Shallow Waters

by Anita Kopacz

  BANG!

  A loud gunshot interrupts the ceremony, and most of the people on the shore disperse, running for cover. I rush to help the pregnant women who are scrambling to get to the other side of the river.

  “What in tarnation is happening down here?” a loud voice roars over the crowd.

  Tillie shrieks, “Uncle Phineas! Everything’s fine! There’s nothing going on here, just a… a ceremony…”

  Phineas rides over to us on his horse. He has a rifle resting on his shoulder and about seven men in tow, all carrying rifles and whips.

  “Heathens! You’re all heathens!” he yells.

  Tillie closes his penner and slips it into her dress.

  “Matilda, is that you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tillie answers.

  “Come here now!” he commands. He motions for her to stand beside his horse.

  She holds her notebook behind her back and slowly approaches her fate.

  He looks in my direction. “Is that your slave there in the water?”

  Tillie lowers her head. “Yes, sir.”

  Phineas turns toward his men. “Go get her. She seems to be the culprit.”

  The few slaves who have lingered drop back, creating a clear path for the horses. The remaining flowers float toward me just as they did before the gunshot. I can feel my strength well up inside me.

  One of the men jumps off his horse and confidently wades toward me. “Come on, nigger, your time is up.”

  He attempts to pull me out of the water. I grab him and throw him to the other side of the river.

  The crowd cheers despite the presence of their master.

  “Stop!” Phineas commands. “This must all stop! Turn yourself in, witch!”

  “She is not a witch!” Tillie exclaims.

  “Hush your mouth,” Phineas says as he cuffs her on the back of her head.

  “Turn yourself in!” he repeats.

  I begin to have flashbacks to my recent beating. The pain, the horror, the hate. I cannot surrender to this man.

  I stand in defiance.

  The master orders another of his men to retrieve me from the river. This one, a young, wiry, hard-looking man, rides into the river on his horse, who is prancing and bucking at the excitement and chaos around him.

  The man points his rifle at me and says, “You’re a pretty one. Be nice and come on over here, so I don’t have to hurt you.”

  I dip underwater, move beneath the horse, and grab one of the man’s long dangling legs. I manage to yank him off and into the water as his horse scrambles to the opposite bank and gallops away. Pulling him all the way underwater, I pry his gun out of his hands and surface while keeping him pinned with my feet. I throw his gun to the strongest-looking African man still standing close by. I then heave the man I’ve pinned underwater up onto the shore, where he slams headfirst into a tree. He crumples to the ground as the master’s men start screaming and shooting in all directions.

  “Silence!” the master bellows. At the sound of his voice, his men immediately pull themselves together, although they keep their guns leveled at the few remaining Africans. The large man to whom I threw the gun is nowhere to be seen.

  Phineas then looks at me and with a furious trembling voice spits out, “Witch! Good Lord! You really are a witch! You will pay for this!”

  He grabs Tillie and forces her to sit astride his horse in front of him. He holds a blade to her neck.

  Even with this bold act, I can see that the blood has drained from his pale gray face. He looks up at the sky and intones, “The Lord is my shepherd. I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” Staring at me without blinking, he seethes through clenched teeth, “Surrender, witch, or she will die!” The pressure of his blade has already broken Tillie’s skin. He is not bluffing.

  “I will come,” I say clearly, and wade toward the riverbank.

  As I maneuver out of the water he directs one of his men to ride up to Godmother, who is standing strong like a tree, defiant and still, rooted in her spot by the river. The man hits her in the head with the butt of his rifle, and Phineas screams, “Let her be the example!”

  She falls to the ground, unconscious.

  He motions for his men to surround the remaining Africans and commands, “Take them all back to their quarters. We’ll deal with them later.”

  The man I threw across the river has returned to his senses, and to his feet. He is eager for revenge. He grabs my hands, pulls them behind my back, and violently ties a rope around my wrists. He tightens it until blood seeps from beneath the thickly braided twine. I show no emotion.

  I steal a glance at Tillie. Her body is stiff and Phineas still has the blade to her neck.

  As the man drags me along, he shouts, “Keep your eyes to the ground, witch!”

  I lower my head, but the water that still clings to me from the damp dress keeps the feeling of strength surging through my body, and I have to use all my willpower to refrain from breaking the rope that binds my wrists. I fight back fantasies of wrapping the rope around the man’s neck and dragging him back into the river. I could easily crush each of these men, but not before the master could run his sharp knife across Tillie’s neck and end it all.

  10

  WITCH

  “If you even think of pulling a stunt like you did at the river,” Phineas threatens, “Tillie is dead.”

  We return to the house, and the men hold me steady, close to a heavy wooden stake planted in the middle of the grassy yard. Though my body surges with power, I dare not flex a muscle. I’m passive as the men wrench my arms back to keep me still.

  The other goons are holding torches, and I wonder if they’re planning to burn me alive. I feel strangely calm as I look toward Tillie’s dark bedroom window. It reflects the flickering flames of the torches, and I think I can see Tillie’s fragile, pale face pressed against the glass. Suddenly she’s gone.

  Three men pull out a dilapidated contraption from the storage house. It’s a large T-shaped wooden device on a rolling platform with a chair hanging from one end and a long rope from the other. Dense cobwebs cling to it.

  “Do you know what this is?” Phineas asks with a slight smile. “It’s an antique I had shipped from Salem several years ago. It was used during the witch trials. I think it’s high time I put this little beauty to good use.” He rubs his hands the same way Tillie does when she’s excited. “This here is a dunking chair,” he says as he points to the contraption. “I’m a law-abiding citizen, and I would never induce a punishment without a trial.” He pauses. “So, this is your trial.”

  He pats the device as if it were an obedient dog. I know that this man is planning something horrific, but I cannot understand his logic.

  “I’ve done my homework on this, and it’s called trial by ordeal. God shall determine your guilt or your innocence. Hell, this chair might be your best friend.”

  He smiles, and once again he rubs his hands together. “You see, our little dunking chair will let me know if you’re guilty when we submerge you in the river. If you float up, well, that means you are a witch, and we have to execute you. And if you sink, well, I guess you’re innocent.”

  Water? He’s threatening me with water! I have to suppress a smile as I hang my head and quietly thank the irony.

  “Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head. I’m sure you’ll prove to be innocent.” Phineas cackles and his men join in. “Take her to the stables and secure her for the night,” he commands. “We’ll commence in the morning.”

  Phineas grabs my neck and looks straight into my eyes. His jaw is clenched, and a large vein is raised on his forehead. The force of his grip could kill me on the spot. I cough and he loosens his hold.

  “I do not want to ruin my chance of finally using this chair.” He slowly glides his hands down my back. “It’s too bad. You’re one fine nigger.”

  I hold my breath until he finally walks away.

  The man from the river grabs my wrists and shoves me to the ground.
I pull away and stare into his eyes. Clearly still afraid of me, he stutters, “Th-the master says to take you to the stables. I’m sure you know the way. I’ll just follow you.”

  I begin walking down the path toward the stables. Tillie had pointed them out to me earlier. As I make my way through a cluster of apple trees in the backyard, I check to see if my shadow man is still following me. He is.

  “It’s just there, to your right,” the man says.

  The smell of the stables is particularly strong tonight, but I welcome the stench, knowing that the night will give me time to plan. The man shows me to an empty stall. As I enter, he pushes me down again, and I land on my knees in a pile of dirty straw. He binds my wrists together with more scratchy twine, reinforcing the knots that are already there. Then he threads the other end of the rope through a thick metal loop screwed securely into the side of the stall. I scoot back toward the wall and prop myself up so my arms aren’t extended painfully above my head. The man looks at me and winks before disappearing into the darkness.

  The dirty hay on the cold dirt floor does not provide much comfort. I can hear the horses pacing back and forth in their stalls. Their snorts and low whinnies soothe my ragged nerves and lull me into a semiexhausted sleep.

  “Yemaya,” someone whispers, startling me awake.

  I do not answer.

  “Yemaya,” Tillie hisses.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  “Shhhhhh,” she cautions as she enters with a large plate hidden under a fancy silver cover.

  “You really want to get yourself killed?”

  Tillie’s neck is bandaged and her eyes look completely swollen. I imagine she did her fair share of crying after our ordeal. She places the food on a bare patch of dirt and unties my rope from the hook. I stretch forward and roll my neck in a circle.

  “Are you hurt?” she asks.

  I shake my head and attempt a smile. I know that my wounds pale in comparison to the nasty cut on her throat.

  She passes me a plate full of food. I grab the cornbread and declare, “Your uncle is brutal.”

  “I told you so, but he surprised even me tonight.” Touching her bandaged neck, she says, “When Auntie Soph saw what he’d done, she was appalled!”

  I reach for the chicken and murmur, “I can imagine.”

  “My uncle threatened to kill me and my aunt if I fraternize with the slaves again. She wants me to run away with her tomorrow night. But I won’t go; I won’t leave you. He’ll have to drown me along with you!”

  Tillie starts crying, then sputters between sobs, “He’s a monster. He said he’d kill all the slave children if I help you run away.”

  “What?”

  “He’s covering every possibility.”

  “What’s your aunt doing to plan your escape?”

  Tillie says with teary determination, “I’m not going. She wants us to take the same route as the slaves on the Underground Railroad.”

  “Tillie, you have to go with Auntie Soph. I’m going to be all right.” I move in closer and whisper, “I’m going to be fine. And he will not kill the children, they are worth too much. Please concentrate on your plan to escape, and do not worry about me.”

  She looks at me and wipes her tears. “But the chair; you’ll drown.”

  “I can handle the chair. I can’t be drowned. It’s impossible. Water is like air to me.”

  I can see Tillie’s face register shock, even in the darkness of the stable. She says, “Really? Truly? You swear on Obatala’s life?”

  “Yes, I swear on Obatala’s life that the dunking chair cannot kill me.”

  Tillie suppresses a squeal and hugs me so tightly it hurts. “I’ll come get you tomorrow after dark. He plans to leave your body in the river for a few days to set an example for the slaves. You’ll come with me and my aunt!”

  I pull myself out of her grip and touch her bandaged neck. “Can I see your wound?”

  Tillie lowers her head and reaches behind her neck to untie the bandage. As she removes the beige cloth, blood and pus stick to the interior lining. The cut is deeper than I’d thought.

  “It’s not so bad,” Tillie assures me when she sees my reaction.

  I hold back my emotion. “Come.”

  I motion for her to lean in closer to me. I raise my wounded wrists to her neck and begin the process of healing. Tiny webs weave into braids around my cuts. After sealing my wounds, the fibers reach toward Tillie’s neck. They begin to fuse with her skin. The webs cover her neck along the edges of the wound. The silken threads seal her open gash, and she coughs as the healing webs flash a glow of amber light. Her eyes show terror mixed with trust.

  “Just a few more seconds,” I say, with my wrist still attached to her neck.

  I can feel my energy drain into her system. Her skin is less complicated than mine, so the process is simple. As I reach to wipe the webs off her neck, she jumps back.

  “It won’t hurt,” I assure her.

  I reach up again and remove the silken threads from her neck. As they fall to the ground, they reveal her perfectly healed skin. There is no scar to remind her of this nightmare. She reaches up and slowly runs her fingers across the invisible gash. Tears well up in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  I pick up the ropes and hand them to her. I turn around and slowly, she begins to retie them around my wrists. “I’m so sorry.”

  Tillie ties the twine with enough space for me to set myself free.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I ask.

  “Anything.”

  “Tomorrow, when your uncle is dunking me, do not cry.”

  She nods, scoops up the dinner plate, kisses me on the cheek, and runs off into the night.

  11

  REDEMPTION

  The trial is set to happen just after noon. There is a crowd of white people, including women and children, waiting by the river. The master must have spread the word of my dunking.

  I’m led to the river by one of the master’s men, the main overseer. The crowd taunts me with both words and trash alike. A watermelon rind hits my head and falls in the dirt. I shake off the juices, and the overseer kicks me to the ground.

  “Witch! Witch! Witch!” the crowd chants.

  The overseer drags me to the chair. He secures me and a bag of rocks to the device by wrapping a rope around my lap and the chair. His hot breath wafts past my nostrils as he ties the burlap bag full of stones securely to the bottom of the seat. I try not to vomit from the smell. He wraps the heavy twine around me, the chair, and the stones. “Well, I guess this will make you innocent.” He smiles. “You won’t be floating to the top.”

  Beyond the sea of white faces, I see the Africans congregate. They’re all wearing white and blue. My colors! I am grateful for this silent show of solidarity. An apple core strikes my head as the young white children continue to yell profanities.

  “Order!” a voice bellows from a distance. “Order in the court.”

  Phineas walks through the crowd with Tillie on one side and his wife on the other.

  “As many of you know, this woman here,” he says, pointing at me, “has been accused of witchcraft!”

  The crowd hisses and heckles.

  “Order! Order!” Phineas repeats. “This here is a trial to determine her guilt… or innocence. Most of you know how this works, but I’ll explain just in case it’s slipped your mind. The witch will be dunked in the river and given a chance to confess. If the witch fails to confess, we will let the good Lord determine her fate. When we dunk her again, if she floats to the top, she is guilty and will be punished by death. If she stays on the bottom, she is innocent.”

  Tillie looks at me with a stone face. She still has the bloody rag around her neck to avoid suspicion. I lower my gaze so her uncle does not catch our subtle communication.

  “Let’s get on with it!” he commands.

  Three men roll the chair to the edge of the river. I hang over the water about seve
n feet from the shore. The men take hold of the rope from the opposite side of the T. I dip slightly into the river until they steady their grip. I can feel the strength return to my body, but I have to exercise restraint.

  Phineas stands on the bank of the river and asks me, “Do you confess to the accusations of witchcraft?”

  I am silent.

  “Dunk her!” he orders.

  The three men release the rope and dunk me into the river. The gently flowing water surrounds me with feelings of longing for my home, for my family. On the opposite bank, wedged in a cluster of rocks, is the small watermelon from last night’s ceremony. I suppress my desire to reach for it as I feel the chair lift me out of the water.

  I choke and cough up water to make the onlookers, Phineas in particular, believe that I am drowning.

  “What say you now, wench? Do you confess?” he bellows.

  I remain silent. Before he dunks me again, I steal a glance at Tillie. Just as she promised, she is not crying. I smile to myself as I’m submerged again. The chair settles at the bottom of the river. I imagine that the master is concocting some story about my innocence because I have yet to float to the top.

  I blow bubbles up to the surface, faking my death. My woolly hair flows back and forth with the current of the river. Just then a small school of little shimmering silver beauties swim by me, brushing against my body with their smooth, tiny tails. I almost laugh, imagining what it would be like to once more feel my own tail! But I remember that I have to remain still. The fish circle back and surround me for a moment. It’s almost like they know I’m one of them.

  I resist the urge to look up into the faces I know are now peering into the river. I float, head down, determined to stay still until Tillie returns after dark to get me.