Stone Mirrors

by Jeannine Atkins

  she heard speak on the courthouse steps the day

  John Brown was hanged. She’s forgotten

  Mr. Langston’s words about the freedom fighter,

  but not the way hundreds of white folks looked up

  and listened to the tall, well-dressed lawyer.

  Your client, Miss Lewis, Father Keep introduces her.

  I consider myself to be representing this academy and college,

  Mr. Langston replies. If it were not for Oberlin,

  I could never have become a lawyer. If this young lady

  is convicted of attempted murder, who would send

  their children here? But I intend to win this case

  and keep everything out of the newspapers, too.

  We’re fortunate to have an editor in town who’s sympathetic,

  but I hate to think what they’d do with this in Cleveland.

  Cleveland. Oh, dear. Father Keep nudges up his spectacles.

  I didn’t do anything! Edmonia cries.

  That’s just the kind of outburst I can’t have in court.

  Mr. Langston raises a well-groomed hand, proof

  he doesn’t pick cotton the way his mother did,

  evidence that times can change. If all goes as I plan,

  you won’t testify. Silence is the best defense.

  I have to tell everyone what happened.

  Can she? She’s spoken English for years,

  but she’s not fluent with words that fall

  between Yes and No.

  She has a grasp of words

  for action and what can be held,

  but not Maybe or Sometimes, words

  used to smudge or straddle fact and falsehoods.

  I have to talk to Helen and Christine.

  Make them remember I was their friend.

  We’re not dealing with rational people, Miss Lewis.

  Yesterday, Mr. Ennes chased me with his rifle.

  Fortunately, he has terrible aim.

  Christine’s father tried to shoot you?

  Father Keep stands up. John, my dear Lord!

  What did the sheriff do?

  I didn’t report it. Union soldiers in the South

  withstand more than one misfired bullet.

  But this isn’t a war, Father Keep says.

  I can understand how it might feel to be afraid that

  your daughter is dying. Some good people in this town

  have sent sons to war. They may never come back.

  Townsfolk think they’ve made enough sacrifices

  for our people, and are angry that some seem ungrateful.

  But I’m going to win this case. Mr. Langston’s back

  is perfectly straight as he turns to Edmonia.

  They want you in jail until you appear in court,

  though there aren’t cells for young ladies.

  I promised them you won’t leave here until the trial,

  except for church on Sunday mornings.

  Rumor already binds her breath.

  She won’t ask what will happen if he fails.

  What’s Possible

  After Edmonia reports what was said,

  Ruth paces across their small room,

  says, You can’t even attend classes? That’s awful,

  though Mr. Langston must know what he’s doing.

  Thomas says he works with Mr. Frederick Douglass,

  campaigning for colored men to be allowed to enlist

  in the army. Thomas would be the first to sign on.

  Wouldn’t you worry? Edmonia welcomes

  a chance to talk about anyone but herself.

  I’d be proud. Though it’s not as if we have what they call

  an understanding, not yet. We’re at this school

  from the goodness of people who wanted to give us a chance

  to make the world better, not have a merry time.

  Thomas means to prove his older brother’s death

  was not in vain. He was shot while helping

  John Brown try to take weapons for a rebellion.

  Edmonia runs her fingertips from an ear to a shoulder.

  Did John Brown imagine a rope around his neck?

  Or did he think death was impossible, too?

  She closes her eyes to envision his face,

  wishes she could draw his portrait, unafraid.

  Here, every precious pencil and sheet of paper

  must be accounted for, but no one can take away

  her hands. She curves her palms and bends her thumbs

  to sculpt air into doors she’ll stride through.

  Even as she shapes beauty no one else can yet see,

  her hands are cold with dread.

  Ice and Glass

  Chapel bells mark the start of classes

  Edmonia doesn’t attend.

  Her belly is heavy as stone,

  her chest strung like a slingshot.

  Her throat feels as if it were gnawed by

  dangerous spirits who tear skin and flesh,

  who took her mother, even most of her memory.

  There’s no end to their greed.

  Every day the room seems smaller.

  Edmonia tries to blow a clear space on the iced-over window.

  Once if she stood still and stared,

  beauty startled into view. That’s gone.

  Her breath taps inside her chest like snowmelt

  to the rhythm of run, run.

  Should she leave town?

  Any path would be narrow

  as flames from a birchbark torch.

  She lies down and dreams of her aunts, who praised

  her older brother for seeking a new life out west.

  They told her no one can go back.

  Once traders brought in beads,

  women stopped decorating moccasins with quills,

  making pictures of turtles, loons, otters,

  and starflowers they’d seen in dreams.

  After women could buy cloth, thread, and needles,

  they rarely sewed deerskin. Steel needles are sharper than bone.

  Even as she grew up, the past was breaking.

  Her aunts sold its pieces spread on blankets,

  turning what was scavenged into mementos and toys.

  They sewed pin cushions and small pillows,

  stitched English words they couldn’t read:

  Niagara Falls and Remember Me.

  Edmonia takes out the moccasins her mother made

  when she was a baby. The beaded blue flowers

  and fish-shaped leaves are beautiful, but there’s a hole

  by the heel. Ojibwe mothers left an imperfection

  to trick spirits into thinking an infant was unloved,

  not worth snatching for the long journey to the other side.

  Edmonia puts back the moccasins. She misses the taste

  of fish cooked over flames with mountain mint,

  fried pumpkin blossoms, wild rice, and dark berries.

  She kneels for the particular silence called prayer.

  Instead of words from people who built ceilings

  between themselves and sky,

  laid floors to block the land’s voice,

  an old Ojibwe plea runs like a pulse through her.

  The words disappear under memories of girls’ voices.

  Drink more. That’s enough. Stop.

  Who said what? Voices cross into each other

  like nightmares that scream through days, too.

  Her breath slams against the walls.

  Edmonia breaks her comb. The snap calms her,

  but she needs more. She opens scissors,

  studies the tarnished blades, then drops them.

  She runs her fingers down the window locked by ice.

  Does she hear wind from the woods

  or is someone calling her name?

  The voice sounds like Seth’s.

  She looks through the glass into darkness,

&
nbsp; past the field where dried cornstalks pierce snow.

  When the World Changed

  Edmonia twists on her shawl, fastens her gloves,

  unlatches the door, steps outside.

  An owl calls to another.

  She walks toward the field

  under a crescent moon and scattered stars.

  The sky swoops like another shawl around her shoulders.

  A branch snaps.

  She steps back. Too late.

  As if darkness isn’t disguise enough,

  men have tied cloth over their faces.

  One grabs her arms,

  claps a hand over her mouth.

  Other men wrestle rough cloth over her head.

  We’ll show her what’s wrong and right.

  White men’s voices sound too much the same.

  Are there five or six who pull her

  across old corn stalks and hard snow? Eight?

  She smells whiskey, sweat, damp wool.

  The sharp point of a boot jabs her ankle.

  No! she cries, then Naw! Booni’!

  She grabs snow and a stone.

  She drops it. Too many hands grip her arms.

  Fists drum: You don’t belong here.

  Shoving her to the ground, one man turns

  into a flock, tearing clothing that’s around her legs,

  arms, and vulnerable neck.

  Her voice turns to a rasp

  as she begs in two languages for mercy.

  Cold wings sweep. Beaks snap.

  Wild swans or men

  gnaw her throat

  shred her voice

  feast on her heart

  hungrier with each bite.

  A boot slams on her thigh.

  Someone pulls down her stockings,

  jams ice between her legs.

  Blood melts the snow.

  She reaches up.

  Her own shouts

  prayers

  promises

  lies

  begging

  curses

  shatter on sky.

  Distant stars mock with their blinking.

  The black sky refuses to answer.

  Again, she reaches for a rock.

  Her hand curls around nothing.

  The New Story

  Where did the light come from?

  Edmonia tries to push away palms,

  but her arms are bound. She cries, Go away!

  Edmonia, you’re safe. You’re in your own bed.

  It’s the soft voice of a girl, but Edmonia

  feels a man’s weight claim her name,

  smells his sharp, foul breath.

  She knows this room, but the pinch

  of a cage around her chest is foreign.

  Pain shoots through her right leg

  as she tries to sit,

  then collapses like a stone girl.

  Rescuers found you in a field,

  Ruth says. Don’t you remember?

  I told Father Keep you weren’t in our room.

  I knew you wouldn’t run away, not without a good-bye

  to me or taking your old moccasins.

  They rang church bells to call men to look for you.

  Edmonia shifts her hand to a damp cloth between her legs.

  Her hope that the night was nightmare collapses.

  She tries to remember what happened,

  then stops. Her eyes sting.

  She fumbles with the cloth bands around her arms.

  I wrapped you to break your fever. I’ll take them off now.

  I’ve got the woodstove burning as high as it will go.

  My sister had a fever like this in the middle

  of a Virginia summer. She couldn’t stop shaking.

  Edmonia, did you see who did it?

  It was dark. They threw burlap over my head.

  They? Ruth’s voice splits.

  I heard six different voices.

  Monsters!

  I wasn’t supposed to go outside.

  It’s a crime to hurt, not a crime to be hurt.

  Those men must be punished, Ruth says.

  They won’t be. Even though Edmonia might

  be able to identify them from the shapes of their hands

  and their voices. No one can know what happened.

  Like an artist drawing a line meant to direct eyes

  another way, she struggles onto her elbows,

  reaches down to grab and turn her ankle.

  What are you doing?

  They only see the surface, Edmonia says.

  If something’s broken, no one will look beyond.

  In the dark and cold, I don’t think the rescuers could tell

  the difference between melting snow

  and freezing blood. They only know you were beaten.

  I won’t look weak.

  This isn’t your fault. But you’re right. It’s better

  if no one knows. Too many blame everything on the girl,

  even back in Bible days. No girl with a choice

  would lift her skirt for an old man

  who wouldn’t look her in the eye.

  I’m not like Hagar. Edmonia grabs her foot,

  which Ruth takes between her strong hands.

  There’s no shame in a sprained ankle,

  Ruth says, then twists Edmonia’s ankle hard.

  Both girls bite their lips, but gasp as they hear a crack.

  Edmonia’s jaw aches as she holds back screams.

  We’ll tell everyone you can’t walk,

  Ruth says. That’s why you’ll stay

  in this room until you’re ready to leave.

  If I thought there was any justice it would be different.

  Edmonia stares at her dress, drying on a chair

  by the hearth. Ruth must have scrubbed

  it with a fury while she slept. She left the sleeves

  neatly crossed as if nothing had ever happened.

  Edmonia says, Give me my moccasins.

  Ruth opens the middle drawer, hands her

  slippers so small they both fit on one palm.

  Edmonia holds them to her face, breathes

  deerskin-scented air. Burn them.

  Aren’t they all you have from your mother?

  Holes or missing stitches didn’t help.

  She insists, Burn them. Please.

  Old Gifts

  Leaning on proof she already was punished,

  not knowing if that will matter,

  Edmonia shifts her crutches, making her way

  past colored people in the back rows. Father Keep

  and teachers crowd benches in the front. Behind

  them sit students—is that Seth?—and men who work

  in the sawmill, apothecary, general store, or on farms.

  Helen and Christine keep their eyes fixed ahead

  as if they don’t recognize her.

  Helen’s cheeks are sunken, the rims of her eyes pink.

  Trust was never part of what they called friendship,

  which was a tent constructed of promises, jokes, dares,

  and rare confessions. These girls will stay sixteen,

  sitting still beside white fathers who once built

  them doll houses and swings, who traded strings of pearls

  for promises to be good, who believe them

  or pretend to. The girls lean against mothers

  who buttoned the backs of their collars and twisted

  their fine hair, pinned every strand into place.

  The Trial

  The lawyer feints, his hands blurring like those of a magician

  with a wand, conjuring a spell from what can’t be seen.

  Mr. Langston repeats: No evidence.

  He won’t say murder, or even attempted,

  words that shape the silent breath

  of everyone filling the biggest room in town.

  Does the magic-maker believe his own words?

  He chants names of poisons lik
e charms,

  and what each can or can’t do,

  a long story meant to illuminate

  or set in shadows what was or wasn’t in teacups.

  Edmonia’s name scrapes as if caught by brambles,

  snagging her skirt, scratching her skin.

  She can almost hear people thinking:

  It was a mistake to let a girl like her

  into a school like this.

  In this town laid out precisely as a table,

  with forks to the left, knives to the right,

  people believe in two sides, guilt or innocence,

  unlike the world,

  where blood, snow, and earth become one.

  Telling

  That night in their room, Ruth asks,

  When will you take the stand?

  I might not. The lawyer doesn’t want me to speak.

  He hopes to win the case on lack of evidence.

  That doesn’t prove anything.

  It can keep me out of jail.

  You can tell me. What happened

  that afternoon with Helen and Christine?

  I poured what they asked for . . . Edmonia stops,

  hears the spill of cider

  or a click of a lock. I shouldn’t have . . .

  Memory isn’t solid as stone,

  but a river, wrecking its banks,

  so she can’t tell truth from lies.

  Time and voices blur, while again

  and again, men clutch and twist her hair,

  which becomes a weapon, turned against her.

  She can’t tell their fingers from icicles.

  It’s all right. You’re not alone.

  Ruth leans toward her.

  Let me tell you something.

  No. Edmonia can hardly carry the weight

  of her own memory. She can’t bear another’s.

  Ruth catches her breath,

  as if she just stopped running.

  Everything She Knows and Doesn’t Know

  Edmonia pins her hair behind her head, still feeling

  how it was pulled by strangers in the field,

  used as a harness to hold her down.

  She walks to the court for a second morning.

  Her neck aches from looking up at the judge.

  She squeezes the red mittens Mrs. Keep knit for her,

  saying, What a shame they never found your gloves.

  Edmonia wishes she were in the woods

  or at least back where she handed sightseers

  birchbark tipis and canoes small enough to sail on a palm.

  Buyers, turning their backs to the waterfall’s beauty

  and danger, seemed to crave a glimpse

  of her brown hand as much as a toy,