Now Is the Time to Open Your Heart_ A Novel - Alice Walker [44]
This was a time so long ago as to be mythical. Our origins as Mahus, that is. But we are alive today and carrying on, so we know we are not a myth. The story goes that we were in a position to see the overthrow and enslavement of woman, and the consequent ruination of her children, which was so horrible to us that we decided that until woman was restored to her rightful place we would live her life. That is to say, we would live openly as women. That is to say, we would live openly the feminine part of our nature, which, as we know, is sometimes the dominant nature with which we are born, whether as “men” or as “women.” Aunty cleared her throat and Yolo noticed the dark purple shade of her nail polish and the slight stubble visible on her chin. We also, she continued, in her rich mellow voice, made a vow to be the protector of children. That is why most Mahus that you see are teaching, feeding, or in some way, she said, with a sweep of her arm taking in the parked school buses, taking care of children. They are precious to us and we, long time ago, made a sacred vow to look out for them.
Wow, thought Yolo. All this going on in the world and some folks are just kicking back watching television.
Oh, Alma would say later when he told her about it, that’s Aunty’s version of the myth. She probably made it up.
But what a hip myth to make up, he thought, but did not say in light of her skepticism.
It Was the Bones
It was the bones. always. That is what they said. Generation after generation of their people said this to generation after generation of mine.
His name was Hugh. Kate had never met a Hugh before. How did one name a baby, defenseless, small, and new, Hugh? She thought this too might have something to do with “the generations.” It did.
In the early days of moving west, clearing and claiming it, said Hugh, you could settle as much land as you could control simply by taking it from the Indians—with the help of the U.S. Cavalry—and keeping them off it. Every rancher I’ve talked to, if I could get him to talk about it at all, has a similar story to tell. He paused, looked at the river. Sighed.
We have rivers in the springtime, he said. In the summer they dry up or go underground.
So they’re not really dry? said Kate. She liked the idea of underground rivers. She was beginning to think that human beings had underground selves, always running, limpid, clear, even when everything in the personality appeared used up, dusty, and dry.
They seem to be, said Hugh. Actually some of the first settlers died of dehydration because they thought there was no water. The Indians would just bend over, put an ear to the ground—and unbeknown to the settlers they’d be standing in a dry riverbed—poke a reed in the ground, and drink. Imagine how astonishing that must have seemed to someone from London.
It must have been maddening, continued Hugh. They knew every river, every stream, every rock, every tree. And they could eat off the land too. Slugs and bugs and plants—even cactus. It must have been really challenging starving them out.
The winter would do it, said Kate.
Right, said Hugh. Without shelter, sick, grief-stricken because so many of their people had died—then boom, subzero weather. Even so, it took a while for all of them to die. They were some of the healthiest people on earth. And to the great surprise of everyone, in each succeeding generation, all the way from great-grandfather Hugh Brentforth, some of them didn’t. With time it almost became a joke. There we’d be on our considerable spread, all fenced in and secure, always around Thanksgiving too. All of us hale and hearty and addicted to fine brandy and snowmobiles, and then right in the middle of congratulating ourselves on what a good time we’re having and how clever we and our ancestors are . . .