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Legacy
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Ebiot's Legacy by Steve Batson The bar rang out with the noise of all bars in all times and places. It mattered little
that this bar was in an old house. Ante bellum and beautiful, the house was like a fine
woman grown old. Amid all the visible signs of decay, the beauty lingered, highlighted by
the decay, somehow made even more complete with age. It left a lingering desire to return.
It was almost a need, as if it were able to communicate both its despair and its wisdom .
. . a temple empty, yet full in a way that only time can bring. Amid all of the young women, middle-aged men, dandies and fools that crowded into the
parlor sat two who were set apart from the rest. Dressed in old and worn, yet very neat
and clean clothing, sat these two who clearly did not belong here. Yet belong or not . . .
they were welcome for in this house the only distinction was between those who carried the
coin of the king and those who did not. The disagreement began in the way that most disagreements do in houses of this type.
Two men, too young to know that they to would grow old; a young woman, not yet wise enough
to know what is impressive and what is not. Blows were struck and the fight began and
quickly progressed into a general free for all. The two who did not belong were quickly separated in the melee that followed. As the fight grew hotter, someone struck a blow that extinguished the graceful chandelier that had long since been converted to electricity. Ebiot decided at that moment that this was not a safe place to be and sought a wall to cover his back. He drew from his pocket the cold iron of a heavy set of "knucks." That little something extra he had brought . . . that special thing he would need to get him through the long and dark night. With no light to guide him he struck in the darkness at any head that passed, working his way to the window as the sound of the siren pierced the night. Quickly now, for the sirens were closer he snatched at the sash of the window. The sash would not yield, long since painted shut. In desperation he struck at the dirty glass. The ancient amethyst barrier shattered and scattered on the ground outside. He dove from the window and into the overgrown shrubs that surrounded the house. Looking around for his friend, he started as his companion, the Fox, was suddenly on all fours beside him. The sound of police whistles surrounded them as Ebiot grabbed the Fox up and they began
that long run toward the wall and the back alley that brought safety. Through the
darkness, limbs slashing at their body, they hoisted themselves up and over the fence in
the black night. At the top of the fence the Fox hesitated and turned back toward the
house. "You crazy?" Ebiot asked breathlessly, "Laws are everywhere." "Don't care!" panted the Fox. "Going back . . . some SOB hit me in the head with a set of knucks and I'm going to find 'em and kill 'em." "Come on, laws are everywhere" said Ebiot and he pulled the Fox over the
fence. As they jumped the midnight train headed for Greenville and the mountains, Ebiot was
once again glad that his father had taught him well. In the twilight he considered the old
man long dead, forty years after the bullet that killed him. It hit him, at a place called
Franklin. He could hear the old man jus' like it was today, "You do what you want
boy, but I always carries an insurance policy and I don't tell no man or woman living that
I done took that policy out." The old man would slip the iron knucks, Ebiot's sole
legacy, into his pocket. The whistle blew and cold darkness surrounded them . . . the hobo's lullaby rocked them toward the Carolina morning. About the author - Steve Batson |
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