The Loom

by Shella Gillus

  A NOVEL

  SHELLA GILLUS

  The Loom

  ISBN 978-0-8249-4816-0

  Published by Guideposts

  16 East 34th Street

  New York, New York 10016

  Guideposts.org

  Copyright © 2011 by Shella Gillus. All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Distributed by Ideals Publications, a Guideposts company

  2630 Elm Hill Pike, Suite 100

  Nashville, TN 37214

  Guideposts and Ideals are registered trademarks of Guideposts.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Cover photo by Getty Images

  Interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  D E D I C A T I O N

  To the One who knows and loves me anyhow.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to say thank you to my agent, Joel Kneedler. I am honored to be among the best. Thank you for your diligence in finding a home for this novel so quickly; Editor Beth Adams, Marketing Director Carl Raymond, and the entire team at Guideposts for believing in this story and working so hard to see it in print at its finest; Editor Adrienne Ingrum for posing just the right question that sparked a whole new vision; Rusty Shelton for an incredible social media campaign; Author Sharon Ewell Foster and Author/Actor Blair Underwood, my mentors from afar; the following spiritual leaders who have laid a strong foundation on which I stand: Rev. Amos L. Lewis, Bishop Alexis A. Thomas, Bishop Kenneth C. Ulmer, and Pastor Terrence Autry; my friend, Rev. Allen Parr, thank you for sharing your biblical insight and answering endless questions with patience and grace. Thanks to a team of women who encouraged and supported my effort to complete this task: Alisa Swinger, Viveca Bonner, Lisa Autry, Cheryl Savage, LaShon Anderson, Taiwan Brown, Kafi Nsenkyire, Melanie Quick, Shanise Pugh, Teresa Isaias Park, and my wonderful mother-in-law, Joyce Gillus.

  I would also like to thank Gwendolyn Potter, my fairy godmother. I have recently discovered just how much of who I am comes from the wisdom and love you have showered on me since my infancy. I could never repay nor could ever be convinced that we do not have the same blood running through our veins. I love you.

  Lee S. Chamberlain, you have supported every idea I have ever contemplated and believed in every one of my dreams since I can remember. From questioning unjust music teachers to cheering every one of my performances, you have been at my side. There is no greater father.

  Minnie L. Chamberlain, you are an amazing woman of God, one of the world’s greatest givers, and the best mother a girl could have. I thank you for your fervent prayers and your unwavering love. There is only one Minnie. Never will the world have another like you. How did I ever receive such favor?

  Alisa Chamberlain Walker, what can I say? You are more than my sister. You are my very best friend and I cannot, will not imagine my days without you. I don’t know another soul who has labored through every challenge, every line, each story idea of this book like you have. But I know why. We are knit together. You are my treasure. I love you with everything.

  Thank you to my precious little ones, my dear children, Spencer and Staci, who pretend to be me, hushing the house “’cause I’m writing.” I’m sorry for the many weekends I spent locked up in a room behind my computer away from you, but I am here now and I cherish every moment.

  And last but never least, I want to thank the man the Lord has placed over my life. Stacey L. Gillus, none of this could have been possible had you not believed, supported, and allowed me to write the story of my heart. If it had not been for your love and patience (not once in two years of this process did you complain. Not one bitter word between us), there would be no Loom. Your sacrifice epitomizes what it means to love me as Christ loves the church. You’re doing it. Every day you’re doing it and I am grateful for you, a man of incredible honor and strength, the earthly vessel through whom God has chosen to love me in ways I never imagined. There are no words….

  My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle,

  and are spent without hope.

  JOB 7:6 KJV

  PROLOGUE

  Every push for life pulled her closer to death.

  With tears, Lydia pressed her way forward through the black night, through the maze of oak and hickory, through the path of pines, over stubble, patches of worn blue grass, fallen twigs, moss. The beauty of the things that bred around her, these natural wonders she had first come to recognize as a child, now as familiar as her own scent, she could not see. Through the wiry thicket she ran, her breath catching in her chest until it rose to her lips in a desperate pant.

  With every step toward freedom, Lydia was bound. She knew it, even now, in the midst of her flight, she knew there would be no unleashing from all she left behind. Every mumbled rainbow wish; every broken branch she raised, stretched out over the creek she demanded to part; every black-eyed Susan she plucked and bunched into a bouquet for a brown boy she longed to marry; for every dried, white crusted tear she’d rubbed clean from her eyes in the cold water of the river, shivering when she discovered not one dream of them would come true. Every crinkled brown sack hand she’d clung to, squeezed, soothed, Daddy’s right-cocked smile, Grandma Lou’s feathery touch, all would remain, reside in her until they smothered her to death.

  Lydia swatted past oak limbs and evergreen branches, scratching her arms against them and the coarse wool of her cloak. Push! She pushed against the cool April air whistling in her ears until it chilled her, caused her to dip lower into the hood that slipped from her head when she whipped around every few feet. Sweat slipped down the nape of her neck, slithered down the bumpy road of her spine. Hot in this cold. She pushed for life.

  Bondage could not hold her.

  Only a couple of hours had passed since her first step toward freedom. Her heart thumped at the thought of that first move, the choice that brought her here alone scrambling through the forest searching for the light, the safe house she’d heard about. Already she had rested, collapsed against an oak, bark crumbling over her shoulder as she glanced up at the Maryland sky. No moon. No stars. No light. Nothing in the heavens guiding, leading her. Not one sparkle, one glimmer on her side.

  She knew she was running too fast, muscles tensing so soon, moving much too quickly in the dark, her hissing breath now clipped, but she was stirred, compelled, drawn to something that had once lived outside of her but somewhere along the way had entered in and now pulsed boldly through her veins, pumped her very heart. The alluring call of life swelled within her, and its echo. Death.

  Tonight Lydia was ready to die for it. Death would surely come. Not a death of nothingness, for death was never that, but a cruel, unbearable unrest one couldn’t do a thing about. And yet still, she pushed because there was not one without the other. Death rode the wings of life, swarming in just as sure as night followed day. It was the way of the world. She had seen one too many mothers panting, their bloodstained thighs pushing out babies only to slip away themselves. Every prize had a price. For everything she wanted, there attached to it like the thorn of a rose was the thing she didn’t. But life was worth the risk no matter what was lost.

  Lydia smoothed the woolen hood from her head and looked around. She would miss the words, the music. Here was just th
e sound of her own feet and the crunching of leaves. And crickets, night creatures. Was this the right path? She was near the river, she knew, several miles north of the Kelly Plantation.

  She picked up the pace and began to sprint again. Bent arms and knees swinging hard, pressing, pushing. For every thrust forward, she left behind every friend she ever loved, ever bloody back she helped heal. She had to make it to the light. She gasped. Determined, she moved through the woods, panting, panting. She couldn’t breathe.

  Truth was, she hadn’t breathed in months. She hadn’t breathed in years. Lydia had never breathed a single breath her whole life. Not one gasp of air in two decades. Not one moment of filling her lungs with life. Not one. That’s just how it was. Just a life without breath. No life at all.

  The night’s wind and the salt of her tears burned hot streams down her cheeks. The cotton slip of her dress caught in the thicket, tearing her hem loose so it hung lifeless, dragging against a soil that housed the bones of her people. Run, Lydia, run! Dragging like little Jacob’s body behind Master’s wagon.

  Life. Death. Life. She needed it. Push! She gasped for the breath of life.

  Lydia ran for her life.

  Somewhere it was there. This life, this breath she needed. She knew because she had seen it with her own eyes. She had witnessed in some, not the up-and-down movement of their chests, but their souls rising and falling, lifting. And color didn’t have a thing to do with it.

  Not all White folk were free. Some were just as bound as she. White didn’t no more make one free as black made one bound. Lydia knew because her skin was as white as theirs, her eyes as green as many, and all of them were as bound as her enslaved grandmother was free.

  Born to two light-complexioned mulattos, Lydia’s skin was cream to their beige. With her father’s eyes and her mother’s hair, no trace of her African blood flushed through her pigment. That was only in her spirit.

  As the night passed, she grew weary. Arms that had hours before swung with vigor rose to swat tree limbs with exhaustion. She scraped her cheek against a lower limb and winced when the air stung her pierced skin. Wiping the blood away with the back of her hand, she dragged through the woods. Push! The night seemed suddenly noisy, the distant sound of barking dogs, the scurrying on dry leaves all around. She looked behind her. Furry feet shot across the torn leather of her shoe. She screamed, swung around, and slammed into a thick hanging branch. A thundering pain shot through her skull, watered her eyes. Lydia gripped her head and tried to steady her balance. She was frightened, lost.

  And then she saw it.

  One small round, dim light. High and far away. She staggered toward it, dazed and weak. She dragged toward it. But when she was close enough to see the circle did not grow in size, it was too late. She was blinded by the beam in the hands of a man.

  “Well now, boys, what do we have here?” The words poured out of his mouth slow as molasses as he lowered his torch. Through bleary eyes, Lydia saw three White men standing in front of her, one with rope, the other two with guns. The butt of a rifle cracked high against her forehead and sprang blood down her brows, showered her lashes until the men were blurry ghosts of red. Lydia collapsed at their feet.

  O death, where is thy sting?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Free folk relished the day. Bond folk cherished the night.

  A lit sky was one to endure. Bent backs and broken spirits. Make it through. Make it through. But when darkness fell, lovers laughed, they danced, swirled, and swayed, fingers to backs, hands to waists, flesh to flesh; daddies jostled sons on bruised shoulders and willed them to higher places; mamas cuddled babies, tickled fat feet, and dreamt dreams for their young they no longer dreamt for themselves; misty-eyed granddaddies whispered hope into tender ears; and grandmas soothed the wounded with salve and hot water cornbread. One dark, sweet sliver of life filled them by night, but like chocolate, melted by morning.

  Lydia tugged the straw bonnet forward over her scarf and shielded her eyes as she glanced up at the position of the sun. Halfway to evening.

  For the second time since dawn, she lugged a large wooden bucket up the hill several yards behind the Kelly manor, working twice as hard as most days. With Cora stricken with fever in the night, Lydia rose early to empty chamber pots and fetch wash water. After starting the fire in the kitchen, she swept floors of oak and maple wood and scrubbed bed linens until her fingers were red and wrinkled. She wiped the drops of sweat collecting above her lip with the sleeve of her dress and sighed. Still she needed to bring water to the workers in the field and tend the main garden and by evening, sit at the loom.

  When she reached the top of the hill, she slouched over the empty bucket, resting her hands on her lower back, her elbows pointing to the sky like wings. Even the simple duty of fetching water several times a day was no small feat for a girl as young as Cora, nor one as petite as she.

  How Lydia managed any of it after the beating amazed her.

  Left for dead in the woods, she awoke a few days later safe in slave quarters on her plantation. She recalled nothing of those early days of healing, except one word spoken three times. Live. Whispered. Live. Hovered. Live. Breathed over her.

  Lydia swept her arm over her damp forehead, over the silvery scar she kept hidden under her scarf, and pumped. Gripping the handle with both hands, she raised the splintered bucket to her knees and waddled toward the Big House.

  Water swished against her dress and soaked her feet muddy. She jiggled the bucket down and rubbed the early white patch of a blister on her palm. Squatting, she wiped her face against the folds of cotton across her lap, and squinted. Less than a hundred feet to go. She sighed and closed her eyes.

  Let it be night. Music played in her mind before faces appeared. Daddy. Grandma Lou. Lizzy. Funny her White friend should come to mind.

  Suddenly, she felt a tickle on the back of her neck. Her fingertips slipped under the nape of her braid, dropped as paper-thin legs danced across her knuckles. She screamed, leapt forward, and tumbled the bucket to its side.

  Kicking against the river of water streaming around her, she fussed herself weary. Get your own water! Her head hurt. The ladybug lifted its tiny wings and flew up, high above her head. She wallowed in the dust for several minutes, watching it flutter and fly, fly away. Free.

  When she could no longer see it, she gathered herself, yanked her lopsided, soiled hem straight, and trudged several yards back up the hill.

  Pausing between pumps, Lydia scanned the land. The colonial sat center front next to a tobacco field in which several slaves labored. What field slaves did every day put her to shame. Lydia watched them hover over the leaves they would soon dry in heavy bunches in the tobacco barn near the slave quarters. The supply house and an empty barn were adjacent, but across from it, a breathtaking garden in the valley. Rows and rows of Indian corn, turnip greens, and tomatoes led to vibrant magnolias, marigolds, and roses of every hue.

  Lydia looked up at the pale sky. More than halfway there. She picked up the bucket, leaned back under its weight, and trotted down the side of the mount. The swooshing of water mirrored her thoughts: back and forth, back and forth from the day’s duties to night’s rest.

  Behind the Kelly manor, Lydia filled a washbasin with water and poured suds of lye over her hands, scrubbing under the white tips of her nails, her fingers, and her wrists until they were streaked pink. With her elbow, she pushed her way inside the house, jamming her foot against the door before the screen slammed shut and the smell of crackling pork roused her hunger.

  Cora’s knife rested on a slab of ham as wide as it was round. She smiled when she looked up, her deep-set, large brown eyes sparkling in a face as dark and sweet as molasses sugar. With more flesh on her cheeks than her chest, she was merely a girl no more than twelve or thirteen.

  Her mother, Beatrice, had been Mrs. Kelly’s favorite, had nursed the Missus’s child as her own. A sleek, coffee-colored woman with long limbs and a solemn soul, Beatrice was as
connected to the earth as any plant that sprouted from its soil. Her palms were as dark as the back of her hands no scrubbing would wash clean. Every autumn evening, she would sit in the Kelly garden with seeds pinched between long fingertips, digging, sowing, weeding, her knees bent on each side of her like petals, her back curved, swaying in the wind like a rose. During the harvest of 1847, her spirit dried out and she was found wilted on her side, her cheek pressed against the damp red clay. Word had it she was buried in the slave graveyard several miles behind the Kelly barn, but Lydia believed otherwise, because the following spring and each year following, in the garden, a single black rose emerged among the lilies.

  After Beatrice died, Mrs. Kelly kept the slave’s newborn under her roof and was particularly solemn in the fall. All obliged to be in her presence knew well enough to speak softly during the season, and most certainly to not make mention of the woman whose presence still sparked in her daughter’s spirit.

  “I didn’t expect to see you up, Cora.”

  “Fever’s gone. I’m as good as new.” She nodded toward the hearth. “Got the grits on already.”

  Lydia tied an apron, frayed on the edges, around her waist and leaned over the pot of bubbling white hominy. She stirred, scraping a clump from the bottom of the pot. “They up yet?”

  Cora nodded. “The Missus and Lizzy.”

  Of course. Mother and daughter dined alone morning after morning though Mrs. Kelly insisted the girls prepare as if her husband were likely to join them. But rarely did his evening outings in the slave quarters stir a hunger for food. Lydia tugged the front of her cotton dress higher at the thought of his eyes on her, grateful he harnessed his desires in the arms of the field women. Her cheeks burned the moment she thought it. They no more wanted his touch than she wanted his stare.