Short Story
"Gullah Train," Published in the Raleigh News and Observer, October 31st 2005
I was on a "main" two-lane road going from Charleston to Beaufort to visit Aunt Pearlie Sue who sang with the Hallelujah Sisters. Aunt Pearlie Sue is my grandmother's youngest sister who believes in everything Gullah: blue roots, spirit bears, and goofer dust. She promised me some instruction in her arts, as well as a reconnection to my ancestral folk if I came down from Raleigh before the weather turned too cold. She planned too many activities for us over the three-night trip, but I didn’t care since I knew I’d be well fed on lots of shrimp, Frogmore stew, and okra. So I played into her guilt, but was nervous since I hadn't seen her since I was twelve and all I could remember was the smell of lye in her coarse hair and her size ten feet.
The drive would have been lonely without my Alicia Keys CD, but then my car bucked and I heard a whirring sound coming from the hood. Not good. I managed to coax the Taurus onto the nonexistent shoulder and then the lights went out in my car. Silence. Dead silence coasting on a crescent moon.
Sitting on the narrow shoulder, I felt confident that without streetlights, pick-up trucks with oversized wheels would smash into my car. But why did it have to let me down in the middle of Beaufort “we still believe in outhouses” county? It figures. I know I overlooked the two-year-old battery. I took two deep breaths to erase my panic. I tried my cell phone, but the signal was dead. Of course. I decided to part ways from my car to find help, or at least avoid a collision with vehicles going 80 in a 55 zone. So, I grabbed my backpack and felt tiny bits of gravel and night dew surround my sandaled feet once I hit the road. The moonlight cast itself onto the scrub pines, tall maples, and high grasses. Those gray-looking grasses rubbed against the tops of my knees while I gripped my key chain with the pocketknife and mace. In my other hand I laid fast to my full 16 oz water bottle, enjoying its comforting weight.
I kept walking, glad to avoid seeing cars that could mow me down on the narrow road, figuring I might reach a gas station in five miles. At least I wore a white shirt. Let's see, five miles is approximately and hour and a half of walking for me…
"Excuse me, Miss —". I jumped three feet. "Didn't mean to startle you, but I be wondering if you could tell me when I might be expecting the next train?"
"Unnh? Mister, there's no train around here." I wanted to get away from this dark, yet calm man as fast as possible, but my feet couldn't move and my voice quivered. I swallowed then shivered inside my fleece jacket, despite the sixty-degree weather. I could tell he was also African American, but couldn't see much of his face, since he wore a giant black hat. He also wore an oxford shirt with a vest and dusty brown boots. A gold pocket watch clinked against his belt and his deep voice carried a strange musical accent: it was Southern, but something else. Gullah, for sure."I think you're mistaken, Miss. The Express comes 'round here at midnight for Charleston. Last train for the night and I need to get to Charleston to see Annie. Annie's my wife who's caught childbirth fever with our first and I found some medicine for her. Good stuff, I reckon." Then he lowered his voice and I leaned in closer to me. I got colder all of a sudden. "But don't tell anyone where I found it. It's dem rootwork and Dr. Buzzard won't be pleased that I didn't got it from Dr. Horse instead of him."
"Um, OK." "Rootwork" was Gullah medicine from native herbs and flowers. Dr. Buzzard was this legendary figure who healed the sick, but always threw curses for people who didn't like each other. But he died in the 1920s. I thought this guy must be thinking about another Dr. Buzzard. His son, perhaps? "So you're waiting for a train out here?"
"That's right. Train's always be on time. But not tonight. I hope that's nothing to do with Dr. Buzzard. He sure be a powerful man. Powerful man indeed."
"Umm, I feel ya, Mister, but I need to get going. My car died and I need to find a phone to call my aunt." Although he seemed a lot like Uncle Ricky and was concerned for his sick wife, it was still him and me alone out in nowhere-ville.
"Why don’t you come on the train — I've got a spare ticket if you're headed to Charleston."
"No, I need to go in the other direction, but thanks. Good luck, Mister. Hope you catch your train." I waved him good-bye and after a few steps looked back. He now sat on a bunch of logs by the side of the road. Very strange. But I was in haint country and spirit world. I only realized I was holding my breath when I couldn't smell the salt-laden marsh or the honey-suckle flowers.I continued to walk and things appeared brighter all round me. I heard something besides the hooting of the owls and mourning doves. It was a train. Now I really felt scared.
I crossed my arms in front of me and exhaled again. I picked up my pace a little bit. I felt the air suddenly cool and the click click sound of railcars engulfed my senses. But where were the tracks? I started running, now I was more into the skimpy shoulder and almost into the tree line, scraping my jeans against thorny bushes and tall grasses. The train noise grew louder. I froze, then leaped behind a dense bush with sticky thorns. Ouch.
The train whooshed before me in the exact spot where I'd been walking. The windows were all dark and the air stank of oil, swamp gas, and old soil that's been turned up in a garden. I started breathing through my nose. Then I heard a flapping of wings to see a car-sized buzzard with purple wings and silver talons hover over the train. He had something in its grip. I think it was the man I just talked to. What?He screamed, "Put me down you flea-bitten rat — I've got to save my wife!" Then I heard this low windy whisper that sounded like, "You'll pay. You'll pay." Then the buzzard dropped the man near the thunderous tracks and I screamed and jumped back, hurting my head against the tree. Everything before me swam into filmy blue lines and I closed my eyes to see no train, no smell, no marks in the road. What happened?
The gold pocketwatch the strange Gullah man had on him was lying abandoned on the road's yellow line. I picked it up and turned it over. It said, "To my loving James. May 7, 1911." I don't know what sad story I could relate to Aunt Pearlie Sue, but I made my own tracks.