The woman-man yelled back at Pa, “Don’t you be bustin in here, old man. Them’re our boys, but them Negras over there, they’re goin back to their owners. We caught them in Pennsylvania a week ago.”
“Get outta here!” the white-haired boy yelled at the dogs, and he must’ve kicked at one by the sound of the yelpin.
I didn’t have to see Pa to know he were mad.
He yelled to my brothers to look around the camp. I could hear them walkin through the leaves and shoutin to the dogs to stop their barkin.
“I don’t know nothin about yer redhead girl,” the woman-man yelled, “but you get out of here or we gonna shoot you like we shot the last man got in our way.”
I heard rifles cock, then the sound of Pa mutterin.
Delia barked again, a high, yappin chirp like the one she gives when I tease her with a bite of food, then a short, yippin howl, the sound she makes when Pa kicks her.
“Movin out,” Pa yelled to my brothers and the hounds. “That girl ain’t nowhere round here, let’s move it out.”
They passed below me, so close I felt a chill run clear through my bones. I kept my eyes scrunched closed like I did when I hid inside the old pine chimney cupboard. If I couldn’t see them, then they wouldn’t see me.
Delia yipped and chirped again. I pictured her liftin her head, sniffin at the air between me and them.
My brothers yelled at Delia and Bathsheba; the woman-man and weasel-face shouted at them all to keep a-movin. I held my breath, not wantin them to smell my fear or feel my life above them.
They scuffled through the leaves below me, and Pa said, “Them dogs are tellin me them girls are round here somewheres. We’re not goin far.” They moved off, the dogs runnin in circles and barkin and Pa cursin a streak.
I laid still—still as that woman the preacher said turned into a pillar of salt. How long would it be afore one of them boys told the woman-man about me?
“What’s this you hidin in your shirt?” I heard the woman-man ask. “Where the devil did this raggedy thing come from? Answer me,” she shouted, “now!”
If an owl calls out a name, that person soon will die.
I heard scufflin below me, but I didn’t dare look down. Then, a muffled cry, and the scarred boy said, “I don’t know where it come from. It were over by them tulip trees. When we was walkin over to here, I jus picked it up.”
“Yer lyin,” the woman-man shouted. “You saw them girls, and they’s a reward for one of them. Which way did they go?”
No answer. I could hear someone whippin him, then yellin, and then some quiet, but still no answer. Were he goin to tell on me to save hisself from more beatin?
Even if he told, Zenobia would still be safe up here. Nobody knowed about her.
My heart thudded, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I wanted to open my eyes and look up to Zenobia again, just to feel like someone were with me, but I stayed still. Closed inside myself.
Mama, I thought, what is goin to happen to your girl now?
The man spoke up. “Let im be,” he said. “We need to get im back fit to work or we won’t get no reward.”
The woman-man said, “This place been nothin but trouble for us. I come here thinkin it to be a good spot, all hid out under this big tree, water for the takin, but I’m not feelin safe.”
A warm breeze lifted my hair like thin fingers was rufflin through it. Goose bumps stood up on my arms. Mama, I thought, is that your sperrit tellin me to hold on?
I held on but shook like a cottonwood leaf in a wind. Dust rose from all the commotion below me. I heard feet scufflin through leaves, talkin, and then the clop, clop, clop of the old horses movin slowly away.
Were Pa and my brothers somewhere nearby watchin for us? Me and Zenobia waited and waited, never passin a word to one another. Dark settled. I looked at Zenobia’s wide eyes, then up through the tree at the comfort of the moon. It looked like it were snared in the branches.
“Zenobia,” I whispered, “think we safe now? C’mon.”
“Oh Lordy,” she whispered. “Not bad enough climbin up, but now I gots to climb down, and in the dark.”
“Stop your frettin and let your feet and hands find their way.”
“Got your sling of food and bundle, my sack of food, and my tired body to move. I hope I don’t do no flyin like last time.”
“Just pay attention and talk to the tree. Thank it for givin us shelter.”
“Thank ya, old tree,” Zenobia sang quietly. “Thank ya for leaves and shade, and—” Crack. I heard the sound of wood splittin. Leaves and twigs showered onto me.
“Oh, Lark, I’m scairt to the bone. I cain’t move.”
“Come on, trouble girl. You sure don’t have no choice but to come down or go up, and I cain’t see how goin up will help you much. We got dark now, and we gots to move on while it’s safe. Now, stay quiet.”
I stood on the broad limb and reached up and patted Zenobia’s bare foot.
“You’re doin fine. Keep comin slow and easy-like, slow and easy, no hollerin and no flyin.”
“You take your sack,” she whispered as she swung it down to my branch.
I slid the sack onto my back next to my sling, thrust my leg into the black between the limbs, and felt for safe footin. I touched onto the smooth branch below me so’s the steppin down come easy. First one foot, then another.
“It’s not bad, Zenobia.” Could she hear the shakin in my voice?
She sniffled above me.
“I wants to find my ma and papa, hold my baby sister again. I misses them till my heart burstin. But all I’m goin to do is end up broke into pieces or fish food in the crick.”
“Quit feelin sorry for yerself.” Although I were feelin right sorry for my own self. “We need to get away from here and find somewhere safe to hide for tomorrow, so climb down.”
“I’m hungry,” she whined.
“I’m hungry too, but we not safe around here. No tellin if Pa is close, if the dogs catches our smells again, or what—”
Crack. Zenobia flew past me, nearly knockin me off the limb. Fallin, fallin, down, down, just like my Hannah doll, without a sound. I heard her hit the ground with a loud thump, and then nothin.
My foot slipped. I caught myself, my heart poundin till it near jumped out of me. Were Zenobia hurt? Dead?
I felt my way slowly, brushin the limb with my feet, steppin down till I dropped from the last branch onto the sandy, leaf-covered soil. Zenobia and her sack laid like a heap of rags at the base of the tree.
“Zenobia? Trouble girl, answer me. Sorry, so sorry. You was so scairt, I should’ve helped you more.” I bent over her and wiped the leaves and dirt from her face. Her arm were twisted behind her. Her eyes shut.
“Zenobia? Answer me, girl. You was so brave. Fallin like that and not a sound from you.” A wind rustled through the sycamore leaves, and shiftin moon shadows washed acrost her bloodied face.
I laid my ear against her chest and tried to hear her heartbeat through the thickness of the night sounds. I shivered. Were somethin or someone watchin us? Then came a long dry shriekin cry, as cuttin and cold as a splinter of ice. I hunched over Zenobia’s still body to protect her and looked all around us, up and down. Nothin stirred except the leaves.
Another shriekin. A pale barn owl, its heart-shaped face lookin down on us, flew by on silent wings and landed in the branches above.
“Night sperrit, don’t you be callin out her name!” I shouted, shakin my fist up toward him. “I knows what happens when you calls a name.”
“Zenobia. Trouble girl.” I whispered so’s the owl couldn’t hear me. “We just found each other. We was like sisters. Now look what you gone and done.”
Death is foretold by a sound in the heavens like a pack of animals at bay.
I don’t know how long I set there with Zenobia, rockin back and forth on my knees and cryin like I hadn’t cried since my grandpa passed on. Oh, I knowed she were gone and that I’d have to bury her afore the day come on
. I couldn’t just walk away and leave her for the buzzards and animals. She needed a fittin restin place for her long journey home. My heart, my whole body hurt with a heavy load of sorrow.
I patted Zenobia, then pushed myself up. My legs and feet moved like they was wrapped in sacks. I stumbled toward the crickside, bent, and poked my fingers into the damp soil. It were loose and sandy, easy enough to dig, but I would need a sturdy branch and a flat rock to help with the work. Every sycamore stick I tried for diggin broke—too brittle for the task. I slid down the bank to the crick, turned over rocks, tossed some up the cliff to pile on Zenobia’s grave, and chose a thin, flat stone for the diggin.
I slung our food sacks over the top of a bush, tied them together, and set off for the woods. I skirted the meadow so’s to stay out of the fullness of the moonlight, and searched the ground for a strong stick.
The stick found me afore I found it. I stumbled, stepped down, and it reared up in front of me. I caught it, turned round, and headed back. I didn’t want no animals to get to Zenobia afore I could take care of her.
Lightnin bugs flickered in the meadow. I thought on how Zenobia looked just last night with that cloud of them little stars shinin from her thick hair.
Were the moonlight playin tricks on me? Somethin flitted, moved through the grasses and wildflowers and in and out of the shadows, stopped, then vanished like a will-o’-the-wisp. I knowed if it were Zenobia’s sperrit, I shouldn’t be afeared, but my hands shook as I gripped the stick even tighter and melted into the bosky darkness.
Heels down first. Heels down slow and easy. I crept along, kept my eyes on a faint trail that spooled through the trees and tried to think like a deer. If I follered this, would I circle round and end up along the crickside near my friend?
Somethin snapped and crashed. Loud bayin and shriekin come at me from up above, beside me, all around. I stopped, my toes rooted into the ground. The frogs, the crickets, everythin quieted except the distant sounds of water. The night went quiet as an apple on a tree.
Maybe a minute passed, maybe more, but I didn’t move. I learnt a long time ago that turnin into a shadow, disappearin into whatever was round me were sometimes the only way to stay alive. I knowed how to wait.
From somewhere close by come a familiar call. Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill. The animals began singin their night songs again. I took one step, two, three, and slipped into the tangle of their sounds.
Soon I smelt the sycamores, heard the rushin of the crick, and knowed I were close to Zenobia.
Zenobia. My tongue licked at salty tears.
I’d need to get her in her grave, mound rocks on it so’s no animal could reach her, and make my way toward Waterford afore the sun come up. I didn’t have no plans, but I knowed that I wouldn’t go back to Pa’s house and the life, if I could even think on it as a life, I’d had afore trouble girl stirred things up for me.
The top of the big sycamore stood high above the other trees. I headed toward it, makin sure I stayed hid in the cover of the shadows.
I walked along the edge of the meadow, then stepped into the bright, freckled moonlight under the sycamore. On the limb above Zenobia’s body set that white-faced owl. And on the bush where I’d tied our sacks of food were nothin.
Slave children must always be buried facedown to be set free to heaven.
The stick felt like safe to me. I held it tight, rested it on my shoulder, and turned in a slow circle, searchin the shadows, the meadow, anywhere someone could hide. Silver-rimmed clouds run acrost the sky and smothered the moon. The dark under the tree turned blacker than a crow, too thick for me to see. The clouds passed. Slowly, slowly, things come into my sight, and I could see the empty bush.
My eyes darted back and forth, between Zenobia and the woods. I shook and my skin turned cold, like it done when Pa put his eyes on me. More bad would happen.
Were it Pa out there watchin and just waitin to catch me and drag me back to his cabin? Worst of all, takin me away and leavin Zenobia alone, unburied, critters tearin and worryin at her like she’d never been nothin to no one. But she had been. She had a family that loved her, and she were my onliest true friend—the first one since my grandpa who cared what my brothers and Pa done to me. She were the one who fitted me with my name. She would be buried proper by me—and not facin down like a slave. Zenobia were a free girl when she died.
I stooped beside Zenobia, wiped my tears with the gritty back of my arm, and whisper-sang, “Back in the lovin arms of Jesus, precious Jesus take me home” to make myself feel easy. I moved alongside her, takin care not to step over her body so’s I wouldn’t end up in the grave with her.
I walked over to the bank and stretched out on the ground where I were goin to dig the buryin hole, scuffed my feet, and dragged my hands against the sandy soil for a size marker. If someone watched me, they must be thinkin that I been bit by a crazy dog.
My stomach knotted and growled so loud it sounded like it come from an animal. Hungry, tired, thirstin, and runnin out of night. No time to stop and eat. Some mess of trouble if the job weren’t done soon.
I knelt beside the crick and filled my cupped hands with water again and again till my stomach swolled and wouldn’t hold another sip. I still hungered. Inside my pocket was the leathery dried wintergreen leaves. I tore off a little wad of them and chawed. That first shock of mint made my mouth water. Then I chawed and chawed on them leaves to ease my hunger.
I dipped my hand into the water, felt along the bottom of the crick like a raccoon lookin for crawdads, and lifted out two small, smooth stones for settin Zenobia’s eyes.
I couldn’t put off what had to be done a minute longer. I crawled up the bank, found my markers, picked up my stick, and began breakin through the ground. Thump, thump, thump.
The flat rock worked like a hoe, cuttin through the soil and moundin it so’s I could scoop it with my bare hands onto the ground beside me. Sweat ran burnin into my eyes. My self got lost in the rhythm of the poundin, the scrapin of the stone, and the swoosh of the earth as I tossed it aside. Slowly, slowly, minute by minute, the hole got bigger and deeper.
I stopped, leant on the stick, and looked up at the night sky. The thick whiteness of the Milk-Away spilt acrost the wide blackness. I searched out the Drinkin Gourd, and found the four bowl stars and the three in the handle pointin to the steadiness of the North Star—the star Zenobia once follered to find her free soil.
“Mama, Grandpa, what a fine place to be. Down in a grave hole, and fair game for anyone huntin me. And now my friend will be buried here forever.” I brushed at a tear.
The grave weren’t near as deep as the one Grandpa’d been put in, but I’d dug down so’s I stood waist deep. I dropped my stick and pushed myself up with my wobbledy arms, but the wall of the grave crumbled. Sand, small stones, rocks, and clumps of soil slipped right back where they’d just come from. Dirt covered my feet. I set back for a minute’s rest and leant against the side of the grave. The moon disappeared behind the trees, and darkness poured into the hole. Smells of damp earth, wet leaves, and skunk wrapped around me. A toad purred, and the owl, the owl, it shrieked once, took wing, and glided, like a death haint above me.
Somethin slithered acrost my foot, and I clawed my way out of the grave hole and onto the ground. I lay there on my back, pantin, and closed my eyes. The sycamore leaves rustled loudly, and my skin prickled till the hairs on my head felt like they was stickin straight out. My eyes flew open and there, starin down from the tree, were a dark, shadowy ghost face with big, dark eyes.
You can bewitch someone by pointing any sharp stick or cane at him.
Could the face have been a shape-shiftin trick of the shadows? I propped up on one arm, craned my neck so’s to see into the branches, but it, whatever it were, had vanished.
I were scairt—scairt so deep inside—but I needed to stay, needed to finish what I started.
The stars faded, and the first gray light of dawn sifted through the leaves and onto Z
enobia. She needed buryin, and soon. My achin body wanted to stay restin, but my head told me it were time to get up and take care of my friend.
I reached into my pocket and felt for my lucky buckeye. “I should’ve give this to you, Zenobia,” I said to nobody. “Don’t know how I’m goin to do this to you, girl. Bury you here, for forever.” Tears trickled down my face. There weren’t no shirkin this job. She needed to be brushed clean and set to rights like I did my grandpa in his pine box. She’d be laid out, hands folded over her chest. Then, the flat stones set onto her eyes, and a bunch of wildflowers tucked into her hands to keep her company. I dropped to my knees, straightened her raggedy skirt and her bent leg careful, so as not to hurt her. But how could I hurt her any more than she were? I reached under her body to straighten her arm and tugged it.
“Aiiieeeee! Aiiieeeeeeeeee!”
I dropped Zenobia’s arm and tripped backward over a root just as somethin heavy—heavy and big—tumbled from the tree and landed half on me. When I fell against Zenobia’s body, my screamin tailed onto the other screamin sound. Sure as thunder after lightnin, I knowed the haints was goin to put me in that grave with her.
I laid there twined in a jumble of black and brown arms and legs—like snakes in a rock pile. “Lark, you be killin me,” a familiar voice cried.
“How can I be killin you if you dead?” I asked, lookin down into Zenobia’s wide golden eyes.
One long black leg worked its way out of the tangle, and a big hand pushed against me. I looked back and watched the gunpowder-black slave with the scarred face strugglin to stand. Last time I seen him he were hog-tied onto another boy.
I raised up, felt at myself to make sure all the pieces was still there, and started to move off Zenobia, and she cried out again.
“I’m hurtin, hurtin bad,” she said.
“You be hurtin with no skin on your back if you don’t keep quiet,” the runaway boy said. “You scairt me right off that branch when you come back from the dead.”
Running Out of Night Page 6