by Rita Woods
From the corner of her eye, Winter saw that Colm was a more refined version of the bigger man. Dark like his brother, he was muscular where his brother was fat, his features handsome to Frank’s coarseness. He smiled at her, and his perfect white teeth glowed in the gloom. He glanced at the uneaten supper.
“You don’t like Paddy’s cookin’?” he asked.
Winter didn’t answer. She kept her head bowed but watched him stealthily beneath her lashes. Frank paced a few yards away, growling like a wounded bear, and Winter knew that except for his brother, she would have been beaten half senseless by now.
“No?” Colm went on, as if she’d answered. “Can’t say as I blame you. Poor Paddy. Sweet lad, but he thinks food’s never really done ’til it looks like charcoal!”
He laughed and Winter stared at him. His tone was friendly, and he stood one foot atop the other, arms crossed, watching her, as relaxed as if they were around the Central Fire. She gaped at him, bewildered by his tone.
“So what’s your name, girl?” he asked.
“I…,” she said. But the words would not come. Her throat was raw from screaming.
He leaned over her. “Come on, lass,” he said. “Give us a name. Or we can give you one. How about Mable? Our mother had a cow named Mable once. Remember, Frank? Stupid thing. Always wandering off.”
Behind him, Frank snorted. Colm was still smiling, but now she could see that the brothers had the same eyes, black and full of hate. She blinked back tears. She would not let them see her cry.
“Come, girl,” said Colm. “Don’t tell me we went through all that effort and you’re the simple one.”
He reached to grab her arm and she instinctively jerked away. The slaver grunted in surprise and drew back his hand to strike her.
“I’m not afraid of you,” cried Winter, tensing for the blow.
Colm’s mouth dropped open in surprise. He lowered his arm and turned to his brother, who stood smoldering behind him. “Sweet Mary! We got us a fiery one here, Frank.”
He grabbed for her again and held her so she couldn’t move. “Don’t think all that fire will do you any good where you’re going, my girl, but I like it.”
“When they come for me, you will be the saddest man on earth,” she said. Her voice was trembling but she forced herself to not look away. “They will do things to you … I will do things to you. You won’t even know your own name, let alone the name of your mother’s cow.”
For just a moment she saw something flicker in the slaver’s eyes, something that looked like fear. He stared into her eyes and tightened his grip on her arm until she cried out in pain. Tears slid down her face.
“Ah, now, none a’ that,” soothed Colm, stroking her tangled hair, any fear she thought she’d seen, gone. “Maybe she’s lonely, Frank.”
“Well, can’t have that, can we?” said Frank. He stepped from the barn and returned seconds later with a large bundle of rags. He threw it in a corner and Winter heard the rattling of chains, but all she could see was Colm’s smiling face and those poisonous black eyes.
Releasing her, he stood. “I won’t have all that screamin’ again,” he said. “It spooks the horses and works on my digestion. If it happens again, then you and my brother Frank here will need to have a conversation. Understood?”
Frank grinned, his lips pulling back from his teeth. Winter nodded and Colm slapped his thigh, delighted.
“Well, now, Mable,” he cried, beaming. “I think we’re all going to be great friends, then.”
He clapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders and the two slavers disappeared into the night. Winter covered her face with her hands and sobbed quietly, terrified that one of the brothers might hear and return.
A low moan came from the corner where Frank had tossed the bundle of rags. Winter cried out and clapped her hand to her mouth. But the night outside the barn was quiet. She stared at the bundle, an oddly shaped thing covered in a dirty horse blanket.
She crept slowly toward the bundle, breathing hard through her mouth.
“I’m not scared,” she murmured again and again. “I’m not scared.”
She could just barely reach the bundle, and with trembling fingers she grabbed a corner of the blanket and pulled.
And then she screamed, the slave-catching brothers forgotten.
The woman’s face was barely recognizable, her features swollen and bloody. But Winter did recognize her. She fell backward, then curled up and retched, bringing up dark, stinking bile. When she was done, she wiped her mouth with the stained straw and crawled back to the corner. She could just reach the face of the badly beaten woman with her fingertips.
“Louisa,” she whimpered.
33
Winter
Winter jerked upright. Everything hurt—her face, her arms, even her teeth. She’d slept fitfully through the night, propped against the splintered horse stall, watching over Louisa, waiting for some sign of life.
In the cold barn, everything was shrouded in a damp haze. Light leaked through the wallboards, landing in scattered patches on the moldy hay, the broken furniture, lending them a peculiar radiance.
She heard a low moan and pushed herself to her knees.
“Louisa?”
A few feet away, the older girl’s eyes fluttered open. In the morning light her face looked like a spoiled plum, purplish and soft. On the already damaged side of her face, the scars had been nearly erased by the swelling. Her blouse was ripped, the pale gray wool stained dark with blood. She stared unseeing into the middle space just beyond Winter’s shoulder.
“Louisa,” Winter called again softly. She crawled as close as the chains would allow, keeping her voice low. It was quiet outside the barn, and if the slavers were sleeping, she wanted them to stay that way.
For a long moment, Louisa gazed past her, her eyes blank, insensible. Winter tugged at a tangle of hair and willed Louisa to answer. Ever so slowly, a tiny light appeared in the girl’s eyes and she seemed, finally, to focus.
“Where…?” she croaked. She licked her lips, wincing as her tongue touched the blood dried there.
“Slavers came. They came into Remembrance.” Winter leaned forward. “They took us, Louisa. I don’t know where we are.”
Louisa’s eyes widened. She gazed at Winter for a full minute, then turned her face away and began to make a deep hacking sound, her shoulders shaking.
“It’s okay, Louisa,” whispered Winter. It sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears.
Louisa’s head rolled side to side, the sound growing louder. Winter rocked back on her heels, astonished. Louisa was laughing! Her whole body quaked with the sound; tears rolled from her eyes and still she laughed.
Winter glanced fearfully at the door. Louisa had clearly lost her mind. “Shush, Louisa. Shush! You have to shush now.”
What did slavers do to crazy slaves?
“What’s the matter with you?” Winter hissed. “They’re going to take us south. To sell us!”
Louisa locked eyes with Winter. “Yes,” she said simply. She was no longer laughing but she sounded as if she might start up again at any second.
“Well…” Winter felt faint. Maybe she was the one that had gone crazy. “Well, what do we do?” she asked, her voice shrill.
Louisa’s face went blank again, taking on the same unfocused expression as before. She looked at Winter, her eyes empty, then turned her head away once more. A single tear ran down her ruined face before disappearing into her blood-soaked blouse.
Whimpering, Winter scooted away from her and slumped back against the horse stall. The shivering began as a tiny movement that started in her chest and grew until she was shaking the stall behind her. She was as good as alone. No one was coming for her. No one was going to save her. She would never see Remembrance again.
No!
She shook her head. They would come. Someone would come for them. And if they didn’t … if no one came … then, she would save herself.
Except.
She tried to think of how. But her mind was as cold and featureless as new snow. She squeezed her eyes shut and sank into the damp straw.
When the barn door opened, she kept them tightly closed and waited for the boy, Dix, to put down the breakfast of lumpy oatmeal and leave.
“Best to eat somethin’, lass. We’ll be headin’ out as soon as we pick up supplies, and it’s a long trip we’ve got ahead of us.”
Winter moaned. Once again, the voice belonged not to the scrawny boy, but to Colm, the dark-haired slaver from the night before, the one with the bright smile and the dangerous eyes. She tried to burrow herself deeper into the straw.
He cleared his throat and she opened her eyes. He was smiling. A sliver of sunlight lit his curly hair so that it formed a gleaming crown around his head. He leaned easily against a barn support, arms crossed, his expression pleasant. The skin on her arms prickled.
He turned to look at the silent Louisa. “Your friend appears to be doing poorly.”
“She’s hurt,” said Winter flatly.
“Yes,” said the slaver, still looking at Louisa. His face darkened. “My brother. Dropped on his head as a wee babe once too often, I’m afraid. Doesn’t seem to know how to protect his investments. Stupid!”
He looked back at Winter. “Can you patch her up?” he asked. “Otherwise it’ll just be a damnable waste.” This last he said mostly to himself.
Winter’s mouth twitched. They’d beaten Remembrance’s healer nearly to death, and now they wanted her to patch her up? Half-crazed laughter bubbled up from her throat, and she pressed her lips together, holding it back.
She shrugged, afraid of what might come out if she opened her mouth to speak. In the blink of an eye the slaver was in front of her, squatting so that he was at eye level. She inhaled sharply and managed not to flinch, meeting his eyes, eyes the color of brackish river water. He smiled.
“You’re a lovely lass,” he said. “Do you have a special talent?”
She thought of the Easter Egger and gave a bark of hysterical laughter.
The slaver’s eyes narrowed dangerously and he squeezed her arm until she cried out. Her pain seemed to please him.
“Ah, no matter. You look like a bright lass.”
He looked her up and down, appraising her. “Too soft for a field hand, but might could make a decent lady’s maid. We’ll do quite fine by you. Even if that other one”—he jerked his head in Louisa’s direction—“turns out to be a total loss.”
He traced a rough finger slowly down her cheek, her neck. She set her teeth and willed herself not to spit in his pale, pink face.
“And,” he went on, “there’s always a use for a fair bonny lass in the master’s chamber.”
He thrust a hand into her blouse and roughly grabbed one of her breasts. She cried out and tried to jerk away, but he laughed and squeezed harder, until it felt as if her nipple was on fire. Leaning against her, he pinned her against the stall, and the stink of him, her revulsion of him, made her go still.
“Ah, yes. A bonny lass. We’ll do quite well by you.”
He released her and stood.
“I’ll send the boy with something to clean her up with. See if there’s anything about to tend her wounds. Best you pray she can walk by the time we get back from provisioning … or else…” He smiled. Without finishing his sentence, he strode from the barn.
Alone again with the insensible Louisa, the trembling started once more. Winter wrapped her arms tightly around herself to keep from shaking apart.
* * *
Dix brought warm water, as the slaver had promised, and some almost-clean rags. She tended Louisa’s wounds as best she could. To her inexperienced eye, nothing seemed broken, yet Louisa had not woken again. She had the sense that Louisa could wake up if she wanted to but that she was choosing to stay where she was, wandering about in her dreamworld. She didn’t blame her. She would have done the same, if her dreams had not been so filled with monsters and dark places.
It was not lost on Winter that she of all people should be the one tending to Remembrance’s healer.
“Come on,” said Dix.
Winter looked over her shoulder and saw him unhooking her chain from the floor hook. She squinted at him, not understanding.
“Come on,” he said again. He rattled the free end of the chain.
“Where?” She felt herself standing on the sharp edge of panic. What was this? Was he taking her away now?
“Colm says I’m to get you some air. Walk you about to keep your muscles strong.” She frowned, unmoving, and he rattled the chain again.
She grabbed the end still attached to her ankle. “Don’t,” she snarled, outrage momentarily supplanting fear. “Don’t do that. Do you hear me? I am not an animal!”
She yanked the chain hard, throwing the boy off-balance. Dix slipped on the damp hay, nearly going to his knees before catching himself. She would have charged him then, saw herself closing the small distance between them and gouging out his eyes. But the gun tucked in his waistband made her hesitate. The muscles in her legs quivered, demanding they be allowed to rise up, to jump, to run.
Wait! There will be a better time. She heard the voice in her head and ground her teeth, forcing herself to hold still, burning with frustration. She stared into his eyes and bared her teeth. They would pay for this.
Under her glare, the white boy lost the small bit of color he had. And she had a flash of clarity. He was the weak link. He wouldn’t hurt her if he didn’t have to. And … he seemed … scared.
She inhaled, smelling his fear, warm and sour, like old sweat, high up in her nose. The smell of it, the taste of it, warmed her. Her body began to fill with a vague heat and she closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, but her focus slipped away, like the sun slipping behind a cloud. Grunting in frustration, she opened her eyes, and the heat went out of her, a candle extinguished.
Dixon McHugh stared at her, openmouthed. She locked eyes with him, and he took a quick step backward, pulling the gun from his waistband, pointing it at her. The gun shook ever so slightly in his hand.
“Come on,” he croaked.
Her eyes burned and she rubbed them. She couldn’t … Maybe it didn’t work here. Maybe it didn’t work outside of Remembrance. She needed …
She couldn’t complete the thought. Everything was all mixed up in her head. Suddenly, all she wanted in the world was to hear Mother Abigail’s voice fussing at her to pay attention, to focus on concentrating her power. She needed to hear the old woman’s voice.
Winter twisted a lock of her hair and suppressed a sob. Dix made as if to tug on the chain again, seemed to think better of it, then stepped aside to let her pass.
The light outside was nearly as gray as that inside the barn. Dark clouds hung so low overhead that she felt she could bury her hands in their undersides. Everything smelled wet. There was a storm coming, one of those miserable late-fall storms unable to decide between snow or rain and so usually delivered both. She shivered.
Nothing looked familiar. They were standing on top of a steep ridge that looked out over an ocean of more roiling gray clouds. Here and there, gray-green hilltops poked through like fish scales. From somewhere beyond all the clouds and partly hidden forest came the smell of water, dark, fast-running water.
The slavers had set up camp at an abandoned farmstead. There was the barn, a ruined clapboard house, and a half-dozen other collapsing outbuildings, some nearly invisible beneath the creeping vines that were slowly pulling them down.
The three other slavers sat crouched around a fire: Colm—Winter whimpered softly at the sight of him—his brutish brother Frank, and a third man. She recognized him as the gaunt, hawk-faced man that had grabbed her in Remembrance, the one who had punched her in the face. She figured that he must be Paddy, the cook.
Frank sat drinking from a bottle and scowling at the fire. Paddy and Colm were sharing a bottle. They ignored her as she passed. In the firelight, she saw that the cook’
s face bore the marks of her nails, and she smiled grimly. No matter what happened now, Remembrance had left its mark on these men.
They walked through the remains of the kitchen garden at the side of the old farmhouse, Dix trailing behind, holding on to the chain like a leash. When they reached a damp potato hill, Winter turned on the boy.
“You don’t have to hold on to me like that,” she snapped. “I’m trussed up like a chicken. Where am I going to go?”
The boy fingered the chain and looked back toward the other slavers nervously. Winter yanked her foot.
“I don’t even know where I am. And besides, you have that gun.”
She crossed her arms, clutching at her sleeves, and waited. He reminded her of a squirrel, content to hiss and chatter from afar but ready to scamper up a tree at the slightest threat. With a final look over his shoulder he dropped the chain.
“Promise you won’t go hightailin’ it outa here,” he said.
She sneered. “You must be the worst slave catcher there ever was! I won’t make any such promise.” She smiled bitterly. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
Red blotches appeared on his pale cheeks. “You hush now!” he snapped. “You just hush!”
He looked from the chain to her face and back to the chain again but made no move to pick it up, and Winter felt wild laughter threatening to break loose once more. She coughed to cover it up, then turned and began to walk through the garden again. Slowly.
This boy’s so stupid, he’s liable to shoot me on accident, she thought sourly.
They walked around the outside of the house. It was a large house, and tattered lace curtains fluttered through a pair of broken windows on the top floor. On the narrow front porch, a rocking chair sat next to a low table, a glass in the center. Except for the fact that the contents of the glass were thick and green, someone might have just stepped away moments before.
“This looks like good farmland,” said Dix behind her. “Someone took a lot of care here. Pity it’s goin’ to ruin.”
Winter said nothing. There was a pump rusting in the front yard. She primed the handle and clear, cold water gushed from the spout. Gratefully, she washed her face and arms, ran damp fingers through her hair, trying not to see the blood mixed in with the dirt as it sluiced into the ground at her feet. It was not a proper bath, but it helped.