THE SLEEPER WAKES -- HARLEM RENAISSANCE STORIES BY WOMEN

Blue Aloes
OTTIE BEATRICE GRAHAM

Who can account for an impulse? Surely not a youth of twenty. Who would account on a day whose skies were blue and whose streams were clearest silver? Oh, not a youth of twenty.

Then Joseph was answering the call that only the young can know when he threw off shoes and top clothes and leaped into the silver of deep, smooth Little River. It flowed in front of Aloe House. Threw off shoes and stockings, and leaping, called to Melrose, living in Aloe House.

"Melrose!" he called, flashing through space and flipping into the water. Across to the opposite bank he swam, speeding like an islander. And climbing up to land by roots and hanging bushes, forth he stepped -- youth on a sunny morning! Blessed son of the gods, singing impromptus to a maiden. "Melrose!" And the morning breeze carried the music over the water. Soon the boy followed. He had seen the slender form come out from the little house. But though he swam swiftly and straight, the girl was not there to greet him. He was disappointed but not surprised. Granna had interfered. He knew. Since she could not swim with him, at least they could walk together. So he threw himself flat upon the grass along the bank, stretching out full length to dry.

Little time passed before he heard a dragging footstep. For a moment he thought he was dreaming a dream that was bad. He was supposed to move away upon the approach of the dragging footstep, but he would not move today. He would remain and sing to Melrose if the old woman cursed him doubly. He would -- ah, he could not move now if he wanted to. She stood over him.

"Lazy young dog!" she started, and there came such a torrent of maledictions as Joseph had never before heard. At first he had laughed at her. It amused him to hear an old hag going into fury because his young limbs, uncovered, breathed the sun; because he persisted in his love for the girl; because she loved him in return. At first it was funny but soon it ceased to amuse, and he joined in her tirade. Finally Granna dragged away, and she scowled and fussed. Fussed like something from the lower regions. Joseph hurried into his clothes and followed behind her, sullen and determined. Ach! she turned upon him.

"I tell you, ef I puts a sho nuf curse on yu, yu won't forgit it soon. Runnin' aroun' heah half naked, an' callin' all ovah the place fa that gal, an' she ready ah' fixin' to come out in the river with yu lak a young fool. Jus' come on an' take her out ef yu think yu kin. I'll fix yu!"

And the boy put in his part. "Oh, you think I'm afraid of your black magic, you old witch! But I'm not, and I'll teach Melrose not to be. And she'll stop making your aloes cures and the people will stop coming to bring you money for nothing. You old witch, you old witch! You old wi-hitch! Here's what I think of your aloes and your house full of aloes branches. Now conjure me!" And his laugh was so wild and shrill with anger it dulled the clanging of the falling tubs he had kicked over in his rage. They held the drippings of aloes.

With the dying away of the furor came a soft crying, then a young, tremulous voice. "Jo!" It wailed softly. "Jo! You don't know what you have done. Jo!" Around the corner of the little house crept the girl, Melrose, frightened and ready to flee. The old woman had disappeared into the house. Soon, however, she returned. Even before the girl could reach her boy.

"Come on, Melrose, come on," called Joseph. The girl had started back. "Come on, she won't hurt you!' Granna stopped and glared upon them while the boy talked that she might hear.

"She hates you because you're more beautiful than she would have you; because you are younger than she would have you. She hates you because you love me and her aloes can't stop you!" And he laughed long and lustily. Granna looked on.

Melrose had reached his side. "Hush, Jo, you've done enough. That was the last of the drippings from the blue leaves, and they came from far away. Someone brought them to her on a boat from an island. Listen!"

The woman, already bent from age, was bending farther over, and mumbling, mumbling, mumbling. The violet blue substance, part liquid, part resin, flowed past her in a slow stream. A slow stream from its tumbled tubs. And she, running with it, then running back, mumbled, mumbled, mumbled. The girl and her boy stood looking, the girl, frankly distressed, the boy alarmed in spite of himself.

"It's the curse!" Melrose trembled. Joseph held her hand. They were two children.

"How can it hurt? The stuff is no more than a medicine."

"Oh, but, --"

"It's her foolishness. I'll take you away from the South and its superstitions. Look at her now, the old witch." Granna was on her knees now, splashing handfuls of the substance.

Melrose turned where she stood. "I'll have to go away now, Jo. I can't go back. No! You can't go back either." Joseph had not turned where he stood. Instead, he moved toward the woman. The blue stuff flowed between them.

"Don't cross it, Jo. You can never get rid of the curse if you cross her stream!" And this served only to make him dare. He strode to the stream and jumped across.

"I'm going to take Melrose away!" he yelled. He was quite close upon Granna, but he hollered as though she had been deaf. Perhaps he did not know it. He trembled. "Melrose living under the same roof with you. Lord, what a crime! I'll take her from you, old Ashface, out here in the woods. I'll take her from the South and superstition!"

Granna had been kneeling. Now she stood. But she did not measure to the height of the stripling before her. She squinted and blinked up at him, and her wrinkled black face was ashen with the heat of temper. She was wont to sing hymns as she brewed aloes, but she seldom talked. This late mad outburst had taken her strength, therefore, and she quivered as she stood. An aloe string hung about her neck. The Negroes of Africa's west coast wore such cords, but that gave no clue to Granna. None knew of her origin. They only knew of the pretty child she had raised. She looked up at Joseph, and he down at her. From a short distance came the soft crying of the young and tremulous voice.

"Takin' my gal, is yu? Well, tell uh don' come back when yu turn to anothuh. Ungrateful yaller devil!" A fresh thunder clap. They gyrated and all but spat in each other's faces. Youth is wild, and sometimes old age too.

"Oh, you say that again, old woman! You judge me by yourself, no doubt. I'll rid you of your hateful self!"

"Hi! You dar to tuch me." She was witch now, if ever. Her withered old hand touched the cord about her neck, and she snatched it off and dashed it in the face of Joseph. "Yu know what hit yu? Blue aloes!" And she screamed out a grating haw-haw.

Melrose ran to Joseph. For a moment he thought he was blinded. He went, by her hand, to the river, and together they bathed the bruised eyes. Then they started off to the future, empty handed, looking not behind them. Aloe House was still. And the silence deafened, so that neither heard the other catching little breaths at the outset of their journey. Neither heard. The sun now was too hot, the day was now too dry. Melrose coughed. Joseph spoke.

"Her medicines don't cure your cough."

"I got the cough from her."

"Huh!"

"All medicines can't cure a cough." They turned from the road and sat under a tree. Town was still far off.

"What of magic, can it cure a cough?" They looked at each other.

"There isn't any magic, Jo. I'm not afraid of magic."

"You were afraid back there."

"But I've come away for good. Not afraid now." They resumed their walking -- new pilgrims on the search for happiness.

"I'll take you away from the South," said the youth. Brave youth.

"Can't take me from the South, Jo. I have to stay in the South with this cough. It will go, but I'll have to stay here. Jo, where are we going?"

"Up on the hill to my father's house. It is all that I have, my father's house. When I came back last year I closed it. I paddled down Little River and found you. Now I shall open it again. We'll stay there until the cough goes."

"That will be a long time."

They neared the town. Silence had flown, but a town does not exist without its noises. This was called a pretty town, but the girl thought it drab and choky. The country behind was sweet. They entered the town. People stared or nodded, or smiled or shook their heads. In a very short time the whole town knew that Joseph was opening the old home for the girl from Aloe House. One street led up a hill overlooking its section of the town. Up the hill they went, Melrose and Joseph, looking back not once.

The house stood silent like the country along the road; the grounds were silent like the house. The girl felt thankful. They would be away from the town. The afternoon was waning. In its soft, drowsy heat Joseph went down the hill again. Melrose waited under a tree. The trees up here were gracious; their shade was cooling. How could men live in towns -- narrow, stuffy places? Where had Jo lived down there? He had lived with the parson. The parson -- the parson -- oh! There was another thing about towns. They required parsons with love. Well, that would not matter, only it had not occurred to her before this. Love parsons -- what places were towns! Towns -- country -- country -- Granna! But there was no magic. Aloes -- just a medicine -- no magic. "Till he turned to another -- turned to another." But he was corning back already, and someone else was with him. The parson. She knew the parson. He had visited her when she first got the cough. Granna had been very rude. There were others coming too. Was the town moving up to kill the quiet of the hill? She sat still, rising not until Joseph spoke.

"You know who this is, Melrose. We let the others come. They can take back good news now. They'll take back one kind or another, you know." So they were married up on the hill. The crowd, curious, around them. The house, yet unopened. The "guests" carried their news back to the town.

At the parson's house they were feasted, Melrose and Joseph. The parson was kind; so was his wife. The house on the hill was opened and left to the night, that the stale air and the moths might drain out. At the parson's house they were feasted and taught to look brightly on the future. Youth must never fear the future. These were merely words of advice; there was no fear here. With morning came work for Joseph and gifts from neighbors for the girl. Southerners are good-hearted.

Time brought only happiness.  Joseph taught his young wife all he had learned North in schools. He would take her there some day, to the North. Then the girl would cough and he knew she could not go. But it was happiness, this living on the hill where the town was out of sight, and the trees whispered, and the yellow-brown creature moved about singing with the low, tremulous voice. Children from the town came up. He taught her and she taught them. Children from the town -- all kinds. Little pale things with scraggly locks, little pale things with heavy locks. Brown little things with silken curls, brown little things with kinky curls. They and Melrose. Melrose and they.

Time landed one day a strange cargo. Happiness a bit discolored, came with the bringing of a plant. With a plant. A gardener, an old man working about the town, brought it. A beautiful thing, and rare. Melrose thanked the man with slight strain in her voice. As soon as he had gone she dashed it on the ground, stamping it again and again, until it was bruised and broken. Bruised and broken beyond recovery. She knew most of the species of the aloe. This was akin to the blue. That Joseph might not know of it, she buried the fragments under a great flower jar. But fear and sadness descended upon her. She had brushed aside this silliness long, long ago, and now it had seized her again. Joseph said the mind could be better controlled. This she told herself many times, saying, "It is absurd to fear nothing. It is absurd!" But her cough grew worse and she trembled about her duties. She walked down the hill to meet Joseph.

"Jo, could you ever love anyone else?" They were coming to the house.

"Could anyone else be you, honey?" And he kissed her lightly as they passed the great flower jar. She shook just a little and coughed a lot. That night she sobbed aloud in her sleep.

Melrose grew paler. She felt that the cough was worse. On warm evenings Joseph paddled a canoe. Went drifting down Little River. Joseph was not afraid of things, yet he never took the left branch of the river. The left branch of Little River flowed past Aloe House. It had been several years now since he took Melrose away, and neither of them mentioned it. Whether it still was there he did not know, nor did he go to see. So the right branch of the river was his, and he nosed round the bend automatically. On warm evenings Melrose went with him. Now she stayed home on the hill. She felt that her cough was worse. Now Joseph paddled alone.

On the water he hummed little melodies. He wished Melrose could play the piano better. Then he wished she were here on the water. Here singing with him on the water. No voice sang like hers. In the morning he would send for another doctor. She must not be pale. He splashed the water and drifted. The night. Melrose would love the night out here. They had never come this far.

There came on the still air music. When had he heard such music! Music from a piano. He paddled to come nearer to it. Looking around, he saw a huge mansion on a hill. From this mansion came the music. Came the tones of silver. Light streamed from a topmost window. To a landing he guided the tiny boat and listened. The music stopped and directly the light went out. Surprised, Joseph started back, paddling hard all the way. Melrose stood at the window when he reached the house. He told her of the night. Told her of the music. Told her how he had missed her.

Next night he went again. Went in the little boat down Little River. Down the right branch, drifting and paddling till he heard the silver melody. Music in the night from the mansion on a hill. Melrose would like it so. If she would come but once. Come but once to hear. He listened at the landing. The music ceased and the light went out. Immediately Joseph moved the canoe. At home on his hill Melrose waited. Patiently stood at the window. Again he told her of the night. Of the music.

Melrose next day was weary. She longed for the night to come. She would go this night in the canoe. Please Joseph and go on the river. But the day burned by. It was hot. When evening came she was tired. At the meal she smiled, but the smile was a dismal effort. Joseph set out earlier. Melrose was weary, the air was sultry. He must get out in the boat.

On the river it was cooler. He drifted all the way. And even at the mansion night had not yet come. No music sounded except the whirring of the wind through the trees. At the landing Joseph looked up. At the window, away up high, there stood a woman. The house below her was closed. Joseph started and stared. A paddle slipped from his hand into the river, and he uttered a short cry. "Melrose'" The house was near the river. He could see clearly, but he could not believe.

The woman stepped upon a little balcony outside her window and pitched something to him. It fell by chance into the boat -- a beautifully grained paddle, its arm set with a gem of blue. She raised a finger to her lips and motioned him to go. The music came as he paddled away. As he pulled away in a daze. Night had fallen when he reached his hill. Melrose stood by the window. He told her of part of the trip. Of the music and of finding a paddle, but not of a woman who was her second self.

"Let me see the paddle, Jo," she asked. He brought it to her.

"The stone is lapis-lazuli." She was calm like mist on the bog. "The wood is aloe. It is very old; the fragrance is faint." She handed it back to Joseph. He looked at the paddle and then at his wife.

"Shall I throw it away?" She nodded. "I will." Late in the night Joseph awakened talking in his sleep. "I wish I could take her away," he was saying, "take her from the South."

Then he slept again and dreamed of her -- of Melrose. But the dream became muddled, and he saw one time his Melrose -- saw next time this woman. She came on the balcony and turned to his wife. Melrose came and turned to the woman. Then they came together and submerged into one. He was glad to awake. Glad to find Melrose whom he knew. At sundown he would go once more that he might see this person who was like her.

He went. At sundown he went that he might see. She stood at the window and waved to him. Again she was garbed in blue. Soft, sighing blue. She had worn blue on yesterday. Her window seemed a haze of blue. Joseph seemed rather to sense this than to see it. He gazed at her face. "Melrose!" It was not her skin alone. There were hundreds in the South like that. Brown- yellow and yellow-brown. Nor was it alone her hair. Black -- deep black like crows. Nor yet her gently pursed, red lips. But her sway when she stepped to the balcony. Her eyes like dark, melted pansies. Her waving -- her languorous waving. Melrose was in her being.

Joseph returned the next evening, and the next, and the next. Many days he came at dusk, staring bewildered. He spoke no more of his trips. Melrose asked naught about them. One time a rain came suddenly. All day the heat had stifled, but there had been little sun. Joseph was on the river. He would have turned and hurried back, but the music, more silver than the rain, came through the cooling air. He went to the landing and listened. Soon the woman, beautiful in her blue, appeared at the window. It rained too hard for her to step out, but she beckoned for him to come in. She dropped a big key, an old, rusty thing. A key seldom used, no doubt. Doing her gestured bidding, he opened a large side door. Steps, walled off from the rest of the place, wound straight up from the doorway to the top of the house. The lady, lovely person, met him. From a little anteroom she led him to where she had stood at the window. As he entered this larger room he was struck by the odor of aloes. Pleasant as the perfume was, it sickened him. For a second his head swam and he heard the low crying of Melrose's voice. He wanted to run away. Run like a little boy.

The rain on the roof was cheery but this scented, strange room was sad. It was blue. Blue from floor to ceiling, with rugs and low chairs of velvet and pillows and hangings of silk. A huge, blue opalescent dome hung low from the center ceiling. A piano, a handsome thing, stately in lacquered blue, stood beneath the dome. The walls were like a paneled, morning sky. Joseph gazed at the ceiling -- at the floor -- all about him. The woman stood at the window. "Like Melrose," Joseph whispered. She had forgotten him, no doubt. She was so still; he continued gazing. Now the dome. The woman turned, and while he gazed at pearl blue opalescence, she rested her eyes on him. He felt her looking and turned. And though he suspected the focusing of her eye, he flinched when their glances met. She came close to him and stood. At this range her face was older than his wife's. Even so, it was rather young, and almost as beautiful.

"The rain will cease," she said. Her voice was that of Melrose grown older. She wore a string of aloes about her throat. Joseph noticed them and gulped.

"I thank you, Madame, for your kind favor. The rain has stopped already. You were good to take me in. Now I must leave." She held his arm lightly to detain him.

"It is almost dark," said she, "and the sky is clearing. The sky from my window is wonderful at night." She returned to her window without asking him to stay. Joseph went with her. Pale stars twinkled through sailing fleece. The sky darkened as it cleared.

"Why have you come in your little boat to watch at my window every evening?"

"Your playing, Madame, and you." Then she played for him. Played on the blue piano and brought forth silver notes. He listened long to her playing before he arose to go. He thanked her once more and started but she held him again.

"You have not seen my treasures," she said, "I have treasures. Rare things from Sokotra." She turned to a curtained corner and opened a chest of deep drawers. Proudly she drew forth trinkets. Trinkets of many descriptions. Metal necklaces and anklets of aloes. Aloe bracelets and anklets of metal. Rings and head-dresses and luckstones and bangles. Powdered perfumes of aloes and myrrh. Wood of aloes set with jewels. Aloes and cassia for scenting garments. Joseph was in a stupor.

"Rare things from Sokotra -- Rare things from Sokotra." The words hummed in his brain. His brain seemed tight and bursting.

"I must go now, Madame. I must go." He heard himself saying this.

"Yes, you must go now, hurry. Hurry or they'll find you here!" The surprise of this statement destroyed the stupor. Joseph fled from the room.

The woman came close behind him. At the top of the stairs they stopped. He would have taken her hand to say goodbye, but she clung to him until he kissed her. Kissed her many times. Halfway down the stairs he heard her voice calling -- calling to him, "Hurry!"

Outside the night was quiet. The stars, once pale, were glowing. This air was not laden with aloes. He paddled home in a listless fear. A fear that was dull and thumping. Melrose was sleeping -- and the room was blue. Oh, this was delusion. He would sleep it away. Sleep it away forever. But the morning came and the room was blue. Melrose dressed in blue. She had draped their room in blue. This was pretty he told her. This change from rose to blue. But he wondered why she made it -- why she made it.

Every evening he went on the river. Went before the darkness carne. The woman stepped onto the balcony and threw her kisses to him. Each time he looked to see her beckon. But she did not call him, and he wondered who else was there with her. He dared not go unless she beckoned. Beckoned and dropped the key. He listened when she played, and watched her light go out. She made the room dark that the night might come in. The night with its flickering stars. He listened when she played, then paddled home.

At home one night he found aloes. Found his garden set with aloes. Straightway he sought Melrose. She waited at the window.

"Why do you have about you this thing which you fear?" he asked.

"But I do not fear it any longer. You taught me not to fear."

"They are beautiful. You did not find them here?"

"Imported. A species of the Blue from Sokotra."

"Where?"

"Sokotra."

Joseph hushed. Something rang in his mind. "Rare things from Sokotra. Rare things from Sokotra." He looked with unstill eyes at Melrose. She looked quite steadily at him.

"Did you ever have kin in Sokotra?" he queried.

"No one knows but Granna. I know nothing of myself."

"Where is Sokotra, Melrose?"

"Some place on an island." Melrose talked little recently; she moved about more, however. She felt that she was better. That the cough was growing faint.

On the night that Joseph brought the paddle Melrose had felt a quaking. Her heart had sunk within her. Within her something whispered, "When he turns to another. When he turns to another." Why she had felt this she did not know, but the quaking was there in her heart. Somehow she had known that the paddle had not been found. Someone had given it to him. The nights had passed slowly from that time. From that time the day had changed. There was something she must discover. Something was taking Joseph. She had followed him the next night. Down the river he had paddled his tiny craft and she had run behind along the bank. The trees and shrubbery had hidden her. She had followed to the mansion. Had seen the lovely creature; compared her with herself. She had returned the morning after while Joseph was away, but the house had been silent, and the woman's window closed. Again she had gone at evening, after Joseph rode ahead. With him she had seen the greetings and with him heard the music.

Once when rain showered he had entered the house. The woman had tossed him a key. Melrose had come out of hiding and run to go in behind him. The door had locked behind Joseph, and she had dropped to the ground. On her knees she had sobbed aloud. Had called out to her husband. She had not known that her voice reached him, riding on the night like a broken spirit. By the door she had remained until he passed her. Passed her without seeing, and in haste. The odor of aloes had passed with him and she had laughed in pity at herself. At home she had reached the bed just before he came. For some time their room had been blue (she had seen that the woman wore it). But Joseph had first noticed this this night.

Now Melrose felt sorrow in her heart. Sorrow mingled with disdain. Adorned in blue, she had moved about the hill, silent, but stronger and fearless. When the children came up from the town she laughed and told them stories. Stories of Granna, a shrivelled old woman who believed in witchery. Of an island where aloes grow -- an island on the way to India. There people dwelt in rubble-built huts, and lived on dates and milk; and aloes kept them well and in health, and scented all their garments. Granna had lived there long ago, chasing goats and wild asses over the hills. Once Joseph listened to the tales, and he searched his wife's face for understanding. He did not know she ever talked of Granna. And Melrose felt sorrow in her heart. Sorrow and disdain. Her husband was bewitched and she was losing fear. She seldom coughed.

At dusk she ran behind the canoe, trailing him down the river. The woman came on the balcony. She kissed him her hand and he stretched out his arms, pantomiming love. One night she dropped down an aloe leaf. Melrose found it later. At once she filled her home with aloes, rare specimens from the island. Joseph asked about them and found her unperturbed.

Soon one evening, Melrose went ahead of Joseph. Ran swiftly along the river to the mansion on the hill. At the window stood the woman. Waiting already for Joseph. She did not see the figure darting quickly behind trees, stooping under bushes, slipping to her stairway door. But soon she heard a knocking. A knocking, knocking, knocking and she came very softly down the steps. Without asking from the inside what was wanted, she opened wide the door.

They stood like stone, these women. Stone images reflected in a mirror. Melrose had not seen her close before. She had not seen Melrose ever. But now a look of knowing flitted across her face, then a look of awful fear, and she backed to the steps and turned and ran. Leaped like a frightened deer. Midway she wheeled again. Melrose had not moved. Back down the stairs the woman came, the look of killing in her eyes. She muttered.

"They'll not know," came the words thick and bitten, and away she flew repeating, "They'll not know."

Melrose started after her, but she knew that Joseph would come. She expected the woman back also, and she must hold her ground. She ascended the stairs trembling. Trembling from what had passed, and what was yet to come. At the top was an antechamber. No one was within. In the large room she had a notion that she walked into the sky. Into a sky perfumed with aloes. At the window she waited. Looked out on the river. Little River. She listened for the woman, but the woman did not return.

The canoe came gliding. Joseph's brown face was handsome. She would beckon as the woman had once done. Beckon and please him. He would come through the open door and she would kill him. Kill him in this room of blue. Yield to the curse. He looked up smiling and she tried to smile. Joseph frowned and looked harder. He would say goodbye to this woman; she was uncanny. No one should be like Melrose. He did not want this woman's smiles. He would say goodbye. Say goodbye and go. His boat nosed cross-wise. He was turning.

"Jo!" came his name from the window. "Jo!" short and quick. "Jo!" the long wail Melrose!

She did not call again. She leaned against the window, convulsed with tears and sobbing. Sobbing and shaking. Moaning. Joseph ran to the door and found it open. Found no one upstairs but Melrose. He gathered her up and took her down like a baby in his arms. He could understand nothing, but he did not ask. It was not time to ask. Home he took her in the boat. Through the town they strolled, two lovers. Lovers reconciled.

Little groups of people stood about the streets. At the hill a crowd was jabbering. Eyes centered on Melrose and Joseph. Jabbering started afresh. Faces peered. Faces black and white and yellow, brown and tan and red and black. On the hill policemen guarded. Kept the crowd away. In a porch swing rested the body. The woman was dead. The woman from the mansion. She had tried to kill a white man on the street, and then she had run in the way of a horse. She had been insane. Now she was dead. They were awaiting the ambulance. Awaiting the coming of aid. The woman had been near the hill. People said she belonged there. Joseph chilled through. Melrose burned. They both said it was a mistake. The people had made an error. The ambulance came and took her away.

In the town the people whispered. Some said this woman was the mother of Melrose. Said Granna took Melrose when she was born. Was born of a father not black. Said the woman came from an island. Was brought by a southern family. In the town the secrets spread. "The woman, frightened, had lost her mind. She would not leave the house. The family moved and provided for her there. They left someone to keep her. No one had ever seen the person." Joseph heard the whisperings. "Whoever came, she thought to be her lover. Whoever came, she wooed in careful secrecy. Melrose was her child. Melrose her child." The whispers came to Melrose.

Joseph and Melrose went to find Granna. Back in the country down Little River -- down the left branch to Aloe House. After a southern secret. They knocked at the door. Granna was not there. Nothing was there.

FROM THE CRISIS, AUGUST 1924

Go to Next Page