Running Out of Night

by Sharon Lovejoy

  She paused. The colors of her story faded, then brighted as she talked. “Why don’ they sell us together the way they say they goin do? He shove my baby sister into a wagon full a people. People she don’t know.”

  I felt the girl shudder next to me.

  “I tried to run after my Promise.” Her voice caught as she continued. “But the man hit me over and over, knock me down, and throw me into his wagon. He thinks I am hurt some bad, so he don’t chain me. Soon as I could move, I slip over the side of the wagon and hide all day in a ditch. I want my ma and papa, my baby sister, but they gone. I do what my ma always told me, I foller where the Drinkin Gourd points to the North Star.”

  Even through the darkness I could see everythin. The cart crammed full of people chained together, the little girl cryin, lookin for her sister’s face and listenin for the sound of her ma or pa’s voice. Her sorrow made me forget about mine.

  “I turned round, seen Promise’s wagon leavin. She were holdin out her hands, reachin for me, but I”—she gulped—“I hurt so bad I cain’t move, and all I do is watch her till I cain’t hear nothin or see her no more.”

  This time I reached out and found her hand. I couldn’t imagine havin a mama and papa, and a baby sister I loved and who loved me, but even worse, I couldn’t imagine losin them.

  Make sure nobody follows you and walks in your tracks, or you will die.

  I slept again and woke to the sound of a purrin snore beside me. I reached out to smooth Bathsheba’s sleek fur, but my hands met tufts of wiry hair.

  I weren’t in the barn with a sleepin dog. I were in the cellar, trapped, with the runaway girl who started up my problems. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d be back out in the garden pickin tomaters, or shovelin our cow Hildie’s dung out of the barn. Anythin would be better than where I were now.

  I slowly pushed myself up, winced with pain, then touched my arm, my shoulder, and my wrist. “No bones stickin out anywhere,” I said aloud, “but I am right hurt.”

  I couldn’t see the girl, but I felt the rough sack slip off as she rolled over.

  “We best be gettin out of here afore them men come back,” she said. “Only the good Lord knows how long we been down here.”

  We? “We best be gettin out of here”? Just what I needed. Not bad enough that I’m a mite smaller than most girls, and that my ugly red hair stands out like broom corn, but now look what I were stuck with—a tall, raggedy runaway slave girl who dragged trouble behind her like a tail. We’d stick out worse ’n chickens in Sunday dresses.

  “Who says you’re goin anywhere nearst to where I’m goin?” I asked.

  “You. You’s the one who say ‘what we gonna do.’ ”

  I thought back on those words. I had said that. Maybe I were just plumb scairt at the time and not thinkin right, but here I were down in a cellar hole, all beat up, and talkin about runnin away with someone I’d never even seen till today.

  “I don’t know where you gonna go,” I said quietly, “but I cain’t stay round for any more beatins from anyone. I have to run while I can, and I don’t need no one follerin me.”

  Oh, I felt right sorry for that girl. I felt sorry down to my toes, but I’d gotten deep in trouble for her, and even though I knowed she’d lost everythin, well, I had to look out for myself now.

  I bit down on my lip as I pushed myself up from the hard-packed dirt floor. Every inch of me hurt, but I couldn’t stop to think on that. I waited for a sound, any sound above me. Nothin moved, nothin creaked. I raised the trapdoor slightly and ducked my head as the sand from the floor sifted down and onto my hair. I pushed the door open wider, stepped up, and poked my head over the edge.

  The last rosy light of the day made the cabin glow. I loved this time when I were home alone and all peaceful-like. I’d sit out on the porch steps when Pa and my brothers wasn’t around, maybe Bathsheba or Delia beside me, and watch the sun settin and listen to all them birds callin one to another as they found their way back to their homes.

  From outside, I heard the shrill talkin of the nighthawks as they began to crisscross the sky above the clearin. Beanzz, beanzz, beanzz, they cried.

  “Beans is right,” I said as I looked down at the girl. “We best be loadin up on food. Jerky, cracklins, whatever we can fit in these sacks easy-like.” I turned and stepped back down into the cellar.

  She bent, picked up a bag, and began stuffin it with taters. “No,” I said. “Load it with jerky, cracklins, dried apple slices, apples, anythin you can carry easy, not them heavy taters.”

  She nodded, dumped most of the taters on the floor, and reached for the meat.

  I slowly loaded a bundle, then slipped on the shoulder sling I carry when I’m pickin apples. From the racks below the smoked ham, I gathered up some soup bones, a hunk of smoked ham, and a fat pig’s knuckle. I tied the sling closed as best I could with my hurt arm.

  That trouble girl were lookin at me and shakin her head. “Ummm, ummm, what you doin with them? Goin make us some soup or jelly us some knuckles when we runnin?”

  She was sayin “we” again. “Don’t you sass me, trouble girl. I know what I’m doin.”

  I climbed the steps first. Slowly, slowly, and wincin for the pain I felt along my side and shoulder. The bundle and sling of food seemed near heavy as them big rocks I hauled for the garden wall. I pulled myself up and sprawled acrost the floor but left my feet danglin over the cellar hole.

  “You gots to move,” she said as she pushed her bag of food through the openin. I rolled over on my good side and crawled away from the cellar. She stepped out of the hole, grabbed her bag, and looked around the cabin.

  I set up. “We need to close the trapdoor.” Slow and quiet-like, we dropped it into place. From habit, I looked for the bench to move it back into its spot over the door, but the bench laid on its side, exactly where Samuel had kicked it.

  “With a little luck, they won’t come back tonight,” I said. “Give us a few hours of start on them while they’re trackin you upriver.”

  We hoisted the sacks over our shoulders, and I tightened the knot on my sling. I looked around the cabin and waited for scairt or sad to fill me, but it didn’t. I just needed to get out, and fast. One last look around. Were there anythin else I needed?

  Acrost the room on the dry sink, I saw the carved handle of my grandpa’s huntin knife. Pa must’ve set it down when he come home for food. I limped over, picked up the knife, and stuck it into one of the apples in my sling. The girl disappeared out the door. I felt her feet drummin acrost the porch. With luck, maybe we’d lose each other, but then, I weren’t feelin too lucky today.

  I started to foller her, but stopped. If I stayed here, I’d go on barely livin and bein as nameless as the kittens Pa drowned over to the crick. Well, I were near to growed up now, I knowed my way round the woods, and I could make a livin somehow, somewhere far away. Uh-huh, near to growed up now. I looked around the room and saw some bright squares of blue, red, and green patchwork next by my pillow. I shifted my load, walked over to my bed, and tugged out my old rag doll. “Here we go, Hannah girl,” I said, tuckin her inside my sling. “I couldn’t no more forget you than my mama and grandpa.”

  When you’re running from enemies, never look over your shoulder or their bad luck will snare you.

  I crost the porch and went down the rickety steps, then made my way through the barnyard. A few things needed doin afore I left. My grandpa had taught me how to tend his beehives and harvest the honey, but he had also cautioned me to always tell the bees of any great happenins. I picked up my bee stick and walked over to the bench line of log gum hives where the stragglers, the last of the hardworkin bees, was findin their way home for the night.

  Tap, tap, tap, the stick moved from log to log to log. “I’m leavin here, all you good bees. I’m leavin here and all the bad times. Forever. I’ll miss you,” I said.

  I moved away from the hummin log gums, said a fare-thee-well to my tidy little garden and to the last of the hens he
adin in to roost.

  I passed my little square of tomaters. There, lyin on the ground, lookin up at me sure as the buck’s eye it were called after, were my good-luck charm. I picked it up, felt at its smooth, then slipped it into my pocket. I’d be needin all the luck I could find.

  Grandpa’s two old workhorses, Delilah and Samson, hung their heads over the crooked-rail fence between the pasture and the barnyard. I stroked the blaze on Delilah and smoothed Samson’s forelock, all the while thankin them for the hard work and good comfort they always give me. Delilah whinnied when I reached into my sack and pulled out two apples for them. I always spoilt them, just like Grandpa did, but who would spoil them now?

  Afore I left, I had one last thing to do. I stopped by the side of the cabin, picked a handful of the pink roses planted by my mama’s own hand, and carried them over to the little buryin ground I’d tended since Grandpa passed.

  Small wooden markers had the carved names of brothers and sisters I’d never met. Next come my mama—Hannah Cullen Nicoll, and Aaron E. Cullen, my dear grandpa. I knelt down and tucked tiny pink buds near the graves of my brothers and sisters, and a handful of the sweet-smellin roses atop Mama’s and Grandpa’s markers for the last time.

  “Good-bye, Mama. Good-bye, Grandpa. Won’t you stay by my side?” I asked as I turned and walked into the comin night.

  Dozens of tiny bats weaved through the darkenin sky and flitted past me. I knowed that it were just an old tale about them catchin in your hair, but I couldn’t help shirkin from them. I ducked my head, hunched my shoulders under the weight of the bags, and limped along the trail above the crick.

  When I found the narrow path that led from the bank through the brambles and poison ivy, I slipped and slid all the way down. Them thorns tore at me like cat claws and rooster beaks. The poison ivy never bothers me none, nary an itch nor a bump when I hold it, but the brambles—they hurt somethin fierce. I had to bite at my lips to keep from cryin out.

  When I finally got to the water, I waded till my feet sank into the mud and disappeared. I stopped, crouched, and splashed my face and arms. Then I drank its cool sweetness from my cupped hands. I could’ve stayed there forever, the water runnin over me and soothin my torn arms, but I made myself get up and keep movin. I could feel the smooth pebbles and the suck and pull of the mud as I walked along the crick bed and headed south. My guess was that Pa and my brothers had probably headed north up top along the sycamore trail. By now, they’d be takin another track as they searched for the girl. Too bad for her if she went the wrong way and ran into them, but good for me.

  I felt bad thinkin like that.

  The moon, her horns pointin to the east, were waxin fair and clear. I could see ahead along a goodly piece of the water that stretched in front of me like a wide silver ribbon. From the edge of the crick, the big rocks, the ones I loved to play on, loomed dark-like and not near as friendly-lookin as they was by day. My heart pounded and I glanced quick side to side, searchin for anythin movin along the bank. The noise of the runnin water wrapped round me, hidin my sounds, but also hidin the sounds of anyone passin nearby. I stopped myself from lookin back over my shoulder; I didn’t want to court no trouble.

  If you want to get rid of a ghost, make the sign of the cross, spit, and dare the ghost to come out or leave for good.

  I hurt somethin bad, but I walked most of the hot, thick night, switchin my sling and sack from side to side. I had plenty of time to think about things, like how mad Pa and my brothers would be when they got to home and didn’t have any food waitin for them. First they’d be yellin for me, but once they lifted the trapdoor and found both me and their stores missin, they’d be spittin mad and kickin at everythin in the room. This time it wouldn’t be me feelin their boots.

  I wanted to whistle. Whistlin in the dark usually made me feel safe, but tonight I weren’t goin to feel safe no matter. I were fine walkin in the bright water. And fine so long as I saw the stars and the shinin light of the moon, but sometimes the trees touched from one side of the bank to the other and made a long dark tunnel. When I stepped into the blackness, I traced an X in the air, then spit to keep away the sperrits. Then I’d come out of the tunnel and into the silvery world again and walk, walk, walk through deep cold water up to my knees, and sometimes through shallow warm water most as gentle on me as a spring rain.

  I reached my good hand through the hole in the sling, pulled out an apple, and chewed it through, even the core and the bitter of the seeds. Ahead of me there were another long stretch of trees archin over the crick and makin the black water look like it run into a cave.

  I tried to move my packs to ease my hurtin, but what I really needed were rest. Just a short nap. I wouldn’t dare to sleep for fear of wastin too much time. I walked on a little farther; then the crick made a wide, easy sweep, and the current slowed till it sounded like it were murmurin to me.

  I walked through the water till I reached the spot where it rested quiet against a cut in the bank. The sandy shore blanketed with leaves looked to be about as good a bed as I’d ever find. Around me, the sounds of crickets and the whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill voice of the goatsucker bird made me feel safe. He’d call till almost daylight but would stop if anyone passed nearby.

  I shrugged out of the sling, dropped the sack on the ground, and used my feet to smooth a sandy place for a few minutes of nappin. Then I crouched on all fours, plumped the sling for a pillow, laid down, and shut my eyes.

  I thought about that girl again, and a picture of her scairt face come into my head and wouldn’t leave. She didn’t know these woods and hideouts like I did, but what did I care? I hoped that I’d never see her again. Last thing I remembered were sayin to myself, “I’m better off without her.”

  The voice is what woke me. It whispered low, “Don’t move.” I laid still, opened my eyes, squinted against the sun that slanted through the trees. I thought I’d been dreamin that voice. Then I heard it again. “Don’t move,” it said, and my eyes was open so’s I knowed I weren’t sleepin. I wanted to turn my head, find who were speakin, but the voice warned again, “Stay still.”

  The smell of crushed sycamore leaves and the soft scrunchin sound of feet walkin acrost them let me know that someone were gettin closer. My heart thudded. I wanted to push up and run, but I felt froze to the ground.

  A shadow moved between me and the sun. That trouble girl stood over me holdin a big branch. I opened my eyes wide and looked into hers. She tilted her head toward me and gave it a slow shake, like she were sad to do what she were goin to do. She lifted the branch above her afore I could move. I closed my eyes and yelled.

  If you want fair weather after you kill a snake, you must bury it.

  A bare foot nudged me, then rolled me over like a log. “What you mean yellin like that?” the trouble girl asked. “Folks must’ve heard you clear to town.”

  I set up, held my hands against my heart to keep it from burstin through my skin, and brushed the leaves out of my hair. The branch laid on the ground a few inches from me. Stickin out from underneath it were the rusty brown body of a copperhead snake, its mouth wide open, fangs down, and its mean cat eyes starin right at me. I must’ve slept next to that snake all night.

  The girl stuck out her hand to help me up. I stood, all wobbly and shakin, and we looked at each other eye to eye. I didn’t want to have to say it, but I did. “Thank you for savin me.”

  “Now we don’t owe each other nothin,” she answered.

  But I felt like now I did owe her somethin, and I wouldn’t never forget it. I stuck out my hand and took hers again. “Looks like we’re spost to be together,” I said. “Let’s eat a few bites, then get movin up the crick.”

  We both set on a big limb that stretched like a bridge over the water. We opened our sacks, pulled out some apple slices and jerky, and chewed in silence. Soon we both be swingin our legs and talkin, almost forgettin for a few minutes where we was and why we was runnin.

  “What your name
?” the girl asked me.

  “I don’t have no name. My mama died just when I were borned and nobody bothered to give me one, ceptin Grandpa, who always called me Sweet Girl when we were alone. But you can call me Girl like everyone else does.”

  “Girl ain’t no name for you. I never knowed someone with no name. Even the Nkanga hens on the plantation has themselves names,” she said to me as she stood up and walked back acrost the limb and onto the bank.

  “I give you one, but I needs to find a name that fits you good.” She bent to knot the end of the sack, then swung it over her shoulder.

  I shuffled acrost the limb, climbed off, slipped my achin arm through the loop of the sling, then tied my bag closed.

  “What’s your name?” I asked her, but she were on the other side of the clearin and hadn’t heard me.

  “Hey, girl,” I shouted, “what you doin there?”

  She kicked soil and leaves over the long, patterned body of the copperhead.

  “Hopin for fair weather,” she said. “Cain’t leave this snake without a buryin or we have storms.”

  The girl finished coverin the snake and stepped off the bank and into the crick. We both kicked and threw handfuls of water onto my sleepin spot and everywhere our feet had touched the ground.

  I started to ask her name again, but the words never left my mouth. Loud barkin come from somewhere down to the bottoms. I could hear bayin and buglin, the song the hounds sing when they on a warm trail. Then more bayin, and this time too close. Was they pickin up our smells?

  “We in trouble,” I said. “Let’s get movin. Stay in the crick.”

  She looked at me and nodded afore she took off through the water. I follered close behind her, makin too much noise, splashin, slippin, and fallin over rocks and branches. I felt like I couldn’t raise my feet up another step.

  This part of the crick twisted and turned, all crooked every which way. We’d go one way for a few minutes and near meet ourselves goin the other. It felt like we was makin no gains.