Не геном единым. Трой Дэй

      The saw palmettos relented and the choked road widened into a proper path for wagons and people alike. A ditch ran down one side, and the way was heavily trodden. The canopy broke and allowed ruby light down to the road. He passed a few people on foot, but they turned down a side path into the forest and disappeared. No one overtook him, even as the road broadened before the main avenue.

      He found his road, the big one that ran up the Island. South would take him to docks and the place where Calico launched as he ferried between the Island and Bay Street. North would lead to Frogmore and the heart of the Island. He could see water off across the road, through the trees: one of the main river's many wide branches.

      The road ran busy with people and carts. Most of the loads were crops, food, or building supplies. Mostly negroes were on the path, except for the occasional white person visiting from town. Even the men driving the carts and leading the oxen were colored. A crowd of workers, sailors—more of them white than anyone—and women went up and down the road, mixed with the carts and wagons.

      Negro women sat lined on the side of the road in the shade of tall palmettos. They wove baskets out of long, thin bands of sweetgrass, yellow and green. They wove patterns carried over from where their grandparents and great-grandparents had come from. They wove circles and spirals that had never been told of on a piece of paper. Minnow stopped to study the baskets, and the women smiled and spoke and clucked to each other at his presence. He watched one woman work on an unfinished piece: slender brown fingers wove the dampened flat reeds into a tight coil that formed a long basket shape with a wide bottom. The weaver looked up and smiled, and Minnow smiled back.

      The road went through more woods, away from the southern part of the Island. Frogmore peeked through the trees ahead and then came up to meet him as the path emerged again from the trees. Two rows of low buildings lined the path left and right, forming the heart of Frogmore. The town stretched out behind that into a sprawling mix of houses and stores and barns and fields. Somewhere beyond that were wild woods and swamps.

      Minnow glanced from face to face. Dark faces, women, children, men. Most garbed in light island wear: blousy white pants, sandals, men with no shirts at all. Some were locals, some sailors as always, and travelers passing south to Newfort. He searched for someone who might know Auntie Mae or be friendly enough to at least take his question seriously. He approached the buildings and decided against asking someone on the road. A shopkeeper would be different, maybe.

      A dozen buildings stood in the downtown row. One was an inn, seemingly empty; and a honky-tonk was open to the road and packed with guests who drank and laughed and ate. He passed a general store and a store that sold furniture crafted from raw wood. Many of the doors were painted blue, as was the trim around the windows and shutters. He got to the end and turned back to reconsider the stores. The breeze blew, and a note rang out next to him.