After years as a bothersome little girl, Cherry finally stole his heart away.
Then, just as suddenly, she seemed to change. All her life Cherry had been following him. Now she ignored him. She made it hard for him, walking away when she saw him.
He did not want to marry anyway, Nat Turner told himself. It was too much trouble, too hard. But he could not get Cherry out of his mind.
Then he remembered what his mother had told him. “It is the nature of men to only value what is hard to come by. We Ethiopian women know it is true. Anything worth having is worth working for.”
But it made no sense to him. Always Cherry had been there, always waiting for him.
“A woman who gives herself easily to you will give herself easily to another,” his mother said.
It made no sense to him. Why should things be so complicated?
“In Ethiopia,” his mother told him, “your father would search for the perfect wife for you, a woman of great value. As her intended, you would offer gifts—gifts for her and her family. Our two families would meet to be sure you were both suitable and to discuss the bride-price. You would court your bride—an honorable woman wants to know that she is important to you, that you value her. The very best maidens come with a very high price, a price that cannot be paid by just anyone.”
Nat Turner had no father to find a bride for him. He had no expensive gifts to give to Cherry. He took her a sunflower. She smiled and then walked away. He caught a butterfly and carried it to her. She kissed his cheek and walked away.
She knew he had nothing. What did she expect from him?
He sneaked and gathered apples for her, apples for which he might have been beaten if he was caught—sweet, red apples with no blemishes—and left them on a trail for her. He left them at special places for her—on a stone, in a tree hollow, beneath a mulberry bush. Cherry hugged him when she found them all, and then walked away.
He found a honeycomb hidden in a tree and sneaked her wild honey. He scooped some with a finger and she allowed him to drizzle it on her tongue. She smiled at him, kissed him, and then walked away.
It was too hard. What did she want from him? It was too much work, this courting. But he could not forget her or the taste of hope on her lips.
He saw her walking on a path one night; the moon followed her. He walked beside her, half-hidden among the trees. “You are black and comely. ‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes.’”
Cherry stopped to listen to him.
“‘As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.’” She smiled, turning her head, arching her neck to see him. He whispered the words. “‘The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.’”
Cherry beckoned to him, and Nat Turner stepped into the moonlight. “Sing to me,” she said.
He shook his head—he never sang. He spoke again. “‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from mount Gilead.’”
“‘Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.’”
Cherry wrapped her arms around him.
“‘Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.’”
She touched his face with her hand.
He breathed her in. “Marry me,” he said.
Cherry stayed.