Remembrance

by Rita Woods

  Winter was seized from behind and yanked hard upward. Her feet dangled awkwardly off the ground. From the corner of her eye she saw the hand of the man who had grabbed her, dark hair covering dirty white knuckles, knuckles the color of maggots. She tried to scream, but her cloak, gripped in her captor’s fist, twisted tighter and tighter around her neck, choking off her breath.

  “Winter!”

  David Henry appeared as if out of thin air. Wild-eyed, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, he swung the butt of his rifle at the man holding her. For just a second the slaver’s grip loosened and she tore free, dropping to the ground. Scrambling to her feet, she spun to find David Henry facing off with the tall, barrel-shaped white man whose head and face were covered in the same greasy black hair as his hands.

  “David Henry?”

  David Henry didn’t answer. His eyes never left the slaver who was now circling him, his face contorted in rage. Around them, a dozen black men were fighting the slavers with guns, with clubs, with their bare hands. Josiah, older by decades than every other man in the clearing, stood before one slaver and his horse. He threw out one hand and the horse collapsed, trapping its rider beneath. Somewhere, someone was screaming.

  “Run, Winter! Run and warn folks!” cried David Henry.

  Her head swung violently around, trying to take in what was happening, trying to make sense of it. She needed David Henry to come with her. She needed someone to help her get Mother Abigail back to the settlement. She hesitated, torn.

  Was that her? Was she screaming?

  Her mouth snapped shut and she spun toward the path leading up to the settlement.

  This time she saw the man. Thin and malnourished, the slaver materialized from behind the hollow tree, where a million years ago she’d sat shivering next to Josiah. She tried to sidestep him, but he was too fast. He grabbed her arm, pulling her against him. His shirt was damp with sweat, and she could smell the stink of him, the hint of something rotten. She thought of the fat man fighting David Henry, and a hysterical laugh escaped her lips, startling the white man. He pulled his face back to look at her, and with a snarl she launched herself at him, clawing his eyes, scratching his face and neck, biting wherever skin was exposed.

  Cursing, he struggled to hold on to her. He grabbed a fistful of hair and threw her down, knocking the wind from her lungs. She sprawled on the ground gasping.

  For a moment, she felt the earth pulsing beneath her, trying to speak to her. And she tried to listen, struggled to bring her terror under control so she could hear it clearly, but she was lost in the cacophony of screams and curses and gunfire saturating the air around her.

  The thin slaver raised his fist, and she saw hate and hunger in his ice-blue eyes. Her last thought before the fist crashed into her face and her whole world went black was of Mother Abigail’s Easter Egger.

  28

  Margot

  She knew she was dreaming again, in that odd broken way that people have of knowing that what they’re seeing and hearing and smelling is not real, not quite. But even knowing it was a dream, Margot smiled.

  She was in the washhouse. Grandmere was standing over the metal washtub, steam from the water making her dark face glow in the morning sunlight. The aroma of powdered sugar and chicory for the breakfast coffee drifted from the kitchen, competing with the smells of lavender and strong lye soap rising from the laundry. Margot heard a noise behind her and turned to find Veronique standing in the door, her eyes still slitted from sleep, creases from the sheets imprinted on her cheek.

  Margot reached for her sister, but Veronique didn’t move, simply squinted blearily at her through sleepy eyes.

  “Help,” said Veronique, her voice flat.

  Margot’s dream-self frowned. “Que? You need help?” she asked her sister in French.

  Veronique shook her head slowly from side to side. “Help,” she said again in the same lifeless voice.

  “I don’t understand, chérie,” cried Margot.

  From outside the washhouse came the sound of running, shouting—chaos.

  Margot turned back toward her grandmother. The old woman stood calmly stirring clothes with a paddle. Veronique stared at her, unblinking. Margot stepped toward her sister but, in that peculiar way of dreams, found that no matter how she tried, she could not get closer.

  “Veronique!

  “Help,” was all the little girl said again. And then she smiled.

  The shouting outside the wash shed grew louder. Margot thought she heard someone crying. Veronique turned to the sound and began to move toward it.

  No! Not yet!

  Over her shoulder, Veronique smiled at her again, her familiar, one-dimpled smile, and then she was gone.

  The sound of gunfire propelled Margot up. Crawling out of the tiny log shelter, she stood swaying in the cold, confused for a moment. She heard another shot and jerked. That part hadn’t been a dream. Grabbing her cloak, she dashed up the short trail toward the center of the settlement.

  Remembrance was pandemonium.

  Some people ran around willy-nilly, others stood murmuring in small panicked groups. She was shocked by the number of people, and it struck her then that she had no real idea how big Remembrance actually was. Searching for a familiar face amid the chaos, her eyes fell on two identical little heads peeking up from behind a woodpile. She threw her cloak around her shoulders and hurried toward them. At her approach, the twins looked up, their eyes wide with terror. They clung, trembling, to each other.

  “What is it?” she asked, dropping down beside them. “What is happening?”

  “We don’t know,” said Esther. “We heard screaming. It woke us up.”

  “We can’t find Momma,” whispered her sister. Tears had traced gray tracks down her round cheeks.

  Margot looked out from behind the woodpile. More people were milling around the Central Fire, quieter now, panic slowly giving way to confusion. She could smell the crowd’s bewilderment.

  She turned her attention back to the frightened girls. “Where do you live?”

  Esther pointed to a neat cabin at the foot of the hill leading up into the highlands. Red curtains flapped from an open window.

  “Go there,” commanded Margot. “Close the door. Your maman will come and find you soon, oui?”

  She stood. She needed to find out what was happening.

  Winter.

  If she could find Winter, surely she could tell her what had happened. But before she could move away, Hannah grabbed hold of her skirt, whimpering. Margot leaned over and softly touched her head.

  “It will be fine, chérie,” she said, though she wasn’t sure of that at all. “But your mama will be looking for you. You must go where she can find you easily.”

  Gently, she pried the girl’s hand from her skirt and pointed her toward the cabin. “Hide,” she said. “Stay as quiet as you can. Do not come out until someone … someone you know comes for you. You understand this, yes?”

  She looked at Esther as she said this. Nodding, Esther grabbed her sister’s hand and began to pull her toward their cabin. Though her lips were trembling, her eyes were dry. Margot smiled, admiring the little girl’s spirit.

  Stepping from the dubious cover of the woodpile, she scanned the scene before her. An eerie half-silence had fallen over Remembrance. A group of women stood huddled on the far side of the Central Fire. One woman cradled another who appeared to have fainted.

  Margot’s throat tightened. There was blood in the air. She could taste the sharp, metallic bite of it on her tongue. Swiveling her head slowly, she searched for it, sniffing at the cold air. There! She caught the scent and moved warily toward it, even as her every fiber screamed NO!

  There were four of them, crouched in the shadow of a tree halfway up the trail that led from the mulberry clearing. The blood smell was overwhelming. She clenched her teeth as her mouth filled with hot saliva. One of the men whirled, his gun leveled at her heart, and she staggered back, hands out. She thought she rec
ognized him, a medium-brown-skinned man, a half head shorter than she was. He was bleeding from a head wound, but she sensed his injuries were not serious.

  “David Henry?” The name came to her in the very moment that she spoke it. The man little Hannah wanted to marry when she grew up. She almost smiled.

  “What has happened?” she asked.

  David Henry lowered the gun slightly but his face was rigid with tension. “Pattyrollers,” he said, spitting out the word. “Pattyrollers got into Remembrance somehow. Took Winter!”

  There was a roaring in her ears and Margot moaned. “Safe” the farrier had said that night he’d brought her here. “You be safe with Mother Abigail.”

  Suddenly, she became aware of another smell, worse than blood, more malignant. David Henry followed her eyes, his face stone.

  “Thomas,” he said.

  She crouched beside the mortally wounded blacksmith. His companions tensed but made no move to stop her. Thomas lay on his back, his blue shirt and overalls turned black with blood, his intestines spilled out onto the damp leaves like new sausages. His eyes were open but he stared unseeing at the pieces of gray sky peeking through the treetops.

  “He got gut-shot tryin’ to protect Mother Abigail,” said David Henry behind her. His voice was flat, emotionless. “First one out. Tried to take that pattyroller down with his bare hands. Woulda torn that cracker to pieces if he hadn’a gotten blasted.”

  Her head felt heavy on her neck, as if it might shatter with too quick a movement. David Henry’s words registered in her mind finally, and she turned to look at him.

  “Protect Mother Abigail?”

  The most desperate of slavers would not take an ancient slave woman like the priestess back south. She would not be worth the food wasted to keep her alive that long, even she knew that. David Henry was silent.

  “Somethin’ happened to her out there by the mulberry,” said the man nearest her. He drew each breath in as if it was fire, and she knew without even touching him that several of his ribs were broken.

  “They took her?” asked Margot.

  The man shook his head, winced. “No. They didn’t touch her. Leastways, not that I saw. Was a slaver near abouts, but she just … fell out. Then Thomas…” His shoulders sagged and he looked away.

  “And Winter was with her?”

  David Henry made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “They snatched her up. I saw that myself.” He leaned over Thomas and gently brushed his eyes closed. “Couldn’t stop it.”

  Balling her fists beneath her cloak, Margot fought the urge to touch him. “Where is Mother Abigail now?”

  “In her cabin,” said the third man, speaking for the first time.

  “Sent someone to fetch Louisa so she can heal her,” said David Henry. “If she can.”

  The men fell silent then. Margot felt rooted to the spot, her legs made of wood. She breathed through pursed lips, sipping at the air, trying to take in as little of the scent of blood and death that swirled around as possible. Her eyes burned and she rubbed a thumb between her aching brows.

  “What,” she asked finally, her voice a fragile thing in the morning shadows, “what will happen now?”

  David Henry stiffened and she saw his grip on the gun tighten. Though he couldn’t see the settlement through the trees, he seemed to sense the growing panic gripping Remembrance. The surviving men exchanged guarded looks, there in the shadow of the trees.

  Margot watched the muscles work beneath the skin of David Henry’s jaw. “What happens now?” he said. He turned to look at her, and in the morning light his eyes were wild. “We protect what’s ours.”

  Gaelle

  “I don’t see any difference.” Toya stood staring down at the old woman.

  Gaelle had run from the room and found her friend, dragging her back to Winter’s room.

  “She spoke.”

  Toya crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah, she’s a brilliant conversationalist.”

  Gaelle punched her lightly in the arm.

  “Hey, I’m just sayin’.”

  They stood side by side in silence, but the old woman barely seemed to register their presence. She gazed past them at the images flickering across the television screen.

  Gaelle suddenly had an idea. She walked to the television and, reaching up, turned it off.

  “Shit!” cried Toya.

  Gaelle turned to find Winter glaring at her. But unlike the times before, there were no animal wails of protest. Toya waved a hand in front of the old woman’s face and Winter shifted her attention to her.

  The aide grunted and took a quick step back. “Okay, that is not disturbing at all.”

  “It gives the heebie-jeebies, yes?”

  “Oh, hell yeah.”

  Gaelle leaned down so that her face was level with Winter’s, yet out of reach. “You can speak,” she said. “Why will you not speak?”

  The old woman merely blinked.

  “Come on, our break’s almost over,” said Toya, touching her arm.

  “But she can speak.”

  “You know, I’m not sure I even want to hear whatever it is she has to say.”

  Gaelle turned and looked at her friend, surprised to see Toya frowning, her eyes narrowed as she studied the old woman.

  “I don’t know, Guy. There’s somethin’ not right about this lady. Everything about this just feels wrong. You gonna tell me you don’t feel that?”

  She nodded. She did feel it.

  “Whatever she’s got locked up in that head a’ hers, probably best kept where it is.”

  Gaelle gave the woman another look, then straightened. “Okay.”

  She turned the television back on and immediately saw the tension melt from the old woman’s face as she turned her attention back to the screen.

  Back in the staff lounge, she told Toya about the strange old man.

  “Hmm,” said her friend, grinning. “Older man with a ponytail and sunglasses. Sounds sexy. A little borderline creepy, but sexy.”

  Gaelle rolled her eyes.

  “Are you sure it was him you saw this morning near your house?” Toya was suddenly serious. “I mean, it was dark, and in this weather, can’t hardly see my hand in front of my face.”

  “I am sure. I could see him clearly in the light from the church cross. It was him.”

  “Did you tell Orr?”

  Gaelle shook her head.

  “Guy, you need to be careful. I don’t know what’s going on, but if this dude doesn’t work for Joint Commission then we’re talkin’ some crazy stalker mess.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey,” said Toya, brightening. “I got something for you.”

  She rooted around in her pocket and pulled out a card. “My cousin’s boyfriend works down at the courthouse. He gave me this card. Said this lawyer handles real estate stuff. Merry Christmas, girlfriend.”

  Gaelle pressed the card to her heart with a smile.

  “You know sometimes the world just keeps beatin’ you down,” said Toya.

  “But we survive, wi?” She held a hand up for a high five.

  Toya hesitated, then took a deep breath, slapping her palm. “Yeah, girl. We survive.”

  * * *

  She saw the bright yellow envelope taped to her door as soon as she drove up. Even before she’d ripped it open, before she read the lines threatening legal action if she did not vacate the premises the week after Valentine’s Day, she felt a surge of rage. Beck Gardner’s toothy grin flashed in her mind.

  Beck—what a stupid name.

  Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? This rundown garage in this rundown neighborhood meant so much to him that he would see her homeless?

  She snatched at her scrub top, trying to get it off. She was hot. So hot. And she wanted all these clothes off so she could breathe. She kicked her shoes off and hurled them across the room, one by one, feeling the heat inside her build with rage.

  Grabbing the jar of cooking utensils, she
flung it against the wall with a howl of fury. Why couldn’t they just all leave her alone? It took her a moment to register her phone ringing. She yanked it from her pocket and saw the number.

  “Bonjou, sè. Why are you out of breath?” The sound of her sister’s voice brought her back to herself, and she sank to the concrete floor, feeling the coolness against her back.

  “Rose, bonjou! I was … I just ran in from outside. It is snowing and cold.” She laughed. “You will hate it, but I cannot wait for you to come home.”

  There was long silence and she was immediately on guard.

  “Rose?”

  “Gaelle…”

  She sat up. “When are you coming home, ti sè?”

  “Gaelle, the money won’t come through until after the new year. I can’t afford it.”

  Where moments before she’d been so hot she’d felt she might combust, now suddenly she felt as cold as ice. “But it is Christmas.”

  “I know. I am so sorry. Please do not be angry.”

  “I can take out a loan. There are places that do that. I could send you the money.”

  “No,” cried Rose. “You already said you need work done on your car and new tires. And those places are kriminèl. They steal your money. I will be home for spring break. I promise.”

  Gaelle held the phone in silence. She felt hollowed out, empty.

  “Gaelle? Are you angry with me?”

  “No.” What she felt had no name. “I will call you tomorrow.”

  “Mwen renmen ou.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She held the phone for a long time, then, dropping it, she reached for the warning letter. There on the cold floor she held it in her hand, feeling nothing as it burst into flame and burned away, the embers floating in the cool air like stars.

  Part Four

  Outside

  Winter

  There was murmuring all around her, the sound ebbing and flowing, and she felt herself slipping, sinking deep into the spaces around her, becoming one with everything. She imagined that she could slip inside a tree, hover there, her particles blending with its particles until there was no difference, creating a new being, a Winter tree.