Walter Mosley by The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey

Author:The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey [Grey, The Last Days of Ptolemy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Older African Americans, Psychological, Psychological Fiction, African American Families, Family Life, Urban Life, General, Old Age, Memory, African American, Crime, Domestic Fiction
ISBN: 9781594487729
Google: 0dD9rHI5H5sC
Amazon: B0040SYJ0U
Barnesnoble: B0040SYJ0U
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2010-11-11T06:00:00+00:00

Wake up, boy, wake up,” he said in a whisper that was both soft and sharp.

Little Ptolemy opened his eyes and squinted from the pain. He could tell that it was the early hours of the morning, even before the time that his father and mother got out of bed to work in the fields. His brother and sisters were sound asleep as only children could be, and his parents were asleep in the front room of their two-room shack.

“Daddy?”

“Shh!” Coy commanded, putting his fingers to the boy’s lips. “Come with me.”

Coy pulled the boy out of bed and through a flap in the tarpaper wall and all Ptolemy had on was a nightshirt.

The moon was crescent and an owl passed above them. Crickets chattered and tree frogs chirped. Ptolemy had rarely seen the depth of night. He had never been outside this late, moving along the path behind his family’s shack.

“Where we goin’, Coydog?”

The old man stopped and turned, putting his face very close to the boy’s.

“Shet your mouth or we both be dead. You unnerstand me, boy?”

And with that he clutched Li’l Pea’s right forearm and dragged him deep into the woods. They traveled for a long time, until they came to Hangman’s Knoll, and climbed up past there through a deep wood until they reached Mourners’ Falls. Ptolemy wouldn’t have been able to find the falls on his own, even in daylight, but Coy’s steps were sure and certain, quick and desperate.

The falls were forty feet high and constant because all the water that came down from the hills drained here. Coy took Pity on a winding path of big stones that led up to the cascades and then around to the cave hidden behind the blind of water that was barely visible in the weak moonlight.

Ptolemy’s nightshirt was soaked by the time they got inside the cave. Coy let go of his arm and the boy went to his knees on the stone floor, shivering from cold.

Coy lit an oil-soaked torch, illuminating a stone space that was about the size of the worship hall at Liberty Baptist.

“I’m cold,” the boy complained.

“Come back here,” Coy replied, stalking to the far end of the huge shale and granite chamber.

Something in the old man’s voice, something that the child had never heard before, made him obey in spite of his own suffering.

All along the back of the cave were big flat rocks that had fallen from the roof, broken or shattered.

“This one up next to the north corner,” Coy McCann said, waving his torch over a big flat stone that was black except for a white swath at the right side. “Under here is where I hid the treasure. Under here is what I want you to take just as soon as you strong enough to lift it. Go on now, try an’ lift it away from the wall.”

Ptolemy grasped the edge of the rock, which was much larger than him, and strained to push it away from the wall.

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