Promise Bridge (14 page)

Why did my heart leap with excitement when Livie claimed she had seen Marcus? Why did I still have his neckerchief, which had fallen from Livie’s ankle before she entered the river, folded and hidden in my wardrobe closet?

Exhaustion and confusion made it impossible to sort out. As I drifted off to sleep, the yelping of dogs yanked me from the bed and across the room to the rear window. A line of hounds raced along the upper field from the direction of West Gate. Willy Jack ran in their wake, clutching a shotgun and chains. I held my breath when they reached the brambles and one dog shot up the hill toward the peak. The rest of the pack sniffed and bellowed in circles, then took off toward the river where I had laid the false trail. Willy Jack went after the one wayward hound and booted him back in the direction of the others. When the herd stampeded down over the hill into trees, the smug smile that released across my face reflected back at me in the window glass. Knowing this momentary reprieve would be brief, I crawled into bed and fell into a silent abyss.

Chapter 15

“G
et on out the way, Miz Hannah,” Esther Mae said, pulling the window drapes wide to bathe my room with the bright rays of a noontime sun. To my surprise, I still clutched Marcus’s carving in my hand. Before Esther Mae took notice, I quickly shoved it beneath my pillow. I had slept half the day away, yet the haze of exhaustion hung around my head like a leaden halo. Esther Mae held the wet dress and stockings I had tossed on the kitchen table. I was tempted to offer false explanation, but believed anything short of the truth would have offended her. So I said nothing.

“We ain’t accustomed to havin’ you underfoot fo’ cleanup, fix-up time. I gots’ta throw open these windows and hang out yo’ bedding while the sun is high enough to take the bite from the air. Some o’ the gals is gonna beat the dust out o’ this here rug while I scrub down these walls with vinegar and water. Now, you best find a quiet corner in the sewin’ room so you is out o’ the way during the commotion. Only got a week or so befo’ Miz ’Gusta gets back, and she be expectin’ to find this house sparklin’ by the start of Big Times. Dey be fetchin’ the Yule log from the swamp any day now.”

I was concerned that Livie was not here to wake me as was usual, but it had been a difficult night for her, and I suspected she needed time alone with her thoughts and disappointment. Esther Mae filled my washbasin and brought me my clothes without comment, so I decided to let it be for the moment. Downstairs, I found the kitchen so crowded with Runians that they spilled out into the backyard as far as the cookhouse. Baskets of apples and bags of brown sugar were lined up on the table as Granny Morgan, her face beaded with perspiration, stirred a bubbling pot of preserves. A line of Runians carried wooden boxes filled with jars and stacked them in the corner of the kitchen. I ducked out before Granny saw me, knowing the production would be halted so she could make me breakfast. Besides, my knotted stomach had no desire for a meal. I had expected the whole of West Gate and Mud Run to awaken to the wrath of Willy Jack desperate to find the runaway that eluded him during his early morning chase. He had less than a fortnight until Twitch and Aunt Augusta returned. The chance of Willy Jack tracking the runaway would fade with each passing hour, and the status given to him as a slave driver would not protect him from paying a dear price at Twitch’s discretion. Yet I was puzzled when there was no buzz of urgency in the air.

I tugged my shawl up over my shoulders when I stepped into the cool afternoon air. Winston distributed horsehair brushes and buckets of whitewash to a group of Runians under his watch. Suddenly, I realized why he had not driven Aunt Augusta on her journey. It was not a stroke of generosity on her part, meant for him to partake in the shucking celebration. Instead, she wanted him used in other duties during her absence. The respect given him by the other slaves kept them on task. How viciously clever, and a subtle example of why the men of power in the community regarded her as a peer.

“Miz Hannah,” Winston said with a drawl as smooth as molasses. “The boys is gonna whitewash de porch and colonnades. If you is gonna sit here awhile, I’ll send ’em off to start de fences out yonder.”

He came to me, hat in hand, his gentleness unmarred by the smudges of whitewash speckling his face. I still could not look into his loyal eyes without feeling guilt for the whipping he endured as a result of his kindness toward me.

“That will not be necessary, Winston. I shall do my best to stay out of your way. Perhaps I will go down and visit with Livie. Have you seen her out and about?”

Winston scratched his chin as he ran his eyes from the lower fields, across the hills beyond Mud Run, and then back to me. “You should prob’ly wait on goin’ down de hill, Miz Hannah. Massa Reynolds rode in from Kentuck early on this mornin’. Might be trouble fo’ all of us if he sees you down there. If you don’t mind an ol’ fool like me thinkin’ out loud to hisself, it might be best to let us folk look after Livetta fo’ a spell. We know what she is feelin’. She is in de grip of de low-downs, and jes’ like de rest of us, she gots’ta make peace with the way things is. No way round it. The Run is a flurry of folks tendin’ to their personal chores. James is gonna busy Livetta. Might help stir her alive again.”

Winston chuckled as he slapped the dust from his hat before putting it on his head. “Anyways, Esther Mae ’tain’t goin’ let no hands stay idle durin’ fix-up time. Granny always tol’ us it’s best to keep movin’ so yo’ lowdown thoughts can’t root too deep.” Then with a wink he added, “Don’t be fretful, Miz Hannah. Give Livetta a few days in de hands of de Runians, and she be fine.”

“Winston,” I said, before he turned back to his work, “what brought Uncle Mooney back so soon?” My first thought was that word of the runaway had reached him. However, nothing in Winston’s demeanor indicated anything was amiss. The quarters were a whisper mill, as Granny Morgan called it. Why were they not abuzz with talk of one of their own breaking away? Especially since it would bring a harder hand down on the rest of them.

“Don’t know fo’ sure why Massa is back so soon,” he said after a moment of contemplation. “He’s prob’ly itchin’ to direct the slaughter.”

Winston’s matter-of-fact speculation ignited an image of hounds, frenzied by their thirst for blood, attacking the runaway I encountered only hours earlier. A shiver shook the bones beneath my skin, so I pulled my shawl tight around me to bridle the tremors released upon hearing the word
slaughter
mentioned so casually. Winston engaged me no further, and with an expressionless nod, strode away without a word of explanation.

I went back inside to collect my thoughts, and once again I was swept up in the whirl of activity. I had long observed the self-serving purpose and calculation in Aunt Augusta’s comings and goings, so it should not have surprised me when the epiphany struck me that the motivation for our pre-Christmas visits had little to do with holiday gatherings or meaningful tradition. It was no more than a contrived excuse designed to distance herself from the mass of Runians as they drained from the harvested fields and were given intimate access to every corner of our house and property for the purpose of scrubbing away a year’s worth of weather and wear. Challenged by the shorter days that followed the first frost, Hillcrest was a burst of activity much like a bustling anthill. From afar, the mass was chaotic and feverish, but when closely observed, each worker focused on his or her individual tasks, knowing the greater community relied on each other to share the responsibilities. Esther Mae led a group of field women from room to room, washing floors and windows and polishing every inch of woodwork and brass that adorned the interior of the house. A litter of bare-foot pickaninnies, too young for dresses or britches but old enough to handle an oilcloth, joined in, using their oversized shirttails to add some extra shine.

“Gonna take a heap more to impress me enough to whisper yo’ name in the missus’s ear when she be lookin’ fo’ house help,” Esther Mae called out with a tilt of her head as she scrutinized their work. “Now keep at it, you hear?” She hoisted her hands to her hips and shook an impatient head in the direction of a handful of little dark faces wandering wide-eyed and slack-jawed as they took their first steps inside the walls of the main house. Esther Mae gave them a few minutes to drink it in before hustling them along to their duties. “ ’Tain’t here fo’ gawkin’. Get to work, or you be shovelin’ manure out o’ the horse stalls tomorr’y.”

My presence distracted the little ones, so I withdrew to the sewing room, where Fatima was stacking the cloth and batting Aunt Augusta had accumulated for use in the winter months, when most of the quilting was done by women on temporary respite from the fields. “Sorry, miss,” Fatima said, lowering her head as I entered. She set her work aside and scurried by me toward the door.

“Please stay, Fatima.” I smiled. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

“Yas’sum, miss,” she said with a grudging curtsy. Fatima generally went about her business in silent tolerance of the world around her. Her work was thorough and of high quality, particularly her sewing. She made extra clothing for the Runians with leftover cloth or castoffs from our wardrobes, and created most of my ball gowns, which were as fine as any shipped to my counterparts from London or Paris. She carried herself with genteel pride and dignity, rarely speaking to me unless coaxed. I felt like an awkward child as she observed me through golden, nonchalant eyes, even though her papers confirmed she was two months younger than I. During the winter months when Aunt Augusta allowed me to join the quilting circle, Fatima would sit upright and stoic while the other Runians shared stories and songs to accompany their busy fingers. She was meticulous with the stitching and sequencing of her designs, as Aunt Augusta demanded; however, her serious demeanor made me uncomfortable.

Now, left alone with me, Fatima went back to sorting the quilt squares, all the while her unreadable eyes taking stock of me as I settled on the rocker in the opposite corner of the room. I turned my attention to some needlepoint, an uninspired chore of adding yellow, unopened rosebuds to a lace handkerchief meant as a Christmas gift for Aunt Augusta. Aware of Fatima watching me, I fumbled for a short while before losing interest three buds short of completion.

“Shorten the stitch and the design will be tighter and richer.”

“Pardon?” My one-word response was all I could muster in my surprise. Fatima came across the room and sat on the chair adjacent to me. I handed her the handkerchief and watched as she effortlessly sculpted a detailed bud from thread and needle. She laid the needlework in my lap and guided my fingers through the stitches of the intricate pattern. I smiled as I watched the next flower take form and relaxed into the movement, until suddenly a horrifying scream filled the house. Fatima’s hand jolted and sliced my finger with the needle.

“Oh, my,” I said, jumping to my feet. Fatima scrambled toward me as I pressed my finger to my lips, releasing the taste of blood on my tongue. I cried out when she grabbed on to my hand. “What are you doing, Fatima? Release my hand!”

The screams multiplied into a hair- raising chorus that flowed through every window, but Fatima’s eyes remained locked on mine. Gone was her nonchalance, replaced now with sparks of crisp determination. She pulled a quilt square from her apron pocket and pushed it toward my face. “Fatima, stop!”

She yanked my finger from my mouth. “Hold still, miss, so it don’t hurt.” She wrestled my hand toward her with unexpected strength. Before I could defend myself, she uncurled my finger and wrapped the quilt square around the scratch on my skin.

“So sorry, miss! Those dyin’ hogs made me jump right out o’ my skin.” Her eyes glistened with fear. “I didn’t mean you no harm, miss. Please don’t tell Miz ’Gusta. She won’t never let me near a needle again.”

Confusion and utter relief blanketed me as Fatima rubbed her hand over mine. She was as shaken as I was as the bellowing cries reached a frantic pitch. I covered my ears, but the screams penetrated me from head to toe. “What is that dreadful sound, Fatima?”

“It’s the hogs, miss. The slaughter has begun.”

Is this what Winston was referring to? Uncle Mooney returned to supervise the butchering of the hogs. It had nothing to do with the runaway. The murderous cries sickened me, yet a glorious thrill came with knowing that the fate of the hogs meant hope was alive for the runaway. Fatima regained her dignified aloofness and shook her head in disbelief as I smiled at the deathly chorus.

The week dragged without Livie to share my days. Every evening, Esther Mae reported on Livie’s improving spirits. Winston was right: The Runians were better equipped to heal Livie’s pain in an area in which I had no knowledge or experience. The deathly squeals of the hog slaughter echoed through the hills night and day, until finally the shrieking subsided. The smokehouse was soon bursting with generous cuts of ham, bacon, and sausage, while a steady flow of wagons carried off what was considered by many to be the finest hams Virginia had to offer. The proclamation made Uncle Mooney’s chest swell and his pockets bulge. The cleanup of the house and grounds was complete. Most of the women who were released back into Mud Run huddled around cook fires, boiling the excess hog fat to make soap and tallow candles. The older and less hardy Runian women weaved baskets and cornhusk dolls from remnants of the shucking celebration. December darkness fell early and brought with it long, empty nights. After a supper of pork chops and stewed apples, I went out on the porch to enjoy the peaceful stillness that had returned since the hogs were silenced. The alabaster moon was full with a bright ring illuminating the sky around it, a sure sign of winter taking hold of the mountain. Stars floated in every direction, elbowing each other for prominence in the sky. I longed to feel part of the vastness and beauty around me. A whip-poor-will beckoned from the distant fields, accompanied by the strains of a mournful mouth organ down in the quarters. Loneliness crushed me from all sides. I missed Livie, and could no longer sit idly by, so I set off through the shadows to see her.

The sounds of the quarters, once foreign and intimidating, welcomed me now. The heavy scent of ashcakes and fatback scorched the night air, enhanced by the aroma of tobacco puffed through corncob pipes. Candlelight and voices leaked through gapped frames of closed doors where families and friends congregated. Some laughed and told stories; others were pained with exhaustion from the day. The damp paths were empty because, at night, the Runians found refuge within the walls of their homes. The outline of Livie’s cabin, bathed in moonlight at the end of trail, brought a smile of relief and anticipation. Her shutters were closed and dark, but as I neared, the glint of firelight flickered from the crack of her door and invited me to where she was. I tapped lightly, thinking she may be asleep, but there was muffled movement from within.

I nudged the door halfway open and whispered, “Livie?”

A hellish orange aura smoldered from the cinders in the hearth, casting a glow across the interior, where it melded with the blackness of shadows that heaved against the far wall. My eyes perused the room for a touch point to make sense of the shimmering angles and tumbling silhouettes. I leaned in farther to better my view of Livie’s corner, where her bedding was pulled tight and undisturbed across her pallet. The air was ripe with sweat and musk, accompanied by rhythmic snorts and grunts befitting a deprived swine attacking its swill. The mass of blankets shifted in the shadows, revealing Fatima’s stoic, ebony face. Her acorn eyes, void of emotion, stared at the rafters above and winced when the rise and fall of the silhouette quickened. I stepped away in retreat, but the wood planks beneath my feet creaked as I shifted back against the door. Fatima’s lifeless eyes shifted toward me, taking in my horror; only then did she surrender a lone tear into the night. As it trickled down the side of her face and into the straw beneath her head, her eyes closed, offering no more of herself. Though all was revealed in four pounding thumps of my heart, I felt frozen in time. One long, releasing moan jerked the covers one last time, toppling the quilt onto the floor and exposing the mound on top of Fatima. Even through the dimness of the cabin, it was evident that the haunches left bare in their burst of activity were pale and lank, although the face buried in Fatima’s bosom remained masked by the long shadow of a chair. Again I stepped back, using the tip of my boot to find a solid plank that would not betray me in the now-silent cabin. However, as I bore my weight, the floor groaned in defiance. The startled figure rolled off Fatima and turned its blazing eyes toward me.