Ashes (4 page)

She was Ruth and she was not-Ruth at the same time.

This lass was taller than me, though I could not think of how that was possible. The last time I saw my Ruth, she was so small, I could carry her a good mile before my arms got tired. The features of the girl before me muddled, as if water or a thick fog swirled over her face. Her broad, strong chin and wide cheekbones recollected our father; the beautiful skin and long neck was all Momma. Her eyes were only hers, my baby sister's eyes: warm and brown and filled with questions. There could be no doubt.

“Ruth,” I whispered.

“What do you want?” she asked. The manner of her speech was Carolina-tinged, though the tone of it was near enough to mine to be an echo. The question repeated itself over and over in my mind, as if it had been shouted into a dark cave.

I swayed a bit, unsteady on my feet. Of all the times I'd dreamed of this moment, here was the one possibility I'd never considered: that she would forget me.

“I'm Isabel, poppet.” I tried to smile. “Your sister.”

Ruth scowled and shook her head.

How could this be? She'd been full seven years old when that Lockton witch stole her from me. Until then, she'd slept next to me every night of her life. Every day I had played with her, taken her to the privy, and shown her how to do the work required of us. After Momma died, I did mothering things for her, like sewing dolls and making her wash her hands and teaching her prayers. I was all the family she had in the world. She was all I had too.

I leaned closer. “Don't you remember me?”

She scooped another mewling kitten out of the box and cuddled it against her cheek, avoiding my gaze.

An icy thought shot through me. Had she broken her head? Ruth had been born with the falling sickness. 'Twas my job to watch over her, to catch her before she hit the ground when overtaken by a fit. My biggest fear had always been that one day she'd fall and crack her head on a rock because I wouldn't be there.

“I held you when you were born,” I said weakly. “We grew up together, you and me–”

“Don't know you,” Ruth said.

“What?” My knees weakened. This could not be real, none of it.

What if it hadn't been a fall? Ruth had not been like other children. She learned things slower and needed to be shown the doing of a task one hundred times instead of one. But when she finally understood the hows of a chore, she never forgot it. A few called her “simple,” but our mother did not hold with such language. Ruth was just Ruth, and that was good enough for us.

But how to understand her manner toward me now? Had they treated her so badly that her wits were fully addled, her remembery lost forever?
Why doesn't she know me?

“Who's that?” The cook stood in the doorway of the summer kitchen. “You there, girl, what's your business?”

The voice startled me into action. “Ruth.” I grabbed her elbow. “Come with me.”

She pulled away with a frown. Her refusal surprised me as much as her strength.

“Unhand that child!” The cook rushed toward us as I again reached for my sister. Close on her heels came the old man and the boy with the injured arm.

“I've come to take you home,” I said urgently. “We have to run!”

I reached for her again and managed to clutch a handful of her skirt.

“Don't touch her,” shouted the boy.

The old man hobbled behind him. “You let go of our Ruth!” he called in a high, reedy voice. “Release her!”

The three of them pressed close together like a guard. Ruth spun out of my grip and slipped behind them.

Why doesn't she know me?

The ground under my feet seemed to roll, as if I stood aboard a ship in the middle of the ocean. This almost-grown Ruth thought I was a stranger. My body ached with the pain of it. My heart hung heavy in my chest, not wanting to beat.

She turned her face away from me.

“Please–” I started.

“The soldiers took everything.” The old man was out of breath, but he spoke quickly. “I'm sorry, lass, we've nothing left to give. Mister Prentiss is due back soon and–”

“You don't understand,” I interrupted. “I'm not looking for food. I'm here for Ruth.”

The boy moved so that he stood betwixt us, a spindly fence with long legs. “Don't seem she knows you,” he said.

His rude manner sparked my anger.

“Don't seem that's your business,” I snapped. “Tell them, Ruth.”

Ruth gently shook her head back and forth, denying me wordlessly.

“You ought to leave right away, child,” the cook said quietly, “for your own safety. These are unsettled times.”

“Fina's right,” the man added. “'Tain't safe here. Wait in the woods till dark; we'll bring food. But then you must head out. Last thing we need is more trouble.”

“I'm not making trouble!”

“Hush!” The boy locked his hand around my wrist like a metal cuff. “Missus Serafina and Mister Walter want you gone, so gone you gonna be.”

I tried to pull away. “Turn me loose, you skulking varlet.”

He had the strength of a body used to hard work, but his eyes were red rimmed and bruised from a beating, plus he favored that injured arm. A kick to the side of his knee would free me, but it would not help my cause.

The old man took charge. “Stay out of this, Deen,” he ordered.

“Let me walk her to the river.” The boy tightened his grip.

I thought again about the kick and shifted my weight in preparation to deliver it.

“Carolina is best known for treating guests with kindness!”

We all turned at the sound of the booming voice. Curzon boldly strode toward us from around the side of the barn. He was skilled at adopting the speech of many places. Now he spoke in flat Yankee tones that fair shouted he was a stranger to the South. “Also known for greeting kin with joy, Carolina is,” he continued. “Or at the least, with friendliness.”

The boy eyed Curzon's tall, muscular form and wisely let go of me. “We're no kin to you.”

“Nay.” Curzon took his place beside me. “But that girl?” He pointed to Ruth. “And this girl?” He jerked a thumb at me. “They're sisters.”

The cook looked sharply between us. “Sisters?”

“We've been looking for Miss Ruth for years,” Curzon said. “Last we saw her was in New York, in '76. The Lockton mistress witnessed one of Ruth's fits and sent her down here. She had Isabel drugged the night Ruth was taken, to make the matter more easily accomplished.”

“Not taken.” Tears threatened, and I dug my nails into my palms. “Stolen. Kidnapped.”

“Is this true?” the cook asked Ruth.

I held my breath. Ruth gently set the two kittens in the wooden box without a word. Could she understand what was happening? Was her mind broken or was there another cause for her stubborn refusal to acknowledge me?

“Well?” the cook asked.

Ruth picked up the box. “Must take these babies to the barn.”

“Answer Missus Serafina, darlin',” the old man said. “Is this lass your sister?”

Ruth hesitated, then looked at the boy with the injured arm as if seeking his advice. His nod of permission made me want to pull off his ears.

“Please, child,” Missus Serafina urged. “You must tell us.”

“She was my sister when I was little”–Ruth lifted her chin and looked right through me with sorrowful eyes–“but she's not my sister now.” She set the crate on her hip. “Go home, Isabel.”

T
HE ENEMY CAME THERE; HE REPORTS THAT THEY TOOK WITH THEM 19
N
EGROES AMONG WHOM WERE
B
ETTY
, P
RINCE
, C
HANCE
&
ALL THE HARDY
B
OYS BUT LEFT THE WOMEN WITH
C
HILD OR YOUNG CHILDREN
. . . . T
HEY TOOK WITH THEM ALL THE
H
ORSES THEY COULD FIND, BURNT THE DWELLING
H
OUSE
&
BOOKS DESTROYED ALL THE
F
URNITURE
, C
HINA, ETC., KILLED THE
S
HEEP
& P
OULTRY AND DRANK THE
L
IQUORS.

–L
ETTER FROM
C
APTAIN
T
HOMAS
P
INCKNEY TO HIS MOTHER
, E
LIZA
L
UCAS
P
INCKNEY, DESCRIBING THE EFFECTS OF A
B
RITISH RAID ON THE FAMILY'S
S
OUTH
C
AROLINA PLANTATION

W
HEN I WAS LITTLE, I
once watched the slaughter of an enormous ox. The powerful beast was strong enough to kill the butcher, so the man entered the pen armed with a sledgehammer, as well as a long knife. He went straight to work without a word, raising the heavy hammer high in the air, then bringing it down on the animal's huge head. The ox stood, quivering, for a moment. It looked at me, wet eyes stunned with pain and confusion. Then it collapsed in the mud.

As Ruth walked away from me, I felt as if my body and soul had been shattered, like I was that poor ox, frozen in the moment after the dizzying blow of the hammer and before the killing-cut of the knife.

Ruth disappeared into the darkness of the barn.

My knees wobbled again. Suddenly Curzon was at my side, his arm around me to keep me from falling.

“Something's not right,” I murmured. “She's been hexed or she's befuddled. I must talk to her. . . .”

“We found her,” Curzon said softly. “All is well. Let's talk to these folks, learn about the full circumstances here.”

“But . . .” I paused, unable to think clearly, barely able to speak. “But . . .”

“Come with us,” the old woman said. “I've seen fatter broomsticks than the two of you. You need to eat.”

Curzon's arm gently propelled me forward, and we followed the old couple and the boy into the summer kitchen.

Once inside, Curzon peered out each window, his face grave. “Is it safe for us here?”

“For now,” Mister Walter said as he slowly sat on the bench. “Prentiss, he's the overseer, he's gone to Charleston to get more field hands. Won't be back for a few more days 'cause he's got a lady friend down there. You're safe enough for a good meal.”

Missus Serafina set bowls filled with rice and beans on the table.

“Very kind, ma'am.” Curzon shot me a worried glance and sat down across the table from Mister Walter and the boy. “We are much obliged to you.”

I found myself sitting next to him, with no memory of walking to the table, nor taking a seat. My mind had become unmoored from my body, like a rowboat that slipped its anchor or an apron blown off the clothesline in a gale. I kept picturing young Ruth, remembering the feel of her chubby arms around my neck as I pretended to be her horse, galloping across the garden at her command.

“Here you go, dear.”

I blinked out of my reverie. Missus Serafina was handing me a mug.

“Thank you, ma'am,” I replied.

“Drink it down,” she said firmly. “All of it.”

The water was straight-from-a-deep-well cold and made my teeth ache, but the first sip made me realize how dry and dusty my insides were. By the time the mug was empty, my head throbbed with the chill of it.

Curzon dug his elbow into my side; Mister Walter was waiting to bless the meal.

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. His heartfelt prayer brought me no comfort. That increased my misery even more, which did not seem possible but was true.

When the prayer was finished, Curzon introduced us properly.

“You married?” the old man asked.

“Friends,” Curzon said. “Respectable friends, sir.”

Mister Walter stirred his breakfast. “I've been married to my old gal for thirty-seven years now.”

His wife scooped dried peas from a barrel. “Thirty-eight.”

He smiled at her. “She thinks I forget. This here is Aberdeen.” He nodded at the boy with the sling.

Aberdeen glared at us, then went back to eating.

“Where are the rest of your people?” Curzon asked. “What happened here?”

“Patriot militia came through a few weeks back, looted the place good. A few, including Deen, took advantage of the trouble and ran off. Prentiss gathered up some friends and went after them, only left three fellas here to guard the rest of us.” He grinned. “A group of rovers came in and finished the work of looting the place. They scared off the guards. A good hundred or so fled to freedom. I pray every night that they all make it.”

“Did they run to the British?” Curzon asked.

“Doubtful,” Mister Walter said. “British officers stayed here in the spring, guests of Lockton. They treated us just as bad as any of them.”

I should be paying closer attention to his words
, I thought.
We need to learn all we can before we leave.
But sorrow dulled my mind. Ruth wanted nothing to do with me. I was Isabel, her not-sister. I could think of little else.