So he raced from dogwood to blossoming peach. When they thinned out he headed for the cherryblossoms, then magnolia, chinaberry, pecan, walnut and prickly pear. At last he reached a field ofapple trees whose flowers were just becoming tiny knots of fruit. Spring sauntered north, but hehad to run like hell to keep it as his traveling companion. From February to July he was on thelookout for blossoms. When he lost them, and found himself without so much as a petal to guide him, he paused, climbed a tree on a hillock and scanned the horizon for a flash of pink or white inthe leaf world that surrounded him. He did not touch them or stop to smell. He merely followed intheir wake, a dark ragged figure guided by the blossoming plums.
The apple field turned out to be Delaware where the weaver lady lived. She snapped him up assoon as he finished the sausage she fed him and he crawled into her bed crying. She passed him offas her nephew from Syracuse simply by calling him that nephew's name. Eighteen months and hewas looking out again for blossoms only this time he did the looking on a dray.
It was some time before he could put Alfred, Georgia, Sixo, schoolteacher, Halle, his brothers,Sethe, Mister, the taste of iron, the sight of butter, the smell of hickory, notebook paper, one byone, into the tobacco tin lodged in his chest. By the time he got to 124 nothing in this world couldpry it open.
SHE MOVED HIM.
Not the way he had beat off the baby's ghost — all bang and shriek with windows smashed andicily iars rolled in a heap. But she moved him nonetheless, and Paul D didn't know how to stop itbecause it looked like he was moving himself. Imperceptibly, downright reasonably, he wasmoving out of 124.
The beginning was so simple. One day, after supper, he sat in the rocker by the stove, bone-tired,river-whipped, and fell asleep. He woke to the footsteps of Sethe coming down the white stairs tomake breakfast.
"I thought you went out somewhere," she said.