Zora was looking on her world with the keener vision
of one who, blind from very seeing, closes the eyes
a space and looks again with wider clearer vision.
Out of a nebulous cloudland she seemed to step; a land
where all things floated in strange confusion, but
where one thing stood steadfast, and that was love.
When love was shaken all things moved, but now, at
last, for the first time she seemed to know the real
and mighty world that stood behind that old and shaken
dream.
So she looked on the world about her with new eyes.
These men and women of her childhood had hitherto
walked by her like shadows; today they lived for her
in flesh and blood. She saw hundreds and thousands
of black men and women: crushed, half-spirited,
and blind. She saw how high and clear a light
Sarah Smith, for thirty years and more, had carried
before them. She saw, too, how that the light
had not simply shone in darkness, but had lighted
answering beacons here and there in these dull souls.
There were thoughts and vague stirrings of unrest
in this mass of black folk. They talked long
about their firesides, and here Zora began to sit
and listen, often speaking a word herself. All
through the countryside she flitted, till gradually
the black folk came to know her and, in silent deference
to some subtle difference, they gave her the title
of white folk, calling her “Miss” Zora.
Today, more than ever before, Zora sensed the vast
unorganized power in this mass, and her mind was leaping
here and there, scheming and testing, when voices
arrested her.
It was a desolate bit of the Cresswell manor, a tiny
cabin, new-boarded and bare, in front of it a blazing
bonfire. A white man was tossing into the flames
different household articles—a feather bed,
a bedstead, two rickety chairs. A young, boyish
fellow, golden-faced and curly, stood with clenched
fists, while a woman with tear-stained eyes clung to
him. The white man raised a cradle to dash it
into the flames; the woman cried, and the yellow man
raised his arm threateningly. But Zora’s
hand was on his shoulder.
“What’s the matter, Rob?” she asked.
“They’re selling us out,” he muttered
savagely. “Millie’s been sick since
the last baby died, and I had to neglect my crop to
tend her and the other little ones—I didn’t
make much. They’ve took my mule, now they’re
burning my things to make me sign a contract and be
a slave. But by—”
“There, Rob, let Millie come with me—we’ll
see Miss Smith. We must get land to rent and
arrange somehow.”
The mother sobbed, “The cradle—was
baby’s!”
With an oath the white man dashed the cradle into
the fire, and the red flame spurted aloft.
The crimson fire flashed in Zora’s eyes as she
passed the overseer.
“Well, nigger, what are you going to do about
it?” he growled insolently.
