by Rita Woods
Louisa stopped suddenly, and Winter, her eyes glued to the ground at her feet, her mind numb from cold and hunger and exhaustion, lurched hard into her back. Stumbling backward, she lost her balance and fell, spread-eagle, into a shallow hollow between the trees. She lay there staring at the sky, fat snowflakes covering her face, unmoving.
“Winter?” cried Dix. He reached a hand to pull her up but she ignored it.
“You alright?” David Henry’s face appeared next to Dix’s.
Winter turned her head and blinked slowly. “I would sell my body and my soul to the first person that came along with some hot food and a warm fire.” She tried to laugh but it came out as a sob. She swiped at her eyes with a muddy fist.
David Henry grinned crookedly. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out. Someone like that sure to be around directly.”
“Wait,” cried Louisa, cutting them off. “I know this place. I know it.”
David Henry and Dix turned toward her.
“I know this place,” she said again. She stepped around a moldering log and pointed. “My first night of true freedom, the night Mother Abigail found me, I stood right there.” Her voice cracked.
David Henry went to her side.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I remember this place too. It was dark and I was near starved. Don’t know how many days I been runnin’. Hidin’ in ditches and up in trees. Then Mother Abigail appeared like some kind of guardian angel, right over yonder.”
The two ex-slaves stood side by side, gazing in silence out over the countryside that rose before them. Winter struggled to her feet and followed their gaze, but this part of the forest looked like all the other parts they’d come through over the past few hours.
This place held no memories for her. Her freedom had been bought with the last of her mother’s body heat, and all her memories began and ended in Remembrance.
“We need to get movin’,” Dix said, breaking the silence.
David Henry turned to him, his expression cold. “Last time I came through here, I vowed wouldn’t no white man ever give me another order.”
Dix met his look without comment. After a long moment, David Henry smiled tightly. “Who’d-a ever thought one day I’d be bringin’ a white boy into the heart of Remembrance.”
Dix shook his head and sighed. “Let’s just finish this.”
A short time later they were half walking, half sliding down a hill, the mulberry and the clearing beyond in sight.
“How do we get past the Edge?” asked Louisa.
But David Henry was not listening. He was staring down a wagon track that curved off into the distance. “This ain’t right,” he said, frowning.
“What isn’t?” asked Winter.
“This. This road,” he said, still frowning. “There’s no road at the Edge of Remembrance.”
David Henry, Winter, and Louisa exchanged a look. Dix looked from one to the other, his eyes narrowed in confusion.
“There is no more Edge,” said Winter.
A wave of nausea washed over her. They were in Remembrance but it felt wrong, out of tune. She felt the air pulse around her, filled with strands of energy, bits of things that didn’t belong. She swayed slightly.
“Winter?”
“What she mean there ain’t no Edge?”
“You okay?”
They were all talking at once, their voices coming from far away.
She sank slowly to her knees and pressed her hands against the snowy ground. Remembrance was not one thing. It was the trees and the water. It was Thomas’s ironworks, Sir Galahad’s goats, and Old Peter’s harmonica. It was the cabins and the fire and the cemetery. And it was the people. And all those things, small and large, gave off energy, their little pieces spinning and spinning. Connected. And the energy of Remembrance was not right.
“What she talkin’ about, David Henry? What’s this idiot girl mean about Remembrance? What she mean ain’t no Edge?
“Is she sick? She looks sick?”
“Winter, stop it! What’s wrong with you, girl?”
Winter dug her fingers into the icy dirt, feeling the spaces, all the spinning parts that connected Remembrance.
“They’re here,” Winter croaked. “Colm and the others—they’re here. They’re inside Remembrance.”
“How can she know that?” said Dix. “She can’t know that!”
“She knows,” muttered David Henry
He knelt a few feet away, his proud, dark face worried. Louisa, shivering in the cold, looked terrified.
Winter felt herself fall into the spaces beneath her, felt the earth moving slowly in the cold. They were here, and the thought almost suffocated her with fear. They had hurt her, and now they were here and going to hurt other people, her people.
She clenched her fists and touched the closest speck of soil, felt it shudder, slowly, felt its energy move into the tip of her finger. And she touched another, then another.
Decide.
Louisa said she had to decide.
With each piece she touched, she felt her fear get smaller, felt it changing, like she was changing the soil. Turning it into something else. Turning it into fury.
She opened her eyes and stood. Her companions were staring at her, a mix of alarm and confusion in their eyes. Around her, the snow had melted and the trees were blackened as if by fire. What had been snow-covered dirt was now a smooth circle of white-streaked marble. She smiled. The slavers would never hurt anyone again.
“We need to go,” she said. “We need to save Remembrance.”
* * *
David Henry held up a hand once more, and they all settled in silently behind him, hiding in the thick brush surrounding the cemetery. Voices came to them through the trees, frightened, confused voices.
David Henry swore. He held up three fingers indicating that the three slavers were already there. Dix nodded. Beside her, Louisa was trembling, and Winter reached to touch her shoulder. The other girl jerked away.
David Henry and Dix knelt with their heads close together, speaking in hurried, frantic whispers. Winter couldn’t hear their words but it didn’t matter. She stood, and the two men turned to look at her. Without a word, she pushed her way from the shadow of the trees.
“Winter, no. Wait!” hissed David Henry. He grabbed for her but she dodged him, darting around the grave markers—one looked fresh—and onto the trail that would take her into the main settlement, moving fast on the snowy ground. The snow was falling thickly now, draping everything in a veil of white. Her breath crystallized in front of her face as she ran.
At the top of the trail she glanced over her shoulder. She could just barely make out the figures of David Henry, Dix, and Louisa crouched among the trees in the graveyard. David Henry waved his arm frantically, beckoning her back, but she turned her back to him and dashed up the narrow, rocky trail that would take her to the Central Fire—into the heart of Remembrance.
Remembrance.
Home.
No matter that the Edge had collapsed. No matter that the pattyrollers had come back, fouling the place, her place, Remembrance. She was home.
At the top of the rise, just inside the tree line behind the bakehouse, she stopped and squatted at the base of a tree. From there, she had a clear view of the area around the Central Fire.
Mother Abigail lay sprawled near the Central Fire. She looked dead. Frank stood a few feet from the priestess, holding Petal by the hair. The tiny woman’s toes barely scraped the ground as she swung wildly at the big slaver, cursing him. Frank merely laughed, holding his face back to avoid her blows. Winter felt the terror of the settlers like a snail oozing across her skin. She took it all in, felt her power flare up, feeding on her rage. She forced herself to focus on the slavers.
All around the settlement, everyone was moving sluggishly, as if wading through molasses, toward the Central Fire. Except for Petal’s curses and Frank’s laughter, it was eerily quiet. No one noticed Winter hunched there just inside the tree line.
Where were the men with guns? Where was Josiah?
She heard the others creeping up behind her and turned just as David Henry slid down beside her.
“They’re by the Central Fire,” said Winter in response to David Henry’s silent question. “Mother Abigail is just laying there. Sick. Worse. I can’t tell.”
David Henry’s eyes flicked in the direction of the Central Fire. He pushed past her to see for himself, and his face contorted in fury at the sight before him.
Dix reached a hand to restrain David Henry. “Don’t know what you thinkin’ you can do,” he said, speaking to both the man and Winter. “I don’t know nothin’ about this power, this Edge, whatever it is all y’all talkin’, but I need to tell you, goin’ up against them boys without a plan and a whole lotta guns is just plain foolhardy.”
“I got a gun,” said David Henry.
Winter smiled grimly. “I won’t need a gun.”
Dix shook his head. His light hair was plastered against his forehead. “Look, we can’t just go up in there and start shootin’ up—”
She stood suddenly, cutting off his words. “It’s alright,” she said. “It’s all going to be alright.”
She brushed his hand aside and stepped from the cover of the trees.
52
Mother Abigail
So beautiful! It is so beautiful here!
The air was warm and smelled of freshly mowed grass. Early morning sun filtered through the leaves of the trees, loosening her limbs, feeding her tired, worn muscles. Her heart was full. So very full.
She thought she might float with joy!
They were back! On the other side of a narrow river that seemed filled with golden light instead of water. There was her brother, Ajani, and the other half of her heart, Hercule. And her parents, and Ama, her sister! She didn’t know this place, but it felt like the only place she would ever want to be again.
“Mama!” she cried.
The faces of her loved ones were shrouded in a brilliant yellow glow, blurring their features, but she felt her mother’s smile. The priestess tried to stand and found that every one of her pains had disappeared. Delighted, she jumped up and down, laughing like she hadn’t since childhood, when her body obeyed her commands easily and her whole world was the tiny village tucked in the bend of the river.
Mother Abigail took a step toward the river’s edge, toward her family, but from the other side of the rippling light, her brother held out a hand to stop her. A wave of anger rolled through her.
No! This is the time! I come with you now. You promised me this.
“One moment more,” said her brother. But it was not Ajani’s voice that came from his lips. The voice was that of many, and ancient. It was the voice of the spirits, the voice of the old gods and goddesses.
“One moment more,” said the spirits with her brother’s lips.
Grinding her teeth, the old woman turned reluctantly away from the lake of golden light to face all that she had created.
Remembrance.
She gasped, and another wave of anger rolled through her, this one so strong that she staggered. There, in the very midst of Remembrance, like manure steaming in a farmyard, stood three slavers. The very same ones from before.
One of the dark-haired devils stood on the far side of the Central Fire, the barrel of a rifle pointing at Margot’s throat.
Tiny Petal was barely an arm’s length away. She screeched curses and clawed at the face of a massive slaver, who scowled in annoyance as he held her by the hair and shook her. The priestess reached for the girl, but her hands seemed to glide off an unseen barrier. Frowning, she glanced over her shoulder. The golden lake still glimmered among the trees. Her loved ones stood in silence, their faces radiating light from within and without. She could feel them watching, waiting for her. She could feel their love.
She turned back to Remembrance and tried once again to move toward the Central Fire, to move against the slavers that had dared to enter Remembrance, her Remembrance, for the second time. But once again, she found herself unable to go to her people, unable to save them from the slavers. It was like watching through window glass.
“What you going to have me do then?” she cried to the ancestors who stood behind her watching. “Stand here and watch Remembrance die?”
That couldn’t be it, she thought. The spirits would not be so cruel. A sudden movement at the edge of the trees caught her eye.
Winter.
Her heart sang. Her girl was alive.
The girl stepped from the shadow of the forest and stood, unnoticed for the moment, watching the tableau in front of her. The priestess saw her start, saw her mouth the words “Mother Abigail.” The girl was not looking at her but at a point several feet away. Mother Abigail followed Winter’s gaze and saw, propped against a low pile of logs, head thrown back, mouth open, her own body slumped carelessly on the ground.
“Well … merde!” she said. She frowned as understanding suddenly came to her.
Caught.
She was stranded in that ancient place, between the living and dead. A shiver of fear rippled through her, but she pushed it away.
“I am Mother Abigail,” she whispered. “I am Babalawa.”
She closed her eyes. “I am Babalawa.”
She felt inside herself, reaching for the last bit of power. As long as she drew breath, she knew it was there, always there.
Tired. So tired.
But it was there waiting, just waiting to be released. Those pattyrollers would not desecrate Remembrance again. Her chest burned as she tried to force herself forward, tried to break through the invisible seam of time and space that held her trapped. The burning grew worse, eating up her breath, squeezing her lungs in a fiery fist. Something tore inside her head, and the pain seemed to settle behind her eyes, causing them to water, but when she touched her face, it was blood on her fingertips and not tears. Mother Abigail moaned.
At the edge of the settlement, Winter was still standing, watching the curly-haired slaver that had dragged Margot to the far side of the fire circle.
Winter looked as if the earth had chewed her up, then spit her back out. Her clothes were rags, her hair a tangled mess. She was covered in mud and her face was scratched and swollen.
But it wasn’t the bruising or the girl’s battered appearance that gripped Mother Abigail’s attention. There was something else—something wild and strong—something the priestess had only seen two other times in her very long life.
The air around Winter pulsed with energy.
Her girl had found the key to her power.
53
Winter
She took in everything with a glance: Petal screaming and slashing at the giant Frank’s face with her nails; Colm, his hand wrapped around Margot’s arm, his gun dangerously close to her face. His back was to Winter, but she didn’t need to see his face to recognize him.
She dug her fingernails into her hand. She wanted them gone. These white men, these slavers. They were a disease, rotting flesh in the midst of Remembrance, poisoning everything around them.
“Winter,” hissed David Henry from the shadows behind her. She hunched her shoulders, shrugging him off.
“No, child! No, petite!”
Winter’s head jerked up. Mother Abigail’s voice seemed to come to her in the air, as soft as the snowflakes clinging to her lashes. She scanned the area around the Central Fire, squinting to see through the worsening snow. She pressed her lips together at the sight of the priestess, slumped against a low rise of stacked timbers like a pile of discarded rags on the opposite side of the fire from the slavers.
“Mother Abigail,” she whispered.
In a flash she was at the old woman’s side. The priestess was not dead, but Winter felt how faint her life force was.
“Mother Abigail,” she whispered. “I’m here.”
She touched her face. It was cold as ice. She pressed her cheek against the priestess’s to warm her.
“I’m here,” she said again. “Can you hear me? I’m right here.”
But Mother Abigail seemed not to hear. Winter stroked the snow from her lashes and squeezed her hand.
Suddenly, the old woman shuddered. She turned her head and her eyes lit with recognition. Winter gripped her hand and pressed it to her heart.
“It’s going to be okay, Mother Abigail. I promise. It’s going to be okay.”
She felt a current pass into her chest, through her. It was painful, powerful, but still she held on, staring into Mother Abigail’s eyes until the light there faded.
She felt a howl of rage and grief rise up inside, and she turned slowly, still gripping Mother Abigail’s hand, taking it all in, the chaos the slavers had brought into her home. As her eyes fell on the trail leading up to the cottages, she inhaled sharply.
Josiah stood half hidden in the trees at the head of the trail. But it was not Josiah as she had known him all of her life. This Josiah was bent, frail, with rivers of white running through his thick hair. He met her eye and shrank into the shadows.
With a last look at Mother Abigail, she stood. She had never truly felt a part of Remembrance, but Remembrance was part of her.
She had decided.
She took a deep breath and turned reluctantly back toward Colm. At the periphery of the Central Fire, coming down from the grazing pastures, from the doors of their cottages, the settlers of Remembrance were trickling toward the slavers, toward the screaming Petal. They carried sticks, knives, and axes, the everyday tools of farming, cooking, and tending their animals. Only a handful of the men had real weapons. Despite Louisa’s boast, there were few guns in Remembrance. Mother Abigail and the Edge had given them more than enough protection, had kept them safer than a hundred guns—until now.
Margot saw her first. Her eyes flicked over the slaver’s shoulders, widening for just a fraction of a second, before going blank again. But Colm had caught the look. Winter saw his shoulders tighten, felt his awareness shift from Margot to her.