Morning Star

by Judith Plaxton

  They finally arrived at the outskirts of a town, and the wagon stopped in front of a stone building. The driver went inside and returned with another man, who looked at the desperate group and asked, “What have we got here?”

  “Runaway slaves, a whole family.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Felicia

  FELICIA WALKED along the hall after French class, silently memorizing verb endings. Lucy and Cynthia came up behind her, then beside her, forcing her in their direction.

  “Excuse me!” Felicia tried to slip away, but they pressed closer against her and quickened their pace.

  The girls’ washroom was the last door on the left at the end of the hall. Felicia was steered into the tiled space with the two girls flanking her. The only sound was the dripping of a tap. Then Ashley and Melissa jumped out from behind the open door. “Boo!”

  Felicia drew her breath in sharply, but managed not to cry out. She was surprised to see Melissa. She had always found her to be quietly pleasant.

  “Party time,” said Cynthia. Felicia could smell bubble gum on her breath.

  “You mean makeover time.”

  “And here’s our little guinea pig.”

  Felicia didn’t move, eased out a breath. Her pulse pounded in her head. She started an inward count to ten. They mustn’t see her fear. One…two…

  “She needs a new look.”

  “Her hair’s so ugly.”

  They sauntered in a circle around her. Three…four…

  Cynthia and Ashley shared a mean smile. “We have ways,” Ashley lifted a pair of scissors from her pocket and clicked the blades together, “to make changes.”

  “For the better.”

  Ashley advanced and waved the scissors back and forth above Felicia’s head. “Now let me see.”

  “Don’t! Don’t touch me!”

  “Maybe this one.” Ashley tugged at a braid.

  “A good one,” agreed Cynthia, “right at the front.”

  “Stop it!” Felicia backed into Lucy, who pushed her forward.

  The squeak of rubber-soled sneakers on tile stopped the action. Ashley raised one eyebrow and angled her head toward the doorway. The girls filed out, leaving Felicia breathless in the washroom. She turned to the sink and washed her shaking hands as Sally entered a stall.

  Instinctively, Felicia sought out the most public place in the school, the auditorium, where the play was being rehearsed. She sank into a seat amid a group of other students. Mr. Butler stood on the stage, surrounded by cast members.

  “We’re on page twelve. Matthew is playing the Reverend. It’s the Thanksgiving scene. Everyone? It’s page twelve.”

  Felicia practiced her deep breathing and focused on Matthew’s reading. After the run-through, they left the auditorium together. She said to him, “Hey Matt, you were good.”

  “You’re blinded by my acting skill.”

  “I guess so.”

  Felicia said good-bye and set out for the stable. She heard footsteps behind her, then Dodie’s voice. “Felicia, wait up.”

  Felicia turned to face them. Dodie was grim-faced, determined. She and Renate exchanged glances; and then Dodie said, “We decided we should talk.”

  “Okay.”

  Sophie stepped forward, her freckles vivid against her pale face. “I thought you’d done something mean to me, and I was wrong.”

  Felicia almost replied that’s okay, but stopped and considered what she really wanted to say. “You were all so mean to me.”

  “I know,” said Sophie, “and it’s my fault.”

  “No it’s not. It’s all our faults,” said Renate.

  “Why didn’t you talk to me?” asked Felicia. “If only you’d asked me, I could have told you…”

  “I was too embarrassed. The picture was so horrible.”

  “So was mine.” Felicia was reminded of her own reaction to the defacement of her work—how she wanted to hide it from everyone, as if it were a terrible secret that no one should know about. “So, are you still mad at me?”

  “No. We feel bad,” answered Renate.

  They started to walk together. Felicia found she had many unsaid things roaring around in her head. A spasm of lingering anger made her twitch. “It was so hard when you wouldn’t speak to me.”

  “I know,” said Renate.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do. One time last year, Sophie and Dodie got mad at me. I was so upset. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “I’m sorry, again. I feel so guilty,” said Sophie. She started to cry.

  “Come on, Soph, don’t be such a suck,” said Dodie.

  Renate put an arm around Sophie’s shoulder. “You’re too sensitive.”

  “It was different for me,” said Felicia. “You treated me different, because I am different.”

  “No we didn’t.”

  “It sure felt like it. It felt like the way Ashley and her group treat me. Like I don’t belong.”

  “We’re not racist, you know!”

  “Yeah. We’re not like that.”

  “Honest?”

  “Honest.”

  “This is what I think,” said Dodie. She stopped walking as she spoke, and the other three stopped with her. “I think we all know what it’s like when your friends are mad at you and won’t speak to you, right?”

  “So?”

  “So, I think we should promise each other that if something like this happens again, we get together and say what’s wrong.”

  “Then the person might be more upset. It could get worse.”

  “Maybe,” said Felicia. “But it would be better than nobody talking.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Francine greeted them as they trotted up the drive to the barn. “Looks like there’s lots of energy here—good.”

  “Why good?” asked Renate, breathless.

  “Because I want to try some real synchronized riding today, and I was hoping you’d be up for it.”

  “All right!”

  The exercises were complicated. The girls practiced one at a time, then with two riders, and finally with all four of them, circling in each corner of the arena, crossing at the center and then back to the corners, and then riding in twos up each long side. Their past antagonism was forgotten in the shared rhythm of the exercise. After the lesson, Fran smiled up at Felicia. “Did that feel good?”

  “Yes. Star is so great. She knows just when to turn.”

  “Give yourself some credit. She knows when to turn because you are telling her with your riding.”

  Felicia stroked the long neck, leaned forward, and whispered into one whiskered ear, “You are the best.”

  The students hopped off onto the sawdust, loosened the girth straps, and ran up the stirrups. Their horses were toweled and each given a carrot, except for Cecil, who preferred peppermints.

  Felicia and Sophie went into the tack room together to return the saddles and hang up the bridles. As she unbuckled straps, Sophie said, “Felicia…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m so glad it wasn’t you who made that awful picture of me.”

  “What was the picture?”

  “It was supposed to be me, but it was that ugly clown puppet with red hair and freckles. The one that murders everybody.”

  “No!”

  “What was yours?”

  Now it was Felicia’s turn to relive the humiliation. “It was a monkey wearing a pink dress.”

  “That Ashley is so…”

  “Is so what?” Ashley and Cynthia swept into the tack room. Ashley lifted a saddle off its post and stood glaring at Felicia and Sophie. Cynthia looked at the floor.

  Felicia found her voice. “Is so immature.”


  CHAPTER 37

  Flower

  THE MARSHAL looked at the disheveled family in the wagon. “What am I supposed to do with this bunch?”

  “Lock them up. They’ve broken the law, run away.”

  “So send them back to their owner.”

  “And who would that be? We’re thinking we’ll have our own sale. They can stay here till we’re ready.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Don’t know. Not long, I expect.”

  The marshal sucked on his teeth and sighed through them.

  “Get down, then, all of you.” Cleo stood shakily, swayed a bit on her feet. Flower stood up and put her body against her mother’s, trying to support her. Gabriel stayed scrunched and silent in his sling. The marshal and the driver reached up and helped them down, but offered no assistance to Eldon, who stumbled clumsily, his wrists in a bloodied knot behind his back. A small crowd gathered to watch as they were shepherded into the jail. One man spit at them, his saliva splatting at Cleo’s feet.

  “That’s enough now,” said the marshal to the assembled group. “Go on back about your business.”

  The family was directed into a small cell. The door slammed behind them as they shuffled in. Cleo and Flower collapsed on a cot chained to one wall, Eldon on the opposite one. Flower could see a small window high up in the center, revealing a square of cloudy sky.

  Cleo asked, “Please, Sir, could you free me? My babe needs tending to.”

  The marshal was hanging keys on a hook. He turned and looked at them with surprise. “There’s a babe, too?”

  “Yes, Sir, in the sling on my back.”

  “Just a minute while I go and fetch my deputy.” He left them alone as he set out to get assistance. Flower and her mother sat quietly, trembling with exhaustion and despair. Through the window they could hear the din of everyday activity on the street. Men’s voices, rough and argumentative, became louder. The door opened and four men entered the jail.

  “There they are.”

  “I told you, didn’t I?”

  “They look healthy enough.”

  “Worth a good amount.”

  “Especially him.”

  “I told you.”

  “The woman has a babe.”

  “They should be kept together, for a while anyway.”

  “I like the look of that young girl.”

  “Kinda scrawny.”

  “Bring her out. Let’s have a look.”

  Flower’s heart beat like a wild bird in her chest. She watched as one of the men searched the sheriff’s desk drawer until he noticed the keys hanging on a hook on the wall. “Here’s what we want.” He fumbled until he found the key that unlocked their cell door, opened it, and entered the small space. He yanked Flower to her feet and drew a large hunting knife from his belt. With malignant precision, he cut the rope binding her to her mother. She was led out of the cell and presented to the others.

  “Hard to tell what’s what when she’s covered with mud.”

  “She moves good.”

  “How old do you think she is?”

  A brutish hand touched her chest, pinched it hard. Flower gasped with the sudden pain but didn’t cry out. “Still a girl.”

  “Girls grow fast.”

  “Please, Sir,” Cleo pleaded, her voice ignored.

  “Can we take what we want now before the sale?”

  “Wouldn’t get away with it.”

  Their discussion was interrupted by the return of the marshal with his deputy. “What’s going on here? What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Just having a look.”

  “You can quit looking right now and be on your way.” Flower was pushed back with her family.

  “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

  “Breaking the law was what you were doing. Entering a public place, unlocking prisoners, interfering with the due process of…”

  The men turned to go, surly and unrepentant. “Yeah, we’re the public.”

  “Get on out of here, or I’ll be finding a cell for the lot of you.”

  Flower sat silent and numb after her ordeal. She watched as Cleo was released and Gabriel lifted from his sling. Cleo embraced him and rocked him back and forth, humming a frantic, tuneless song, then extended one arm to include her daughter in a mournful hug.

  Later, the deputy brought them water, then bowls of broth and some bread. Flower and Cleo tried to eat, but their ravenous hunger of hours before had left them, and they weren’t able to swallow. Eldon remained on his cot, his face to the wall. He didn’t acknowledge the offering of food.

  The night sky darkened, and the noise increased as many people gathered outside the building. The marshal and his deputy paced back and forth, stopping every once in a while to check the view from the window. They talked together, lifted keys from the hook, and placed them in the bottom drawer of a desk. Both men checked that their firearms were loaded and ready.

  Flower listened to the roar of people outside and knew that she was as helpless as an animal caught in a trap. Tomorrow they would be sold. Their family would be torn apart. She remembered the tragic story Aunty Lizzie had once told her—of how she had been sold as a child to Master Chesley, how she had stood on a platform as voices had called out in a rapid blur, and how her mother had howled in despair.

  Light flickered on the ceiling from the torches outside. Men yelled to each other and sang snatches of song. There was harsh laughter and the occasional sound of crockery breaking. Inside, the marshal and his deputy leaned back and dozed in their chairs. Cleo rocked and hummed and prayed. Flower looked across the cell at her father, their pillar of strength. He lay silent and still, staring at the wall but not seeing it, like something broken.

  CHAPTER 38

  Felicia

  FELICIA FOUND her grandmother sitting in front of the television, the kitten curled in her lap. “Does that cat ever lie anywhere else?”

  “You’re sounding a little grumpy, darling. Things still bad at school?”

  “He needs to learn to have some independence.”

  Florence eyed her granddaughter, but addressed the little cat. “Is it time you learned to be independent? I don’t know—you’re still awfully tiny.” She lifted him up in the air as she spoke to him, and he meowed in return.

  Felicia headed for the kitchen. “I’m starving.”

  “I baked some cookies, but have an apple first.”

  Felicia was about to protest having fruit but couldn’t be bothered. She lifted one from the bowl in the middle of the table and bit into it. It was agreeably crunchy, and a spurt of juice filled her mouth. She walked back into the living room and flopped down on the couch. “Don’t you ever get sick of watching these game shows?”

  “No. I find it fun, and I try to come up with answers. Keeps my brain working.”

  Felicia listened to the program. “Ugh, history, who cares about that?”

  “Hush now, I think I know this. What was his name? Alexander, Alexander, um, Alexander Graham BELL!” There was a buzzer blast as Florence’s correct answer coincided with the contestant’s response on the program.

  “Who’s he?”

  “He invented the telephone that you love so much, and he worked on it here in Canada.”

  “Yeah?”

  “See, not so boring.”

  Felicia turned her attention to the cat, now sitting up and licking one paw. He sensed her attention, stopped what he was doing, and stared across the room. “Nana, can I hold the kitten for
a while?”

  “Sure. Come and get him.”

  “He probably just wants to stay with you.”

  “Try him.”

  Felicia reached across and lifted the fluffy bundle into her arms. He looked back at Florence and then nestled in as his head was stroked. “Have you decided on a name?”

  “I think so. How about Rufus?”

  “That wasn’t on the list I made for you, Nana.”

  “I know. It just came to me. Do you like it?”

  “It’s all right.” Felicia slipped a braided bracelet off her wrist and offered it to the cat. He began to pummel it with his front paws. “I guess it’s a cute name—sounds fluffy, like he is.”

  “Rufus it is then. What’s that folded up in the corner?”

  “My poster.”

  “Oh, Felicia, show it to me. I never saw the final version.”

  Felicia set the kitten on the floor, rolled the bracelet across the carpet, and watched as he scampered after it. “Here it is, Nana.”

  “Let’s take it to the kitchen where I can see better.” They settled in the other room and opened the poster up on the table. Florence traced her finger over each picture on the family tree, reviewing names, nodding in admiration. “You’ve got it. You’ve got the gift.”

  “I’ve got the what?”

  Florence raised her head and looked at her granddaughter. “You’ve got the gift, just like your great-aunty, the gift of making art.”

  “Really, do you think so?”

  “Yes I do.” Florence’s finger found the slight abrasion of the paper where the photo had been taped. “What’s happened here?”

  “I don’t know, um, nothing.” Felicia propped the poster on the sideboard and sat at the kitchen table.

  Florence poured a glass of milk and offered the cookie jar. “Sweets for the sweet.”

  “Nana,” Felicia swallowed a mouthful of milk, “did you ever, were you ever…?”