by Sarah Monzon
Her heart drummed against her ribs at the sight of him, a reaction she was becoming all too familiar with.
Though still wading about the lake, her skin flushed at the nickname he’d given her upon their arrival at the settlement. Pakse. It meant “tomorrow” in Muskogee, only one of the languages many of the Indians in the camp a mile west of theirs spoke. Like the man himself, the nickname he’d chosen for her was a puzzle. One she hadn’t figured out yet. The definition had been easy enough to decipher, as many of the former slaves had learned to speak the natives’ languages as well as some useful Spanish. But what did it mean?
As appreciation for the man grew, she’d imagined the name a code for his intentions. That tomorrow he’d come to their community, like so many warriors had, with the intention of claiming a wife—her. But many tomorrows came and went, and so did Nokosi, never staying or claiming, though she’d found that her heart had started to follow him wherever he went.
“Do you not fear alligators, water moccasins, or an army scout?” Only the tiniest flicker at the corner of his mouth belied his amusement, quickly resettling into his perpetual scowl.
She must have been spending too much time with Martha, because another verse her friend loved to repeat sprang to her mind. Too bad she knew firsthand what man could do to her and that it was worth being fearful of.
“Forgive my laziness.” Winnie ducked her head, hiding her body’s response to him. She retreated from the lake, lowering her skirt as the water line receded down her legs. Once on shore, she picked up her discarded moccasins. “I only wanted a cool down. I’ll be gettin’ back to harvest.”
In his presence, she felt herself a fool. Ever since that day in the woods when her family had stumbled upon Scipio, Nokosi, and the other warriors, she’d been unnaturally drawn to the impenetrable man. Something about the tilt of his jaw and the frame of his shoulders drew her to him. But it was the depth of intelligence in his eyes and the kindness with which he treated her brother that intrigued her beyond all thought.
He seemed to watch her as well. Whenever he visited the Negro settlement, she could feel his eyes on her, as if weighing her spirit in the palm of his hands. His expression remained unreadable, but he didn’t hide his interest. Why then had he not said anything to her father? He must know she’d be agreeable to such a union, and unlike the white men who used black women to satiate carnal desires only, she’d witnessed the love a Seminole warrior could hold for a wife with skin darker than his own.
Winnie made to move past him but stilled when he laid a hand on her arm. She looked up, caught in his gaze like a rabbit in a snare. Too often he had this hold over her. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself in slavery once more, heart voluntarily bound to a man who had not enslaved himself to her as well.
“Pakse, you will wear yourself out with this struggle. It is good to have a spirit strong enough to fight, but equally important to lay down the spear. Life cannot bloom in soil choked by bitter roots.” He let his hand skim down her arm and then drop to his side. “You must forgive at the Green Corn ceremony or all of your tomorrows will be as all of your yesterdays.”
Her skin heated where he’d touched her, but she ignored the sensation. He was yet another person who found it so easy to overlook the offenses done them. But how could she? No white person had ever admitted that their actions against slaves were wrong. If there was no repentance, how could there be forgiveness? Besides, didn’t the Bible also say an eye for an eye? She’d argued that point with Martha once, and her friend had only shaken her head with a compassionate, patient look on her face.
Nokosi pointed to the trail that had led her to the lake. “Come. I’ll see you safely back to the harvest fields.”
Winnie had never seen so many people gathered in one spot. She imagined it must be similar to the masses who flocked to hear the preachers at the tent revivals held in the foothills of Tennessee, but she’d never attended one. Mistress Rawlings had gone with her fancy friends, but considering the fact none of those who’d returned had signed certificates of freedom for any of the men and women they considered their property, Winnie hadn’t put much stock in the event.
She leaned against the post of her chickee and watched as the newest wave of travelers erected their campsite along the square ceremonial grounds. Groups of Seminoles who lived dispersed throughout the territory gathered together to celebrate the new year and to thank Hsaketumese, the Breath Maker, for the firstfruits of harvest.
“Winnie!”
She pushed off the cypress post and headed toward Martha, who waved her arm over her head. The smell of smoke permeated the air as fire pits burned all over the grassland as women baked flat bread made of corn flour, roasted meat over turning spits, and cooked a feast for all from the remaining stores of the previous year’s crops.
“Can you watch the food for a moment?” Martha grabbed Winnie’s hands. “Timothy fell from a tree and is crying for me somethin’ fierce.”
“See to your son.” Winnie picked up the ladle and stirred the contents in the pot. “And give the precious boy a kiss for me,” she called to Martha’s retreating back.
Steam rose, and beads of sweat clinging to her hairline fell and trailed down the side of her cheek. She swiped at the liquid with the back of her hand. Tonight they’d all feast, and then the fasting for the men would begin.
Isaac ambled over to her, his teeth tearing into a piece of bread.
She pressed a hand to her cocked hip. “Where’d you get that? The feast hasn’t even begun yet.”
He grinned around a mouthful. “I got my ways.”
“Mark my words, your ways are gonna see you jumpin’ the broom with Sarah before the year ends.” The potatoes and corn swirled in the boiling water as she trailed the ladle through the vegetables.
Popping the rest of the flat bread into his mouth, he smirked as he chewed. “A pretty gal to call my wife? Can’t think of nothin’ wrong with that.”
“Nothin’ at all.”
“Winnie.” He said her name without a trace of tease, the seriousness and softness as effective as a hand to her chin raising her head. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you bein’ a wife to a lovin’ husband either.”
She swallowed down raw emotion. “Someone would have to want me, Isaac. To ask me to marry him.” No matter how many times she’d caught Nokosi watching her, no matter how hard her heart pumped at his nearness, he’d never once indicated he wanted to take on the role of her husband. “No one has ever spoken such words to me.”
“A man wants a future with his woman, Winnie. As long as you live in the past, what kind of future can he carve out with you? You’ve gotta let it go. Embrace the freedom of life before you instead of clinging to the resentment that still holds you within chains.” He bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek before walking away, whistling a jaunty tune.
Winnie watched him go, dazed by his words. She’d watched the men as they hunted deer once. Instead of tracking the sure-footed animal through the woods, they’d set a large patch of grass on fire and burned it to the ground. They’d bidden their time until new grass started to grow on the darkened earth, and then they waited for the deer to arrive and feast on the young shoots. Some of the beautiful creatures were felled without even a hint that danger lurked so near, but Winnie still remembered the look in one buck’s eye as his head popped up from grazing to spot the warrior with bow and arrow in hand—round, fearful, caught. He knew his options—take a chance and run to the safety the woods afforded, or be as still as possible and hope his predator wouldn’t detect him.
She felt like that buck, caught with nowhere to run.
Everyone made moving on sound so easy—Isaac, Asa, Martha, even Nokosi. But nightmares still visited her under star-flung skies, and memories pricked at a raw heart. There were no woods to which she could flee to find safety, for hadn’t she already run away in search of freedom? But her brother was right. Though her body was now her own to do with as she pleased,
her spirit remained shackled so tight that her soul bled.
Winnie blinked back the heat rushing into her eyes and took a shaky breath. What was she going to do? What could she do?
Martha emerged from behind a group of women, wiping her hands on her apron.
Winnie exhaled, forcing control back into her limbs. “How’s Timothy?”
“A few bruises and scratches, but nothin’ seemed to be broke.” She planted her hands at her trim waist and surveyed their surroundings. “Looks like they’re about to start. Help me carry this to the eating house.”
Using their aprons to protect their hands from the heat of the pot, they each took a handle and carried it to the eating house, where food was piled, the smells all the invitation the people needed to gather about.
Winnie and Martha set down their pot among the other prepared dishes and took a spot in the crowd. Hushed voices threaded through the people standing around the large central eating house. Winnie picked up some of the words spoken in Muskogee and recognized the weave of the English and African language known as Gullah. She detected other dialects but couldn’t understand the meaning.
The mekkos—chiefs—stood under the thatched roof, the feast steaming behind them as they faced the crowd and bowed their heads in respect, every man and woman following their lead. The mood changed from that of anticipation to reverence as a man Winnie hadn’t seen before began to speak.
He gave thanks for the plentiful rain that gave the earth drink. The rays of the golden sun that gave the earth nourishment. The corn and good harvest that would sustain life. For the animals that roamed the land. The men and women who multiplied their numbers. For the goodness in making the forest and trees and the branches that grew shadows for their shelters. For the persons who sang the Great Spirit’s music and those who performed the ceremonies on that occasion.
Heads rose, and people moved to fill their bellies with food. Eating and laughing and giving thanks for the bounty around them even though political tension pulled taut the edges of their existence.
Winnie feared their future as much as she had her past, but as she watched both familiar and new faces smile and laugh and fill their mouths with food, she began to feel as if she were the only one. Everyone else seemed to live in the present. Accept each moment as it came as a gift, neither borrowing nor hoarding up troubles upon themselves. How did they do it? Could she?
Those were the thoughts that kept her company throughout the rest of the night and greeted her bright and early the next morning.
The sun had already crested the horizon by the time she arose. The settlement buzzed like a hive, a contagious anticipation moving about until Winnie herself felt affected by it.
She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and ran a hand down the back of her head. She’d braided her hair in neat rows the night before and was pleased to find it still intact. With a hint of reservation that held her and an equal amount of curiosity that drove her forward, she fell into step with the others and headed in the direction of the ceremonial grounds.
Sometime during the night or early morning, four brush-covered arbors had been erected, one in each of the sacred directions. A group of women huddled off to the side snagged Winnie’s attention. They were bent over, attaching turtle shell rattles to their legs. When they straightened, she saw sticks with ribbons tied to the ends in their hands.
Winnie stepped closer, realizing the landscape of the grounds had changed more than a first glance had witnessed. In the center lay four logs crosswise.
Warmth seeped into her arms and she turned her head, finding Asa and Isaac on one side of her and Martha on the other. All around the grounds people stood, creating a unified circle. No laughter or whispered words carried on the light breeze this morning. Faces, some grim, some at rest, but all serious, stared straight ahead.
Winnie’s thoughts and questions that had interrupted her sleep and awoken her like the crow of a rooster, stilled. A voice other than her own stirred her heart and admonished, Listen and learn.
The same knower that had offered the prayer of thanksgiving the night before stepped into the center of the grounds beside the crisscrossed logs and knelt. With head bowed, he lit a fire under the logs, the small flames growing until they cast an orange hue across his skin. He stood and untied a pouch at his waist, bringing out corn, beans, squash, and meat—the firstfruits of the new crops. The items fell from his hand and into the fire, an offering for their sins.
Winnie watched as women approached the fire with bundles of their own, flinging them into the flames.
Martha leaned over. “They’ve swept out their cook fires and homes. Collected their old clothing and any filth or repulsive thing from their lives and are burnin’ it now. They’ll collect coals from this fire to relight theirs at home. This is their time to begin anew, fresh, without any of the ugliness they’d lived with the past year infectin’ their future.”
Winnie didn’t move, but she pictured herself in that line, in her hands a sack that carried all the revolting things in her heart. The pain and the scars that had so twisted over the last year as to produce anger and hatred enough to murder. She envisioned herself throwing that sack into the flames that wound and danced their way to the sky, the heat eating and purifying until they lifted like ash on the wind and were blown away.
Winnie’s spirit was constantly prodded and pushed for renewal. After the burning of the things of the last year the women wished to cleanse themselves from, they danced the Ribbon Dance—circling the fire, drawing the old year to a close, cutting off the outside world and issuing all into a state of spiritual reflection. The men drank passv, a medicinal tea that purged their systems to prepare them for a new year.
On the third day, men danced the Feather Dance to heal the community. Their fast ended that night, and they washed themselves in the lake Nokosi had found Winnie wading in only two days earlier. Once clean, everyone joined in a stomp dance ceremony, shuffling their feet and moving to the rhythm of the man calling out the song and the woman behind him with shakers on her legs. As each verse around the fire was sung, more and more people joined, stomping their feet as they shuffled forward, answering the singers’ call. Winnie found herself among the dancers, caught up in the swell of community around her, feeling for the first time a kinship to people who, for the last year, had called her sister.
Day four opened with friendship dances at dawn and then games. Winnie declined to participate but reveled in watching a riveting game of stickball played by the men. Isaac and Nokosi were on a team, the two foot-long sticks with racketing on the end an extension of their arms as they ran and tossed a deer-skinned ball stuffed with squirrel hair between themselves and their teammates. After scoring the winning point, Nokosi’s eyes managed to find and trap hers across the three-hundred-foot field. She smiled, hoping he saw that all of her tomorrows would not be like all of her yesterdays.
Chapter 12
Present Day, Florida
It was Adam’s turn to reciprocate. Olivia had offered a diversion at the farmers’ market when he’d been confronted with his own ghost. Now, with the hidden closet door of her past creaking open before her eyes, he was up to bat.
Finally, a metaphor laced with testosterone instead of Disney-princess fairy dust. Those years of babysitting Amber hadn’t ruined him for life. Sigh of relief.
He shot a quick look at Olivia out of the corner of his eye. She had her forehead pressed against the window as she watched the town pass by. Her fingers tapped against her bare knee even though there wasn’t any music playing on the radio. He was tempted to reach over and cover her hand with his but figured the rhythmic movement was her way of releasing any pent-up anxiety.
He returned his focus to the road and readjusted his grip on the steering wheel, not surprised to find his palms sweating. This diversion, while perfect for her, would cost him.
Carrington family game night. Of the millions of families in America, he doubted even less than 10 percent had a desi
gnated game night. Add to the fact the children of the family were grown adults, that statistic must drop significantly. But when his mother got an idea in her head, especially when it concerned her family, there was no dissuading her.
Game night had been a staple in their house growing up but had taken a long hiatus while Trent had played the prodigal son, Michael played G.I. Joe, and Adam had focused on building his law career. But with Trent settled down and planted in the area, Amber attending a local college, and Adam with no excuse but a fledgling food truck, their mother had put her foot down and demanded her flock gather back under her roof. They sometimes Skyped Michael in from England, but with the time difference, that was a rarity. Adam had his suspicions that the motivation behind his mom’s tenacious hold on the idea they all meet at least once a week was based on the fact her youngest now attended college. The thought of an empty nest scared her more than wrestling a gator.
Olivia would fit right in to his family, he had no doubt. Just like he had no doubt that Trent would cock a knowing brow his way. While Adam had plenty of female friends—and not in the way Trent had been fond of using that description—he’d never brought any of them home to meet his family. Not even as just friends. Call him old fashioned, but bringing a girl home to meet Mama was something a guy only did because he was serious about her. Something he’d tried to explain to his playboy brother before Trent had gotten wise and married the best thing to ever happen to him.
Which was why all of Adam’s family, not just his brother, would read way more into him bringing Olivia to game night than it was—a distraction so she could momentarily forget everything that had just been dumped in her lap.
Olivia lifted her head from the window, a small spot on her forehead turning a light shade of pink. “Are you sure your mom isn’t going to mind me crashing her party?”
