Mama Gomorrah explained, "The baston ain't even real voodoo, Master Selby. Good voodoo is for spirits. But the baston's just killing."

"Did you ever use it?" he asked.

"Not on folks," she said. "But I thinks once of using the last of it on the Tuckers." Then Mama Gomorrah stopped and looked suspiciously at Selby. She asked, "You say the Tuckers come back here?"

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Selby said firmly, "Give me the root."

Mama Gomorrah studied Selby's face. He looked grave. She knew that he had troubles at the big house. But she knew that the Tuckers could still probably cause more trouble at the Star., Leaving Selby alone in front of the hearth for a few moments, Mama Gomorrah returned with a small pouch. It was made from a small squirrel skin and tied with a red rag.

Handing the squirrel pouch to Selby, she murmured, "There's no baston after this."

Taking the pouch, Selby asked, "This is the last?"

"Remember. We salted the ground where it growed on the Star."

Selby stood studying the small furry pouch in his hand.

"There's the powder of the baston in there," Mama Gomorrah whispered to Selby. "And there's one trouble with it."

"What?"

"The baston ain't painful enough for the Tuckers. Your heart starts beating faster and faster, and then"- she looked at the pouch-"then you sleeps."

Selby asked, "You don't need no prayers? No secret mumbo-jumbo?"

Mama Gomorrah shook her head. "If you want real voodoo, if you want bad pain for them, I can fix the witch's ladder." Her eyes danced with the idea of torturing the Tuckers.

"This will do," Selby said.

Then he turned and walked to the door of the Shed.

19.A Duel with Snakes

Peter woke early the next morning and looked around him to see where he had spent the night. He was hi the stables of the big house. He had crawled up into the loft and slept here last night.

Looking down over the edge of the loft, he saw Selby and Nero standing in a flood of bright morning sunlight pouring through the open doors of the stables.

Peter had not seen Selby since the night before last, not since Selby had come down to Niggertown to tell him that Melissa had died.

Peter called to him, "Looking for me?"

Selby and Nero both turned.

Selby said, "I was just giving Nero a message for you, Sonny."

"Wait," Peter called, clambering toward the ladder.

Selby wore fresh linen this morning. His long white hair had been immaculately brushed. His boots were polished like black glass. He had even combed some fresh henna into his goatee. Glancing down at Peter's shabby appearance-but not mentioning it-Selby began, "I've been thinking, Sonny .. ."

"Yes," Peter said, brushing the straw from his breeches. They were still dirty from working yesterday in Niggertown, and soiled with char from the fire.

Selby continued, "My mother's name was Victoria. And her mother, my grandmother, was called Veronica."

Peter's mind was sluggish this morning, but he immediately grasped what Selby was saying. Victoria and 274.

275.

Veronica. Two names for Ms new daughters. He had not even given it any consideration.

Tilting his head, Selby mused, "Victoria and Veronica. It has a nice ring." He looked at Nero, asking, "Don't you think so?"

Nero quickly agreed. "Real nice, Master Selby, sir."

Selby turned to Peter. "What do you think, Sonny?"

Peter nodded. "I like it."

Selby asked, "You haven't seen them yet, have you?" It was not a rebuke.

Looking down at his scuffed boots, Peter shook his head. He felt ashamed of himself. He had been wallowing in pity.

"No worry," Selby answered, patting him on the shoulder. "Storky has everything under control. She had a wench sent up from Niggertown to nurse them."

"Father..." Peter began.

But Selby had not finished. He said, "Now, about the burying, Sonny. What do you think . . . ?" He stopped.

Peter waited. That was exactly the point he wanted to raise.

Turning to look outside the stables at a smart little buggy already hitched to a dappled mare, Selby said, "Storky has got Melly laid out in the upstairs parlor. The parlor where Melly used to meet her Mama's lady friends when she was ..."

Selby was choking now, trying to hold back his tears. "Sonny, don't make plans about burying Melly till you next hear from me, okay?"

Peter agreed with a quick nod. He dreaded making plans for the funeral and was only too glad to agree.

Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, Selby added more brightly, "I've got to drive Doc Riesen to catch the coach in Troy now. He didn't want to accept no payment." Selby patted a pouch of money in the left pocket of his white jacket, saying nothing about the bulge in the other pocket, adding, "but I'm insisting he takes a hundred."

Peter nodded in agreement.

Resquaring his straw hat on his head, Selby said, "On the way home from Troy, I'll be stopping to see Judge Antrobus."

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Again Peter nodded. There was nothing unusual about that.

Walking to the doorway of the stables, Selby squinted at the sunny morning and drawled, "One more thing, Sonny."

"Yes?"

"Nero just told me the Tuckers have come back to fetch their belongings. Do you think you could go down to see they leave?"

"Sure."

"I'd appreciate that, Sonny," Selby said.

"I'll wash and go right away." This prospect was another relief for Peter. It was something to do, a reason to keep out of the oppressing big house.

Waving again, Selby walked to the buggy and climbed up on its one wooden step.

Before riding away, he called to Peter, "Now, you won't forget about Niggertown, will you, Sonny?"

Peter had his shirt half-off, getting ready to wash and shave hi the horse trough. He called to Selby, "Work's already started on the houses."

Selby shouted, "No. I mean about giving it that new name. Remember? Melly never did like it being called Niggertown." Then, cracking a small whip over the dappled mare's head, Selby called to Peter, "Think of something good to call it, Sonny. Think of something pretty for Melly."

Albert Selby bounced away in the buggy toward the front of the house to collect Dr. Riesen and take him to Troy.

The Tuckers had come back to the Star for their belongings. Claudia Tucker was rummaging through the small cabin this morning. And as she lifted and appraised every item in the cabin to find something approaching value, she smiled smugly as she listened to her husband telling Monk the news they had heard yesterday.

Tucker was saying to Monk, "Boy, do niggers named Tim and Perky mean something to you?"

Monk shook his head. He was wondering why Tucker had not shown any interest in his own story, 277.

how he had aroused some of the black men in Nigger-town to bum their shacks.

But Tucker was insisting on telling his own tale.

"A few hours' drive from here," Tucker explained, "is a place belonging to a man called Jack Grouse. I've known Grouse when he didn't have a pot to piss in. Fact is, I sold him a couple niggers from here on the cheap a good twenty years ago."

Oaudia interrupted, "That's why he's so glad to see us. Chad sold him a buck called Cal. Grouse says Cal turned out to be the best buck he ever owned."

Chad Tucker continued, "Since those days, though, Grouse has come up in the world. He had him a few hundred acres of green cotton, and now he's owning near a hundred niggers. He picked up a lot of them cheap after the West Indian troubles."

"He wants to breed niggers now," Claudia interrupted again.

"That's what he wants me for," Tucker bragged. "He wants me to oversee the breeding side of his place."

Behind him, Claudia added, "And my hubby will be called 'Master' again, won't you, sweetie?"

All grievances between the Tuckers had disappeared. They were friends, even flirting with each other this morning.

Tucker proceeded to tell Monk what he had heard yesterday. "Well, anyhows, two of Grouse's niggers are from an island called St. Kitts." His eyes twinkled.

Monk had heard that name before. He began to listen with more interest.

Expanding his chest, Tucker said, "And not only are those niggers from St. Kitts, but they were owned there by a fellow named Abdee."

Monk was not impressed by that fact. As Tucker had told him before, Abdee was a common name. The world, according to Chad Tucker, was full of Abdees, like Smiths. It was a common white-trash name.

Tucker continued enthusiastically, "And that Abdee fellow, he was married to a white Frenchwoman."

"Those niggers tell you this?" Monk asked.

Claudia turned again, saying, "They tells us all of it, boy. Everybody treated us Eke visiting royalness at the 278.

Grouse place. Now, you just shut up and listen to what Mr. Tucker has to say to you." She waved a wooden spoon at Monk. And then, studying the spoon, she dropped it into the hopsacking resting at her feet and looked for more things to take.

Tucker said gleefully, "But that Frenchwoman Abdee was married to left him. He was a right mean bastard, and she left him high and dry. But she left with a kid in her belly." Tucker could see that Monk was slowly getting his point. "And she took her maid with her, too. And that maid was called-"

"Ta-Ta," Claudia shouted to Monk, holding an iron skillet now, its bottom caked with cold grease. "And she had a git of her own called-"

Tucker said, "Monkey!"

"The same as you were called when you first comes here to me," Claudia said excitedly.

Then, lowering her head to examine the greasy skillet, she dropped it into the sack, too.

Monk stood still. He was becoming confused.

"But the best part of the story," Tucker roared, "the best part of this story is that Ta-Ta's git-you, boy- is Abdee's son, too. That's who your daddy is, boy. Didn't I tell you once you might have a daddy someplace in the world?"

Monk blinked at Tucker. He did not know if he was supposed to thank him for telling him this. The story still was not clear to him.

"Don't you see, boy?" Tucker explained, "That whitey up at the big house is the son of that West Indian Abdee. And you and him is near-enough brothers!"

Monk scratched at Ms cheek.

Tucker simplified the matter for him. He asked, "Why can that so-called 'Master Peter' be the goddamned big shot here, and you're not even good enough to have that job he gives to Nero?"

Monk started, "You mean-?"

Tucker shouted, "I mean that Peter Abdee is a big shot. And that crazy old Ta-Ta wench who lives in the attic at the big house gets all the whiskey she can drink because she was that Peter's ma's maid. But you, you 279.

goddamned nigger, you're nothing but shit to any of them. You are nothing. You get nothing."

Monk finally understood. His face was hardening. He was feeling now-more than ever-that he had a right to be the overseer.

Tucker goaded, "Brothers. You're brothers with that fine 'Master Peter,' yet he keeps you under his feet like a dog."

" 'Master Peter,' " Monk repeated slowly.