Running Out of Night (12 page)

Had the black boy left the signs for me? Or did the rock-throwin red-haired boy leave them? Were I walkin to a safe place? Or walkin straight into a trap?

I don’t know how I kept a-goin, but by late afternoon, the woods ahead of me thinned, and I could see sunny meadows and fields. Waterford town must be nearby. I slowed, slipped my sack down, pulled out some meat and a slice of apple, and stood chewin like our old cow, Hildie.

“Look for signs.” Those words kept dancin round me, weavin in and out of my head and tauntin me.

My curiosity tickled and nudged, but I were so tired, so sick, that I could barely creep to the edge of the woods. I looked acrost at a town that seemed as tiny as the acorn villages I built under our big oak tree. Stone and brick houses, barns, stores, a mill, what looked to be a church, a blacksmith’s shop, and a school dotted the land. On the outskirts set a small gray log cabin surrounded by a tall fence and a patchwork garden of flowers. Clothes flashed and swung on a line. A dog barked, and in the field, a man moved a scythe back and forth, back and forth, steady as the pendulum of my grandpa’s old mantel clock.

No walkin acrost the open fields durin the daylight. I looked up and around at the trees, and picked a likely one to climb. I tied my sacks together and slung them over the lowest branch, then hoisted myself up, then up again, draggin the sacks behind me. I were some slow now, the cold shiverin all mixed up with the hot sweat comin through my skin and soakin my already-wet clothes. I climbed high enough so’s I could see clear acrost the fields, then tied the sacks to a branch and settled in for the rest of the afternoon. I don’t know how long I perched there, but I dozed on and off, sweatin and shakin, then wakin when the sounds of loud voices and barkin dogs seeped in and out of my dreams.

I pinched myself on the arm. “Mama, am I awake
or asleep?” I asked. My wakin world and sleepin world mixed together inside me.

More barkin and yellin. The wind blew from the east, lucky for me, carryin my scent away from the dogs. I ducked my head down, blinked my eyes to clear the blurriness, and peered through branches toward the town. From where I set, I could see groups of men runnin from house to house. The dogs run ahead of them, circled and lunged, howled and bayed. Them dogs went wild when they got to the fence surroundin the little gray log cabin.

I saw someone step out of the cabin and walk to the fence, then watched as other people streamed down a pathway and stopped outside the yard. I’ve got some keen hearin, but I couldn’t tell what were goin on.

Then I saw him. The young boy in the bright-blue shirt run up to the men, talked to them, waved his arms, and pointed toward the woods.

“Oh law,” I said. “Wind blowin west or not, I’m caught now. These are the dog days, and nothin good can come of them.”

Everythin went quiet, or went quiet in my head, cause them dogs never did quit their barkin. I started to climb down and then stopped. What good would it do? Lord knew that I didn’t have enough time or strength to get down and hightail it.

A
shooting star is a sign that someone’s soul is journeying to heaven
.

T
he men and dogs left on a run. I couldn’t understand what had just happened. The boy knew that I were somewhere west of town, but he sent them the other way. My breath caught and took, and I realized that I’d been holding it inside me while I watched. I clung tight to the tree.

The day spent, but I lost track of it, wakin and sleepin, burnin inside, and never knowin what were real or dreams. I knew I were some sick, and I didn’t know how long I could hold on.

Night come. Soft light shone from windows, and shadows moved back and forth acrost them. The smell of
woodsmoke and meat drifted over the field, makin me yearn for a cooked meal.

I reached into the fattest sack, pulled out another hard piece of dried meat, and chewed it slow. I were thirstin, thirstin so bad that all I could think of were water, sweet water fillin my mouth and tricklin down my burnin, sore throat.

Up through the tree branches, I saw a star streak acrost the sky. I hoped that didn’t mean Zenobia or the runaway was bound for heaven.

Branch by branch I made my way down, the sacks draggin and catchin. Finally, I dropped them at the foot of the tree, then swung myself down beside them. I stuffed a handful of apple slices into my mouth, patted my Hannah doll, and shouldered the sacks.

My foot stepped on a small rock. I bent over, picked it up, wiped it on my skirt, and stuck it into my mouth. Rollin it around, suckin on it, just suckin at that rock set my mouth to waterin.

“Here we go, Mama,” I whispered.

Pickin my way through the woods got harder. Every time I set down my foot I wondered if I could ever lift it again to take another step.

I broke past the last fringe of trees and walked the edge of a meadow. In front of me, another arrow of shiny white pebbles pointed to a knee-high field of corn. I kicked at the pebbles, sent them flyin, and kept walkin.

Lights in the town went out one by one. The moon shone acrost the fields and glinted on the corn like it were silver. I squatted, watched, and listened. I heard the rushin water of the millrace, the creakin of the mill wheel, and the rustlin of the corn. I could smell the sweet pine of the mill, and from somewhere nearby, a catbird called and mewed, but not a soul moved.

Another arrow-tipped line of shiny white pebbles pointed to a narrow pathway. I scuffed the pebbles aside and crept toward the outskirts of the sleepin town.

The lights from the window of the little gray cabin made three yellow patches. I headed toward them without payin attention to where I were—until I stubbed my toe and looked down. I were on the edge of a buryin ground, small gravestones pricklin through the grass like thumbs. A long stone buildin stood on a rise above me, its moon shadow markin an inky darkness.

I backed out. That weren’t no place I wanted to be; bad, bad luck to walk into a buryin ground at night. I shivered again, this time from bein scairt and bein cold and hot all mixed together. I picked up a handful of dirt and sifted a thin line of it through my fingers and onto the ground between me and the graves. No haint would dare cross over and foller.

One of the lights went out in the cabin. Now it looked like two yellow eyes stared out at me.

Somethin thudded. I stopped in the middle of a step, my sacks thumpin against my back. I heard a sound like laundry bein shook out, and then a slap as somethin slammed.

When I looked down, I saw another line of shiny white pebbles runnin alongside a crickity, knobblety wooden fence. Tall hollyhocks peered over the top, and moths big as my hands flew in and out of their cup blooms. So still, so still and peaceful, that I could hear the whirrin of their wings.

I stopped and watched the little cabin. Nothin moved.

My hand skipped along the palins of the fence, one by one, till I reached the front gate. The smell of roses, mint, and sage wrapped round me.

When I looked down, I saw another short line of pebbles pointin toward a porch. I nudged them with my feet so’s nobody would see them and walked through the gate. Below the porch, a large pot, stinkin with the smell of lye, bubbled and boiled. Beneath it, a bed of coals glowed a wicked orange. I looked toward the cabin and saw first one, then the other window darken.

I stepped through the gate and looked around the yard, then slowly walked up a camomile pathway. Every step smelt like apples.

“Thee is welcome here,” a quiet voice said.

I turned and started to run, but my knees crumpled and my feet felt like two heavy stones.

The voice come again, soft, wavery, like water ripplin acrost a pond.

“Thee is welcome here, friend,” the voice said again.

Welcome here? How could I trust anyone? My legs shook, and my eyes filled with tears. That was the last thing I remembered.

N
ever hurt a spider or you will suffer bad luck
.

A
muzzy red light and a low roarin inside my head made me feel all pain and thirstin. I fought to pull myself away from Pa. He grabbed at me, held on to my foot, and yanked.

I kicked, yelled, and kicked again, fightin hard, but couldn’t break away from his hands. Dogs howled and snarled around me. Weren’t nowhere for me to go, no way for me to get freed.

A shard of sunlight pierced through the darkness inside me. When my eyes opened, I saw that my feet was caught, wound tight up in a bedsheet. I kicked free and set up. When I looked down at myself, I saw that my clothes was
gone. I were in a clean white nightshirt sewed from cotton feed sacks.

The room weren’t like any I’d ever seen. It were tiny and held only a tall, narrow bed, a small table with a white pottery pitcher and cup, a colorful braided rug, and a rockin chair with a woven splint seat. A big, chipped thunder bucket set on the floor beside the table. High above me near the peak of the roof, a long, narrow openin covered with wooden slats let in thin, bright stripes of sunlight.

At the foot of the bed, I could see the outline of a short, wide door. I wanted to crawl to it, try to see where I were, but I didn’t have the strength.

Water, I needed water. I rolled onto my side, reached for the cup, and lifted my head till I could sip. I didn’t want to stop drinkin, but the tiny room spun around me. I laid back on the pillow, the cup still in my hand.

“Where am I, Mama?” I asked. “Where am I?”

Sleep come easy to me. When I woke, the room were almost dark. A bowl of warm broth set next to the pitcher of water and the cup. I pushed myself up and leant against the wooden spindles of the bed.

It didn’t take me no time at all to drink down all the water and start on the broth. I could taste bits of chicken, onions, and carrots. When were the last time I had eaten somethin cooked and hot?

I finished and swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stepped down onto the thick, braided rug. When I
tried to stand, my legs was wobbledy, as wobbledy as our cow Hildie’s newborn calf.

“Mama, can you hear me? Help me find some good luck.”

I held on to the bed, slid myself down along the mattress, and reached for the door, shoved, shoved harder, but it wouldn’t budge. My fingers worked along the edge of it in search of a crack, a pull, anythin that would help me open it.

Were I a prisoner? Would I be sold and sent away like Zenobia’s family? I felt scairt and near at my wits’ end, but kept tryin to open the door. By now it were dark in the room. Darker than night, dark like it had been in the cellar hole—I couldn’t do no more.

The bed were only steps away, but I felt like I’d walked for miles. I slumped down onto the mattress. The last thing I remembered were the sweet smell of lavender.

When I woke, the sun shone through the high, slatted openin under the eaves. A fat brown spider dangled from a thin strand above me, then swung over to the edge of the chair. I licked at my cracked lips and tried to sit up. I watched the spider as she walked from the edge of the table to the rockin chair and back again, layin a silver strand of web behind her.

Grandpa’s song about spiders played over and over in my head. “Let a spider run alive, all your days you’ll live and thrive.” That were all I wanted, to live and thrive.

The bowl of broth were gone; in its place set a thick slab
of bread. I reached for the water, drunk my fill, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, ate a piece of bread smeared with butter and scuppernong jam. Nothin had ever tasted better.

I drifted off to sleep again, still hearing Grandpa’s song. I jerked awake and set up. Had someone been singin to me? Touchin me with cool, soft hands?

A steamin bowl of barley porridge set on the table. The water pitcher, filled to the top, dripped and puddled beside the cup. Who were bringin food and drink to me?

I drank water, picked up a horn spoon, and ate the thick porridge. When I finished, I pushed myself up from the bed and walked acrost the little room. My fingers run along the edge of the door, and down near the bottom I felt a small iron pull. When I reached for it, my hand shook so much I could barely slide my fingers through the loop. I tugged, tugged again, and felt the door move slightly. My heart beat hard, and I breathed as fast as when I run through the woods.