Shallow Waters

by Anita Kopacz

  I shake my head as I slowly get up and brush the loose hay from my clothes. Cynthia helps me clean off.

  “I live not far from here,” Cynthia says. “Let’s head to the house. I’m sure you are famished.”

  * * *

  Cynthia’s house is beautiful from the outside. White wood trim that looks like lace hangs from the roof. I can smell the evergreens that surround her property as we sneak to the back of the house and climb down into the basement.

  “There are many free Negroes here in Nyack,” Cynthia says, “but your face is plastered everywhere, so it’s best to keep you both down here.”

  Cynthia has two cots ready for us. Our covered dinner plates are placed at the feet of our beds. The aroma draws us to the food.

  “Don’t be shy,” Cynthia says. “Eat up.”

  I lift the silver covering to find a steaming plate of roasted potatoes, chicken, rice, and broccoli. My mouth waters as I reach for the fork.

  “Yemaya, you haven’t said two words since you arrived,” Cynthia points out.

  I attempt to chew the bite of potato I’ve just stuffed into my mouth. “I’m sorry. Tillie told me a bit about you. I have never heard of a Negro woman making her own money.”

  Cynthia laughs. “It’s always the money people ask about. You know I was born a slave? Even though my father was a free man, I was not able to buy my freedom until I married my husband. I made boatloads of money after that,” she says with a chuckle.

  I feel for the pouch of coins that my dear Richard gave me. It’s still there, under my coat. I can’t help but think of Obatala as Cynthia speaks of her husband. My stomach flutters as she continues telling me about her life.

  “Yemaya?” Tillie asks. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” I say as I clench my stomach.

  Cynthia continues without noticing my reaction. “What is your plan, ladies?”

  “We are going to my parents in Cicero.”

  Cynthia nods and looks up in deep thought. “One of my employees is riding to Syracuse to pick up a shipment of laundry soap. He can take you that far. Would that be a help?”

  “That would be a great help! Thank you, Mrs. Cynthia,” Tillie exclaims. “I have an uncle who lives in Syracuse. He could take us home from there.”

  Tillie reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “We are almost there!”

  * * *

  Cynthia’s employee takes us to Syracuse early the next morning. We stay covered in the back of the carriage throughout the entire journey. Cynthia gives us pillows and blankets to keep us comfortable. She also packs fruit, bread, and dried meat. Although the trip feels long, anything beats traveling by foot again. We arrive just as night falls. He drops us off at the top of Tillie’s uncle’s driveway. Tillie and I venture up the long dirt road. Sweat beads from my pores as we hear dogs barking on his property.

  “That’s just Honey and Mimi, my uncle’s dogs. I haven’t been here in ages,” Tillie declares as she traces her fingers across the bark of one of the great oaks. Farther down the road stands a vivid red barn. There is a horse and carriage parked out front. I squint to confirm my vision: a man with a bright white mustache sits in front of the carriage. He jumps from the platform and rushes down the road.

  Tillie runs to meet him, shouting, “Uncle David!” Then she throws her arms around him.

  He lifts her up and swings her around as they both laugh.

  “I knew that you would make it home! We have been worried sick over here,” he says. “Who do you have with you?”

  Breathless, Tillie exclaims, “Uncle, this is my good friend Yemaya! Haven’t you seen the posters?”

  Uncle David stares at me for a moment, then bows and says, “Any friend of Tillie’s is a friend of mine. You’re both welcome to stay here, where you’ll be safe.” He turns to Tillie and says, “I’ll take you home when you’re ready, but let’s fill up first.” He smiles gently at me and says, “And where are you heading?”

  “I’ll travel with you and Tillie, to make sure she gets home safely, and then I’ll head to Canada.”

  David leads us to his white country home with cornflower-blue trim. The landscaping is quaint and simple. There are handcrafted signs labeling herbs in a small garden.

  “My wife fancies herself a gardener,” he says with a chuckle.

  We enter his house through the kitchen door. Startled, David’s wife almost drops the tea she’s pouring. She wipes her hands on her apron and exclaims, “Tillie!”

  Tillie shrieks, “Aunt Rose!”

  Rose cups Tillie’s face in her hands, kisses her forehead, and says, “My sweet girl! I’m so relieved to see you!”

  Aunt Rose flaunts a full head of white hair pulled up into a well-manicured bun. She has maintained a healthy figure, although she seems to be a bit older.

  Rose pulls Tillie into an embrace and says, “We have been praying for you, my sweet child. Praise the lord.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Rose.”

  “My, my. Where are my manners?” Aunt Rose reaches out to shake my hand. “I’m Tillie’s aunt Rose.”

  “Yemaya,” I say.

  “My, what a beauty. Isn’t she a beauty, David? Let’s get you girls cleaned up and fill your bellies with some delicious food.”

  Aunt Rose gives us a bucket of warm water to bathe on the porch. I reminisce about the comfort of Lorna’s ceramic tub as I wring a soaked towel over my head. Tillie begins to shiver in the brisk air. She quickly washes up and runs inside. I’m left by myself on the porch. I drink in the power and strength of the water as it splashes over me. I lather the bar of soap and thoroughly scrub every inch of my body. As I finish, I gather our water and throw it into Rose’s garden. I snuggle into the robe Aunt Rose provided and walk inside.

  “You will catch your death of cold out there,” Aunt Rose says. “Come join the others by the fireplace.”

  She provides us with fresh clothes and brings out warm cider and apple-cinnamon oatmeal. We sit around the fireplace and rekindle our laughter and storytelling. We decide to stay the night to avoid Uncle David having to travel in the dark. While Tillie is anxious to get home, her uncle says that roads are dangerous without light. Tillie and I exchange looks because we know the dangers of traveling at night quite well.

  * * *

  Uncle David wakes us up at the crack of dawn and informs us that the carriage is ready for travel. Aunt Rose gives us a basket of apples for Tillie’s parents and a jar of applesauce to share, then says, “Our trees bore bountiful fruit this year. Next time I will make you my famous apple pie.”

  Tillie and I jump into the back of the covered carriage and draw the curtains. Uncle David waves goodbye to Aunt Rose and heads down the dirt driveway to the main road.

  It only takes a few minutes to get to Cicero, but I’m grateful for the ride. What might have been a night’s journey had we gone by foot is only about a thirty-minute jaunt.

  Tillie points out the window as we pass by a carved wooden sign that reads WELCOME TO CICERO, NEW YORK.

  Just down the road, after we see the sign, Uncle David abruptly stops the carriage. “Whoa!” he yells to the horses.

  “Why are you stopping?” Tillie asks. She pulls the curtain open and peers out the window. Her other uncle, Phineas, is standing at the mouth of her gate, holding a rifle across his chest.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he says to Uncle David in an eerily calm voice.

  Tillie shuts the curtain, and, breathing heavily, she clutches her throat.

  Uncle David shouts from the carriage, “Good day, Phineas, fancy meeting you here. I suggest you move out of the road, so you don’t get trampled.”

  “I suggest you give me my property so I can be on my way,” Phineas snarls.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  At that, Phineas strides over to the carriage, clearly intending to pull the door open, so Uncle David leaps down and punches him in the chest. Tillie and I watch nervously through the curtain
s. Moses’s words echo in my ear: New York will not be as you hope.… Just make sure Tillie gets home safely.

  At that moment I have a revelation. This is not about me. None of it is. My narrow vision of finding Obatala blinded me to the immense danger and sacrifice that so many people have endured for my freedom. Everything that Tillie has done has been to save my life. This is not about me in the least.

  I pull out the leather pouch full of Richard’s money and hand it to Tillie.

  “What are you doing?” Tillie whispers.

  “Buy me from him with the money.”

  Phineas kicks David to the ground and points the rifle at him. I jump from the carriage, and as he notices me, he lowers his weapon.

  Tillie jolts from the door holding the bag of gold coins. She yells, “Take this! It’s way more than you paid for her.”

  Phineas shakes his head and snarls, “It’s not about the money anymore.” He smashes his gun butt into David’s head, knocking him out.

  Tillie throws her body over Uncle David’s chest and shrieks, “NO!”

  Phineas kicks Tillie away and turns to me. He says in a flat, cold voice, “If you don’t come with me now, I’ll kill them both right here.”

  Tillie weeps as Phineas grabs my arm and pulls me away. I turn toward her and whisper, loudly enough for them both to hear, “Don’t worry about me, Tillie. Remember, I’m a witch.”

  Phineas yanks my arm and drags me down the road to where his carriage is waiting. He opens the door and shoves me in headfirst. Before I can pull myself up, I see three bodies slumped in the back seat. Huge metal devices are buckled on two of the men’s faces and long spikes protrude from collars around their necks. The other man has his wrists tied and is leaning against the wall of the carriage.

  “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?” Phineas says as he kicks me to the opposite bench. He sits beside me and grabs some shackles from underneath the seat. “Don’t give me no more trouble, nigger,” he says as he locks me to a railing on the side of the carriage. He looks at his other prisoners, tilts his head to the left, and squints.

  “I always get my property back. Haven’t lost one nigger yet. Except for the ones you stole from me.” He stares at me with an icy glare. I hope that means they made it to freedom. Phineas kicks one of the unconscious slaves in his knee.

  The man slumps farther down the wall of the carriage and the long spikes around his neck hit the bench.

  “Those spikes must be terribly uncomfortable,” Phineas mocks. “I brought them down for you, but as fate would have it, I found all of my niggers.”

  His voice trails away as I look out the window. Tillie must be scared sick. Moses was right. New York would not be as I hoped. I try to reach my hand to my chest in order to feel the letter from Obatala. It’s practically burning through my pouch. Every part of me wants to pull it out and read it over and over again, but Phineas would grab it and destroy it without a single thought.

  The carriage wheels rattle as we roll over the cobblestone streets of a small town. I hear a young boy yelling, “Extra! Extra!”

  The carriage stops and Phineas jumps out. After a few minutes, the door opens, and the carriage dips with Phineas’s weight as he pulls himself back up and settles inside.

  He looks at me with disgust and barks, “Keep your eyes on the floor!”

  “Yes, Master,” I say through clenched teeth.

  The carriage rocks as it starts rolling back over the cobblestones. Phineas opens the newspaper he bought from the boy. He pulls out a section with my bounty on it and taunts me, “Mighty fine sketch, don’t you think?”

  He holds up the picture of me with the words WANTED ALIVE: AFRICAN WITCH. He turns the picture back around and admires it as if it were a fine piece of art. I notice a headline on the back: WHITE MAN CONVICTED OF AIDING THE ATTEMPTED ESCAPE OF THREE SLAVES. Before Phineas folds the paper back up, I see Richard’s name in bold print. My heart sinks.

  It was only a matter of time before they caught him. The men in his county already knew what he was doing. Phineas notices me straining to see the story. He turns the page around and reads it, then looks up at me, grinning with his thin lips, and asks, “Friend of yours?”

  I don’t react.

  “Serves him right.” He throws the rest of the paper out the window, and then holds up my poster once again. “This, I will frame.”

  I look at his feet, careful not to catch his eye again. My stomach twists into a squid knot as I picture Richard in jail. I spent only one night in one of those cages, and I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

  The driver pulls into the train station. I saw many tracks on our journey, but we hid every time a train passed. Those monstrous machines are loud and clunky. The train’s whistle blows as Phineas unlocks my shackles from the carriage. I grab my ears and fall to the floor.

  Phineas and the driver struggle to pull one of the unconscious men from the cart. As they tug at his arms, Phineas slips and cuts himself on one of the spikes.

  “Good Lord in heaven!” he yells as he grabs his arm. “Don’t just stare, you nigger witch! Get up and help us!”

  Webs begin to form on my hands, wanting to attach to Phineas’s wounds. I wipe them off onto my skirt as I jump from the carriage. I see a glimpse of the limp man’s neck. Are my eyes deceiving me?

  Three scars… This can’t be!

  As I grab his feet, I get a better look. It’s Obatala! It’s him! In shock, I almost drop his legs. My heart races as fast as a school of dolphins as I attempt to help carry him to the train.

  The crowd of people waiting at the station stare as the three of us struggle to get Obatala to the cart that is normally used to carry heavy baggage. There are gasps and whispers, but no one yells or throws trash at us as they did down south. I lower my head so I don’t have to deal with the shame of their stares.

  Phineas orders his driver to get the other men. When they return, Phineas points to the back of the train and commands, “Put these niggers in the luggage car.”

  A man in uniform takes Obatala from us and rolls him down the platform. I follow close behind, with the other two men limping after me. The overseer grabs my arm and we follow the uniformed man to the last car. I see people loading farm animals, trunks, and crates in through the heavy sliding door. I step onto the stairs, and the whistle blows again. I attempt to cover my ears, but it’s no use. The driver pushes me in, and I fall over a large crate. The two men carry Obatala into the train car and put him on the floor. They take the other Africans to the next luggage cart.

  The men in uniform continue to load animals and baggage until the car is full. I find a place in the back corner with a trunk and sit down. I can barely contain myself.

  20

  DREAM AWAKE

  Obatala lies awkwardly on the train floor. His spikes hold his head up, displaying his scars for me to see. I slowly walk up to my love. My throat tightens as I get closer. I have dreamed about this day more times than I can remember.

  I gently caress the raised scars on the back of his neck. My throat closes as I try to say his name. I scrape my arm on the rusted spikes jutting from the metal collar around his neck. I’m shaking. I see the lock and try to pull the collar apart. I pull with all my might, but I am weak. Weaker than usual.

  I need water.

  I crawl away from Obatala and crash through our train car looking for water. A pig squeals as I pass by her cage. I back up and see that she has a large bucket of water near her, inside. Frantically, I search the side of the cage to find the latch. I’m ecstatic to find it unlocked! I open the door and grab the water. The pig runs out and knocks me over. The water splashes on me, and I can feel my strength returning.

  I hasten back to Obatala and rip the corroded collar from his neck. I find the leather buckle to the metal facemask and break it in half. As the mask falls to the floor, Obatala’s body collapses.

  His face is so swollen that his eyes are sealed shut. Dried blood stains his lips and nose. Bef
ore I can think, webs begin to float out of my body and surround him.

  I can feel the energy draining from my system as the silken fibers bind us close together. The wounds must be deep. My webs continue to seal his lacerations.

  We are flesh to flesh, in a cocoon of my netting. The light outside our pod dims as the layers of the webs continue to thicken.

  I weaken with every second that passes. His breath on my cheek is the only sign of life that I can feel from him. My body begins to shut down. I don’t want to miss a thing. I try to keep my eyes open. But I am weak. I can feel my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

  * * *

  “Yemaya,” a voice whispers.

  I hear it, but I can’t seem to move.

  “Yemaya, my love,” he says with his breath still on my cheek, “am I dreaming?”

  I blink my eyes open, and there he is. The sun peeking in from the cracks in the train car seems to form a halo around his head. Web strands hang from his perfectly healed body.

  “Are we in heaven?” Obatala asks, touching my face.

  He catches a tear from my eye and wipes it away. I know he has so many questions, but I don’t have it in me to say a word.

  I trace his full lips with my fingertips and gently pull him in for a kiss. His hands timidly caress my back, as if he’s still uncertain that I’m real.

  I laugh in the middle of our kiss.

  “My love, it’s me,” I say. “And we are definitely not in heaven.”

  “Speak for yourself,” he says as he grabs me for another kiss, his hands gripping my shoulders like he’ll never let me go. The strength of his muscles has returned. He looks like the fisherman I once knew.

  Atop his muscles, the veins of his arms bulge and branch out like a dark tree. I can’t help but trace every crevice and mark on his skin. He’s been whipped. More than once. The three scars on the back of his neck are no longer his only ones. I want to be angry, but, gently, he puts his finger on my lips, as if to cease my incessant thoughts.