“I’ll just walk on and on,” she said to anything or anyone that might be listening. Maybe the path turned into a foot trail along the riverbanks and followed the waterway right out of Coal River. If only she had dressed for hiking and brought provisions. If only the surrounding mountains weren’t endless and steep and the woods weren’t filled with wild animals. If only she had someplace to go. Remember what you came here for, she reminded herself.
When she came to the third fork in the path and turned down it, her throat grew tighter and tighter. Just then, a flock of crows exploded from the branches of a tall maple, making her jump. She stopped and held a hand over her racing heart, trying to catch her breath. The crows screeched and beat their mighty black wings, scolding her for disturbing them. Then they were gone as quickly as they had appeared, and she was alone again. She kept walking, trying to ignore the sense of dread that crept up her spine, the light chill caressing the nape of her neck. She held her breath around every corner, certain Michael would be standing in the path, waiting. While she was grateful that he had led her toward the decision to help the miners, and felt that his intentions were good, he was still a deaf-mute who had never spoken a word to anyone except her. His face showed no emotion, and his dark eyes seemed to look into her soul. It was eerie. What would he say this time?
She steeled herself and kept going. If Michael had something else to tell her, she would listen. Especially if it had something to do with Albert. Finally the ground leveled out, and she crossed a narrow clearing between birch and fir trees. Stepping through a wide swatch of grass, she came to a gray mosaic of flat rocks near the shoreline. The river looked brown and cold, and the smell of muddy water hung in the air, equal parts iron, coal dust, sulfur, and wet rock. As always, the waves were high and churning, the rocky banks stained yellow from mine runoff. The thunderous roar of rapids filled the air, a constant whooshing that some might have considered peaceful, but set Emma’s nerves on edge. The snarl of water reminded her of the uncontrollable power of the river, and the speed at which a life could be carried away.
She stared at the dark water for a long time, then went back to the grassy clearing and faced east, toward the train trestle in the distance. This was where she needed to be, not where her brother was buried in the cold, hard ground, but where his soul had left his body. This was where she’d been standing nine years ago, feet rooted to the icy ground, doing nothing while he drowned. She closed her eyes and pictured his small face, his brown eyes and freckled nose, his toothy grin. She thought of all the things he’d missed out on—growing taller and falling in love, family dinners and snowy Christmases, their mother’s famous chocolate birthday cakes. He would have loved the growing number of automobiles in Manhattan, and the feature-length films at the theater.
Her heart ached, thinking how much she missed and needed him now that their parents were dead. Before returning to Coal River, it had been so long since she’d seen and talked to him that it almost felt like he was someone she had known in a dream, or loved in another lifetime. Only one thing remained constant over the last nine years—the profound weight of her guilt. Here, in Coal River, that burden was multiplied tenfold. In this isolated mining town, he was everywhere, like the coal dust that covered the mountains, the buildings and the roads, the leaves and the bark of the trees, the dirty faces of the boys and young men. Now she felt like she was being punished for forgetting about him, for not keeping him first and foremost in her mind, for going on with her life when he no longer could.
If only she hadn’t chased Percy and his friends down to the river that day. If only she hadn’t stood there, frozen, watching her little brother fall through the ice. She should have saved him. She should have grabbed a branch or a stick, something for him to hold on to until help came. But it happened so fast. So fast.
“I’m sorry!” she cried above the rush of water. “I was scared. I was only thinking about myself! It was selfish and unforgivable, and I’m a horrible sister!” She hung her head, tears dripping from her nose. “Please, please, Albert. Forgive me if you can.”
She knelt in the grass and buried her face in her hands, dark thoughts erupting in her mind. Maybe everyone is right, she thought. Maybe I am cursed. Maybe I should walk into the river and let the rapids pull me under, away from this anguish. Maybe I should walk out on the train trestle and throw myself off. She imagined the fall from the high bridge, the wind whipping through her hair, the hard impact of the water, and then . . . peace. She raked her hands through her hair. No. I can’t do it. I’m too scared. Besides, I finally have a chance to make up for what I’ve done. And I’m not willing to go down without a fight.
Just then, a sharp crack pierced the air, a quick, loud bang above the roar of the river. A gunshot. Emma flinched, the shock of sudden fear tingling through her body. It sounded close. Another shot rang out. She ran for cover behind a giant oak, unsure where the shots were coming from. A third shot sounded, a muted pop in the distance. After a few minutes of silence, she inched out from behind the tree and made her way toward the shoreline, staying close to the bushes. Maybe someone was hunting. The gunshots sounded like they were coming from upstream, in the opposite direction of the train trestle.
When she stepped out onto the flat rocks, her skin went cold. A man floated down the river just inches from the shoreline, his face covered in blood, his arms and legs undulating on the waves. Her breakfast rose in the back of her throat, and she clasped a hand over her mouth to keep it down. Before the body passed, she recovered and dropped to her knees to try to reach the man before he was washed away. But again the river was faster than she was. The rapids swiftly carried the body downstream, the man’s pale hands appearing and disappearing like white fish just below the riled surface. She swore and pounded her fist on her leg, then looked upriver, toward the direction the body had come from. A group of men stood on an outcropping of rock. Her breath caught, but they hadn’t noticed her.
One of the men was Hazard Flint, looking on while a man in a deerskin jacket with an oversized cross engraved on the back held a revolver to a kneeling man’s head. A fourth man, this one wearing a police uniform, stood next to the kneeling man, his back to Emma. She couldn’t be certain, but it looked like Frank Bannister. Then Mr. Flint nodded, Frank stepped back, and the man in the deerskin jacket pulled the trigger. The kneeling man slumped forward, and Frank pushed him over the rocky bank with one foot. The man in the deerskin threw the gun into the river, watching it splash into the water about halfway across. Then he looked in her direction.
For a fraction of a second, Emma froze, unsure if he could see her. Then he pointed at her, and she bolted into the brush, her head down, ignoring thorns and the slap of branches on her face and arms. She took a shortcut toward the path, slamming through bushes and brambles. Finally the path opened up just ahead, and she nearly fell when she burst out of the underbrush. Behind her, to her right, she heard the crackle and crash of someone running through the woods. Whoever it was, they were headed in her direction. She turned and raced up the hill, breathing hard and pushing herself to get to the top before her pursuer could cut her off.
Halfway up, she stumbled and fell. Pain flared briefly in her ankle, rocks and sticks stabbing the skin on her palms. She pushed herself upright and hobbled a few steps before finding her stride again. Ignoring the ache in her leg, she sprinted on and up, no sound but her own labored breathing in her ears. Then, behind her, someone crashed out of the woods and shouted. She kept going, the slippery soles of her shoes kicking up sand and gravel. If she could make it to the top of the path, she could run to the train depot, or hide in one of the storage buildings next to the gravel pit. Then someone grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. It was Frank.
“Emma!” he said, his sweat-rimmed eyes wide.
She yanked herself from his grasp and started running again. He caught up and captured her, his strong fingers digging into her upper arms.
She kicked his shins. “Let me go!�
�� It was no use. He tightened his hold.
“What are you doing down here?” he said.
“I was just . . .” she said.
“What did you see?” he said, shaking her.
“Nothing!” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t see anything!”
“Why were you running then?”
Her mind raced as she tried to come up with a believable excuse. “I thought I saw . . . a body,” she said. “In the river. It scared the hell out of me!”
“That’s it?”
She nodded.
“You’re lying,” he said. Just then, Mr. Flint and the man in the deerskin jacket rounded a bend a few hundred yards down the hill, moving fast. Frank glanced over his shoulder, then directed his attention to her again. “Keep your mouth shut about this,” he said under his breath. “Or you’ll be sorry. Now hit me! Hard!”
She shook her head, confused. “What are you—”
“Hit me!” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes wild with an odd mixture of power and fear. “Unless you want to join your brother in that river, do it now!”
She clawed his face and hit him hard with both fists, releasing fury and fear with every blow. He howled and let go, bending over in pain. “Go on,” he hissed. “Run.”
She turned and ran up the hill, faster than she had run in her entire life.
After seeing the men murdered down by the river, Emma raced home, convinced that she had to flee Coal River. If she hurried, she could leave before her aunt and uncle came home from church. But by the time she reached the house, she remembered that nothing had changed since she’d first arrived. She still had no money and nowhere to go. And even if she had somewhere to go, Aunt Ida and Uncle Otis would never buy her a train ticket. After all, she was bringing in extra income and working around the house for free. Why would they pay good money to get rid of a slave?
Besides, what was she going to do, tell them she needed to leave because she saw Hazard Flint order someone killed? That he and Frank Bannister were murderers? They’d never believe her. Or maybe they already knew. After all, they were part of the problem, letting Mr. Flint run this town. And even if something happened to her, would her aunt and uncle even care? She collapsed on the bed, tears of frustration burning her eyes.
Frank had warned her to keep her mouth shut, and she would do just that. For now, at least. Who would she tell anyway? The only person she remotely trusted was Clayton Nash. And she barely knew him. Besides, what could he do? If he tried anything, Mr. Flint would get rid of him too. For now she would play innocent. She would pray Mr. Flint didn’t recognize her down by the river, and Frank didn’t turn her in. Because what choice did she really have?
The next morning, on her way to the Company Store, she hurried down the steep hill, constantly glancing over her shoulder and into the woods, worried Mr. Flint’s henchman would burst out of nowhere and take her down to the river, where he would shut her up for good. Everything around her seemed to move in slow motion, while her own movements felt sped up and jittery, as if her limbs were shaking out of control. Worrying about seeing Michael was one thing, like being afraid of ghosts or bad dreams, something that felt like it could hurt you but really couldn’t. Worrying about Hazard Flint and his henchman was another thing entirely. She felt like a rabbit being chased by a fox, or a soldier hiding from battle.
Halfway into town, she met a group of people making their way toward Freedom Hill. She slowed, unsure at first what she was seeing. Six teenage boys in dark jackets carried a small pine coffin up the gravel road, followed by a sobbing woman and a somber-faced man. The man was wearing black trousers and scuffed leather boots. He carried a toddler on his hip and was trying to hold the woman up with his free arm, urging her to keep walking. The woman stumbled beside him, her shoulders convulsing, her face twisted in agony. A few yards behind them, a gathering of miners’ wives and children plodded wearily along the road, their faces long. At the rear of the procession, a ragtag troupe of boys in short jackets and patched knickers trudged together in an uneven cluster, their hands in their pockets, their heads low. They looked between the ages of six and twelve, with the younger boys outnumbering the older ones three to one. A few glanced at Emma with haunted eyes, their lips pressed together. Most were trying not to cry. Some walked on crutches, missing half a leg, one foot, an arm. Two boys were missing hands, and one had a black patch over his eye.
Is it ever going to end? she thought. The death, the maiming, the terrible toll the mine is taking on this town, its families, its children?
She stepped aside to let the funeral procession pass, but could not draw her eyes away from the coffin. Somewhere, she had heard it was bad luck to meet a funeral cortege. If you met one, you were supposed to turn around and go the other way. If it was unavoidable and you couldn’t change directions, you were supposed to hold a button in your hand. She had never believed in such nonsense, but Coal River had a way of making one suspicious. Besides, she’d had enough bad luck to last a lifetime. A burning lump formed in her throat. She pinched a button on her blouse, squeezing so hard, her fingers went numb.
It’s such a small coffin, she thought, her eyes flooding. Did one of the miners’ children get sick? Did they go hungry for too long and die of starvation?
She swallowed a sob and wiped her cheeks with her free hand. A minute ago she had been afraid for her life; now she would have almost welcomed the freedom from this horrible, unrelenting grief. How was it possible that this world was filled with so much suffering? How was it all right for humans to be given the ability to love if their loved ones were only going to be taken away? How could it possibly be God’s plan to rip children away from their parents, shattering their hearts and souls forever? For the life of her, she’d never understand it.
A boy on crutches stopped in the middle of the road and turned to look at her. The rest of the boys streamed around him, too lost in their misery to care what he was doing. For some reason, Emma’s eyes were drawn to him and she felt rooted to the ground. It was Michael. He moved toward her, hopping on his crutches, then stopped a few feet away. She waited, her hands clammy, her breath coming shallow and quick. Briefly, she thought about asking him why he had spoken to her, then decided to see if he would do it again.
“Will you help?” he croaked.
Emma swallowed. Suddenly, everything except Michael—the funeral procession, the hill, the sky, the trees—seemed covered in a fine haze, like paper-thin ice after a spring thaw. It felt like they were inside a distorted glass ball where no one else could see them.
“What do you want from me?” she said.
Michael looked over his shoulder at the breaker boys following the coffin up the hill. He watched them for a long moment, then gazed up at her again, his eyes wet.
“Are you asking me to help the breaker boys?” she said.
He nodded.
“But how?” she said. “What am I supposed to do? And what does my brother have to do with this?”
Then the haze disappeared and, without another word, Michael turned away, moving fast on his crutches to catch up to the funeral procession.
She watched him leave, fighting the urge to chase after him and force him to answer her questions. It was one thing to take food to the miners’ village, but how was she supposed to help the breaker boys? And why her? Because she was new in Coal River? Because she was the supervisor’s niece? Because he could tell she was sympathetic to their plight? It didn’t make sense. Her stomach filled with a heavy mass of nausea and confusion.
Twenty minutes later, when she entered the Company Store, her eyes were still swollen and red. Between seeing the funeral procession and talking to Michael again, it had taken forever for her tears to stop. Percy was in the far aisle along the opposite wall, piling bags of flour on a bottom shelf.
“Do you know anything about the funeral being held today?” she asked him.
He grunted and lifted a flour sack over one shoulder, his forehead and las
hes covered with white powder. “Was there a group of young boys following the casket?” he said. He put the bag on the shelf and straightened, wiping flour from his sleeves.
She nodded.
“Then it was for a breaker boy. I heard one of them fell in a coal chute the other day and smothered to death. They didn’t know he was in there until yesterday because they were busy with the cave-in.”
She gasped. “But the coffin was so small! How old was he?”
“I believe he was six,” Percy said, his voice detached, as if she had inquired about the price of flour.
“I thought the breaker boys were older!”
“They’re different ages,” he said with a shrug. He headed toward the stock room.
“Wait,” she said. “What else can you tell me about Michael Carrion?”
“Not much. I used to see him and his grandmother shopping in the store. But that was before his parents died. Haven’t seen either of them in here for months.”
“Why not?” she said.
“No money, I suppose,” he said. “Rumor has it she makes potions and tinctures out of herbs to trade with the miners’ wives for food and goods. And he hunts rabbit and sells the pelts. But I also heard they’re living with some old miner. Hard to know what’s true.” Then his eyes went wide. “Why? Did he talk to you again?”
“No,” she said. She had decided not to say anything to anyone until she found out more.
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