The Girl in the Maze (25 page)

Martha took a wooden saucer holding a short beeswax candle and a pasteboard box containing a poultice Lady Albertha had prepared and went into the small bathroom. She closed the door. No mirror; just a basin, vanity, and toilet.

She put her things down and pulled the drenched white dress up over her head. The clammy fabric clung to her skin. She wrung the dress out in the sink and dropped it onto the floor. She stood on the woven rug in her bare feet and took the towel and dried her shriveled skin and her hair, her armpits, the bottoms of her feet. Then she sat on the toilet and carefully crossed her leg and inspected her gunshot wound. It looked like a blood-rimmed crater, crusted, surrounded by a halo of yellow and then purple. She took the poultice, a folded square of hemp loaded up with a clear, gelatinous salve, and applied it to the wound. The salve felt cool against her fevered flesh. She tied it in place with a band of muslin.

The storm whirred and moaned outside, and the candle flame wavered. Martha stood and took a quilted robe from a hook on the back of the door and put it on and tied the sash. It felt heavy and enveloping. She sat on the toilet for a moment and crossed her arms, took hold of her shoulders and shut her eyes. The voices outside—murmuring, howling, angry. They knew her respite was temporary.
We don't have a lot of time—
Lady Albertha had said that. What about Jarrell? Was there anyone left at all? She knew that if she lingered a moment longer she would begin to pity herself. She couldn't afford that luxury. She stood, picked up the candle, and returned to the sitting area.

“Are we going to die tonight?” Martha stopped at the end of the settee and held on to it to steady herself.

Lady Albertha puffed on her pipe, cradled the lacquered bowl in her palm, and rocked. In the candlelight, she looked like an antique doll.

“I'm sorry, child, but the dyin' ain't over tonight. Not yet. What's gonna happen has got to happen. But you must don't be afraid. You bein' looked after.”

“Looked after? By who? Why?”

“You bein' looked after, so you can take care of the child. Take a seat over there on the long-chair, now, and listen to what I got to tell you.” Martha came around the settee and sat. Albertha put her pipe on a wooden cradle on the table, then leaned forward and lifted a square of burlap from the center of the table.

Underneath, small bones were scattered across a crude design burned into the tabletop—a circle divided into four quadrants. The bones appeared to be those of animals; there were six or seven of them, clean yet discolored, like the keys of an old piano. One was thin and sharp, another rounded and cleft, like a knucklebone, and another was a sharp tooth, maybe the incisor of a predator.

“Six day ago, come middlenight, I threw these here bones,” Albertha said. “I haven't moved 'em a touch since then. This is the final message.” Albertha reached across the table. “Give me your hand, child.”

The old woman took Martha's pale fingers and lowered them toward the tabletop until her fingertips rested against the osseous surfaces.

“Gently, now, gently,” Albertha said. “Don't be afraid. Close your eyes, feel how they lay. Touch until you can see all of them in your head, a complete picture, and see if you can know what that picture is telling you.”

It didn't take long; visions came easily to Martha. Behind her closed eyelids she saw the afterimage of the bones, changing, moving now, floating together in a dark miasma. Gradually, other shapes joined them, animal and human bones, tree roots and shells, crab claws, chains, wagons.

Martha felt herself about to fall, drawn into the vortex. Albertha's voice broke in, tugging her back from the edge.

“What do you see, child?”

“A whirlpool, or a storm. A storm full of water, and things. A lot of dead things.”

Albertha released Martha's hand and leaned back in the rocker. She lifted the pipe, parted her ample lips to receive it. “Mmmhmm,” she said at last, nodding and puffing. The bowl brightened. “I been pickin' up such signs for weeks. I dream for six nights about muddy water, I hear the owl hootin' up by the cemetery. The acorns fell early this year. And then I threw these bones at middlenight of the last full moon, and soon as I felt how they lay, I knew it was time. Them spirits has got to have their say.”

“What about the child? Is it going to be all right?”

“I'll get around to that directly. There ain't much time left, and I've got things to tell you, things about this place, things about Shell Heap, that need to be spoke. Sometimes a fever won't end until you puncture the wound. You got to let the sickness out, let it drain.”

Albertha took several quick puffs on the pipe, pulled at the stem, then took it from her lips and held it, arms crossed.

“Now, listen. Forget about all that rain and darkness out there. Let your mind travel back, a hundred year ago, and picture a day in sunhot August month. A clear day, no cloud in the sky, no breeze to stir the grass. The sun up in the sky like a burnin' coal. Can you see it, child?”

Martha closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. All she could picture were swirling bones, water, night.

Albertha leaned forward. “Here, take this possum tooth in your hand and try again.”

Martha closed her fingers around the cuspid, shut her eyes. She began to think of heat, humidity, fields of cane.

“Can you feel the sun burning down?”

Martha nodded.

“And now, in that bright light, picture a man with skin as black as night. A man handsome as the devil hisself.”

Martha imagined dark, glistening skin. “He's sweating?”

“That's right. The sweat be rollin' down his back and shoulders, like dew. He's standin' on a wood stump, feet bare, his pant cuffs is torn and ragged, his wrists is bound up in chain. Can you see it?”

“I think so.”

“That man right there was a slave name of Sattu Grundei. Like most of us, he was brung over here from Sierra Leone. But now he's in a new land and got a new name. The white folks call him Sam.

“Now, picture another man standing nearby, a shorter man. He's white and got a small mouth, thin lips and horn-rim glasses. To him, the man on the stump is a piece of property, a thing to be bought and sold, no different from a horse or piece of land.

“But even there, with the chains and the sweat and no shade from the sunhot, the man on the stump is the real boss. Because he's so full up with the mojo that no man can lay a shadow on his spirit.

“Now, a slave like Sattu ought to be worth some money, but his owner, Mistah Clyde Tarrant, can't get no decent price for the man. Sattu is dangerous, you see. Not just 'cause of his strength and smarts, but 'cause he's a natural-born leader. He stirs the big passion in his fellow slaves, things every slave owner want to keep a rein on.” Albertha leaned back, her chair rocking slightly. “You markin' all this down, now, in your head?”

“Yes,” Martha said. “Every word.”

The roof creaked and the shelves jostled, rattling the herb jars, as though some great beast had slumped against the side of the building.

“Now, Mistah Tarrant had a strong pocket in that day. He run one of the mos' prosperous rice plantations around these parts. He run it from the great house, a fine place that onetime stood near the end of the big road. The house ain't there no more, 'cept for some tabby ruins.”

Martha thought back, remembered her view from the window of her room at the Pritchett House. Squares of shell-encrusted stone, overgrown with grass.

“Mistah Clyde's was a grand place, for true. A big empty mansion, but like the owner, it was a little bit formal and cold. That place had yet to know the commotions of family life.”

“Did he have a wife?” Martha asked.

Albertha nodded. “She were a moonface gal name of Abigail Thomas. Hair like goldenrod. Weren't but sixteen year when she was sent over to become his lawfully lady. He wanted someone to help oversee the affairs of the household while he managed the crops, and also to take away his loneliness.

“Well, from the git-go Mistah Clyde and Mistress Abigail didn't mix together so good. That gal was a wildflower. Orphan child, whose parents was took by the yellow fever. She like to flash 'bout alltime, make trouble. And Mistah Clyde, he was jes the opposite. He was a fussy and orderly man, and their differences caused them to fight like roosters in a pit.

“But they had one thing in common—all two wanted children more than anything on this Earth. They wanted to fill that great big house with laughter and games and tears and joy. But two years crawled by, and them wishes went unanswered. Some folks say that bout with yellow fever had left Mistress Abigail for barren. That would happen sometime, in that day.

“So there Mistah Clyde was, stuck with a gal-child he cherished but could not tame. And Mistress Abigail was bored and lonely and no-account.

“And then come along this other problem I mention earlier, that slave name of Sattu Grundei. A slave Mistah Clyde could neither sell nor keep. His very presence in the fields inspired acts of mischief and gummed up the workings of Tarrant Plantation. Mistah Clyde had tried everything, but it became clear that Sattu's spirit and power could not be broken by the whip, or by confinement, or any of those ways that slave owners used in that day to racktify hope and replace it with blind obedience.

“Now, for all that, Mistah Tarrant weren't an especially mean man, nor a cruel man. He was jes practical. So, what to do with this valuable piece of property for which he'd spent top dollar at the Savannah auction, but had brought nothing but trouble to his fields?” Albertha paused.

“I don't know,” Martha said.

“I'll tell you what he did. One day he come home after a day of supervising the harvest, bone-weary, and his lawfully lady had got into a game of sticks and balls with several of the young slave children. She done got herself filthy playing with them in the yard, and the housekeepers were sittin' by, watching and laughing. Meanwhile, things had not got done in the big house. The cook fire had gone out, the wash weren't done. They say Mistah Clyde was mighty het up that day, looked like he might explode. But he didn't. Instead, Mistah Clyde got hisself a plan.”

Outside, the wind roared like an engine. Martha heard something thump and rattle against the wall.

“Afternoon next, the great house staff was all brung together in the main parlor for an announcement. Mistress Abigail was there, and so was Maum Libby and Daddy Major. Them two was head servants of that household. Now, Daddy Major was Mistah Clyde's most loyal slave. But Mistah Clyde told them that Daddy Major was gettin' up there in years, and soon it would be time for him to retire. And Mistah Clyde had done picked out a replacement. Then two of his strongest slaves brung Sattu Grundei into the room. Sattu was all cleaned up from the fields, dressed in trousers and a waistcoat. Mistah Clyde said he was promotin' Sattu to the highest position a slave could aspire to on a plantation, that of head servant. Same-time, he said, Mistress Abigail would have a new role—she would teach Sattu how to run the big house, with oversight by Daddy Major. Sattu would become her new project.

“Now, you might think that was a mighty big risk for Clyde Tarrant, bringing a man like Sattu into his household. But he had two of his strongest and most loyal slaves there alltime, to watch over the training and make sure there weren't no trouble. And he figured Sattu might settle down once he was taken away from the misery of the fields.

“As you might expect, this here project did not go smoothly at first. There was broken dishes and arguments and outright stubbornness. But it weren't too long before everybody got themselves wound up in the task, good-fashion. And for the first time since he had arrived on this new soil, Sattu started to play ball. Because now, you see, he had a window into the world of the white folks. He could learn their ways, find out about their inventions. With enough knowledge, he figured, he could get the high hand.

“Of course, learning the basics of table settings and household management weren't nothin' for Sattu. That was taken care of quick-fashion. But Sattu had a powerful mind that was hungry for knowledge, so he asked 'nuff questions, and Abigail fixed answers, as best she could. He was curious about how clocks worked, and what made the water flow easy from the spigots, the inner workings of sewing machines, kerosene lamps, and the like. But most of all he was curious about books. Come about, he persuaded Mistress Abigail to take one of the volumes from the glass case in the parlor, and show him the words and pictures.

“Mistress Abigail also took down Mistah Clyde's atlas and showed Sattu all the maps. She showed him the shape of Africa, his homeland, and the route the ship had taken 'cross the sea to bring him to this new land. He would point to the tiny words in the pages of the book, and even though so doing was to break the law, she told him their secret meanings.

“Pretty soon, Sattu persuaded Mistress Abigail to start having private sessions. She would teach him in the parlor, in the middle of the day, behind closed doors, when Mistah Clyde was out managing the business of the plantation. 'Course, this weren't no secret to the big house staff, who would alltime listen at the door, ears pressed against the wood. But they all kept their mouths closed, even Daddy Major, who gave every day reports to Mistah Clyde about the occurrences of that household. And Sattu and Mistress Abigail both came to enjoy their sessions in that parlor, with Sattu learnin' new things and Abigail delightin' in his progress.

“So the weeks wore on, and Mistah Clyde noticed the progress that was bein' made. Calm and focus had returned to the fields, but even more so Mistah Clyde noticed a change in his lawfully lady. For the first time, Mistress Abigail seemed happy. Part of him felt that maybe this project had gone too far—maybe she getting too caught up with Sattu. But he had his everyday reports from Daddy Major, and she was more loving, more passionate with him in bed than ever before. Mistah Clyde even began to have hope that she might finally beget a child for him.”