The Loom (32 page)

John dashed through barren fields of corn near the main road toward Dorchester. He flew into the deepest part of the forest and ran for hours. He knew the path, had traveled it too many times, and even under the starless sky, finding it impossible to see what was in front of him, he moved north with confidence.

For hours, he ran and knew he was now close to the Kelly plantation. His muscles tensed when he heard horses and the sound of a carriage approaching. Had they heard him? He ducked farther into the woods.

His arms swung with power, propelling his body over stone and stubble with ease until he was several miles from the sound.

Safe, he made a place in the dirt against a tree. He hadn’t realized how cold and how tired he was until now, his tendons throbbing under the stress. Within minutes he felt his head nod, nodding. A little rest would do him good.

What was that? Rustling. Dead leaves blowing. Were they blowing or was something, someone—

He didn’t even have time to complete the thought before he heard feet too close for him to stand, for him to think. A sheet was dropped over his head and he was dragged—punching and kicking—away.

Captured like an animal.

Scratching at the inside of the tarp, John wondered how much air he had left in the back of the wagon, how much longer he’d be able to survive.

He’d spent more time trying to stay alive than he did living any day. It was the main task of the Colored.

He flailed against the cloth that kept him from the outside world.

Tonight he was an animal. A beast in their eyes. A fearful, angry brute that needed to be tamed. Anger and sadness rode with him, one leading, then the other.

“Speak up, boy. You hear me, boy? You better move, boy.” The man in the plaid jacket had spoken the words as sharp as the blade he’d flicked. One thing he knew for certain, had confirmed in some twenty-plus years, he was by no means a boy. None of the captives were. Not ever. They were born grown, staring death, hopelessness, and fear in the face the first day their eyes began to focus.“Watch your back.” “Pay attention.” “Can’t trust nobody.” These were the sayings breathed into the slave spirit, hovering over every experience. But there was something more.

Deep down, buried under the heaviness, far beneath the wounds, there was this thing. For many years, John couldn’t explain it.

It was mysterious. A presence. A sense. He felt it special when the old folks prayed. Somewhere between the bowed head, the whispering and swelling of the lyrical call to the One, the pleading requests and the bleeding hearts laid out in the altar of the henhouse, the beating on the breast and the river of tears, somewhere in the midst, between the gratefulness of making it through another day and the “amen,” he felt it, knew something was there, even as a child.

Peace.

Sweet, sweet peace. Peace was the only hope, the only friend of the slave. It was what carried them through the day. It flowed in the downbeat of the songs they hummed, made joy swing in the upbeat.

John thought of the mothers. Though only one suckled him, many had saved him. Only one had pushed him into this present life, but many had birthed him into a place still and sweet that kept him from losing his mind. Because of the love of so many, he had made it. He had not been broken. He was not shattered because someone spoke a word, someone uttered a prayer, someone somewhere believed in him and carried him when he couldn’t carry himself. At some place along the journey he got planted and rooted in peace.

Caged and trapped in body, he squeezed his eyes shut, capped off the hurt, shut out the noises, and he prayed, hard, deep, and real, pulling every weight up and out of his tears, until his vision hazed and his fingers wiped fat lids. He cried for every lie, and he wept for the truth. In many ways, they were right. He was nothing. He didn’t have the strength, the ability, to fight on his own. But he didn’t have to. Because something deep on the inside strengthened.

His heart filled with warmth and that peace that used to graze him, that would float away moments after the tune was hummed, remained, strong and steady, the presence of God in him. Jesus. He called the name, until, layer after layer, he was clothed safe enough to fall asleep on the bumpy road to wherever.

Jackson stood in his undershirt and trousers at the front door, whispering airy clouds of breath.

“Can’t be too far on foot.”

Lydia tried desperately to hear all the words exchanged, but the night air was making the house unbearably cold. How Jackson could stand it with nothing on his arms, she had no idea, because it drove her quickly out of its way, made her hurry to her room, just to get her blood moving.

The tapping of her heels against the wood floor whipped his head around.

“Caroline, what are you doing?” His voice was stern. “You need to stay off your feet after that fall.”

She started to explain, but he turned back to the voices on the other side.

When he leaned against the frame, the door opened wider and she saw Rex and Henry. Rex’s eyes widened.

She marched to her quarters and held her breath. A few minutes later when the bedroom door flung open, a red-faced Jackson scanned the room.

“Rex and Henry need to speak to you.”

“About what?” She cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice from shaking. It wasn’t the only thing disclosing her fear. She propped her trembling hand against the bed for support.

“Caroline…”

“Can’t we do this tomorrow? It’s late, Jackson. It’s been a long day for all of us.”

“And our night will end as soon as you speak to my men.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“What do they want with me?”

“Caroline, they’re just trying to find answers. None of us is happy about what happened.”

“I’ll talk to them tomorrow.” She turned away.

“You think this is some kind of game?” He grabbed her, locked his hand around her arm, but his breathing was slow, controlled. “One of my boys got hurt. We need answers. Now.”

“Please, Jackson.” She didn’t want to push him. “I promise. I will talk to them tomorrow. It was some day for me.”

She witnessed the moment he relinquished. He nodded. Even still, he was not one to dismiss. She knew that. All too well.

Every step to the foyer lit Jackson angrier and angrier. He wanted that boy as much as they did. Henry stood against the front door, his arms folded above his bulging belly. Rex paced, his shoulders in two sharp points under his shabby coat. He turned to Jackson.

“Where is she?” His eyes were wild, like a cougar ready to strike.

“She’s not coming.”

“What do you mean, she’s not coming?” Rex’s brows drew into a single line.

“I mean, she’s tired.”

“Tired?” Rex’s tone grated Jackson’s nerves. He hoped he got it under control real soon. For Rex’s sake.

“Yes.”

“Why is she so tired?”

“Don’t you concern yourself about what’s going on under my roof. What did you want to speak to her about, anyway?”

“How well you know this Caroline, Jackson?” Henry inquired.

He was getting hot.

“Well enough to know you’d better leave it alone.”

“So she’s too tired to talk to us.”

“I hate to tell you this, my friend, but she looks like the girl we saw last night with that boy.” Henry looked down.

“What?” The words seared through him. “Are you out of your mind?” Jackson suppressed every swear, held down every curse under his tongue. Impossible.

“I’m not saying she is. Just from the side. We only got to see a little of her from the side.”

“I don’t care how you saw her, it wasn’t Caroline. Are we clear on that?” He had no idea where she was. He hadn’t even been around. But he knew who to ask, knew exactly how to find out.

“Let’s see what she says.” Rex spat. “We’ll know right away if she’s lying.”

And they would. She was a terrible liar. He wanted to know the truth, too, but he didn’t want to face the shame in front of his boys. No, this he needed to find out alone.

“I said she’s tired.”

“Tired, huh?” Rex rose up against him. Whiskey blasted in his face. “You sure she’s not tired from running around with that boy?”“You better watch your mouth, I swear.” He was a trigger away…one trigger away…

“I want to speak to her, Jack! She’s not even your wife! What difference does it make?”

“All right, that’s enough.” Henry muscled between the men. “We’re all tired. Jackson, hold it down here tonight for us. Maybe we can talk to her in the morning. We’ll be back first thing.”

“I want to talk to her now!”

“Come on, Rex. We need to respect the man’s house.” Even Henry was losing patience. He patted Rex’s back. “It’s getting late. Let’s get out of here. Don’t worry. We’ll talk to her.”

The three of them stepped out onto the porch.

“Tomorrow,” Jackson said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. She’d better have been where she was supposed to be or they might not ever get the chance to talk to her—if he got a hold of her first. It was cold. Awful cold. He wished he had grabbed his coat. “Tomorrow,” Henry nodded.

Rex murmured under his breath.

“What’d you say?” Jackson leaned forward, fuming. They had him out in the cold, dealing with this mess.

“I said, better be. It better be tomorrow.”

“Or?”

“Or I don’t know who might get cut next.”

“That’s funny.” Jackson howled. “That’s real funny. You think I’m worried about being cut? Tell you the truth, I’m not worried about none of it.” Come on, take the bait. Give me a reason to whip you! “It’s not my problem.”

“It’s not your problem?” Rex chuckled, his breath hovering like smoke in the air. He moved in front of Henry and stepped in close to Jackson’s face, inches from the tip of his nose.

“Oh, it’s your problem, Jackson. I think it’s your problem, especially. You better hope your girl’s not tired from something else she was doing with that coon.”

Before Jackson could raise his fist, Rex slammed into him and punched him in the throat. Jackson bit his tongue and felt his mouth fill with blood. He lunged into his friend with all his might. The force sent Rex staggering back, knocking Henry off balance.