Kindred

by Octavia E. Butler

I didn’t want him to get the idea that he could control it. Especially if it turned out that he really could.

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

He had become my anchor, suddenly, my tie to my own world.

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

I would have all I could do to look after myself. But I would help him as best I could.

Not that I wanted us to have trouble, but it seemed as though we should have had a harder time adjusting to this particular segment of history—adjusting to our places in the household of a slaveholder.

He looked at me strangely. He had been doing that a lot lately.

And I began to realize why Kevin and I had fitted so easily into this time. We weren’t really in. We were observers watching a show. We were watching history happen around us. And we were actors. While we waited to go home, we humored the people around us by pretending to be like them. But we were poor actors. We never really got into our roles. We never forgot that we were acting.

“The ease. Us, the children … I never realized how easily people could be trained to accept slavery.”

There was no shame in raping a black woman, but there could be shame in loving one.

I was startled to catch myself saying wearily, “Home at last.”

I began to believe I would see him again.

She had done the safe thing—had accepted a life of slavery because she was afraid.

I realized that Rufus had done exactly what I had said he would do: Gotten possession of the woman without having to bother with her husband.

Rufus had caused her trouble, and now he had been rewarded for it.

“I wouldn’t bother her. It would be like hurting a baby.” Later it would be like hurting a woman. I suspected that wouldn’t bother him at all.

“Damn that Franklin,” I heard Rufus say. “You’re damning the wrong man,” said Weylin.

What man then

Would I really try again? Could I?

See how easily slaves are made?

It was that destructive single-minded love of his.

I looked away, feeling strangely guilty that, yes, I did get some time of freedom. Not enough, but probably more than Nigel would ever know.

You’re not natural! But you can feel pain—and you can die.

I had worried that I was keeping too much distance between myself and this alien time. Now, there was no distance at all. When had I stopped acting? Why had I stopped?

There was such a difference in our ages now that everyone else my age called her “Aunt Sarah.” I knew it was a title of respect in this culture, and I respected her.

“Not much. ’Bout much as old Marse Tom whipped you that time.” That gentle spanking, yes.

“There’re worse things than being dead,” I had said.