The Loom

by Shella Gillus

  “You seem sad.” Jackson searched her face. She looked away. “Can’t figure out what would be sad about a wedding. Caroline?”

  She nodded, afraid her voice would betray her.

  “You all right?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You all go on.” His face darkened when he looked at the men. “Do what needs to be done.” They nodded as they returned to their horses and galloped away.

  “What needs to be done?”

  “A lynching.”

  No…

  “You ready?”

  “I need a moment.” Just a moment to steady herself. She leaned against the log cabin behind her, her fingers sprawled across the glass.

  She blinked.

  Suddenly a shadow whirled by, moving so fast, Lydia had to catch her breath. It only took seconds to know it was the hunted one.

  Run, John, run!

  Lydia’s world stopped, spun, and then suddenly went black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Lydia wrapped herself in a cocoon of covers in the warmth of her quarters. Despite them, she shivered. Her head was still wet from the rain, but the chill she felt rose from the inside. Cold in her bones. She snuggled tighter into herself and squeezed her eyes shut. When the door creaked open, she peered out from under the quilts.

  “You all right?” Jackson stared at her. “You really scared me out there. You sure we don’t need someone to take a look at you?”

  “No.” She sprang up. “I told you what he did. Jackson. Dr. Kelly—”

  “Not Dr. Kelly, Caroline. Someone else, anyone besides him could have a look.”

  “No, no. I’m fine.” She smiled. “Really, Jackson. I promise.” She peeled back the layers.

  “You wanted to talk to me about the wedding?”

  “Is it all right if we do it later? I’m not up to it.”

  “Of course, of course. It’s not important. Is it?”

  “No.”

  “Tired?”

  “I am.” She closed her eyes and squirmed back under the covers. The image of John running, of their hour of terror, of her father on the porch, all of them returned when she closed her eyes.

  “I’ll let you rest.”

  When the door closed, she cried. Gather yourself, Lydia. She took a deep breath, willed strength, and rolled off the bed.

  She opened the rosewood armoire. Behind a row of boxes stacked five high, two deep, in the base of the hand-carved furniture, lay her treasure. She touched the red circles, handled the purple diamonds, and rubbed the place where the piece had been torn. She thought of it with her love now.

  “Miss Caroline?”

  “Annie.” She startled and jumped to her feet, shoving the blanket inside the cabinet. “Umm…come in.” She yanked the narrow door shut and turned to the girl. “Did you need something?”

  “No. I was checking on you. I thought you was supposed to be lying down.”

  “I am. I was. How can I sleep with the wedding on my mind?”

  Still pretending, still lying, but she had to say something, do something, until she knew where to go, how to find John, how to follow peace. “There’s still so much to do. Listen, I know I had a rough start the other day, but thank you for your help.” She returned to her bed and patted the spot beside her. “Sit, sit.”

  “I can’t sit, ma’am. Not on your bed. Not with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I–I’m… Miss Caroline?” Annie cocked her head to the side and studied her. “You all right?”

  John dashed through barren fields of corn near the main road toward Dorchester. He flew into the deepest part of the forest and ran for hours. He knew the path, had traveled it too many times, and even under the starless sky, finding it impossible to see what was in front of him, he moved north with confidence.

  For hours, he ran and knew he was now close to the Kelly plantation. His muscles tensed when he heard horses and the sound of a carriage approaching. Had they heard him? He ducked farther into the woods.

  His arms swung with power, propelling his body over stone and stubble with ease until he was several miles from the sound.

  Safe, he made a place in the dirt against a tree. He hadn’t realized how cold and how tired he was until now, his tendons throbbing under the stress. Within minutes he felt his head nod, nodding. A little rest would do him good.

  What was that? Rustling. Dead leaves blowing. Were they blowing or was something, someone—

  He didn’t even have time to complete the thought before he heard feet too close for him to stand, for him to think. A sheet was dropped over his head and he was dragged—punching and kicking—away.

  Captured like an animal.

  Scratching at the inside of the tarp, John wondered how much air he had left in the back of the wagon, how much longer he’d be able to survive.

  He’d spent more time trying to stay alive than he did living any day. It was the main task of the Colored.

  He flailed against the cloth that kept him from the outside world.

  Tonight he was an animal. A beast in their eyes. A fearful, angry brute that needed to be tamed. Anger and sadness rode with him, one leading, then the other.

  “Speak up, boy. You hear me, boy? You better move, boy.” The man in the plaid jacket had spoken the words as sharp as the blade he’d flicked. One thing he knew for certain, had confirmed in some twenty-plus years, he was by no means a boy. None of the captives were. Not ever. They were born grown, staring death, hopelessness, and fear in the face the first day their eyes began to focus.

  “Watch your back.” “Pay attention.” “Can’t trust nobody.” These were the sayings breathed into the slave spirit, hovering over every experience. But there was something more.

  Deep down, buried under the heaviness, far beneath the wounds, there was this thing. For many years, John couldn’t explain it. It was mysterious. A presence. A sense. He felt it special when the old folks prayed. Somewhere between the bowed head, the whispering and swelling of the lyrical call to the One, the pleading requests and the bleeding hearts laid out in the altar of the henhouse, the beating on the breast and the river of tears, somewhere in the midst, between the gratefulness of making it through another day and the “amen,” he felt it, knew something was there, even as a child.

  Peace.

  Sweet, sweet peace. Peace was the only hope, the only friend of the slave. It was what carried them through the day. It flowed in the downbeat of the songs they hummed, made joy swing in the upbeat.

  John thought of the mothers. Though only one suckled him, many had saved him. Only one had pushed him into this present life, but many had birthed him into a place still and sweet that kept him from losing his mind. Because of the love of so many, he had made it. He had not been broken. He was not shattered because someone spoke a word, someone uttered a prayer, someone somewhere believed in him and carried him when he couldn’t carry himself. At some place along the journey he got planted and rooted in peace.

  Caged and trapped in body, he squeezed his eyes shut, capped off the hurt, shut out the noises, and he prayed, hard, deep, and real, pulling every weight up and out of his tears, until his vision hazed and his fingers wiped fat lids. He cried for every lie, and he wept for the truth. In many ways, they were right. He was nothing. He didn’t have the strength, the ability, to fight on his own. But he didn’t have to. Because something deep on the inside strengthened.

  His heart filled with warmth and that peace that used to graze him, that would float away moments after the tune was hummed, remained, strong and steady, the presence of God in him. Jesus. He called the name, until, layer after layer, he was clothed safe enough to fall asleep on the bumpy road to wherever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Jackson stood in his undershirt and trousers at the front door, whispering airy clouds of breath.

  “Can’t be too far on foot.”

  Lydia tried desperately to hear all the words exchanged, but the night air was mak
ing the house unbearably cold. How Jackson could stand it with nothing on his arms, she had no idea, because it drove her quickly out of its way, made her hurry to her room, just to get her blood moving.

  The tapping of her heels against the wood floor whipped his head around.

  “Caroline, what are you doing?” His voice was stern. “You need to stay off your feet after that fall.”

  She started to explain, but he turned back to the voices on the other side.

  When he leaned against the frame, the door opened wider and she saw Rex and Henry. Rex’s eyes widened.

  She marched to her quarters and held her breath. A few minutes later when the bedroom door flung open, a red-faced Jackson scanned the room.

  “Rex and Henry need to speak to you.”

  “About what?” She cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice from shaking. It wasn’t the only thing disclosing her fear. She propped her trembling hand against the bed for support.

  “Caroline…”

  “Can’t we do this tomorrow? It’s late, Jackson. It’s been a long day for all of us.”

  “And our night will end as soon as you speak to my men.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do they want with me?”

  “Caroline, they’re just trying to find answers. None of us is happy about what happened.”

  “I’ll talk to them tomorrow.” She turned away.

  “You think this is some kind of game?” He grabbed her, locked his hand around her arm, but his breathing was slow, controlled. “One of my boys got hurt. We need answers. Now.”

  “Please, Jackson.” She didn’t want to push him. “I promise. I will talk to them tomorrow. It was some day for me.”

  She witnessed the moment he relinquished. He nodded. Even still, he was not one to dismiss. She knew that. All too well.

  Every step to the foyer lit Jackson angrier and angrier. He wanted that boy as much as they did. Henry stood against the front door, his arms folded above his bulging belly. Rex paced, his shoulders in two sharp points under his shabby coat. He turned to Jackson.

  “Where is she?” His eyes were wild, like a cougar ready to strike.

  “She’s not coming.”

  “What do you mean, she’s not coming?” Rex’s brows drew into a single line.

  “I mean, she’s tired.”

  “Tired?” Rex’s tone grated Jackson’s nerves. He hoped he got it under control real soon. For Rex’s sake.

  “Yes.”

  “Why is she so tired?”

  “Don’t you concern yourself about what’s going on under my roof. What did you want to speak to her about, anyway?”

  “How well you know this Caroline, Jackson?” Henry inquired.

  He was getting hot.

  “Well enough to know you’d better leave it alone.”

  “So she’s too tired to talk to us.”

  “I hate to tell you this, my friend, but she looks like the girl we saw last night with that boy.” Henry looked down.

  “What?” The words seared through him. “Are you out of your mind?” Jackson suppressed every swear, held down every curse under his tongue. Impossible.

  “I’m not saying she is. Just from the side. We only got to see a little of her from the side.”

  “I don’t care how you saw her, it wasn’t Caroline. Are we clear on that?” He had no idea where she was. He hadn’t even been around. But he knew who to ask, knew exactly how to find out.

  “Let’s see what she says.” Rex spat. “We’ll know right away if she’s lying.”

  And they would. She was a terrible liar. He wanted to know the truth, too, but he didn’t want to face the shame in front of his boys. No, this he needed to find out alone.

  “I said she’s tired.”

  “Tired, huh?” Rex rose up against him. Whiskey blasted in his face. “You sure she’s not tired from running around with that boy?”

  “You better watch your mouth, I swear.” He was a trigger away…one trigger away…

  “I want to speak to her, Jack! She’s not even your wife! What difference does it make?”

  “All right, that’s enough.” Henry muscled between the men. “We’re all tired. Jackson, hold it down here tonight for us. Maybe we can talk to her in the morning. We’ll be back first thing.”

  “I want to talk to her now!”

  “Come on, Rex. We need to respect the man’s house.” Even Henry was losing patience. He patted Rex’s back. “It’s getting late. Let’s get out of here. Don’t worry. We’ll talk to her.”

  The three of them stepped out onto the porch.

  “Tomorrow,” Jackson said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. She’d better have been where she was supposed to be or they might not ever get the chance to talk to her—if he got a hold of her first. It was cold. Awful cold. He wished he had grabbed his coat.

  “Tomorrow,” Henry nodded.

  Rex murmured under his breath.

  “What’d you say?” Jackson leaned forward, fuming. They had him out in the cold, dealing with this mess.

  “I said, better be. It better be tomorrow.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I don’t know who might get cut next.”

  “That’s funny.” Jackson howled. “That’s real funny. You think I’m worried about being cut? Tell you the truth, I’m not worried about none of it.” Come on, take the bait. Give me a reason to whip you! “It’s not my problem.”

  “It’s not your problem?” Rex chuckled, his breath hovering like smoke in the air. He moved in front of Henry and stepped in close to Jackson’s face, inches from the tip of his nose.

  “Oh, it’s your problem, Jackson. I think it’s your problem, especially. You better hope your girl’s not tired from something else she was doing with that coon.”

  Before Jackson could raise his fist, Rex slammed into him and punched him in the throat. Jackson bit his tongue and felt his mouth fill with blood. He lunged into his friend with all his might. The force sent Rex staggering back, knocking Henry off balance. A loud thud pulled them apart.

  Jackson and Rex jogged to the bottom of the stairs and found their friend bucking wildly in the dirt, his neck snapped and twisted.

  The sun gleamed down on Whitfield’s narrow face, warping his smile, as he dragged Lydia away. John ran toward his bride, but laughing men in plaid coats grabbed him and held him down.

  He woke up swinging.

  The tight space jarred him alert. Still in a cage. He saw sunlight breaking through the corners of the tarp and heard life on the outside. And breathing.

  Someone tugged, then grabbed the edge of the tarp and yanked the cover back.

  John held his breath.

  “Charles?”

  “Shhh!” His friend pushed his head down and draped the tarp back in place. “Someone’s coming.”

  Through a corner, John could make out they were in a field. He could no longer see Charles. Just a coach and a plump woman with springy red curls under a large flowered hat approached. She had been crying, her quivering lips stained as brightly as her hair. Her driver walked over to Charles, but before he opened his mouth, the woman behind him spoke.

  “You seen a Henry Drake in these parts? He’s a smart-looking fellow, a little stout. Always chewing. Ain’t never without his tobacco.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  The woman patted her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief balled in her palm. Bits of white cotton lint clung to her lashes.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Charles nodded at her and then spoke to her driver. “I’ll be on the lookout.”

  “Will you, now?” She sniffled. “I appreciate it.”

  The lady bowed her head, and her hat tipped forward. Wiggling it straight, she followed her driver to the carriage and rode off.

  After several rocky minutes of riding, Charles pulled the tarp off and hustled John into the storehouse.

  “We need a safer place. I think it would be ea
sy for someone asking questions to find you here. You all right?”

  “I—yeah, I’m fine. I just didn’t expect to see you.” John huddled in a corner and blew into his hands. He reached for the strip of blanket he carried with him. He dug in and out of his front and back pockets, pulling them inside out into tiny ghosts at his side. It was gone.

  Charles looked over at him. “Looking for something?”

  “Must have fallen out somewhere.” He shook his head. “I’ve got to tell you, last night when you grabbed me, I thought it was over.”

  “I spotted you a few times through the thicket. You’re fast, but you ain’t much match for a wagon. I knew I needed to grab you before someone else did. You thought it was over?” Charles laughed, his grin stretching the width of his face. “I’m sure you did.”

  But it was far from that. John smiled. Far from over.

  Jackson and Rex knelt under the porch over the dead body.

  “What did you do?” Rex quivered.

  “You mean, what did we do.”

  “Nooo, no, I don’t mean that at all.” The knot in Rex’s thin throat bobbed up and down. “No, you did this. You alone.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “If you would’ve just gotten us the girl… I can’t believe this! We would’ve been gone. And Henry wouldn’t be…” He slumped over, heaving until vomit covered his worn boots and spittle dangled from his bottom lip. “What are we gonna do? What are we gonna do, Jack? Our friend’s dead! Our friend—”

  “Would you lower your voice!” Jackson whispered harshly. This was not happening.

  “You’re not even sad, are you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re not even sad!”

  “Shut up! Shut your mouth. I feel as bad as you do.” He just needed to think. There was a dead man on his property, and as much as he wanted to run, somebody had to figure out something. “We’ve got to get him out of here.”

  “You don’t care, do you?” Rex stared at him and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don’t care about nobody but yourself.”