Engraved on the Heart

by Tara Johnson

  Micah felt her turmoil all the more. “That’s why I joined the Relief Commission. It gives me an opportunity to help without picking up arms. I want to use the talents God loaned me to bind up. Not destroy.”

  Keziah tightened her grip on Micah’s strong arm, feeling the pull of muscle beneath the cotton of his shirt. Sweat rolled down the middle of her back, gluing her bodice to her skin, but the heat was no bother. Not compared to the war of emotions struggling within her.

  Micah led her the two blocks down the cobbled road as she noted the straggly grass poking up between the uneven stones. He stopped abruptly and pointed, the angular planes of his face creasing into a smile.

  “Look any different to you?”

  Keziah drank in the sight of the charming schoolhouse, noting the peeling paint around its edges, yet somehow comforted by the sight. It was still there, still used, still sheathed with memories.

  It had been a warm, sunny morning, just like this very day, when she’d realized with startling clarity there was something wrong with her. She and Lucy Kent had been picking flowers during the lunch break, and suddenly there was nothing. Nothing but fuzzy blackness. A hole where time should be. She was standing still, not understanding. Why couldn’t she think? Why couldn’t she remember what had just happened? Where had the past gone? Had she disappeared for mere seconds? It felt more like years, yet Lucy looked the same.

  Her friend stared at her, her dark brows creased. “Keziah? What’s the matter? And why did you drop your flowers?”

  Lucy’s voice sounded far away as if she called from across a wide, yawning meadow. Yet she was standing right in front of Keziah. Then they were surrounded by others. Charlie and John. Micah. Lottie.

  Sensation slowly began to return. She felt the warm, wet fabric of her undergarments and knew what she had done when time had mysteriously been erased from her mind. Heat licked up her neck and into her face.

  Charlie took one look at her and laughed. “Look at the mouse! She’s blushing like a red-hot stove! And standing there like an idiot! Whatsa matter, little mouse? Cat got your tongue?”

  With a growl, gangly Micah had picked up the taunting Charlie and thrown him to the ground in a puff of dirt. He stood over the bully, chest heaving and fists clenched. “Don’t you dare say another ugly word, or I’ll knock your teeth out!”

  Face mottled red, Charlie had slunk away, as had the other children. When Micah gathered up the discarded flowers and held them out to her with a shy smile and a “Here you go,” a friendship had formed. From that day forward, Micah had been her defender, confidant, and dearest friend.

  Now Keziah peered up at his handsome face. Did he remember it as clearly as she? Or perhaps she’d been so desperate for companionship she had dramatized things in her mind. The thought stung.

  Breaking away from his side, she moved toward a fallen log. “I can’t believe this is still here.”

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he grinned. “I wonder how many lunches have been eaten on this spot.”

  “And how many secrets exchanged.”

  He nodded toward a cluster of trees behind the small schoolhouse. “Not as many as were exchanged around the Kissing Tree, I’d wager.”

  The Kissing Tree . . .

  A pang pinched her as she roamed toward the grove, noting the multiple knife cuts carved into one particular tree’s thick flesh. She ran her finger over the deep gashes—letters, crudely etched names. She’d nearly forgotten about the Kissing Tree, but at the sight of it, the rush of shame spilled through her just as it always had.

  Micah’s strong presence behind her jerked her out of the bitter memories.

  “Did you keep any secrets here?”

  His voice, so low near her ear, caused shivers of awareness to traverse her spine. She kept herself facing away from him, content to bury her thoughts where he couldn’t see them.

  “No, not me.”

  He moved to her side and traced a name with his own fingers. “Really?” He turned to her, his face lined with surprise. “I find that hard to believe.”

  She felt a flicker of stark pain. “I never took you to be cruel, Micah.”

  At once, his expression sobered. “What are you talking about?”

  She nearly tripped over her tongue, desperate to keep the pain from leaking out—but this was Micah. What she refused to speak he would easily enough ferret out. “You know what I was like in school.”

  “Yes.” He spoke slowly, studying her. “Pretty. Sweet—”

  “Stop.” She wrapped her arms around her middle. “Don’t tell me what I want to hear. I was skinny and backward, too shy to even scare a fly—to say nothing of my condition. I had few friends and certainly no boy ever took a fleeting interest in me.” She shook her head, pushing away the old pain. “No, there were no secrets, no sweet romances.”

  He was silent at her side, and she allowed herself to touch the battered, gnarled tree once more, enjoying the feel of the scratchy bark against her fingertips. “I longed for some fellow to carve my name into the tree, but no one ever did,” she whispered. Instead of allowing the grimace she would normally permit, she chose to smile. “It used to bother me. Not as much anymore. After all, few—if any—of these pairings lasted longer than a week or two.”

  Micah was so silent, she braved a glance to find him staring at her, his breath visibly shallow. He looked as if he wanted to speak but could not.

  She’d made him uncomfortable. Surely he pitied her.

  Dropping her fingers from the old tree, she carefully began to pick her way across the yard. She didn’t want his pity. For whatever reason, no one had ever looked beyond her paralyzing shyness to see the girl longing to break free. And now, with her illness as unpredictable as ever, it was unlikely anyone would.

  Some days the thought made her sad, but most times she was content. That was, until Micah had appeared in her life once more.

  Refusing to analyze the wayward thought, she quickened her step upon spying the old tree swing on the far side of the school. “Push me?”

  “Kizzie—”

  The earnest plea in his voice stopped her. Turning, she noted the somber cast of his features. “Yes?”

  “I—” He swallowed hard. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” A hollowness consumed her. “Where will you be sent?”

  He refused to meet her eyes. “I don’t know. But I just wanted to tell you because . . .” He swallowed again and lifted his gaze.

  Fear, excitement, uncertainty—all wrapped around her heart. Before he could finish, she jumped in. “Your friendship means much to me.”

  He opened his mouth to say something before snapping it shut once more. Nodding slowly, he murmured, “Yes. Friends.”

  “I’ll pray for you every day.”

  He made no move to touch her, yet the way his gaze caressed her face felt more real than if it had been his fingers. “As I will you.” His mood lifted and he nodded toward the swing. “One last ride?”

  Grinning, she bit her lip. “Only if you push.”

  CHAPTER 6

  NOVEMBER 4, 1861

  “Make sure you don’t dawdle, Keziah. Remember, Mrs. Ward is coming to call later today. I want you back before she arrives.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Keziah kept back the retort threatening to tear from her throat. She was no longer a child yet was treated as such, instead of a woman rapidly approaching spinsterhood.

  Mother clucked her tongue, looking over the crates of rolled bandages and packed lint. “Dearest, are you sure you can manage such a load? Perhaps it’s too much for you.”

  Repressing a sigh, Keziah grabbed the wrap offered by Elizabeth’s sturdy hands and settled it around her shoulders, intent that this November afternoon would provide freedom—freedom from Mother’s suffocating attentiveness and Father’s too-watchful looks. He eyed her strangely of late, a glimmer of something altogether unsettling in his expression.

  She looked up and caught Elizabeth’s am
used expression. Only yesterday the servant had whispered to Keziah, “If Mrs. Montgomery don’t have nothing to worry about, she finds something and then frets because she didn’t have anything to worry about to begin with . . . a sure sign her memory must be failing. Just another thing to fret over.” Keziah smothered a smile at the memory.

  “I shall be fine. Don’t be anxious. Hiriam will be doing the majority of the lifting, after all.”

  “Of course, of course. Please tell Reverend Elliott the Ladies of Savannah are continuing efforts for the charity bazaar. We should have a location determined within a fortnight.”

  Nodding, she could barely restrain herself from bolting out the door and running as swiftly as her feet would carry her. Freedom . . . if only for an hour or two.

  Instead, she forced herself to glide gracefully down the front walkway, ignoring Mother’s reprimands to be careful as Hiriam deftly loaded each crate into the waiting wagon.

  The late-autumn air swirled around her in a sudden burst, causing her to wrap the woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. The cold blast of wind slithered up her skirts. In truth, she didn’t care. It was brisk and clean and a blessed reminder she was momentarily free from Mother’s demands.

  Hiriam extended his hand, assisting her into the wagon groaning with supplies before easing his way into the driver’s seat. No longer did the aging slave leap into place with the energetic step of yesteryear. He was slowing down—his smile just as easy, his eyes twinkling with familiar merriment, but his body no longer nimble. His gentle movements reminded her more and more of a clock slowly winding down.

  With a flick of the reins and soft click of his tongue, the sleek black mares clopped pertly down the cobblestone road. For the first time in weeks, she felt the tightness ease from her shoulders. She could not often escape Mother’s incessant worries for her health, nor the grim news of war pummeling them from every side. Most of all, she couldn’t escape the haunting thoughts of Nathaniel in continued peril, nor of Micah’s welfare as he helped the wounded.

  Surely the Relief Commission wouldn’t change his assignment and allow him to treat soldiers in the heat of battle, would they? A stab of fear pricked her heart. What if he were injured or even killed trying to help those in need?

  Stop it! Shoving the clawing panic back down, she stiffened her spine. Heavens, she didn’t want to become a worrisome, fretful woman like Mother, did she?

  The dreadful thought caused her to lift her chin. She would not stew. She would trust God. She had no alternative.

  Heavenly Father, please protect both Micah and Nathaniel. Give your angels charge over them. Hide them in the shadow of your wings.

  Praying for two men’s safety on opposing sides of the war. How strange.

  The waning afternoon sun kissed her cheeks as the wagon turned down the lane. Living just beyond Washington Square as she did, she had to traverse the heart of the port town to get to Christ Church. As the wagon stalled in the crush of people scurrying up and down Bryan Street, she heard a man’s strong voice booming from the corner of Reynolds Square.

  “Brave men wanted for the navy of the Confederate States! Wages ranging from twelve to eighteen dollars a month, plus four cents per day allowed for grog. Both able-bodied seamen and land men are needed. Who will step up to defend our Georgia soil?”

  Keziah eyed the red-faced man with his thick side-whiskers and gleaming brass buttons. If the navy were as confident in their skill as Father had declared them to be over the past several months, why were they still desperately calling for any able men to volunteer?

  A shiver coursed through her. She feared Father’s fervor for the Confederacy was based on blind enthusiasm and little else.

  Flicking away the dark musing, she straightened as Hiriam turned the wagon onto Bull Street. The gleaming white columns of Christ Church lay just beyond.

  As he pulled the mares to a gentle stop, she stood and stepped down from the rocking wagon. The old driver frowned and shook his head.

  “Sure wish you’d let me assist you, you being a proper lady and all.”

  Giving him an impish smile, she smoothed her skirt and laughed. “You’ve been saying the same thing since I was in braids and pinafores.”

  He chuckled and reached over to lift a crate from the back of the wagon bed. “And ever since you was in braids and pinafores, you’ve been fighting your way to independence.” His teeth gleamed. “Strong-willed and sassy. You ain’t gonna worry me none, though. Uh-uh.”

  So he’d noticed her silent scream for freedom, the continual urge to wiggle loose of the smothering forces keeping her trapped.

  Desperate to have a carefree afternoon, she pushed yet another thought down and reached to carry one of the lighter crates, picking her way to the intimidating doors of the stately building. Hiriam pushed them open with a grunt of effort.

  She had barely taken two steps inside the door when a portly man crossed the vestibule, his puffy white sleeves adding volume to his already-cumbersome appearance. Thinning gray hair and spectacles perched on his nose made him appear severe, but his smile was wide enough to put her at ease.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  Adjusting the crate in her arms, she offered a smile. “Yes, I’m looking for the Right Reverend Stephen Elliott. I have a donation from the Ladies of Savannah Charity League to be used for the war effort.”

  “Ah, yes! How very kind.” The lines around his face relaxed, causing his bulging paunch to stick farther out, straining against his vest buttons. “Christ Church is overseeing this particular effort, and we can use all the talents and resources available to aid our boys fighting for freedom.”

  Whose freedom? The caustic remark nearly burst from her lips, but she caught the wayward thought before it could escape. Instead, she passed the crate into the reverend’s waiting arms while he conferred with Hiriam about unloading the rest of the donations.

  As Keziah glanced about the cavernous room and its gleaming white columns, the jaundiced eye of a sainted statue arrested her attention. His haughty gaze bored through her and she shivered, wrapping her cloak tighter about her shoulders. She had always wondered what the inside of the prestigious church looked like. Now, however, she was grateful for her own smaller, less pretentious church building far away from the saint’s probing stare and hard jaw.

  Shaking away the absurd unease, she walked out the doors, where a crisp wind stole the breath from her mouth. Hiriam and the reverend rounded the corner, their arms full of crates and supplies, delivering the bulging packages to some unseen storage room around the far side of the building. Ushering herself down the steep steps, she edged her way to peer over the wagon bed, looking for any stray crates or supplies that still needed to be unloaded.

  Instead of the supplies she expected to see, she was startled to observe small fingers yanking the canvas tarp down before slipping inside the dark confines of the covering, disappearing from view.

  Her breath froze. A stowaway. And if the quick flash of dark skin she saw continued past the small fingers, it was a slave who’d found shelter in their wagon bed.

  Heart hammering, she gave a soft gasp when the reverend’s soothing voice lifted on the November wind as he spoke with Hiriam. They were making their way back to the empty wagon. Well, nearly empty.

  The memory of a scarred, mangled back prodded her into silence. Don’t speak.

  Something was restraining her. Providence, perhaps? She composed herself before turning toward the approaching men with a sunny smile.

  “Here I come to help unload, and I discover you two strong men have already done the work. Well-timed on my part, I’d say.”

  With a light chuckle, the reverend peered into the wagon bed, his eyes searching. “Did we manage the entire delivery?” He reached for the tarp.

  “No need!” The urgent reprimand sounded far harsher than Keziah intended, causing Reverend Elliott to stop abruptly and stare at her, blinking slowly behind his spectacles. Desperate to keep the st
owaway hidden, she softened the sharp comment with another smile. “No need to overexert yourself, sir. I already checked. I pray our brave soldiers will find a measure of comfort and mercy from the goods our ladies’ society was able to provide.”

  The bulbous man smiled and nodded, adjusting his spectacles with pudgy fingers. “Indeed. It is I who thank you and all our admirable ladies who have given so generously for the cause. May the Almighty bless your endeavors.”

  Nodding demurely under the praise, she allowed Hiriam to hand her into the wagon and settled her skirts, every nerve in her body buzzing with the knowledge she possessed. The clip-clop of horse hooves against the cobblestones drowned out the thrumming staccato of her heart, though it could not cover her racing thoughts.

  What am I to do with a runaway?

  Picking her way across the yard in the fading evening light, Keziah headed toward the stable, glancing over her shoulder for curious eyes. Nothing greeted her but the solemn stillness of twilight. Brown leaves crunched underfoot as she moved. At least the majority of the crimson and gold leaves still clung to the branches overhead, providing a perfect canopy to keep her hidden.

  She pushed into the stable, cringing as the doors squeaked under her hand. The smell of leather, the sharp tang of oil, and the sweet aroma of hay mingled with the oddly comforting scent of horseflesh. No human voices greeted her, no bright lanterns. Good.

  The pale light of dusk cut slats across the hay-strewn floor as she tiptoed past the nickering mares, running her fingers along the wooden stalls until she reached the yawning area where the wagon was kept. She braved a whisper in the quiet of the space. “Hello?”

  Silence.

  Keziah bit her lip. Had she only imagined the hand grasping the tarp? Perhaps she was addled. Releasing a warm breath, she wavered in uncertainty.

  She felt the heavy cylinder of wax in her dress pocket and decided it was worth the risk. At least it wouldn’t cast as much light as an oil lantern. Hiriam might see the light and come exploring, but she wouldn’t be able to rest unless she knew whether the apparition belonged to flesh and blood or was only a mirage.