Amos Fortune, Free Man

Celyndia came running back to them as the bird flew off across the meadow, dipping to the grass, then soaring to a bush’s height, balancing itself against the wind as it pursued some pattern of its own.

“Why’nt you go on fluttering after the flutterling, child?” Violet asked.

“’Cause he flew over that field and we can’t go there.”

“The world is yours, Celyndia,” Amos said quietly. “Don’t you remember what I told you last night? You’re as free as birds in the air.”

A smile started to part Celyndia’s full lips, but before it had its way the lips began to quiver and the large dark eyes filled with tears […]

“Let her alone, Violet,” Amos said as he patted Celyndia’s heaving shoulders, “some things are too wonderful even for a child, and freedom’s one of them.”

Violet would not trust in the back of the cart her treasured plants—the root of lilac, the japonica seedling, the lily-of-the-valley pips, her yellow tea rose. She had heard stories of people going off to live wilderness lives in the great country that had one edge on the Atlantic and reached no one knew how far. And she had been fearful until Amos read to hear from the Bible that the wilderness would blossom like the rose; then she had felt less fearful. But Violet had her own feeling about the Bible words. Though she could not read them for herself she knew that there must be a willingness in the heart of man to work with them. So she saw to it that she had with her a bit of loveliness that she might help in the blossoming of their wilderness.

Always [Violet] thought of him as climbing some mountain in his mind, like that great one to the west on which his eyes would dwell so often and from which he seemed to derive something that was even more than strength.

“Monadnock says it will be good weather today,” Amos would announce on a morning when the mountain stood clear against the sky.

“Monadnock says we’d best not leave any leather out for there’ll be a storm before night,” he would say when a veil of cloud like the thinnest gauze capped the mountain’s crest.

He knew its moods and he talked to it as a friend, and the mountain never failed him.

“That’s a long name […],” Celyndia said one day. “What does it mean, Papa Amos […]?”

“[…] they say in the Indian language it means ‘the Mountain that stands alone.’”

Jaffrey had a Social Library and Amos became a member of it. He read its books during the winter when tanning operations were somewhat in abeyance and discussed them with the citizens of the town. He was always well informed for he subscribed to a newspaper. His store of information, matched with his ready wit, gave him opinions that were often sought after. He was their fellow citizen, Amos Fortune, and more often than not the prefix “Mr.” dignified his name. He had won his way to equality by work well done and a life well lived. But his own life was no guarantee for the lives of those who were dear to him. Celyndia, now sixteen, had many friends among the white children. But there were times when she was made to feel uneasy at school because of her color and her different ways.

One night in early November Polly asked Amos to help her sit up. He put his arms around her and held her up. She was so light that he felt if he held a flower on its stalk it could be no heavier. She held out her hands, resting her right hand in Violet’s that were worn and coarse with the care she had given others, and her left hand in Celyndia’s that were supple and strong. Her eyes she kept on Amos. Peace dwelt in her face, a smile hovered over her lips, and for the first time she seemed to be seeing clearly those who were close to her. Her gaze that had always been so far away had come near at last. A small shudder passed over her body. She sat up very straight for a moment, even without the aid of Amos’ arms; then she fell back into his arms.

From the day Amos had begun to live in freedom, his life had been a series of curious accomplishments known in their richness and wonder only to him. Lily, Lydia, Violet, Celyndia—they stood like milestones along his way and behind them all was Ath-mun. Amos held her always in the tender loveliness of her twelve years, and because of her need to be cared for and his longing for her to be cherished, he had dedicated himself to helpless folk. It was Ath-mun who had been the fount of freedom to those others, Amos thought, as he reached back into memory for the beloved sister; he had acted for her and so he would account to her even when they met together at the Jordan.

Amos unwrapped a handkerchief in which he had put the rest of the money in the stone crock—two hundred and forty-three dollars in all […]. Deacon Spofford noted the among and wrote after it “for the school.” Then, quill poised in hand, he looked across the table at Amos. “And will you say what should be done with it?” he asked.

Amos answered, “The town shall use the money in any way it sees fit to educate its sons and daughters.”

“I have heard that those in your care have not always fared well at the school,” Deacon Spofford said as if he were asking for forgiveness of Amos Fortune.

“That is why I give the money to the school,” Amos replied as he rose to leave.