“She’s hurt bad,” I said. “We need to help her.”
“I know what happen to me when I try to help someone besides my own self,” the boy said. “Look what helpin you done for me.”
I looked at his bloodied legs and arms, and my stomach turned.
“Sorry,” I said, my head bent. When I looked up, I could see my Hannah doll’s head pokin out of his shirt.
This weren’t no time for us to talk about what had happened to him or how he’d gotten away from them slave catchers. We needed to get away afore the sun come up over the hills.
“I gotta move you, trouble girl,” I said, “but you cain’t make a sound. I’ll be as easy as I can, but if you scream again, after all that noise we made, well, our luck is about played out.”
Zenobia looked at me and nodded.
The boy stood behind me and dropped to his knees, his face all twisted with hate. He looked at me like he’d tasted spoilt meat. He jumped down into the grave hole and crawled back out with the long diggin stick tight in his fist. Were he so mad at me from the trouble I’d caused him?
I watched him get up and walk toward me, the stick pointin steady at me all the time. I knowed what he were doin and turned my head so as not to be caught in his witch trickery. I glanced back at him again, takin care not to look at the stick. He come closer. It took all of everythin I had inside me to turn my back on him. If he were goin to end my days, I wanted helpin Zenobia to be the last thing I done on earth.
If you see a flock of birds, make a wish and do not look back at the birds again or your wish won’t come true.
Crack! I shrunk myself down over Zenobia to protect her and couldn’t help myself from lookin back over my shoulder.
The boy stood behind me, that long stick split into two pieces. He bent over Zenobia and said, “You got yerself a broke arm. We’ll set it on this stick, but it goin to hurt.”
Zenobia rolled slow-like onto her good side and let out a cry. I could see her arm all crumpled backward.
We set her up, propped her against the tree, and the pain, the pain, it made her black out.
“Quick,” the boy said. “Help me get her arm straight.”
We worked fast, and though Zenobia’s eyes was closed like she were fast asleep, she moaned and whimpered.
“Now lay that stick onto it,” he ordered.
I set the stick against Zenobia’s crooked arm and held it.
The boy jumped up and ran to a bundle on the ground that must have fell down from the tree with him.
“Our sacks!” I said.
He just looked at me, grabbed my torn apple sling, reached inside, and pulled out some jerky to gnaw.
When he passed me a piece of my own meat, I said a thank-you and then wondered why I were thankin someone for givin me somethin he stole from me.
The boy and I worked quick, windin and windin the strip of white cloth around the stick and the arm until both was wrapped like a cocoon.
Zenobia moaned again. I ran to the edge of the crick, dipped my skirt into water, and come back to wipe all the blood and dirt from her scratched, tear-streaked face.
“Lark, Lark,” she whispered. “We gots to leave this hainted place. Lark, my arm on fire, on fire.”
Zenobia slipped back, her eyes closed, her head lolled to one side.
“Girl,” the boy said. “Help me lift her and lay her over my good shoulder.”
I held Zenobia against the tree. The boy got onto his knees, stuck his head through Zenobia’s good arm, and stood with her danglin over his shoulder, loose as a rag doll.
“Which way we goin?” he asked.
“East,” I said.
“Why not north?” he asked. “North to free soil?”
“Toward the risin sun,” I said, and pointed at the thin line of pink beginnin to color the sky. “We’re goin to Waterford. Nobody will be expectin us to head east to a town.”
“Towns ain’t nothin but trouble—trouble and peoples,” the boy said, shakin his head at me.
“This one is different,” I said. “It’s a Quaker town, and they’ll help us find a safe way north. Leastwise as safe as we could ever be.”
“You tellin me that everyone there is good, cause I don’t believe it,” he said. “I ain’t met many good whites.”
“My preacher’s wife told me that most of them Quakers are good. We just have to watch and take our chances. It’s our only hope,” I said.
The big boy turned and walked into the woods carryin the weight of Zenobia like she were a bird bone. Quietly, almost so quietly that I couldn’t tell if I were imaginin it or hearin it, the runaway said, “Look for signs.” Not a twig snapped nor a leaf crackled as they disappeared into the forest.
What’d he mean by “look for signs”?
I hoisted our sacks onto my back and picked up a leafy hickory branch to brush our footprints from the sandy ground. Swish, swish, I worked my way backward, felt something soft under my toes, and looked down. Smilin up at me were my raggedy, dirty Hannah doll. I grabbed her up and brushed at her, then tucked her into my sack.
“Welcome back, Hannah,” I said, grinnin like I’d just found myself a lucky ear of red corn. Maybe things was goin to get better for us now.
When I reached the meadow, I turned and threw the leafy branch over the bluff and into the bend of the rushin crick. No footsteps told the story of where we’d been, but I knowed that the dogs could still smell us. I prayed for a rain to come afore Pa and the dogs come back this way.
I run for the cover of the woods. The three lumpy sacks poundin against my back slowed me down some. Just as the sun rose above the tree line, I stepped into the welcome darkness of the forest. At first, I couldn’t see nothin, but my eyes soon grew used to the dim light. I searched the ground for a sign that would tell me which way the runaway and Zenobia had gone, but there was no tracks. How could they disappear so fast when they only started runnin a few minutes afore me?
What if I couldn’t find them? What if I never saw Zenobia again? Worst yet, what if they was caught?
Small patches of sunlight slanted through the branches. I follered a narrow trail toward the east and stopped by a sassafras tree to peel off a curl of bark for chewin. I picked one of the mitten-shaped leaves, held it up to my hand, then tucked it into my shirt for good luck.
I walked steady, and when I broke into the blindin sunlight of a clearin, a deep sound like big guns boomed above me.
The sky turned dark with the wings of wood pigeons. I wanted to make a wish on them then turn away, but afore I had the chance, there were a loud boom, boom, boom that echoed through the trees. Pigeons fell from the sky.
Boom, boom, boom, the shots come again, but this time the pigeons kept circling as though they was all one.
Boom, a shot crashed into a nearby tree, and a huge chunk blew apart. Someone were shootin at somethin, or someone, or me. I took off runnin.
If a rabbit crosses your path, follow him and make a circle around him for good luck.
Thump, thump, thump. The sacks hit my back as I ran, jumpin over fallen logs and skirtin rocks.
I never slowed, never slowed for a second until the sounds of gunfire was far behind me.
I run deeper into the woods searchin for a hidin tree where I could sit and watch the trail without anyone seein me. A rabbit scuttled past and dived into an openin in the brush. I dropped to my knees, ducked my head, and crawled in behind it, twigs and vines snappin at my face and stickery burrs clingin to my hair. There weren’t no chance of me circlin round him to catch me some good luck.
Ahead of me, a knob of mossy boulders, patchy with ferns, stood near a pool. A thin stream run down the biggest rock and dripped into the dark water. The rabbit stopped, slowly lapped at the water, then hopped away.
The sacks slid off my shoulders and dropped to the ground. I sank next to them and felt grateful for the cool and the quiet. Then I saw it. A small dipper gourd, twine tied through its handle, set beside the pool.
&nb
sp; My fingers run acrost the inside of the gourd and felt water. Someone had just been here, drunk from this dipper, and left quick. I searched the ground for footprints, hopin it had been Zenobia and the runaway, but found nothin, nary a hint of who’d been here.
I drunk my fill, then rubbed myself with a handful of wild mint to keep the skeeters and flies from eatin at me. The scuppernong, climbin up and over the bushes and into the trees, hung with fat clusters of brown-green fruit. I picked and picked, stuffin them into my mouth—six, seven, ten at a time, just like the greedy jay at the top of the tree.
Zzzip. A mite of a hummingbird wearin a bright-red collar flew up and down the stalks of cardinal flowers just beginnin to open. I watched, losin myself in the doins of the tiny bird. He hovered near the ground and snapped up a midge, and then I saw it. A sign.
White pebbles was laid like an arrow, pointin toward a nearly invisible grassy trail leadin into the heart of the woods. Did the runaway boy leave it there for me to foller?
The arrow. Should I go the way it pointed or choose my own path?
“Mama, what should I do?” I asked.
My feet wanted me to go in another direction, but my heart—and I can’t never be sure my heart is right—made me foller where the arrow pointed. I lifted up my sacks, tucked the gourd inside so’s no one would guess anyone had been here, and walked toward the trail.
I looked back, checked to make sure I hadn’t left anythin behind, then kicked the arrow apart and patted the sack to feel for my Hannah doll.
The wind stirred the trees, and I smelt the comin rains and heard the plashin on the leaves afore I felt the first drops. Then, all aslant from the east come a curtain of rain. Rain were good for my travelin—it kept folks indoors, and it washed away my scent. I hummed quietly, then sang to myself, “Rains from the east, three days of rain at least.” I guessed I could stand the rain if it kept me safe. Safe or not, my wet clothes and wet hair made me shiver, though I felt burnin hot inside.
The rain fell harder. Nobody would hear me or see my footsteps today. The trail dipped into a holler and disappeared. What if someone, the someone who had left the gourd behind, were hidin, waitin down there for me? My body wanted to move, but it felt like my feet was spiked into the trail. I bent over, picked up a rock, and held tight to it as I walked to the edge of the holler and looked down.
Plonk. A pebble bounced off my back and rolled away. Plonk, another hit on my shoulder. I turned just in time to see a young red-haired boy, in torn brown pants and a bright-blue shirt, runnin away.
July third to August eleventh are the dog days and can be the most unlucky days of the year.
Should I keep goin east toward Waterford, where I told the boy to run to? Should I turn and head north? I argued inside myself, tryin to figure what my pa would expect me to do and where the runaway and Zenobia would go. East, west, north? No matter that I’d told him to head for Waterford.
I took a step, then stepped back, shook my head, and headed east again. I shivered and hugged tight to myself. My mind wandered to the cabin, where my narrow bed set beside the stove. How I would love to burrow underneath Mama’s warm quilt, but I had to keep on walkin.
I looked down. There, laid out in a line, were another long twig arrow pointin my way.
“Just walk,” I ordered myself. “Foller them, one, two, three.” Somehow countin each step kept me goin along the trail. I walked over the twigs, kicked them apart, and kept on.
What were the worst thing that could happen if Pa caught me? He’d give me a beatin, a bad beatin, and drag me back to the cabin. I were just as much a slave as Zenobia and the boy. But now that I had spent some days without the beatin and the shamin, well, if he caught me, I would just bide my time and run away again. Somehow I would break free. I knew, though, that for the runaway boy and Zenobia, things would be worse, much worse, if they was caught.
Ahead of me I could see a short, arrow-tipped run of shiny white pebbles. I headed toward them and scuffled through the line.
The sun stood straight above the trees, and the day turned mean and hot. I looked up at the clearin sky and down at my soaked clothes—they steamed like a boilin kettle. I shook, shook so much my teeth clacked together. I were burnin hot and freezin cold all at once. My head ached, ached so much I felt like cryin, but there weren’t nothin for me to do cept try to keep walkin.
I wiped at my sweaty face and reached into my pocket to rub the smooth of my buckeye.
“Keep goin, girl,” I said aloud. “Mama, am I goin the right way?” My eyes burnt till it hurt me to look at the trail.
“Ninety-nine, one hunnert,” I said, still countin my steps.
“One hunnert and one,” I said, thinkin on how my life changed for the good, even with all the bad, after Zenobia and I found each other. But now I had other problems, like worryin about Zenobia when I’d never worried about no one else afore. I missed her, missed havin the feel of a true friend and sister. Even with all the worryin bound up around her, it were still better to have her in my life than not.
“Two hunnert,” I mumbled.
I walked steady on, stoppin only to pull stickers out of my bloodied feet and to try to keep from shiverin. Once in a while I would come upon another line of pebbles or another twig arrow and brush it apart with my foot as I passed. I kept on walkin, but my body felt like it’d been mule-kicked.
Had the black boy left the signs for me? Or did the rock-throwin red-haired boy leave them? Were I walkin to a safe place? Or walkin straight into a trap?
I don’t know how I kept a-goin, but by late afternoon, the woods ahead of me thinned, and I could see sunny meadows and fields. Waterford town must be nearby. I slowed, slipped my sack down, pulled out some meat and a slice of apple, and stood chewin like our old cow, Hildie.
“Look for signs.” Those words kept dancin round me, weavin in and out of my head and tauntin me.
My curiosity tickled and nudged, but I were so tired, so sick, that I could barely creep to the edge of the woods. I looked acrost at a town that seemed as tiny as the acorn villages I built under our big oak tree. Stone and brick houses, barns, stores, a mill, what looked to be a church, a blacksmith’s shop, and a school dotted the land. On the outskirts set a small gray log cabin surrounded by a tall fence and a patchwork garden of flowers. Clothes flashed and swung on a line. A dog barked, and in the field, a man moved a scythe back and forth, back and forth, steady as the pendulum of my grandpa’s old mantel clock.
No walkin acrost the open fields durin the daylight. I looked up and around at the trees, and picked a likely one to climb. I tied my sacks together and slung them over the lowest branch, then hoisted myself up, then up again, draggin the sacks behind me. I were some slow now, the cold shiverin all mixed up with the hot sweat comin through my skin and soakin my already-wet clothes. I climbed high enough so’s I could see clear acrost the fields, then tied the sacks to a branch and settled in for the rest of the afternoon. I don’t know how long I perched there, but I dozed on and off, sweatin and shakin, then wakin when the sounds of loud voices and barkin dogs seeped in and out of my dreams.
I pinched myself on the arm. “Mama, am I awake or asleep?” I asked. My wakin world and sleepin world mixed together inside me.
More barkin and yellin. The wind blew from the east, lucky for me, carryin my scent away from the dogs. I ducked my head down, blinked my eyes to clear the blurriness, and peered through branches toward the town. From where I set, I could see groups of men runnin from house to house. The dogs run ahead of them, circled and lunged, howled and bayed. Them dogs went wild when they got to the fence surroundin the little gray log cabin.
I saw someone step out of the cabin and walk to the fence, then watched as other people streamed down a pathway and stopped outside the yard. I’ve got some keen hearin, but I couldn’t tell what were goin on.
Then I saw him. The young boy in the bright-blue shirt run up to the men, talked to them, waved his arms, and pointed toward the woods.
“Oh law,” I said. “Wind blowin west or not, I’m caught now. These are the dog days, and nothin good can come of them.”
Everythin went quiet, or went quiet in my head, cause them dogs never did quit their barkin. I started to climb down and then stopped. What good would it do? Lord knew that I didn’t have enough time or strength to get down and hightail it.
A shooting star is a sign that someone’s soul is journeying to heaven.
The men and dogs left on a run. I couldn’t understand what had just happened. The boy knew that I were somewhere west of town, but he sent them the other way. My breath caught and took, and I realized that I’d been holding it inside me while I watched. I clung tight to the tree.
The day spent, but I lost track of it, wakin and sleepin, burnin inside, and never knowin what were real or dreams. I knew I were some sick, and I didn’t know how long I could hold on.
Night come. Soft light shone from windows, and shadows moved back and forth acrost them. The smell of woodsmoke and meat drifted over the field, makin me yearn for a cooked meal.
I reached into the fattest sack, pulled out another hard piece of dried meat, and chewed it slow. I were thirstin, thirstin so bad that all I could think of were water, sweet water fillin my mouth and tricklin down my burnin, sore throat.
Up through the tree branches, I saw a star streak acrost the sky. I hoped that didn’t mean Zenobia or the runaway was bound for heaven.
Branch by branch I made my way down, the sacks draggin and catchin. Finally, I dropped them at the foot of the tree, then swung myself down beside them. I stuffed a handful of apple slices into my mouth, patted my Hannah doll, and shouldered the sacks.
My foot stepped on a small rock. I bent over, picked it up, wiped it on my skirt, and stuck it into my mouth. Rollin it around, suckin on it, just suckin at that rock set my mouth to waterin.
Running Out of Night Page 7