Kindred

by Octavia E. Butler

I heard a metallic click, and I froze, thinking I was going to be shot for saving the boy’s life. I was going to die.

seeing the rifle again leveled at my head. I had never in my life panicked that way—never felt so close to death.

wondered bitterly whether he was worried about my vanishing again or worried about my sanity.

“I’m a black woman, Rufe. If you have to call me something other than my name, that’s it.”

If I was to live, if others were to live, he must live.

“If anyone else comes, I’ll call you ‘Mister Rufus.’ Will that do?” If anyone else came, I’d be lucky to survive.

“You could go outside and hide until morning. Then you could come out and ask Daddy if you could work here. He hires free niggers sometimes.” “Does he? If you were free and black, do you think you’d want to work for him?” He looked away from me, shook his head. “I guess not. He’s pretty mean sometimes.”

The possibility of meeting a white adult here frightened me, more than the possibility of street violence ever had at home.

I wondered about thorns, poison ivy, snakes … I wondered, but I didn’t stop. A pack of half-wild dogs seemed worse. Or perhaps a pack of tame hunting dogs used to tracking runaway slaves.

Blacks here were assumed to be slaves unless they could prove they were free—unless they had their free papers. Paperless blacks were fair game for any white.

Patrols. Groups of young whites who ostensibly maintained order among the slaves. Patrols. Forerunners of the Ku Klux Klan.

These people were my relatives, my ancestors. And this place could be my refuge.

The restricted North was better for blacks than the slave South, but not much better.

Silence seemed safest anyway.

Terror gave me speed and agility I never knew I had.

It was Kevin’s voice! I stared upward, managed to focus on him clearly at last. I was at home. I was lying on my own bed, bloody and dirty, but safe. Safe!

“A patroller is … was a white man, usually young, often poor, sometimes drunk. He was a member of a group of such men organized to keep the blacks in line.”

“Patrollers made sure the slaves were where they were supposed to be at night, and they punished those who weren’t.

sometimes they just raised hell, had a little fun terrorizing people who weren’t...

“To me, it’s getting more and more believable. I don’t like it. I don’t want to be in the middle of it. I don’t understand how it can be happening, but it’s real. It hurts too much not to be.

I moved closer to him, relieved, content with even such grudging acceptance. He had become my anchor, suddenly, my tie to my own world. He couldn’t have known how much I needed him firmly on my side.

“I’m not sure it’s possible for a lone black woman—or even a black man—to be protected in that place,”

I’m a poor dumb scared nigger until I get my chance. They won’t even see the knife if I have my way. Not until it’s too late.”

most of the people around Rufus know more about real violence than the screenwriters of today will ever know.”

“A pass … that was just written permission for a slave to be somewhere other than at home at a certain time.”

One of the reasons it was against the law in some states to teach slaves to read and write was that they might escape by writing themselves passes.

Rufus’s fear of death calls me to him, and my own fear of death sends me home.”

“Seconds count when something is trying to kill you.

your ancestors survived that era—survived it with fewer advantages than you have. You’re no less than they are.” “In a way I am.” “What way?” “Strength. Endurance. To survive, my ancestors had to put up with more than I ever could.

“Just keep coming home,” he said finally. “I need you here too.”

They always had more job hunters than jobs anyway.

You sat and sat until the dispatcher either sent you out on a job or sent you home. Home meant no money.

“I’m still not rich enough to waste money, so eat.”

He was like me—a kindred spirit crazy enough to keep on trying.

I took his hand and held it, glad of its familiarity. And yet I wished he were back at home.

“You sure do talk funny,” said Nigel. “Matter of opinion,” I said.

“Who’re you?” asked Rufus. “My name’s Kevin—Kevin Franklin.” “Does Dana belong to you now?” “In a way,” said Kevin. “She’s my wife.” “Wife?” Rufus squealed. I sighed. “Kevin, I think we’d better demote me. In this time …” “Niggers can’t marry white people!” said Rufus.

“I didn’t say you were trash. I said how’d you like to be called trash. I see you don’t like it. I don’t like being called nigger either.”

“Where we come from,” I said, “it’s vulgar and insulting for whites to call blacks niggers.

Weylin was looking at me—staring hard at me. Perhaps he was seeing my resemblance to Alice’s mother. He couldn’t have seen me clearly enough or long enough at the river to recognize me now as the woman he had once come so near shooting. At first, I stared back. Then I looked away, remembering that I was supposed to be a slave. Slaves lowered their eyes respectfully. To stare back was insolent.

The boy was literally growing up as I watched—growing up because I watched and because I helped to keep him safe. I was the worst possible guardian for him—a black to watch over him in a society that considered blacks subhuman, a woman to watch over him in a society that considered women perennial children.

It was probably easier for the people here to understand a master too poor or too stingy to buy me proper clothing than it would be for them to imagine a place where it was normal for women to wear pants.

There were more utensils off to one side hanging from hooks on the wall. I stared at them and realized that I didn’t know the proper names of any of them. Even things as commonplace as that. I was in a different world.

“We get better food later on after the white folks eat,” said Luke. “We get whatever they leave.” Table scraps, I thought bitterly. Someone else’s leftovers. And, no doubt, if I was here long enough, I would eat them and be glad to get them.

I wished they’d stop asking questions. I didn’t want them to make me tell lies I might forget later. Best to keep my background as simple as possible.

“Why you try to talk like white folks?” Nigel asked me. “I don’t,” I said, surprised. “I mean, this is really the way I talk.” “More like white folks than some white folks.” I shrugged, hunted through my mind for an acceptable explanation. “My mother taught school,” I said, “and …” “A nigger teacher?”

You talk too educated and you come from a free state.” “Why should either of those things matter to him? I don’t belong to him.” The boy smiled. “He don’t want no niggers ’round here talking better than him, putting freedom ideas in our heads.” “Like we so dumb we need some stranger to make us think about freedom,”

my mind was full of vaguely remembered horror stories of the diseases that ran wild during this time. Medicine was just a little better than witchcraft.

I would have to take some chances.

Children listened to him though. He’s white.”