The Girl in the Maze

by R. K. Jackson

  “ ‘Clyde Tarrant,’ she said to him, ‘you bastard, tell me where my baby is right now ’fore I kill you graveyard dead.’

  “And Clyde Tarrant, drunk with despair and doubt and liquor, he got up from his chair and he said, ‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you.’

  “And so Clyde led her out of the great house and across the dirt track into the smokehouse. It was a small shed built out of tabby with a heavy door.

  “ ‘Go on in and see,’ Mistah Clyde told her. They say Mistress Abigail hesitated, ’cause she was afraid of what she would find in that smokehouse, but then she heard a cry. It was the sound of little Amberleen inside, so she raised the hasp and pushed through that door.

  “She looked around that room, and it was empty except for a cloth flour sack hanging from a hook. Then she heard the cry again, and the sack moved and wiggled, tiny limbs pressing against the inside. Mistress Abigail grabbed for the sack, but the slaves Mistah Clyde had brought along held her back. The baby kept on cryin’.

  “Then Mistress Abigail turned to Mistah Clyde, and they say she poured out her very soul to him. ‘Take me, not the baby,’ she said to him. ‘Kill me if you want to, I don’t care, just let little Amberleen go. I know you were jealous, I know you think—you think Sattu and me…I know it’s done made you crazy. But it ain’t so. You’re the father. We can put all this behind us, Clyde,’ she said. ‘I know we can. We can change everything now. Just let her out of that sack.’

  “But Mistah Clyde was a man of iron will, and he carried on with the plan he’d done laid out. He said to the servants, ‘Bring in the other one.’

  “And the other slaves brought in Sattu, his legs and feet in chains, his eyes wet with fury.

  “And Mistah Clyde picked up a butcher knife and stood next to the child. Mistress Abigail screamed as he held the knife under the sack.

  “ ‘You want this baby to live?’ Mistah Clyde said to all two of them. ‘Then it will. Just tell me the truth. Whose child is it really?’ Then he pointed his finger at Sattu. ‘It belongs to that animal over there—don’t it? It was his filthy seed that bloomed inside you. You weren’t barren. It was me. Ain’t that the truth?’

  “They say Mistress Abigail just shook her head, tears rolling down her face. The slaves who were there said they couldn’t read the answer in her. They figured Abigail herself didn’t know the true answer. And to her it didn’t matter. The baby was there, that was the important thing. And they say that woman actually loved Mistah Clyde, and she thought if she could just reach that part of him that had loved her, she could make everything specify.

  “But like I done said, Mistah Clyde was a hard-headed man. He just had to know the truth. Some say, at that point, there was really only one answer he would believe, anyways.

  “Mistah Clyde put the point of that butcher knife against the side of the sack and he ask again, ‘Whose child is it?’

  “ ‘It’s yours, cain’t you see that? It’s your baby in that there sack,’ Mistress Abigail said. ‘Just let her go. Kill me if you want to, but not her. Just leave that baby alone.’ ”

  Martha dug her fingers into the threadbare fabric of the settee.

  “Finally, Mistah Clyde lowered that knife. He put it down on the butcher block and he looked at Sattu and he looked at Mistress Abigail. And they say Mistress Abigail looked up through her tears at him and mouthed just two words, ‘Forgive me.’ And soon as she done that, they say Mistah Clyde’s face went red with fury again, the lust for vengeance rose up in his throat. He grabbed that knife and stuck it right into that flour sack. The shape in the sack wiggled and squealed, and dark blood ran down the blade of the knife.”

  Martha stood up. “No.”

  “Sit down, child. Calm yourself. That girl was all right.”

  “But you said—”

  “He killed the thing what was in the sack. That thing weren’t Amberleen. It weren’t nothin’ but a runt pig. Mistah Clyde himself had put it in there, tryin’ to get his confession out of those two. Amberleen was hidden under the table and wrapped in a blanket. When they heard her cryin’, it weren’t for nothin’ but the pinch of the stomach.

  “But soon as Mistress Abigail seen Mistah Clyde do that, she let out a howl so loud and so terrible, you can still hear it on some nights, you can hear it in the wind out there now. Mistah Clyde’s servants had to carry her back into the house, kicking and screaming.

  “And they say when Sattu was taken out, his face was frozen in a mask of forever hate.

  “Mistah Clyde was mule-headed to the end, and stuck fast to his plan. He was gonna let Mistress Abigail suffer for one full day for her unfaithfulness, let her believe her precious baby was dead until next dayclean come around. He let the wet nurse tend to the child in the smokehouse until then.

  “What Mistah Clyde didn’t know was that for the Tarrant family, dayclean would never come. Back out in the fields, a storm was already brewing, talk of revolt led by Sattu, fueled by Mistah Clyde’s neglect and drunken meanness. Plans had been made. It was like a mess of kindling waiting for a spark to ignite, and the spark came that day, in the form of Sattu’s rage.

  “He sent a message to Mistress Abigail and the house servants, told them to be out the house by middlenight. After nightfall, the slaves went to a gathering place about a half mile upriver, where they prepared for the attack, wrapping rags soaked in lard around oak branches. Them torches burned orange in the moonlight and they got into they wood skiffs and rowed downriver.”

  Martha shivered. She thought of the lights she saw on the river, the view from her window of the Pritchett House.

  “By the light of the moon, they came ashore and stole up to the big house. First they killed the overseer in his cabin, stoned him in his sleep. Then they raided the money stash downstairs and emptied the kerosene lanterns on the floors and furniture. Mistah Clyde was passed out drunk in his study. He didn’t have no clue what was happening. Then they surrounded that whole entire house, a man outside every window, each with a large stone in one hand, a burning torch in the other. When Sattu give ’em the signal, they smashed the windows with the stones, breaking ’em all at once, and chunked them flaming torches into the house.

  “The conflagration bloomed inside, lighting the windows with tongues of orange flame that grew and filled the whole downstairs. Escape weren’t possible for nobody left inside. Mistress Abigail got the message from Sattu, but they say she just laid there in her four-poster bed. She didn’t move, even when she heard the glass break and saw the smoke risin’ up through the floorboards.

  “And soon as they had thrown the torches, the slaves ran, they went chasing after a dream of freedom, climbing into their skiffs or slipping into the forest and marsh, they went in all directions, hoping the distraction of the fire would give them time enough to outrun the trackers.

  “But none of them slaves really had a plan much, beyond escape,” Lady Albertha continued. “In that day, there was no place for a slave to go that was safe. There were five bloodhounds for every slave, and before dusk the next day, they were all hunted down. Not all of ’em was killed, but Sattu was, along with any others thought to be leaders of the uprising. They were hung as examples from the fat oak tree that stillyet stands at the end of the big road.”

  Martha felt a deep chill. Her mind returned to that night at the Pritchett House, the night she saw the figure suspended in the tree, the night she had brushed against a calloused foot.

  “And that is the shadow that lay upon them grounds, the shadow stillyet felt by those like us, those blessed and cursed with the sight.”

  “What about the girl, what about Amberleen?” Martha asked.

  “She was the only survivor of that bad night. She was found in the smokehouse next day and was give to a young couple what lived downriver and had no children of their own.

  “Now, that young couple, a fisherman and his wife, they loved little Amberleen, for true. They made as fine a life for her as they could. Th
ey opened a seafood shop across the river, started selling shrimp and blue crab. After a few years their business started to grow. Folks started to come from all around to buy they products. Not too long after that, the gunshot war come along and put an end to slavery and plantations. The slaves were given their freedom and, for the first time, their own stretch of land out on Shell Heap. Land, and the little bit of grace that come with it.

  “The young couple eventually got prosperous and drew more business and more folks to these parts, until one day, this here town become incorporated. The girl’s father, he become the first mayor, and he also picked out the city’s name. He named it Amberleen, after his beloved daughter, his inspiration for everything he’d done to make the world a little better.”

  Albertha leaned forward, put the pipe in its cradle. “So you see, this town arose out of ashes of that night, this town that wants to pave over and forget about its roots, forget about slaves and their ancestors and them spirits of the past. Some of us are sure that Amberleen was Sattu’s child. Well, let it be known, this town got its start from the child of a slave. Cain’t no one prove that, but go and tell them anyway. Tell all the world, and make so they know it for true.”

  Albertha sat silently in the rocker. Rain thrummed on the roof.

  “I’ll write down your story,” Martha said. “I’ll make sure it’s known.”

  “The story ain’t done yet,” Albertha said. She rose slowly and went behind the counter next to the sitting area. She swung the key on the string around her wrist into her fingers, unlocked the wooden drawer in the cabinet on the wall, and took something long and dark from it.

  Martha watched her, trying to discern the object, but the lighting was too dim. Albertha turned and pointed the thing across the counter, toward the darkness at the front of the shop.

  “I swear, old woman, you got ears like a bat,” Morris said. “I didn’t think you knew I was here.”

  Martha leapt up from the settee and hobbled back toward the wall. She looked in the direction that Albertha was pointing, but could see only cluttered darkness.

  “I’ve know’d you was there all the while,” Albertha said. “Ever since you came in here twenty minutes ago and hid back in them shadows like a wharf rat. I heard every rustle of your clothes. I heard you breathe. Most of all, I could smell you.”

  “You’re one hell of a good storyteller, Lady Albertha,” Morris said. “Best damn tale-spinner to ever hit the county.” He came out from behind a tower of shelves and took a step forward. The floorboards creaked. Martha could see him now. The candlelight flickered on his wet gabardines, glinted on his badge. His face was etched in shadow, like a wooden mask.

  Albertha placed her elbow on the counter, the dark object still trained on Morris. “I know jes where you stand. I can hear every move you make.”

  “I just wanted to hear what you had to say,” Morris said. He took a step forward. “I enjoy a good story.”

  “If you take one more step, it will be your last,” Albertha said.

  “Albertha,” Morris said. “You and I both know you ain’t got no gun. There’s nothing in your hand but an old piece of root. You think you can trick me with that?”

  “It don’t matter what I aim. You gonna die tonight.” Martha could detect no trace of doubt in Albertha’s voice.

  “Hasn’t there been enough dying for one night?” Morris reached slowly for his trouser pocket, his eyes locked on Albertha. He pulled out a wet and yellowed square of folded paper.

  “Here’s the other version of that story you been telling this young girl.” He unfolded the wet squares slowly. The paper was torn, the ink smeared, but Martha could make out the filigree of the writing, the ornate penmanship of an earlier day. “You want to tell that story, you might as well have the Dussault family version. This letter has been sittin’ up there in Lydia’s old Bible since God knows when. Once she died, I thought I ought to hang on to it.” Morris held the paper out toward Martha. “Here. You can have it.”

  “Don’t let him near you,” Albertha said.

  Morris turned his head toward Martha. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” Morris unfolded the paper, held it out for her to see. Martha squinted. She could see a cursive list of names and dates running down the page.

  “This is Lydia’s secret. Her own family history. All the births and deaths are recorded in this ledger.” He pointed to a name on the list. “Amberleen Tarrant. Married name, Dussault. She was the first Dussault born on American soil. It lists her parents here, see? That’s the French fisherman and his wife, the ones Albertha was talking about. There’s question marks next to those names.” He peeled a moist page apart from the stack. “And here’s the letter she kept in the Bible, with that cock-and-bull business about the slaves. If that story is true, it means Lydia’s whole family might be descended from a slave. Hell, that’s half the town. Her family has been sittin’ on this information for a century. And you want to know why? Shame.”

  “Lydia wasn’t going to hide it any longer,” Martha said. “It was going in the book. She told me.”

  “The Dussaults were embarrassed, all right, but they didn’t need to be. Because it ain’t true. It’s just a local legend.”

  Morris folded the packet of pages and held it out to her. “You may as well have it. See, I really don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You already hurt me,” Martha said. “You tried to kill me.”

  The rain rattled against the roof. The wind moaned tentatively.

  His upper body turned toward her. “You may find this hard to believe, Martha, but I like you. That’s the problem. I took a shine to you from the first time we met. We’ve got certain things in common. We’re both misunderstood.” Morris shifted his weight and the floor creaked.

  “Your next step will be your last,” Albertha said.

  “What about Vince?” Martha asked. “I saw what you did out there—I saw—”

  “Your doctor friend?” Morris said. “For some reason, he went off his nut. Seems like everybody has lost their minds tonight.” He tossed the packet of pages on the floor next to Martha’s feet. “It’s all over now. Put that thing down, Albertha.”

  Morris stepped toward her. Albertha took the object in both her hands and broke it in two and there was a subterranean crack. It shook the entire room. Martha winced, squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, Albertha was still holding the dark thing, now in two pieces. And Morris in front of her, frozen in his tracks, eyes wide. And Martha realized the sound she heard wasn’t just the root, or anything at all inside the room, because it was bigger than that, deeper, all encompassing. It was as if someone had snapped the backbone of the Earth.

  And now there was another sound, a marching, and roar of chaos released, something tumbling and rushing and climbing over itself, a nameless stampede coursing toward them.

  “Holy hell,” Morris said, head swiveling, “holy hell—”

  The sound was unearthly and immense and Morris was jogging toward Martha and she stepped backward, but not fast enough, and Morris tackled her, lifted her, and dragged her toward the door. He plowed forward, knocking bottles off the shelves, and lunged forward as the locomotive sound bore down—

  —but before they reached the door the charging sound arrived and it blasted the windows out of their casements and thundered into the room and the shelves toppled and Martha was pushed toward the rafters…

  …and she was underwater, submerged in black swirling limbo and bumping into bottles and wood and nameless things. Martha flailed her arms in churning darkness, but her head wouldn’t come out of the water. She kicked upward and smashed into the roof timbers.

  Then there was a change in the direction, a sucking outward, and it pulled Martha in a new direction, like an animal caught in a storm drain—

  Seconds passed as she groped underwater, all dark, endless sucking darkness, not knowing which way to swim toward the surface—was there a surface?—and her lungs about to explode—

 
Then her head bobbed to the surface, into the sharp, strafing rain, and she gasped for air, rolling, tumbling, and gliding, outside now, swept along in the torrent, and she clawed wildly, arms striking loose objects….

  Her body slammed into something solid, and she stopped. She rolled onto it and scrambled out of the water, gasping for air. Martha took hold of something smooth and blocky, a glassy surface. Lightning flashed and she saw that she was on top of a car, a police cruiser, its roof protruding from the center of a rushing black river. The water was full of indistinct things that smashed and pinwheeled against the vehicle, and the car itself was moving, lumbering, half-submerged.

  Martha clutched on to the light bar to keep from sliding off the slippery steel. Her legs flailed in the dark and her foot struck something large and rubbery. She heard a low groan. She reached down, touched wet fabric, and then flesh.

  A large hand grabbed her wrist. “Help me—” Morris said. “Help me stay on the car.” His voice sounded primal, mortally wounded. She felt the vehicle shift again. It was floating faster now, turning, and there was a metallic scrape of steel against brick, and then it stopped. Lightning flashed, a series of rapid flickers, and Martha saw that the car was pinned against a brick wall. Above them, a low-slung sheet-metal roof. Morris was beside her, his body broken, his legs twisted under him.

  She grabbed at the roof, clawed at it. Her fingers slipped and scrabbled on the steel, unable to find purchase. She managed to get one knee up on the roof, but it slid back down. Then she stepped onto Morris’s body and pushed off and got her knee onto the roof, then another shove, and she flopped her body onto the surface. She heard another screech of steel on brick.

  “Help me—” Morris said, his voice husky, distant.

  Martha paused, sucking in the wet air. Then she flattened out her body on the sheet metal and wheeled around and rolled and reached over the edge of the roof, toward the sound of the voice. She groped to find Morris, grabbing at rain-filled air. She swung her arms toward the torrent below. She paused, listened in the dark. Then the lightning flickered, and she could see that her effort was useless. There was no longer anyone there.