Turning around, Widow Anker waited for Edith to bite her fan before slowly enunciating, “Mrs. Abrams was having a difficult birth.” As her words hit the paddle, its cloth and metal hummed, passing the woman’s message through teeth and bone. “I spent all night and a good part of yesterday making sure she and her babies would remain on this earth.” Her muscles turned to rags, she slumped against Edith. Widow Anker said something Edith couldn’t catch, prompting the woman to tap her Marja‘s shoulder and point to the fan.
Picking her head off from Edith’s chest, Widow Anker told the fan, “She had triplets.”
Edith blinked, then softly shoved her Marja towards the nearest chair. Widow Anker resisted the push, her mouth twisted into a thin smile. “Mr. Abrams closed his shop early. He refused to leave the hall outside his bedroom until the last of the afterbirth was delivered. With three new sons, he has no reason to have me jailed.”
Opening her mouth wide and using her free hand, Edith mimicked Widow Anker’s favorite praying style.
Stepping back to reveal her akimbo stance, Widow Anker said, “Do you think me a fool? I’m not going to witness if a woman and her babies look ready to die in front of me.” Relaxing her arms, she added “Mr. Abrams is giving us a favor for this.”
Edith raised her eyebrows.
Returning to the basin steaming on the counter, Widow Anker motioned for Edith to follow. Plunging her hands into the gritty water, Widow Anker said, “Mr. Abrams wants to pay me handsomely to spend the next fortnight looking after his wife and heirs. When I explained my other duties, he offered to pay me well and not report me to the Watch.”
Filling her lungs with humid kitchen air, Edith yelled “It’s not enough to go out into the plague air without protection? You want to be tossed into a cell again with only fleas for food and company?” Her shoulders sagging, she added “They won’t let me give you perfume in jail.”
As Edith turned away, Widow Anker caught the edge of her sleeve. A strong tug was all she needed to come free. When Widow Anker stomped the kitchen floor, trying to grab her attention, Edith kept walking.
Several minutes later she returned to the kitchen, a box in her hands. Moving with as heavy a step she could manage, she placed the box on the counter, pulled out a spray bottle and headed to the woman now at the table, busy drying a pewter enema syringe. It only took a few pumps to drench it and her Marja’s hands with proper Seven Thieves vinegar.
Widow Anker leapt back, dropping the syringe. Her face was contorted into a “What’s wrong with you?” look.
“I’m not taking chances,” Edith said. Stopping for breath, she started to say more, but noticed Widow Anker’s still perplexed visage.
Making a sigh large enough to move her arms and back, she picked up the syringe and walked up to her companion, showing her where droplets still shone on the metal. “You should have waited for it to dry first,” she said into Edith’s ear. “Wouldn’t water weaken its strength?”
Her face burning, Edith hurried to her box, taking out a brass ball on a cord. The musty floral notes of chamomile seeped from holes punched into the metal. Edith turned to Widow Anker, eyebrows raised, holding up the pomander. The midwife lowered her head to give the perfumer an easier time fastening the chain and its pendant around her neck.
Edith made a point to leave the vinegar bottle by the still-wet midwifery tools.
####
When Edith wasn’t working on Seven Thieves Vinegar, she was mixing, distilling, steeping and bottling to keep up with the wealthy’s demand for protective fragrances. Some were liquids meant to be dabbed, sprinkled or sprayed onto the skin or clothes, while solid perfumes needed to be rubbed into place or carried around in pomanders, keeping their owners in a fragrant cloud that wouldn’t fade within hours.
Vinegar wasn’t as elegant as the scents she wore around her neck or peddled to the nicer shops in town, but her recipe was the nicest smelling available, and enough people could afford it. To keep her purse happy, she spent a better part of a week replenishing her stores.
In her still room, where none were around to look, Edith removed her shoes and stockings to give her feet room to swell. Her nose turned numb from the steam that escaped when she transferred distillations from one flask to another.
Preparing the vinegar itself required no heat, just a matter of clipping what she needed from her garden, drying the necessary herbs, layering them prepared containers, pouring over vinegar and leaving the mixture to sit.
As long as her hands kept busy, she never ground her feet into the earth, waiting for stomping that never came. She wouldn’t keep scanning her surroundings, looking over her shoulder for traces of that kind tawny face. Edith would do everything in her power to make fragrances that were second to none in keeping disease away. Her pockets would grow so full she’d reinforce them with canvas. Widow Anker would never have to work for others ever again. Her Marja would stay out of prison, drinking all the tea and wine she pleased. There would be no praying that she could make a single flask last four days.
If the Abramses caught her Marja witnessing to their slaves, they probably wouldn’t call the City Watch, but a judge to send her to the auction block.
It was every bit as likely that Widow Anker would remember to wear a mask or pomander locket, only to give it to a slave or beggar with no protection to speak of. Her Marja’s lungs would fill with muck, forcing her to cough until her ribs cracked. No amount of Edith’s perfume would bring her back.
These thoughts caused Edith’s hands to shake so badly she dared not handle her perfumes and vinegar. She’d grab a spray bottle and stalk her garden, hunting for insects to blast into submission. By the time her bottle was empty her arms were usually steady enough to resume her work.
When Widow Anker didn’t come home one night, Edith had to constantly remind herself that this wasn’t the first time. Widow Anker was full of tales of missing curfew in her effort to save souls. She was only caught a handful of times.
The next day Edith worked her hands into blisters. From the afternoon onwards, her knees creaked with every movement. By that night, her feet were so swollen she feared having to take scissors to her shoes.
With the way her heart was pounding and her feet kept twisting against the floor, searching for the tale tell tremble of footsteps, sleep wasn’t going to come. No matter, there was plenty to do. Taking the household supply of Seven Thieves vinegar, she swabbed it along every window, door, chamber pot and other areas prone to contamination. By the time she was finished, she couldn’t stand, let alone walk without pain shooting up her soles through to her head.
Soaking her afflicted body in a bath of rose petals and lemon balm did wonders for her flesh. The fragrant water served as a reminder of how Widow Anker refused all protection for herself. For a while, Edith couldn’t tell if her blood was boiling or if it was the bath.
It took three cups of wine to cool her enough to consider lying down. Sleep remained a stranger, forcing Edith to stare into the dark, captive to her thoughts. If the late Reverend Anker’s followers could manage to sneak bread and small beer into the Ankers’ cells, perhaps Edith could do the same for her Marja. She tried not to think of how easily guards could sneak up on her and succeeded. Thoughts of Widow Anker shoved before an audience, her mouth forced open to prove good health, crowded everything else from Edith’s mind.
Her Marja’s reputation as a troublemaker would likely get her sold to a sugarcane island. Burns and hunger were rampant, though most slaves took years to die. Edith should probably pray for a rice farmer to buy her Marja, where malaria would finish her off faster.
Edith might have stayed in her haze forever if a pair of strong hands hadn’t shaken her out of it. She jerked upright and overshot nearly falling onto her bedding. The hands steadied her for a long moment before withdrawing.
Blinking the grogginess from her eyes, Edith felt for the mirror block on her bedside table. The other person beat her to it, awakening a flare that made
Edith wince. When her eyes stopped hurting, she made out a familiar shape gesturing with a free hand.
“I can’t see you well,” Edith said, causing her Marja to jump. Hauling her creaky body out of bed, she found her fan and bit it, turning to Widow Anker.
“I didn’t want to wake you, nor did I to scare you,” Widow Anker said, leaning to touch foreheads with Edith.
Edith stepped back, pointing out the window to the sliver of moon. Her Marja mimed slow, careful steps, stopping to look over her shoulder. Edith raised her arms and squinted as though aiming a pistol.
Widow Anker shrugged, motioning for Edith to bite her fan. “You shouldn’t act as though it’s my first time skulking about after curfew,” the midwife said, “I’ve been practicing since before I married.”
Edith held out her hand, pretending to give a speech before flipping through pages of an imaginary book. Then she hunched over, faking a coughing fit.
Widow Anker exaggerated a sigh, flopping her arms, before speaking into the fan. “That’s not what happened. The triplets kept me busy until well after sunset, and Mrs. Abrams kept a close eye on me. I wasn’t able to witness to her slaves.” Her hands gathered bunches of her apron, twisting the fabric.
Edith pointed her head to the moon. Widow Anker looked away, mumbling. At Edith’s prodding, she walked around the room in an exaggerated march, stopping every so often. When Widow Anker paused, she’d mimic opening a door and preaching the Good Word. A few times she paused by their bed, stroking the imaginary heads of the ailing.
Her vision turned grey before Edith remembered to breathe. Her arms trembling, she forced herself to back away before she did something regrettable. “Even if it’s not at the Abramses, witnessing after curfew is still illegal. Why do you want to throw away this life you have?” she shouted, her throat rasping at the force of her words. “Is staying with me so awful, you’d prefer rotted lungs?”
Widow Anker had winced at Edith’s initial outburst, but now stood at her full height, feet braced for whatever may come her way. She pointed to her heart and raised her hands heavenward.
Shoving past Widow Anker, Edith headed for the parlor. The cushions on the chairs were threadbare and starting to lose their stuffing, but a night sleeping on three seats pushed together wouldn’t kill her.
Edith changed her mind the next morning. Her shoulders were full of knots, and her neck refused to straighten. Hobbling to the kitchen, she prayed that the water heater didn’t cool too much overnight. A long steam over a basin of flowers followed by a massage with rose hip oil should turn her into a new woman.
Biting her lip and hunching, she stomped her foot. Nothing happened. Glancing about the kitchen and checking the pantry revealed the same amount of bread and clean dishes as last night.
It was impossible to run in her cramped state, forcing Edith to speed-limp to the front door, where Widow Anker kept a bundle of midwifery supplies. The bag was gone. Edith tried not to melt to the floor in relief.
After an endless stretch of time, where her heart refused to slow and she had to remember to breathe, Edith struggled upright. In the kitchen, she brewed some tea and sank into a chair, her mind whirring. She had every reason to be hard on her Marja, and yet… She started to shake her head, but still couldn’t move.
What made Widow Anker Edith’s sweet Marja was her devotion to Jesus. “’Under Christ, there is no man or woman, black or white,’” Edith quoted, “’There’s only love.’” Edith traced her fingers along her cheek and lips, remembering Widow Anker’s gesture as she first told Edith those words.
To block her Marja from offering freedom through Christ made Edith little better than a colony official, and every bit as stupid. If being locked up and left to starve couldn’t stop Widow Anker, neither would harsh words. Edith cringed as she remembered last night’s words. Was she trying to drive her Marja away? The idea of never sharing a home again with Widow Anker should be destroyed before it could take root.
Rising from the table, Edith checked the water in the heater before dragging out the bathtub. If she was going to act, it would be with a halfway working body.
####
Scouring every secondhand shop open to free blacks during the morning hours left Edith in her still shed well into the evening, working by the light of mirror slabs. When her neck cramped, she rubbed rose hip oil into the afflicted spot. If sweat dripped into her eyes, she shook it off. When exhaustion blurred her vision, she used her nose and fingers to find the right herbs and stuff them where they needed to be.
Years of handling trowels, shovels and uncooperative flasks gave Edith leather-hard hands. She gave thanks every night when her labor addled head caused the needle to slip, jabbing her flesh. A more genteel woman would have had more hole than finger by the end of the first night. Then again, a proper lady likely had more time to devote to needle work and make fewer mistakes, causing herbs to dribble out of half pinned hems.
It was two days before Edith found the time to voice her plan to Widow Anker.
When Edith entered the house that evening, her hands were cracked, her muscles were on fire and her joints were made of creaks. Turning into the kitchen, her eyes flicked to the spout that connected to the water heater, before settling on the cupboard where the tub lay, scoured clean and ready for another reviving soak.
Heading to the counter, she reached for the shelves that held her homemade blend of marigold, cornflowers and tea, along with the teapot painted with blue garlands her Marja loved. The hot water spigot helped to make a quick brew. In the pantry were rosewater Shrewsbury cakes that weren’t too stale. Adding pitchers of milk and honey to the table, Edith screwed up her courage to seek her Marja.
Rather than stomp on the ground, Edith approached Widow Anker in the parlor, walking into her line of sight and waiting, twisting her fingers. The midwife’s eyes remained fixed on her Bible. A thousand flurried heartbeats passed, but Widow Anker didn’t turn a page. Clasping her hands together, Edith clutched them against her breast, drooping her head and shoulders.
The air hummed, reminding Edith of a string stretching to its breaking point. Looking up at Widow Anker would spell disaster, revealing a face creased with hurt. No, Edith would stand here all night and for the next week if she had to, moving only when her Marja signaled her thoughts.
Edith’s knees screamed, wanting to know what on earth she was thinking. They’d swell and lock if she kept straining herself.
Widow Anker touched Edith’s chin, guiding her face upwards. With trembling teeth, glittering eyes, reddening noses, it was like looking into a mirror. Placing her lips against Edith’s ear, Widow Anker whispered her favorite verses before the two of them retreated into the kitchen.
Over tepid tea and Shrewsbury cakes, Edith outlined her plan, pausing and repeating herself with words and hands to make sure Widow Anker understood. Her Marja nodded, tracing notes to herself with her finger on the kitchen table. When asked if she could distribute scented fabric to more than just the Abrams’ slaves, Widow Anker’s smile threatened to crack her face in two. “Good news is to be shared with all,” she said.
####
Widow Anker woke her up that midnight, full of fire in inspiration. Even biting the fan, Edith couldn’t glean an ounce of sense from her companion. Daybreak and the brief night’s sleep cleared Edith’s mind enough to understand her Marja.
Though Edith was heading down the right path, setting aside time and resources to those who needed the most help, she could take greater steps. Why was she using her cast offs from making Seven Thieves’ Vinegar, and dipping into her bumper crop of sage? Surely a slave’s health would be better protected with flowers Edith reserved for her wealthiest customers. An elegant bouquet stuffed inside a kerchief would do wonders to protect someone’s lungs.
No amount of Edith explaining that she liked to eat would convince her companion otherwise. Staving off a growing headache, Edith left for her garden before she could tell Widow Anker to grow her own herbs.
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That night Widow Anker brought home bonus gifts from the Abrams, a basket of worn out cloth. Making a rude internal gesture at her joints, Edith settled by her Marja’s side. Threading a spare needle, she followed her companion’s lead.
MKONO YA MBAO
Steven Workman
Neema stands still, spear at the ready. I freeze behind her, worried she senses something alarming. She sniffs the air and nods. I inhale deeply too, and I smell it, a faint burning.
“It’s close,” I say, my eyes scanning the savanna. Everything is still, just long fields of grass with a few trees to break up the monotony.
Neema nods again. I admire her profile, how beautiful and majestic she is framed by the starry sky, how powerful her muscles are. I feel weak and clumsy compared to her, but she insists I’m improving in skill. Does she mean when I hunt or when we make love?
“Did you notice the animals?” Neema asks.
“No.” My voice drops to a whisper. “What about them?”
“There aren’t any.” Neema sighs. “Come on, you have to start noticing these things for yourself. I can’t do it all for you.”
I look away, ashamed. “Sorry Neema…” What did she see in me? I mess everything up. All I can do is build moving wooden toys.
She takes my hand and squeezes it, smiling at me. “You’re an excellent warrior and you make fantastic machines; I just need to help that potential along.”
“Neema…” Her hand is so warm. I want to hold it all night, but a rustling in the grass startles us. We bring ready our spears and crouch down. Time passes and nothing more happens.
We continue on, the silence unnerving me. It shouldn’t be this quiet. The lights that danced in the sky and the star that fell to Earth couldn’t be good but we were determined to investigate.
Crawling down a slope, the burning smell grows stronger. I peek up over the slope and there it is, something dark and squat embedded in the ground surrounded by scorched grass, tiny fires lighting it up. It’s like a huge spear tip, carved from smooth black stone, about half the size of our house.
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