The Ribbons
By Ferguson Williams
Poppa overheard Paul-Ann from his position on the porch. “Shhh… D’yall hear that?” she said. And for a moment they all looked up from the fields, Mama and Jillian and Emma, expecting to see coming up the road the band of tired motley n****** who’d run off days before. He raised the rifle just in case someone was coming but only the wind approached, blowing across the women on their hands and knees as they picked the last of the turnips to cook for supper. That was all there would be tonight. Nothing in the earth seemed to last. “I hear Pammy sangin’. It’s Pammy comin’ home.”
So they all tried to hear what the youngster heard but they couldn’t. He knew Mama didn’t have the heart to tell Paul-Ann about the escaped slaves going wild, killing white people over in Ogdenville, raping Christian women and destroying everything in their path like locusts. Instead she told the child the slaves would return. They’d see that there was nothing for coloreds out there. The world was a harsh and scary place and they'd had a good life living on the manor. The slaves owed them thanks for that. Besides Pammy would be so lonesome she’d come running back.
For the life of them, he and Mama and Jillian and Emma couldn’t hear a thing. The fact that Paul-Ann could and seemed so delighted in the return of her precious Pammy scared Mama so bad that Mama made them abandon the few turnips they hadn’t picked and head inside immediately.
He was still standing guard as the women made their way back to the house. Their pace was steady, almost graceful, but as they ventured closer he saw no grace only truth. Jillian and Emma were barely of courting age yet their rosy skin and flaxen hair once envied were gone. Circumstance seemed to have aged them overnight; their features hardened by uncertainty. Frocks that once clung to every curve tempting every suitor now looked like cast offs on an old scarecrow.
Young Paul Ann trailed behind her sisters, wandering in and out of line, apparently oblivious to the current state of affairs. A bout of malaria years ago had slowed her mentally, allowing her now to detach and reattach to reality whenever she wanted. He often pitied her being so beautiful and yet so simple minded, 'special' Mama called her, but right now he almost wished he could trade places with his daughter. To escape from the grayness of this situation, this life, this misery even for a moment would be...
In the rear of the group marched his wife, his dear sweet wife who faked a placid smile in his direction. Yet the fear in her eyes betrayed her, offering him a glance that made him feel obtuse.
They should have left when the others did.
“Slim pickin’s, eh?” It was all he could think to say as his family brushed past with their tattered dresses and disheveled hair. No one answered as they went inside.
Paul-Ann lingered though, looked over her shoulder back towards the fields and said, “Pammy be here soon, Poppa. She comin’ to make thangs right and she will too, uh huh. Jus’ you wait and see.” He ushered the girl inside nervously, latching the door behind him. With the Winchester cradled in his arms like a baby, he began repositioning the cupboard to block the entrance.
It wasn’t until dusk that they all heard it too, a sound so faint and low at first that it seemed to travel on the wind. It tumbled over the pond and the sycamore trees that lined its edges. It swept across the lawn of their modest plantation and crashed at the foot of the porch steps. It journeyed slowly up the wooden planks, rocked his old rocking chair, and scratched at the front door like an old tom cat looking to come inside. Then there was darkness. A purplish black haze enveloped the house so fast that the birds, huddled in the trees, went squawking towards the heavens.
He looked back at Mama for confirmation that she heard the noise as well. He motioned to her to extinguish the fire, but Mama seemed too frightened to look in his direction, let alone do anything. He whispered her name.
The older girls seated in front of the roaring flames murmured, “Mama,” but she still didn’t respond.
Paul-Ann laughed and clapped her hands. He gazed at her, his face rigid. “Hush.” He parted the curtains with the barrel of his weapon. There was nothing out there even though he could clearly hear singing. He knew it wasn’t Pammy, for Pammy had hung weeks ago from a tree down by the creek. But it was someone, a group of someones, singing a song he’d often heard the niggers sing in the fields.
“Red, red ribbon, it gon’ be alright.
Red, red ribbon, jus’ stay in the light.
Red, red ribbon be on everythin’,
For the blood of Jesus Christ gon’ wash away all sin.”
Paul-Ann began shouting, “I tol’ y’all Pammy was comin’. She here, she here. Come on in, Pammy.”
Mama, suddenly out of her trance, walked over and smacked the child right across the face. “Stop it now, Paul-Ann. Jus’... just stop it.” Mama’s voice was tense as she wrung her hands together over and over.
The young girl smirked in response to her mother’s unusual ferocity and began singing, her voice somewhat off key and out of sync with those coming from outside. “Red, red ribbon be on everythin’.”
Something heavy rolled across the porch, scaling the wooden laths like keys on a piano. Mama looked opaque, her teeth clinched. Paul-Ann clapped her hands and giggled like a babe. Jillian and Emma sat petrified. Only their eyes moved, darting from window to window following the singing. The noise settled in front of the door and the older girls began to whimper like puppies.
He moved, silencing his daughters’ cries with a single finger held to his lips. He waved to get Mama’s attention and, without a sound, commanded she get the Colt from the dining room table. She picked up the firearm like a live snake, as if it wiggled uncomfortably in her petit hands. He knew immediately that she would be useless.
The voices outside sang loud and strong.
“Get,” he ordered. “Get on from here. Ya, ya not welcome and I, I don’t want no trouble.”
The song continued as if they didn’t hear him.
“I been good to ya'll. I, I ain’t never-”
The crooning sustained.
“Dammit, I will kill ya. Every one of ya. I swear to God I will.” There was no response to his calls, but someone touched the door knob, and startled, he fired towards the motion hitting the window. The glass and curtains exploded outward and in rushed the sound as if an entire church choir crossed into the parlor.
“Red, red ribbon-” The singing was clamorous. Jillian and Emma scrambled to their feet with hands capped over their ears and fled towards their mother.
Only darkness waited on the other side of the broken window. Not someone or a group of someones, just darkness. He looked dolefully back at Mama who tried to shield the older girls with her embrace. Mama was screaming something. The singing was just too loud and he couldn’t hear but her face said it all. John, do something before it’s too late.
A heavy breath parted his lips. He raised his gun and fired.
The Winchester bullet caught the crown of Mama’s head. Clumps of hair and scalp burst back towards the wall. The girls screamed as their mother’s body dropped to the floor like a discarded rag doll. He fired at Jillian and missed which gave the girl the opportunity to sprint to the staircase. Emma followed but her father’s next shot caught her in the middle of her back, jerking her violently forward then crashing her head into the bottom step.
He eyed Paul-Ann dancing and singing by the table. She looked to be oblivious to the chaos, her mother and sister dead on the floor. With his sadness turning to anger, he cocked the rifle. Seeming to sense what was coming, the girl ran to the exposed opening and dove head first into the night, landing with a thud on the wooden porch.
“I tol’ ‘em you was comin’, Pammy,” she cooed as the sweet music swaddled her like an infant, blanketing her in darkness. And then she was gone.
“Red, red ribbon, it gon’ be alright.
Red, red ribbon, jus’ stay in the light.
Red, red ribbon be on everythin’,
For the blood of Jesus Christ gon’ wash away all sin.”
The requiem flooded the first floor like a mighty river. He moved with purpose: first to his wife’s body to retrieve the Colt, then to the base of the stairs where Emma lay motionless. In time with the music, he leapt two and three steps at once until he reached the second floor. On instinct, he went to his wife’s sitting room and there Jillian was, huddled next to Mama’s old bureau.
Before he even raised the barrel of the gun she whined, “Poppa, please.” He paused for a moment. Her eyes, her beautiful big brown eyes were those of her mother. Maybe there was a way. Maybe they could climb down the awning and…but then he heard them. The slight suction sound of their bare feet ascending the hardwood steps.
Something in his eyes must have told the girl there was no going back, that this was the end. She kicked at his legs in an attempt to keep him at bay. He was trying to save her from them. Why didn’t she understand that? He placed the muzzle close to her chest as she lashed at him violently, screaming at the top of her lungs, “No, Poppa. No, Poppa.”
He pulled the trigger.
“Puh… pa.” Her mouth moved as if she were lost in thought, like she was singing a song she’d forgotten the words to. Tears cut tracks in the blood on her cheeks. Her head drooped to one side. Her chest moved once and a look of calm washed over her face. Her chest moved again and she was gone.
And he was alone with the someones whose footsteps were on the second floor. He could hear the creaking hinges of the bedroom doors down the hall as they opened one by one. With the rifle by his feet and the Colt to his temple, he mumbled a prayer then pulled the trigger.
Nothing. He pulled the trigger a second time. Still nothing.
He fell back into his wife’s rocking chair and shook his head in disbelief. What she had told Paul Ann was right after all. They had come back. They were singing low now, marching rhythmically down the hall, searching every room to find their master.
So they all tried to hear what the youngster heard but they couldn’t. He knew Mama didn’t have the heart to tell Paul-Ann about the escaped slaves going wild, killing white people over in Ogdenville, raping Christian women and destroying everything in their path like locusts. Instead she told the child the slaves would return. They’d see that there was nothing for coloreds out there. The world was a harsh and scary place and they'd had a good life living on the manor. The slaves owed them thanks for that. Besides Pammy would be so lonesome she’d come running back.
For the life of them, he and Mama and Jillian and Emma couldn’t hear a thing. The fact that Paul-Ann could and seemed so delighted in the return of her precious Pammy scared Mama so bad that Mama made them abandon the few turnips they hadn’t picked and head inside immediately.
He was still standing guard as the women made their way back to the house. Their pace was steady, almost graceful, but as they ventured closer he saw no grace only truth. Jillian and Emma were barely of courting age yet their rosy skin and flaxen hair once envied were gone. Circumstance seemed to have aged them overnight; their features hardened by uncertainty. Frocks that once clung to every curve tempting every suitor now looked like cast offs on an old scarecrow.
Young Paul Ann trailed behind her sisters, wandering in and out of line, apparently oblivious to the current state of affairs. A bout of malaria years ago had slowed her mentally, allowing her now to detach and reattach to reality whenever she wanted. He often pitied her being so beautiful and yet so simple minded, 'special' Mama called her, but right now he almost wished he could trade places with his daughter. To escape from the grayness of this situation, this life, this misery even for a moment would be...
In the rear of the group marched his wife, his dear sweet wife who faked a placid smile in his direction. Yet the fear in her eyes betrayed her, offering him a glance that made him feel obtuse.
They should have left when the others did.
“Slim pickin’s, eh?” It was all he could think to say as his family brushed past with their tattered dresses and disheveled hair. No one answered as they went inside.
Paul-Ann lingered though, looked over her shoulder back towards the fields and said, “Pammy be here soon, Poppa. She comin’ to make thangs right and she will too, uh huh. Jus’ you wait and see.” He ushered the girl inside nervously, latching the door behind him. With the Winchester cradled in his arms like a baby, he began repositioning the cupboard to block the entrance.
It wasn’t until dusk that they all heard it too, a sound so faint and low at first that it seemed to travel on the wind. It tumbled over the pond and the sycamore trees that lined its edges. It swept across the lawn of their modest plantation and crashed at the foot of the porch steps. It journeyed slowly up the wooden planks, rocked his old rocking chair, and scratched at the front door like an old tom cat looking to come inside. Then there was darkness. A purplish black haze enveloped the house so fast that the birds, huddled in the trees, went squawking towards the heavens.
He looked back at Mama for confirmation that she heard the noise as well. He motioned to her to extinguish the fire, but Mama seemed too frightened to look in his direction, let alone do anything. He whispered her name.
The older girls seated in front of the roaring flames murmured, “Mama,” but she still didn’t respond.
Paul-Ann laughed and clapped her hands. He gazed at her, his face rigid. “Hush.” He parted the curtains with the barrel of his weapon. There was nothing out there even though he could clearly hear singing. He knew it wasn’t Pammy, for Pammy had hung weeks ago from a tree down by the creek. But it was someone, a group of someones, singing a song he’d often heard the niggers sing in the fields.
“Red, red ribbon, it gon’ be alright.
Red, red ribbon, jus’ stay in the light.
Red, red ribbon be on everythin’,
For the blood of Jesus Christ gon’ wash away all sin.”
Paul-Ann began shouting, “I tol’ y’all Pammy was comin’. She here, she here. Come on in, Pammy.”
Mama, suddenly out of her trance, walked over and smacked the child right across the face. “Stop it now, Paul-Ann. Jus’... just stop it.” Mama’s voice was tense as she wrung her hands together over and over.
The young girl smirked in response to her mother’s unusual ferocity and began singing, her voice somewhat off key and out of sync with those coming from outside. “Red, red ribbon be on everythin’.”
Something heavy rolled across the porch, scaling the wooden laths like keys on a piano. Mama looked opaque, her teeth clinched. Paul-Ann clapped her hands and giggled like a babe. Jillian and Emma sat petrified. Only their eyes moved, darting from window to window following the singing. The noise settled in front of the door and the older girls began to whimper like puppies.
He moved, silencing his daughters’ cries with a single finger held to his lips. He waved to get Mama’s attention and, without a sound, commanded she get the Colt from the dining room table. She picked up the firearm like a live snake, as if it wiggled uncomfortably in her petit hands. He knew immediately that she would be useless.
The voices outside sang loud and strong.
“Get,” he ordered. “Get on from here. Ya, ya not welcome and I, I don’t want no trouble.”
The song continued as if they didn’t hear him.
“I been good to ya'll. I, I ain’t never-”
The crooning sustained.
“Dammit, I will kill ya. Every one of ya. I swear to God I will.” There was no response to his calls, but someone touched the door knob, and startled, he fired towards the motion hitting the window. The glass and curtains exploded outward and in rushed the sound as if an entire church choir crossed into the parlor.
“Red, red ribbon-” The singing was clamorous. Jillian and Emma scrambled to their feet with hands capped over their ears and fled towards their mother.
Only darkness waited on the other side of the broken window. Not someone or a group of someones, just darkness. He looked dolefully back at Mama who tried to shield the older girls with her embrace. Mama was screaming something. The singing was just too loud and he couldn’t hear but her face said it all. John, do something before it’s too late.
A heavy breath parted his lips. He raised his gun and fired.
The Winchester bullet caught the crown of Mama’s head. Clumps of hair and scalp burst back towards the wall. The girls screamed as their mother’s body dropped to the floor like a discarded rag doll. He fired at Jillian and missed which gave the girl the opportunity to sprint to the staircase. Emma followed but her father’s next shot caught her in the middle of her back, jerking her violently forward then crashing her head into the bottom step.
He eyed Paul-Ann dancing and singing by the table. She looked to be oblivious to the chaos, her mother and sister dead on the floor. With his sadness turning to anger, he cocked the rifle. Seeming to sense what was coming, the girl ran to the exposed opening and dove head first into the night, landing with a thud on the wooden porch.
“I tol’ ‘em you was comin’, Pammy,” she cooed as the sweet music swaddled her like an infant, blanketing her in darkness. And then she was gone.
“Red, red ribbon, it gon’ be alright.
Red, red ribbon, jus’ stay in the light.
Red, red ribbon be on everythin’,
For the blood of Jesus Christ gon’ wash away all sin.”
The requiem flooded the first floor like a mighty river. He moved with purpose: first to his wife’s body to retrieve the Colt, then to the base of the stairs where Emma lay motionless. In time with the music, he leapt two and three steps at once until he reached the second floor. On instinct, he went to his wife’s sitting room and there Jillian was, huddled next to Mama’s old bureau.
Before he even raised the barrel of the gun she whined, “Poppa, please.” He paused for a moment. Her eyes, her beautiful big brown eyes were those of her mother. Maybe there was a way. Maybe they could climb down the awning and…but then he heard them. The slight suction sound of their bare feet ascending the hardwood steps.
Something in his eyes must have told the girl there was no going back, that this was the end. She kicked at his legs in an attempt to keep him at bay. He was trying to save her from them. Why didn’t she understand that? He placed the muzzle close to her chest as she lashed at him violently, screaming at the top of her lungs, “No, Poppa. No, Poppa.”
He pulled the trigger.
“Puh… pa.” Her mouth moved as if she were lost in thought, like she was singing a song she’d forgotten the words to. Tears cut tracks in the blood on her cheeks. Her head drooped to one side. Her chest moved once and a look of calm washed over her face. Her chest moved again and she was gone.
And he was alone with the someones whose footsteps were on the second floor. He could hear the creaking hinges of the bedroom doors down the hall as they opened one by one. With the rifle by his feet and the Colt to his temple, he mumbled a prayer then pulled the trigger.
Nothing. He pulled the trigger a second time. Still nothing.
He fell back into his wife’s rocking chair and shook his head in disbelief. What she had told Paul Ann was right after all. They had come back. They were singing low now, marching rhythmically down the hall, searching every room to find their master.
Ferguson Williams is a fiction writer from Socastee, South Carolina and is currently working on her debut collection of short stories titled Kush, Cognac, and Cigarettes. She can be reached at author.fwilliams@yahoo.com.
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