by Rita Woods
“I am twenty,” answered Margot. “I was born on New Year’s Day, in the year 1839.”
Mother Abigail nodded. A house slave then—the fair skin and straight back, the parlor French, suggested as much—but the accuracy of the birth date confirmed it. Birthdays for field hands were as useful as frog’s teeth.
“Good to know where your story begins,” she said mildly.
Margot stared at her.
“So young. Brave to risk escape,” said the priestess, narrowing her eyes. “What made you run to freedom?”
She did not know this Kentucky, but from what she’d heard, there were not many fancy French families there. How had this house slave gone from a town house in New Orleans to Kentucky? Debt? A mistress’s jealousy?
Margot opened her mouth as if to answer, then closed it again. She shrugged. Mother Abigail waited, but the girl seemed to have nothing more to say.
“This place called Remembrance,” began Mother Abigail when Margot remained silent. “I created it. Not important how. Important is that you safe here long as you choose to stay.”
Still Margot said nothing. She might have been a stick of firewood.
“There be no whites here,” the priestess continued. “Don’t need ’em. Don’t want ’em.”
A shadow passed across Margot’s face and was quickly gone.
“The Edge…”
“Oui,” interrupted Margot, speaking at last. “Your girl explained all about this Remembrance. This magic that allows no one in or out without your permission.”
She made no effort to hide her disdain.
Mother Abigail raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. “Not magic,” she said evenly. “Art.”
She focused on a space just beyond the girl’s feet, a tiny seam. She let her mind reach for it, give it the faintest caress. She saw Margot’s expression change from contempt to confusion, saw the flicker of fear as she sensed something change around her. The priestess held it for a minute, the wrinkle in space, then let go. She sat back, expressionless.
Margot clenched and unclenched her hands. “Am I a prisoner here, then?” she asked.
“What?” Mother Abigail gave a bark of laughter. “Of course not. Remembrance is a sanctuary. But it’s good to know the nature of a thing, yes?” she went on. Margot pressed her lips together.
Feeling a flicker of irritation, Mother Abigail inhaled sharply through her nose. Something about this girl, this Margot, both repelled her and intrigued her in equal parts. It was unfair, she knew this. The girl should have no more effect on her than the wind against a mountain. After all, what horrors must the child have endured, what force of will must it have taken to survive alone in the wilderness while making her way to Remembrance? But nevertheless, there it was.
“Some stay with us,” she said as calmly as she could manage. “They find work that keeps us strong. Working the land or metal. Tending to the little ones, building things. Cooking. Sewing. Others rest a while, then move on. What you good with, petite?”
Margot gazed off into the distance, beyond the priestess’s shoulder. “I can play the piano and I can embroider. I can read and write in English, Latin, and French. I—”
She stopped abruptly as Mother Abigail began to laugh. “Well, not much call for fine stitchery or piano playin’ in Remembrance, as you can see. But the Reverend down there, he could use the help learnin’ the babies to read and write. And English’ll be fine and plenty for the time bein’.”
Margot looked into the middle space, her eyes focused on something unseen by the priestess, the muscles of her jaw working.
“Winter is my daughter,” said Mother Abigail. “She’ll help you get your bearings. Roam as far and wide as you like. Other than the animals in the hills, there are no dangers to you here.”
At this, Margot blinked. “No danger?”
“None.”
The two stared at each other, the old priestess and the young runaway. Mother Abigail had the sense that she was being challenged, though Margot stood quietly before her.
The priestess leaned forward once again, saw the girl flinch. “How you come to be in Kentucky, girl?”
It was the second time in just a few minutes she had asked the girl her story—against the rules she herself had set for Remembrance, that no one need share their story until they were ready—but there was something about this one, something that made it seem a matter of some urgency.
Margot stood there in her dooryard in her too-short dress, staring down the hill where the sound of children playing drifted up to them, her face revealing nothing. She turned toward Mother Abigail.
“We were sold to pay a debt, my sister and I. Our mistress’s grand-mère came to the house after Master Hannigan’s death. Madame Rousse…”
The effect on the old woman was electric. She shot to her feet with a cry, the pain of her arthritic knees forgotten. Margot stared at her in alarm.
“What?” gasped the priestess. “What name you say?”
“I…”
Mother Abigail gripped the girl’s arm. “What name you say?”
Margot tried to pull away but the old woman was surprisingly strong.
“Je ne sais pas! I do not know! Master Hannigan? Madame Rousse?”
Mother Abigail released her so suddenly that Margot staggered backward, nearly falling. “What is the given name of Madame Rousse?”
The girl was shaking her head, her pale skin even more pale. Mother Abigail knew she was scaring her, knew she was pushing too hard, but she couldn’t stop. Something had ripped open inside her.
“Her given name,” she hissed.
“Ninette. Son nom est Ninette Rousse.”
The priestess went cold. She stepped toward the girl again. She wanted … she had no idea what she wanted, but this girl had seen her, had talked to her, had been sold away by the very blanc that had caused her to lose her boys all those years ago. She needed …
“Abigail!” Josiah’s voice broke the spell.
“Josiah.” Mother Abigail froze where she was, her eyes still locked on Margot. The young girl stood motionless, dazed confusion mixed with fear on her face.
“I am Josiah,” he said. He held one hand slightly forward, as if testing the air currents, and moved to stand between the two women. “I am the old man of Remembrance to Abigail’s old woman. Welcome.”
He held out his other hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Margot took it.
“I am Margot,” she said, before pulling her hand free and clenching it tightly against her chest.
The air around them crackled with tension.
“You can wait for Winter by the Central Fire,” the old woman finally managed to say, struggling to control the shaking that had suddenly taken hold of her. She pointed toward a path that led downhill through the trees. “She’s gone up in the hills to hunt up Louisa. Our healer.”
She noted the interest that flashed across the girl’s face.
“When they come down, have Louisa give you something to build your strength,” she went on. The pain in her head was building once again. She ignored it. “You weaker than you think. The next few days are for learning and resting.”
The girl nodded and, without meeting her eyes, moved off in the direction Mother Abigail had indicated. Josiah propped himself onto the porch beside the priestess. Mother Abigail felt his eyes boring into her.
“Tell me, Abigail,” he said after a full minute had passed.
She took a deep breath, trying to expel the weight that lay against her heart. “She belonged to the family that took my babies from me.”
Josiah grunted in surprise.
“It cannot be coincidence,” she murmured. “It cannot. That this girl from New Orleans should end up here now. That she belonged to the same family that once claimed me.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Not coincidence. The gods don’t work like that.”
She hissed. “The gods.”
He chuckled mirthlessly.
“W
ell, what it mean, then?” she snapped.
He shrugged and she shook her head. She had closed off that part of her heart. She would not, she could not feel that pain again. She began to punch herself in the face.
“No, Abigail.” Josiah grabbed at her flailing hands. “Don’t do this. You stop this now.
“Look at me.” He seized her hands and held on. “Look at me.”
She looked.
His mucoid eyes locked onto hers and she couldn’t look away. As he gripped her hands, she tasted the potatoes he’d had for breakfast, the sweet tobacco from his pipe. This is what he could do: take over a body and make it his, command blood, lungs. She felt his fire, his heat. Felt his power mix with hers. He was inside her now; she felt him there. Even if she had wanted to, she was powerless to stop him. And as his hands curled around hers, she felt a lightness, a lifting of the terrible weight. He held on until the pain went away. No, not away. It was still there, reverberating in the deepest shadows. But it was bearable for the moment. He released her and she sagged against him, a vague soreness in her chest.
“What does it mean, Josiah?” she whispered again.
He snorted. She sat up and gave him a sharp look. “Old woman, I gave up a long time ago to figure out the secret messages the spirits be sendin’. An’ you an’ them barely on speakin’ terms.”
She gave him a weak smile. “You’re an old fool.”
They sat side by side in silence.
He blew out a plume of sweet-smelling pipe smoke and began to hum as the voices of the children singing their alphabet wafted up through the trees.
Gaelle
She was exhausted. She’d slept poorly again. Weird dreams about the old woman and the strange man, about her grandmother and foul-smelling fires, had rolled around in her head all through the night, and she’d wakened feeling foggy and irritable.
As she headed out the door, she glanced at the calendar stuck on the refrigerator. Rose would be home soon, and though she hadn’t yet figured out what she was going to do about the letter ordering her to vacate, she was excited. Having her sister back with her, even for a little while, would make things feel normal again.
She sighed and carefully pulled out of the narrow drive that led from the carriage house to the street. It was snowing heavily, and the old car desperately needed snow tires, making the drive precarious. Nearly half the homes on this stretch of her block were abandoned, and at this hour the few that were occupied were still dark. At the corner was a bank that had been converted to a church long before she and Rose had moved into the neighborhood. In the dark, hard-blowing snow, the giant cross that hung near a second-floor window seemed to float in midair, its bright red lights glowing like some sort of omen.
She had just passed the church, easing up on the gas to let the car coast around the corner, when she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure from the corner of her eye. Hitting the brakes harder than she intended, she felt the back end of the car skid. It fishtailed wildly and jumped the curb, narrowly missing a fire hydrant before sliding to a stop. Gaelle gripped the steering wheel, heart pounding in her ears, then swearing; she yanked off her seat belt and threw open the car door. Standing in the dark street, she squinted in the blowing snow toward the church, slush soaking the hem of her scrubs.
He’d been standing there. Right there on the corner. That peculiar old man from Stillwater, the red light from the church’s cross casting a sickly glow on his dark face. She felt a shiver of fear and crossed herself. She stood a bit longer, the wind swirling the snow around her face and down the collar of her thin coat, but there was no sign of him. Swearing, she got back in her car and continued on to work.
When Gaelle rushed into her office, Melody Orr was on the phone. The DON held up a finger, indicating to give her just one minute, then went back to typing on her keyboard, seeming to do a dozen things at once.
“Gaelle, good morning,” she said, after hanging up. “Are you alright? Are you feeling dizzy again?”
“Did a man come in to see you last night?”
The DON frowned, raking a hand through her stop sign–colored hair. “A man?”
She laughed, the worry lines fixed between her eyes. “There were dozens of men in here yesterday. It’s review time, remember?” she added, as if Gaelle might not have noticed.
Gaelle shook her head. “Older. Dark hair with streaks of white. He was wearing sunglasses?”
“No.” Mrs. Orr stood and began pushing papers into a pile. She tucked her clipboard under one arm and began scrolling through her phone as she came around the desk.
“Near the end of the day shift?”
The DON, who’d been nearly out of the door, turned and peered at her. “No. Gaelle, what is it?”
Gaelle told her how she’d found the man hunched over the mysterious old woman, how he said that he worked for Joint Commision. She didn’t mention that she thought she’d seen him standing in the snow near her home just a short time before.
“He was in her room?” The DON looked alarmed. “And he had a card?”
She nodded.
Mrs. Orr swore and raked at her hair again. “He didn’t hurt her?”
“No. I do not think so.” She fought the urge to pat the DON’s hair back into place.
“Damn it,” swore the DON again. “That sounds really suspicious. Why would he be in a resident’s room, especially alone? I’ll need to talk to security. And the staff. Thank you, Gaelle.”
She hurried out into the hallway.
“He said her name was Winter.”
“What?” The DON whirled back to face her, eyes narrowed. “Why?”
For the entire time the old woman had been there, they’d called her Jane, for Jane Doe. Or, more often than not, simply, the old woman.
“Why would he say that?”
Gaelle said nothing.
“For the love of…,” muttered Mrs. Orr. “If you see him again just stay away and call security, you understand?”
She nodded, but the DON was already halfway down the hall.
* * *
Gaelle moved around the old woman’s room. Winter’s room, she reminded herself, if the old man was to be believed. She freshened the linen, changed her gown, moving quickly, efficiently, without the usual banter. She was on alert, her muscles tensed for any sudden movement. But the old woman sat still, her eyes fixed as always on the unremittingly bleak news scrolling across the television screen.
Gaelle took the pitcher from the table to fill with ice. At the door she hesitated. Turning back toward the room, she stared at Winter for a long time, the woman seemingly oblivious to her presence. She glanced over her shoulder into the hallway. They were alone.
“What is your name?”
No response.
“Winter? Is that your name?”
The old woman slowly turned her head and locked eyes with her, and she inhaled sharply. The look sent a wave of dread through the center of her gut, and she was glad of the bed between them.
She swallowed hard. “And that old man? Who is that old man?”
The woman’s mouth widened in a toothless smile.
“Josiah,” hissed the old woman. She threw back her head and shook with soundless laughter.
24
Winter
For the second time that day, she found herself trudging down the path toward the creek. However, just before reaching the gravelly bank, she veered sharply left, taking another, barely perceptible trail. Mother Abigail had told her to find Louisa, and if the healer wasn’t tending to the sick in the center of the settlement, then there was only one other place she was likely to be—up in her gardens, tending her hives.
But Winter was in no hurry. Aside from Josiah, Louisa was the person in Remembrance she disliked the most.
Louisa had a sort of magic. Much as it pained her, even she had to admit that. Plants whispered to Louisa, told her their secrets. From them, she extracted the salves and liniments, the tonics and elixirs that healed Reme
mbrance’s wounds, eased their babies into the world, and fought the sicknesses that threatened the settlement in every season of the year.
And then there were her bees and their honey. Of all the things they traded with the Outside, Louisa’s honey was their most valued currency: bright, golden yellow, the color of sunflowers, her honey was said to cure everything from burns to rheumatism. When the hives came in, the people on the other side of the Edge—black and white alike—traded them all the salt and nails, buttons and needles, iron ore and cotton goods, canning jars and sealing wax they could ever need. Louisa worked magic with her plants and her bees. That was true.
But what was also true was that in spite of her gifts with medicine, Louisa was mean as a snake. She had no great love for anyone in the settlement, as much an outsider as Winter, though she seemed to prefer it that way. But her greatest antipathy seemed mysteriously reserved for Winter.
Winter kicked at the fallen leaves lining the path. She bent to pick one up, holding it so that the sunlight shone through. Most of it had already been eaten away by worms and the damp, but what was left flowed from the leaf’s spines like lace. She ran a finger tenderly over the graceful pattern, seeing where the light leaked between the spaces. A flash of sunlight through the trees caught her attention, reminding her of her errand, and, sighing, she picked up her pace. She couldn’t drag this out much longer.
Winter trudged uphill, ducking the tree branches that aimed for her face, muttering to herself along the way.
“Can’t stay on flat ground with everybody else. Course not. Like her precious bees wouldn’t be just as happy on lower ground. They’re bees—what do they care? Even the highlands. Why couldn’t they be in the highlands? At least there’s a real trail up there! Christ on a horse!”
Near the summit, Winter stopped to catch her breath.
Still spitting curses, she pushed on until she staggered, finally, out into a broad open space: Louisa’s garden. The healer’s garden was perched at the top of a bluff overlooking a river—the same river that fed their washing creek. Tucked among a cove of twisted buckeye trees were the hives. Up here, despite the lateness of the season, many of the flowers still struggled to bloom. Insects and birds flitted among spiky coneflowers near gone to seed. Three-foot-high goldenrod hummed with bees.