Date: Wed, 15 Sep 2004 04:23:32 -0700 (PDT)
From: Lance Kyle <lokiaga@prodigy.net>
Subject: Seaward Plantation epilogue

Seaward Plantation

War clouds epilogue

"Right there!" said Mark Appleby, striking the ground with
his cane, "and all along there and there," he continued,
pointing to the left and right with the stick, "is where the
shoreline used to be.  Before we had to push out.  Got all
that fill on barges from Charleston.  Thought we were crazy,
but we got all this space!"  And then he bent over, wheezing
and coughing, fighting for breath.  Blossom patted him
gently but firmly on the back while Battle held on to the
old man's arm.  The medium brown man and dark brown woman
looked at each other over the thin, bent back and shook
their heads.  The spasm subsided and slowly, slowly Appleby
straightened up, fighting for breath, wheezing constantly.

There was a clumping sound behind them.  It was Troy,
smiting the ground in annoyance with his own cane at every
step.  "Did I not warn you, old man?" he said.  "Did I not
say not to walk all the way down here?"

"Who are you calling an old man?" whispered Appleby, the
breath coming easier but still each one a struggle.  Troy
came up to him and lifted the white man's chin with his hand
to look him in the eyes.  They held the gaze for a while, as
Appleby slowly, slowly regained his breath.  Then he nodded
at Troy, who nodded back.  "It's 1910, not 1850," Troy said,
more gently.  "You can't be charging all over Seaward island
any longer," he said.  And then he added, under his breath,
"and neither can I."  Appleby nodded and gulped, composing
himself.  "Well, I was right," he said, adding irrelevantly,
"we got all this space and built all these buildings.  Had
to grow with all you youngsters!" and he glared with mock
ferocity at the middle-aged man and woman on either side of
him.

"You didn't come down here to look at all these storage and
utility buildings that you've seen a hundred times before,"
muttered Troy as they slowly turned to head back up the
incline.  "You came down to see the new artillery.  Well?"

A few more yards and they passed the weapons in question.
Appleby stopped to pat the nearest one.  "French 75mm
artillery, imported directly from Brest," he said.  Then a
spark of his old fire returned and he wheeled, glaring at
the mainland.  "Let another one of those damn Klan sheriffs
come out here meddling and we'll get a little practice in."
Then slowly, slowly, he began the long walk back, Troy at
his side, Blossom and Battle shaking their heads at his side
and behind him.  They took it step by step.

"Remember those old cannon from the War Between the States?"
asked Battle, mainly to cover the sound of Appleby's labored
breathing with conversation.  "They seemed so happy to get
them for the courthouse on the mainland, didn't even stop to
think of their history!"  More steps, more labored
breathing.  Blossom took up the theme:  "Yes, but I'm glad
for those French 75's, the old breech-loaders we had were so
outdated."  Slowly and even slower, the group made its way
back through well-tended fields to the lawn, then up the
verandah steps one at a time.  Finally they made it to a
rocker, where Appleby slumped, ashen-white.  Blossom slipped
quickly into the house and soon brought out Portia, whose
white hair was tied in a bun.

"Drink this, Master Mark," she said, holding the cup to
Appleby's lips.  It was all he could do to take some and
swallow, but it seemed to help.  His vacant eyes focused and
snapped back into attention, his breathing became stronger.
Moments passed, and so did the crisis.  But the people
around him exchanged worried looks, and more than one head
was shaken in sadness.

"Any mail?" he rasped out.  "What's the news?"

Portia went back into the house and came out with a packet
of opened letters.  "Well," she said, "there is something
from Harriet at the Sorbonne, and Matthew at Yale.  Their
studies are going well.  They expect to receive their law
degrees this spring, as planned.  Oh, and Marcus and Bundit
are reporting from Cuba that our investments are going very
well there.  It seems as if we were wise to buy land as we
did just as the war with Spain ended.  Its value has greatly
increased."  She went on through other mail, some letters
from the far-flung Seaward family, some news or reports on
financial investments.  Appleby was silent but he heard
every word.

How thankful he was that he had insisted on some children
from each generation going to law school or to study
business.  It was his own training that had originally
secured the legal and financial defenses of the island.
Well, that and a judicious program of contributing to
political parties on the mainland, and even outright bribery
of officials when needed.  Especially since Federal troops
had left the South some years ago, conditions for former
slaves and their descendents had become perilous all over
the country, but especially in the South.  White leaders in
Charleston and South Carolina were no more tolerant than
they were anyplace else, but Appleby consistently made it
worth their while to turn a blind eye to the extraordinary
community on Seaward--and to accept its residents for who
and what they were whenever they came ashore.  Oh, the
occasional sheriff or other functionary hoping for public
office, and sometimes simply a band of thugs, would make the
mistake of thinking they could come out to Seaward in force
and do them harm.  Appleby smiled grimly, thinking of the
new artillery and of its well-used predecessors.  What money
couldn't buy, high-explosive shells could.

Wise investments during the War had continued to build the
bedrock on which Seaward's prosperity, and hence
independence, was based.  The whole island was wrapped
around with layers and layers of legal protections:  trusts,
special zoning dispensations, semi-autonomous status, laws
passed by the legislature---Seaward was entangled in a
protective web, and Appleby was the benevolent spider who
had spun it.  Now a new generation was learning that craft,
and the old man felt that in that way among many others, he
could let go.

Appleby rocked on the porch, Troy seated next to him, for
the rest of the morning.  Around lunchtime, Hector came
around the end of the verandah with a tray.  Smiling
broadly, he set the tray gently on Appleby's lap.  "Master
Mark!" he said gently, and Appleby jerked awake from a
slumber--as did Troy, next to him.  Hector nodded, smiling.
"Here's a little lunch, master.  Think you can eat?"
Gently, almost surreptitiously, he cupped the old man's neck
with his big, meaty hand--a look of worry passed like a
cloud across his smiling face.  Appleby grinned back and
nodded.  Troy rose from his rocker to get something for his
own lunch, stumping off with his cane in the direction of
the kitchen, while Hector settled down in his place.  Again,
he reached a big hand over and kept it on Appleby's neck and
shoulder, gently massaging as he picked at his food.

By twos and threes, children began gathering on the lawn to
play after their lunches.  Appleby smiled broadly, and his
appetite seemed to improve.  Once again he marveled at the
wonderful variety of skin tones and hair textures.  With
each generation the strains of Africa, Europe, and Asia that
had been planted on Seaward mixed and cross-mixed, producing
a flower garden of people who were "hard to place" to
outsiders but nevertheless had their own undeniable beauty.
"We make some pretty children here, you know?" said Appleby,
and Hector could but agree.

Troy came back, accompanied by Pan and Bacchus, still tall
and erect in their old age but their springy hair now chalk
white.  Within their aged bodies the spark of their youthful
vigor still glowed.  Each one hugged Appleby, and Pan said,
"I hear you overdid it, Master Mark!"

Appleby shook his head.  "Did not.  Not at all.  And I'm not
done for the day."  Pan and Bacchus exchanged a worried
look.  "What do you mean, master?" asked Bacchus.

By way of answer, Appleby rose to his feet and seized his
cane.  True, there was no hesitation or shakiness as he
rose, but now Hector and Troy rose as well, with frowns on
their faces.  Appleby struck off for the steps, gripping the
handrail as he clumped down one step at a time, before
anybody could stop him.

"Master, no!" cried Hector, and Pan and Bacchus stepped
after Appleby.  But the old man stopped at the bottom of the
steps and without looking back raised a hand.  "Just Troy,"
he said.  There was a moment of silence; he had spoken in a
tone that seemed to brook no disagreement.  The other men
shared frowns all around, but Troy, muttering under his
breath, collected his own cane and clumped down the steps
after him.  He took Appleby by the arm.  Half-turning,
Appleby looked back at the men on the steps and verandah.
"See you later," he said, adding, "one way or another."  And
then began walking off, Troy by his side.

"Where are you going now, Master Mark?" asked Troy, love and
exasperation weighing equally in his voice.  Appleby plodded
on down a path, slowly but with a sense of purpose.  He let
the question hang for a moment, then said in a raspy voice,
"The cemetery."

Troy stopped still and tugged at Appleby's arm.  "Now, be
reasonable, master, that's quite a climb.  You've had enough
for one day."

"The cemetery," repeated Appleby.  "I want to visit Priam."
Troy knew he meant old Priam, not young Priam who was off in
England with Haven and Free at the moment looking into some
investment possibilities for Seaward.  Then without waiting
for comment or permission, Appleby started off down the path
again.

Troy kept pace with him, but even with as slow a progress as
they made, it was difficult.  He could not imagine the
strain it must be putting on Appleby.  Even with stops for
rest, Appleby was panting and wheezing ominously as the path
played out and the cemetery came into view.  Now staggering,
Appleby made for a large, flat stone and half sat, half
collapsed onto it.  The stone was placed near three graves,
topped by headstones marked "Priam," "Cassandra," and
"Juno."  Troy, panting almost as hard, sank down next to
him.  But he had no regard for his own condition.  Instead
he was looking hard at Appleby, now white as a sheet and
breathing raggedly.

"You overdid it, master," said Troy.

"I....I think.....you're right this time," said Appleby,
gasping.  Then he winced.  "It... it hurts Troy.  Very much
so."

Really worried now, Troy pulled Appleby in toward him with
his hand.  "Here, now, Master Mark, just rest your head on
my shoulder.  Just rest.  Just rest."  Appleby did so,
laying his head of thin white hair on Troy's shoulder.
"Just rest...." he repeated it like a lullaby.  Appleby
nodded.  And he whispered, "I love you, Troy."  Troy
swallowed hard and nodded.

A moment passed, and another.  The sharp pain subsided.
Appleby's breathing cleared instantly, becoming light and
easy.  "That's much better," said Appleby.  "I may have
overdone it, Troy.  But I had to see Priam, to talk to him.
I do from time to time, you know, I come up here and talk to
him."  Appleby sighed deeply, all pain now gone.

"Well, here I am, master," rumbled the familiar voice.
"What did you want to say?"

Startled, Appleby lifted his head from Troy's shoulder.  It
was Priam; was he surprised to see him?  or had he known he
would be here, and was that why he had made the effort to
come up that hill?

"Priam....is it you?  I.... I thought you died years ago."

"Well, master, what's dying after all?" Priam said, stepping
around to perch on his own headstone.  "Doesn't mean you go
away, not really.  You're still here, aren't you?"  Appleby
frowned, not quite understanding what Priam had said.

"He's right you know," said Cass, walking up on the left,
nodding at Juno who stood on the right.  "Especially
Seaward," said Juno.  "You'll find you take it with you.
Not an ordinary place, Seaward Plantation."

"I told you so in that letter I left you, oh! ages ago,"
said a trim old white woman who stepped up behind Priam and
put her arms around his neck, embracing him.

"Aunt.... Aunt Lucy?!" said Appleby.

"Well, of course.  Learn to love these people, didn't I say
so?  Well you did, and so you will take that love with you.
It will in fact be where you end up."

Appleby looked left and right, confused, shaking his head.
Turning to Priam he said, "But Priam, you died so long
ago.... yet you look as you did the day you died.  How can
that be?"

Priam chuckled.  "This is how you want me to look," he said.
"Have you been on Seaward all this time and not learned that
how someone looks is beautiful, but not who they really,
truly are?  I can look another way," he said, slyly, turning
halfway around to look at Lucy, and for an instant the years
dropped away from both of them and they were young and
strong--then their images changed back to the ones Appleby
recalled.  "Look, see for yourself," said Priam, holding out
the palm of his hand toward Appleby.  It shimmered and
shone, and in the quicksilver mirror finish of the palm
Appleby saw his own reflection, a handsome young man of
twenty-five.  Priam turned his hand over and the image
vanished.  But he kept his hand held out.

"Time to go, Master Mark," he said, rising.  Appleby took
his hand and rose, the first steps light and airy.  Another
step and another.  "But wait," he said, and looked back, and
now down a bit, to a flat stone where an old black man held
an old white man in his lap, rocking back and forth, weeping
without consolation.  "Will Troy be alright?"

"Yes," said Cass, "we won't have long to wait.  You can come
back and get him yourself--soon."  Appleby nodded and took
another step.

And then but another, and one more.

And there, on the horizon directly in their path, was a
smudge of brown and green lying on a blue sea.  It looked a
lot like Seaward Plantation.