House Negroes report. Other times he
was caught drawing fanciful illustrations in his chapbook. Perhaps he is a dreamer just like
Samson.
Samson cannot empathize with John Boy or any members of the Jenkins family. None of
them question the systemic humiliation and squalor the sharecroppers live in. They see it as how
life is supposed to be. But Samson knows Reverend Hollow would want him to be the better
man, Ol Noah got lonely waitin atop of Mt. Ararat. Some folks know how to climb, but dont
yet know where to find their mountain...
John Boys stride is ushered along by a gentle lullaby. Unbeknownst to him the tune is
part of the quartets escape plan and is barely breathed by its members minus Samson. Softly the
trio sings,
My Lord, He calls me. He calls me by the thunder.
The trumpet sounds within-a my soul.
Green trees are bending,
Po' sinner stand a-trembling.
The trumpet sounds within-a my soul.
Steal Away...Steal AwaySteal AwaySteal away home
Steal Away...Steal AwaySteal Away
I ain't got long to stay.
The rest of the railworkers marching home understand the trios cryptic melody. The
same verses used during slavery to steal away are the same used during these indentured
conditions. The nine elders warn the boys,
Wade in the water.
20
Wade in the water, children.

Wade in the water.
God's a-gonna to trouble the water.
They remind these young men to throw off the bloodhounds that Jenkins is sure to set
loose. Jenkins may not own them as he slaves, per se, but their families signed labor contracts.
And he doesnt let his lessees renege on their contracts.
In between the exchange of songs an emaciated man leans over to Bigsley and whispers,
Best to keep yo eyes fixed on dat bright star, Bigs. Yhear?
Bigsley thanks the experienced man with a silent bob of his head. A hurried Samson
catches up to John Boy and uncharacteristically tramps past him on his way home.
Easy, boy! John Boy sleepily reprimands, but maintains his stargazing.
Samsons primary concern is arriving at his little sisters bedside, whose frail body
suffered alarming exhaustion today under the suns intense blur. Her hair is parted down the
middle and curled into multiple tails on the sides. She is wearing her mamas nightgown and
sleeps like a snow-angel in this overflowing fabric.
Rosey Samson sighs. Rosey, baby, I love you. I know yous purty exhausted from
yo rough day. But II want you to know Im here baby sista, and Is gonna be here whenever
ya need me. I aint leavin you an mama n papa. Just keep sleepin. Well be sittin in the high
grass one day. I promise
He stares fondly at the sweet child, three years his junior, then walks to the opening of
their lean-to shed, willingly showing its age. Its lid is buckling under countless missed
opportunities for renovation. The same roof he was born under many nights ago ready to fly
away with a dreamers breeze.
He peers out at the vast mountainscape, welcoming the slight chill in the pitch-black air
and draws it in greedily. He speaks something into his hands and releases it over his homeland,
the only one he may ever know.
WILECAT! Bilford roars in the distance. You see that thang!?
Sure did! Bigsley returns. I seen it right behind that water well. It vicious! I aint goin
no step further till that beast is shonuff gone!
Oh, yall a bunch of cryin babies. Ill snuff em dead in one shot...
But no shot rings out from John Boys rifle. Only silence.
Samsons mom bolts up in the adjacent bed, Sammy!? Whats that noise?
Nothin, mama. Aint nothin tall... He stares at the night sky, perhaps with dread,
perhaps with relief.
***
Several weeks pass in Samsons community. Conversations alternate between a new law
giving citizenship to all Native Americans born in the U.S. and the three missing boys.
21
Meanwhile, race and labor riots break out around the South. One Black newspaper
described this scene from a Thibodaux, Louisiana riot where nearly 10,000 Black sugar
plantation workers went on strike,
Six killed and five wounded!' is what the daily papers here say, but from an eyewitness
to the transaction we learn that no less than thirty-five Negroes were killed outright. Lame men
and blind women shot; children and hoary-headed grandsires ruthlessly swept down! The
Negroes offered no resistance; they could not, as the killing was unexpected. Those of them not
killed took to the woods, a majority of them finding refuge in the city."
A few weeks after Thomas and the Newberrys escaped, sharecroppers on Jenkins land
fashioned their own uprising. They were sick of renting to survive. They were sick of rent rising
as the quality of living plummeted. Every time they almost made ends meet Jenkins imposed
some new fee: A charge for renting his tools, A charge for returning his tools late, A charge for
returning his tools dirty, A charge for not using the proper tools on their own share, and so on. all
securing his place as the lord of the land. But this gluttony would be his demise.
Nearly all the families that worked Jenkins land met in the barn late one night. The Clark
girls, the sisters that Bilford and Bigsley pined after, quietly snuck into the horse stalls. They
were in charge of feeding and exercising the horses during the day so they kept the animals
busily eating apples as the crowd set fire to their hay bales. The girls were only supposed to lead
the thoroughbreds to a nearby home, but wanted in on the action as well. So, after tying up their
steed, they hastened back to watch the barns insides burn. The barn where their parents were
whipped during the blistering days of slavery. The barn that more recently served as Jenkins
courtroom, for sharecroppers accused of taking more than their share of the harvest. The Clark
girls saw Bilford and Bigsley sneak past this barn on the night of their departure three weeks ago.
They never told the boys they were cute, in their own annoying ways. They thought they had
time, much more time. So, in honor of Bilford and Bigsley, and the flirtations that were stolen,
they smiled as the sea of fire spread.
The undoing of the Jenkins Great House took inside help. The house servants were not
eager to participate in these destructive actions, but there was no longer a choice. You were
either with the resistance or you were with the Jenkins. The servants had a long list of reasons
why the house should be destroyed but only two reasons to keep it standing: food and shelter.
Still, the house crew were the brothers, sisters and cousins of the sharecroppers on the fields.
There was only one place to stand, and that was with their people. Some with tears in their eyes,
others wearing ancient grimaces, set their bedrooms ablaze. While the walls crackled and the
smoke rose, the servants joined the arsonists outside.
The job would have finished sooner if the Jenkins boys hadnt heard the commotion from
the downstairs servants quarters. The Jenkins ladies, the jewels of the Great House, were swiftly
smuggled to town with their mother. The boys stayed to clash against the rioters head on. John
Boy had recovered from the well incident during the Newberrys escape, and he was angry. He
took his anger out on all the resisters he could. One might think because of his simpleton ways
22
he adopted a more simple way of living: a live and let live philosophy. No. John Boy became a
man that night - simply John Jenkins. He maneuvered a pitchfork in a way it was never intended
and now, as a man, he must live with the consequences.
The sharecroppers were empowered by the moon. They did not need the domineering
sun but by the stars their predatory landowner would pay for his crimes. Finally the
Fairchilds, Rustlings, Newberrys, Clarks and other families could exact their form of justice.
Some families waited more than 20 years for this night. Some lost loved ones long ago during
Jenkins auctions. Some wore the scars of slavery like Medals of Honor, as their personal
valor above and beyond the call of duty. These former slaves served their country but received
no gratitude or apology. There was no recompense. No penalty Jenkins paid for the loss of life,
liberty and pursuits. The 40 acre plots that were momentarily awarded to these families were
slyly swindled back into Jenkins hands. These families waited for better days, for a sudden end
to Jenkins criminal behavior. But it never came.
In truth, powerful Whites did not see their actions as criminal, and certainly not illegal.
The government sanctioned the sharecropping system, and turned a blind eye to the torture and
economic servitude of these Black workers. Yet, it wasnt only Black laborers that suffered
under the cruel conditions of sharecropping and pseudo-slavery. Thousands of White farmers
were forced to join the ranks of the indentured. But it was Black workers, still seen as subhuman,
that were treated as if there would be no resistance.
The resistance arrived that night.
Kill all the Negroes ya need to, we can replace em! Jenkins ordered to his sons then
retreated for his valuables.
Master Jenkins was not killed by a disgruntled sharecropper, but by his own Great
House. As his sons fought man-to-man, Master Henry Jenkins fought against nature. He was
determined to save his house, his namesake, his legacy, from the flames that fought their way
into every room. Jenkins had lived in these walls since 1848, almost 40 years. He had her Ruby
Jubilee planned for next year. There was to be a grand banquet and balle. Landowners and wives
from neighboring plantations would be invited. He wasnt doing too badly for himself and an
occasion to flaunt this kept him going these days.
As the flames crept closer, from the servants quarters, up the stairs to the sitting room,
and to the door of his bedroom, Jenkins snatched a quilt from his four-poster and stuffed it in the
crack below the door. Death, however, would not be slowed. No, it licked its lips like so many
whips across his back, one after another, after another, sizzling his skin. Death found Henry
where his five children met Life. On the same carved walnut bed where his laboring wife
thanked God for their babies first breaths, Jenkins prayed to be taken from this world. But
neither God nor the four-post bed heard his requests as the ceiling collapsed on top of him.
Master Jenkins finally paid his dues.
Meanwhile Samson and his family were searching for their papa. They had not seen him
since the riots began. He worries whether his fathers legendary might can outnumber the
23
Jenkins boys in their bright rage. But Delroy Fairchild is clever. Clever enough to find a way to
stay alive. So clever in fact, neighboring landlords often invited him to teach their workers how
to outwit the boll weevil or find other ways to improve production. Sometimes Delroy taught the
fieldhands familiar tricks like shaking the plants. Or sometimes he lounged in one of his
neighbors cabins, feet up on the porch as if he was Musa Keita proclaiming, Dat ol weevil got
some devil in im. Couldnt find him not once. Samsons papa was industrious during the day,
but at home he barely moved his muscles wouldnt allow it.
Samson knows his papa loves him and his little sister with all that might of his. Most
times Delroy returned from other towns and fields with sweet molasses wrapped in his pockets,
the crinkly paper sticking to the lining in his jacket. And for Samsons grandma, until she passed
on, Delroy brought strands of wool and cotton, already bunched in a ball, awaiting
transformation into booties. The dirt floor freezes in the winter so they beamed when he came
home barely able to fit through the doorway.
For a long time Samson never knew what his papas pockets brought for his mama. When
he was a boy he thought it must be something special because he and Rose had to leave the
house so their parents could enjoy it. Now, almost a man, Samson has a good idea
There were times Delroy came home and his face was twice the size as when he left.
Samson never saw his papa hit another man before the night of the riot. Delroy was too young to
join the War but Samson knew he was a scrapper always willing to help a friend in need.
Samson even saw him stand up for John Boy once. There was something about Delroy that
didnt allow the color of another mans skin stand in the way of being stood up for.
Tonight, as the Great House rose in gulfs of flames, Delroy couldnt see the color of man.
Instead he saw figures ride in from town wearing white sheets and pointed hats, and he saw his
wife and kids flee at the sight, and he was glad.
Take that sheet off yo head an fight like a man! Delroy demanded. Youll be a ghost
again soon enough
***
The uncertainty of his papas whereabouts burden Samson like a saddle on a foal. He
isnt ready for this weight yet. He crouches in an unwelcoming patch of nettles, away from the
plantation and their home. His sister and mother murmur around a bonfire behind him, watching
the golden cedars fight to stay lit, but not roaring, lest the entire forest come crashing down.
Papa be alright, children. Godll protect him like Papa protect us. Samsons mother,
ever-faithful, reassures them. What Samson doesnt see in her eyes is the truth. That no one can
protect Black people from these white-sheeted monsters. Not Cleverness. Not Might. Not God.
Gripping with the loss of his father and friends, Samson resorts to his vocation as
songwright. His bleak lyrics and emerging baritone pierce the blackness.
WEVE COME SO FAR
ALONG THIS ROAD
24
AND WHERE WERE GOIN

AINT NO ONE TOLD
SHES AT OUR DOOR
THAT FREEDOM MAID
BUT WHOS LEFT HERE
TO GREET HER AID
WEVE BEEN TORN, TORN IN HALF
LEAVIN JUST, THIS SONG IN-TACT
The glossiness swimming in his eyes distorts his vision. He wipes them clean then closes
them tight thinking about life after these riots. He doesnt fantasize. His guilt doesnt allow him.
Rather, he prays. He lifts up requests for his runaway brothers, his missing father and his family.
In the morning, after the fires die down, Samson, Rose and their mother search for
Delroy. The Jenkins boys, with no home or patriarch, quickly abandoned the city without
seeking punishment against the arsonists. Perhaps the Jenkins family was waiting for a night like
this to set them on new paths. John Boy, however, left behind a souvenir for the Fairchilds.
Samson doesnt want to forget his father and the sacrifices he made. He asks himself, and
his God, Did Papa die so I could live? So I could pursue my incessant dream? Speak to me, O
Lord...
He decides to channel the might of his father, and the curiosity of those cousins, in order
to find out.
25
CHAPTER 5 CONVICT LEASING
Samson never heard from the Newberry boys again. And this is why
Bilford and Bigsley safely eluded the hounds of Master Jenkins, primarily because all
efforts were concentrated on the rising insurgencies around the plantation. The cousins soon
parted ways with their dear friend, Thomas, as he was determined to continue west to Fisk
University in Nashville.
The Newberrys evaded Jenkins but were still stuck in the South, and there are about five
set laws, deemed Pig Laws (so called because misdemeanors like stealing a pig became felonies
for Black men), that the boys had to abide:
1) It was a crime to walk alongside railroads (only drunkards or hobos did this).
2) It was a crime to talk loudly amongst white women (only the ill-mannered did this).
3) It was a crime to sell products of your farm after dark (only the desperate did this).
4) Loitering, spitting and drinking could lead to confinement (only the vulgar did this).
5) It was a crime to be unemployed in every Southern state (be prepared to show your
employment papers).
Signs such as these were commonplace, for those fortunate enough to read:
The following persons are vagrants: a laborer or servant who loiters away his time.
Any such person may be sent to the common jail of the county.
The Newberrys knew better than to talk to strange white women. They had no farm
produce to sell before or after dark. Neither of them had much of a taste for drinking or spitting.
But they were about as unemployed as they come. Not by choice, of course. Their whole purpose
26
on leaving Jenkins property was to find work elsewhere. Little did they know work was
remarkably easy for a Black man to find, or as most Southern states legislated, work found them.
James C. Wiltman didnt care much for introductions. When he met a Negro he
demanded to see his working papers. If no papers were shown, he took the Negro with him. And,
it should be said, even if the Negro had papers but was a bit too uppity, Wiltman took that man
in as well. Cant have animals overtaking the yard.
Wiltman was a coal man. Actually he was a self-starting coal man. Sure he borrowed the
seed money from his fat-cat father, but that was a fathers duty to his eldest son. Wiltman had no
reputation for charity, either. When the end of the year came, Wiltman set aside his money for
the lame and needy as Pastor Rhinehart required. The good Pastor never specified what should
happen next. And a bit of gambling never hurt anybody.
If the sun granted happiness, new beginnings and promise, James C. Wiltman kept
himself under the shade of a tree.
Wiltman came across the Newberry cousins just a day or two up the French Broad river,
up near Marshall. The cousins didnt think much about their interrogator when they met him. He
was dressed well enough and touted employment for the unemployable over in Chatham
County, where one of his collieries operated. Wiltman wasnt much of a fighter. He had no use
for anger - he got what he wanted readily enough - men practically volunteered their services in
order to find work. And Bilford and Bigsley, although reluctant, were desperate.
Negroes like you need a steady job. You need to steer away from the life of a criminal.
As slaves, African Americans had been seen as dutiful, hard-working and obedient. But
now that they freedom, Whites saw them as aimless and lazy. Maybe it was too much. Maybe
they need to stay enslaved. Men like James C. Wiltman knew what was best for boys like the
Newberrys.
Wiltman warned the two teenagers that come winter mining would be light so there may
not be the need for their services. They consented. Well, winter came, and the cousins proved
themselves invaluable, indispensable even. Of course, there were some issues getting their work
permits in order so their pay would have to wait until that was straightened out, but James C.
Wiltman was nothing if not an excellent accountant and record keeper. These boys would get
their due earnings as soon as those work permits were verified over in Charlotte, I dont want
you boys having to pay Uncle Sam more than you need.
The stories and excuses continued. Multiplied even. Meanwhile Bilford and Bigsley
meant to keep close account of their earnings but their overseer kept them too busy for such
triflings. Their overseer at the mine was an obese man by the name of Bill Carpenter. He saw the
Newberrys as shiny sprockets in the mechanism that would solve the Souths worker shortage
since slaverys demise - convict labor.
Southern industry was waning in this Post-Reconstruction. How could these states
possibly reconstruct themselves without a proper workforce? Convict labor solved this problem,
and the Newberry cousins were two stories of nearly 20,000 men and boys tricked, duped,
27
conned or otherwise swept into the chain gangs of railroads, factories, coal mines, timber and
other public or private corporations.
Slavery was abolished for all law-abiding citizens, but any man, woman or child who
contradicted the government was subject to the 13th Amendment: "Neither slavery nor
involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly
convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction."
This amendment to the Constitution was ratified the same year as slavery was
abolished in 1865. A White-led Senate and House wouldnt be deluded by a president with
fanciful speeches and sentiment. We are talking about keeping the Southern economy alive!
What, then, of the treatment of these black bodies sentenced to a convicts labor? Some
called it worse than slavery itself because no longer was a property owner concerned of the
health and survival of their worker. New bodies could be leased from any industry at any time.
There was no permanent ownership and pride in maintaining the health of each worker. The
valuable, indispensable slave was replaced with the temporary, dispensable convict.
Here, then, are Bilford and Bigsley Newberry, comedians turned convicts...
***
Mista Carpenter, sah, if you dont mind Id be likin lunch with the rest of the fellas.
This was Bigsley.
Bwah, this yo first week an you been workin slower than molasses dripping uphill in
wintertime. Ill tell you when its lunch time. An Ill make an honest, hard-workin Negro outta
you, too. If there is such a thing...
Is just hungry is all. I know I aint as fast as other menfolk but I think some food in ma
bellyll make me work the harder, dont ya agree?
You think!? You aint in the business of thinkin, bwah. You my pet monkey. Overseer
Carpenter yanks the steel bracelets closer to emphasize his point. You an educated Negro? Aint
no such thing here! We got any other college monkeys on this here chain gang?!
Carpenter invites other workers into the conversation, but none take the bait. Except one,
I think he deserve a break just as much as all of us. I think he done worked plenty hard
and needs to rest so he can finish a good job for you and Mister Wiltman.
This was Bilford.
Oh, do you now? So we got two highfalutin Negroes. Aint you his brother or sumptin?
You just stickin up for him? Or do you think he pullin his weight around here?
Wes cousins and Ill tell you flat out he one of the laziest mens I knows. Is always
havin to pick up his slack. But, maybe you workin him too hard? Even a lazy Negro dig better
than a dead one.
Well, now thats a fine idear. I like that. Hows about if this here string bean dont keep
up with the rest of yous, he aint nothin but a dead Negro?
Well, I wasnt sayin that sir.
28
Talkin back bwah? The six and a half feet and 250 pounds of overseer presses heavily
against the lean frame of Bilford Newberry. I think that mean you like to join him. We done
need some examples set in this here colliery. Yall gettin too lethargical. Reckon either way I
win. We got two pillars left in this room. You pull them two an I say thatll make up for yo
slackin all week.
But, sah. Aint no way we can pull both pillars alone. The second pillarll collapse soon
as we pull the first. It take a dozen men to reinforce the ceiling.
But you two is some thinkin Negroes. Youll think yo way outta this. Or else Mr.
Wiltmanll replace ya with two non-thinkin Negroes from the county courthouse. And two
morell replace them. You done made yo bed, now you gotta lie in it.
Bilford and Bigsley stare softly into each others eyes. They are many miles and
countless years from the joking and fooling of a few months ago. Some might say these young
men got greedy. They had a good thing going on Jenkins plantation, they had their own share of
the crop, they had food, shelter and a sense of freedom. Now its all they can do to keep
themselves from crying. Breaking down in front of this behemoth of a man and ask for his
forgiveness. Instead, they are determined to see through this task. They are determined to finish
this room in spite of Mr. Carpenters cruelty.
By the dwindling light of their kerosene lamp, they crouch deeper into the dark.
Why you gotta steady sayin somethin, Bill? I was workin!
You was workin yoself to death. He was workin you to death.
Is tuckin it in but now we both gonna Sometimes I feel discouraged. And think my work's in vain. But then the Holy Spirit,
revives my soul again. Bilford answers his cousin with a song. He lifts his pick axe and secures
one of the wooden cribs next to them.
Bigsley replies with the chorus, There is a Balm in Gilead. To make the wounded whole.
He joins his cousin in reinforcing the support beams that are the only toothpicks standing
between heaven and earth.
They harmonize, To heal the sin sick soul.
And so the rest of their afternoon,
Oh...freedom. Oh...freedom. Ohhh freedom. Over me.
and their evening,
I know...I know...I know...I have another building, I know it's not made with hands...
and the next morning
Oh, de lamp burn down an' yo' cannot see. What yo' gonna do when de lamp burn down?
persist.
29
Bill! That the last beam. You wanna sit a spell or ya ready to chip away this here
pillar?
Bigsly wipes his saturated brow.
Ill get the wheelbarrow but you look ready to go to bed with the chickens.
Nope. Fit as a fiddle. You reckon overseer Carpenter good on his word to cut us some
slack when we finish?
Ha! I knew you was lookin peaked. Tell you what? If Carpenter dont hold up his end, I
say we high tail it gain. We aint but teenagers an I feel as old as Methuselah himself.
You look as old as Methuselah!
Look who talkin? You smell like old Methuselah. Whoever in tarnation Methuselah is.
See. There you go gain with yo foolishness. Bill, you so dumb you couldn't pour piss
out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel.
Bill returns with the wheelbarrow to say, Okay, since you so afternoonified, why dont
you enlighten me on who Methuselah was.
But Bilford never learned if his cousin was bluffing or not. He never learned who
Methuselah was. The young men, certainly not boys, but barely full grown men, heard a
resounding implosion instead. Because they were inside an earthen chamber the acoustics were
ideal for their carrying on and melodies, but equally ideal for what is called a squeeze in
minor-speak. The pillar the cousins chipped away, in order to salvage a few extra bucks for Mr.
Wiltman, got too weak. And the reinforced beams were the same as the melodies they sang barely holding up their bodies under the pressure of the entire earth.
The cousins never truly had a chance to survive. In fact, overseer Carpenter almost
withdrew this homicidal mission he sent these boys on - but that wouldnt have been the
leadership his indolent chain gang needed.
The cousins knew theirs was an impossible feat. But they had to take down at least one
pillar - maybe even the whole coal seam if they got lucky. In room and pillar mining, when one
pillar goes down it has the possibility of setting off a chain reaction where all other pillars
implode under the added pressure. The cousins had to chip away at this exploitative system that
is convict leasing, if not, it could continue until perpetuity. And although Bilford and Bigsley
knew theyd be with their Lord when the ceiling caved in, their friends Samson and Thomas and
the Reverend Hollow and their families would be stuck here in Hell on Earth - the
Post-Reconstruction Era of the Southern United States.
30
CHAPTER 6 A BRIGHTER DAY
Through a small broken window, with jagged edges of glass that resemble teeth of some
de-evolved monster, sits Samson Fairchild. Two years have passed since the Jenkins house burnt
down and his father was killed and the Newberry boys went missing. Samson is now fully
grown, a bit more than five and a half feet. He is smartly dressed in a starched white collar and
pressed brown pants. His business partner, Thomas Rustling, the fourth member of his childhood
quartet accompanies him. Rustling offers a paper and pen to an elderly man sitting at a bureau.
Although it isnt much of a bureau, more accurately it is five straggly pieces of wood that
give the appearance of a bureau. It has not seen much bureau-cracy in its days. You know,
businessmen writing checks for thousands of dollars on it, or world leaders starting and stopping
wars atop of it. But it has seen the congregation of old men with cool drinks on a hot day, in need
of a convenient place to rest their beverages. So, its a working-class bureau. A proletariats
bureau.
On many occasions the bureau has seen the bare bottom of a child waiting to be dressed
for play or sleep. The child kicking its feet against the lumber with chilled impatience. But the
bureaus most common use was illusion. Without baby or beverage, the outward show of this
fake desk has given the residents here a feeling of pride that significant matters happen in this
house. However the elderly man who owns the bureau, and the house that comes with it, need
not pretend of significant business today.
The elder holds a document that reads:
31
SAMSON FAIRCHILD HEREBY OFFERS TO BUY THE SHARES OF MR. LEON

LECUREFOR THE AMOUNT OF FORTY DOLLARS AND TO THE EXTENT OF 40.25
ACRESON THIS 17th DAY OF FEBRUARY, EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTY NINE
The old man sitting at the bureau/desk strains his eyes and readjusts in his seat. Samson,
noticing this body language, recites the words from the document verbatim, careful not to
address Lecures evident inability to read.
Well, Sammy, Is had dis here land near 25 year... since da emancipationprolly long
as yo family had theirs.
The 17-year-old Samson Fairchild nods in agreement. His pensive eyes, focused on this
onye oru, this fellow field hand from darker days, reflect the sad truth that the world is not
entirely good-humored.
But forty dollar a good deal-a money. An you good kinfolk Sammy. Its too bad what
happen to yo Ma and Pa. If Is gonna give up my land count of my broke ol body, itd just as
well go to you an this dream of yours. Just mind, this dream aint gonna be as easy as sliding off
a greasy log backward. That Jenkins family aint gonna take kindly to a Fairchild buying up the
shares around their plantation.
Dont I know it, too. See, thing is we got the state law and Mr. Rustling here on our side.
He kind enough to lend some of his know-how with the legal matters in this dream of mine.
Lil Tommy Rustlin! I thought that was you. Aint that the berries! Sammy, you know
dis legal partner of yours used to piss in my windersill.
Ha! That take the cake. Aint nobody ccused me of that one in a while. I blame it on the
Newberry boys. Didnt have to look for mischief they found shenanigans every step they took.
Rustling is quiet. The room is quiet. The men sit for an indeterminate amount of time. No
one knows how long you mourn those that were never heard from again. The lost.
Its a damn shame what the state done did to those boys. Was they trouble? Every dog
got a couple fleas. But they was upright as the two of yous sittin here, for certain. Is dis the state
that you say gonna protect you?
Leon Lecure is not merely a neighbor and fellow share-cropper. He is living history. He
is local council for the young and bright-eyed like Samson and Rustling. He has seen his fair
share of ambitious Black folk struck down by disillusionment.
Thats where I come in, sah. The 14th amendment to the Constitution say No state can
deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any
person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.
He mean White folk gotta treat us equal. The Jenkins and evrybody. And the state gotta
protect us. Samson defends this country that has taken pains to offend him.
Boy, I can remember a couple twenty four hour ago you was just a babe out on them
fields. You four boys singin in church was da only freedm we had. Freedom an hope. Now
lookatcha. Full grown man makin yo own way.
32
Mr. Lecure finishes with a grunt of admiration and swivels his head sideways the way
certain people do when they remember. He sizes up the fit individual standing before him.
Fifteen years ago this young man barely reached his belt. Now, although not massive in height,
Samson is fully matured and bulked out with the physique of a man who works day and night on
the field. He is a man like Lecure used to be - uneven stubble masking his face, no women to
impress with a close shave, just the easy-to-please livestock in the corral.
Lord know why ya didnt fix yoself in one dem schools we tried sendin you to. We
tried so dang hard gettin ya outta here, specially after dem Newberry boys...
The old man is baiting Samson. Curiosity is one of Leon Lecures vices and it has gotten
him in more messes than he can count. One might argue Lecure is even more gossipy than some
of the white plantation wives sipping afternoon tea in their salons. Perhaps this wily old Black
man has a little rich White lady inside him. Perhaps we all do.
Everyone wants to know Samsons plans for the shares he is acquiring; it is a common
pastime amongst the colored folks to see who could finesse the most tidbits out of him. They
knew he was planning something for the communities of Burnsville and Asheville - that much he
talked openly about- somethin for our future... he raved. But what that meant remained a
mystery.
Over the past couple years, since he lost the cousins and his father, he sprinkled
particulars willingly and colorfully at times, but there was still a secrecy that couldnt be
penetrated. Piercing that secrecy was Leon Lecures objective today, from behind his
all-important bureau, as Chief Operator of the Asheville Rumor Mill.
Mr. Lecure, sah. Is afraid I never took to one them schools for music. But, I did get
myself an education. The good reverend teach me the Bible and the art of preachin. My momma
taught me readin and numbers. Papa learnd me all I needed bout farmin. An lil Rosey made
it to a school over there in Chappy Hill, she finds time to teach me some that once in awhile.
Well, that has to be good enough.
Samson tells his truth with more pride than pain, recognizing he is a long way from his
boyhood dreams.
Sure, I visited ol Fisk and Tuskegee a few times. But, no sir, I figure if Is gonna own
the land my Pappy died for- I owed it to him to make it into something special.
Samson, innately gifted with dramatics, pauses to capture this audience of one.
Been busier than a stump-tailed cow in fly time settin up the next best thang.
Next best thang? Mr. Lecure asks hungrily, then giggles like a dainty matron sipping
Earl Grey and fishing for gossip. Yet, Lecure is no dainty matron, and the giggle is trailed by a
hack from a dirt-filled lung. He clutches desperately to the arms of his chair and manages to
bolster himself, willing to hold off the grim reaper himself to hear this juicy news.
After assuring Lecure is done daintily hacking, Samson shares his elusive dream. It is the
same as it was two years ago at the night of the riot. Only now the dream ripens like a sweet
plum off a branch, ready to be plucked. The elderly man listens with quiet mindfulness. How
33
could Lecure deny Samsons determination? How could he deny the reins of a young man
clinging so tightly to a dream, even while it bucks like an ornery stag.
Well, shut my mouth. Dat be some dream all right.
Yessah, Samson concedes. Course t aint nothin without my partner, Mr. Thomas
Rustling here. And a mighty fine musician name of Mr. James Duncan from out West. Theys a
couple of regular prophets. Straight outta da Book of Isaiah, talkin bout a great Prince comin
down the road to SET US ALL FREE! Except it aint no Prince of Jerusalem gonna do the
liberatin of de people its themselves!
Oh, now Sammy. Hold on. Thats what you gettin all this land for? You think yo
dream gonna set peoples free? Black folks? You think this dream of yos can stop White folk and
their dreams?
Mr. Lecures matronly nosiness takes a staunch turn for disbelief, nearing ridicule.
Though Lecure does a poor job suppressing his laughter Samson takes it in stride. He has come
too far to turn back now, even if his own people find his goal to be overly romantic. Lecures
reaction is exactly the reason Samson keeps all his plans close to his chest. He knows hell win
them over when they see the deed for the gorgeous land hes been slowly buying. And the
majestic institute theyll all eagerly help to build.
Yessah. Just cause we been told we free dont mean thats how we livin! An I reckon
Black folks dreams be intertangled with White folks dreams. We all want someone to believe in
us and a place to do the believin. An thisll be that place!
He stands proudly. Unwavering.
Son Lecure begins after a thorough reflection. Yous a down right pillar of strength
to this community an da Colored Farmer Alliance. Id be shakin the hand of ol scratch himself
if I refused you. You got yoself some land!
The doubtful Leon Lecure sheds his feelings of disbelief and begins to hope again. He
forces a scribble on the paper that reads Seon Secone and extends it to Rustling.
How dat look college man?
Like the penmanship of a foundin father. Thomas fibs.
The three farmers turned businessmen properly take one anothers grip.
Thank you, Mister Lecure, sir, Samson humbly responds.
Its what yo mammie an pappie would want for ya, son. And for us colored folk.
Mr. Lecure, You aint harmin a soul with this decision here. NOT A SOUL!
Not even Samsons trusted partners were abreast to the entirety of his dream. They were
treated to the same outsider-ness as the rest of the townsfolk until Samson has every last measure
secured. Thanks to Mr. Lecure, this quarter-century-old prophecy hinges on just one more
appointment.
The tangled feathers of his dream are nearly unfettered.
34
CHAPTER 7
THE BUNCOMBE COUNTY BANK & LAND BUREAU
Samsons lingering appointment is at the dual-purpose bank and land bureau of

Buncombe County, a convenient union for a person with Samsons aims. His usually low-key,
almost stealthy arrival into the artistic but segregated town of Asheville is replaced today with a
song soaring from the nest of his soul.
LORD, Grant me this wish, WISH
I make unto you
For, if just this wish, WISH
Ever, will I be true.
Not till I lay my soul on the mountains of the righteous,
WILL GOD SHOW ME THE WAY
And when I rest my heart in the gardens of the precious,
WILL MY SORROWS BETRAY
LORD, Grant me this wish, WISH
Knees a-soiled I pray
For if just this wish, WISH
Never gain will I stray.
35
Mornin Miss Charlotte! Samson gloats upon entering the bank.

He closes the door, smiling at a White couple scrunching their faces.
Good morning, Mister Fairchild. You look happier than a pig in mud! Have some good
news for us?! the sweet and portly brunette gushes over-excitedly.
She whimsically falls over her paperwork to ask this, her elbows crinkling deeds and
notarized documents. She has a peculiar social condition in which she does not know how to
discriminate between showing a modest interest and appearing excessively fascinated.
Samson collects himself, accustomed to the abundantly enthusiastic personality of this
high-strung receptionist. He strives to use the best grammar he can amid his own eagerness.
Yes Maam, Miss Charlotte. Just finished the last deal for my land! And provided yall
wasnt... I meanwerent stuck up for all the money I been leaving the past couple years, Im
good an ready to sign that building permit Mr. Lewis an I chewed on about.
Oooh! Miss Charlotte chirps in response. GOOD for you! the brunette cartoon
overreacts once more. For all Samson knows she is struggling to suppress an animated eye-bulge
or spontaneous spring from her chair in this courageous battle with such an eccentric disorder.
Mr. Lewis is with another client, but if youd gladly wait at one of these chairs, I can
ring him as SOON as hes through!
Thank you maam!
Samson responds athletically, as if the two of them just created a new sport. The rules are
simple: try to outshine your rival with extreme politeness.
After a few more spars between receptionist and client, Mr. Carl Lewis, the president of
the Buncombe County Bank and Land Bureau, holds the door open for Mr. Samson Fairchild, a
Southern ritual amongst businessmen.
Carl Lewis, being a certain breed of White man, the suspicious kind, has his narrow
judgments of the Black race. Though Samsons many appointments over the years have
superseded Lewis notions, granting him the same treatment as almost any other client. Almost.
I expect youve got a story to go along with that smirk of yours, hey now, Sam?
Lewis drawl is insignificant, but Samson never felt right asking this prominent man if,
like himself, he is restraining his natural dialect for social purposes. In fact, Samson recalls
Lewis saying he was raised in the North.
Carl Lewis: Bank President, used to be
Carl Lewis: Frontiersman, and before that
Carl Lewis: Daydreaming son.
Mr. Lewis comes from a simple but content family of ranchers that traveled to the
mid-western plains of Iowa in the 1840s. Carl was just a boy in the care of two devout parents
when he learned the ways of herding cattle along the rolling hiccups of that green countryscape.
Always inventive, he found ways to move the cattle to graze and still have time to rest in
the woods by the river. He longed to stay near that idle creek as long as he could. Being an astute
36
boy, he recognized when his father was watching, and young Carl would sometimes set up a
dummy shepherd as a ploy, securing more time with the breath-giving pines and alluring waters.
It was not until he was twelve did Carls father catch him in this mischief, after two of the
cattle had wandered off and plunged into the river. Carl, a grown boy, had to face grown-up
punishment for his negligence. He had to single-handedly retrieve the waterlogged and therefore
doubly heavy carcasses from his beloved river. It was harsh, but he never did it again.
He vowed he wouldnt treat his children that way, though his various occupations never
gave him the opportunity for a family.
A short stint as a beef merchant brought a nominal salary. But he excelled as a
frontiersman. Usurping unprotected Iowan plains required acumen, not of integrity, but of
personality--telling people what they wanted to hear. This was his gift. Then, when the
opportunity arose to manage a land bureau in the post-war South, he eagerly shuffled in with the
rest of the carpetbaggers. Rebuilding.
***
Mr. Lewis waddles merrily to his desk, where behind him beige curtains are weakly
keeping the bright star at bay. Still standing, he puts a lit match to the bowl of his Calabash pipe
and puffs, permitting the acerbic odor to cloud his executive office. His large body, almost half
of which belongs to his belly, transports itself in front of the curtains and effortlessly eclipses the
suns yellow blur.
Yes sir, Mister Lewis, mighty good story in fact.
The teenaged Samson reins in his country tongue. But before he can find the words he is
hovering around the office, floating above Mr. Lewis balding, liver-spotted head. Buoyantly he
swims toward the single-pane window, nearly crashing into it, then rounds the cedar-paneled
corners of the room. Clenched within his strong, tattered black fingers is that story, that dream,
that ornery stag and reason he came here this morning. Calmly Samson pricks it with his heel
and wafts back to his wooden chair.
I just visited with Mr. Lecure, Samson starts. The owner of the last share of land I am
seekin to build on. I got the title right here, sir. He was fixin to sell any old how and I wager I
made his retirement a nice bit sweeter.
Samson unbuttons his jacket and pulls out a roll of paper, crisp and creaseless.
Ah yes. That is a handsome plot of land there, son. You must have somebody special
looking after you to grab hold of that serene Blue Mountain view.
Yessah, somebody named God. Been a-workin and a-sweatin toward this plan long
enough. I figure I paid my debts and a few more to get this.
Mr. Lewis surveys the document a few seconds more, spotting the requisite signatures
and dates, then, glumly raises his brown eyes back to his client.
Mr. FairchildSam. Carl Lewis begins solemnly. Im afraid this wont do for a
signature.
Samson, dazed in his own thoughts, doesnt immediately process the words.
37
Wont do? Samson repeats with a politely piqued interest but still rather unaffected.
Im sorry, Sam. This just doesnt cut it in our legal system.
Realizing there is a glitch in this transaction, Samson straightens himself and contends,
ButI saw Mistah Lecure signs it hisself. My lawyer saws it too. May not be the purtiest
penship ever used, but its got to be legitymate.
Samson loses his grammatical balance. Before he all but snatches the document from Mr.
Lewis hand, something breaks. It is not the glass of water kept on Lewis desk pushed to the
side by Samsons quick movements. Its not one of the legs to the luxurious chair that
heavyweight Lewis is oppressing. Nor is it even the pencil Samson had gripped in his hand when
this obstacle of a simple signature arose.
What breaks is Mr. Lewis face. Straight across the equator called his mouth, the
Northern Hemisphere rips from the South. A great gap emerges and pallid, prehistoric fossils
float to the surface. And from each edge of this abyss spews a screeching, howling din.
Laughter.
It is Carl Lewis attempt at being funny. For though he is a man of business he also is a
boy of foolery and can nary escape a great laugh, even if the cost is another mans comfort.
With far more vigor it took for Samson to quiet his country tongue, he wrestles not so
much the anger, because he learned to quiet his anger at White men long ago, but the annoyance.
What sort of man holds such power and recklessly flexes it? What supreme ruler holds his
subjugated within a basic sentence or two, strung up in his office like tortured taxidermy?
Annoyance. Two assumed roles dwell in this office, one tinkering with his authority, the other
willfully keeping his subdued.
In due course Samson relocates his bearings. He returns an artificial laugh and imposes
his spirits to match those of Mr. Lewis. Samson forces himself to dismiss any ill will and puts
on his customary grin as if he admired the wit and humor of the comedian before him.
Sure got me there, Mistah Lewis. Right believe I been too expectant of things to work
out smooth enough. But, it all reminds me that God is the one that allows.
Samson keeps his words tap-dancing for the benefactor in front of him.
Well, God and myself, boy, Lewis corrects.
And with these self-righteous words Mr. Lewis submits his financial approval.
Son, you may be a boy but you show determination. Something I dont see much from
your kind. You can start building in thirty days. Ill give you the official permits then.
Congratulations.
The two men exchange palms and a few more contractual words. And thus is permitted
the construction at the piedmont of the Appalachians, between the Blue Ridge and the Black
Mountains. A prized plot of land fit for the ambitions of a 17-year-old man with a dream that has
lasted more than four generations.
Ashevilles cobble-stone charm greets Samson as he is fared-well and over-exuberantly
congratulated by Ms. Charlotte. He momentarily dons his musicians hat and thinks of what an
38
impressive soloist she might be, with a gusto not inhabited by the ordinary singer. He has had
several students that could compete with her zeal, first and second sopranos whose vocal
fortitude have kept many churches on their feet.
This nostalgia of past and present divas occupies him on the riverside stroll to Thomas
home. The blessed news in tow, Samsons bounce is about as light as a mans can be. He can
finally tell his partners all the details to his dream, no longer does he have to be concerned with
jinxing his hard-earned luck and Gods good grace. In thirty days they will break ground, and
their community will change forever.
39
CHAPTER 8 NO LONGER A TRIO
The river leading from Ashevilles city center to the outskirts of a small town named
Black Mountain is a shy one. Unassuming and quiet, the Swannanoa River is creator of its own
design. Geometrically speaking it is merely taking the shortest distance between two points.
Geographically it must have a desire for solitude.
Twenty million years ago when uplift and erosion formed the Schooley Peneplain, which
included the Appalachian Escarpment, it was a response to deep compression and stress.
Anxiety. Present-day Mount Mitchell and Grandfather Mountain are the progeny of this noble,
geologic ancestry. The Swannanoas desire for solitude is of little concern to geologists and
natives. Apathy. Yet it means everything to a river that tries, every so often, to break away. For
much of its body, closer to the towns, the Swannanoa has to perform. Artistry. Now, along the
country roads, it can loosen up.
These are the still waters that sprightly Samson sneaks up on.
His benevolent song disarms the reclusive river. Most times when traversing from
Asheville to the country, Samson tramps the dirt road. This time he felt some attraction to the
desolate riverway, almost, as odd as it may seem, as if it existed only for Samson on this brisk
February afternoon. As he ambles along the golden and jade mane of the rivers edge, they build
a friendship, the man and the waters.
Looky this contented monkey here, fellas.
A White farmer with dusty overalls and wide-brimmed hat calls to his friends. The men
stop their wagon alongside Samsons smiling face.
You lookin real smart there, boy. You one them politickin Negroids?
No, sah, Samsons gaiety immediately squashed, Just doin a little business in town.
Samson contemplates what his dad would do in this situation. Speak his mind? Keep his head
up? But Samson is not his father so keeps himself as small as possible.
Business!? What business a monkey gotta do but dance when we tell yer to dance!
The other men laugh.
40
Well, I aim to own some land just like you gentlemen. The words parade proudly out
of Samsons mouth.
SMACK!
The White farmer knocks his boot into Samsons chest, causing him to collapse. Samson
cowers on the dirt path for a moment then curls his fingers into a fist. But the other men surround
him before he can make another move.
You aint like us! Yaint never gonna be like us. See, thats the problem with givin
freedom to you mongrels. You think you earned the right to buy land. You aint earned nothin
boy! You tar babies gonna stay in yo place or youll see what business you in.
The farmer spits on Samson and his two friends follow suit.
Business of bein a slave gain if this country know whats good for it.
The men kick their heels and their horses storm toward Asheville. They are part of the
local ku klux klan organization and were ponying in from nearby Old Fort, recruiting for their
regional gathering next month, when Samson got in the way.
But his life was spared along that river, in spite, or because of, its unrelenting current.
***
The cabin Samson soon arrives at isnt grand. It certainly isnt beautiful. Its a
simple-mans home. Thomas Rustlings home. Its door-shaped opening, which is just an
unfinished wall, invites the suns invisible flame into the cabin, warming its occupants.
Samson told Thomas to stay home during his meeting at the bank today. This gave him
time to practice for his upcoming law exams. After that run-in with those other farmers, he was
glad Thomas hadnt come. The ignorant White men may have felt the need to prove
themselves to both Samson and Thomas. Though these close friends have been through worse.
After the funeral for the Newberrys and Samsons father, Thomas dedicated himself to
his studies at Fisk University. But a month ago Samson convinced Thomas to suspend his current
term. He was visiting their celebrated chorus when he told Thomas about his plans. It was his
second visit to the campus, but the first time seeing this professional group of singers. They
performed songs he knew well: Steal Away; Trouble I Seen, and some new ones like Swing
Low, Sweet Chariot. He took notes on their impressive repertoire and spoke with the director
after the recital. Thomas confided to Samson that he fancied the singing, but when asked about
joining the chorus, just shook his head of the suggestion. After a few amiable attempts to get the
tight-lipped, brown-eyed Rustling to audition, Samson eventually let it rest, accepting Thomass
claim that,
This froggity-voicell clear these people out faster than a blazin fire.
Thomass fascination to the Negro Spiritual was not stunted by his lack of participation.
He joined Samsons weekly sessions with the other young women and men in the Asheville
community chorale, a group that has grown immensely over the past two years. There was no
41
need for someone to keep books or be a legal counsel, but Samson told Thomas his studies
would be put to use soon. So, Rustling stuck around, learning bits and pieces of the great plan
that would one day make him useful.
***
Samson opens the door to the paralegal/accountants cabin when a charging locomotive
smashes into him at full speed.
IF IT AINT DA MAN WHO GONNA SAVE DA WHOLE NEGRO RACE!
James Duncan, Samsons second partner, is known to be the loudest and funniest man in
town. In addition to being the boisterous one, 20-year-old James Duncan can be credited as the
creative one. Having only recently united with the Fairchild/Rustling duo, he and his five-string
banjo have already contributed eighteen previously unheard spirituals and folk songs to be used
for the youth chorus. When asked if he composed all the tunes himself he replied with a jovial,
Did Moses write the Ten Commandments himself!?
Seven to eight months ago when James strolled in with his big belly but otherwise
chiseled frame and towering height, Samson learned more about James than his views on
religion. He was a confident descendant of Babylons Cyrus the Great, a man who took his
freedom seriously. And his catalogue of adventures convinced any non-believers.
Naturally, he carted stories of love and conflict along his journeys. He had explanations
for the several scars across his beefy arms and half-moon under his right eye, accounts of
evading Natives and Whites during peak moments of post-emancipation repressions, as well as
tall tales, because that is what they were, of romantic engagements.
The accuracy of James reports meant little to Samson- who always enjoyed the wonders
of imagination. His grandmother impressed him and his sister with fantastic characters and
predicaments while she knit booties for their cold feet. And so it was with James. Thomas
however found it hard to trust such an over-confident man, but Samson set the comments aside
as a timid mans jealousy.
One such yarn was James self-portrait as a fearless and all-powerful warrior, alone
arresting the efforts of a fierce tribe of Natives along his odyssey eastward.
It was a darkend night. James heroic story begins. Not evn da moon was brave nuff
to come out, but I was, had to, it was da best time to travel long distances. And ya cant let no
stoopa-stitions get ya at dat hour.
To aid his audience, James walks behind them, putting his hands over someones eyes.
There. Now ya can see what I saw dat night.
Next, he would blow quick breaths at the blinded audience member and whisper,
Den came da arrows. Aint neva seen no Natives before. All I knew was dey was big n
usually crazy. Would shoot ya wit da small arrows den roast ya wit da big ones! Well, I sho
didnt wanna sleep top no fire, so I kept lookin fo somewheres to hide, way from dose
conjurers!
42
Walkin all stooped-like I spied a patch of trees ahead. I thanked DA LORD! I grabbed
my banjee an ran for dat lovely sight of safeground. Except I was too quick. Too quick for ma
own good. See, when I got to dem trees another group of Natives was to turnin in.
Now as ya can see Is a perty big fella, but when dey saw me- GREAT GOD
ALMIGHTY! I knew it was gonna be me or dem. And, lets just say I still had da whole state uh
Tennsee to get to before I could make it to these majestic Applaichan mountains Id heared so
much bout. See folks when you wandrin, you always lookin for some kinda happiness,
somethin to motivate ya. For me it was de Applaichans.
So I did somethin strange. Somethin ma daddy tol me he did to get outta
Missippis meanest slave masta. Somethin he tol me I might have to do when da time came.
Every listener hangs on his last words.
I dissterpeared.
Each time Samson hears this retold, at least one of the listeners moans in disbelief and
tries to throw James to the dozens. But every time Samson hears it, he believes once more in the
magic of storytelling. James exudes confidence and was born to tell tales. Long ones. Funny
ones. Short, sad ones that remind you how lucky you got it. He told them all.
Samson welcomed this gift and its giver; perhaps James could pass on his storytelling
skills to the choristers.
It only happened once, an don wanna ever do it gain. But somehow or another, when
them Native faces came up on me, from all sides of dis moonless forest I walked into they was
probably fixin to tie me up n cut open ma belly what wit one a dem hatchets they was carryin.
But when they was upon me ... I was gone. Like Daniel an them lions, I stood ma ground, an
next I know- Is outta harms way Safe as a baby chick under her mammys feathers.
James, the giant of a man, comically shakes his rear end like a baby chick to add effect.
This always sends the crowd roaring.
But dat aint all. I don ever wanna use that dark magic gain. Ma daddy tol me how
thangs changed round him after he done messed with powers like those. He had friends dyin
and spooky thangs happenin to all the people he know. Daddy said for seven yeahs straight,
nothin but bad luckor worse...happened for the people closest to him. As some sort of
repayment to the cloven-hoofed beast I guess. Thats the reason I ramble ... from town to
townnot wantin to get too close to anyone
This finale usually causes listeners to wring their wrists, clear their throats, and loosen
their knees, as if each was wondering how close they were to the teenaged storyteller. Sure
James was spinning a yarn but what if it was true? What if they were the next victims...?
Samson vowed to learn some of James masterful skill. Samson knew he, Thomas and
James were a distinct trio in this world:
The brain, the mouth and the heart.
However, it wasnt a trio as Samson stepped through this cabin by the river. It was a
company of four. Who was this fourth member? This lady joking with the guys? And was it her
43
that infused a rich aroma of lilac to this musty old bungalow? The herbal scent fascinates him
long before he sees her face.
Samson keeps his eyes drawn to her as James bellows,
WHAT DAT OL MISTER LEWIS SAY? IS WE GONNA USE THESE BAGS OF
CEE-MENT? OR CAN I START SELLIN IT TO WHITE FOLKS AS AFERKAN VOO- DOO
POWDER?
The table hoots with laughter. Sadly they know such a proposal would be successful.
Whites around here obsess over Afrikan culture and the trinkets or folklore it brings.
Thomas Rustling chimes in,
Or maybe we'll bring the powder to that Klan meeting rumored to be happenin at the
square next month. Tell 'em we got a solution to make Black folk look like them well call it
WHITE FACE!
They laugh again and the unnamed lady in the room adds,
Yes, women will wear those ridiculous Victorian outfits, with hoops in our behinds! I
know many White ladies, and some are quite nice, but that doesn't mean they can dress!
Her snickers hang over the rest and coast toward Samsons ears.
Gday, Maam. Samson walks to the side of the table offering his hand.
Good day sir, replies the woman, stealing his hand and hammering it twice.
You must be the illustrious Mister Fairchild.
Well, dont know much about um...illustrious, but Is Samson Fairchild.
He maintains his composure while his chest warms and his hand tingles.
SOME GRIP DAT LITTL LADY GOT, EH SAMMIE?
James read his thoughts but Samson pays him no mind.
Fields. Miss Emma Mae Fields is the name. Im not much for the Littl lady
designation, if you dont mind.
Quite da tongue on her, too. Miss Edgie-cated an all that! James retorts.
Sure thing, Miss Fields, Samson obliges.
James shakes his head then lays some words on Thomas, which seem to go ignored by
the learned man.
Well, um, what can I do you fo Miss Fields? Mean, did ya come all this way just to
shake hands or do ya need to see one of the boys here? asks Samson.
Well, believe it or not, I came to see all three of you. But, I suppose you are the man to
talk to about this idea youve been cooking up.
YES MAAM! LIKE GRANDMAMA ON A SUNDAY, HE COOKIN SOMETHIN!
BUT HELL SMACK YO HAND IF YER ASK WHAT SMELL SO GOOD!
Samson stays oblivious to James. Thomas, on the other hand, grunts an Mmm-hmm in
agreement with Samsons reluctance to share his plans. Perhaps Samson has been private about
certain details, however he has always felt the right to do so. Though, after the meeting with Mr.
Lewis today, he can think of no better time to intimate his dream.
44
Yes. Miss Fields, we got ourselves a lil thang cookin here. Please set back down. We
can chat bout it. Is just bout to share some good news wit the boys, Samson cordially directs
Miss Fields back to her chair.
Her lips, defying orders to stay asleep, are awakened by what her eyes see: a handsome,
seemingly kind young man. She pushes her hair behind her ear. The thick, jet-black tresses are
streamed with bouncing curls somewhat identifying her young age. They drape to the left of her
unadorned face.
Though only 18 years old, her eyes have learned to discern a kind man from a malicious
one. The two watchmen squat in trenches beneath her eyebrows, camouflaged by curls. At the
look-out tower, where the nose usually stands, is an engorged stump detailing a ghastly matter of
circumstance, a casualty of war. Despite this blemish, she has cast a spell on Samson. His
mahogany eyes strain to quit staring. He wants to caress her face, cup it in his hands and whisper
that she can finally let go, no more running, no more fighting, with him she will be safe.
Everything will be all right.
In reality, Samson says nothing of the sort and avoids the watchful sentries. Without
warning, he lets his own insecurities drop, a feat one would have thought unachievable. Not for
just anyone would Samson expose what has in essence become his ghost. This piece of him has
been untraceable, a sheer obsession residing for too long. But something encourages it, the river,
maybe, or the confidence he gleans from this woman before him. Sitting in a purple dress with
black outlines of roses near the neck. She has an effect on him.
It all started a couple years ago. Samson walks to the window. See that small house
past the river?
He points at the distant cottage with clay roof and stone walls next to the lone Oak tree.
Thats me. Thats where I grew up. And a mile or so yonder was Master Jenkins Great
House. A right mean ol nastiness - as sure you can imagine. Thats why folks burned his house
to the ground. Heh. He didnt like that much.
Say that again! Enters Thomas.
Miss Fields dips her head.
So, one foolish night, before folks burned down ol Jenkins property with their riotin, a
few of us guys talked bout runnin away from this here sharecroppin life.
I was fifteen, and though twas just two years ago it seems like lifetimes ago. I tried
forcin myself to join Mr. Rustling over there and the two other fellas that was runnin, but
I couldnt. I had a lil sister what needed me an my folks wasnt gonna live forver. So, I stayed like a turkey - while my friends, singers like myself, hoped to make it to freedom or Fisk,
He takes a moment to explain.
Fisk University be a real nice school up there in Nashville for Negros to study music an
sciences and the like. An my friends was off to sang there.
Samson stops himself and places a hand on the table, not for steadying, because he is
resilient. He has no emotions to shed over this distant wound. But the wound, distant as it is,
45
deftly slices open, and so does the wetness he banished with it. He perseveres, hoping no one
notices the uneasy waters forming in his eyes.
Two cousins...
Miss Fields keeps her eyes fixed on the storyteller as an empathetic bridge.
We heard got captured an killed by some White vigilantes. Or businessmen...
If theres evn a difference.
James pipes up from his game of rummy with
Thomas. It was the first time hearing Samson recount this story in full. The men place the
playing cards down and look at each other, a loss of humor from James, a lack of insight from
Thomas.
An where I gotta question everythang Samson wants to say God but uses a
scapegoat for this grievance.
Is that not but a week or two after them boys leftnot but a week or twowe had that
riot that burn down ol Jenkins house. Cotton pickers, field workers, house folk sick and tired of
him treatin us like slaves. Treatin us like the War never happened. Like emancipation never
happened!
Miss Fields places a soft hand on Samsons.
Freedom, Samson continues, just what dem boys wanted
Samson wipes his face, again playing it off as sweat. But this company knows. They all
know that taste.
The cabin lies motionless.
An thats what we gonna name the place. James offers during Samsons silence.
After those two friends of Sammy and Thomas, just boys, got killed tryin to fulfills
their dreams, to be singers an be free.
Samson looks appreciatively at James. But James just signals a swift nod and returns to
the card game.
Thats right ... Thats where we get the name. Samson collects his scattered spirit. The
Newberry Institute for the Soulfully Inspired. Its gonna be for boys AND girls who wanna
sing. Yknow like those other institutes and colleges butmore somehow.
He looks out the window where it will all soon be realized. He envisions the institution,
impressive, modern, a place where his current youth chorus would be proud to graduate from. A
place he hopes the Newberrys would have been proud to attend. This reminds him that the guys
dont yet know of his good news with the permit. He is about to disclose this when Miss Fields
stands up and replies,
The Newberry Institute for the Soulfully Inspired. Why I think that is just a lovely
name if I ever heard one. Just captivating. Yours is a sympathetic and inspired soul yourself,
Mister Fairchild. An idealists with a raison d'tre.
Samson bashfully glances over at Thomas.
Thomas intuitively peers up from his cards, She mean you got a reason for livin,
Sammy, then plays his ten of diamonds on a straight he is building.
46
Well maam, this couldnta gone nowhere without the help of Misters Duncan and
Rustling here. Two idealists doin a fine job raisin ma debt, if thats what ya call it.
Miss Fields smirks at Samsons wit. Then, as if she were a child eager to share what she
learned at school, declares,
Listen, fellas. This is the genuine reason Im here.
From the corner of the room Miss Fields reveals a painting within a cherry wood frame.
It is a mountain range, exquisite in its realism and disciplined strokes of color. The landscape is
painted with what looks like a thousand hues. A russet mass of earth is piled high to the cobalt
sky. The sky carries a heavy weight, like Atlass, and the viewer can see the birth of a storm over
the pointed range, which must be some part of the Appalachians.
Curiosity beckons if this painting is from sight or memory. Was she able to visualize
every stroke before it gently lashed across the canvas? Or did she prop an easel along the stormy
bluffs and start replicating? Either way, it almost hurts to stare too long, not unlike the brilliant
sun. One would think something with so much energy would be greeted with appreciation, as if it
were restoring some of what we lost in the dark. But. No. Certain objects should only be glanced
at--taken in from a safe distance.
This is such an object, and the lack of forewarning plops Samson onto the chair Miss
Fields vacated. Samson gapes in astonishment as Miss Fields asks him,
Woa woa da woa woa?
James responds from the table with a pompous,
DAZ DAZ COO HOB, Then smirking afterward.
After a moment, Samson is kidnapped back to a conscious state. He has never been so
affected by a painting before. Then again, he reminds himself, he has never seen a painting and
the artist up close before. Not in the Great House. Not on his tours of the Universities. Is this
how he was supposed to react? Going blank for a few seconds- altering his hearing and
speaking? He is prepared to say something eloquent, to convey the profound reaction he has
from this stirring piece of art. He is met however by the sentries - Miss Fields watchful eyes.
Are you going to answer me, Mr. Fairchild? Is this some cute girlish hobby like this ox
Mr. Duncan thinks?
This repairs his hearing. Samson slowly figures out what happened while he was under
the influence of that painting. He looks inquisitively at James. During those few seconds Ms.
Fields gathers her belongings and storms toward the door.
Now glaring at James with cool slits, Samson strains to make a decision. His inkling is to
follow this woman, this artist, whoever she is, out that door and ask her to talk to him.
As that thought processes, he finds himself outside, near the river, frantically looking for
the rush of purple. Once he spots her he sprints to catch up. Even with two unwieldy paintings
and a small bag in her hands she manages to cover quite a bit of ground. The February day
Samson walked into the cabin with has been stolen. He could look for it but would revive little
evidence.
47
Euphoria, after the meeting with Carl Lewis, had been scratching at Samsons soul,
begging to be let in from the dingy canals it usually resides. It promised joy and contentment.
Samson was ready to admit this benign wayfarer until two sentries bullied it away. Perhaps the
sentries didnt know what they were doing, and were only acting to protect and defend their post.
Nevertheless, the euphoric traveler has vanished, and Samson is uncertain whether it would
make a second call.
The chill in the winter air is headstrong, but is no competition for the person resting
against the slim oaks in this savannah.
Miss Fields.
No response.
This, um, this is some land... Nervously Samson digs through his pockets for nothing in
particular, just more conversation. Scarces hens teeth too. Right lucky to got some of itwit
dis view of de Appalachees an the rest
He ineffectually kicks the dirt.
Miss Fields, I aint sure why I ran so far after ya. I mean, ya seems real nice but
II-don-even-know-ya. He shoots the words out, intending to avoid hurting her further.
I do wanna say sorry for that offensive Negro back there. I aint his papa, but yous right
fair to not take his talk an call em an ox. He just as ill-tempered if he feel threatened. Thats
what it is, just some young fool who think he better than most people talk louda and prouda
then God himself. Believe it or not he got his sweet side, too. And you Samson set up his
words to compliment her painting, but chickens out.
Well, he sure seemed no sweeter than a puddle of mud when I talked to him. Emmas
temperament buoys a bit. She wriggles to stand up and accepts Samsons big hands to help her.
And thats Gods self. She pronounces, patting the dirt off her purple dress.
Beg yo pardon Maam?
Oh, dont Beg yo pardon me. Theres no proof Gods a man like you three donkeys.
God is just as likely to be hermaphroditic.
Samson sneaks out a smile. This woman has a talent with both a paintbrush and a
sentence. He might do right to hear her take on religion as well. His widening eyes betray his
pondering.
Hermaphroditic, Mister Fairchild. You have heard of Hermes and Aphrodite?
Now it is Samson who holds his tongue. His arms fold over the top of his head and his
back leans against a mutilated Oak trunk, inviting Miss Fields to proceed.
Okay, Mister Fairchild. Were going to have ourselves a lesson in Greek Mythology,
like at my alma mater, Bennett College.
Samson embraces the spontaneity of this woman and teasingly feigns a studious pose head propped up and smiling.
Miss Fields chortles discreetly at Samsons playfulness. His invitation to goofiness is
warmly accepted and she begins to discard her built up tension. She snaps a slender twig from a
48
bough above her to brandish as a lecturing dowel. Loosening her posture, she slouches and
raspily begins a charismatic impersonation of one of her elderly professors in school, a noisy and
haughty Southerner.
HER-mees, the Olympian God of thieves and APRHO-DI-tee, the Greek Goddess of
BUH-you-teehad themselves a son. Naturally they named him HER-ma-PHRO-die-tee, so all
the kids at Mount Olympus would know good n well who his parents were, and wouldnt cause
a lick of troubles.
She breaks here, winking at Samson.
But wouldnt you know it, some nincompoop thought they could still mess with this
child. That nincompoop was the nymph One-handedly she whispers to her student. that
means a not-so-powerful female God SAL-ma-SIS. And this nymph SAL-ma-SIS was about
as lustful as a tomcat on an abandoned farm. Except like I said, this was a lady, and she jumped
on that poor HER-ma-fro-DI-tee the second she had the chance. She YEARNed to be with that
young man she PLEADed to the Gods to let it be so...
Samson presses his face deeper into his fists and thinks to himself, Okay SamA
woman teachin ya bout mytholgies, and yer actually interested
SURE ENOUGH! The professor explodes again. The GODS granted her wish and
FUSED the nymph and man together. What was left was some mixed-up mortal who had to
juggleahem a womans flirtiness with a mans flatulence. Male and female. In one.
Taken off guard by this obscene humor, especially from a lady, Samsons chin slips out
of its rest and he doubles over in laughter.
Hema-FRO-diddy? Samson asks humorously.
Close enough, Mister Fairchild. Miss Fields glows, returning to her own voice. Thats
who I think God is has both parts - to feel both our pains better.
Samson applauds the performer. He pays kind words to the woman while staring at the
ashen clouds.
You sure is real bright, Miss Fields. An funny. An ya make me see God diffrently
than I ever have in my 17 years on Earth. Noticing his head in the clouds, Emma pushes
Samson further.
Mr. Fairchild, how come youre talking about God and looking all the way up there?
What you mean, Miss Fields?
I just meanmy opinion is that God isnt so much a higher power, above us in some
clouds but merely existson the periphery or within...the human body. We dont have to go
far in the sky or even away from this earth we walk to find some of the divine.
Samson is bowled over. He fumbles for something worthy in response.
Miss Fields...Iumthought I knew how to preach but you turnin evrythin upside
down. You a natural theologian.
Blushing, No. Im not that smart. Take Anna Julia Cooper or Frances Harper. They are
brilliant.
49
A bulky silence sinks between them. The mood alters from lighthearted to uniquely
heavy because of this lumbering chance of affection between them. They both feel it, but dare
not look.
UhMiss Anna Julia Cooper. She is, um, from Carolina, toobutuh please call
me Emma Mae, or Emma. I-Im not really your teacher that you have to keep calling me Miss
Fields so formally.
Well Emmaya can call me Samson oh Sam oh Sammie, bout turn round to any
names written in de bible.
Okay, Sam. She says softly.
Unable to avoid it further the young woman and man join eyes. Emma, though, is still in
pursuit. She searches for something within Samson, perhaps malice. Or deception. Emma has
been deceived before. No one intends on being broken in the places she was. She nearly married
the last man she loved. Her father encouraged her to spread-ya wings, see dis world fore dey
make us slaves gain.
So she flew.
Her father told her to Find yoself some nice feller.
So she nested.
Harold Brimmings, the man Emma nested with when she was just 16, was a carpenter by
trade. He had been waiting for his prize - his reimbursement for 22 years as a pseudo-slave on a
Georgia farm. He saw this in Emma Mae: her cute face, warm, high-rounded cheeks and
child-bearing hips.
After the strains of subservience, Harold also yearned for the marvels of power. Gin gave
him those instructions. So when the once chaste Emma Mae lost her luster, he saw no more
reason for the faade. He created his own successful system of slavery, for the flesh.
***
Maybe Emma and Samson were looking in each others eyes for gentleness. Samson is
receiving an encore visit from his wayfaring friend, the unbridled euphoria returning at last. He
deciphers whether Emma is having a similar visitor. His hunch is confirmed when he looks
below her brow to see the two henchmen fastening their cloaks and turn to exit. They stay with
their backs to Samson and unveil an iridescent hue of emerald as enchanting as her painting.
Samson ruminates a moment more before responding. His intentions are to keep these
eyes disarmed--with playful gestures and honesty.
He sings the words before his brain tells him what to do,
Youre so sweet! Tell evrybody! Tell evrybody! Youre so sweet!
He grabs Emmas hands and they bop cheerfully in a circle. His twirling body moves
closer to hers while his voice sustains the rhythm.
When yo walkin down the street, prettiest girl I ever meet
Emma unchains her oppressive past. Unbeknownst to her, this was her objective all
along; and she gladly, if not comically, sings off the sting of recent years.
50
Youre so sweet!
From yo head down to yo feet. Sweeter than a tasty treat
The duo join hand in hand followed by lip to lip.
Indeed they are hosting twin wayfarers that afternoon - Emma bares not just her
far-reaching smile and radiant green eyes but also something undetectable. Her porcelain self is
cupped in Samsons hands. She is comforted by a touch of softness in him, reminding her of her
youth - the puffy cotton she gathered. Not the countless times she burdened her back to collect
this seed, but the first time, when she rubbed it in her fingers to form tiny clouds.
She caresses that part of him - this ability to turn tribulation into velvet.
51
CHAPTER 9 EMMA MAE FIELDS
Greensboro, North Carolina was not invulnerable to Reconstructions false promises.

Tired days against the sun, waking nights amid the whimpering moans, life was a distant hum.
For Wilma and Matthew Fields, this hum was broken only by pregnancy, a reason to
sing. Three-quarters of a year after they married they had their first child, Ella.
Ella seemed to be a miracle child, a message from God. Though she was hated the
moment she bulged beneath her mothers dress. Yet it was from neither Wilma nor Matthew that
this hate originated, but from her father because Ella Fields was the adorable, illegitimate child
of their employer Rolling Roy Jasper.
Unlike some of his neighbors, Rolling Roy did alright for himself when slaverys
plantations turned into sharecropping farms of the Reconstruction. He put on the same narrow
string ties, polished the same square-toed shoes and continued ordering Levi Strausss
copper-riveted blue jeans from San Francisco. Though slave labor was over, he knew how to
make ends meet.
Rolling Roy injected a fear in Wilma; if she ever became pregnant, it would mean the
loss of two lives rather than the birth of one. She privately pleaded his pardon, but worse was the
secrecy, she could never tell her husband that the baby growing inside her was not his.
A foreign seed - planted by force.
Matthew Fields, a self-educated and tolerant man, would have understood his new wifes
situation. But Wilma knew Matthews true love for her would make vengeance certain.
Rolling Roy got his name because of a peculiar fondness for tobacco rolling papers
from central France. There, in the heart of Burgundy, where vineyards sauntered down lush
green valleys, a family by the name of Du Blanc manufactured this well-manicured papier.
Matthew Fields, had he known about Rolling Roys other vices, would have seen to the
conclusion of this lavish pastime. But the death of a White man can only mean the death of the
nearest Black suspect. And that would do Wilma and Ella no good at all.
52
This was all to be avoided by Wilmas hoping and praying - she hoped each day for her
child to be born and prayed each night it wouldnt. Wilma wanted to be alive to raise her or him,
but feared Rolling Roys consequences. He reminded Wilma of her position during one nights
lunacy. He had a house servant bring her to the woods behind the Fields shack-home when all
others were sleeping. There, after no particular warning, he beat her. With fist, then branch, then
shovel. He bruised her stomach until he heard the insides crunch.
Then Ella was born. That was the miracle. She lived only a few minutes but it was a few
minutes longer than expected. Wilma held her premature baby in her hands. It was a whole
lifetime for young Ella. Her whole life spent in the loving arms of her mother. A miracle. She
had persevered, and passed, in her mothers love.
Matthew knew immediately that the child was not his. She was cleaned and he could see
her pale complexion. Yet he still loved her as his own. For her whole life. And would have raised
her as such too.
Matthew was the sole pallbearer. He took her to the tall elms, where little Ella had been
before, in the belly of her mother. And it was there that he buried her, with the shovel baby Ella
also knew well. A lilac was her gravestone.
Matthew got his chance to raise a daughter that autumn.
Wilma persuaded Matthew of the consequences to seeking justice and instead they tried
again for another child, their only defiance. Her name was Emma.
Emma Mae was a miracle as well, though in a different way. She had lived past her first
day of birth, and that was a miracle, for her mother did not. After an all-consuming but
incredibly determined labor, Wilma smiled at her husband, affectionately holding their baby. She
knew Matthew would raise her in the best possible way, and so she laid her head back on its
pillow, and closed her eyes.
Emma knew her mother for one full day but she did not know the emotional strife her
parents went through. On the other hand, she had an idea for the physical work to which they
were subjected. She did not know of her sister until she was entering adolescence and a
conversation with her dad pried it out. She never knew of her mother to miss her, but Emma
knew she was loved as if both parents raised her. Matthew Fields chose neither to remarry nor
settle down with another woman and when Emma was able to read and write her father took her
away from the fields. He found the resources to sustain him and Emma out of the reach of
Landlord Jasper - he was going to dedicate his time to his calling as a teacher and father.
Expectations were high in the Fields house. Not only did Matthew emphasize top marks
from his daughter, but from his other pupils as well. Most of Mr. Fields students came to him
after years of sharecropping had proven fruitless. They took lessons from Matthew and
eventually from Emma; the Black Codes were allegedly outlawed after some time, so Matthew
advised his teenage daughter to be aware of her tutees background. It was not rare for former
masters to hire ex-slaves to disrupt insurgent operations such as the Fields.
Education meant resistance.
53
As she grew into her mid-teens she developed an attention for the arts, though still cared
a great deal for the written word. She had seen a variety of pieces painted, drawn and sculpted in
one of her fathers textbooks: Remarkable Art and Their Celebrated Western Creators. She had
begun sculpting objects before she knew it was a refined craft.
By the stream near the lilac bush she would scoop up mounds of mud. Gleefully she
would return to her bedroom for hours at a time. Softly humming or listening to the gentle leaves
playing outside, she manipulated the earthen dough into practical items like bowls, spoons or
cups. Before long she discovered the myriad of objects that could be fashioned for gifts or for
profit. Her ability was something inexplicable to her fathers students, but easily understood by
the likes of a Rodin.
Matthew was not a devout Christian, though his friends and acquaintances would not
have known. He worked for his people. He didnt believe any deity set them free from bondage;
he knew it to be a united opposition, of Blacks and Northern soldiers. It was an army of men not
an army of God. These thoughts were handed down to his daughter, but Emma had other
questions still to be answered. For some she found God -- for others she kept looking.
Coming of age during the late-nineteenth century, Victorian ideals were still prevalent in
America. A young woman - Black, White or any race, was still expected to fall perfectly in order
with the patriarchal commands of womanhood. Emma probed for answers. Why must women act
a certain way but men can behave as they wish? Who were these people that set up such
guidelines - did they even exist?
She was indisputably pure, as one of the four famous traits of Victorian womanhood
demanded, but she could choose to change that any day. Because of her household she knew that
God was something still up for debate, which took care of a second requisite. But the two
remaining items highlighted in this cult were reinforced at her fathers home. Domesticity and
Obedience. Emmas father was a forward thinker, a doer of positive deeds, but he did not believe
women were to be the makers of their own destiny. He believed they should stay domestic and
obedient to their more capable men. He believed women had opinions and were certainly entitled
to them, just not in the voting booths, as the 15th Amendment guaranteed for Black men. Emma
stood her ground. As did Matthew. But when she threatened to leave if he did not speak to her as
an equal, he conceded. It was not worth losing another woman in his life.
When she was sixteen Emma decided to search for answers outside the libraries of her
father. She decided to pursue life in the University. Of course Matthew wanted her to settle
down, but he understood Greensboros lack of suitable bachelors for his brilliant daughter. With
his reluctant goodbyes he told her he would visit wherever she called home.
This would be one distinct instance they both longed for Wilma and Ella. Matthew
wished it for the company, with an empty house, and Emma for their sagacity. Wilma Fields was
never able to impart the secrets a mother passes on to her daughter. She could never tell Emma
how to choose a man that loves her, and how that was one of the answers Emma searched for.
54
Ya deserve to be treatd well, baby, Wilma would have said to her daughter. Dont
just settle for a pair of hands. These is diffrent days. Choose a whole man. And choose right.
The absence of these words led Emma Mae into the arms of a two-faced man at Bennett
College. But even this had an advantageous twist. While with Harold Brimmings, Emma
developed her artistic endeavors and matured into an accomplished painter. Sculpture was
satisfying to work ones hands through, but Emma could more structurally transmit the pains and
sorrows of her new relationship onto a canvas. She kept these paintings hidden in her garden
clothed with dank blankets and linens. At any time she might have a half dozen pieces kept
there. And they were safe enough. Harold didnt spend much time in the yard, nor in the state of
being that allowed him the discovery of these paintings. It became her plotting plot. This
mischievous term gave her a distraction. For what she was plotting was not to be enjoyable.
To abide by her plan, when a painting was in presentable fashion, though not necessarily
perfect considering her restrictions, Emma took it to a few local townsmen. They were former
abolitionists, and had developed a penchant for her raw landscapes and portraits. They also paid
quite well. After several months of this she knew it would all be over: the torment, the emotional
internment, the bruising, she was grateful neither Harold nor she wanted kids, for she feared he
might mark them as well. As her mothers master did.
She would use the earnings from her paintings to pay for a ticket out of Atlanta and finish
her degree. She didnt know where, but well-crafted plans would be made for certain.
Just keep planting she told herself, especially after particularly violent episodes with
Harold. And so she did. Between the aromatic rosemary and the snapping beans, she planted her
paintings in the protected plot. Occasionally an outsider would interfere. A rabbit picking at the
vegetables was most common. But most upsetting was the rain.
It poured down one night after she hastily wrapped up a piece. The painting, which she
titled Woman with Angel Wings, after a vision she had of being lifted above a green savannah
with her sister at one side and mother at the other, was meant to be swathed much heavier.
Her system was not perfect. Too much fabric and it would smear in the case of someone
or something putting pressure on it under the loose soil. And so in that wet darkness the paint
spread across the cloth and dissolved into the fertile garden.
Emmas intentions to return to the painting were disrupted by domestic responsibilities.
Domesticity.
Harold came home that night demanding his work boots scrubbed clean, a tedious chore.
Obedience.
He was a part of Atlantas downtown revival during the Reconstruction and many
businesses swelled the ranks in order for prime commercial land. The carpenters were scrutinized
by leading contractors from the city of Atlanta as well as entrepreneurs from across the country.
And so the foreman personally assured a decent crew of men to present to these big wigs.
If any of ya Negros come here lookin and smellin like you did the day I hired ya, then
ya might as well not come at all. We is a respectable crew for respectable dignitaries of the City
55
of Atlanta. Harolds boss had scolded the Negro laborers their first week on the site, and every
man there took him seriously.
And so, Harold made sure his wife kept his uniform impeccably tidy - everyday.
That night after cleaning his overalls and jacket, Emma took the spotless shoes to the
sitting room where Harold sat, tall and lean. She thought he rather resembled a light post. The
only attractive part of him was his face. Everything else was bony and cold. Whenever Emma
was forced to get close enough to touch him, she thought only of cool metal.
Circulation must have taken longer because of his lengthy physique, or a lack of using all
the systems of his body, either way, she hated any excuse for their skin to touch.
As he sat, whittling, she forced a fake sniffle. He turned to see his boots and a distorted
figure holding them. What Emma saw in return was a man already inebriated. Harold had come
home from work only an hour ago, she had not even begun to prepare dinner and already he was
drunk. She turned to the wicker rocker, where she would relax when he wasnt home, and atop it
was a letter from Harolds employer. The first sentence was neatly written, presumably by a
secretarys delicate fingers, not the swollen grip of a foremans hand:
Mr. Brimmings,
We regret to inform you that the Atlanta Construction Consortium will no longer be needing
your services
Rather formal stationary she thought immediately; and a consortium, perhaps her
fiancs career was more impressive than she thought. All these months she assumed it was no
better than working on the rails or docks. But now, looking around the dimly lit sitting room, she
sizes up her home. A handsome hearth, comfortable furniture, elegant compared to the run-down
hovel she shared with her father. This could all vanish if Harold didnt find another job.
She looked again at this man who wanted to be her husband. A malign smile stretched
over his thin cheeks. His muddy brown eyes looked overwatered. She stared at his hands, her
eyes open and heart barely beating, the blade carefully carving conical pieces.
Harold saw her fright. He became engrossed whenever he saw it in her. It was renewed
power, like an enabling counsel for his kingdom. Emma hesitated on where to place his boots.
He could pounce at any second.
Emma baby, why dont ya brang dose n shoes oba to me. Cmon. Ahll gib ya kiss.
Harold called for her in sweet tones--but the rain saved her. It danced atop their wooden roof.
TAP! Tipp-Tapp. Ta Ta Tapp!
Outside the window of the sitting room, though only lit by a few candles, he could see the
rains falling with fervor. Harold started out of his rocking chair and peered inquisitively out the
window, straining his eyes. Emma couldnt help and did the same.
56
Emma Mae didnt ask what Harold saw out the window. But she knew. It was a likeness
to her painting, a body being lifted by two wings out of her green savannah. It was a call. And
she answered it.
For the first time in a long time without over-thinking what to do or how to gain the
courage to do it, she ran to her garden. The glass jar kept in the southeast corner was her first
stop. The timing was premature, but the money would have to be enough. This could be her only
opportunity; God knows she wasnt getting any younger or braver. Her sister and mother would
be her guides, and she would run. Away from the angelic painting of them dissolving into the
earth, away from this desperate, drunken man and his wrath.
At the willful age of 17, Emma Maes dreaded freedom had arrived.
57
CHAPTER 10 GRANDMA JANE
The thirty-day timeline the Buncombe County Bank gave to Samson rinsed away with
the spring rains. Only a couple days remained until they could start building.
The farmers along the Eastern board and inland were grateful for the showers. A few
years ago, in 1883, all weather had ceased to be predictable. Rains were sparse. Some farmers
pointed to the almanac and said it was a fact of nature; others called it Gods Anger. Still another
story buzzed around, that the lack of sunlight was the result of an island-volcano exploding in the
orient as the farmers called it. Whatever the reason, farmers today welcome the return of
conventional planting conditions.
Outside of these agricultural concerns is Samsons real obsession. Passionate rehearsals
with the youth chorus, meetings with Thomas, James and the recently incorporated Emma Mae
(which were often as unruly as family get-togethers) not to mention requisition of both building
materials and laborers, took up much of this month. Affordable materials were readily available
and willing laborers popped up from around town - not as many as Samson hoped but most were
willing to volunteer their services when they heard the dream in full. A moment or two alone
with his affectionate Emma was salvaged when she wasnt doing her own planning or artwork.
Love, it is said, is blind. But is it acknowledged that we are blind as a result to love, to all
life outside of that love? This was the case with the heart-strong 17-year-old Samson Fairchild,
who, for thirty days could not see the warnings and interventions that were made to redirect his
magnanimous vision, his raison d'tre. He naively lived his life normally, but this blindness
would catch up with him.
***
The town of Asheville was on its own predetermined course, as was North Carolina, and
the whole nation during this transformative era of Post-Reconstruction. Many factions of the
United States of America held unrelenting idealism during the brief period of Reconstruction.
58
Citizens, politicians, writers, artists and other organized bodies came to blows with the most
decent of causes: egalitarianism.
White supremacists however, showed themselves to be the greater influence on this
malleable democracy.
Governments and neighborhoods fell under the charm of these fear-mongering
wordsmiths. Public combatants for the valiant cause of reformation gave in, openly admitting
their true attitudes, that dark was the inferior complexion to fair. North, South and all parts
wedged between, were swaying back to the more familiar institution of hegemonic racism. It was
a signature that authors such as Carolinas own Charles Chesnutt and orators like W.E.B. DuBois
and Booker T. Washington, as well as literary activist Ida B. Wells-Barnett, all staunchly
invalidated.
Yet, this is where Samson and his fellow Americans lived. The rich and White relished in
it. Some, like author Mark Twain with tongue-in-cheek, called it the Gilded Age. But beyond the
golden portico this was known as the Nadir.
Derived from an Arabic word, this bleak period was labeled the lowest point in the story
of the African American.
An hour where at one jubilant minute the 13th,14th, and 15th amendments are enacted,
abolishing slavery, mandating equal protection and due process as well as securing the rights to
colored men of age to vote; but a few minutes later these promises are ruthlessly sacrificed by
the men who promised them. More and more Black legislators were being voted out of office,
replaced by White vigilantes turned politicians. Johnny Rebel and his sheeted countrymen in the
South strangled these amendments. Intimidation, taxes at the voting polls, and lynchings were
common efforts. In the judicial branch these bigots pressured the Supreme Court to rule the Civil
Rights Act of 1875 unconstitutional, a ban that would take nearly a hundred years to be
reinstated. The klansman became the legislator.
Yet not only African Americans suffered during these years. Just a couple short years ago
in 1887, President Stephen Grover Cleveland, a decisive leader, approved the Dawes Severalty
Act, further legalizing the disruption of Indian culture by privatizing their land. The White power
base was expanding.
The years following the forfeit of the Reconstruction were grim. People began to tell the
story of Grandma Jane:
An old woman is joyfully singing a song while knitting on her front porch. Three men,
one neighbor and two strangers from out of town, overtly walk up her stairs, tie her up and
proceed to burglarize her home. When the valuables are taken, they wrap her frail, still living
body in a bed sheet. She is lugged, kicking and screaming, to a cemetery where a tombstone
waits with her name on it.
A look of horror washes her face. Given a shovel, she is made to start digging. After
several hours of this, and after her feeble fingers bleed to the nubs of her fingernails, she finishes
a well several feet deep.
59
The silent kidnappers thrust her into the muddy hold and leave her, expecting starvation
to finish her after several days.
Numerous attempts to lodge her bare hands and toes into the soft roots are fruitless. She
cries out and sympathetic passersby hear the frail woman and unite in rescuing her. They give
her food and drink to replenish her weak body and promise her a renewed life out of the
wretched tomb she has learned to call home.
But the crypt-keeper, humming a familiar tune and dressed in a long black primer and
matching hat, notices the freed woman and her self-satisfied smile. Fuming, he pulls out his
pistol and marches her at gunpoint to another gravesite demanding she repeat her grueling
chore. The rescuers, terrified, convince each other that their connection to this pathetic woman
is not worth the trouble and move on to their lives of markets and matinees.
The woman never again sees sunlight.
For a fleeting moment she felt the will to live and rejoiced again in song. But now she
trusts only silence. She lies down in her gulch to greet deaths sullied door as mounds of soil fall
to her face. She looks up to see the once sympathetic passersby holding the spades, tears in their
eyes, and the crypt-keeper whistling as he walks away.
That is Grandma Janes story. Some people called her Old Jane or Old Lady Jane. And
some people told the story saying the Crypt-Keeper carried a cane, and he didnt whistle, he just
tapped his cane and that was the chilling sound he made. No matter the variation, when this story
was told, audiences quivered.
North Carolina and many Southern states eagerly adopted sharecropping as the genetic
mutation of slavery, a slight chromosomal change, like that between an alligator and a crocodile.
Jump Jim Crow, a minstrel song demeaning the African American experience that was
popularized by a White man dressing in Blackface, is carried from sheet music to law parchment.
Some say the song is a reference to the crows that were given corn-soaked whiskey then
drunkenly danced around until the farmer beat them. It is this popular melody that Samson
Fairchild, being a songwriter himself, despises more than any of Reconstructions treacheries.
Come, listen all you gals and boys, Ise just from Tuckyhoe;
I'm goin, to sing a little song, My name's Jim Crow.
Weel about and turn about and do jis so,
Eb'ry time I weel about I jump Jim Crow.
To Samson, a young man who sets compositions of better days for his people, this
mockery is one of the only vehicles from the White race in which he will respond, in
contradiction to his messiahs appeal, with base hatred. Laws cant be easily avoided, but with a
pencil and piano he can mount an insurrection.
60
Across North Carolina in the 1880s, African Americans and American Indians are
achieving these insurrections via this New South. Black schools and newspapers are springing
up in Wilmington and Charlotte as well as other cities, allowing political discourse and a
medium for social ferment.
The Native American Lumbee Nation prevailed legislatively in acquiring their own
schools like the Croatan Normal School, which trained Native American teachers and students,
giving them a chance to teach their culture to another generation.
As for the Land of the Sky, as Samsons city of Asheville is fondly called, it falls victim
to an epidemic. The newspapers warn about doctors treating individuals for mysterious ailments.
Citizens becoming suspicious of one another. A cough is a curse. The puffy-eyed become the
presumed dead, and for a few bizarre and worrisome weeks, a shroud of gray cloaks the
otherwise vibrant town of Asheville.
But this was not the only epidemic that infiltrates the highland mountain town in the
spring of 1889. As the nation and state have secured, racial prejudice has remained a dogged
ailment to treat. Townspeople gawk if not holler at the Black individual who endeavors these
public streets. Lynchings are as common as street parades if not better attended for the sake of
their dreadful souvenirs.
Migration seems only for the well off. The emigrant agent, who before could employ and
escort Southern Black workers to the prosperous North, has gotten his hands tied. Under recent
law, the agent must keep each client in their state, no questions asked, short of the willing risk of
their clients or their own death. Countless Black Southerners find this jeopardy worthwhile, and
break away, desperately swapping the damned Stranger in the South persona for the fatal sunsets
of the North.
Colored folks heard stories - in the few minutes it takes for the sun to shatter into that
glorious palette of orange, a Black man or Brown woman in the North could be shot dead or
arrested. Few braved the twilight North of the Mason-Dixon line.
In the South, citizens like Samson still strolled around their hometowns, night or day,
albeit carefully. White townsfolk knew Samson and most knew his business. He was a smart
Negro who wouldnt try nuttin stupid in Buncombe or any other county.
***
Carrying that caution, Samson walks into Asheville on the 29th day in wait, the eve of
their construction. Beside him is Emma Mae, along for the inspiring trip to this creative town and
for a stop at the woman-owned Crawley Art Gallery. They pause at the unassuming gallery. He
is on his way to the Holy Redeemer Church of Asheville for one of the last rehearsals the youth
chorus will have in that foul basement. And Emma is summoning the nerve to ask if her
paintings could be displayed during the next showcase.
Emma lassoes Samson as he makes to leave.
You know. I think Im going to give our students a full roster of Negro artists to study.
Thats something I had to find on my own: Duncanson, Bannister, Tanner and Miss Edmonia
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Lewis, one has to have her. And any other deviceful Negroes I can find. Those children must
learn about their brothers and sisters in the art world just as well as the singing world.
Acculturate those impressionable minds. What do you think, Sammy?
Huh?
A painting in the gallery window is distracting Samson. A lonely road hugged by broad,
deciduous trees, perhaps Black Oaks.
He asks Emma to repeat her question, which among other things about Samson, she has
learned to be a request for a simplified translation.
As Emma re-words her proposal Samson breaks his fascination with the painted woods
and absorbs her suggestion with more attention.
Go hog wild! He declares. What good is a school that dont properly teach their
students about themselves? We dont want em goin back on their raisin. Right figure, as long as
we teachers keep a-learnin, they keepin on too. Thats whatll bring Negros equality EmmaKNOWLEDGE. I believe that. A love for learnin that make our people just as smart, if not
smarter, than White folk in power. So that WE makin rules again. And WE can runin our own
schools. And so that WE can -
Emma pecks Samsons cheek.
Bless that fire in your heart, Sam.
No Emma. Bless yo mind for havin so many wondful ideas! Fact, I been readin that
George Moses Horton you tol me bout. Now hes a qualified versifier himself. I think that is the
man my sister met when she started school in Chappy Hill. Mayhaps I could get him down here
as well to teach some of that poetries.
Oh, no. He died some years ago. But I think its a splendid idea to teach his works. The
Black bard of the South they called him.
Samson rests his hand a moment on the wooden railing going up to the gallery. The large
pane of glass rests in front of them as a transparent door to another world. Samson looks intently
through the glass and thinks about his sister. He can barely believe it, but it has been well over a
year since the two of them have seen each other. Thinking about her in Chapel Hill reminds him
of the first letter she sent from there, as a budding young woman.
Brother,
How are you? Things are fine here. I wish you would visit. Were closer to the ocean (though
not by much) and I know that has been a dream of yours to see. But I realize you have other
dreams back home. I dont understand them but I respect them. I hope you respect my choices
not to return too many awful memories without mamma and papa.
My school is swell and Aunt Jonessa and Uncle William treat me kindly. People here respect a
woman with an education probably because the main enterprise in this town is the college.
62
I miss you. I miss mamma and papa too. I wish they could see me graduate next spring.
Well, I should go. I have to create number charts for the little ones. Write back soon. Keep that
dream of yours alive - dont lose faith like mamma.
Your Loving (and know-it-all) Little Sister,
Roselynn.
Sam, did you know Horton wrote many of his poems in his head while working the
fields? But then he recorded them and now theyre timeless.
A muse for ALL Negrosto stand up and shine in our natural talents. It make me think
we cant let anything but death stop us. And even death cant hinder us completely if we leave
somethin valuable enough behind.
Thats right, Emma continues. He had countless verses up there waiting to spill out.
Till some college students, goofing around probably, picked his brains and his creative talent
burst out like a geyser
Samson jumps wholeheartedly back in.
Then all we gotta do is give our youth the chance to write, sing, paint. Poke em, push
em, listen to em unblock their potential that is making the earth quake AND THEIR
PASSIONS WILL SET THEM FREE!
A prim White woman, topped with a yellow-ribboned boater, pitches a severe glance in
their direction as she walks by.
The boisterous teenagers take note and subdue themselves. Samson sees this as his cue to
head to the church as Emma ventures into the adjacent gallery. The two pass murmurs to one
another before they go, one of them confirming their rendezvous tonight at the Black Cat Haunt
and Tavern to meet Thomas; the other a soft-whisper shared only by the amorous.
As Samson walks to church he pops into the Asheville Dry Goods Market to see his
friend and local elder, Sol. They havent talked in some time and the next few months will be
demanding with directing the construction and management of his new institute. He could also
pick up some ingredients to make a special dish for Emma Mae. Though cooking is not his forte,
he feels compelled to create a culinary delight for her.
Samson swings the screen door open and greets the tall, lean immigrant Jewish owner, an
anomaly to the Asheville area. The German-accented and perennially witty Sol is a strange
character to wrap ones head around. Sam, though, aware of his own dialect, enjoys their bizarre
exchanges.
SAM: Afternoon, Sol.
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SOL: Hallo, Young Sam!

SAM: Hows business?
SOL: Eh, it is dry goods. But it wets zee appetite.
SAM: Sol, Im doin some bakin and need some spices. You have so many varieties, I dunno
what kinda cinnamon.
SOL: Well, zee sin always depends on zee sinner my boy.
SAM: Shallot?"
SOL: Most definitely. It is a wicked thing to commit a sin.
SAM: NoI'm not in any sinI need cinn-a-mon
SOL: Zis is good, zen we focus on your spices. Chili?
SAM: No, the sun is startin to come out now. Hey, I saw yo lovely wife at the market the
other day.
SOL: Pepper?
SAM: No, I just said hello.
SOL: Ginger?
SAM: No, she didnt seem to be in the mood.
SOL: Caper?
SAM: No. She was already wearing a coat.
SOL: Thyme?
SAM: I really should get going.
SOL: Caraway?
SAM: Yeah. Ill take it to go.
Samson looks inside his bag of assorted spices, then smiles. He is clueless about what
they are and what just happened but hell conjure something to satisfy Emmas taste buds or
hell ask Sol for one of his famous German recipes.
Samson heads to rehearsal hoping the youngsters have started their warm-ups without
him, they need all the practice they can get.
***
Solomon Wohlfenberg, Sol, never thought hed end up in America. He dreamt it. He
dreamt it as a child. But always it was for someone else, a cousin who was off to school, a
neighbor who wanted to get rich on gold.
Sol was too young to prospect and not exactly scholarship worthy. He grew an early
distaste for literature and the German folklore handed out in his classrooms. He didnt like
stories of people being affected by magic. Magic isnt real he thought. He knew they were just
moral-tales, like those of golem or ice queens. And the brothers who wrote them intended to
keep kids like Sol on the right path. But the stories didnt work on him.
Sol may not have had the best marks in school, but outside he earned respect. Day in and
day out he usurped enough German pfennigs to buy just about whatever he wanted. Mostly food.
64
Mostly marzipan. He excelled at pick-pocketing, or, while he was still a small boy with a rascals
craft of tongue, in distracting the market women long enough to pilfer a coin or two from their
aprons. Only once was he caught, when he was thirteen. And this changed his life.
Sol came from a very low class of Jewish artisans in Nuremberg. Rather quickly he found
out his parents, though they may have wanted to, couldnt support him along with eight siblings.
As soon as he was able he made his own accommodations. At the green age of eleven he had
become a rather witty young man and could exchange banter with the best of them in the towns
central square. Many young men, and occasionally women, would sit around telling moral stories
in imitation of the ones found at school. Sol, already tired of these tales, would spin more
immediate and satisfying word-work, always to great amusement.
For two years he alternated between verbal jester, telling one-liners or humorous
anecdotes for small coins from passersby in Nurembergs city square, and appropriator of foods
from the inobservant.
The game ended luckily for him. Instead of a damp room and a Bible like some of his
street companions faced, Sol was caught by a communist.
Communism had only begun to trickle out of the academic institutions and into the pubs
and streets when Sol was apprehended. But this was ample time for a mounting appreciation in
favor of the famed political theory.
Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels wrote The Communist Manifesto in the summer of 1848
and copies of it flooded Munich, Berlin, Nuremberg and elsewhere for several years. Marxism
seemed briefly like it would produce just as much chaos for Germany and Western Europe as
when the Muslims and Franks stormed there hundreds of years before. Or, at the very least, it
would create unrest like that of Professor Martin Luthers Ninety-Five Theses posted in nearby
Wittenberg.
Sol knew nothing of the men who wrote this political pamphlet. All thirteen-year-old Sol
knew was the man who passed it on to him had intents of saving his body, not his soul. No
magic. Harsh reality. Sol liked this.
Sol did not wish to hear more distant dreams of fairies or grim reapers or princesses in
castles. These stories did not give him the wits to be rich or the courage to fight beasts. Sol had
the beast of poverty to beat. The manifesto gave him the sword and shield to fight that battle. For
that reason -- Sol willingly converted.
The first practice Sol swore to was the seemingly simple act of sharing. Community was
everything to a young man with nothing. If he could share what little he had, rather than hoard it,
this may be reciprocated, and admittedly sometimes not. Competition could not solve hunger or
need.
He read about the working class. His literacy improved and soon he brought the
Marxist lessons to life. He aspired to be an industrialist as some boys aspire to be royal kings or
fearless knights. At fourteen Sol gave everything he had for a hammer. He made his way into a
65
steel foundry and again his life changed. For nearly three decades he lived a communists life
alongside his working class brothers and sisters.
But after little evolved, Sol began, like so many others, to lose sight of this utopia.
Though he, his wife and three kids were being fed from his decision to work in heavy industry,
hardship was not licked altogether. There were still myths, dreams and dragons in this lifestyle of
communism- a characterless version of the brothers fairytales. Sol tried to climb sweet
Rapunzels braided hair, but never reached her. He could not honestly, nor proudly continue his
work in Germany when so few were committed to a life of comradeship. So in his mid-forties he
lugged his wife, two daughters and son to that land of promise, America.
Sol knew it was not the America of his youth; he no longer dreamed. It was a
die-quick-live-quicker life. Anyone who wanted to live comfortably had to do so off wits or
others sweat. Wits he had; in addition he brought the creeds he lived by for the past 30 years.
Solidarity.
Struggle.
Sol knew someone who could set him up with business selling spices in Carolina,
wherever that was.
66
CHAPTER 11
A YOUTH CHORUS AND THE BLACK CAT
The Holy Redeemer Church of Asheville, North Carolina is magnificent. Built by J.C.
Winthright, a former slave turned mathematician and architect, this three-tiered steeple boasts
over 3000 hand-carved bricks.
There is a physical magnetism in the tower, ornately engraved doves soar every tenth
brick. Precisely. When looked at from the eastern side, these geometric doves give the
appearance of a terrific migration gloriosa ascensione.
Today, as Samson looks up at the splendid flock, he prays. He prays thanksgiving to God
and all the wonders that he, or she, has provided.
He prays tenderness for Emma Mae and her increased enthusiasm toward the institute.
He prays well being for his sister in Chapel Hill, alone in her world.
He prays wonder for his parents, perhaps two of these doves on Winthrights wall.
Another man approaches the wall of doves, also mumbling to himself; his is different,
rhythmic but lacking melody. His head is swollen--almost two times the size of an average
persons. Thick veins caravan his bulging temples, and the coagulated traffic throbs heavily,
becoming an unsightly performance. Besides this physical deformity, his torn, pale shirt is filthy,
and his short grey hair is matted against his scalp.
He has more problems than misshapenness. Black grease is smeared across his back,
indicating where he slept last night - the abandoned railroad tunnel many vagrants frequent.
Samson steps carefully toward the man and gently touches his exposed shoulder.
Instantly the vagrant snaps his head, a crooked fist arranged in his right hand dissolves when he
recognizes Samson.
Charles Samson begins softly, as if talking to a child, Wanna come inside?
Samson assumes this is the case, most times Charles is praying inside the church.
Occasionally, like today, he will be outside fondling the door or forcing his way through a wall.
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Charles has a mental illness that has not yet been named, not because it is a mystery, but because
no doctors in town will see him. He may be White but he has no power or money. All he has
acquired is a reputation of a volatile temper. Samson, however, has never seen Charles in an
agitated state, only scared.
As Samson and Charles make their way through the over-sized, glazed-walnut doors,
each fixes his eyes on the ceiling. A mural of Jesus governs it; arms open to give or receive
human communion, the simple act of a hug. His face expresses he wants to be the giver. Perhaps
he is a bear-hugger, amorously wrapping his long, lanky arms all the way around and then
playfully lifting you into the air, an impressive feat for such a meager build. Aloft in that
suspense above the pews and earthly concerns, he whispers a tiny counsel. At least, this is what
Samson imagines.
Charles finds his way to a back pew and compulsively rocks with hands clasped.
Meanwhile, taking note at the time, Samson thumps down the stone stairs to the basement and
squalid choir room. He stops a few feet from the entrance to hear giggling and raucous
comments unabashedly pour out,
Lookee ol Benjermin. His clothes all torn n tattered like he fought a JACKAL!
Who dressed you this mornyo blind grandma!?
How many times I tole you Is gonna mash yo teeth in if you keep talkin?!
Ah-hemm-mm.
Samson clears his throat. At once the ruckus is muted. Samson strides into the room,
mentions a quick apology for his tardiness, finds his position behind a makeshift podium, lifts his
thin rod, and conducts.
Da same one gain today, please. Boys in da back you start, altos an sopranos ya know
when to come in
MALES
Tis de ole ship o Zion
FEMALES
And shes makin for de Promise Land.
She have angels for de sailors,
And how you know deys angels?
Good lord, shall I be de one?
UNISON
Dat ship is out a-sailin, sailin, sailin
Shes a-sailin mighty steady
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Shell neither reel nor totter

Shes a sailin away cold Jordan
A considerable length through this traditional spiritual Samson drops his baton. The choir
sounds decent enough for such few rehearsals of this song. But it is the absence of his
accompanist that irritates him.
Ada.
A petite young woman raises her brown-washed eyes from the floor.
Wheres James. Did he till yall he wasnt gonna be here today?
Ada, the unofficial spokesperson for the choir, motions toward the chair and music stand
James and his banjo usually occupy.
He left dat n-note on de table. Mr. Sa- Sa-Samson
Ada pounds out her reply. Her speech impediment is clearly noticeable but the rate of it
has greatly improved. Two years ago Adas mom came to Samson with the appeal that her
daughter wanted more than anything to sing, but as her matronly nature was, she was nervous for
such an ambitious pursuit. How could she sing with such a terrible illness? The other kids will
only make fun of her, she claimed. She belabored Samson with her concerns. Without much
thought on his part Samson responded with an open invitation to Ada. The response shocked the
mother who was reluctant to let her baby go. But Samson saw it differently. Who was he to stand
in the way of someones determination?
One day shell be leading the show he told Adas mother confidently.
Samson cuts through the quieted alto section and sees a folded piece of sheet music atop
James stool. His imagination escapes him and Sam envisions what this note might bemoan - if it
is anything like its scribe.
Deer Sammy,
Ya bin a real fool latelly. I waited here fer ya at reehersell but ya waz prolly wit dat lady gain.
Ya lettin that hard head womin push yer round. She seem mo importent to ya then the chorus.
This tha last straw on tha back for me. Gone ta Chicaga fer werk. I hear they got 8 hour days
and ya kin make fine money. I aint in this workin fer free nonsense. Good luck
-JAMES
That no goodturnin on me like a SNAKE in the grass!
Samsons booms echo into the hallway. The altos around him mutter quietly. But a wash
of relief clobbers Samson before he continues his rant. Like walking under a chute of cool water,
Samson lowers his tensed shoulders and acknowledges the grumbling burden that he has
released. It may sting today, but the relief of James gone will be better for meetings and the
Institute as a whole. James had become so embittered from working with a woman that his
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humor and kindness dissipated. Samson had no reason to think this before, but perhaps this good
companion of his was only funny and kind to his own gender. James was right about something
though, that hardheaded Emma Mae has changed him, but its okay to change. Sometimes we
change for the better.
After practicing another couple songs Samson called it an early day. He released those
who wanted to go, but offered to stay late with students who were having troubles with their
composition projects. Calvin, a boy whose mouth was bigger than his voice, decided to stay.
Samson was pleased to see this, knowing how far behind the wayward Calvin had been getting.
Cal, before we get to your music. No, put that away. Samson nudges Calvins books
and music sheets to his lap.
Before we get to yo music, tell me somethin.
Samson waits for a response from the moody 13-year-old. Calvin offers a head cocked
and pursed lips. Samson doesnt flinch from the sulky glare, its not his first rodeo.
Calvin, ya been fallin behind lately. The basses cant fall off the face of the earth, now.
Just tell me if you still like to sang.
Calvin breaks his eye contact after not hearing the scold he was expecting.
Dat all? Calvin asks.
Yup dats all. Samson confirms.
Well, I liked sangin when I first come here. But
Samson is silent, unobtrusively allowing Calvin to finish his thought.
I just get so discouraged. I meanlook at Ada or Gregorythis come naturally to em.
An most the othas know how ter read whiles I still learnin my letters. An evrybody know how
gifted you is yet you just four years olda than me. I aint never gonna be half the singa or writa
as you or Mr. Duncan. I just dont got it Mr. Fairchile.
Samson looks down at the books in Calvins hands.
Hold on. Dont get them feathers ruffled. Let me see those, Samson points to Calvins
books, two tightly bound bunches of paper.
You say you still learnin yo letters. Well, get off it. Heres yo problem. You tryin to
learn from this ...On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection. Whered you get this,
Miss Fields? Nevermind. What goods science do for the ole ship a Zion? Keep it afloat, right.
Now, let me ask you gain. Do you like sangin an writin music?
Yessah, Calvin admits.
An do you want me to help you be a better singer anwriter?
Yessah.
Okay. Then you gotta think not just bout what keeps the ole ship a Zion afloat but also
what make it sail. See, it somethin magical that move them huge ships. Somethin that men
learned how to harness. Thats all you gotta do when you singin or writin a song. You gotta
harness that spirit or magic or whateva you believe in. Lets write a tune right here n now. Use
the title for the first lyric.
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Calvin slowly decodes the words on the cover into a melody On... da origin of
speeeecies. By means of.Naturl Slection
Whew lord thats awful! Samson teases his student.
I cant FEEL anything. You know what I mean, Calvin? Samson encourages. Now.
One of the first rules to writin music isdont worry bout no lyrics. And dont you worry what
YOU sound like. If you got a melody in yo headwhich I know you do somewhere outside
ofCharles Darwins herejust keep workin at ititll come out. Then you try to get some
verses.
Samsons lessons carried on like this until he met up with Emma at the Black Cat Haunt
and Tavern later that evening.
This was the place to be in Asheville if you were young and Black. A hip dance move
was crafted on the slick planks almost every night. Last night it was one called The Spring
Fever, presumably stemming from the crowds winter malaise, it was gaily carried out
mimicking flowers blooming and birds flying while the music jumped.
The best horn and piano troupes in the Tennessee-Carolinas circuit always left the Black
Cat and her revelers satisfied. It may not look like much with its busted old door, a sign of
overuse from the many patrons it has greeted or booted in the butt, but the Black Cat is a
respectable establishment. The doors handle has yet to be restored since a siege some years ago,
its like a password to manipulate the door open - only the worthy can enter, and thats the way
Chatty Al likes it.
Chatty Al, the owner and sole bartender has his reasons for not fixing the place up too
much. Not everyone in Asheville is a fan of Al and his business. White folks as well as Black
have attempted to get the place torn down. Not Christian, Nothing but trouble for Black folk
to get into too much filth and violence. A range of complaints have been made to town
officials, but the Mayor is an occasional patron to the Black Cat and sees nothing wrong with the
business it brings in. He makes sure local government stays clear and Chatty Al pays his dues for
the Mayors favors.
Al promised the Mayor he wouldnt make the place look too fancy so that the White pubs
in town wouldnt get threatened from a competing business.
Of course Al, as forthcoming as he is known to be, could be even more talkative about
some of the Mayors activities at the Black Cat. Henrietta, the bars petite waitress, can vouch
for this dignitarys frequent digressions. Al and just about every patron on a Sunday evening
have witnessed the two of them leaving the bar together. Her tittering and shaking her hips as
they leave arm in arm for the private apartment across the street. But business is good for Al, he
sees no reason to ruin that because of a married Mayors attraction to beautiful women. The town
is crawling with unfaithfuls. Thats just life in the city.
The young musician bringing in the crowd tonight is doing something to the piano neither
Samson nor Al have ever witnessed. It sounds like a march or waltz but emphasizes a beat the
crowd isnt used to. The entire dance floor is aghast at first; gradually people step into this
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unusual, syncopated rhythm. Soon the night owls lock elbows and create their familiar circle,
hopping and high kicking toward the center. Canes reach for the ceiling, as top hats barely stay
glued to their owners heads.
Go head get that hoecake, Sammy! A large man yells to Samson and Emma Mae as
they skillfully bop to the music.
Just cant say no to a cool jive like this one! Samson responds to the man while his
long ivory coat flaps with the rhythm.
It has a cadence that shake yo soul!
Emma whoops in agreement as her custom-made, flowing, black-and-red-striped dress
gracefully flails with her rising knees and swaying torso.
Soon the vocals start and not long after the adaptive crowd picks up the refrain and shouts
with their leader.
Must I plead must I kneel and you not forgive!
Has your heart love been sealed do you love me still!
You have always been true now why not forgive!
I don't love none but you please say you will
The pianos accelerated pace overwhelms many of the dancers. They fall away one by
one, or politely, two by two. Energetic young Samson and Emma Mae try to stay in but get
squeezed out by a couple who actually know what they are doing.
The ten detectives patrolling the black and white keys pick up their pursuit. Back and
forth the pianists fingers chase their fugitive across the board, occasionally colliding in anarchy
around middle C.
One of the surviving dancers is wrapping up using some fancy footwork with his partner.
After returning from the barkeep with a drink for Emma, Samson notices the crowd-pleasing
man to be his button-down lawyer and friend, Thomas Rustling.
This man what they call the LIFE of the party, folks! Samson calls to the rest of the
joint as the song concludes. Some laughs float above and Thomas recognizes the caller. He
excuses himself from his dance partner to meet with Samson and Emma Mae.
Well, if it aint Rubber Leg Rustling over here, makin his big debut! Samson jokes.
An I thought you turned into jus another stuffy shirt, but lookee you. Mmm. Dressd to da
nines. Doin the shimmy an got yo self a PERTY date. Ya didnt have to impress us, now.
Thomass face turns a shade of pink at Samsonss ribbing. He pulls out his customary
tobacco pipe and pops it in his mouth, not to smoke, but to suck on. Its something he does to
keep his ever-racing mind a little distracted. An odd habit, but he has no qualms reminding
people its not as strange as many other inclinations. He looks past his present company at the
minglers in the room. A worried look on his face prompts Emmas cue.
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Tom, Sams only messing, honey. Hes a shade tight. I think a person should be able to
be smart and have a little fun.
She turns in her flowing dress to smile at Samson.
Now, what you wanna meet bout, Thomas? Samson asks more directly.
Thomas Rustlings youthful face returns to its fair copper color. He nervously brushes his
creased caramel hair back and chomps his pipe a moment more before confessing.
SammyMiss Fields.I got some bad news today.
Samson calmly tilts his head to gauge Emmas reaction, then, presuming he knows what
this news entails he ventures, Is it bout yo Pa?
Thomas nods.
Samson takes a deep breath.
Is it bout de army?
Thomas nods again.
Samson is calm but poorly hides his disappointment and asks, When ya gotta go?
They wanted me today, Thomas admits. But, I askd em to let me leave tomorraI
had to tell ya maself, Sammy.
Samson nods silently. He isnt thinking. He isnt brainstorming how the absence of this
man can be replaced, because it cant be done. Samson is just blank. He merely bobs his head.
No words of encouragement or Were gonna miss ya, just a remote head movement, like an
ornamental doll from Wilsons General Store.
Emma Mae severs the uneasiness with one interrogative incision.
You boys mind telling me what in the world you are talking about?
Even with her various achievements and credentials, Emma Mae Fields could not realize
that the two men were picking up a conversation they had started two or three years ago and
pecked at ever since.
Thomass dad was a soldier. Not simply a soldier for the North or South, the Buffalo
Soldiers. Thomass father, Reginald Rustling, was born to fight for his peoples freedom and was
needless to say proud of his services.
Before enlisting, Reginald had been party to a significant piece of history, the 1856
Pottawatomie Massacre. Although all he could do as an enslaved man in Kansas was supply
safehouse and munitions for the eminent John Brown and his anti-slavery band, he did so with
honor. This induction into the abolitionist struggle burned inside Reginalds core. And, after
fleeing to Carolina, and later dressing in the Buffalo Blue & Gold, it was only natural to demand
the same from his eldest son.
Thomas, though, was not Reginald Rustling. Without a doubt Thomas believed in the
emancipation, equality and needs of the Negro, he simply chose a less endangering way of
fighting for it.
Spirituals an schools aint gonna free no Negras, SON! This freedom had a price!
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Thomas heard his dads slogans countless times. Samson knew of Reginald Rustlings
high expectations and thought there was heroic dignity in fighting on the battlefields for their
freedom. Oddly enough, he even thought it would be good for Thomas. Sometimes the first step
towards bravery is standing up to those we love.
What a counterproductive sham hope can be. Samson had hoped, beyond the valor of a
timid man and the open-mindedness of a chauvinistic man, that Thomas Rustling and James
Duncan would overcome their obstacles. He believed they would surpass their fathers and
familiarities and do what, now that Samson thinks of it, he wanted them to do. Rise above.
He was wrong.
Conflicting interests eventually devoured his two visionary partners. If Samson did not
have two others at this time, Miss Emma Mae and his Messiah, he might have called it quits.
But, what if George Moses Horton, the Black Bard of the South called it quits, Samson
contemplates, or John Brown or Jesus himself? Each person can make a considerable dent to the
injustices of our imperfect system, and Samson Fairchild was determined to be yet another one
of those people.
He doesnt want to go in any of the history books that his sister teaches, nor have ballads
written for him by Calvin and the choristers. He wants to fight the best way he knows how and
erect an institute for these youngsters: the next visionaries in this continuum of democracy.
Closing these thoughts, Samson stops mechanically bobbling his head and stretches his
arms wide. As the subject painted on the ceiling at the Holy Redeemer Church of Asheville
taught him, Samson offers an unconditional embrace to his fellow man.
Slightly taken aback, but encouraged by Samsons approval, Thomas enters Samsons
arms -- the last embrace the two ill-fated men will ever share.
***
Emma Mae, aware of the shuffling feet and wordless air, proposes another dance to
escort the two men out of this somber farewell.
Fraid Is played out, Miss Fields Samson politely declines.
I suppose you would beold man. Thomas jabs at his former business partner and
eternal friend.
Alrigh, just you wait Mr. Rustling. Well both hit the ripe age a twenty an be real ol
timers! Samson laughs. You better grab that purty date of yours an dance a while fore that
elderness settles in.
Thomas makes his way back to his lady friend and gives a second look toward Emma
Mae and Samson as they leave the Black Cat. Likewise Samson skims the rest of the taverns
congregants swarming around the piano. He waves good night to familiar faces and pauses to
pay tribute to the young couples with so much in front of them: family, homes of their own,
happiness.
Samson beams as the lanky Thomas and his petite date take to the dance floor once more,
shamelessly in love. Emma Mae, though a month ago a total stranger, has this man beside her
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completely figured out. Maybe its his character. The man he wakes up trying so hard to fit. She
thinks she has read him in one of her literature classes at the university, studied him before she
even met him, pieces at least.
In Greek Mythology she knew him as Chiron, the wise and cultured centaur who tutored
youth later to be recognized as Achilles, Jason and Hercules.
Or maybe she sees the relentless Scottish warrior, Robert the Bruce, who led the defeat of
the entire English army after being motivated by a spider who refused to quit spinning an
impossible web.
And yet, the world may never know this man holding her tonight. His sacrifices for his
people could go unseen. Emma Maes scholarly mind reflects on those who committed
themselves to social upheaval.
What if the Old and New Testament were written anonymously- without the pen names
of disciples? Millions of people would be worshipping and ritualizing out of a trust for unnamed
devotees.
Or the ideas of heliocentricity, the laws of gravity and the rate of change that followed
founded by scientists who cared only of the gift to society rather than personal recognition,
how would we react to these astronomers, and their discoveries, if they went unnamed?
Or perhaps the Sistine Chapel, painted painstakingly and brilliantly by an unknown artist
on shaky scaffolding for a demanding Papal king - would the art still be revered?
How lost we would be without these famed figures of our past.
How lost we are still.
Lost in anonymity.
***
Emma Mae drifts further in her philosophic daze. Perhaps Samson is wise to not seek
credit for his efforts. What if we all acted for the sake of action- and considered it shameful to
attach names to our progresses? What if names did not exist? What if we were just unidentified
beings who lived, acted, sacrificed, loved, died- and there was no promise for reward? Would
there be more good in the world? More evil?
Emma wakes from her roving fantasy to say three words.
Thank you, Sammy. She tosses her head to Samsons shoulder and rests it there.
Samson looks down at this young woman in his arms and curls his lips. He places the hand not
carrying his dancing cane around Emmas shoulders and says,
Emma what ya think bout love?
These exhausted late-nighters are ready for their beds not romance and philosophy. The
idea of them rolling around as young lovers is about as likely as them sprouting wings and
flying. The idea is nice, but the couple lets Samsons words swim above them on their stroll.
They are reluctant to comment, but are thinking of the future: tomorrow they start building the
long-awaited institute, and now this burgeoning prospect of a loving life together.
What both suppress, but burrows through their subconsciousness -
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Is this all too good to be true? Can they have love and build this institute?
CHAPTER 12 A LOVE PARTNERSHIP
The thirtieth day.

The final day.
It dangles amid the wind chimes outside Samsons window. The clanging wakes him as
they are designed but only occasionally do. The singing chimes are twisted from fine silver left
over from the Great House, strung up as a makeshift garden ornament hollering in the wind.
Master Jenkins, if he were still alive, and his family, if they were still in the state of North
Carolina, would certainly accuse Samsons resourcefulness as larceny. This made Samson smile.
Samson has kept these items as proof. They are proof that he and his sister survived,
physically, from a cursed chapter that will one day be known only as distant history. The
mumbling atheist inside Samson considers how he and his African sisters and brothers may have
been born in the clutches of hell - or that this ground around him was only some purgatory before
he reaches the Promised Land.
As a maturing and increasingly self-learned man, he keeps spiritually provocative
notions like these contained. His mind spent hours elaborating on the years they sweat - humans
posing as animals, for the riches of select few - animals posing as humans. How could this land
have any name but Gehenna?
Those days of riots and bloodshed were enough to make a good Christian turn skeptic.
They were also enough to keep a good sister like Rose far away. No child should see what she
saw, find what she found - her father, what was left of him, in recognizable portions.
Samson wanted to change that day. That final day. At the very least he wanted to be the
one to discover their father in their ramshackle home. But the looting was long, and the
buildings, such as the Great House, burned for hours. Screams of anguish. Improvised graves.
Unfound family and friends. Everything was out of control - Samsons and possibly Gods.
But he couldnt move away from Asheville like his sister did. Perhaps she was the
stronger one for leaving. She was only 12 but knew she needed the support of a stable home, so
she sent word to her aunt and uncle in Chapel Hill.
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That moment often returned to Samson: their papas arm, clutching a makeshift
bludgeon - a sharp scrap of jagged steel crudely screwed to a slender hunk of tan wood.
And then there was the shrieking he imagined went with the extrication of the limb. The
struggle Delroy put up against those Jenkins boys was surely as epic as Odysseus himself. He
had always been sharpening that weapon of his, always prepared, to protect his family at any
given moment.
When Samson stumbled into their shed-home and saw little Rosey holding onto that
piece of their father, it took all who he was not to erupt in rage. His next action was more
practical, he couldnt let mama see. So he immediately tore the already dilapidated home down not realizing as he razed their memories, he was erecting himself as the new head of family.
The rest of their father was never found though Samson knew exactly where he was - in
the heap he burned. He had not bothered tracking down all of him, only enough to be sure.
Rosey, in such blinding shock, could have been ignorant as to what was under the debris.
But it drove their mother into fits of madness, truth be told, she had to have known. Pulling out
her hair was the first warning they were losing their mother. Samson would sing to her, but it
was like singing to fallen fruit on the field, not sure if it wanted to be stepped on or eaten.
His mamma was gone, just the shape of her remained. She died after a few months of
intermittent insanity and emaciation. Freedom meant autonomy and doing whatever one wanted
with their lives, but for Samson and his family, it cost their every breath.
During the months that followed a darker side tempted him. He fervently reflected on a
passage from Ezekiel that fueled this cynicism,
Human power cannot prevent us going there
Ezekiel 32:27.
Cannot prevent us-- or shall propel us? For the two years it took to buy or barter the land
for the institute, he depicted Master Henry Jenkins as that cloven-footed beast, the devil himself,
responsible for killing his father and steering his mother to madness. Jenkins propelled certain
torture, toiling his chattel, as a self-styled lord of his land. Master during slavery. Land Lord
during the Reconstruction. Samson despised the titles and their concepts.
BA-ding! BA-dinG!
The silverware clangs on.
The clanking incites a tepid revival from the slumbering Samson. Where was he last
night? How late was he out? These questions barely pierce the fog and ache wrapped around his
head. Not usually does he celebrate so excessively, but last night the mood seemed right. It was a
chance to let loose after their all-consuming preparations for the institute.
That was last night. This morning, though, doesnt find Samson carrying any of the same
fancy footwork. Unless tripping out of bed counts.
Ba-DINGG !
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The brilliant sun and accelerating chimes convince Samson to unpry his eyes. He tips his
head back. Then, reacting to the pain, he moves to where the sun isnt as severe. The
compression feels like a giant is squishing Samsons head between its two gargantuan fingers.
Samson ogles the silver cutlery floating like dead weights. He is fascinated with these
items hanging limp outside his window - swaying uselessly. They had a function once. The
forks. The knives. The spoons. Each had a life before it was strung up.
BANG BANG BANG!
The banging returns to his head, though only fleetingly. After a moment he realizes the
noise is from his front door. He saunters to the solid oak entrance, finds its handle, yanks it, and
reveals, albeit vaguely, a bronze profile. He lifts his lazy eyelids trying to identify his visitor.
I enjoyed being real close to you last night the unnamed guest whispers softly into
Samsons ear.
This narrows the list a bit.
Mornin, darlin. Emma Mae greets again. She takes a step back to look at Samson
altogether. Boy, you look as awful as that Samson Surprise dinner you made us last night!
You said youd never seen anything like that. Samson smiles.
And I hope I never do again. Emma laughs taking Samsons hand inside his home.
Almost instantly he is pepped up and his grey vision dissipates.
Yes, maam, Emmy Mae! Had a mighta fine time dancin with ya las night. Wanna do
a shuffle wit me right now?
Honey, didnt you sleep at last night? She asks while quick stepping around Samsons
two-roomed, stone-built home.
Sure, I slep. Slep like a rock. Matta fact, I still feel like a rock. Oh, confound it! Guess
that mean we aint goin dancin for a while. I gotta recover... Samson hides his smile, trying to
lead Emma into his sly trap.
Well, thats fine by me. I was thinking it would be nice to go again tonight, after we
start building, bring some of the youth along to celebrate the groundbreaking. But if your body is
too sore, I can find another man to dance with me, like Chatty Al.
As is her exceptional flair, Emma easily struts past Samsons sly ruse and puckishly sets
him up instead.
Samson snaps to attention at the thought of Emma with the smooth-talking, handsome
Albert Blains.
Alright, ya got me. We can go gain tonight. Is only tryin to play one on ya, Samson
confesses.
Oh, really, Mister Fairchild!? She puts on her nave-woman facade. I had no idea.
Why, Mister Fairchild, you are such an accomplished actor. As if she were the most devoted
admirer of Sir Samson Fairchild, the great thespian, she plants a kiss on his cheek.
In a deep, basso profundo, Samson continues, Well, Miss Fields, I am an accomplished
actor. I been on stage many a time. Is one them pirates in the Pirates of Penzance. In fact, Is
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the fella who suggested they call it Penzance otherwise theys gonna call it: The Pirates of
Pennsylvaniawhich aint got the same ring.
Samson is convinced this debonair character of his will land him another kiss, so he closes
his eyes and purses his lips.
Emma snorts.
She makes an effort not to, but it comes out anyways. The appearance of this silly young
man standing before her is too funny. What joy he has opened up inside her! She lingers on the
image of him jutting out his lips to the open air, letting his foolish face sink in a moment more.
Samson Fairchild Emma begins straight-faced.
Emmy-Mae Fields he repeats with only half-seriousness through his still pursed lips.
I thought about that question you asked me last night.
Samson straightens his face and swallows abrasively. A lump slides to his stomach and
ricochets inside.
Emma explains awkwardly,
Well, I was thinkingandit seems love iswell, Im an artist, I try to be at
leastandit seems love is a science. I suppose thats the reason I wasnt good at it before. And
well, what I know about science is that certain things are hard to explain. BIG questions you
know. Like how gravity works and. how the earth revolves around the sun like Mr. Copernicus
said and.
Samson keeps listening, though unsure what Emma is trying to say. She has a habit of
losing her words when nervous, this much he knows.
Emma sucks in a quick breath and blows it out, her cheeks puff like a childs picture of a
cloud. She braces herself for another attempt to verbalize her feelings.
Well, what I mean is. I think only the Copernicuses and Galileos are going to
understand earths revolution fully. And the rest of us ordinary folks gotta pretend like
we understand. But we still go along with the idea, right?
Emma looks to her ever-present Gods for assistance. No luck.
Um... maybe us ordinary people dont understand love much either. And thats okay,
because it sure is a dandy idea. Aw, dog gone it! This sounds ridiculous! It made sense in my
head on the way over here.
Emma turns away coyly.
Samson steps closer to her, still wearing his sleeping clothes. Sweet, sweet EmmaI
dont understand this Earth and no Ca-per-nee-cuss, or whatsitbut I think I understand what
you sayin.
He brushes his hand through her black hair streamed with bouncing curls.
Maybe we aint supposed to know how to explain em. But if we believe in certain
things that make em mo truth than science.
Yes. More truth than scienceI like the sound of that.
She smiles and considers another thought.
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So, Sammy, do you believe in gravity and the other things that are hard to explain?
Samson sets out his answer carefully. He wants to impress this woman of letters.
Ium Samson stumbles.
I love you, Samson.
The expression blurts out of her. She might have feigned surprise but he didnt allow it.
I love you too, Emma Mae. Emma doesnt allow any thoughts to distract her. She
continues as if this were the first time someone has said these words to her. She rushes into his
arms and plants the kiss he was hoping for earlier. She exults in being able to love again, this
time putting faith and respect in a man she is certain will do the same.
Samson treasures this triumph too. Deciding to overcome his stiffness, he hoists Emma
Mae, his youthful arms acting as a chair. His mahogany eyes stare placidly into her emerald hue
as he asks,
Think that Cop-er-nee-cus fella ever been in love?
Emma, temporarily a head taller than Samson, tilts toward the window and replies,
I think so if he ever took his head out of the skies.
She relaxes into Samsons embrace, as he closes the door to the clanging chimes outside.
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CHAPTER 13
THAT SERENE BLUE MOUNTAIN VIEW
This enamored couple, after being...distracted, is now journeying into town, toward what
Emma has dubbed their raison collective.
They appear at the environs of Asheville and the familiar Crawley Art Gallery. Samson
peers through the glass. He has a craving to be moved by art, perhaps one of Emmas pieces has
been installed in the window display. He doesnt see any artworks he recognizes as a Fields,
but he does spot the same oil painting that struck him yesterday, the lone road, swallowed by two
thick green oaks.
Eerily, and akin to the feeling he had when walking the river a month ago, what seemed
like a million years ago, he senses a heightened emotion emanating from the image.
Emma is still treading into the heart of town, unaware of Samsons distraction. With
disbelief, Samson peers again at the canvas. He sees a blurred figure walking leisurely down the
dusty path. The tall, verdant trees hunch over and their brown leaves crinkle as the cloaked figure
walks by.
Frightened, Samson looks away from the painting to where Emma is steadily advancing
on her course, almost downtown. As if he were a child in need of his mother, he breaks in a
sprint towards her, praying rapidly that the creature he just witnessed in the painting keeps its
distance - whether on canvas or in his imagination.
Look here, Emma points to a store window. Even the butchers got a sign now.
She doesnt notice Samsons loss of breath or change in color but points to the wooden
placard that reads:
No Blacks.
No Yellows.
No Reds.
No Exceptions!
81
Samson is grateful for a distraction from the painting but can only nonverbally express
his mutual scorn. A simple conversation with most Black folks in town could easily change
much of the bigotry here. Samson strains to keep his mind sidetracked from the figure in the
painting. He thinks of any Natives or Chinese he knows, but cant assemble a single name or
face. In fact, the only other outsider friend he has is Sol from the Asheville Dry Goods Market.
The thought of Sol lifts Samson from his malaise. He chuckles thinking of the oddities Sol
brought with him to the South. Sometimes he is the only humored man in this fatally dismal city.
Emma turns her attention to Samson and her face implies the need for some sort of
response to these racist signs. Samson obliges.
Well, I suppose it mean some Negro gonna start choppin pigs an slicin beef in their
own kitchen reckon least itll give our own folk some business.
That is true enough. Emma agrees, reluctantly. Separatism is one way to go. I dont
know if youve heard of Ol Pap Singleton, that daring Negro from Tennessee.
Is he de one who got them Black folks to move to
Kansas. Emma provides. Yes, thats him. He knew Black folks couldnt make it too
long living under Whites in the South. So he packed them up and headed West. They made
themselves a living on their own, for a short time at least. The whole thing didnt go as planned.
But then he started the Freedmans Aid Association, and thats how I got my own education. So,
you could say he did his part.
An inspiration! Samson proclaims.
Yes, sir. Emma agrees. Now, lets go do our part!
The two walk hand in hand down Ashevilles busy roads, away from the painting, away
from the xenophobic shopkeepers, each step bringing them closer to that great institute Samson
dreamt up years ago.
Samson never heard how Emma got her education. She told him about her miraculous
sister, her devoted parents, and that ravenous fiance. But he never heard about the distinguished
Freedmens Aid Scholarship.
Emma pursued her teaching degree at Bennett College in Greensboro. It was one of the
only co-ed universities for African Americans at the time and this mix was important to her.
After writing three letters to the Freedmans Aid Society, who ran the school, they ultimately
could not deny this driven, home-schooled savant. She was 16 and ready to change the lives of
those around her.
This is one of the letters she sent,
Dear Freedmans Aid Society,
It is a long road to Enlightenment and I know it will be rough. Though I do not know
from the tread of my shoes, I know from the thread of my soul.
I say to you, I am not perfect. I do not seek perfection; I seek completion, completion of
this journey. Beside me, I seek those those who are willing to crawl on occasion and blister their
82
knees. I seek those who stop, not only to rest and recover themselves with discipline renewed, but
to encourage a friend who is doing the same.
And you know - I seek those who have already quit. I seek those who have a fellow
traveler enticing them to stay a spell, well, that just wont do. I seek them, too.
This year is a road. Next year is a road. Children are the road. Their children will be the
road. This is no circle, in the metaphorical context; this is a vector, a ray, if you will. One
bearing. One direction. Onward.
I mean for you to understand this, but, also I mean for this to mull inside you, to let it
seep like minced meat in a hearty chili, to become savory and succulent, then I expect you to
nourish.
I mean for my students to overcome themselves. For, as the saying goes Who stands
more in your way but you? It will take many long and oft-shivering cold nights, cocooned amid
these woods around us, to realize our own strength. Some call it their light, I call it ones ability
to turn on that light, to wield that light, to direct that light at objects hidden and unknown and
therefore intimidating.
I urge my students, young and old, to learn where to shine that bright light that sits easily
between their two shoulders and directly beneath their burden.
Dust off your cynicism! The grime has not settled in, and the sun has only begun to rise!
Cordially,
Miss Emma Mae Fields,
Freedmans Aid Applicant
When she first arrived at Bennett she felt like both a foreigner and a native. She was
easily one of the youngest students. She didnt know anyone, she had never lived on her own, but
yet she was more than ready to study and cohabit amongst seekers like herself. However, she
missed her doting (sometimes too doting) father. She loved him very much and was used to
cleaning and cooking for him as well as teaching alongside him. It seemed like it was to be a
long education, and possibly a lofty mistake.
This changed when classes started. Her marks soared as she hoped and as her father
predicted. He visited a couple of times encouraging her and guiding her in a path of earnestness
that he knew quite well. After her first years reports were near the top of her class she knew she
wanted more. She did not care to join the workforce where meaningless jobs awaited. She
wanted to stay in this setting, questioning social and gender norms and eventually obtain her
Masters degree. She would take it from there - possibly ending up as a professor.
After her second year of school though her father died. Emma spun into emotional
duress. At first she tried to keep it together. But her mentor, her guide, was gone. She stopped
painting. She became depressed. She was vulnerable.
83
And when a handsome foreman asked her for a date one afternoon, after awkwardly
colliding into her under a construction scaffold, she quickly said yes. And as soon as his crew
finished building one of the residence halls on campus, and he secured enough money for a down
payment on a house, he asked for her hand in marriage. Again, Emma said yes. The woman she
arrived at Bennett College as, the one her father raised her to be, left entirely changed. She lost
her way. She became someone new, someone unknown, someone anonymous. But there was no
one to notice. No family ties were there to lead her away from this reckless decision. She thought
she found a new family while pursuing her education. How uneducated she was.
***
Emma and Samson reach the door to the Buncombe County Bank and Land Bureau. The
building has received an extravagant makeover. Business must be going well for Carl Lewis to
afford this gold embellishment masking the crumbling brick fascia. Samson and Emma, in their
haste, do not notice the renovation. If they had, perhaps they would have been prepared.
RING ding!
Samson strolls into the building flying as high as a bird. He lands in front of the excitable
Ms. Jeannie Charlottes desk, Emma Mae on his wing.
Well, GOOD morning, GOOD morning! The receptionist perkily salutes.
Good morning, Miss Charlotte. It is nice to see you again. I hope that you are well.
Emma jerks her head to the strange man beside her. Of course she knew Samson wouldnt keep
his country slang and casual speech he uses with her, but it shocked her ears all the same.
Miss Charlotte, let me introduce Miss Fields, she is a business associate and will be
sitting in on my meeting today with Mr. Lewis.
Young Samson says this while trying on a piece of authority and control.
We are enthused by this opportunity to commence construction today, Miss Charlotte.
What a demanding but gratifying assignment encompasses our immediate future. Emma bares
her teeth after these perfectly chosen, genteel words.
Well
Miss Jeannie Charlotte is at a loss. She is not quite sure what to make of these two clients
and their proper dialect. Her perkiness is perplexed.
Well, of courseuh, PLEASE have yourselves a seatUm Mr. Lewis will be out
just after I ring him.
The receptionist guides them to the brand-new burgundy settee chair. In a few minutes
time the bank president ushers his clients into his distastefully redecorated office. Double
portraits of Carl A. Lewis and General Robert E. Lee crowd the already claustrophobic room.
Sam!
Carl Lewis boasts as if they are old university buddies, he motions for the two to sit at the
wooden chairs.
The Poster Boy for Negro Youth. How are you, young man? Its been awhile, huh? And
who is this here?
84
Mistah Lewis, sir, this is my associate Miss Emma Mae Fields.

Emma confidently juts her palm out and binds it around Mr. Lewis. Without waiting for
permission she sits in one of the unyielding wooden chairs.
Astonishment envelops Mr. Lewis. Associate, huh? Now, THAT is the shake of a
businessman! You can learn something from this little lady here, Sam.
Mr. Lewis retreats to his comfortable post behind the rampart he uses as a desk. Samson
glances at Emma who politely dismisses the little lady comment and launches on the reason
for their visit.
Mister Lewis. We are here because one month ago you and I signed somethin rather
important. The land ownership and title for that serene land by the Blue Mountains. We are here
to collect that building permit, sir.
Carl Lewis eyes roam around the room. They hop to a desk drawer where his hand
restlessly plays with the wooden knob. He continues to avoid eye contact with either of his
clients but comments,
Yeah.Yes. That serene mountain view... Okay, I remember Nice location. Popular
spot. Real popular. Was that yours? Huh. I been signing so many papers to this mountain area,
just hard to remember which is which.
An uneasy chuckles seeps out after his rambling. And an invisible string pulls Samsons
head upright and near the man across from him.
Well, Mister Lewis, of course you remember the past two years Ive been coming here,
giving you money, bit by bit, purchasing that land. You an I have signed different documents at
almost every visit.
Samson says this with a hope that Mr. Lewis, as old as he is, is just getting forgetful. He
keeps his cool as he waits for Mr. Lewis to summon this paperwork.
Documents, you say. Well now, let me see here.
Lewis shuffles through more drawers, making a performance over these alleged records.
He walks to a tall system of pigeonholes on the far side of the room where many such documents
have been tri-folded and placed.
Fairweather, right? Mr. Lewis shiftily asks Samson.
Fairchild, sir. Samson responds with rising suspicion.
Jeannie! Carl Lewis calls flatly. Jeannie Charlotte momentarily opens the door to her
boss repugnant office. She creeps in and five pairs of eyes, including those of the portraits, singe
her path.
Mr. Lewis demands, Jeannie. WHERE did you put Mr. Fairchilds records? I recall
telling you to make the adjustment that our client here purchased the property. Did you do this?
If so, where are they? HOW come they are not where they are supposed to be?
The bank president assembles a tirade on his receptionist, who is now lacking her
characteristic zeal.
85
Jeannie looks at her superior, then to the clients growing impatient in their seats. A
realization seems to arise, but lacking the same innate skill as her fellow player she only
woodenly declares,
OhMr. LewisIdonotknowwhatI havedone.
Ithought...youwanted...me to
And with an added pause and glance to Samson and Emma she inches on,
throwthoseaway.
The receptionist ends with an air of guilt, but she and Lewis dont fool Samson.
Mister Lewis, He begins while shaking his head. Oh, you got me gain, sir!
Samson rotates his body to address Emma Mae.
Emma, you should have seen Mr. Lewis last time. He had me believing I wasnt gonna
get the land on account of a sloppy signature - it didnt seem all that funny then, but...
Samson grins at Mr. Lewis then back to Emma Mae, whom is trying to see the humor in
the situation.
That was real good, Samson applauds.
Still, neither Lewis nor Miss Charlotte come clean of any joke. Miss Charlotte breaks her
icy pose. She confides an authentic apology to the seated man and woman.
Oh, Mr. Fairchild. I am so sorry. Someone else got it. Someone else got the land
With this kind womans insubordinate words Samson can feel something deep cutting
him. A look of disgust is thrown at her boss before she flounders away, head in her hands.
Samson promptly stands to his feet, his strong calves, knowing more work then rest,
nearly topple his shoddy chair as he begins to unravel. His heart is beating through every part of
his body. Everything is pulsating. His arms. His fingers. His knees are shaking and shoulders are
trembling. He cannot believe it. He is a millisecond from striking this lying, revolting fraud
before him. This passion leads his hand to a bulky object sitting on Mr. Lewis desk.
But a subtle touch, barely heavier than a shadow, reaches Samsons possessed hand
before the object does. At once the fever is reduced from his rage. Emmas touch is like honey.
Samson unlocks his mouth and roars one word at a time, unconcerned with his dialect,
I...BEEN...COMIN...TO...YOUR...OFFICE... FOR... TWO... YEARS
He edges vigilantly toward the bank president.
And now...ya tellin me these years meant nothin. My moneymeant nothin! Those
chilrenswho you pass EVERYDAY gonna have NOTHIN!?
Samson keeps a physical distance but his fury plasters its recipient. Mr. Lewis quakes in
tangible fear. But only for a moment. Then he reminds himself where he is, and who he is, and
that growing up on a Midwestern farm, he has tamed mad horses and bulls tougher than this
Negro before him.
Sam, dont get belligerent. I know how to take care of Negroes who get too wild.
Lewis arms are outstretched, making slow calming motions to keep his steed pacified.
86
You and I and probably your associate Miss Fields knows the Reconstruction was just a
joke, a show by White folks that we would try being equals with you animals. But it wont
happen. NEVER. BOY.
Carl Lewis is confident this rambunctious brute is under control. This ornery stag.
Matter of fact. That land of yours, it wasnt ever gonna be for you. Black folks are never
gonna own land around here, especially not to teach no Negro children. I sold that land last week
and made some good money to a man you might have heard of, George Vandercliff, one of the
richest men in the country. I got him to buy land here. Hes gonna make us all wealthy, well, the
folks who deserve to be wealthy.
Carl Lewis parades around his office.
He already fixed up our modest bank. I assume you had the pleasure to see. And hes
planning a magnificent mansion on that land. A lot better than you two cretins could make of it.
Carl Lewis stops to savor the harm in Samsons face.
Thats right, Mr. Vandercliff has class. He sent me up to see him first class in New York
a couple of days ago on one of his fastest trains. He showed me around that big city of his, took
me to this thing called cinema that plays moving pictures and then to a base-ball game. Are you a
fan? That pitcher "Cannonball" Titcomb has a fine screwball, he almost pitched a no-hitter...
Lewis concludes his testimony by calmly pulling out a device from behind his cabinet.
So, get out of here Sam. And take this filthy Negress with you.
The president of the Bank and Land Bureau holds a twin-barrel shotgun to his side, as his
persuasive accomplice.
Terrified, the betrayed couple rushes out of the gold-trimmed building, nearly knocking
over the weeping receptionist. Samson swivels his head back to ensure Lewis is not following
them. He prays that twisted man stays inside the bank and doesnt get others involved. Although
what he wouldnt give to be one-on-one with him.
No guns, just bare hands.
87
CHAPTER 14 COLLAPSING WALLS
The man Samson trusted for more than two years.

He gave his hard-earned money to this man. How could Samson be so foolish? So nave?
Was it because of his young age had he not yet learned to be cynical? Is he still some idealistic
kid? Perhaps Mr. Lecure was right. White folks arent going to let Black folks get anywhere in
the South.
All of Samsons efforts wasted.
As they walk, Samson contemplates going to Sol, one White man who believes in
Samson. Maybe Sol can convince Mr. Lewis. Change all of this. Then Samson realizes today is
Friday, Shabbat, so Sol will be busy with religious observance until the first three stars appear
tomorrow evening. Samson strains for other ideas in his rapidly debilitating condition.
Maybe we should go to the Black Cat and think about things, Emma suggests, reading
his mind. This brief comment is followed by an even briefer agreement from Samson.
Mmm.
Samson and Emma exhaust the rest of their afternoon and a piece of their evening at the
Black Cat Haunt and Tavern. In spite of their mutual yearning to drink away these hours, they do
not. Instead they act as true agents for their cause and discuss avenues to regroup their vision.
The money was gone, Lewis made sure of that. To replace it was going to take time and creative
energy, and land was almost non-existent, but their greatest rival will be bias - a nation of Carl
Lewises.
How could they trust another White person again? These Carl Lewises are operating
throughout the South, keeping the Samsons and Emmas down. Is it the same in the North?
Samson shamelessly tears up for this momentous defeat and shame he feels in losing the
land not just for his dream but for the youth. He is not concerned of who might see him like
this. So many days and nights laboring, so many careful arrangements, all brought down by one
mans avarice.
He finds himself ready to talk about specifics after a solitary walk of prayer and
reflection. When he returns to Emma, gazing at the shoppers in the downtown square, he asks,
88
You ever heard a that man Mr. Lewis referred to?

George Vandercliff!? Emma is stunned. You mean you havent?
Samson simply shakes his head.
How about this Emma rephrases her question. Ever heard of the railroad?
Samson rolls his eyes and tersely responds, Course.
Okay, how about a steamboat?
Again Samson brashly acknowledges, this time with more graveling.
Well Emma starts, oblivious to Samsons moodiness, Mister Vandercliff is about as
well-heeled as they come, for certain. His grandpa is the one who made railroads so lucrative,
made millions of dollars off them, if not more, and he did the same with steamboats. I reckon he
opened a bank account and watched that thing swell like a hogs belly at feeding time.
An he buildin land in Asheville? Samson mutters.
Well, the grandson is I guess. I believe it. This place is special. I fell in love with it
myself when I first got here, but what that rich mans doing, intentional or not, is justwell
there are no words coming to me exceptwicked.
WHAT AINT WICKED!? Samson polls the pub. A few slurred salutes sail his way.
And Grandpa Vandercliff didnt just make his money on account of smart investments.
Emma delves further into her pool of knowledge on this famous and affluent family.
Im assuming he had some brains, but the way he turned a profit wa
--slavery. Samson butts in.
Yes indeed, but it wasnt just Negroes working those rails. I heard its mostly the
Chinese. You remember that sign this morning. People from China moved here on their own,
thinking this is better than where theyre from
God willin it will be. Samson says softly.
Samson can say this honestly, though some of his friends like James may not want other
ethnic minorities to succeed. Samson knows they, as a human race, have more commonalities
than differences. This thought injects him with a much-needed lift, a reminder of the greater
struggle. And with that he brainstorms,
Emma, what you think bout lettin some Chinese folk come to the institute?
Emma takes a sip of her water and thinks it over briefly.
I think its one idea, but
Samson fights the urge to finish her thought.
Butwe are different people, Sam.
Mmm-hmm. Samson consents. Well, lets keep thinkin bout it.
Emma doesnt argue. Samson looks out the window before them, the townspeople are
closing up their shops. The couple arrived early enough to secure two nice seats in the soon-to-be
bustling tavern. Seeing as the music hasnt yet started, the Black Cat had served as a surprisingly
meditative place for them to process this unforeseen trauma.
89
Samson peers out to see the sun going away. The cosmic ritual triggers his own passing
away, of his setting behind a horizon somewhere. Abruptly he is reminded of that supernatural
painting from this morning. Who was that blurred figure walking down that path? His
imagination? A premonition? He certainly thought it was evil when he saw it, but now Samson
realizes it must have been the death of his dream. Little did that grim reaper know Samson has
had obstacles walk his path before. Some obstacles though need to be conquered on ones own.
Samson calls up some gentle words to tell Emma he needs more time alone.
Emma. This news today, woulda been darn near impossible to handle witout ya. I will
say it to you again,
Samson clears his throat exaggeratedly.
I LOVE YA EMMA MAE FIELDS!
His pronouncement is loud enough for a few barflies to hoot and congratulate. One of
the patrons calls out:
Gone enjoy dat honeypot, Sammy! You lil bear cub!
Emmas muted green eyes brighten from Samsons embarrassing proclamation. All the
same, her competitive gene wont allow a one-sided show of emotions.
Well, I adore this Negro more than Miss Guinevere felt affections for the gallant Sir
Lancelot! Emma Mae declares atop the livening music. Strangely, no one responds to her
literary reference.
Henrietta, the waitress and close friend of the mayor, replies,
Emma, I dunno from Madame Allfox who you talkn bout, but SOUND LIKE LOVE
FROM THIS BAR STOOL OVA HERE! The group around Henrietta chuckles.
Gradually an uneven throb bulges from the piano on stage. Dates become dance partners,
and without any other invitation except the syrupy stride of the eighty-eight keys, townspeople
and drifters channel into this electric rendezvous.
The Black Cat pounces to life.
Some patrons stumble through the decrepit doorway with their recent buffoonery; others
slip more reservedly into Chatty Als tavern.
A few of the stumblers sit themselves a couple tables away from Emma and Samson.
They are an obvious lot, sticking out like a full moon against a darkened night. Their fire-red
beards only further advertise how out of place they are. Samson resituates his chair to obstruct
some of the ill-mannered behavior stemming from their table. He whispers a proposal to Emma.
Emma, it gettin too rowdy in here for me. Is gonna pay our tab and make my way
home. Would ya like me to walk wit ya?
That would be awful nice, Sam. But I might have time to talk with Miss Crawley at the
gallery if I hustle up. Why dont you stop by my place later tonight. And dont pay any mind to
today. Were young. We have time on our side. We have a lifetime to show these White folks we
can all live out our dreams...
She holds his hands and looks directly at him.
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Mr. Lewis had fear in his eyes, thats what made him pick up that gun. White folks fear
the change we are bringing. They dont want to lose everything they have so they will fight like
hell to hold onto it. They dont see how connected all our paths are...
She leans close and awkwardly kisses him over the circular table between them, a brush
of affection that will last them longer than they know.
***
Samson smirks as he watches Emma weave through the frisky young dancers and their
exceptional maneuvers on her way to the door. He narrowly avoids a collision himself as one of
the red-bearded, White patrons swiftly backs his chair into Samsons hip. Samson excuses it as
mayhem from a busy tavern then tracks down the talkative barkeep to close his tab.
After a few niceties with Chatty Al, Samson hands over the money and surveys the stage.
The duo performing tonight relays the same originality as last night. Though Samson is thinking
the trumpets voice is a bit subdued for the vigor of this returning pianist.
The same rosy-cheeked drunkard, who all but bashed into Samsons side with his chair,
appears fond of the musicians as well. He tries to fit into the circle dance already formed but,
without coordination, topples on a couple of the dancers. A few laughs ring out at the expense of
this unstable man, but are swept over by the pick-up in pace and vocals of musicians.
The embarrassed Irishman makes for the exit and staggers outside and out of sight.
Ay, that Jonathon just dont know when to quit, one of the Irishmans friends grumbles
with a concerned brogue.
Samson overhears their foreign inflection from the bar and leans his ear their way.
Hell only make it harder for us while were down here. Just like in New York... the
man continues.
AY, perhaps. But the payll be worth it, Mitchell. The second encourages.
And how can yee say no to building such a beaut of a mansion? Indoor plumbing and
heating and the like! What a dream if it were me own home.
That Vandercliff bloke can afford it, cant he? The first man picks up. Rented imself
four separate rooms at the Blake House Inn. I heard him say he dont know how to travel any
way but in extravagance.
Samson perks to attention at the accented words of these Irishmen. Vandercliff is at the
Blake House Inn? What Samson wouldnt do to march up to that affluent mans room and
describe the deficit he is bringing to Asheville not the benefit Carl Lewis and others insist.
The trumpeter and pianist are now in some sort of battle, each proving his abilities on his
crowd-pleasing instrument. Back and forth they dispute. The audience is wooed, clapping and
kicking in perfect rhythm with each musicians beat.
Samson is both shocked and amazed when he sees the pianist wave up the two Irishmen.
The two gingers seemed to be waiting for this moment and walk onto the stage carrying a fiddle
and banjo. The four men utilize the melodic momentum and barge into another piece. One that
isnt as ragged.
91
The fiddler races to catch up with no one in particular but this is the pace the four-piece
keeps throughout their session. The pianist is a born improvisationist and keeps right along in
step with the Irishmans lead.
After a few bars Henrietta cuts through the crowd and centers her slender self right
between the mixed band. She doesnt know what she is about to sing, but the musicians and the
audience encourage her to do it anyways. Luckily the banjo picker saves her the embarrassment,
he sings,
While goin' the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin' the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin' the road to sweet Athy
A stick in me hand and a drop in me eye
A doleful damsel I heard cry,
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
This is all Henrietta needed, as she mounts her own lyrics,
Drink much so you get tipsy loves, hurroo, hurroo
Drink much so you get tipsy my loves, hurroo, hurroo
With a drink in your hand put a coin into mine
And
well all be feelin so mighty fine

Johnny I hardly knew ye.
None of the people inside this lively joint can hear another instrument, the human voice,
the most elegant of instruments, calling for attention. It is crying out, in a narrow alleyway just
beyond the dilapidated front door, begging for a savior, anyone, to rescue her from the man, the
beast, slithering across her chest.
Her voice is drowned out by the bar music and this beast-mans overpowering thrusts.
The man is the third Irishman, Jonathan, who drunkenly staggered outside a moment ago. He
ravages this woman. Unkempt red hair falls over his eyes. The satisfaction he wrestles for, on
this dampened, cobbled ground, is one only a woman can give...or forfeit. He is taking it, as he is
accustomed to, as he has done dozens of times back home in Cork, with the great waves breaking
against the cliffs of the islands southern tip, no one could hear their screams either.
Young Jonathan, in his mid-twenties, unwilling to display the true traits of a man, those
of restraint and consent, surrenders that manhood as he continues. Nearly an entire dinner of
whisky, slowed some by beef and biscuits, got him inebriated to this unmanageable state. No
woman could match this monster-of-a-man.
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Still, she continues to put up her best defenses, physically and verbally. She has always
been a fighter. Her father brought her up to be. She blocks her chest with tired arms, and dimly
shrieks her companions name
Samsams
Emma is not thinking how her situation is like her mothers. Though they are virtually
identical. She refuses to accept him and holds on to her dissolving defiance. Emma needs this
wall within her to stand. Each brick inside her, as it falls, is replaced using all the might she can
gather. But her bricks keep falling.
Her spiritual reinforcement is sidetracked by thoughts of what Samson may be doing at
this moment, in place of saving her from this monster. She half expects some sort of inbuilt
connection between them to alarm, and for Samson to suddenly and heroically bust down the
near-broken tavern door and rescue her. Nearly every one of her thoughts turns to him.
Meanwhile Samson raps his hand atop the tavern bar in a syncopated beat. The tavern is
revelling in this musical bouquet.
Emma, now realizing this is the struggle for her life, and no one will intervene, grips the
plain-dressed reality of her agnosticism and what that may cost her. Her uncertainties linger. She
has come to accept God, but with terms and conditions. Answers she sought since youth have
only come piecemeal. It was her genuine intention to solve these great queries before she died.
With all her scholarly credentials, she felt there would be resolution one day. Perhaps some
morning when she woke up, or on a grey, heavy day on the blanket of the Blue Ridges, painting
a transcendental scene.
But no grand consciousness guides her toward faith in these last minutes. And though she
had not planned it, hers might be one of the names of social progress lost in anonymity. So, with
what may be mistaken as vanity, she thinks of these fears, and fights for her wall and her legacy.
The Irishman, part creature of lust, executes a final blow before Emma finishes building
that wall. Before she answers those ultimate questions. He strips her of the rose patterned dress
as if prying a nail from its wooden frame. The monster then realizes its prey, once squirmy, is
now drained of life. This enrages him further, but only momentarily, until a different notion, one
of ration, appears in his thoughts.
Instinctively the beast-man hauls the corpse beneath slanted pallets wedged between
neighboring buildings. Next-door is the private residence the mayor uses for his occasional
affairs. But neither the mayor nor his mistress Henrietta are there to notice this woman, near
naked, hidden out of sight.
With swagger and sway the monster dresses itself, back into human form, back into
Jonathan. He pats the front of his brown suede trousers and beige shirt. A filth clings to them, to
the bulbs of his knees and under the ruffles of his shirt. Tidily, he wipes the spots away. Though
one stain remains, as it always will, unseen, imprinted within. He closes it from his mind.
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A wad of bouncing black curls burrowed itself in his fiery-red beard. He plucks, then
rubs the wisp into a ball, like a tiny cloud in his fingers, before flicking it at the pallets. The
battered tavern door refuses to obey as he pulls at it a few times.
He smiles when it finally does.
CHAPTER 15 SAMSON CROSSES THE RUBICON
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The competing instrumentalists announce their well-deserved break. Samson uses this as
his opportunity to gather the clarity and solitude he needs to sort out this day of disappointment.
He repeats a couple of the tunes in his head as he casually weaves through the crowd of
high-kickers. Samson, though not an authority on the piano, but having composed a few of his
spirituals on the keys, keeps note of its unorthodox operation last night and tonight. The uneven
pace, the heavy use of the left-handed beats while keeping melody with curious chords on the
right. It is hypnotic.
That pianist sure seems on the cusp of something new. Samson will mark this evening in
case this man gains recognition someday. Perhaps he can even be a guest musician when they get
a new institute started.
He thrusts open the wobbly door and enters the cool Asheville night. Without grace he
nearly falls on his face tripping over a pallet sticking out against the building. What shipments
could be coming in at this hour?
He doesnt dwell on it but turns his attention to that man, George Vandercliff. He could
make a quick visit to his hotel on the way home, shake some of that fear in him that Emma
talked about. But more exhausted than enraged, Samson grumbles it is too late for such
shenanigans. It is time for bed.
This grumble also persuades Samson not to check in on nearby Emma Mae after all. He
will head to her place first thing in the morning, when those dangling chimes rouse him. He
passes some Crate Myrtles and plucks a few of these magenta trumpets to bring to her then.
He half-sashays home, in time with the catchy rhythm still raggedly leaping in his head,
the music rescuing him from his discordant day. As he approaches the Crawley Gallery he
snickers at the foolishness from the morning, but his eyes still deviate from certain paintings.
With his mind still centered on the gallery, his feet lead him down the river path, that
meandering friend of his with purposes unknown. Just as before, this cryptic waterway shows
Samson to his destination in nothing greater than a minute thread of time. Although an added act
of the paranormal has accompanied Samson during this trip, one that does not go overlooked,
that of a haunting and familiar apparition. His father.
The average person might reveal their uneasiness from this haunted river. Therefore,
confirming his average-ness, Samson Fairchild drops to his knees in a fast sweat, clasping his
hands faithfully.
He is dumbstruck, frightened even. The first incident on the river could have been an act
of his imagination, like the painting. But now, defying the physical confines of distance and
time, this is no coincidence. Was that ghostly figure in the painting his father? Is it Samson?
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This apparition is most definitely his father. Delroy Fairchild is floating along that river
path as certainly as Samson is being extraordinarily rushed along it. But why? Why would he see
this man who has been dead for two years?
Voices surround Samson. It is the moaning his father repressed when he was alive. The
shrieks he imagined with the extrication of his limbs on that riotous night. These are followed by
the intolerable screams of his mother climbing toward insanity.
Why would these painful voices visit him now, tonight?
Samson thinks of the work ethic his father passed on to him, and how this institute was
for Delroy Fairchild as much as it was for his chorus of youngsters.
Is his father haunting him because of his disappointment?
Pride?
Samson doesnt feel safe. He wants to be held. He is sobbing and defenseless. When did
this all happen? Only minutes ago he was singing those catchy melodies. No more. With strain,
as demonstrated during the hellish years of his past, a new melody gradually lifts him, steeling
him momentarily, heaving his body off the dirt.
And then, a gentle caress is felt on Samsons bare arm. A smell of lilacs and something
he doesnt know relieves him. He is grateful to have Emma here for him, knowing intuitively
that he needs her. But following the hand to its owner Samson finds it is not Emmas. It is
Henrietta, Emmas roommate and the waitress at the Black Cat.
The moon has risen above them, playing spotlight for their faces. They are
indistinguishable to the orbed Goddess above. Motionless, the man and woman commit their
woeful eyes to each other, as if they are chiseled sculptures, souvenirs of their era. Trouble
erodes Henriettas honey-colored cheeks. A burden, domineering and impartial, droops the
womans brow. The man, aghast, wills his eyes to keep steady, wanting desperately for
something to make sense.
Then she speaks,
Sam
The single word consumes her whole breath.
I
She makes a second effort but again is fatigued. She slopes to one side, wasted from the
long-distance sprint to his cabin. Her body collapses unceremoniously to the dirt. Samson
charges toward his water well and returns with a bucket to splatter across her face.
This revives the limp waitress who drinks the remnants slowly and sits atop the
dew-laden grass. Samson brushes the hair back from Henriettas forehead and asks,
What is it, Henrietta? Just tell it slow, nah. Its gonna be alrigh.
The selfless man stuffs his own fears into the recesses of his mind and attends to this
hysterical woman. He finds control over the situation. At least for the moment.
It aint! Itaint gonna be all righ! No! No! No! Samson She dead! She dead! She
gone foreva
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The moans of his father return, almost deafening him but not blotting out the womans
cries. Enough has been heard. Samson lets Henriettas words accomplish the task they were sent
here to do; he owns no shield against their daggers.
An she ain neva comin back. Emmas... gone. Henrietta concludes absently.
Where is she? Where is Emma?
She at our place. She there Samsonshe there.
He leaves.
Perhaps this is not accurate to Samsons character, to leave this distraught woman alone
in her grief. It may be incongruent to the man whom, until now, was written as the stable one
despite instability, the faithful for the faithless, the resilient songbird. Too bad. Circumstances
change us. This is a new Samson. A new protagonist for this story.
He transforms.
This Samson returns to town face flushed and physically weak from the exhaustive run.
The energy finds him, however, to complete his trek to Henrietta and Emmas home. The
residence doubles as Henriettas seamstress shop during the day. It is not the busiest shop in
Asheville, but she has made a content life for herself specializing in womens apparel particularly for women increasingly interested in tennis and bicycling. It has also been Emmas
home for the past few months.
When Emma arrived to Asheville friendly fingers pointed her to Henrietta. The two had
much to talk about: Emma with her crazed fianc and the rebuilding of herself afterwards, and
Henriettas own entanglement with men of power. They stopped short of shoptalk, Emma had
never taken to the fine-motor-skills of sewing, knitting or quilting, a universal language amongst
many countrywomen. Henrietta Stayman, who initially could not understand half of what Emma
was talking about, grew to love her tenant as a younger sister.
A small crowd is gathered around the apartment door when this Samson arrives. He
wedges his way inside and sees a bucket of pink water. A darkened rag hangs to one side. He
stops to watch someone reach into the pink abyss, losing a hand to its roseate swirl. It emerges
from the water clutching what looks like a fresh sapling of long grass, globular at one end, but
with black and curly blades. It is Emmas hair.
Samson watches once more as the saturated hand, which belongs to Chatty Al Blains,
brings a rag back to Emmas scalp.
Jus a chile the middle-aged barkeep repeats with every fresh rinse.
Samson crouches to the boarded floor and silently creeps on his palms and knees, as if
not to waken Emmas lustrous, sleeping emeralds. He envisions the multitude of textbooks and
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novels they dove into, these once stern and questioning henchmen, this earthly evidence Samson
keptkeeps of euphoria.
Samson softly calls her name. This alerts Al, who stops nursing, and steps back. The
townspeople amassed in the room are silent a moment then disappear altogether. He calls her
name softly again. The absence of an answer is his answer. The void is now calling her; it will be
her eternal breath.
Her eyes will never again read the poetry of George Moses Horton or Anna Julia Cooper,
never again select the precise hue for a rugged mountainscape, never again form a sentry in
defense, and never again outsmart this simple fool who loved her. These eyes were devoted, and
will transcend to someplace neither Samson nor Emma know for sure. Though Samson says a
prayer anyways,But concerning that day or that hour, no one knows, not even the angels in
heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. until a strange taste comes to him.
He hungers.
Sammy Chatty Al delicately begins.Oh Sammy.
Samson has so many questions he wants to ask, yet he cannot operate his mouth. Several
people enter the room and offer what they can voluntarily.
Found her outside Als place. Just lyin twix da buildins. A townsman submits then
nervously looks away to avoid eye contact with this breaking man.
Henrietta sar a White man what wit an o-range beard come back into de tavern round
da time you two left. Said he had a NASTY look sittin on es face.
Samsons taste buds grow hot again, starving. His throat is dry but this piece of news
whets his appetite. But where is that Irishman?
Samson believes these people. His people. He believes because he needs to believe. But
how could he not have seen this coming? Now replaying the evening in his head: Emmas
exitthat drunk Irishman leaving his seat in a hurry after herlurching out the door Samson
even heard that mans friends talking about his unruly behavior. Despite these thoughts, Samson
does not blame himself. He is preoccupied with those rosy-cheeked men.
Samson may not know where the culprit is, but he knows where to find the source, the
root cause of this personal apocalypse:
- the youngsters losing out on their dreams...
- the Institute...
.
- Emmas death
- That deceitful Carl Lewis
- And now this Irish worker
They all lead to one man. One Yankee brought on all of this. Samsons hunger coaches
him out of the congested apartment and back into the limitless shade of night.
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The rubicon Samson must cross requires absolute determination. He cannot be slowed by
voices or hallucinations. This new Samson blazes toward the prestigious Blake House Inn.
He hunts.
The same burning bulb that brought Emmas death will also bring her justice. It protrudes
as the portal to the painted beyond: galaxies, universes and deities.
Orion nears the orb on his hunt across the celestial plains. Never by human eyes does he
reach the moon or his prey, still, each night, he stalks. The vicious lion, as cunning and crafty as
the belted individual, appears next on his own prowl. What a feast it would be for him to devour
the giraffe or ram, a gluttonous treat all to himself. Further away from this man and lion is
Princess Andromeda, chained to her dark cellar. She sings for her rescuer in the blackness, but to
no avail.
The city above Samson is busy with adversity, as Emma may have learned in her fathers
astronomy books, however, Samson was never taught this. He has taken up his vengeance
assuming that his alone will be lasting.
Samson does not halt at the Blake Inns front door. He preserves the aura of a paying
guest and nonchalantly inspects the visitors log on the desk until he comes across the name he is
seeking. Above the roll-top desk is a letter opener. He palms the object coolly before embarking
the stairs - each step carefully hushed by his determination.
Stricken by awe and admiration, Samson pauses along the corridors to drink in the
remarkable artwork housed in this regal establishment. Prints of Rembrandts Christ in the Storm
on the Lake of Galilee and Renoirs Dance at the Moulin de La Galette confidently arrest
Samson in his tracks.
But right before the room number he seeks, in the corner of the hall by itself, is a
scaled-down sculpture of Myrons Discobolo which captivates Samson most.
At first it is the muscles that impress him, but then it is the fluidity. From the feet up to
the extended arm holding the discus, the form is flawless. This, Samson assumes, did not happen
in one effort. The sculptor behind this marvel must have had personal setbacks, struggles,
accidents, the need to start over from scratch, perhaps dozens of times.
He calms.
His late-night presence has not gone unnoticed. A slick-haired man with wiry glasses and
an imperial mustache has unlocked the door Samson sought and is gawking at this Black man in
the hall.
Good EVENING. Might I HELP you with something? the gangly and mustachioed man
prods with an air of displeasure. He has no appreciation for the psychosomatic change that is
happening to Samson, a metamorphosis that is returning Samson to his former self.
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Do you have BUSINESS here at this hour, boy!

The Yankee repeats less tolerantly.
Yes. I Is here to see Mister Vandercliff. Young Samson replies not with fear, but
surprise. He has broken away from the vengeance-driven course he was temporarily sent on.
He awakes.
Samson finds he is at the door of his nemesis. This man, bespectacled with round, gold
frames and an unpleasant demeanor is the only buffer between the two adversaries, which have
yet to meet. The doorman leans back into the room and asks,
Mister Vandercliff, sir, I apologize for the interruption, but are you expecting any
visitors at this hour?
A disapproving mumble slips from the background. The White man is prepared to close
the door in Samsons face when he sees something glint in the Black hand. Silver and sharp, the
letter-opener Samson previously made plans to use is still nestled in his tight grip. The doorman
calls out behind him once more,
Mister Vandercliff, sir, You know how the townspeople have been concerned about you
being some Yankee who dont know nothin about Southern ways? Well, I think I know how
we can fix that...
And before Samson can rush back to his childhood, back just a few years when he looked
like a boy, not like a man, not like his father, two corpulent men squeeze him into room 238. It is
one of four rooms reserved for the obscenely wealthy George Vandercliff II, the future Prince of
Asheville.
CHAPTER 16 LONELY DREAMERS
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The suite young Samson is patrolled into is luxurious, a Victorian grandeur fit for a king.
Perhaps this is how he sees himself. An American prince born into old money and intent on
keeping his throne. He travels where and how he wishes, thrusting his magnitude onto humble
peasants.
His critics say he was born in the wrong country at the wrong time and that he would
have made a resplendent monarch in feudal Europe. Oddly, his family has the same to say for
him, only they say it with love.
George Vandercliff II was tailored at a young age to be the family successor. Tutors from
the finest schools came to his royal study to educate him on engineering, economics, science,
mathematics, literature and other principal subjects. A keen eye for lifes luxuries, young
Vandercliff traveled the world seeking her riches. It is this eye that inspired an opulent mansion
in the Carolinas.
Inside the salon, sitting in a French settee chair, quite similar to the one in the waiting
area of the Buncombe County Bank, is a gentleman equally interested in creating an elaborate
manor, for he is to design it. It is this man, and no one else in the room, who will fight for the life
of the adolescent Samson Fairchild. His name is Frederick Almsteed.
Frederick Almsteed and George Vandercliff have known each other a long time. They
grew up together. In fact, they grew up as the self-proclaimed Ministers of Mischief. Despite
this mutual mischief however, they have always had each others best interests at heart. This
teenager before them this evening, this Samson Fairchild, is an innocent young man. And if
Frederick Almsteed knows anything in that clever brain of his, it is that Vandercliffs interests do
not depend on harming this young man. Amid his travels in the South, Almsteed has seen the
need for reciprocity to the neglected Negro after slavery. Almsteed believed in the
Reconstruction, socially and commercially. He sees before him one of these neglected Negroes,
one who needs work, perhaps that is why he is here tonight? To enlist his services...
That neglected man is quivering. Wedged between two overly round gentlemen, he is
not sure why they have ahold of him. It is the wire-spectacled man named Wentworth, the one
who greeted him at the door, who gives a clue.
Boy, why are you squandering away the time of Mr. Vandercliff and his staff? Have
you no perception to the irregularity of your call this evening? And PLEASE, enlighten us on
what you expected to do with this letter-opener!
The New York bred Wentworth, pale and irritated, fondles the letter-opener in his hands.
I
Samson has no words to explain this tumultuous evening.
Great Heavens! Have you no defense for yourself? It appears you were attempting to
take the life of our dignified sovereign. And if youre too stupid to understand that or explain
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yourself, we will make the judgement ourselves. Death by lynching for the attempted murder of
a White man!
Wentworth rattles off the sentencing and punishment before the trial even begins. This
bloodthirst is detected from Almsteed, a firm and constant challenger to his colleagues
prejudices and a believer in the eternal spirit of the Bill of Rights, including a trial by jury.
Wentworth. What are you trying to accomplish? A last-ditch effort? Tying up the first
Negro boy you can to win over the citys White majority? Well, what will the other Negroes
think of this? They will riot, thats what! We shall uphold justice due here and let the young man
speak before a verdict is pronounced. Almsteed turns to his old friend George and says, Master
Vandercliff, I believe this is only just.
Frederick Almsteed glares at the quick-accusing Wentworth.
Fine! Get to the point, boy. Or well hang that pointy head of yours!
The two corpulent men jiggle in laughter.
Voices come to the teenaged Samson once more. Though now they are here to help not
haunt him. His father, his driven-insane mother, Emma, the Newberry boys, all begin to whisper
words of encouragement. Each offers their advice. Samson is not sure if any of this is real or
imagined but the phrases come to him regardless. Perhaps they are the words each of them
uttered with their last breaths, their last petitions for grace.
Samson is assembling a plea for his exoneration when a trusted nod slides from
Almsteeds head. This singular action from a stranger, expressing a faith without even knowing
young Samsons story, heartens him.
In my 18 years livin as a Negro in the SouthI done my share of dreamin. I done
dreamed nuff for this whole town. Samson chooses his words deliberately knowing they may
be his last. But what stings a Negro worse than any lash An what burn him hotter than any
riot is watchin them dreams die. Dreams ya nurtured. Dreams ya tried smotherin yoself but
got gutless. Dreams killed by White folks jus cause they could. Cause theys fraid of Black
folks. fraid of Black folks who dream Well, I done seen nuff Black folks killed count of
their dreams. My Pa. My friends. An tonight one yo men killed my beloved. Aint gonna be no
plaques fo em. Aint gonna be no statues...
Samson clears his throat to keep it from cracking.
Mister Vandercliff, sah, you ever been in love?
Silence.
I need ya to know her. Her name was Emma Mae Fields an she had such plans for our
city here. She was an artist. Woulda respected your art collection ya got here I can tell you that.
She was teachin the childrens of Asheville how to paint, how to draw, how to express mselves
n the like. But
Samson looks bluntly at Vandercliff and begins to sniffle. He is vulnerable as an artist,
like someone who bears his lyrics to the world learns to be.
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But one a yo workers, an Irishman... raped an killed her. She was just a teenager like
me, sah. Had her whole life in front of her...
Almsteed shoots Wentworth a preemptive glower before any harassment begins.
You know how I first heard bout you, Mr. Vandercliff?
Again silence.
From Carl Lewis. That wretched devil at the bank. The one who sold ya that serene
mountainview. Sound familiar?
To this familiar phrase Vandercliff shuffles in his plush armchair, but remains silent.
Well it was ours! That land up there was already bought by me! After two years of
contracts with the share owners. Thats how come you got it. Because it was gonna be a place for
Black folks to dream. The poets, the artists, the singers, all who wanted to make somethin
besides another sharecroppin slave!
Samson shifts his eyes around the room. He is debating whether to be totally honest or
just enough to have a chance leaving this lavish room alive. It is admittedly difficult now that his
voice is raised and his blood has started to bubble.
IT WAS FOR THEM! NOT RICH, WHITE FOLKS LIKE YOU! DONT YA SEE WE
GOTTA CREATE SOMETHIN THATS OURS?! DONT YA SEE WHATLL HAPPEN IF
WE ALWAYS SHARE-CROPPIN? WE STAY SLAVES! WE CANT DEPEND ON NO
WHITE PEOPLE! WE NEED TO BUILD OUR OWN DREAMS. OUR OWN TEMPLES
Wentworth whispers something to the two large men at the door. Samson notices this and
tempers his anger.
Truth be told I came here to avenge my loved ones. Felt I had nothin to live for without
them an my dream Samson points toward the hallway. Butthat statue out there. That man
holdin the saucer I still want justice but I dont know if killin ya would be justspecially
in the eyes of God, at this last word the faithful Samson holds onto one bastion left in his life.
Samsons venting has cooled his core and his voice lowers, Maybe God or someone
else... intervened fore I turned into a murderer. Or maybe Is a coward. But you alive now
Mr.Vandercliff. An my loved ones aint.
This speech decides Samsons life.
That is some speech. Wentworth whispers in his soothing Northern tongue. You are
quite the orator. I suspect Frederick Douglass and those reformers would be glad to have you
speaking alongside them. But this community needs you, too. We havent been properly
introduced. My name is Oliver Wentworth. My job on this trip is simple. To make sure Mr.
Vandercliff here He points. is safe and satisfied. It is a simple job. But an important one.
Wentworth extends his hand and Samson reluctantly shakes it, exchanging his own name
as Wentworth motions the henchmen to release the Black man.
Now, Mr. Fairchild, someone came up to this room at Wentworth gazes through his
wire-rims at the timepiece in his breast pocket. Twelve Mid-night, endeavoring to inflict harm
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on Mr. Vandercliff, Wentworth carefully paces the room. Now tell me Mr. Fairchild. Is this
either satisfactory or safe for Ashevilles newest benefactor sitting there?
Samson feigns a studious pose. Not like the pose when he first met Emma, with her
clever questions and playful vocabulary, giving an undivided attention to Samson. No, this time
when Samson puts on his contemplative look, it is to veil the realization that this Wentworth man
will determine him. This Yankee with an Ivy-league degree, no idea of life as Samson saw it,
will make the final decision.
And no dispute can change this. Samson will take this decision or die fleeing. He knew
when he started his bold defense, his grand apology, as Socrates and others gave in their last
breaths, that it could lead to this end. Maybe, if he had been quiet, he would be able to walk out,
live to tell the story of how he narrowly escaped death. Like James story with the Natives. But
Samson would need to disappear, and that is impossible.
Why dont you just kill him? Almsteed asks Samson.Why dont you just kill Mr.
Vandercliff right here? I can see youre scared, you know what may happen to you. And this is
why you came here. Yes?
Samson sweating in the heated room. So this is what indoor heating feels like?
I
Is it because like you say something stopped youGod ... or perhaps even yourself.
You call yourself a coward, but is a coward honest, admitting your intentions to a room of
powerful White men? Does a coward stand up, even holler, at this renowned man whom you
blame for your travesties. You stopped yourself from committing the most heinous of cardinal
sins. With such ample justification to murder you have decidedfor some reason... not to act.
That to me, Mr. Fairchild, is courage. And character. Something worth saving your life as YOU
did for Mr. Vandercliff.
An ember of hope sparks in Samson's heart from hearing this caring man's proceedings.
Perhaps these judges have granted life after all. Samsons transformation and redemption have
saved him.
But this isn't the case.
Losing his patience with Almsteeds bleeding-heart, and no longer enjoying toying with
his plaything, Wentworth steps forward.
Yes, and another time and place his character would be rewarded. Unfortunately, this is
1889. And such criminal acts have only one result, and the community will applaud Mr.
Vandercliff for his part in solving this...Negro problem.
CHAPTER 17 VOICES
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105
Samson wakes on the tips of his toes, the full weight of his body presses onto them as
they dance on a stool. He can barely feel the wood against his feet. Something is stopping his
body mechanics from working properly. Something scratchy and tight, like the pants he wore as
a kid. Except it is taut around his wrists, ankles and neck.
Writhing, Samson dreads it is a snake, eager for his young physique. What else but a
serpent could constrict him, like a mouse waiting to be devoured?
A gnarly Black Oak tree, towering over Ashevilles lamp-lit downtown square, has
become the late night scales of justice Samson searched for only 30 minutes ago. He is the guilty
weight dangling on one end, while the neutrality of this colossal tree balances the other. Samson
finds this tree familiar, as if hes seen it before - in a dream? But, considering his condition and a
lack of clarity, the tree remains a recognized but indeterminate part of his past - a phantom.
His head is forced upward by a swift slip of his toes. For a moment he panics, desperately
attempting to re-situate his place on the stool, his place in life. He vacantly registers his view as
he regains balance. There, for that split moment amid the constellations, he sees his Emma.
Familiar voices call out, tempting him to glimpse at the congregation encircling his
detention center. He has never heard of other Black people attending a lynching, but having
never been to one, he could not validate that fact. He has no hopes of turning to see who has
come to see him like this. Without a means of confirming these callers, they remain unnamed.
Anonymous.
Henriettas timbre is brassy, unmistakable. At the top of her voice is a bell, shouting
sympathetic expressions to the half-conscious Samson. Somehow people found out about this,
just like with Emma, just like people always hear news voices.
He hears a range of voices humming out as he slips in and out of dark silence. As they
come, he categorizes them, as is his conducting nature.
Tenor.
Tenor.
Bass.
Alto.
Stammering Alto.
Contralto, maybe a Mezzo-soprano.
Youthful Baritone.
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The crowd grows restless in their chanting. Many are unsure what to do. Some demand
the young Samson be taken down, but a small row of constabulary ensures this does not happen.
The late evening air has a mid-March freshness, it actually feels lovely. No looming
storms arrive, although that is the type of weather expected to coincide with such a grim event.
The time is nearing one oclock in the morning and it is pitch dark except for the candles being
passed along. Great torches blaze near the corners of this downtown square, which has become
heavily populated despite a recent dip in business during daylight hours.
There is a single light post every couple city blocks in this burgeoning, modern town.
This small square, at the meeting of Briar Avenue and Black Mountain Road, not being as active
as the taverns and pubs off the square, has no electric lighting. So the improvised torches make
do as the dim illumination.
The Asheville Dry Goods Market is within sight of this small plaza and just past that
store is the other Asheville. That Asheville is where the Black Cat Tavern and its owner reside,
where Henrietta and Emma lived, and where all the Black people living in the city limits dwell.
There is an invisible wall between races, and this square, on this night, will be the meeting place.
The observers are approaching tumult, but one man, who Samson classifies as a
baritone-bass, is becoming increasingly irate. Samson wishes this rebel rouser would calm down
and not get himself in trouble on his behalf. But the outspoken man has more privilege than the
others ringing out Samsons praises. Unlike most of Samsons supporters tonight, this man is
White, though his ethnicity and religion still make him less than equal in the South.
It is Sol.
Solomon Wohlfenberg is retrieving the man he smuggled in from Germany - the
communist working alongside others for what is just. But he is also a Jew, he knows of zealous
Mattathias and his sons clashing against the insurmountable Greco-Roman Empire. It was they,
one guerilla family, who led the fight to uphold the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, safeguarding the
foundation of two major religions. This is why Sol, the witty and peculiar owner of a dry goods
store, as well as a devout , a comrade, could not stay silent while the widely respected
Samson Fairchild, tip-toed for his last breaths. Sol must defend Samson and the temple he is
dying for.
What is this misshegos?! Sol shouts to men atop the improvised stage. You! You
think zis is right? Zis is what your God wants? You are maschkn! A pawn! Zis man is a mensch!
A leader in our community!
Sol spits at the ground.
Samson is touched realizing the voice belongs to Sol. He has rarely heard him without his
one-liners and trademark humor. Besides the uncharacteristic language, Samson doesnt know
who Sol might be yelling at.
Schimpflich! Sols foreign reprimands ram the night air. Schimpflich! Schimpflich!
Schimpflich!
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A black curtain paints Samsons vision. When he revives a moment later, he makes a
worthless attempt of freeing his pinioned arms. Then, a strident bass gains everyones attention.
This man. Thissavage
This lone voice reigns in all others. Samson does not personally know the speaker
bellowing, but it is the White pastor, Roger Rindehart. Unpopular amongst all colored people,
the able-bodied Pastor preaches every Sunday on the Negras n Orientals, Jews n Injuns
devils children doin the devils work.
He is known for blaming all the towns problems on colored folks. Recently a curfew was
installed on colored citizens within Asheville city limits. Pastor Rindehart claims it is because of
a rash in aggravated burglaries that occurred along the city centre area. In truth, the nighttime
curfew was introduced after an incident involving Leon Lecure, the gossip-loving elderly farmer,
who recently sold his land to Samson for the institute.
It was late in the evening about a month ago when Lecure was walking around the square
and came across a White couple lovingly latched arm-in-arm. After a few minutes of deciding
whether or not to ignore the situation, curiosity bested this notorious busybody and Leon Lecure
greeted the cozy couple. The lady, whom Leon knew to be the mans mistress, flushed with a
scarlet red at being confronted by a Negro in the night.
Leon was more concerned with the gentleman, whom he knew to be the preacher for the
righteous Whites-only church. Rindehart was known in the community as being proper and
upstanding. The face of the duplicitous preacher did not turn any tint of reds embarrassment, but
strangely compelled even more whiteness into his cheeks. Lecure, the town gossip who was soon
to die of old age anyway, felt no shame in what he said next:
My GOODness you bare remakble resemblance to Pastor Rindehart from the Church
of Gods Sacred Word. Same blonde hair, similar shade of dark blue eyes. Is you two brothers or
somethin?
At this the preacher began to rise, not in discomfort, but in malice. The stiffened arm of
Pastor Rindehart reeled back with ease. His elbow jutting out like a sharks tail fin fanning
before the blow, the sharp teeth of his fist chomping to strike this hunching Black man. Until an
attractive young Black woman, with curly streams in her hair, tottered down their side of the
dark street asking for directions to a local seamstress.
In the blink of an eye lucky Leon Lecure tended to this ladys needs and walked with her
down the street. Rather loudly and as a mischievous farewell, Mr. Lecure called out to his
near-assailant, Yup, just a remakble resemblance to Pastor Rindehart indeed. Leon Lecure
was full of what Sol calls chutzpah.
Pastor Rindehart, a despised man amongst many, still claimed a large continent of the
community. A majority of Whites, struck by fear-mongering sermons and in need of a vicarious
savior, see the Pastor as a saint of their era.
He continues his terrible homily.
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has attempted to do the work of GAWD. To take the life of anotha! This is NOT
tolerated in Buncombe or any county of Gawds green earth! Any man or woman who attempt to
intercede in these proceedings, be they dark as sin or heavenly white, shall face the terror of
these constables beside our fine Mayor...
WE as citizens must hold COURT in this tree... in the middle of the Lords city of
Asheville, North Carolina. And must PENalize this heathen from acting above the Lords
commandments... EVER AGAIN!
A sea of AMEN!s accompany his moralizing. Not only have people come to protest
Samsons murder, some Ashevillians have come to see him get the punishment they believe he
deserves. They want the blood of the man who tried to kill the benefactor of their city.
Samson knows this is it. His people have come to save him but that may not be possible.
So, as he tried imparting to his pupil yesterday, he assembles the sentiment needed to sing a
moving piece of music. He calls up a song he learned at Fisk...
Courage my soul,
and let us journey on,
For tho the night is dark,
and I am far from home..
Thanks be to God..., the morning light appears.
Other spectators, the ones espousing his cause, join Samson in solidarity and refrain.
The storm is passing over
Hallelujah!
Samson continues the final verse - his final verse
Now soon we shall reach the distant shining shore,
Then free from all the storms, well rest forevermore.
And safe within the veil, well furl the riven sail,
And the storm will all be over
Hallellujah!
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Not with a pen in his hand, as he envisioned, but with music bridging his soul to the stars,
young Samson concludes his final Call and Response. An intervention, like the one that saved
him on the rivers edge a month ago, will not happen here.
Samson gracefully petitions from within: Jesus, into Your hands I commend my spirit.
He transcends.
The pastor heard enough. It was foul enough to hear these savages sing about his Lord
and God in heaven. It was the pastor who kicked the wooden stool, Samson had not quit. But as a
man of God, it is his duty to serve justice. Sometimes cruelly.
The first of his pious duties were difficult, admittedly, when the pastor was still a young
man and unaccustomed to the art of Gods work. Though serving the lord gave him authority.
Roger Rindehart needed that authority to make sure all around him were accounted for. As a boy
he had been tucked away and overlooked. His parents had seven children. Roger was not the
youngest, for then he would have always been the baby. He was not the first, nor third, nor fifth.
He was the sixth. Friends and relatives would say, Oh, you must be little Roger, yes, I forgot
all about you. And the only words his father, a travelling preacher, ever spoke to him as a child
were, Boy, I don't know by Joseph who you is...but you better make yoself somethin
important, or you'll be forgotten in this world of sinners. Of course this stuck in little Roger's
mind for a long, long time. It was his mother alone who would remember him. He thanked God
for that, for her. It was for her that he decided to go to seminary. But it was the ability to ply
peoples insecurities that kept him there.
Tonights affair went without concern for the pastor. He is nearing the point where he
cant wait for another chance to fulfill his self-appointed role as gatekeeper - polishing each pearl
at the gate. Perhaps tonight was that point. The colleagues of the famous George Vandercliff II
dragged a man before him, and he did as he was called to do, he made an example of him.
This must not be tolerated lest all Negroes will get out of hand, they advised him.
But, at the moment, neither Vandercliff nor his advisors are to be found, not the
bloodthirsty Wentworth, nor the sympathetic Almsteed. Even the banker Carl Lewis, a close
acquaintance to the pastor, cant be spotted in this large crowd.
The Black youth that were banned by their families to come tonight have spilled into the
small but swarming square. No race or gender seems to be protected from this grievous sight.
Some are silent or silently weeping after the lynching.
Some, that is, those who came for the dreadful souvenirs, are frolicking. They are taking
out canvas sacks and thin blades. Teasing and joking, the scavengers mimic the hanging object
and its pathetic last song. Some change the lyrics to suit their present actions.
One of the White teens mingling with the scavengers raises a curved, shimmering blade
to the hanged mans ear. A small clique of teenaged men, recognized as the basses from the back
of Samsons chorus, melodically pick up some rocks piled around the trunk of a tree. One
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incensed chorister, Calvin, pelts a hunk of granite at the head of the White teenager preparing to
dismember their beloved maestro. Just yesterday Samson was inspiring Calvin to create music,
now Samsons death has inspired an insurrection.
The four constables lining the spectacle are busy chatting with other scavengers and are
oblivious to the dissenting crowd. Still, the rock-throw proves to be in shortsighted judgment.
The mayor of Asheville, having known the up-and-coming Samson Fairchild fairly well,
expected a favorable show of support for this well-doing man accused of attempted murder.
Despite his personal objection to the hanging, Mayor Giuseppe Fantoche knew enough
about his line of work that public support comes before truth, so, although not necessary, he
officially approved the last minute execution of this alleged offender. Moreover, he assigned two
extra peacekeepers and informed them to be utmost aware of any dissonance amongst the
coloreds tonight.
Mayor Fantoche, being a frequenter of the Black Cat and special acquaintance to the
waitress, had no express hatred for Black people. In some ways he was a moral and virtuous
man. But Fantoche knew the sway Pastor Rindehart had over almost every voting citizen in
Asheville. So, as he often did, he put his sense of decency aside in order for the city's real leaders
to reign.
The citys patrolmen turn from their conversations and are at once attentive to the Black
insurgents. After being struck in the side of the head by the rock, the young blond looks to his
guardians for vengeance. The blue-coated policemen respond to the boys baby blue eyes
accordingly and transmogrify into the white-hooded Knights of Camelia they have been trained
to be.
The patrolmen are noticeably excited to execute the crowd control tactics they were
taught, not by Ashevilles Constabulary Training Department, but from home. An inheritance of
slave-catching and Negro-handling has been passed down from their various chapters of the
Ku Klux Klan. Each of their dads has fought and still gives counsel to this new generation of
White knights. And each patrolman, aspiring Grand Dragons, Grand Titans and Grand Cyclopes,
thinks of the bravery and duty their fathers upheld as they tighten their grips on their batons.
The advocates for Samson and his cause lay out their own plans, as they are the
descendents of the mighty Buffalo Soldiers. Swiftly the young basses summon an insurrection.
The surrounding men, young and old, agree without delay. A few women join in but most remain
quiet with the looks of concerned mothers, wives and sisters.
The arrival of an elderly man catches the insurrectionists before they break loose. It is the
preacher that mentored Samson before the riots, before Samson pursued other dreams. Reverend
Hollow. He is infirm and cannot walk on his own. Two men from the Holy Redeemer Church of
Asheville have carried him to the center of this uprising. With a fire raging inside he proclaims,
What in the name of Gawd Almighta, dyall think ya doin!? He is not yelling at the
other Pastor Rhinehart, the scavengers, or the police officers. He is addressing his congregants.
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What yall plannin, chilren? Our Sammys gone home now. I tried talkin with that
Vandercliff fella but ... God had other plans...
He pauses to squint at the mixed group. The faint torches and candles are diminishing his
ability to effectively preach. He asks his companions for a boost after clearing his throat.
I wanted to save da life of one of Ashevilles children, but I didnt. No matta how much
violence we inflict we cant bring im back...
The sages words glint between the branches of moonlight.
We needs each other, children. Lifes hard. We gotta share our stories on how to get
through it. We aint born with the strength and wisdom. We get that from each other. Black folk
and White folk. Share those stories childrendats what a community does dont destroy the
story tellers
The good Reverend finishes and motions to be let down from his hoist. As quick as that,
and without any other sermon, Reverend Hollow is carried back to the unlit passage of town
from where he came.
But Henrietta, the former roommate and friend to both Emma and Samson, rings out a
call for vengeance. Sol, having taken a break from scolding the patrolmen and scavengers to hear
the Reverends words, accompanies Henrietta in her appeal for action. In an exceptionally small
amount of time the mostly Black congregation of basses, altos, tenors and sopranos begin to wail
in agitation. So much for the Reverends words...
A posse of middle-aged colored men, some on horseback, reappear in the small square.
They bear shovels, sickles and improvised weapons to decimate these segregated streets. In an
uncomplicated swoop, one of the horse riding men, still dressed in his bedtime attire, swings his
grain shovel against the side of Pastor Roger Rindeharts fine-haired head. The Pastor falls
immediately, a pool forming near his skull.
And in the spirit of many cities across the country, on this late night in mid-March, a
tempestuous race riot explodes. The police and scavengers respond in fear. The moderate Whites
left a while ago, as soon as the first rock was thrown. And though each patrolmen and
souvenir-seeking participant has a desire to pummel the Negro nuisance back to Africa, they
came largely unarmed.
Charles, the mentally disabled vagrant and friend of Samson, is recklessly wielding his
own shovel now, barrelling toward the constabulary.
Henrietta, accustomed to the occasional brawling of the Black Cat, is doing her part. She
sees the mayor, her best customer and the man who granted sanction for this vile execution. She
could hurt his pride and come clean to his wife - walk over to their house and admit intimate
details about the mayor. Instead, overcome by her emotions, by Emma, by Samson and the chaos
around her, she untucks a crochet hook from her jacket pocket. She holds the shank to one side
as she walks seductively toward the politician in his loosened tie and sleepy eyes.
Rita, baby. You shouldnt be here. Go home where youre safe.
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No, Giuseppe. Its you who shouldnt be here. You shouldnt have allowed this. Where
Is from we take care a each other. An we take care a those who turn on their friends
The slender weapon is stuck to the mayors neck and stays there as the two nearby
constables commence a thrashing upon her that she will not recover from.
Throughout the night various storefronts are demolished, mountainous fires rage and
blood is shed for both parts of Asheville. A city of David fighting Reconstructions Goliath.
Townspeople are forced to fight or flee, not one of Ashevilles cobbled stones is a middle
ground. The Church of Gods Sacred Word, from where the evenings dual preacher/executioner
derived, is the first building to be ravaged by the insurgents. Windows are shattered and a group
of able-bodied rioters, including the Black pianist and trumpeter as well as the two Irish
musicians from the Black Cat, ascend the steeple. There their skillful hands chisel out the stained
glass and stone Masonic hexadecagon. It is thrust thirty feet to the ground in a shattering
detonation where it stays in pieces on Church Street for several days afterward.
What also stays for days, until Chatty Al and Sol remove it, are the remnants of Samson.
Just as the father was dismembered two years ago during the towns last riot, so was the son.
Much of the rubble was swept up by other downtown shopkeepers, but Al and Sol made sure
each part of their friend was accounted. For days people avoided the center of town and suffered
a longer route. Some said they could still hear his last song reverberate against the brick and
stone of the townsquare. Others conned themselves into thinking nothing had transpired at all
that night. But most were haunted by the unrest and horror that erupted, the town needed to
release their pent up hatred in order to begin again.
The people of Asheville, Black and White, did not forget that night. Though enough
forgot Samson Fairchild and his dream. This could hardly be avoided, a week after Samsons
body was taken down, George Vandercliff IIs mansion started going up. With the dire need for
immediate income and employment, many fit young Black men joined the recruiting sessions
while Black women darned and cooked for these newly employed laborers.
Sol, Al and so many others were ashamed.
Directly after that pivotal night, a league of bold young women and men did hold on to
Samson and Emmas dream. They tried searching for Thomas and James, Samsons former
partners in the Institute, though nothing came of these efforts. Thomas was off dying for his
fathers approval while James had disappeared once more, this time in booming Chicago.
Aimless, these dedicated youth, many from Samsons chorus and Emmas art workshops,
migrated to New York City, where the more exceptional artists and poets took up residence in
Harlem. Others pushed their dreams into Atlanta, Chicago, Charlotte and New Orleans. Any city
where their talents could take root became home.
In spite of Samson and Emmas resolve, the bulk of their students, or potential students,
fell prey to Vandercliffs crushing mansion. The Yankee prince recruited young bodies from
across Western North Carolina, overlapping the same circles Samson used for enrolling future
students. However, Vandercliffs plans couldn't be more different than Samsons. Instead of an
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institute where African Americans were to write, draw, paint, sing, compose, and otherwise find
their liberation, George Vandercliff kept their dreams locked away. His foremen worked the
almost-students ruthlessly across the land facing that serene Blue Mountain view. A miniature
town was constructed in front of the building where the former Newberry Institute attendees cut
lumber, cooked the food, and etched the masonry for this new temple of extravagance, each brick
further cementing their place in history.
The mens aching arms and backs found rest at a building downtown only a block from
Samsons Square, the unofficial name Black folks used. The building, almost coincidentally, is
called the Institute for Establishing Men (IEM). Financed by Vandercliff, the institutions sole
purpose is to board the construction workers of his chateau-style home.
Ada, the stuttering chorus leader, grew to be a confident teenager and rallied many sisters
to the North. Yet, without guarantees, many turned her down for the reliability of keeping their
domestic jobs. Calvin, of course, joined her in a pursuit for new musical horizons.
Six years after Samsons death, and after construction began, the Cliffmore Estate is
completed in all its glory. Black professionals, some of whom were the original laborers and
former students of Samsons, legally buy Vandercliffs Institute for Establishing Men.
Remnants of optimism return and the Institutes mission expands beyond housing laborers who
make rich men richer.
In the 20th century, on and off, the IEM promotes a compass of cultural and spiritual
pride and becomes an epicenter for the African American community of Asheville. It is its own
triumph. Still, as was true of Socrates and Jesus, the pupils of Emma Mae Fields and Samson
Fairchild fumble to fully create the vision for which their teachers lived and died.
As for the Cliffmore Estate, it stands today as one of the largest and most visited private
homes in the country, the Versailles of the South, though not everyone knows its true expense.
No plaque in downtown Pack Square marks the riotous night of teenaged Samson and Emmas
deaths. No record is kept of these dreamers. A chapter in North Carolinian history is at once
written and erased in these tragic pages of the Temples of Nadir.
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CHAPTER 18 REPARATIONS
When Nathaniel wakes, there is no one to question. No songwriters. No artists. He chases

the field searching for the source of this story. The pines string the perimeter of the farm like
soldiers sworn to their posts. Aging mountains, tired and worn from numerous hikers, sigh in the
foreground. Apples pool around their life-giving trunks. And the alley of crops are busy with
seeds of evolution.
Nathaniels head aches as he tries to make sense of this tragic story. This inexplicable
morning. He descends quietly in the sweet potato patch behind him and examines the cottoned
clouds above, seeing they are clearing. The rains have passed on.
Nathaniel! Nathaniel!
Weve been looking for you!
Its his Uncle Richard and Aunt Annabelle. They are dressed in their farming best, denim
on denim, ready to begin their day.
Stunned, Nathaniel searches the dirt one last time for the illustration of a house from
some hours ago. He accepts his uncles hand off the earth. And like he is walking out of the
movie theater after a captivating film, he opens his eyes to a bright reality.
Um, Rich, Annabelledo you have a few minutes?
The open-minded couple shrugs their shoulders after sharing a puzzled glance. He puts
his arms around them, leading the way to their straight-out-of-Mongolia-style yurt. When they
arrive, his baffling thoughts turn into words.
I hope its okay, but I need to take the rest of the day off
Sure. Its your last day here, whatever you want. Is everything okay? Prompts
Annabelle, concerned.
Its kind of bizarre. Something I need to figure out.
Well, lets talk about it.
Great. Ill cook up some duck eggs and some breakfast. This might take a while.
Nathaniel smiles then races to the kitchen.
During breakfast, Nathaniel recollects as much as he can from this supernatural episode,
though much is lost due to his shortfalls as a storyteller. As he narrates, his rational brain excuses
the event as a dream. But every turn - triumphant and tragic - remains in his heart, behind its
cage of ribs, where nothing can slip out.
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Annabelle and Richard appear worried. But it had to be real. Samson and Emma... The
Institute and Vandercliffs mansion... That drawing of the elaborate building in the dirt this
morning. He wasnt sleeping thenand the chorus he heard singing
He had to prove, if not to his aunt and uncle, then to himself, that what he saw and heard
was no hallucination.
***
His remaining hours on the farm slip away. His plane back to Wisconsin leaves this
evening but he needs answers before he boards. There is no internet access on his aunt and
uncles farm so he bikes to the library in downtown Asheville. He looks at every White man and
woman differently than he has before - do they know their ancestry? Do they know what
happened here 150 years ago? Do any of them know Samson or Emmas story?
An online search offers about a dozen Fairchilds living in the Asheville area. The clock is
ticking so he calls one after another: Joel Fairchild. Lamont Fairchild. Desiree Fairchild. And so
on. Perhaps he is too young to see how foolish he is acting. Perhaps he knows but his
youthfulness doesnt care. They are two straightforward questions:
1) Do you know anyone by the name of Samson or Rose Fairchild?
2) Has your family lived in this area for a long time? You know, like 130 years?
They are all dead ends until he comes across the website of a young clothing designer by
the name of Nakeysha Goodall-Fairchild. She has a fashion show lined up at her high school.
And she might be exactly who Nathaniel is seeking.
So, you wanna know what now? She asks over the phone. She isnt mad. Or too dumb
to understand Nathaniels question. Shes just surprised.
I know this is out of the ordinary but I ...um...heard about someone, who might have
been your relative. His name was Samson Fairchild. He lived here during the 1880s. He had a
sister named Rose. Do these names sound familiar?
My mama had a Granny Rose growing up. She talked about her often. She passed before
I was born. I can ask my mama if she know anything about Granny Rose brother. Whats his
name again?
Samson.
Okay. Is this for some school project or somethin? How old is you?
Im a freshman...I go to school up in Madison, WI and its, um, for a research project.
Well, Im a junior. I usually dont mess with Freshies. But Ill show you some Southern
Hospitality. Are you sure you aint tryin to get a date with an older woman? To brag to all your
freshman buddies...
Nathaniel is speechless.
Im just kiddin! Yeesh. You White boys from Wisconsin is so serious!
No. Its just...I gotta go. Im flying back to Madison tonight. You have my phone
number. I appreciate you looking into this. If it turns out he is your relative I can tell you why
Im interested. Thanks again.
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Okay. Ill be in touch.

And so it happened. Nathaniel may have found Samson. But that was only the beginning.
***
That night Nathaniel flew back to Wisconsin. Back to his moms hippied-up house on the
East side of Madison. Everything is where he left it, as if he never got sent away and never heard
Samson and Emmas story.
Ninth grade begins a few days later and he wanders the halls directionless - a
revolutionary without a revolution. Why was he told Samson and Emmas story? Why now?
Will he ever hear from Nakeysha again?
Well, one reason there needs to be racial justice he comments during a class
discussion about Madisons race relations (discussions he never participated in before this
summer) is because slavery with no apologymonetarily or verbally is an embarrassment.
How can we, as an assortment of ethnicities looking to be equal, move forward in this country if
there never was a level playing field? We cant. How can we expect equality in the 21st Century
if there was almost four hundred years of slavery and oppression? There needs to be
reparations.
His newfound ideology is both embraced and criticized at LaFollette High School. Some
of his peers of color are surprised but pleased to hear these messages from a young White man.
Some students of color are skeptical, not willing to trust him until he moves from talk to action.
Why were you at the Black Lives Matter rally last week? One Black classmate asks
him bluntly. Are you trying to impress someone? Is it cool to care about Black folks now?
Nathaniel must balance between proving himself and following what he believes is just.
What he keeps private though, is the source of his ideals, his mystifying last day in North
Carolina.
In his U.S. History class his teacher assigns a Family Heritage Project. It requires each
student to trace their family ancestry back at least two hundred years. They are given websites
and resources with extensive databases to complete this semester-long assignment.
Something catches fire in Nathaniel after that class, which spreads to every chamber in
his life, blazing a path that eventually leads, surprisingly, to Samsons story.
Nathaniels mothers family, of Polish origin, came to the U.S. only two generations ago
when his Granpierre arrived on Ellis Island. But Granpierres future wife, Nathaniels
great-grandmother, was Dutch. Olivia was her name and she had an uncle who interests
Nathaniel very much. His name was George Vandercliff II, son of the wealthy railroad tycoon of
New York, and the sovereign over the Vandercliff Mansion in Asheville, North Carolina.
Nathaniel knew his Aunt Annabelle and Uncle Richard lived in Carolina all his life, but
he thought they were the only ones. Nathaniel, as is dangerously common with young folks,
knows very little about his ancestors and where he comes from.
The family heritage project answers one crucial question: What do I have to do with
Samson Fairchild? His answer...his forefather killed Samson and his dreams...
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***
As the mystery fades, he copes with this prestigious great-great uncle and the legacy left
for him. But other questions persist why now? What can he do 130 years later?
Searching for solutions, Nathaniel forms a student group of White allies. They discuss
what White people can do in solidarity with the struggles of students of color: covert racism by
teachers and students, the role of police, a.k.a, Educational Resource Officers in schools,
excessive suspension and expulsion rates that forge the school-to-prison pipeline, and so on.
They meet regularly with the Black Student Union and Colectivo Latino and are routinely
checked on their own assumptions and stereotypes. Still, they cosponsor rallies and events to
build awareness around racial justice, including an Open Mic night to satiate their musical and
poetic pursuits. With his guitar, Nathaniel performs a message of unity.
White Sleeves
Given the choice 'twixt the kiss and the pistol
Aint gonna be no mommas to love us,
If we keep reacting from our visceral.
But dont take this story from some young novice:
I bid you crack this murder mystery!
Make glocks and gats abstracts of history!
Take tasers and triggers from those who commit tyranny!
So we can have a story to tell...
Ive killed some poets & youve done the same
But you keep tellin me that I cant complain
But when my dry-clean bill comes then will you believe?
When they say they cant get my brothers blood off my sleeve.
Fine. Stay stuck to your lies like white on rice
Black-on-blacks a crime, but whos holding the dice?
And, if not my hands then my eyes, If not my mouth then my ears
Michael taught us to look at the men in the mirrors
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So, admit we were wrong, so we can move on, and the nation be strong, and united as one, and
the men who are wanted, can get a new dawn, and their daughters and sons can sing a new song
and
We can have a new story to tell...
Nathaniels mom started to evaluate her own political activism, expanding beyond
environmentalism after a training on Challenging White Supremacy.
I knew that summer would change you, She told him one day, I had no idea it would
change me as well.
Nathaniel and his fellow White allies hold a Re-orientation before winter break. It was
that meeting, when he was just a budding freshman, where he had to answer questions on his
own, no one was there to hold his hand. And he was humbly reminded that he knows nothing of
the real anguish that African Americans, Latinos, Asian Americans, Arab Americans, Native
Americans and others face.
The stylistically diverse crowd of White allies included:
A) Spiky-haired-multiply-pierced-tattooed-gender benders,
B) Tie-dyed-dread-headed-peace-lovers,
C) Baseball-hat-tilted-oversized-white-tee-wearing-hip-hoppers,
D) Non-shampooing-fiddle-playing-carnival-jockeys,
E) Cardigan-sporting-black-framed-glasses-wearing-be-boppers,
as well as
F) One guy wearing homemade shoes,
G) Another with an Iron Maiden 87 Tour T-shirt,
And a mix thereof. They discuss ground rules for the group but soon after a thematic
debate is underscored:
As a white male, I know how competitive people are, and how competitive some people
want me to be.
"I disagree. I think we need to realize we all have family values. Some are just different.
One set is not always better than another..."
Some of our peers are battling many fronts: poverty, LGBTQ identity, race, religion, we
dont know the realities our friends and classmates face
"Well...if Black people would just..."
"No. No. NO. If WHITE people would just..."
People gotta stop livin in the past slaverys over
This last statement ignites one participant who had, until then, been quietly observing.
Most Whites are opposed to slaverya contemptible act one hundred and fifty years
ago but they are NOT opposed to African American servitude TODAY! Disproportionate
unemployment imprisonmentselective law enforcement and to be honest ... a public
119
education system that has the same intentions of the Slave Codeskeeping Blacks intellectually
inferior
The speaker looks to her antagonist then across the rest of the room. She is fuming. A
different participant attempts to reason with the two people in their feud,
But we dont need to fill the White savior role either. Its not like were going into the
trenches of urban America as some sorts of missionaries. And its not like we can go back in
time and change history. We dont even know our history!
A voice responds,
I agree work needs to be done BY African Americans on their own terms...but the
institution of racism is keeping Black people and other people of color from being equal to US
around this circle. If we agree that this is currently a White dominated society, that is, one where
White people make the rules, jail the criminals, and otherwise control this country behind the
scenes, then I believe it is OUR responsibility as White people who want a DIFFERENT
system to intervene.
Another speaker chimes in,
If we are guided by more than good intentions, but also with the intent of working
WITH African Americans and other people of colorthis can improve our relationships with
them. With each other. This includes living together, working together, praying together and
playing together.
The spiky-haired bender follows up this statement,
MLK said something like Our inaction is an accomplice to injustice. We are just as
guilty as the politicians and police unless we resist
The arguments wane. Actions such as banner-drops across the high school, street demos
down State Street to the State Capitol, and other civil or not-so-civil ideas are proposed. The
fifteen or so people then decide on their name, stemming from one of their discussions as to why
most White people dont stand alongside people of color, but why that makes solidarity
necessary.
They are called: Too Much To Lose.
***
Several months pass from Nathaniels manual work and moral lessons on the farm. He
became so preoccupied with school and Too Much To Lose that he forgot about Samson and
Emma. Instead he was working toward justice in his own spheres of influence. So it came as a
great surprise when Nathaniel got an email from Nakeysha in Asheville.
Nathaniel,
I hope you remember me. You asked me to find out more about my distant relative
Samson Fairchild. Well, I did. In fact, some family led me to the Historic Institute for Emerging
120
Men, where some of his music he wrote is archived. He and another man left behind a cache of
unknown spirituals and secular music chronicling this time.
I feel so blessed to learn about this talented man. We are going to have a revue of his
work over the holidays, that is why I am emailing. Id like you to be there - but Id also like to
know how a White boy from Wisconsin heard about my great-great-uncle. Are you an angel? A
time traveler?
Gratefully,
Nakeysha Goodall
Over winter break Nathaniel convinces his mom to send him back to visit Aunt
Annabelle and Uncle Rich. While there, he attends the concert in honor of the man his family
killed. He is sick to his stomach and cannot enjoy the talent being showcased. Instead he dwells
on the mansion just a few miles from there, the land that should have been Samson and Emmas.
Nathaniel. Are you okay? Nakeysha asks him after seeing his distant gaze.
It all pours out.
No. Im not. Ill tell you how I heard about the man youre honoring tonight. It was on
my last day here. That day I visited you. Well, somehow I had been transported back to the
1880s and told about Samson and his partner Emma that were building a school for African
Americans. It was supposed to be an alternative to the sharecropping and impoverished living
most African Americans faced then.
Emma Fields?
Yes! Do you know anything about her? Their ghosts ... or something ... haunted me on
my aunt and uncles farm that day. They still do...
Yes. She was mentioned in some of the archives at the IEM.
Well, it gets worse. You were wondering how or why some White boy knows about all
this. Its because the man who killed your great-great uncle was basically my great-great
uncle. You and me. We are the modern incarnations of our ancestors. And my ancestor killed
yours and
And? She is soft and encouraging, noticing his tenuous emotional state.
And built that god-forsaken mansion on the other side of town.
The Cliffmore?
Yep. Thats the one.
Youre a Vandercliff. Like one of THE Vandercliffs?
Nathaniel sighs deeply. Well, I didnt grow up as one. I dont even think my parents
know. Or my aunt and uncle down here. I just found out myself. They would probably be thrilled
to hear it. Want a piece of the pie.
Well, dont you?
No. I want justice. For your family. For Samson and Emma.
Well, Im no lawyer but there might be a way to get justice and a piece of the pie.
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***
And so it is, three and a half years after that evening with Nakeysha, and one week after
Nathaniels high school graduation. It is the 18th of June, 2020. The City of Asheville is hosting
a gala for the grand opening for their new African American Cultural Center. Beyond belief of
the Vandercliff family, the Institute for Emerging Men was able to win the Cliffmore Estate
through the unprecedented federal triumph of Fairchild vs. Buncombe County, North Carolina.
It is a landmark case that many scholars and activists hope will set off a cascade of
reparative legislation across the country. One of the factors that advocates believe make it
popular by the masses and endorsed by lawmakers, is that it implements the long-debated case
for Reparations to the families of slaves. This benefits almost every Black family across
Buncombe County, but the decision mandates not only a sharing of wealth but power.
The most powerful White Carolinians: CEOs, politicians, lobbyists and others who can in
anyway be traced to the exploitation of African descended individuals in North Carolina, are
required to either resign from their positions of power or share their posts with equally qualified
leaders from communities of color. It is nicknamed Retroactive Affirmative Action.
The decision states, Where it is found that gain was made by the ill hands of slavery,
may it this day be remedied, and to all its victims survivors in the great State of North Carolina,
where adequately documented, be granted remuneration to the utmost degree.
This is to include a financial recompense, per hominem, to the extent delineated by the
Princeton Report for 1880s wages of $2.17 per diem for engineerial duties and $2.15 per diem
for carpenterial duties, and analogous compensation for wealth of an individual and groups of
individuals which promote their corresponding upward mobility.
Even more startling for spectators is the willingness in which some of the powerbrokers
surrender their authority. Select newspapers romanticize a surge of compassion inflating these
once-mighty White men and women as they welcome the presence of reparations in their states
legislative body. Other, more critical streams of press, especially You Speak! and various
independent outlets, deem these people as corporate die-hards, who would rather stay a lowly
sailor to their majestic ships in hopes of eventually returning to their captaincy, than pirating the
waters of non-subsidization (You Speak!, June 11, 2020).
Recently booted White North Carolina governor, Ralph Langley told reporters (I was)
glad to rid myself of the incessant trial I held within my own conscience. I knew someday it
might happen even Rome fellbut I certainly wont miss the hours (laughs), I suppose Ill
take up my other vocations and spend time more with my family. I sincerely wish these new
leaders a lot of luck, cause it aint easy. (The Charlotte Gazetteer, June 15, 2020).
Media across the country print vignettes and in-depth analyses to this controversial legal
result. Including this article from The Post:
CAROLINA LAWYER CHAMPIONS CASE OF THE CENTURY
122
(Washington, D.C.)
Asheville native and trial lawyer Mae Goodall has a vested interest in the recent,
precedent-earning case of Fairchild vs. Buncombe County, North Carolina. My grandmother
used to tell us about her distant relative and his lady friend who were the rightful owners of that
land. I never thought much of (attaining) it and pursued interests in civil cases, until this
proposition by the IEM fell on my lap a few years ago. I wasnt sure wed win, but I knew I had
to try, for my family, and to rectify history.
Mae Goodall is four generations removed from Samson Fairchild, who was unlawfully lynched
and, according to recently released documents of the Land Affairs Bureau, was the legal owner
of the land that George Vandercliff II built his famed Cliffmore mansion on in 1889. Whether
Vandercliff knew this at the time or not is immaterial adjudicated North Carolina Judge Ross
Lewenburg, who apparently also had a familiarity with the case. Buncombe County has clear
estate entitlement laws and we follow these laws here in Western North Carolina.
The jury recommended the property rights of the Cliffmore Estate, Americas Chateau, to the
descendents of Samson Fairchild and the Institute of Emerging Men. This is, to date, an
unparalleled compensation for an unparalleled verdict.
Reparations are needed lead juror Frank Bobbins told the courtroom Friday, for the
immeasurable loss of the constitutionally guaranteed life, liberty and pursuit of happiness the
laborers of this estate and lawful property owner were robbed of-- it is the findings of this jury
that our fragmented country needs to be repaired - and may this be her triumphant first step.
And quite a first step it is. Opponents to the decision swiftly formulated a prominent legal team
to put out the dastardly fire. Ultimately spilling into the Supreme Court however, the honorable
Chief Justice Rob Johnston announced a final decision over the case on June 10th of this year.
The public and this columnist are still unsure as to why this habitually conservative Chief
Justice, put in place during President Bushs second term in office, could have granted such a
liberal-leaning verdict. Perhaps he is indeed Wellritts successor.
Members of the Vandercliff family could not be reached for interview. But our countrymen and
women still have questions:
Has Asheville, North Carolina stumbled upon racial utopia? What does this mean for our other
disenfranchised minorities- Native Americans, the exploited Chinese, Hispanic immigrants and
others?
123
And finally, will this be another BROWN VS. BOARD - implemented only by select states and
met with carnage and chaos from the White majority?
Our bright, evolving nation is still in deliberation.
(June 16, 2020) Devin Woodruff is a staff columnist for The Post.
Nathaniel, Nakeysha, and Nakeyshas mother, Mae Goodall are at tonights gala, as well
as every interested citizen of Western North Carolina. They enjoy some of the countrys finest
wine, grown here in the backyard of the Fairchild-Fields Institute for the Soulfully Inspired.
The IEM Board unanimously chose this new name for the triple school/community
center/performance hall when the verdict was announced. The culturally diverse crowd
assembled tonight hushes itself as a small crew of teenagers moves toward the lone microphone
on stage.
Good Evenin, one of the young ladies on stage nervously greets three hundred pairs of
eyes. Were the Fairchild Choir. And wed like to sing a song, one of dozens that were nearly
lost into the unknown world. It was written by our namesake Samson Fairchild, and is dedicated
to all who refuse to dream small.
The petite spokeswoman folds the paper she was reading and hides it in her pocket. With
a surge of force common in many African American churches, an electric piano dissonantly
cracks like lightning, matched at once by the teenagers shouting their melody on stage. The song
of this spirited chorus provokes another memory from the story told to Nathaniel, many years
ago.
Nathaniel is reminded of the love Samson Fairchild had for life and its possibilities, the
altruistic lengths he went to for his fellow youngsters and his darling Emma.
Samson certainly refused to dream small, as these youth phrased it. Nathaniel envisions
Samson and Emma, possibly reincarnated, into any of these people in the audience. He gazes at
the sharply-dressed individuals in this dimly lit auditorium. Bouncing off the gold-trim of the
dark-velvet partitions on stage, he can see some of their faces, even his stubbly own.
LORD, Grant me this wish (WISH)
I make unto you
For if just this wish (WISH)
Ever, will I be true.
Not till I lift my soul to the mountain of the righteous,
WILL GOD SHOW ME THE WAY
And when I lay my heart in the gardens of the precious,
124
WILL MY SORROWS BETRAY

LORD, Grant me this wish (WISH)
Knees a-soiled I pray
For if just this wish (WISH)
Never gain will I stray.
***
The IEM marches forward from that exultant evening, their mission statement adds:
The Institute for Empowering Young Men and Women: where our fine country came to heal
The Board adopts a multicultural leadership model that embraces people from different
racial, economic and political backgrounds to best meet the needs of Western North Carolinas
Black, White and Brown residents. They recruit minds from around the country to write and
teach liberation curricula. School admission is free, as the founders would have wanted.
Renowned speakers, performers, artists and workshops are held for all Western North Carolina,
justifying a common moniker for this artistic Appalachian town- the Paris of the South.
Recent high school graduate Nathaniel Defond finds his niche in this family, as his friend
Nakeysha encouraged. He takes classes in music, writing and, surprisingly, agriculture. He has
become one of the Fairchild Institutes Green Team and assists projects of sustainability for the
former mansion, including expanding green jobs to local laborers. Wind turbines are placed
throughout the massive 8,000 acre estate, surrounded by lush gardens, a winery and other
recreational activities. When Vandercliff seized the grounds more than 120 years ago, its size
totaled more than 125,000 acres. But one of the Cliffmore Estates original acts of generosity
was the gift of a national forest. This forest is currently being litigated in renewed preference for
the Cherokee, who had this and other nearby lands stolen by slave master Henry Jenkins and
later by the Dawes Severalty Act of 1887. This will be one of many future partnerships between
the IEM and the Cherokee Nation.
In 2021, the Green Team hopes to regain some tourism points for no longer being
Americas Chateau, but now Americas finest multicultural institution powered by renewable
energy. Nathaniel found his place in this culturally rich institution. He found his raison d'tre.
***
The lives taken that spring night of 1889 were not lost in anonymity.
They are Samson Fairchild and Emma Mae Fields.
They built a renaissance for their people with Athenian aret.
They are the footsteps echoed in our modern institutions of art, music and academia.
They are the Temples of Nadir.
125
ADDENDUM
Listed are some documented African American artists from before, during and recently
after the Nadir. More do exist. More are still lost in anonymity. At the end of this addendum is
126
additional background for the story as well as a poem by African American author Claude
McKay, written during the race riots era of the early 1900s. The song list and web links (for
most) are on the last page, to help the reader who may be unfamiliar with some of the spiritual
melodies.
SOURCES:
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/reconstruction/activism/ps_1875.html
http://nationalhumanitiescenter.org/tserve/freedom/1865-1917/essays/nadir.htm
www.nber.org/chapters/c2500.pdf
www.askart.com
Slavery By Another Name, PBS Documentary
http://abolition.nypl.org/print/illegal_slave_trade/
http://www.blackpast.org/aah/major-african-american-office-holders
http://plsonline.eku.edu/insidelook/brief-history-slavery-and-origins-american-policing
https://academic.udayton.edu/race/02rights/jcrow04.htm
http://www.bennett.edu/about/history.html
Joshua Johnston (1765-1830)
Example of his work:
127
Reportedly America's first professional Black artist that was a free man, Joshua Johnson, was
originally from the West Indies and then came to the American South. He was an itinerant
portrait painter among wealthy plantation owners in Maryland and Virginia, and his style was
derived from the conventional English portrait style of bust-length poses and arranged
backdrops.
John James Audubon (1785-1851)

One of America's first wildlife artists.
His father was White, possibly a
slave master, but his mother was
believed to be a Black woman
from the West Indies.
Robert Scott Duncanson (1821-1872)

Although Hudson River style landscape painting is most associated with Robert Duncanson, his
floral still lifes first brought him recognition. He is also thought to be the first Black painter and
muralist in America to earn his living by painting and to become internationally known.
Examples of his work:
128
Patrick Reason (1817-1850)

African Free School graduate and engraver who ran his own print shop. He engraved the
portraits of his classmate James McCune Smith and other important Black leaders in the years
before the Civil War. His engraving of a slave woman in chains with the words am I not a
woman and a sister? was reproduced internationally by anti-slavery activists.
Edward Mitchell Bannister (1828-1901)

was a well-known landscape
and genre painter from Providence, Rhode Island. Although he was the first Black American
artist to win a national art prize, a first-place at the Philadelphia Exposition in 1876, he was
denied admission into the hall to accept the award because of his race.
Grafton Tyler Brown (1841-1918)

was the first recognized Black American artist in the American West.
Henry Ossawa Tanner (1859-1937), known for religious and genre paintings, was the first Black
artist to earn an international reputation.
Examples of his work:
129
Edmonia Lewis (1845-1911). Brutally beaten by a vigilante mob while enrolled at Oberlin
College, she was the first important Black sculptor in America who created works, which
explored her feelings of alienation.
William A. Harper
Born in Canada in 1873. At age 8, Harper and his family moved to a farm where he developed
his love for nature and art. A sculptor and painter who studied in Paris, Harper was the "first
African-American artist to achieve significant critical success at the Art Institute of Chicagos
annual juried exhibition.
Meta Vaux Warrick Fuller (June 9, 1877 - March 18, 1968),

born in Philadelphia, known as the first African American artist to make art celebrating
Afrocentric themes. Fuller created emotion-packed work with strong social commentary, and
130
became a forerunner of the Black Renaissance, a movement promoting African-American art.

She was a favored student of the acclaimed Auguste Rodin in Paris.
Other Background Information on the Temples of Nadir:

The Crawley Gallery:
Ida Jolly Crawley (1867-1946) was a White artist born in Pond Creek, Tennessee. She was also a
writer, lecturer, and amateur anthropologist. She founded the Crawley Museum of Art and
Archaeology at her home in Asheville, North Carolina.
Examples of her work:
Pap Singleton: Exoduster Flier, in honor of Pap Singletons 72nd Birthday in 1882 (A.R.
Waud. Wood engraving. 1867.)
If We Must Die
(Poem by Claude McKay, 1919)
131
If we must die, let it not be like hogs

Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave, And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
SONG LIST
1) Afraid to Fly
Original
2) My Lord What A Morning Traditional Spiritual

(Version: Riverside Gospel Congregation )
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4cxQLqU__s
3) Go Down Moses/Let My People Go Traditional Spiritual
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtLcELU1brA
4) All Gods Chillun Got Wings Traditional Spiritual
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zEtMhIB9oIg
132
5) Victory Original
6) Steal Away
Traditional Spiritual http://youtube.com/watch?v=-O5hz5KnSdc
7) Wade in the Water Traditional Spiritual

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=thPnksFgkbc&feature=related
8) Weve Come So Far
Original
9) Lord, Grant Me This Wish
Original
10) Ol Ship of ZionTraditional Spiritual

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BBPDMVWAhM
11) Please Say You Will Scott Joplin
www.python.net/crew/manus/music/ragtime/please.html
12) Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye Traditional Irish Folk Song
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFUTHcjiZGo
13) The Storm is Passing Over Traditional Spiritual
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pk5KKRFb11s&feature=related
14) Repeat of Lord Grant Me This Wish
Original
All Photos by CAST Photography www.castphotography.org, (except where noted).

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The Temples of Nadir

Eric Theis 2016

THE TEMPLES OF NADIR by ~e.theis

Approx 52,000 words

THE TEMPLES OF NADIR by ~e.theis

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CHAPTER 1 SENT AWAY FOR THE SUMMER

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CHAPTER 2 KILLING A DREAM

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CHAPTER 3 THE GREAT ESCAPE

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Is it a SIN for a SHARECROPPER to want EQUALITY?! For a MAN to be treated

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CHAPTER 4 WRESTLING A DREAM

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Wade in the water, children.

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AND WHERE WERE GOIN

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CHAPTER 5 CONVICT LEASING

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CHAPTER 6 A BRIGHTER DAY

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SAMSON FAIRCHILD HEREBY OFFERS TO BUY THE SHARES OF MR. LEON

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Samsons lingering appointment is at the dual-purpose bank and land bureau of

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Mornin Miss Charlotte! Samson gloats upon entering the bank.

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CHAPTER 8 NO LONGER A TRIO

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