CHAPTER 11

The old man had lived in Avoyelles Parish in the state of Louisiana for years, his neighbors told Doro. He had married daughters, but no sons. His wife was long dead and he lived alone on his plantation with his slaves—a number of whom were reputed to be his children. He kept to himself. He had never cared much for socializing, even when his wife was alive—nor had she.

Warrick, the old man's name was, Edward Warrick. Within the past century, he was the third human Doro had found himself drawn toward with the feeling that he was near Anyanwu.

Anyanwu.

He had not even said her name aloud for years. There was no one alive in the state of New York who had known her. Her children were dead. The grandchildren who had been born before she fled had also died. Wars had taken some of them. The War of Independence. The stupid 1812 War. The first had killed many of his people and sent others fleeing to Canada because they were too insular and apolitical for anyone's taste. British soldiers considered them rebels and colonists considered them Tories. Many lost all their possessions as they fled to Canada, where Doro found them months later. Now Doro had a Canadian settlement as well as a reconstructed Wheatley in New York. Now, also, he had settlements in Brazil, in Mexico, in Kentucky, and elsewhere, scattered over the two large, empty continents. Most of his best people were now in the New World where there was room for them to grow and increase their power—where there was room for their strangeness.

None of that was compensation for the near destruction of Wheatley, though, just as there could be no compensation for the loss in 1812 of several of his best people in Maryland. These Marylanders were the descendants of the people he had lost when he found Anyanwu. He had reassembled them painstakingly and got them breeding again. They had begun to show promise. Then suddenly the most promising ones were dead. He had had to bring in new blood to rebuild them for a third time—people as much like them as possible. That caused trouble because the people who proved to be most like them in ability were white. There was resentment and hatred on both sides and Doro had had to kill publicly a pair of the worst troublemakers to terrify the others back into their habit of obedience. More valuable breeders wasted. Trouble to settle with the surrounding whites who did not know quite what they had in their midst . . .

So much time wasted. There were years when he almost forgot Anyanwu. He would have killed her had he stumbled across her, of course. Occasionally, he had forgiven people who ran from him, people who were bright enough, strong enough to keep ahead of him for several days and give him a good hunt. But he forgave them only because once caught, they submitted. Not that they begged for their lives. Most did not. They simply ceased to struggle against him. They finally came to understand and acknowledge his power. They had first given him good entertainment, then, fully aware, they gave him themselves. When pardoned, they gave him a kind of loyalty, even friendship, equal to what he received from the best of his children. As with his children, after all, he had given them their lives.

There had been times when he thought he might spare Anyanwu. There had even been moments when, to his amazement and disgust, he simply missed her, wished to see her again. Most often, however, he thought of her when he bred together her African and American descendants. He was striving to create a more stable, controlled Nweke, and he had had some success—people who could perceive and to some degree control the inner workings not only of their own bodies, but of the bodies of others. But their abilities were not dependable. They brought agony as often as they brought relief. They killed as often as they healed. They could perform what ordinary doctors saw as miracles—or, as easily, as accidentally, what the most brutal slaveholder would see as atrocities. Also, they did not live long. Sometimes they made lethal mistakes within their own bodies and could not correct them in time. Sometimes relatives of their dead patients killed them. Sometimes they committed suicide. The better ones committed suicide—often after an especially ghastly failure. They needed Anyanwu's control. Even now, if he could, Doro would have liked to breed her with some of them—let her give birth to superior human children for a change instead of the animal young she must have borne over her years of freedom. But it was too late for that. She was spoiled. She had known too much freedom. Like most wild seed, she had been spoiled long before he met her.

Now, finally, he went to complete the unfinished business of killing her and gathering up any new human descendants.

He located her home—her plantation—by tracking her while she was in human form. It was not easy. She kept changing even though she did not seem to travel far. For days, he would have nothing to track. Then she turned human again and he could sense that she had not moved geographically. He closed in, constantly fearing that she would take bird or fish form and vanish for more years. But she stayed, drawing him across country to Mississippi, to Louisiana, to the parish of Avoyelles, then through pine woods and wide fields of cotton.

When he reached the house that his senses told him concealed Anyanwu, he sat still on his horse for several minutes, staring at it from a distance. It was a large white frame house with tall, unnecessary columns and a porch with upper and lower galleries—a solid, permanent-looking place. He could see slave cabins extending out away from the house, almost hidden by trees. And there was a barn, a kitchen, and other buildings that Doro could not identify from a distance. He could see blacks moving around the grounds—children playing, a man chopping wood, a woman gathering something in the kitchen garden, another woman sweating over a steaming caldron of dirty clothes which she occasionally lifted on her stick. A boy with arms no longer than his forearms should have been was bending low here and there collecting trash with tiny hands. Doro looked long at this last slave. Was his deformity a result of some breeding project of Anyanwu's?

Without quite knowing why he did it, Doro rode on. He had planned to take Anyanwu as soon as he found her—take her while she was off guard, still human and vulnerable. Instead, he went away, found lodging for the night at the cabin of one of Anyanwu's poorer neighbors. That neighbor was a man, his wife, their four young children, and several thousand fleas. Doro spent a miserable, sleepless night, but over both supper and breakfast, he found the family a good source of information about its wealthy neighbor. It was from this man and woman that Doro learned of the married daughters, the bastard slave children, Mr. Warrick's unneighborly behavior—a great sin in the eyes of these people. And there was the dead wife, the frequent trips Warrick made to who knew where, and most strangely, that the Warrick property was haunted by what the local Acadians called a loup-garou—a werewolf. The creature appeared to be only a large black dog, but the man of the family, born and raised within a few miles of where he now lived, swore the same dog had been roaming that property since he was a boy. It had been known to disarm grown men, then stand over their rifles growling and daring them to take back what was theirs. Rumor had it that the dog had been shot several times—shot point-blank—but never felled. Never. Bullets passed through it as though through smoke.

That was enough for Doro. For how many years had Anyanwu spent much of her time either away from home or in the form of a large dog. How long had it taken her to realize that he could not find her while she was an animal? Most important, what would happen now if she had spotted him somehow, if she took animal form and escaped. He should have killed her at once! Perhaps he could use hostages again—let his senses seek out those of her slaves who would make good prey. Perhaps he could force her back by threatening them. They would almost certainly be the best of her children.

The next morning Doro headed his black gelding up the pathway to Anyanwu's mansion. As he reached it an adolescent boy came to take his horse. It was the boy with the deformed arms.

"Is your master at home?" Doro asked.

"Yes, sir," said the boy softly.

Doro laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Leave the horse here. He'll be all right. Take me to your master." He had not expected to make such a quick decision, but the boy was perfect for what he wanted. Despite his deformity, he was highly desirable prey. No doubt Anyanwu treasured him—a beloved son.

The boy looked at Doro, unafraid, then started toward the house. Doro kept a grip on his shoulder, though he did not doubt that the boy could have gotten away easily. Doro was wearing the body of a short, slight Frenchman while the boy was well-muscled, powerful-looking in spite of his own short stature. All Anyanwu's children tended to be short.

"What happened to your arms?" Doro asked.

The boy glanced at him, then at the foreshortened arms. "Accident, massa," he said softly. "I tried to bring horses out of a stable fire. 'Fore I could get 'em out, de beam fell on me." Doro did not like his slave patois. It sounded false.

"But . . ." Doro frowned at the tiny child's arms on the young man's body. No accident could cause such a deformity. "I mean were you born with your arms that way?"

"No, sir. I was born with two good arms—long as yours."

"Then why do you have deformed arms now!" Doro demanded exasperated.

" 'Cause of de beam, massa. Old arms broken up and burnt. Had to grow new ones. Couple more weeks and dese be long enough."

Doro jerked the boy around to face him, and the boy smiled. For a moment, Doro wondered whether he was demented—as warped of mind as he was of body. But the eyes were intelligent—even mocking now. It seemed that the boy was perfectly intelligent, and laughing at him.

"Do you always tell people you can do such things—grow new arms?"

The boy shook his head, straightened so that he met Doro's eyes levelly. There was nothing of the slave in his gaze. When he spoke again, he ceased to make even his minimal effort to sound like a slave.

"I've never told any outsider before," he said. "But I'm told that if I let you know what I can do and that I'm the only one who can do it, I'll stand a better chance of living out the day."

There was no point in asking who had told him. Somehow, Anyanwu had spotted him. "How old are you?" he asked the boy.

"Nineteen."

"How old were you at transition?"

"Seventeen."

"What can you do?"

"Heal myself. I'm slower at it than she is, though, and I can't change my shape."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I suppose because my father couldn't."

"What could he do?"

"I never knew him. He died. But she says he could hear what people were thinking."

"Can you?"

"Sometimes."

Doro shook his head. Anyanwu had come almost as near to success as he had—and with far less raw material. "Take me to her!" he said.

"She's here," the boy said.

Startled, Doro looked around, searching for Anyanwu, knowing she must be in animal form since he had not sensed her. She stood perhaps ten paces behind him near a yellow pine sapling. She was a large, sharp-faced black dog, standing statue—still, watching him. He spoke to her impatiently.

"I can't very well talk to you while you're like that!"

She began to change. She took her time about it, but he did not complain. He had waited too long for a few minutes to matter.

Finally, human, female, and unself-consciously naked, she walked past him onto the porch. In that moment, he meant to kill her. If she had taken any other form, become anyone other than her true self, she would have died. But she was now as she had been over a hundred and fifty years—a century and a half—before. She was the same woman he had shared a clay couch with thousands of miles away, lifetimes ago. He raised his hand toward her. She did not see it. He could have taken her then and there without further trouble. But he lowered the hand before it touched her smooth, dark shoulder. He stared at her, angry with himself, frowning.

"Come into the house, Doro," she said.

Her voice was the same, soft and young. He followed her in feeling oddly confused, suspended in time, with only the watchful, protective young son to jar him to reality.

He looked at the son, ragged and shoeless and dusty. The boy should have seemed out of place inside the handsomely furnished home, but somehow, he did not.

"Come into the parlor," he said, catching Doro's arm in his child-sized hands. "Let her put her clothes on. She'll be back."

Doro did not doubt that she would. Apparently, the boy understood his role as hostage.

Doro sat down in an upholstered armchair and the boy sat opposite him on a sofa. Between them was a small wooden table and a fireplace of carved black stone. There was a large oriental rug on the floor and several other chairs and tables scattered around the room. A maid in a plain clean blue dress and white apron brought brandy and looked at the boy as though daring him to have any. He smiled and did not.

The maid would have been good prey too. A daughter? "What can she do?" Doro asked when she was gone.

"Nothing but have babies," the boy said.

"Did she have a transition?"

"No. She won't either. Not as old as she is."

A latent then. One who could pass her heritage on to her children, but could not use it herself. She should be bred to a near relative. Doro wondered whether Anyanwu had overcome her squeamishness enough to do this. Was that where this boy who was growing arms had come from? Inbreeding? Was his father, perhaps, one of Anyanwu's older sons?

"What do you know about me?" he asked the boy.

"That you're no more what you appear to be than she is." The boy shrugged. "She talked about you sometimes—how you took her from Africa, how she was your slave in New York back when they had slaves in New York."

"She was never my slave."

"She thinks she was. She doesn't think she will be again though."

In her bedroom, Anyanwu dressed quickly and casually as a man. She kept her body womanly—she wanted to be herself when she faced Doro—but after the easy unclothed freedom of the dog body, she could not have stood the layers of tight clothing women were expected to wear. The male clothing accented her womanliness anyway. No one had ever seen her this way and mistaken her for a man or boy.

Abruptly, she threw her shirt to the floor and stood, head in hands, before her dressing table. Doro would break Stephen into pieces if she ran now. He would probably not kill him, but he would make him a slave. There were people here in Louisiana and in the other Southern states who bred people as Doro did. They gave a man one woman after another and when the children came, the man had no authority over what was done to them, no responsibility to them or to their mothers. Authority and responsibility were the prerogatives of the masters. Doro would do that to her son, make him no more than a breeding animal. She thought of the sons and daughters she had left behind in Doro's hands. It was not likely that any of them were alive now, but she had no doubt of the way Doro had used them while they did live. She could not have helped them. It was all she had been able to do to get Doro to give his word not to harm them during her marriage to Isaac. Beyond that, she could have stayed with them and died, but she could not have helped them. And growing up as they had in Wheatley, they would not have wanted her help. Doro seduced people. He made them want to please him, made them strive for his approval. He terrified them into submission only when he could not seduce them.

And when he could not terrify them . . .

What could she do? She could not run again and leave him Stephen and the others. But she was no more able to help them by staying than she had been able to help her children in Wheatley. She could not even help herself. What would he do to her when she went downstairs? She had run away from him, and he murdered runaways. Had he allowed her to dress herself merely so that he would not have the inconvenience of taking over a naked body?

What could she do?

Doro and Stephen were talking like old friends when Anyanwu walked into the parlor. To her surprise, Doro stood up. He had always seemed lazily unconcerned with such courtesies before. She sat with Stephen on the sofa, noticing automatically that the boy's arms seemed to be forming well. He had been so good, so controlled on that terrible day when he lost them.

"Go back to your work now," she told him softly.

He looked at her, surprised.

"Go," she repeated. "I'm here now."

Clearly, that was what was concerning him. She had told him a great deal about Doro. He did not want to leave her, but finally, he obeyed.

"Good boy," Doro commented, sipping brandy.

"Yes," she agreed.

He shook his head. "What shall I do with him, Anyanwu? What shall I do with you?"

She said nothing. When had it ever mattered what she said to him? He did as he pleased.

"You've had more success than I have," he said. "Your son seems controlled—very sure of himself."

"I taught him to lift his head," she said.

"I meant his ability."

"Yes."

"Who was his father?"

She hesitated. He would ask, of course. He would inquire after the ancestry of her children as though after the bloodline of a horse. "His father was brought illegally from Africa," she said. "He was a good man, but . . . much like Thomas. He could see and hear and feel too much."

"And he survived a crossing on a slave ship?"

"Only part of him survived. He was mad most of the time, but he was docile. He was like a child. The slavers pretended that it was because he had not yet learned English that he seemed strange. They showed me how strong his muscles were—I had the form of a white man, you see."

"I know."

"They showed me his teeth and his hands and his penis and they said what a good breeder he would be. They would have pleased you, Doro. They thought very much as you do."

"I doubt it," he said amiably. He was being surprisingly amiable. He was at his first stage—seeking to seduce her as he had when he took her from her people. No doubt by his own reasoning he was being extremely generous. She had run from him, done what no one else could do, kept out of his hands for more than a lifetime; yet instead of killing her at once, he seemed to be beginning again with her—giving her a chance to accept him as though nothing had happened. That meant he wanted her alive, if she would submit.

Her own sense of relief at this realization startled her. She had come down the stairs to him expecting to die, ready to die, and here he was courting her again. And here she was responding . . .

No. Not again. No more Wheatleys.

What then?

"So you bought a slave you knew was insane because he had a sensitivity you liked," Doro said. "You couldn't imagine how many times I've done things like that myself."

"I bought him in New Orleans because as he walked past me in chains on his way to the slave pens, he called to me. He said, 'Anyanwu! Does that white skin cover your eyes too?' "

"He spoke English?"

"No. He was one of my people. Not a descendant, I think; he was too different. In the moment he spoke to me, he was sane and hearing my thoughts. Slaves were passing in front of me all chained, and I was thinking, 'I have to take more sunken gold from the sea, then see the banker about buying the land that adjoins mine. I have to buy some books—medical books, especially to see what doctors are doing now . . .' I was not seeing the slaves in front of me. I would not have thought I could be oblivious to such a thing. I had been white for too long. I needed someone to say what he said to me."

"So you brought him home and bore him a son."

"I would have borne him many sons. It seemed that his spirit was healing from what they had done to him on the ship. At the end, he was sane nearly all the time. He was a good husband then. But he died."

"Of what sickness?"

"None that I could find. He saw his son and said in praise, 'Ifeyinwa!—what is like a child.' I made that Stephen's other name, Ifeyinwa. Then Mgbada died. I am a bad healer sometimes. I am no healer at all sometimes."

"No doubt the man lived much longer and better than he would have without you."

"He was a young man," she said. "If I were the healer I long to be, he would still be alive."

"What kind of healer is the boy?"

"Less than I am in some ways. Slower. But he has some of his father's sensitivity. Didn't you wonder how he knew you?"

"I thought you had seen me and warned him."

"I told him about you. Perhaps he knew your voice from hearing it in my thoughts. I don't ask him what he hears. But no, I did not see you before you arrived—not to know you, anyway." Did he really think she would have stayed to meet him, kept her children here so that he could threaten them? Did he think she had grown stupid with the years? "He can touch people sometimes and know what is wrong with them," she continued. "When he says a thing is wrong, it is. But sometimes he misses things—things I wouldn't miss."

"He's young," Doro said.

She shrugged.

"Will he ever grow old, Anyanwu?"

"I don't know." She hesitated, spoke her hope in a whisper. "Perhaps I have finally borne a son I will not have to bury." She looked up, saw that Doro was watching her intently. There was a kind of hunger in his expression—hunger that he masked quickly.

"Can he control his thought reading?" he asked, neutral-voiced.

"In that, he is his father's opposite. Mgbada could not control what he heard—like Thomas. That was why his people sold him into slavery. He was a sorcerer to them. But Stephen must make an effort to hear other people's thoughts. It has not happened by accident since his transition. But sometimes when he tries, nothing happens. He says it is like never knowing when he will be struck deaf."

"That is a tolerable defect," Doro said. "He might be frustrated sometimes, but he will never go mad with the weight of other people's thoughts pressing in on him."

"I have told him that."

There was a long silence. Something was coming, and it had to do with Stephen, Anyanwu knew. She wanted to ask what it was, but then Doro would tell her and she would have to find some way to defy him. When she did . . . when she did, she would fail, and he would kill her.

"He is to me what Isaac was to you," she whispered. Would he hear that as what it was—a plea for mercy?

He stared at her as though she had said something incomprehensible, as though he was trying to understand. Finally, he smiled a small, uncharacteristically tentative smile. "Did you ever think, Anyanwu, how long a hundred years is to an ordinary person—or a hundred and fifty years?"

She shrugged. Nonsense. He was talking nonsense while she waited to hear what he meant to do to her son!

"How do the years seem to you?" he asked. "Like days? Like months? What do you feel when good companions are suddenly old and gray and addled?"

Again, she shrugged. "People grow old. They die."

"All of them," he agreed. "All but you and I."

"You die constantly," she said.

He got up and went to sit beside her on the sofa. Somehow, she kept still, subdued her impulse to get up, move away from him. "I have never died," he said.

She stared past him at one of the candlesticks on the mantel. "Yes," she said. "I should have said you kill constantly."

He was silenced. She faced him, looked into eyes that were large and wide-set and brown. He had the eyes of a larger man—or his current body did. They gave him a false expression of gentleness.

"Did you come here to kill?" she asked. "Am I to die? Are my children to become mares and studs? Is that why you could not leave me alone!"

"Why do you want to be alone?" he asked.

She closed her eyes. "Doro, tell me what is to happen."

"Perhaps nothing. Perhaps eventually, I will bring your son a wife."

"One wife?" she said, disbelieving.

"One wife here, as with you and Isaac. I never brought women to Wheatley for him."

That was so. From time to time, he took Isaac away with him, but he never brought women to Isaac. Anyanwu knew that the husband she had loved most had sired dozens of children with other women. "Don't you care about them?" she had asked once, trying to understand. She cared about each one of her children, raised each one she bore and loved it.

"I never see them," he had answered. "They are his children. I sire them in his name. He sees that they and their mothers are well cared for."

"So he says!" She had been bitter that day, angry at Doro for making her pregnant when her most recent child by Isaac was less than a year old, angry at him for afterward killing a tall, handsome girl whom Anyanwu had known and liked. The girl, understanding what was to happen to her, had still somehow treated him as a lover. It was obscene.

"Have you ever known him to neglect the needs of the children he claims?" Isaac had asked. "Have you ever seen his people left landless or hungry? He takes care of his own."

She had gone away from Isaac to fly for hours as a bird and look down at the great, empty land below and wonder if there was nowhere in all the forests and rivers and mountains and lakes, nowhere in that endless land for her to escape and find peace and cleanness.

"Stephen is nineteen years old," she said. "He is a man. Your children and mine grow up very quickly, I think. He has been a man since his transition. But he's still young. You'll make him an animal if you use him as you used Isaac."

"Isaac was fifteen when I gave him his first woman," Doro said.

"Then he had been yours for fifteen years. For you, Stephen will be as much wild seed as I was."

Doro nodded agreeably. "It is better for me to get them before they reach their transitions—if they're going to have transitions. What will you give me then, Anyanwu?"

She turned to look at him in surprise. Was he offering to bargain with her? He had never bargained before. He had told her what he wanted and let her know what he would do to her or to her children if she did not obey.

Was he bargaining now, then, or was he playing with her? What could she lose by assuming that he was serious? "Bring Stephen the woman," she said. "One woman. When he is older, perhaps there can be others."

"Do you imagine there are none now?"

"Of course not. But he chooses his own. I don't tell him to breed. I don't send him women."

"Do women seem to like him?"

She surprised herself by smiling a little. "Some do. Not enough to suit him, of course. There is a widow paying a lot of attention to him now. She knows what she is doing. Left alone, he will find a good wife here when he is tired of wandering around."

"Perhaps I shouldn't let him get tired of it."

"I tell you, you will make an animal of him if you don't!" she said. "Haven't you seen the men slaves in this country who are used for breeding? They are never permitted to learn what it means to be a man. They are not permitted to care for their children. Among my people, children are wealth, they are better than money, better than anything. But to these men, warped and twisted by their masters, children are almost nothing. They are to boast of to other men. One thinks he is greater than another because he has more children. Both exaggerate the number of women who have borne them children, neither is doing anything a father should for his children, and the master who is indifferently selling off his own brown children is laughing and saying, 'You see? Niggers are just like animals!' Slavery down here opens one's eyes, Doro. How could I want such a life for my son?"

There was silence. He got up, wandered around the large room examining the vases, lamps, the portrait of a slender white woman with dark hair and solemn expression. "Was this your wife?" he asked.

She wanted to shake him. She wanted to use her strength, make him tell her what he meant to do. "Yes," she whispered.

"How did you like it—being a man, having a wife?"

"Doro . . .!"

"How did you like it?" He would not be rushed. He was enjoying himself.

"She was a good woman. We pleased each other."

"Did she know what you were?"

"Yes. She was not ordinary herself. She saw ghosts."

"Anyanwu!" he said with disgust and disappointment.

She ignored his tone, stared up at the picture. "She was only sixteen when I married her. If I hadn't married her, I think she would have been put in an asylum eventually. People spoke about her in the way you just said my name."

"I don't blame them."

"You should. Most people believe in a life that goes on after their bodies die. There are always tales of ghosts. Even people who think they are too sophisticated to be frightened are not immune. Talk to five people and at least three will have seen what they believe was a ghost, or they will know another person who has seen. But Denice really did see. She was very sensitive; she could see when no one else could—and since no one else could, people said she was mad. I think she had had a kind of transition."

"And it gave her a private view into the hereafter."

Anyanwu shook her head. "You should be less skeptical. You are a kind of ghost yourself, after all. What is there of you that can be touched?"

"I've heard that before."

"Of course." She paused. "Doro, I will talk to you about Denice. I will talk to you about anyone, anything. But first, please, tell me what you plan for my son."

"I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about you and your potential value to me." He looked again at the portrait. "You were right, you know. I came here to finish old business—kill you and take your children to one of my settlements. No one has ever done what you did to me."

"I ran from you and lived. Other people have done that."

"Only because I chose to let them live. They had their freedom for only a few days before I caught them. You know that."

"Yes," she said reluctantly.

"Now, a century after I lost you, I find you young and well—greeting me as though we had just seen each other yesterday. I find you in competition with me, raising witches of your own."

"There is no competition."

"Then why have you surrounded yourself with the kinds of people I seek out? Why do you have children by them?"

"They need me . . . those people." She swallowed thinking of some of the things done to her people before she found them. "They need someone who can help them, and I can help. You don't want to help them, you want to use them. But I can help."

"Why should you?"

"I'm a healer, Doro."

"That's no answer. You chose to be a healer. What you really are is what's called in this part of the country loup-garou—a werewolf."

"I see you've been talking to my neighbors."

"I have. They're right, you know."

"The legends say werewolves kill. I have never killed except to save myself. I am a healer."

"Most . . . healers don't have children by their patients."

"Most healers do as they please. My patients are more like me than any other people. Why shouldn't I find mates among them?"

Doro smiled. "There is always an answer, isn't there? But it doesn't matter. Tell me about Denice and her ghosts."

She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming herself. "Denice saw what people left behind. She went into houses and saw the people who had preceded her there. If someone had suffered or died there, she saw that very clearly. It terrified her. She would go into a house and see a child running, clothing afire, and there would be no child. But two, ten, twenty years before, a child would have burned to death there. She saw people stealing things days or years before. She saw slaves beaten and tortured, slave women raped, people shaking with ague or covered with smallpox. She did not feel things as people do in transition. She only saw them. But she could not tell whether what she was seeing was actually happening as she saw it or whether it was history. She was slowly going mad. Then her parents gave a party and I was invited because I seemed young and rich and handsome—perhaps a good prospect for a family with five daughters. I remember, I was standing with Denice's father telling lies about my origins, and Denice brushed past. She touched me, you see. She could see people's past lives when she touched them just as she could see the past of wood and brick. She saw something of what I am even in that brief touch, and she fainted. I didn't know what had happened until she came to me days later. I was the only person she had ever found to be stranger than herself. She knew all that I was before we married."

"Why did she marry you?"

"Because I believed her when she told me what she could do. Because I was not afraid or ridiculing. And because after a while, we started to want each other."

"Even though she knew you were a woman and black?"

"Even so." Anyanwu stared up at the solemn young woman, remembering that lovely, fearful courting. They had been as fearful of marrying as they had been of losing each other. "She thought at first that there could be no children, and that saddened her because she had always wanted children. Then she realized that I could give her girls. It took her a long time to understand all that I could do. But she thought the children would be black and people would say she had been with a slave. White men leave brown children all about, but a white woman who does this becomes almost an animal in the eyes of other whites."

"White women must be protected," Doro said, "whether they want to be or not."

"As property is protected." Anyanwu shook her head. "Preserved for the use of owners alone. Denice said she felt like property—like a slave plotting escape. I told her I could give her children who were not related to me at all if she wished. Her fear made me angry even though I knew the situation was not her fault. I told her my Warrick shape was not a copy of anyone. I had molded myself freely to create it, but if she wished, I could take the exact shape of one of the white men I had treated in Wheatley. Then as with the dolphins, I could have young who inherited nothing at all from me. Even male young. She did not understand that."

"Neither do I," Doro said. "This is something new."

"Only for me. You do it all the time—fathering or giving birth to children who are no blood kin to you. They are the children of the bodies you wear, even though you call them your own."

"But . . . you only wear one body."

"And you have not understood how completely that one body can change. I cannot leave it as you can, but I can make it over. I can make it over so completely in the image of someone else that I am no longer truly related to my parents. It makes me wonder what I am—that I can do this and still know myself, still return to my true shape."

"You could not do this before in Wheatley."

"I have always done it. Each time I learned a new animal shape, I did it. But I did not understand it very well until I began running from you. Until I began to hide. I bore dolphin young—and they were dolphins. Not human at all. They were the young of the dolphin Isaac caught and fed to us so long ago. My body was a copy of hers down to the smallest living part. There are no words for me to tell you how deep and complete such a change is."

"So you could become another person so completely that the children you gave Denice were not really yours."

"I could have. But when she understood, she did not want that. She said she would rather have no children at all. But that sacrifice was not necessary. I could give her girl children of my own body. Girl children who would have her coloring. It was hard work arranging all that. There are so many tiny things within even one cell of a human body. I could have given her a monstrosity if I had been careless."

"I made you study these things by driving you away?"

"You did. You made me learn very much. Much of the time, I had nothing to do but study myself, try things I had not thought of before."

"If you duplicated another man's shape then, you could father sons."

"The other man's sons."

Slowly, Doro drew his mouth into a smile. "That's the answer then, Anyanwu. You'll take your son's place. You'll take the place of a great many people."

"You mean . . . for me to go here and there getting children and then forgetting about them?"

"Either you go or I'll bring women to you here."

She got up wearily, without even outrage to make her stiff and hostile. "You are a complete fool," she told him quietly, and she walked into the hall, through the house, and out the back door. From there, through the trees she could see the bayou with its slow water. Nearer were the dependencies and the slave cabins that were not inhabited by slaves. She owned no slaves. She had bought some of the people who worked for her and recruited the others among freedmen, but those she bought, she freed. They always stayed to work for her, feeling more comfortable with her and with each other than they had ever been elsewhere. That always surprised the new ones. They were not used to being comfortable with other people.

They were misfits, malcontents, troublemakers—though they did not make trouble for Anyanwu. They treated her as mother, older sister, teacher, and, when she invited it, lover. Somehow, even this last intimacy did nothing to diminish her authority. They knew her power. She was who she was, no matter what role she chose.

And yet, she did not threaten them, did not slaughter among them as Doro did among his people. The worst she did was occasionally fire someone. Firing meant eviction. It meant leaving the safety and comfort of the plantation and becoming a misfit again in the world outside. It meant exile.

Few of them knew how difficult it was for Anyanwu to turn one of them out—or worse, turn a family out. Few of them knew how their presence comforted her. She was not Doro, breeding people as though they were cattle, though perhaps her gathering of all these special ones, these slightly strange ones would accomplish the same purpose as his breeding. She was herself, gathering family. No doubt some of these people were of her family, her descendants. They felt like her children. Perhaps, there had been intermarriage, her descendants drawn together by a comforting but indefinable similarity and not knowing of their common origins. And there were other people probably not related to her, who had rudimentary sensitivity that could become true thought reading in a few generations. Mgbada had told her this—that she was gathering people who were like his grandparents. He had told her she was breeding witches.

An old woman came up to her—a white woman, withered and gray, Luisa, who did what sewing she could for her keep. She was one of five white people on the place. There could have been many more whites, fitting in very comfortably, but the race-conscious culture made that dangerous. The four younger whites tried to lessen the danger by telling people they were octoroons. Luisa was a Creole—a French-Spanish mixture—and too old to care who knew it.

"Is there trouble?" Luisa asked.

Anyanwu nodded.

"Stephen said he was here—Doro, the one you told me about."

"Go and tell the others not to come in from the fields until I call them in myself."

Luisa stared hard at her. "What if he calls—with your mouth?"

"Then they must decide whether to run or not. They know about him. If they want to run now, they can. Later, if the black dog is seen in the woods again, they can come back." If Doro killed her, he would not be able to use her healing or metamorphosing abilities. She had learned that from her stay in Wheatley. He could possess someone's body and use it to have children, but he could use only the body. When he possessed Thomas so long ago, he had not gained Thomas' thought-reading ability. She had never known him to use any extra ability from a body he possessed.

The old woman took Anyanwu by the shoulders and hugged her. "What will you do?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"I have never seen him and I hate him."

"Go," Anyanwu told her.

Luisa hurried across the grass. She moved well for her age. Like Anyanwu's children, she had lived a long, healthy life. Cholera, malaria, yellow fever, typhus, and other diseases swept across the land and left Anyanwu's people almost untouched. If they caught a disease, they survived it and recovered quickly. If they hurt themselves, Anyanwu was there to care for them.

As Luisa disappeared into the trees, Doro came out of the house. "I could go after her," he said. "I know you sent her to warn your field hands."

Anyanwu turned to face him angrily. "You are many times as old as I am. You must have some inborn defect to keep you from getting wisdom to go with your years."

"Will you eventually condescend to tell me what wisdom you have gotten?" There was an edge to his voice finally. She was beginning to irritate him and end the seductive phase. That was good. How stupid of him to think she could be seduced again. It was possible, however, that she might seduce him.

"You were pleased to see me again, weren't you?" she said. "I think you were surprised to realize how pleased you were."

"Say what you have to say, Anyanwu!"

She shrugged. "Isaac was right."

Silence. She knew Isaac had spoken to him several times. Isaac had wanted them together so badly—the two people he loved best. Did that mean anything at all to Doro? It had not years before, but now . . . Doro had been glad to see her. He had marveled over the fact that she seemed unchanged—as though he was only now beginning to realize that she was only slightly more likely to die than he was, and not likely at all to grow decrepit with age. As though her immortality had been emotionally unreal to him until now, a fact that he had accepted with only half his mind.

"Doro, I will go on living unless you kill me. There is no reason for me to die unless you kill me."

"Do you think you can take over work I've spent millennia at?"

"Do you think I want to?" she countered. "I was telling the truth. These people need me, and I need them. I never set out to build a settlement like one of yours. Why should I? I don't need new bodies as you do. All I need is my own kind around me. My family or people who feel like my family. To you, most of my people here wouldn't even be good breeding stock, I think."

"Forty years ago, that old woman would have."

"Does that make it competition for me to give her a home now?"

"You have others. Your maid . . ."

"My daughter!"

"I thought so."

"She is unmarried. Bring her a man. If she likes him, let her marry him and bear interesting children. If she doesn't like him, then find her someone else. But she needs only one husband, Doro, as my son needs only one wife."

"Is that what your own way of life tells them? Or shall I believe you sleep alone because your husbands are dead?"

"If my children show any signs of growing as old as I am, they may do as they please."

"They will anyway."

"But without you to guide them, Doro. Without you to make them animals. What would my son be in your hands? Another Thomas? You are going everywhere tending ten different settlements, twenty, and not giving enough of yourself to any of them. I am staying here looking after my family and offering to let your children marry mine. And if the offspring are strange and hard to handle, I will handle them. I will take care of them. They need not live alone in the woods and drink too much and neglect their bodies until they are nearly dead."

To her surprise, he hugged her very much as Luisa had, and he laughed. He took her arm and walked her over to the slave quarters, still laughing. He quieted though as he pushed open a random door and peered into one of the neat, sturdy cabins. There was a large brick fireplace with a bake kettle down amid the nearly dead coals.

Someone's supper bread. There was a large bed in one corner and a trundle bed beneath. There were a table and four chairs all of which looked homemade, but adequate. There was a cradle that also looked homemade—and much used. There were a wood box and a water bucket with its gourd dipper. There were bunches of herbs and ears of corn hung from the ceiling to dry and cooking utensils over and alongside the fireplace. Overall, the cabin gave the impression of being a plain but comfortable place to live.

"Is it enough?" Anyanwu asked.

"I have several people, black and white, who don't live this well."

"I don't."

He tried to draw her into the cabin toward the chairs or the bed—she did not know which—but she held back.

"This is someone else's home," she said. "We can go back into the house if you like."

"No. Later, perhaps." He put an arm around her waist. "You must feed me again and find us another earthen couch to lie on."

And hear you threaten my children again, she thought.

As though in answer, he said: "And I must tell you why I laughed. It isn't because your offer doesn't please me, Anyanwu; it does. But you have no idea what kinds of creatures you are volunteering to care for."

Didn't she? Hadn't she seen them in Wheatley?

"I'm going to bring you some of your own descendants," Doro said. "I think they will surprise you. I've done a great deal of work with them since Nweke. I think you won't be wanting to care for them or their children for long."

"Why? What new thing is wrong with them?"

"Perhaps nothing. Perhaps your influence is just what they need. On the other hand, perhaps they will disrupt the family you've made for yourself here as nothing else could. Will you still have them?"

"Doro, how can I know? You haven't told me anything."

Her hair was loose and short and rounded as it had been when he first styled it for her. Now he put his hands on either side of it, pressing it to her head. "Sun Woman, either you will accept my people in this way that you have defined or you will come with me, taking mates when and where I command, or you will give me your children. One way or another, you will serve me. What is your choice?"

Yes, she thought bitterly. Now the threats. "Bring me my grandchildren," she said. "Even though they have never seen me, they will remember me. Their bodies will remember me down to the smallest structures of their flesh. You cannot know how well people's bodies remember their ancestors."

"You will teach me," he said. "You seem to have learned a great deal since I saw you last. I've been breeding people nearly all my life and I still don't know why some things work and others don't, or why a thing will work only some of the time even with the same couple. You will teach me."

"You will not harm my people?" she asked, watching him carefully.

"What do they know about me?"

"Everything. I thought if you ever found us, there wouldn't be time for me to explain the danger."

"Tell them to obey me."

She winced as though in pain and looked away. "You cannot always take everything," she said. "Or just take my life. What is the good of living on and on and having nothing?"

There was silence for a moment. "Did they obey Denice?" he asked finally. "Or Mgbada?"

"Sometimes. They are a very independent people."

"But they obey you."

"Yes."

"Then tell them to obey me. If you don't, I'll have to tell them myself—in whichever way they understand."

"Don't hurt them!"

He shrugged. "If they obey me, I won't."

He was making a new Wheatley. He had settlements everywhere, families everywhere. She had only one, and he was taking it. He had taken her from one people and driven her from another, and now, he was casually reaching out to strip her of a third. And she was wrong. She could live on and on and have nothing. She would. He would see to it.