by Anita Kopacz
I peer over the jagged edge of the boulder and see that down at the bottom of a shallow hill a river flows through the trees. It is not far from us, and droplets of river water splash against my body, unexpectedly imbuing me with a sense of power. My entire being is drinking up the water.
My grip on the boulder tightens and a piece of the granite cracks between my fingers. I stare in wonder as the powdery fragments crumble to the forest floor, creating a thin layer of white dust.
“Go to the water. It is calling you,” Ozata urges.
She scrambles out of the cave and guides me down the narrow path to the river. Miniature frogs leap from the trail and into the overgrown grass. A slight smile peeks through her soiled face.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
“But you saved me.”
“We saved each other,” she says as she reaches down to wash the blood from her hands in the river.
I lower my body into the gently flowing water. My eyes close as I imagine myself swimming freely in the deep waters of the ocean. The crisp temperature of the stream surrounds me with nostalgia. Although the pain in my ankle remains, the water serves as a considerable distraction. I submerge myself fully in the river. The pores in my skin pull the oxygen from the stream, allowing me to stay under without needing to take a breath. After a few minutes underwater, I open my eyes and spot the distorted image of Ozata peering down at me from the riverbank. I sit up and shake my hair.
“You haven’t lost all of your powers,” Ozata points out. “You can still breathe underwater.” Her face reddens as she looks down and starts twirling the leather pieces hanging from the bottom of her dress.
“Ozata.” I beckon her. She looks at me, and I open my arms. Without hesitation, she jumps in the water. We cling to each other, grateful to be alive. I tighten my embrace as she begins to cry. She buries her head against my shoulder.
5
TAKE SHELTER
Ozata and I fall asleep for the night.
“Wake up,” a deep voice whispers in the language of the white man.
Jerking my eyes open, I see a man bending over me. Is he a pirate? I reach for Ozata, but she’s gone.
“Where is she?” I push the man with all my might. “Where’s Ozata?”
Staggering backward, the man blurts out, “Settle down. I won’t hurt you. Ozata is with her mother, outside by the river.”
I hop to the opening of the cave and see Ozata where he said she was. I’m relieved, but then I turn back toward the white man. “What do you want?”
“I want to help you,” he says. “I’m from the Society of Friends.”
His words mean nothing to me.
“I’m a Quaker.”
“What is that?”
“I’ll explain later,” he says. “I can help you.”
“How?”
“I’m a doctor,” he says. He reaches for something in his bag, then shows me some short sticks and a roll of white cloth. “I’m like a medicine man. You broke your ankle. Let me wrap it with this cloth. It will take a while to heal.”
I shake my head in disbelief.
“You’ll be fine, but I must bandage your ankle quickly.”
I look at my ankle and again see tiny webs growing out of the injured area. I make my way back to the fur blanket and ease my body down. I’m careful to brush the fibers away from my ankle, without drawing attention to what I’m doing. The man doesn’t move toward me until I nod. He begins to wrap my ankle, and the pain is so intense that I grip my blanket to keep from screaming.
He hands me a small twig and tells me to bite it. “It’ll help with the pain.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“A Quaker believes that all life is sacred and equal. I’m sure you have many questions for me, but I don’t have time to explain now. I’ll tell you everything later, I promise. Our carriage is waiting at the edge of the forest.”
He offers his hands, indicating that he wants to help me walk. “May I?”
It becomes clear that he means to carry me.
I recoil slightly, and he stops. “We must get out of here now if we are to survive. Your broken ankle will slow us down—so let me assist you. Please.”
I nod, and he lifts me off my feet and swoops me out of the cave.
“We must hurry,” he calls to Ozata and her mother.
They run up behind us as we make our way through the forest. Amitola reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I’m too scared to ask what happened to Cora.
We dart through the trees until we get to a clearing where a horse, hooked up to something that looks like a wooden box on steel circles, awaits our arrival. I guess this is the “carriage” that the white man mentioned earlier.
He lays me gently on the floor of the carriage and covers me with a blanket. “Sorry, but not many people around here share my beliefs. I have to conceal your presence until we reach my property line. They will not question the Natives,” he says as he seats Ozata and her mother inside the carriage with me. “They will think we are making a trade.”
He moves to the front of the carriage, pulls on some leather straps attached to the horse, and talks to it to get it to move. A large crack between the wooden panels that make up the carriage allows me to spy ahead of us. I cover my ears when I hear the horse, remembering the ones that were used to tear Obatala’s friend apart.
The monotonous rhythm of the carriage over the path lulls me nearly to sleep. A few miles down the road, the pattern from the steel circles changes. I peek from under the blanket.
“I think we’re here,” Ozata whispers.
The Quaker stops the carriage and walks back to us. “Welcome,” he says as he opens the door.
He reaches in to lift me up and out. We step on a beautiful, soft green expanse lined with weeping willows and great oaks. I remember Cora telling me the names of these particular trees. The willows are my favorite.
“You’re free to roam here,” he says. “I rarely have visitors.”
In spite of his words, Ozata clings to her mother, and Amitola comforts her.
I look at Amitola and ask, “Where’s Cora?”
“She’s alive, but I must explain later,” she says as she attempts to cover Ozata’s ears.
I shudder and look out across the small hill, toward the white man’s home. It is large, maybe ten times bigger than Cora’s tent. There are many different levels, with regular rows of dark, shiny squares on each floor that reflect the bright sunlight. An outdoor wooden floor protected by an overhanging roof wraps around the front of the house. I notice many beautiful flowering plants in clay containers positioned all around the outdoor floor. To the side of the main door are a table and wicker chairs. Cora had a similar chair that she said she traded five baskets for.
The white man encourages me to lean on his arm as we walk slowly toward his grand house. I take his hand as he patiently leads me up through his trees.
We enter the house and an African man dressed almost exactly like this white man rushes to assist him. I turn toward the white man in confusion.
“He is paid a wage,” he says.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. I look at the African man and ask in the language Obatala speaks, “Do you know where Obatala is?”
The man frowns at me and looks at the white man, who indicates that he should leave. Without answering my question, the African man walks out of the room. I am more confused. The white man leads us into another room, where we sit at a round table. He puts a small chair without a back next to me and gently places my leg with the bandaged ankle on it.
Crouching at my feet, he smiles up at me and says softly, “I am Richard Dillingham. What is your name?”
An African woman with skin lighter than mine, covered completely by a heavy, stiff-looking floor-length dress, walks up to the table. Richard looks at her and says, “Sara, please bring us some tea.”
Richard does not move from his place next to my feet and continues to gaze at me. He says,
“I can’t put my finger on it, but you are different.”
I’m not interested in having this conversation. I just want to know what happened to Cora and the rest of the tribe. I work up my nerve and ask Amitola, “Is Cora safe? And the others?”
Amitola speaks to me in her native tongue. “We must tell you something.”
“I was getting to that,” Richard says in her language.
I am amazed to hear the white man reply to her with the words Cora so lovingly taught me.
Sara walks in with her chin slightly raised. She doesn’t look at anyone as she places down a tray with shiny small cups and a larger jug of some sort. I can’t help but notice how similar the material is to the hard ropes that shackled Obatala and his people. Ozata jumps on my lap, waking me from my dark study.
I can tell that Amitola is dreading what she has to say. “We are going to stay with another nation, just north of us.”
Sara drops one of the hard cups and it rolls to my injured ankle. She looks as if she might cry as she trips over her dress to fetch it. “Pardon me,” she says as she scurries out of the room.
My hands shake as I ask, “But what happened to everyone? Why do we have to go there?”
Ozata looks into my eyes and says very gently, “You cannot come. This nation is not as open to your people as we are.”
“Some even own slaves,” Richard adds as he stands to pour the tea that Sara has left on the table. “It might be best if you stay with me until you are healed.”
What are slaves? I retain my questions because all of this talk seems to pull me further away from Obatala.
“I can’t. I’m looking for someone.” I glance at Amitola.
Amitola says, “The other survivors of the raid are already on their way there. We’ll live with the other nation until it’s safe to return. During the raid, I hid and eventually escaped. I was determined to find you and Ozata.”
My heart is pounding as I ask, “What about Cora?”
Amitola says, “She’s safe. She’s with the others on her way up north.”
I put my arms around Ozata and hug her tight.
“You must go. That’s what’s best. I’ll be fine,” I whisper to Ozata.
“I know,” she responds.
* * *
They leave in the morning. I don’t expect that I will ever see them again, but I lie to myself as I hug my little angel. “I will see you soon.”
Ozata touches my medicine pouch and says, “We’re always with you. You have all the medicine you need to find Obatala.”
Richard and I watch from the doorway as two white men help Ozata and her mother mount a horse. Ozata looks back at me and clutches her medicine pouch around her neck. She smiles and holds her mother’s waist as they ride off with the men.
Richard leads me back into the room where we had the tea. “I’m sorry that it has to be this way.”
I am silent.
“Where did you come from?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“I can see that you are in no mood to talk. Do you mind if I do? I hate to break this to you right now, but I have to go to Tennessee for a couple of days. I leave later on this evening, but the staff will take care of you.”
I smile to acknowledge his words, but honestly, I am relieved. This is the first time I’ve had to hide my true nature. He would never understand. I look at him, and it is almost as if I am seeing him for the first time. His eyes look like the crystal-clear waters of the ocean and his hair is as black as the onyx arrowhead I have in my medicine pouch. He is gentle, his touch nurturing and kind.
“I don’t know if I’ve thanked you yet,” I say just above a whisper.
“No need for that, please. Pardon me,” he says, “I’ll be right back.”
Richard leaves the room. I take in the beauty and mastery of the structure: the intricate designs on the walls, the sparkling stones hanging from the lights on the ceiling, and the large, soft chairs that take up half the room.
Sara enters and interrupts my thoughts. “Excuse me,” she says harshly as she slams down a tray of food in front of me, then stares at me.
I don’t know why she is angry, but I want to know more about her. “Are you African?” I ask in Obatala’s tongue.
Sara is silent and rigid. I try in the language of the white man.
“Did you come on the ships?”
“No, of course not. I used to work for Richard’s godfather, and whenever he would visit, Richard would request that I get the day off so I could play with him. He has been my best friend for as long as I can recall. He is not like most other white men.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she says as she exits the room.
Richards returns with new bandages and ointment. “Here are some supplies. I should return before you need more.”
“Where is Tennessee? Why are you going there?”
“Do you know what the Underground Railroad is?”
“No.”
“You speak as if you have been here for years, were maybe even born here. Yet you are ignorant of so much.”
“Cora taught me her ways and the tongue of the white man.”
Richard nods. “The Underground Railroad is a network of safe houses and secret passages and routes for Negroes to escape slavery and flee up north to free states or Canada,” he explains.
He can see that I am confused. What is slavery? Is “Negro” another word for “African”? I have too many questions to even begin to understand.
“Did you come through the Middle Passage?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you come on the slave ships from Africa?”
“Something like that. I would rather not talk about it.”
Richard shakes his head. “I do not know when this nonsense will cease. This type of trading was supposed to stop long before I was born.”
He drops the bandages on the floor, and we both reach down to retrieve them. Our eyes meet. The rich blue reminds me of my yearning for the ocean. He is beautiful. His skin is light olive with faint freckles close to his nose, and his lips are thin but full. His face reddens all of a sudden as he backs away. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, grabbing up the bandages as he stands.
I look up and see Sara across the room, hovering by the door. How long has she been there? Richard notices that my gaze has shifted. He turns around and sees Sara. She ducks her head and disappears back through the doorway.
I look at Richard and ask, “Can I tell you something? I did come on the slave ships. There were three of them.” I pause for a moment, remembering that horrifying journey. “I came with someone I was in love with, but when we got here, we were separated. I ran away and was rescued by Amitola’s tribe. They took care of me and taught me all I know. Do you think Sara or someone else here might know where he is?”
I touch the back of my neck and add, “His name is Obatala. He has three scars on the back of his neck.”
Richard stops me. “John!”
“Excuse me?”
“You speak of John… Obatala. He came on the ships earlier this year,” he explains. “He’s at a plantation near here.”
“You know him? Can you take me there?”
“It is getting late. I will take you to John—Obatala, as you call him—when I return. Your leg has to heal before you can travel anywhere. Promise me you will not leave this property while I’m gone. The men in this area are extremely violent with the African people.”
I nod, but I know that I will leave in the morning to find Obatala. Although I feel an overpowering yearning to see him, I need to sleep first so that I have the strength to find him. My mind races, and it feels like angelfish are fluttering in my stomach.
“I must ready for my journey,” Richard says as he gathers his things. “Sara will take good care of you while I’m gone.”
6
BETRAYAL
Richard sets off as the sky darkens. From the chair on the porch, I
watch his horse and carriage disappear into the distance. I take in the beauty of the land around me. Grass-covered meadows surround his house. There is a small lake in the distance that I hadn’t noticed before. I long to be near the water, to slide in and swim. I wonder how it would feel without my tail.
Sara approaches me from the dark interior of the house. “Are you hungry?”
“No, thank you.”
I can see she is angered by my presence, but I’m too exhausted to ask her why. My ankle is throbbing, and I just need to sleep.
“I would like to lie down, to sleep. Would you help me inside, please?”
Sara hesitantly offers her arm, which I gratefully take. She guides me to the guest room, and before she closes my door, she says, “Your sleeping clothes are laid out on the bed. Let me know if you need anything else.”
I nod as she exits the room. I feel too tired to change into the nightclothes, but I’m still dressed in the thin leather shift Cora gave me three days ago. I’m beginning to shiver with cold, and the white nightgown looks soft and warm. I pull the shift off and slip the heavy gown over my head. I poke my hands through the long sleeves and smooth the dress over my body. The fabric falls all the way to the floor and makes me feel as though I’m snug and safe back in my cocoon. I tuck myself under the fluffy bedcovers and fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.
* * *
The sounds of loud barking and men yelling pull me from my slumber. I’m disoriented and cannot remember where I am. As soon as I recall, the door bursts open. Three red-faced white men rush into my room and pull me from the bed. My ankle hits the floor, causing me to scream in pain.
I look around and notice Sara standing in the corner of the room with her arms crossed. She stares at the floor.
“Sara?” I implore. She refuses to look at me.
“You thought you could run away, nigger!” The enraged men sputter saliva in my face as they continue yelling in my ear.