A Perilous Proposal (37 page)

W
HETHER IT HAD ANYTHING TO DO WITH ASKING A
certain young lady to marry him or not, Jeremiah began to be plagued with reminders of the past. With them came increasing pangs of guilt. More and more often Micah Duff's words returned to plague him. It was like his conscience was speaking through Micah Duff's voice. He couldn't escape the probing words whenever he was alone. They came to him especially at night when he lay awake. As the weeks passed they became more and more insistent.

One night Jeremiah couldn't sleep at all. He tossed and turned nearly the whole night. Over and over the words Micah Duff had said to him hounded him like a dog chasing him.

“There's freedom inside and outside,” he heard him in his mind. “There's lots of men who are free on the outside, but aren't free inside. They aren't free from themselves.”

It had been several years, but it was like he had heard them yesterday. How vividly he recalled the day Micah had been chopping wood and had stopped to examine several pieces of it.

“Look at this piece of wood,” he had said. “Its grain is all gnarled. When I look at this chunk of wood, I see a person who's
twisted up, who's confused and doesn't know which direction he wants to grow, and doesn't know what kind of person he wants to be. He's all mixed up inside.”

And Jeremiah remembered the day he had come upon Micah sitting in the darkness waiting for the sunrise. Micah had always loved the early morning hours. How often, Jeremiah thought, had he spoken about light.

“God chases darkness away . . . defeats the darkness in us so that we can be more full of light. God is trying to get His light inside us to chase away the shadows and clear out the dark corners of our heart. When we fall in with how God means us to be, that's when our grain grows straight and true. Life can't be a good and happy thing if we don't go along with that purpose.”

It seemed that on this one night Jeremiah was reliving his entire three years with Micah Duff! Most poignant of all were the challenging words Micah had spoken straight to him about his attitudes.

“When are you going to let the light all the way inside your heart, Jake? When are you going to let it shine into those dark spots that are keeping you from being clean and whole?”

The words had angered him at first. As he lay alone in the night they now bit deeper and deeper. If he let them, they would anger him again and make him upset at Micah all over again. But
why
did the words anger him? Could he be honest with himself? Could he admit that the very fact that he had gotten angry with Micah confirmed all the more the truth of what he had said?

“You're an angry young man,” Micah had said pointedly more than once. “I can see it in your eyes. That anger is like a darkness inside that you haven't let the sun reach yet. You're trying to run from it, trying to hide from the light. But you can't escape it, Jake. That anger is making you grow crooked inside.”

Jeremiah continued to toss and turn, becoming all the more agitated and uncomfortable. Micah's words probed deep into places he did not want to look. But alone on his pad in
the night, he could not stop Micah's voice. That voice had now become like a beam of light itself, shooting straight into him.

“The real fearsome kinds of things are inside us. Most men go through life trying to prove how brave and tough they are. But a real man is one with courage to face what's inside where no one else sees. Growing into a man with that kind of courage is a hard thing. But it's the only way to be a whole man
.

“Who knows where anger comes from? But lots of men are filled with hidden anger and don't even know it. It takes courage to look inside ourselves. It takes humility to forgive. But no one can be a whole man without being able to do both.”

Jeremiah dozed and gradually fell into a fitful sleep. Uneasy dreams floated into his brain. Slowly the images took more shape and form.

He was running . . . running . . . running . . . trying to escape . . . he was galloping like a horse.

He glanced to his side. There
was
a horse . . . he was hitched to a team of horses . . . he was one of them, running with them! He was running on two feet, they on four . . . but he was galloping like them.

He glanced to his side again. The horse beside him leered at him. It was a familiar yet grotesque face . . . a horse but not quite a horse. Why was the horse's face so strange yet so familiar? Why was it leering at him, as if it knew some dark and horrible accusation it would speak against him if it could? The horse was silent and could not speak, but its eyes looked like they wanted to speak.

Suddenly the great
crack
of a whip sounded. The same moment the pain of its merciless thong split the skin of his back.

He screamed in agony.

But his dream-scream was silent. Again came the whip down upon him. Again and again. The horse beside him seemed to feel nothing. Jeremiah cried out over and over but
no one heard. And still the whip cracked relentlessly against his back. The pain was the torment of hell itself!

On they ran . . . and ran . . . and ran. The whip drove them ever faster.

He struggled to free himself from the cords that bound him to the team of horses. He had to get free . . . free from their leering, grotesque faces . . . free from their silent accusations . . . free from the secret the horse's head held against him, free from the secret only the horse knew. But he was bound to them. How could he escape! He had to get free from the terrible sting of the whip!

Suddenly he broke free. The cords of bondage were loosed! He ran and ran and ran like the wind. He had to get away . . . get away . . . get away!

The horse was gone . . . but still he ran. Still the whip chased him, cracking its cruel lash on his back . . . whipping . . . beating . . . snapping at his flesh . . . for the whip knew his secret and must torment him for what he had done. Why could he not escape it!

He came to a small incline. It led up to the tracks!

There he would be safe! He could get away. If he could jump onto a passing train, he could escape and be free from the persecuting and tormenting whip of justice!

He ran up the hill, legs tiring. He could feel himself slowing. His persecutor was gaining on him! In desperation he ran on. But his legs were now heavy as lead. He stumbled and nearly fell.

An evil laugh sounded behind him. The next instant the whip cracked again, this time lashing around his ankles and yanking them from beneath him. He sprawled across the tracks. A great groan of despair rose from within him.

He struggled to rise. But fatigue now overpowered him. His pursuer caught him, and now stood above him and brought the cruel whip violently down upon him . . . whack . . . whack . . . whack until he was nearly unconscious
from the pain. Still his screams of agony were the tormenting silent cries of helplessness.

In the distance a train whistle sounded. He shrieked in terror and called for help. But his cries were drowned out by the evil laugh of his tormenter. Who could do such evil!

Hands were fumbling with his feet and wrists . . . he could do nothing to stop them . . . they were tying him with the same whip to the railroad tracks! They were tying him in front of the train!

Again the cruel laugh rang in his ears.

“Stop . . . no!” he tried to yell. But his voice was frail and weak, the voice of a child pleading with a monster. “Please, don't—”

He looked up at the man binding him to the tracks. It was a black face, the man who had chased and whipped him and was now doing his best to kill him . . . a face he knew . . . it was the face of his father!

“No!” he screamed. “Why are you doing this? Why are you tormenting me?”

But his cries fell on a face stern and hard. Its expression was without compassion. It held no look of father love.

“No . . . please . . . stop!”

Still hands fumbled at him, pushing and poking and shaking him now.

“Get away!” he yelled. “Get your hands off me . . . don't touch me . . . stop hurting me!”

“Son, son,” said a voice, jarring strangely into the world of his dream. “Son . . . Jeremiah . . . wake up.”

“No, stop . . . the whip . . . please . . .” Jeremiah's eyes opened wide with terror. The face of his tormentor was standing over him!

“No . . . Daddy, please don't . . . stop . . . don't whip me, Daddy!” he cried. “Don't tie me down!”

“Son, it's me . . . it's yo papa,” said Henry, gently shaking him. “You's safe wiff me. You's dreamin'. It's not real. I'd
neber whip you, son. Dere's no whip no more.”

Gradually Jeremiah's eyes came into focus. He was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. In panic his wide eyes stared confused into Henry's.

“You's had a nightmare, son,” said Henry softly. “You's had a dream 'bout some massa whippin' you. But I's here now. You's safe wiff me. You's safe wiff yo daddy.”

Panting for breath, Jeremiah glanced around, at last coming fully awake. Slowly he relaxed, closed his eyes, and lay back and began to breathe more easily. After a moment, Henry left him.

But sleep did not return that night. Jeremiah lay wide awake and alone with his thoughts. But though the dream was gone, the torment continued. Which was his real father—the tender Henry of his waking, or the persecutor of his dream?
Could
he believe that Henry was really a kind and loving father, and had been all along?

Then again came Micah Duff's words:

“When you're facing something inside yourself—that's what takes real courage. That's when you have to find out if you're really a man. Isn't it about time you took a look inside yourself at that anger eating away down there?

“Nobody's got a perfect daddy, Jake. No daddy can be perfect. They make mistakes. They're just men like the rest of us. But they gave us life. If it weren't for them, we wouldn't be here at all. No matter what they may have done, and no matter what we may think they have done, they deserve our love and honor for that alone. The anger you've got toward your pa will kill you if you don't summon the courage to face it. All of us have got to learn to forgive.”

But Jeremiah could tell no one what he was thinking. He was not quite ready to let the light shine all the way inside. For now the secrets and confusion in the heart of Jeremiah Patterson remained locked inside him.

N
IGHT
R
AID

52

O
NE NIGHT, ALL OF
R
OSEWOOD AWOKE IN THE
middle of the night to the sounds of shouts and gunshots and galloping horses. Katie sat up in bed and screamed out in terror, reminded of the night her family had been killed.

All through the house, voices called and people leapt from their beds. Strange lights flickered against the windowpanes like fire.

Katie ran into Mayme's room and the two girls hurried to the window. Outside a dozen riders wearing white robes with hoods over their heads, some carrying lit torches, were tearing about on their horses, yelling, shouting, shooting.

“Nigger-lovers!” were the only words they heard clearly.

Something was burning on the ground. The girls couldn't tell if the riders were setting the barn on fire or what. Then came the sound of breaking glass from rocks thrown through several windows.

A few seconds later the girls heard tramping feet behind them. They turned to see Ward and Templeton running for the stairs with rifles in their hands. Neither girl had ever seen Ward Daniels holding a gun. He always said he hated guns.

The girls hurried after them, trembling and afraid. By the
time they ran outside, the hooded horsemen had done what they wanted to do and were disappearing in the distance. They all stood on the porch looking at a strange sight.

The shape of a cross was burning in the grass.

“What was that all about?” asked Templeton.

“I don't know, but nothing good, that's for sure,” said Ward. Suddenly he seemed to notice the rifle in his hands. He looked at it a minute, almost in disgust, then threw it to the ground. Templeton stared at him with a funny expression, then went down the steps and began to stomp out the fire. Slowly the others walked into the house and back to their beds, though no one slept much after that. Long after everyone else went to bed, Templeton Daniels sat on the porch with his rifle across his legs.

He was still sitting there in the morning, dozing in the chair, when Mr. Thurston rode up. Startled awake, he tensed and grabbed at the gun. When he saw who it was, he relaxed.

“I see you had the same kind of trouble here last night that I did,” said Mr. Thurston, nodding toward the blackened cross on the ground in front of the porch.

“Why . . . you get paid a visit by those white riders too?” asked Templeton.