A Hiss Before Dying

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I bet she would.” Harry smiled.

  Martha, voice soothing, said, “I don’t see how the chit or the Number Five can be important. Just a coincidence. Why would anyone kill someone over an old slave pass?”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Harry rose. “Then again, people do crazy things.”

  January 4, 1786 Wednesday

  A profound silence enveloped Cloverfields when everyone awoke. The sunrise first touched the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, a thin outline of pink. This widened as the sun rose, pink turning to gold. The mountains themselves, baby blue because of the snow set against a startling blue sky, glowed.

  Catherine, wrapped up, as was John, walked toward the stables. Little John remained at home, cared for by his nurse. Both sisters could work as they pleased since nurses took care of the small children. If the children weren’t home they were with Ruth, whom they called Auntie Ruth. Rachel loved playing with her two girls. Catherine loved her son, but it was apparent her interest would increase once he could ride, once she could really talk to the boy. John proved a better mother, happily listening to the two-year-old’s babble, picking him up, taking him on his chores. Today, the cold won out. No little children, black or white, would be outside, plus the drifts, deep, could easily swallow a small child.

  The drifts also could easily swallow Piglet, who prudently padded along the shoveled walkway. Charles waved at his sister-in-law and John, approaching them from his own house, east of theirs.

  By the time the three reached the stables, Jeddie, Ralston, and Tulli, all of nine, had broken the ice on the buckets, fed everyone; each young man, and even Tulli, shoveled a path to the paddocks behind the stable in which he was working. Two large stables, aligned on the same axis, housed the prized carriage horses and the blooded horses for riding and racing if Catherine would chose to do that. She hadn’t yet made up her mind. The third stable, the oldest of the structures, solid, at a right angle to the other two, was home to the draft horses, playful gentle giants.

  The two larger stables each had a small raised roof along the spine of the main roof. This was high enough for an interior walkway. On either side of the raised wooden walkway, rows of windows ran fore to aft. The stables, flooded with light, filled with fresh air when the windows were opened, proved models for other horsemen. Ewing Garth spent a great deal of money on these stables. Catherine convinced her father that light and constantly flowing air, if any breeze was available, made for happy, healthy horses.

  Today, no windows were open. The glass was covered with snow, there had to have been at least two and a half feet, but some light filtered through those high roof windows. Given the slipperiness, that snow would not be shoved off the roof. At the base of the roofline, a row of wrought-iron clamshells would catch snow as it melted. This did not ensure that no one would get dumped on if and when the temperature rose, but it wouldn’t be as bad as it might without the little wrought-iron impediments.

  Every structure at Cloverfields, whether a slave cabin, a stable, the weaving room, the icehouse, the blacksmith’s forge, all had been built to stand for generations. All had rain barrels to collect water just as every single structure, even an equipment shed, the carriage house, every single one, boasted glass windows. That cost half a fortune alone. But Ewing reasoned, as a young man and then again with his eldest daughter’s prompting, that lots of natural light meant fewer lanterns or candles. Fire was ever a fear everywhere not just at Cloverfields. Once the sun set, people did light lanterns, chandeliers. But by that time, most everyone was home, the stables empty of people.

  Catherine, John, and Charles laughed as the draft horses were turned out. The matched pair, Castor and Pollux, charged through the heavy snow, kicking it up, running through the sparkling snow fountains they’d created. The other horses, also being turned out, watched the big boys, deciding it looked like fun. Soon squeals filled the air, the snow muffled their trotting.

  “You know, I think snow helps tighten their legs,” Catherine mused to her husband, not a horseman, but he could ride.

  Jeddie, seeing the three, walked down the newly shoveled path, through the stable, and popped out on the other side to speak to them. Had he tried to reach them by walking off the path to where they stood he’d still be struggling with snow.

  “Miss Catherine, Mr. John, Mr. Charles, good morning.”

  “Jeddie, you must have come out here before sunup?” Catherine smiled at this young man she loved.

  “Did.”

  “How’d you find your way in that darkness? Pitch black as the Devil’s eyebrows,” Charles wondered.

  “Oh, I slept in the tack room. Ralston slept in the driving stables and Tulli started to sleep in the other stable but he got afraid and crawled in with Ralston. We wanted to stay close to the horses because it seemed like the snow would never stop.”

  Appreciating his dedication and foresight, John put his hand on Jeddie’s shoulder. Broad but on a thin, wiry frame, the young man was built for riding. “Jeddie, you think of everything.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Well, let’s go tease Tulli.” Catherine was already headed to the older stable, where the little fellow could be seen standing at the paddock gate clapping to the horses.

  On reaching him, Catherine called out, “I hear you were afraid of ghosts.”

  “Uh-uh.” He shook his head, cap pulled down around his ears.

  Ralston joined them from the middle barn.

  Charles added, “We heard you slept with Ralston. Didn’t want to be in the dark alone.”

  “Well…” Tulli frowned.

  “I made him sleep on the floor.” Ralston, sixteen, poked Tulli. “And he snores.”

  “Uh-uh.” Tulli’s vocabulary was not serving him this morning.

  Piglet sat down, observing the boys. He could smell their happiness with one another. The stable team, so young, was a good team.

  “I have an idea.” Catherine looked from one to the other. “Sweep out the aisles. Should take, oh, fifteen or twenty minutes. Carry some water out to the paddocks. Hang the buckets on the inside of the fence. You won’t be able to reach the water troughs. You can’t even see them. When you’re finished we’ll meet you in the kitchen at the big house. You know Bettina will be working her magic.”

  Tulli beamed, as did Ralston.

  Charles piped up. “You tell Jeddie when you’re done so he can come, too.”

  Jeddie was already hauling water buckets to Crown Prince and Reynaldo, an unpleasant job, as some of the water sloshed out. Hand pumps, inside the barns and outside, could usually be coaxed to bring up water. When the ground froze hard, the inside pumps served everyone.

  Pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Catherine looked toward the mountains, a clear sky, the mountains bathed in light. Gorgeous but really cold.

  “Let me check the sleigh. Make sure the runners are waxed and the tack clean.” Charles headed toward the large carriage house.

  “Why? We aren’t going anywhere,” John wondered.

  “We don’t think we’re going anywhere, but you never know.” Charles smiled, his teeth still good, not stained.

  “True.” John thought for a moment. “I don’t think anyone is going anywhere until much of this melts. I bet the James is frozen. Nothing is moving.”

  “Probably.” Charles watched as Catherine headed toward the cabin rows.

  She turned, calling back, “I’m going down to the weaving lodge. Won’t be long. Will one or both of you go tell Bettina, the boys plus ourselves will be in the kitchen? And I’m hungry.” She grinned.

  John smiled and waved and she hurried down the long, wide row between the cabins, smoke curling out of chimneys. Each cabin now had a stone or brick chimney, an advancement for safety. In the old days, chimneys in inexpensive dwellings and workshops often were made from charred logs. Usually it worked. When it didn’t, everything burned to a crisp. Ewing, over time, made certain every single structure at Cloverfields
had a safe chimney as well as the glass windows, no oilskins or heavy hides. He had no motto, but if he did it would be “Do it right the first time.”

  High fur boots kept Catherine’s feet warm, but the air chilled her cheeks. As she hurried down the row, tears formed in her eyes. Most of the front porches had not been shoveled out. One or two had, including Father Gabe’s, the healer. A thoughtful, quiet man, if anyone needed him the way would be cleared.

  Each cabin rested on a quarter to a half acre, the back being a large garden. People sat on their front stoops in warm weather, called out to one another, or gathered at Bettina’s stoop to sing. Winter drove everyone inward, reinforcing family ties or tensions, depending.

  The last cabin, the large lodge, on the right sat a quarter mile from the first cabin, for the double row was long. The lodge had more distance from the living cabins. It faced the woods, which slanted a bit until finally dropping precipitously to the hard running creek below. Rock outcroppings attended this creek, a narrow footpath leading in both directions. Rarely used, when it was, it allowed slaves to visit one another at the plantations along the creek. Summers, long twilights propelled people to sociability, but most especially a young man courting a young lady. Sometimes if this resulted in marriage the couple might live together. If not, then the partners traveled on off days determined to see each other. Ovid wrote, “Amora vincit ominia.” Love conquers all, and it did.

  Catherine was not thinking of love, but warmth. The hearth in the weaving lodge, big enough to stand in, threw off wondrous heat. Smoke spiraled straight upward from the large chimney. Bumbee was working. Bumbee didn’t think of what she did as work. She loved it, creating designs, using colors in novel ways, experimenting with wools and fabrics. The woman possessed an artistic gift.

  Catherine threw open the door, too cold to knock. As she did, Mignon, shocked, stood up, overturning her stool.

  Bumbee, startled, looked up from her loom. “Miss Catherine, Mignon was stirring up some warm milk. Would you like some or might you use some in coffee? We’ve made strong coffee.” Bumbee chattered as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

  “I…I’d love some coffee.” Catherine sat on the curved maple chair that Bumbee’s husband, ever in disgrace, had made for her.

  Mignon softly asked, “Milk or coffee with milk, Miss Catherine?”

  “Coffee with milk, thank you.”

  Once the coffee was delivered, Catherine held the cup in her hands, then began this discussion sideways. “Bumbee, I am freezing. I need a heavier shawl. Actually, I need to wear two shawls. This one and a heavy one overtop.”

  “It’s going to be a long winter.” Bumbee pulled the shuttle down, the rhythm of her weaving consoling.

  Glancing around, Catherine’s eye fell on a rich green wool in one of the squares holding materials. “What about that color?”

  “Mmm, too thin. You need a heavier wool like the navy. Feel it.”

  Catherine rose, put the coffee cup on a table made out of the same maplewood as the chair. Reaching the fabric, she felt it between her thumb and forefinger. “See what you mean.” Then she touched the wool in the next square, a deep maroon. “That would look wonderful on Rachel.”

  “Everything looks wonderful on you and your sister.” Bumbee smiled as Catherine sat down again.

  “Mignon.”

  “Yes, Miss Catherine.”

  “Does Mrs. Selisse, I mean Holloway, know you are here? After all, you may have been trapped by the storm.”

  “No, Ma’am, she doesn’t, but she and Sheba want to get their hands on your wool.” Mignon stopped stirring, moved the pot away from the fire by lifting it off the wrought-iron rod, hanging it on another inside but at the edge of the huge fireplace.

  “May I ask what you are doing here?”

  Bumbee kept pulling down the shuttle, lifting it back up, humming to herself.

  Mignon’s voice was clear. “I ran away.”

  “Dear God,” Catherine whispered.

  Bumbee spoke up. “She fell through the door the first day of the big storm. She hadn’t planned to come here but found the path from the creek up here, which is good or she would have froze to death.”

  “Yes.” Catherine’s mind raced.

  “I won’t bring harm to you. I promise I will be out of here once I can move through the snow.”

  “Mignon, that’s a hopeful thought. If the authorities should visit here before that, we better come up with a good story, and I can’t think of one.” Catherine drank some coffee.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Catherine. I never meant to bring danger. I was exhausted, my feet throbbed, they were so painful, so I followed the path upward. I didn’t know where I was. When I saw the lodge, I did.”

  “Done is done.” Catherine sighed.

  Maureen Selisse’s brutality, known throughout the county, infuriated people, but no one could do anything about it. As for Sheba, there were those who would happily kill her if they thought they could get away with it.

  Catherine and Bumbee knew they had to protect Mignon until she could move. The fewer people that knew, the better, but any slave that would report a runaway would eventually be killed by others. Silence. Ever and always: silence.

  “Miss Catherine, she can hide here. For now.” Bumbee stopped weaving.

  Catherine nodded. “Let me talk to Bettina.”

  None of them could have known or dreamed that Mignon’s fate would haunt the twenty-first century.

  October 26, 2016 Wednesday

  Harry stopped for a moment, rake in hand, at the base of the large marble statue, the grave marker for Francisco Selisse, murdered on September 11, 1784. Well-carved marble, tremendously expensive even in the eighteenth century, the Avenging Angel, flaming sword in hand, guarded the East of Eden. Francisco’s death was never avenged. Life went on as it always does.

  A big pile of leaves giving off the distinct sneezy odor of fallen leaves awaited transfer to the canvas laid on the ground.

  Harry leaned against the base of the huge statue, then straightened herself. “Susan.”

  “What?” her best friend, also raking, replied.

  “Come here a minute.”

  Susan dutifully put down her rake, her pile quite large, joining Harry at the base of the impressive statue.

  Putting her finger on the base, the slender Harry asked, “Do you know what these little scratched squares mean? I kind of remember them from the few times we played in the graveyard, but mostly we avoided this nasty angel.”

  “He’s frightening even now.” Susan smiled, then studied the scratched squares. “I have no idea. Seven of them, some look more recent than others. Not like our time, but you know.”

  “It’s an old family graveyard. Someone must know or have known.” Harry changed the subject. “Your grandmother looks well.”

  Penny Holloway lost her husband, in his nineties, on August 15, 2016. A few years younger than her husband, a former Virginia governor, a dynamic man, a World War Two hero, she missed him terribly. However, Penny was not a woman to dwell on sorrows, much as she felt them. She continued her work for nonprofits, attended to her gardening and her two daughters, one being Susan’s mother. Her “girls” were in their early sixties. Time moves along at blinding speed, except when you are waiting for a check.

  “She does. Thanks again for helping me plant those spring bulbs. She loves to see them pop up. Well, she loves fall, too.” Susan returned to her leaves, raking them onto her canvas.

  Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, intending to be of assistance, followed them to the graveyard when they began working. All three fell asleep under a towering oak easily three centuries old. Little moats of dust spiraled into the air as they breathed out.

  A half hour later, Harry and Susan finished up. The leaves now added to the big mulch pile that Sam Holloway, Susan’s deceased grandfather, had built for his wife. It was a long rectangle dug into the earth, three sides held firm by stakes and wooden boards. Each
spring, Sam would back the wagon to the edge, then shovel the “cooked” mulch onto it, spreading the mulch on his adored wife’s gardens.

  As they walked away from the mulch pile, the wind picked up, a twenty-mile-an-hour gust, subsiding to a steady thirteen-mile-an-hour wind.

  “Boy, we got that job done in the nick of time.” Harry pulled her baseball cap lower on her head lest the wind carry it off. “My weather app didn’t say anything about a stiff wind.”

  “Just comes up. You can’t really predict the weather by the mountains, maybe big storms but not the little things like this. The other day driving back from Harris Teeter,” she named a high-end supermarket, “a wind devil shot right across the intersection to Crozet. Wind devil? It really was a tiny tornado.”

  “Susan, a tornado has to be one of the scariest things on earth. Just the noise alone, and I read somewhere that the average mouth of the funnel is about one hundred fifty yards, but some monsters are much bigger than that.”

  “Look at Pewter. My God, she looks like a beached whale.” Susan laughed.

  Harry, observing her cat under the oak, laughed, too. “Let’s go say goodbye to your grandmother and I’ll pick up these three amigos when we leave.”

  “You pick up Pewter. I’m not strong enough.” Susan laughed again.

  Trotting to the back door of Big Rawly, Susan crossed through the spacious enclosed porch. Her grandmother and mother busied themselves in the kitchen, easily visible from the closed-in porch.

  Opening the door to the main house, Susan called out, “We’re done.”

  Penny, drying her hands on a dish towel, beamed. “Thank you. Step inside. I’ve got brownies for you and Harry. If you don’t want to eat them now, don’t fret. I put them in containers.”

  “Thanks.” Susan loved brownies.

  Harry, on her heels, also thanked Mrs. Holloway, then asked, “Mrs. Holloway, have you ever noticed the tiny squares scratched into the base of Francisco Selisse’s big tombstone?”