“Run?” Esther whispered.
They talked about running after Mama died over the summer, but it was just talk and wishes.
Grown men couldn’t make it past the edge of the farm without being dragged back beaten to the edge of death’s door. What chance did they have? The few words she had learned to read wouldn’t be enough. The magic she knew was of no help either, not with this collar on her neck.
Hetty turned her hands over to stare at the blood and dirt mixed on her bandages.
Papa had played the fiddle at fancy dinners in the Big House and got paid plenty by the white folks who liked his music. He was even lent out to play at nearby farms. When Mistress found out he was saving to buy them all free, she pointed her wand at his hands and broke every single bone. She must have slipped a curse in as well, because his hands wouldn’t heal right no matter how many healing balms and prayers Mama wrapped around them. When he couldn’t even lift a hoe without it slipping from his curled fingers, they sold him the next time a minor debt needed settling.
The day her father went away was the only time Hetty had seen tears in her mother’s eyes. Not because he was gone, but because they couldn’t do a thing about it.
“Yes, I’m running,” Hetty said. “And I’m making a plan for both of us.”
“It should be just you.” Esther shook her head. “I’d just slow you down.”
“I’m not leaving you here. Even when Mama was bleeding everywhere and crying out in pain, she grabbed me, looked me in the eye, and made me swear to look after you.”
Esther stiffened. “Don’t make up stories about things like that.”
“No story,” Hetty said. “It’s the truth. She asked me with her dying breath. I promised I would. That’s the sort of promise you don’t break unless you want something bad to happen.”
* * *
The moon had grown full once and then halfway again before Hetty’s hands fully healed. During that time, she slipped into the parlor whenever she could to study the map, spending each night tracing it back into the dirt. She even started to make sense of the words. She kept in her mind the letters of each word and matched them with words she saw in other places. They didn’t all fit, but the bits and pieces started to make something.
Nan did poorly in the weaving room during this time. Mistress complained about the poor quality of her dresses and linens, while still threatening to sell Hetty if her hands didn’t heal properly. Out of spite, Hetty kept the bandages on a full week more, taking a tip from a housemaid who complained about stomach pains each month to get out of work.
Even though she waited on purpose, the day Hetty chose to take the bandages off for good was the very day Solomon was dragged back to the Big House, more dead than alive.
“How can someone be mostly dead?” Hetty asked later that night. Esther crept back into their cabin after hours spent healing the dying man.
“His spirit was already leaving,” Esther said. “It was being pulled away by the Great Spider.”
“Not spider,” Hetty corrected, dragging her left finger to make new lines in the dirt. “The Great Weaver is the one who creates the thread of life, measures it, and cuts it when your time is done.”
“Don’t matter who it is.” Esther turned over, her eyes reflecting the light of their candle stub. “Solomon should be dead. He’s got nothing but horrors waiting for him.”
“They’re selling him?”
Esther shook her head. “They’re going to do to him what they did to Martin.”
Martin had been gone from the plantation for several years before Mistress came here as a young bride, but everyone knew what had happened to him. He was wrapped to a post with chains, and Master’s father had slashed a knife in his flesh until a carving of the Cursed star sigil was left in the wood. This was the final punishment for the Collared who dared to use more magic than what they were allowed. Many with the mark died within days—the lucky ones by nightfall. Martin lived on for weeks, forcibly given water and food to prolong his suffering. Whispers in the quarters said only his body lived, that his spirit had been long since snatched. But that did little to change the end of the story.
“Solomon broke his collar and fled. They can’t sell him now. Price is too poor, and when that happens . . .” Esther fell silent for a moment. “I don’t think he’ll make it,” she said. Then added hopefully, “His heart is weak, and his spirit is confused. He keeps mumbling these things that don’t make a lick of sense. Like this bit: ‘Ask the Aspen on the Hill and check the gourd in the little bear.’ ”
Hetty stopped drawing.
“What? It’s just nonsense,” Esther said.
“No, it’s not.”
Sketched in the ground before them was not the outline of the county. It was a world bigger than Hetty could ever imagine.
“Aspen Hill.” Hetty pointed to a space where she had only attempted to draw out the letters. While in the dirt it was nothing, she saw the words as they appeared on the map. “That’s a place near here. What else did he say?”
“Lots of things.” Esther drew back. “Funny names and such. It’s a song of a confused spirit.”
“It’s a song, but he’s not confused. Tell me the rest.”
Esther still frowned, but she repeated the bits and pieces she remembered. Her confusion turned to wonder as Hetty pointed to each place on the map.
“It’s a song that tells us the way to leave. It’s probably how he left in the first place. This tells us how to stay away from the traps and safeguards!”
“It’s not a good one.”
Hetty’s excitement faded. “No, it ain’t.”
Still, Hetty studied the map far longer than usual before she swept it away.
Solomon wasn’t made an example in the end. He died a few days later, writhing in pain from a sickness Esther claimed was too far gone to be cured with any herbal remedy.
No one questioned Esther too hard about that truth.
As Solomon died, he screamed out curses and a jumble of words at such a frightful pitch, Master actually had Mistress and Little Miss sent away so the house could be checked for any evil curses cast with a dying man’s last breaths.
“Not sure how they know what to find,” Hetty said as she sewed up the tears in Esther’s good dress. “White folks don’t understand a thing about our magic.”
“Both the stars and the herbs,” Esther added with a laugh as she wound string around a bundle of herbs.
“The skies and rivers, and rain and sunlight,” Hetty recited.
“The wind and soil, the storms and the calm,” they said together, repeating the words their mother had sung to them. “The magic is the world and it moves through us. There are words and rhyme and—”
Hetty’s words cut off with a cry as the collar turned iron hot against her skin.
“What’s wrong?” Esther crouched next to her. “You didn’t do any magic!”
“Something else,” Hetty spat. “Words have magic!”
“Hetty,” Esther said, and what else Esther had to say was lost as the pain reached the point where Hetty couldn’t breathe. This was just like what happened in the kitchen—but to make matters worse, now it was happening in front of Esther. Esther had never seen her like this. Never saw her crouched over in pain and unable to do more than let it run over her like rain. Hetty had always tried to keep this from her sister, to protect her like Mama had made her swear to. She was failing. Failing the only thing she could do in this terribly cruel world.
“Stop,” Hetty said, as she grasped at the collar, pulling uselessly against it, her sewing needle prickling against her skin. “Stop!”
Hetty kept pulling and pulling, and then the pain was gone.
The metal cooled and Hetty’s hands fell away . . . and so did the silver collar.
It fell into the dirt. Perfect twin halves spotted with blood.
If it had been a snake, they couldn’t have moved away faster.
“What did you do?” Esth
er whispered. “Was that magic?”
“Don’t know.” Hetty prodded the closest half to her with her sewing needle. It didn’t spark. No bells rang. “Don’t care. Did it glow when it came off ?”
Esther shook her head.
“Then it’s dead. We have time. They can’t use it to follow us.”
Esther swallowed hard, but her voice didn’t tremble. “Where?”
“North.” Hetty clawed at the packed dirt. “We follow the stars.”
“That’s not a place,” Esther said rather seriously. “That’s a direction.”
Hetty almost laughed. She could always count on her little sister to find humor in the most terrible of times.
“It’s not. I don’t know where I want to go. I just know we can’t stay here.”
“I know a place,” Esther said. “I heard it healing some sick folks in the next farm over. They were talking bad about it, so that means it’s a good place for people like us.”
“Where’s that?”
“Philadelphia.”
“I don’t know where that is,” Hetty said as she buried the collar. “But let’s find out.”
SERPENT BEARER
3
AT FIRST, HETTY HAD IGNORED the whispers around the lone attic window. The trio of young women situated there always managed to find an excuse to stop the work on their dresses, especially on late Saturday afternoons. But the longer they lingered, the more curious she became.
The window overlooked an alley, where passersby—unaware they were being watched—would engage in all manner of activities. Innocent actions attracted little attention. A bit of kissing between a couple half hidden in the shadows brought about giggles. But whispers came around only when there was something interesting sitting out there for some time. Usually a man, whose many attributes were remarked and sighed over.
As the whispers continued, Hetty kept her eyes focused on her stitches. She had no time to spare. Not if she planned to arrive at the telegram office before it closed for the evening. Distractions from her fellow dressmakers would only delay that task.
But when she walked across the room to pick up some trim, Hetty happened to pass by the window and let her eyes glide toward the glass, and she stopped right behind the group.
Benjy sat in the short alleyway next to the upholsterers. He must have been watching for her, since she had peered for only a few moments before he waved.
The trio of busybodies looked at each other and then toward Hetty, astonishment showing on their faces.
“How do you know a fellow like that?” Lily asked.
“I married him,” Hetty said.
“You’re married to the blacksmith on South Street?” Julianna asked.
“You didn’t know he was married?” Hetty presented this question on a knife’s edge, with a friendly smile that stopped Julianna and Margo’s whispering in its tracks.
“Not to you,” Lily said rather carelessly. “If I was married to a fellow like him, I’d be too busy raising babies to work anywhere.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Hetty glanced once more at Benjy. Content to know he had been seen, he turned his attention toward the clouds, deep in thought.
She could see why the trio had lingered at the window. They were flies lured into his web, caught up in his attempts at charm. Though to be honest, Benjy didn’t have to exert himself for this lot. Handsome by most standards, no visible scars to upset a dark brown complexion, and a bearing that held confidence and pride, with little arrogance. Hetty was accustomed to him, after all these years. It was hard to be impressed when she still remembered the scamp of a boy who had yet to grow into hands, ears, and the unwieldy and unfamiliar words that tumbled out his mouth.
As nice as it was to see him, Hetty couldn’t help but be annoyed. The dress shop was not on the way home from the forge. He didn’t normally just leave early to see her. This meant trouble. Maybe not for her, but trouble enough to keep her from sending a telegram like planned.
“What are you doing here?” Hetty greeted him when she finally escaped the shop, her sewing kit swinging from her hand.
“Came to ask a favor,” her husband said. “But it will disrupt your plans to badger that woman making dodgy potions.”
“Maybe,” she said, eagerly staking a claim to that excuse. “But that can wait. I know you wouldn’t come without a reason.”
“That is true.” He didn’t quite meet her eyes. “I need help breaking in to Moya Prison.”
Hetty’s smile fell off her face.
There went all her plans.
Breaking in to the prison wasn’t merely sneaking Benjy inside, but also helping make sure he could leave without stirring any suspicions.
They did their best to avoid the police. Thieves, liars, and other miscreants they handled on their own. But murderers were left bound and unconscious on the police station doorstep, with carefully worded notes. Even then they took care not to let anything be traced back to them.
“This about those kidnappers?” Hetty asked.
Benjy nodded. “We need answers about those men, to understand why that girl and the others were snatched. I should have asked before I dropped them off like Christmas presents at the station. But it was more important to take that girl home.”
“They weren’t exactly willing to talk last night,” Hetty observed. “That might not have changed after a day behind bars.”
“I’m sure,” Benjy said with a most unpleasant smile, “I can loosen their tongues.”
Getting Benjy inside Moya was no trouble.
On the cusp of an evening to cap a very fine spring day, the police at the station were distracted. Just distracted enough that Hetty needed only a simple glamour. One that would muffle sound and make Benjy an uninteresting sight. She sewed those into his clothes, whipping her needle quickly along the cuffs of sleeves as if a button had fallen off.
As he slipped toward the buildings, Hetty drew Libra against the brick wall. It flared gold. The scales tilted from side to side, dampening the jail’s magic nullifier so Benjy’s entry raised no alarms.
The last bit of magic she cast took the form of a crow. She left the star sigil in its raw form so the star-speckled bird could perch on top of the building. If there was trouble, it would provide Benjy some cover. It would also give her a warning.
Settled a block away on some upturned boxes, Hetty placed her sewing kit on her lap and rifled through it. Instead of mending work, she pulled out a bundle of papers.
The small stack held fragments of news regarding her sister. Heavily creased and folded, some of the papers were illegible, even the ones Hetty had written herself. They were newspaper clippings, telegrams, and ticket stubs. They were years filled with dashed hopes, wishes, and last chances. And they all led nowhere. Yet these papers were all Hetty had of her lost sibling.
The night she had broken her collar, she had escaped with Esther, using the map and song she’d memorized. It got them far. It got them far enough that it seemed like they would make it.
Then their luck ran out. Dogs caught their scent. They crossed paths with their pursuers. When all their troubles came thundering after them armed with wands and guns alike, a roaring river blocked their path.
Then Esther had pushed her into the river.
That’s all Hetty knew for certain. Her memory of the rest had been shared with too many dreams in the years since. Dreams and accompanying nightmares that whispered the worst of her fears.
Plucking out the note she received from a woman in Colorado who owed them a favor, Hetty copied the address. She took great care forming the words of her message, keeping her request simple and short and unburdened with the weight of her hopes.
Hetty was nearly finished when the crow flew back to her side. She reached to stroke its head, and it melted into a puddle of starlight.
Benjy emerged moments later just as Hetty slipped the papers out of sight.
“What did you find out?”
“Enough.
A farmer was looking for hands to help and didn’t question where the hands came from. The trio saw an opportunity to make quick money. It worked rather well in Maryland and Virginia. This was their only attempt up here.”
“Only attempt?” Hetty asked.
“Yes.” A rather unpleasant grin filled his features, glittering with a sliver of the malice the unlucky men must have seen. “I made sure of it.”
“Good,” Hetty grunted, pleased at the neatness of his efforts.
“Shall we head home?” Benjy asked. “Or do you have another errand? If you want me to stand there glowering, I’m up to the task.”
Hetty was sure he was, and she almost wished she could claim such an errand. It was a good excuse, and one that needed little explanation. But instead of a vial of dodgy potion, she had only the telegram tucked away in her sewing kit. Telling him about that was not an option. Especially as she shouldn’t even have the telegram with her in the first place.
Things were so chaotic in the South that Hetty had stopped traveling to look for Esther. The roads that hadn’t been blown up, cursed, or left in shambles were guarded by raiders of the nastiest disposition. Papers spoke boldly of the federal forces helping to rebuild the South. But more trustworthy reports suggested that the New South under construction seemed to be the old one, just remade with a different pattern.
With that avenue closed, Hetty turned to others. She worked with the Freedmen’s Bureau at first. They had promised assistance in tracking down family members, but their efforts—strained by lack of funds, resources, and belligerent forces—made it hard to deliver results. In time, she relied on her own devices, sending letters and telegrams and even placing newspaper advertisements. Throughout the years all those efforts went nowhere.
Last summer, Hetty had sent out eight letters to eight places around the country that Benjy felt was the best place to look. All but one letter had returned.
Usually this was not noteworthy, but this time Benjy had made Hetty promise that she would not send for any more information until the last letter returned.
The Conductors Page 4