The Freedom Maze (23 page)

“Me, neither,” said Sophie. “I want to help.”

Africa frowned. “You-all can help by not being a nuisance.”

“If Antigua’s going to run away,” said Sophie, “she’s going to need help.”

“I ain’t heard nobody saying nothing ’bout running away,” Africa said.

“It’s the only thing she can do,” said Flanders.

“Besides,” Sophie added, “she’s always wanted to.”

“Ain’t you the wise woman?” said Antigua, but she no longer sounded furious, just tired half to death. “Let them stay, Momi. It ain’t no use nohow. If I dies in the bayou or I dies running North, at least I be shut of Mr. Beaufort Waters.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Ned. “Ain’t nobody going to die. You gots to run, I sees that. But you ain’t going to get far if’n you don’t have a plan. Sit down, now, and we talk about it.”

He sat in his chair by the fire. Everybody else took up their usual stools around the table, except Antigua, who paced like she couldn’t bear to be still.

“I ain’t got time to talk,” she said. “If’n he even look at me again, I kill him dead.”

She meant it, and Sophie didn’t blame her.

Africa fetched tin cups from the mantel and the coffee pot from hearth. “Here, baby,” she said, handing Antigua a fragrant cup. “Drink this. We’ll think of something.”

“The trick to running away,” said Ned thoughtfully, “is you don’t run right off. You hides somewheres on the plantation until they tired of looking for you close to home, turned they eyes North — maybe a month, maybe more.”

“She don’t leave the plantation, how you going to keep the dogs sniffing her out in time for a whupping before sunset?” Flanders asked.

“I gots a plan for that,” said Ned. “Somebody take a pair of the runaway’s britches or some such and drag it towards the swamp, keeping to the trees like a runaway would. When he come to the water, he wade upstream a ways and drop the britches. Meantime, runaway climb on somebody back and ride to the hiding place so he don’t leave no scent. Dogs follows the britches to the swamp, maybe they finds them and maybe not. But they sure as shooting don’t find the runaway.”

Africa’s face was a study. “You got it all figured out, sure enough, and I’d never of thought of it, not if I lived to be old as Methuselah. Flandy can use Anti’s petticoat to set the trail, and you can carry her to this hiding place of yours. Where
was
you figuring to hide, Ned, when you up and run off from us?”

Ned shook his head. “Well, that the fly in the ointment, sure enough. There ain’t nowhere on this whole plantation one man could hide for more than a day or two, let alone all six of us.”

As Africa and Ned smiled at each other, Sophie remembered last summer, when Old Missy had sent her down to the yard. “I know one,” she said.

Four sets of worried eyes turned to her. Antigua jumped up and grabbed her arm. “What you talking ’bout, girl?”

“A hidey-hole, under the summerhouse in the maze. There’s a way in behind the camellia.” Sophie looked from one face to the other. “You really don’t know about it?”

Antigua laughed. “We surely don’t. Black folks ain’t allowed in that maze, except the gardeners — and one nosey, high-yellow house slave, seemingly.”

“Who got her wits about her,” Flanders said.

Ned scratched his chin doubtfully. “This hidey-hole — you sure nobody know about it ’cept you?”

Sophie considered. “Well, the mattress is rotted out and the lantern’s all rusted, so I guess it’s been a while since anybody used it. And the hole is real well hidden.”

Africa shook her head. “Too risky. The gardeners probably know, and Old Hurley, he’s real tight with Old Missy. Old Hurley hears Antigua’s disappeared, he tell everything he knows, sure as Sunday morning.”

“Old Hurley can’t hardly remember his own name no more,” Ned said. “We safe enough.” He touched Africa’s hand. “The summerhouse Antigua’s best chance, Africa. I say we take it.”

Africa closed her eyes a moment, then nodded briskly. “Then we better get going. First bell going to ring soon, and if you ain’t in the sugarhouse by second bell, the fat be in the fire for sure.”

Once the decision was made, things started to move very quickly. Antigua took off her petticoat and gave it to Flanders, who disappeared with it. Africa bundled food and water into a blanket, thrust it into Sophie’s arms, and hugged Antigua hard. And then they were out in the chill, clear night.

The moon was up, but somewhere less than half-full. Ned wouldn’t risk a lantern, so they stumbled along in the half light, with Antigua riding pick-a-back on Ned and Sophie following close behind, hugging her bundle and trying not to make a noise.

The Big House was dark and massively asleep, the gardens full of tricky shadows. As the trio crossed the field, the plantation bell tolled mournfully to wake the midnight shift. Ned had thirty minutes, at the most, to get to the sugarhouse. They covered the last few feet at a stumbling run.

Even knowing the maze as well as she did, Sophie had trouble finding her way. She was nervous, and the maze looked strange in the half dark, the white stones hard to see in the shadows of the hedges. Antigua began to mutter: “We’s lost. I knowed it. The only place you leading us be grief and woe,” until Ned told her to hush up.

Three turns later, they reached the garden.

“The opening’s in the foundation of the summerhouse,” Sophie whispered as she led them across the shell paths. “Watch out you don’t fall, Antigua — the hole’s pretty near the edge. There’s a bucket in the corner. And be careful crawling in — you don’t want to break any branches.”

Antigua’s only answer was a disgusted “Huh.” But her cheeks glistened wet in the moonlight.

Ned took off for the sugarhouse at a dead run, but Sophie plodded back to the Quarters, keeping to the shadows in case anybody might be looking. When she got to the cabin, Flanders was shoveling down a second bowl of gumbo and Africa was hanging a pair of britches, very wet from the knees down, in front of the fire to dry.

“Well?”

Sophie pulled up her skirt to warm her frozen legs. “I’m pretty sure nobody saw us. She’s safe for the time being. But we cut it mighty close.”

“Ned can move fast when he have to.” Africa sighed. “Flandy, Sophie, you best go to sleep now. Morning shift come mighty early.”

Curled on her pallet, Sophie tried to follow Africa’s advice without success. All she could think about was Antigua under the summerhouse, shivering in the dark on the rotted mattress, listening for dogs. How long would she have to stay there before she could slip away safely? Two weeks? Four? If it rained, would she get flooded out? Catch her death in the cold? And when she did leave, where would she go? Sophie couldn’t see Antigua, somehow, making her way through the swamps alone, steering north by the stars.

These thoughts slid into a dream of Antigua sitting in Miss Tucker’s eighth-grade American History class, bright as a parrot in her sprigged dress and her bright tignon. She was telling Miss Tucker that the Underground Railway had the most comfortable seats she’d ever sat in, and all the free hot chocolate you could drink. And then the bell rang for the end of class and the dream vanished as Sophie woke to the plantation bell telling the morning shift that it was dawn and time to get up and make sugar.

“You don’t know nothing about Antigua,” Africa told Sophie. “Anyone ask, she came and ate supper with us and went back to Miss Liza. She came to see how Canny was keeping, and that’s all, you hear?”

The next day was endless. Filtered through the fog of her exhaustion,
nothing seemed quite real to Sophie — not the long walk through the half-harvested cane brakes, not the chill, damp wind that cut through her dress, or the sudden furnace heat of the sugarhouse. Not even Mr. Akins, who grabbed her shoulder while she was doggedly skimming the blanket and shouted, “Where’s Antigua at, wench?”

Sophie jumped. “Don’t know, Mist’ Akins, sir,” she said in her best field-hand voice. “Ain’t she over to Oak Cottage?”

“No, she ain’t, as you know just fine. She’s run away.”

Sophie gaped at him. “She has? Antigua? Whoo-ee. Africa going to create when she hear that. You sure, Mist’ Akins?”

He thrust her from him with a snort of disgust and strode back toward the platform, shouting to Ned that Dr. Charles wanted to talk to him. A little while later, she saw Mr. Akins hustling Ned out of the sugarhouse and scowling like a mad bull. Despite the heat, Sophie shivered. What was going to happen to Ned? To Africa? To Flanders and Poland? What was going to happen to Antigua, waiting alone under the summerhouse with nothing to do but think about getting caught?

Betty’s wide dark face appeared beside her. “Drink this, child.” She pressed a dipper into Sophie’s hands. Sweet, cool water trickled into her mouth, and the buzzing in her ears faded a little.

“There be grief and trouble over to Africa’s,” Betty said sympathetically. “Ain’t nobody run away from Oak River since Old Massa day. Bad times is coming. I can smell it.”

When Sophie got back from her shift that afternoon, the door was shut, and the homespun curtains drawn tight over the windows. Something was wrong.

Sophie slipped through the gate and around the cabin to the cistern, turned the wooden bucket bottom side up, and stood on it to listen at the window. She heard Africa, speaking softer than usual and slower — her white-folks voice. And then Mr. Akins, harsh as a steam engine.

“Won’t do them no harm to set in the smokehouse for a day or three,” he said. “Might even do some good, if they tell me where that blamed girl of yours has got to.”

“They can’t tell what they don’t know, Mr. Akins.”

“They know. And so do you. Listen here, wench. Miz Fairchild wants that girl found. She leave it to me, I’d whip all you lying niggers till you tell me where she’s at. But Miz Fairchild, she won’t hear of it, and Dr. Charles seem to think nobody can’t run that ’vaporator well as Ned. So I’ve locked your menfolks in with the bacon to smoke it out of ’em. Now I’m telling you what I told them. It’ll be easier on your girl if she give herself up than if the dogs find her.”

Heavy boots clomped toward the door. Sophie jumped off the bucket and crouched behind the cistern until Mr. Akins was gone, then ran into the cabin where Africa was in Ned’s chair with her apron up to her face.

Sophie knelt down and put her arms around her. “Mr. Akins is hateful. I’m surprised Old Missy puts up with him.”

Africa wiped her eyes. “Mr. Akins ain’t nothing but Old Missy’s mean dog. He bite folks so she can keep her name as a kind mistress.” She shook her head. “Don’t mind what I say, sugar. I’m just thinking on my poor baby all alone in the cold and the dark. And my man and my boys in the smokehouse. I don’t know where to turn, and that’s the truth.” She sucked her lips against her teeth to still them.

“Why don’t I go see Antigua tonight?” Sophie said eagerly. “I can take her candles and some food.”

Africa put an arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “You’re sure enough the best one to go when the time comes. But Mr. Akins is likely to keep a watch on us tonight.” She gave her a quick squeeze. “Don’t look so sad. Antigua knows it got to get worse before it get better. It won’t help her if we lose heart. Go and see if Canny’s awake.”

Canny was not only awake, but feverish. Africa gave her a dose of willow bark and prepared her herbal bath. As she sponged Canny’s burns, the cabin was quiet except for her soft chanting. Sophie sat on the floor by the fire with the baby asleep on her lap, watching the light dance on the stars in Yemaya’s vévé and feeling oddly peaceful.

After a while, Africa came out of the back room and took the lid off the iron pot. “Put the baby down, sugar, and go pull me some okra and a handful of peas. This gumbo’s thinner than Uncle Germany’s hair.”

Dark was closing in earlier every night, and the air was frosty. It was the near the end of November — almost Thanksgiving, Sophie thought. Though that didn’t mean they’d get a feast, or even a day of rest. Grinding season didn’t stop for anything.

As Sophie moved between the plants, searching for what Africa wanted by feel, her skirts brushed against the herbs planted everywhere, releasing their sharp or dusty or green scents into the damp air. Sophie touched the
gris-gris
bag around her neck. For some time, she’d been wanting to ask Africa about the vévés, the doll, the chanting, to find out more about the old man and the queen she’d dreamed of while she was sick. But Africa had been busy or she had been too tired, and somehow the questions had never been asked.

Cradling her harvest in her apron, Sophie ran back inside. “Africa, I need to ask you something. Can you tell me about Papa Legba and Yemaya?”

Africa looked up from chopping onions, eyes wide with surprise. “Tell you what, sugar? Seeing as how they take such a particular interest in you, I thought for sure your mama must be a
voodooienne,
teach you the mysteries of the Orishas before you could walk.”

Sophie had to laugh. “Mama thinks voodoo is superstitious nonsense.”

“You mama’s a mighty foolish woman, then. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Sophie said. “I thought I saw somebody when I was sick, but it I guess it could have been a dream. Who is Yemaya, Africa?”