by Connie Lacy
Thankfully, the only noise I made was inside my head. Because there were voices nearby. I lay still, trying to determine which direction they were coming from. Holding my breath, I realized it was two men talking, their voices coming from the river.
Were they searching for me? It was hard to believe Jonah could’ve climbed back on his horse, ridden somewhere to meet up with someone and launched a boat in such a short time. Still, I couldn’t help but fear it might be him and his lowlife friend, Johnny.
I crawled a few feet further into the woods, then got to my feet, crouching as I moved away from the water. If I followed the gradual incline of the land, I should eventually come to the road. Staying hidden in the trees, I could follow the road back to Amadahy’s house and… well, I wasn’t exactly sure how things would play out, but I knew that’s where I had to go.
Sprinting through the trees as I listened for voices behind me, I didn’t hear what was in front of me until it was too late – a full-grown black bear.
It stood on its hind legs, its brown eyes trained on me. My mind went into overdrive, trying to retrieve information. July. Mating season. Shy animals that won’t mess with you if you don’t mess with them, according to the wildlife management people my TV station interviewed when black bears were sighted in the Atlanta suburbs. That didn’t calm me one bit.
“Nice bear,” I whispered as I backed away.
It gaped at me like I was the interloper. Which was true. I retreated a little further, then ran toward the river with my heart in my throat. I was running so fast, I didn’t see the two men until I was right on them.
They carried a wooden fishing boat above their heads, which they immediately lowered to the ground. The man I’d nearly crashed into took a threatening step toward me, a deep scowl on his face.
23
“Who’re you?” he barked.
He was a beefy white man in overalls, wearing a farmer’s hat with a fishing basket hanging from his shoulder.
Before I could answer, the other man who’d been carrying the rear of the boat stepped forward. It was Mr. Berryman, the man Ginny and I met along with his wife, on our way to town. He didn’t look as friendly now.
“The question,” Mr. Berryman said, “is what’re you doing on my land?”
Suspicion was plain in his eyes. I realized I must look a fright. My skirt and blouse were drenched and torn, my hair was plastered to my neck, my arms were scratched, and I was pretty sure my face was too. Panic and exhaustion must’ve been plain by the way I trembled.
“I… I fell into the river,” I said.
Mr. Berryman examined me more closely.
“This way,” he said, heading into the woods, the other man behind me, leaving the boat on the riverbank.
“I saw a black bear a moment ago,” I said.
They seemed unconcerned, not bothering to reply.
It took about twenty minutes for us to emerge from the trees into a green pasture surrounded by a primitive rail fence. A dozen cows grazed in the distance. Mr. Berryman helped me climb over the rails and we made our way to an unpainted wooden home.
“Mind your step,” he said, pointing to a cowpie.
As we neared the house, I recognized a smell that reminded me of the pot roast Nana used to cook. Children’s voices greeted us as we walked into the yard, two little boys calling out “Pa!” as they ran to their father.
“Who’s she?” the little one said, giving me a curious look.
“That’s the lady we saw on the road,” the other boy said.
“Run along,” Mr. Berryman said, ruffling their hair as he led the way to the kitchen.
Mrs. Berryman stood in front of a large fireplace, using a long spoon to stir something in a black pot hanging above the flames. Her long brown hair was pulled into a large bun at the nape of her neck. She turned, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, a jolt of surprise transforming her face.
“Miz Murray!” she cried, setting the spoon down on a big wooden table in the center of the room. “Good Lord! What happened to you?”
I don’t know why, exactly, but her reaction made tears well up. I didn’t dare open my mouth. I knew I’d cry.
“She says she fell in the river,” Mr. Berryman said, doubt coloring his voice.
She shooed her husband and his buddy outside, telling them she’d call them when supper was ready.
“What in God’s name happened?” she said, her voice soft and her forehead pinched as she led me to the table. “Rest yourself.”
She took a rag, dipped it in a bucket near the fireplace and blotted my face.
“Can you talk?” she said, filling a gourd with water.
She handed it to me and waited patiently as I drank.
“If Isham was your cousin,” I said, “then Jonah is your cousin too.”
“No. Isham’s mama and my mama were sisters. Jonah had a different mother. When she died, his daddy married my Aunt Betsey.”
Yes, I remembered Amadahy’s daughter was named for Isham’s mother.
“Believe you need some vittles,” she said.
She called her two daughters to help set the food out. There was a flurry of activity as they arranged utensils and cups of water on the table. Mrs. Berryman scooped meat and potatoes onto tin plates, which the girls dutifully served. Then she slid a round loaf of cornbread from a skillet onto another plate and placed it in the center, telling her daughters to call the family.
The two girls and one of the boys sat beside me on one bench. The other son took a seat on the opposite bench between his mother and the man who’d come with us from the river. Mr. Berryman sat in the only chair at the head of the table.
I was about to pick up my fork when they bowed their heads for Mr. Berryman to say grace. Only when he was finished did we begin eating.
Noticeably absent were any introductions. The Berrymans never told me their friend’s name, nor he, mine, and they didn’t explain to the children who I was. The two men talked about fishing spots they frequented downstream, the children remained quiet and Mrs. Berryman asked the men if they wanted seconds. They did, and she served.
Once we finished eating, she directed the girls to scrape the few leavings into the slop bucket for the pigs and to wash the dishes in a tub outside.
When we were alone again, she sat across from me.
“Sometimes it’s good to share your burden,” she said.
Could I trust her? Even if I did, there was nothing she could do to help me.
“Did Jonah hurt you?” she said.
The more I thought about it, the more I decided she might make things worse if she tried to intervene. If worse was even a possibility.
“There was a misunderstanding,” I said.
She considered my reply. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I really appreciate your kindness. And the food. But I need to be going now. I feel much stronger.”
I smoothed my damp skirt.
“You don’t look strong. I’ll get Eli to hitch the wagon.”
“No!” My voice sounded panicked, so I toned it down before continuing. “Thanks for the offer but it would be better if I walked.”
Concern was written all over her face as I stood to go.
“It’s good to know there are kind people like you in this place.” I almost said “in this time,” but realized how weird it would sound.
“Wait!” She hurried across the room to the hearth, returning with a small knife. “Take this!”
“Why would I…”
“I saw Martha Wheeler in town last week,” she explained. “She told me her slave Ginny, who now belongs to Mr. Barnes, says he beats his poor crippled wife. And I have a notion you’re not telling me everything.”
“Wouldn’t do for me to have a knife. I can’t even slice a tomato. But, thank you.”
At the door, I turned to face her again.
“It would be better if Jonah didn’t know I was here,” I said.
It was clear from her
expression she knew that already.
The sun was setting by the time I reached the road. While I didn’t relish the idea of being on the move by myself in the dark, I couldn’t put Mrs. Berryman and her family at risk. So I trudged along among the trees parallel to the wagon ruts, keeping about twenty paces from the trail in case someone suddenly appeared around a bend. I also kept my eyes peeled and my ears open for the bear.
As the light dimmed, I found it more difficult to navigate the woods as underbrush caught my skirt, roots and fallen branches causing me to stumble. When it was full dark, I moved onto the road, finishing the last half mile with the moon and stars my only source of light. Nighttime out in the country in 1840 was darker than anything I’d ever experienced in my own time.
The turnoff to the Barnes’ farmstead was marked by a massive oak tree. During the day, you could cool off beneath its broad branches. I sat with my back against the enormous trunk considering my options. Deciding this was as good a place as any to sleep, I scooted around to the back side of the tree and curled up on the ground, ordering myself to wake up before dawn.
Using my good arm as a pillow, I scanned the darkness surrounding me, thinking of Eric. The wedding was this evening. He would still be celebrating in Savannah, toasting his sister and her new husband. I missed him. A lot. What if I never saw him again? What if I never felt his arms around me again? God, I couldn’t dwell on that right now.
It took a while, but exhaustion eventually won out, a chorus of crickets gradually lulling me to sleep.
~
I was awakened by a cacophony of shrieks and whistles. I couldn’t imagine how so many boisterous birds got into my apartment. Pixie must be going nuts trying to catch them. Then my eyes opened and I remembered where I was.
Dawn was breaking. I rubbed my eyes, listening to the birds above me sending messages to each other.
I stretched my sore body before heading cautiously down the trail toward the river. In the dim light, the shadows were so deep, I felt as though I disappeared inside them.
All was quiet when I arrived. Easing into the trees near the garden, I took one step, then paused and listened before taking another. The sky lightened a bit as I tip-toed to a large pine with bushes hugging its trunk. This would be my hiding place.
Once ensconced, the birds nearby resumed their concert, the beauty of their songs at odds with the ugliness that hung like a suffocating blanket over the little farm.
At the same moment I caught a glimpse of a bright red cardinal perched on a low branch, I heard a small crunching noise behind me like someone stepping on a twig. Twisting in slow motion, I spied a black bear not twenty feet away. I felt around on the ground for something to throw, resisting the instinct to let loose with a scream that would announce my arrival. Before I could take any action, a large hand clamped over my mouth, accompanied by a man’s voice whispering in my ear.
“The danger comes from man, not beast.”
His voice was calm, but strong. It exuded the confidence of a man at home in the wilderness. His speech pattern reminded me of Amadahy. My body stilled as the bear ambled away.
“My people believe the black bear is a spirit guide,” he said.
He lifted his hand from my mouth and moved away so I could see him.
“I am called Standing Together.”
“Degataga,” I whispered, causing a fleeting look of surprise to cross his face.
My mental image from Amadahy’s description didn’t do justice to the man crouching before me. His face was striking, with strong lines and penetrating eyes. His thick black hair hung on his shoulders. And, although he was dressed in regular pants and shirt, it was obvious he was nothing like the men I’d seen in town.
“You are the white woman from faraway. Do you bring strong medicine?”
“I don’t have any medicine, strong or otherwise.”
“Why do you travel here?”
“I want to help Amadahy, but I can’t figure out how.”
“Why on this day of the Ripe Corn Moon?” He gestured toward the farmhouse and my hiding place.
“I came, hoping to save Jonah’s life.”
His friendly countenance vanished, replaced by suspicion.
“Not that I think he’s worth saving, mind you,” I said. “But he’s my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.”
His eyes widened then.
“I come here from the future,” I explained.
If I’d said that to a white man of this time, he would’ve concluded I was out of my mind. Not Degataga. He peered deeply into my eyes as though searching for the truth, recalling whatever Amadahy had told him, evaluating the possibilities through the lens of a Cherokee man of the early nineteenth century. If there was one thing I’d learned, it’s that the Cherokees of this time held onto their traditional beliefs even while working hard to adapt to the white man’s ways as a means of self-preservation.
At length, he lifted his chin, looking down his nose at me. “You wish to save yourself.”
“And many others. Amadahy and Jonah are destined to have three children together. And those three children have many offspring, including me.”
A steely look hardened his features. “I no longer believe in destiny.”
The crowing of a rooster drew our attention to the house. We watched Amadahy emerge, the baby strapped to her back and a bucket in each hand. She walked to the river where she filled the buckets, then changed and washed Betsey. She stopped on the way back to feed the chickens, then returned to the house.
As soon as she went inside, Jonah’s unmistakable voice shattered the quiet of the early morning.
“Goddammit, I’m sleeping!”
She hurried out, Betsey still on her back, Ginny behind her. They moved to the far side of the house where we couldn’t see them. Within minutes we saw smoke rising from the outdoor cooking fire. A short time later the smell of cornbread filled the morning air.
So close beside me, Degataga startled me with an insistent croaking noise. He paused, then croaked louder.
Before long, Amadahy meandered toward us, the baby no longer strapped to her back. She squatted at the edge of the garden. I could tell by the tension in her body that she was listening.
Degataga croaked again and she moved in our direction.
When she was near enough, he spoke softly in their language. She responded, also in Cherokee. Then she spoke in English.
“Degataga tells me you are here, Kathryn.” It was the first time she’d called me by name. “Bad Brother says he will kill you.”
“As much as that terrifies me,” I said, “I also fear Degataga will keep his word and kill Jonah.”
She looked toward the house.
“The thing is,” I continued, “if he kills Jonah, terrible things will happen. I know he’s a hateful man. And I know when I first came, I tried to convince you to leave him. But now I’ve learned more about who he is. And if you leave him, or Degataga kills him, Jonah’s children will never be born. And his children’s children. And his children’s children’s children.”
“That is the natural way.”
“Yes, but do you have any idea who I am?”
She pulled an ear of corn from the stalk beside her.
“I’m one of your descendants,” I said. “You’re my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. And Jonah is my fifth great-grandfather.”
She listened intently as I continued.
“Jonah is supposed to have three children with you. And they all have children, and so on down the line, all the way to my generation. Which is really awful, I know. It makes me sick that you have to tolerate his cruelty. And I cringe at the thought of being related to him.”
“I would not have children with Bad Brother,” she said.
“I understand you wouldn’t want to.”
She picked another ear of corn.
“Sometimes I wish I’d never discovered the time portal,” I said. “Because now I really care about you as a pe
rson. I don’t want you to suffer. I don’t want Betsey to suffer. I don’t want your future children to suffer.”
I closed my eyes, wishing there was some kind of magic to un-do what had already happened. Including Isham’s death.
Degataga said something in Cherokee and she replied, an obvious strain in her voice.
But they were interrupted by a scream. As one, we turned to see flames engulfing the hut. Ginny bounded through the door, Betsey in her arms, running right into Jonah, who stood in her way with a torch in his hand. He pitched the torch onto the hut’s thatched roof and grabbed hold of Ginny. She screamed again and the baby cried out in fear.
Degataga leapt to his feet and raced toward them, pulling a knife from the sheath at his waist. I dashed after him, Amadahy bringing up the rear.
“Don’t come any closer, Injun!” Jonah bellowed, pulling his own knife and holding it to Ginny’s throat.
The three of us came to a halt in the yard, causing Betsey to stretch her arms out for her mother. Ginny’s eyes were filled with desperation as Jonah dragged her to the front of the house and through the door. He was barely able to walk with his injured knee.
“You better get your crooked self in here right now, squaw!” he shouted.
Degataga spoke urgently to Amadahy in Cherokee as she hurried away. She replied in their language, her tone sharp.
There was a sudden loud thud as though something had landed against the wall.
Degataga set his jaw, training his eyes on Amadahy who walked as fast as she could, swaying with every step.
As she disappeared inside, there was another crash.
“You’re the reason I’m laid up!” he yelled. “That woman claims she’s your kin! She’s gonna pay for what she done to me. She like to broke my goddam knee! All ‘cause a you, you heathen!”
There was a sudden noise followed by a woman’s scream. Then the baby screeched in terror.
Degataga barreled toward the house, me right behind him.