by Rita Woods
A black man passed close by, a three-foot-long alligator tucked beneath one arm. He touched a finger to his cap.
“Mornin’,” he said in English.
Abigail nodded, eyeing the twitching reptile suspiciously. “Bonjou.”
The man disappeared into the crowd, and Abigail turned her attention back to the disembarking passengers. Across the narrow wooden walkway, a thin, beautifully dressed quadroon served coffee to customers in white china cups. Suddenly, Abigail felt the hair rise on her arms. Lurching from her resting place, she jerked her head back and forth, scanning the crowded booths, the shadows beyond the stacked crates and heavily piled wagons. She saw no sign of the old woman and her companion, but they were there, somewhere in the crowd, watching her. She could feel them.
Something caught her eye.
Passengers were descending from the ship closest to her. It was a fine vessel, small but well fit out, its sails furled neatly against the masts. A man was slowly making his way down the gangplank. His face was hidden beneath his hat, but there was something familiar about him.
Abigail forced her way down the pier, heart quickening. I know him, she thought, I know this blanc. She reached the end of the gangplank and planted herself in front of him.
“Pardonnez-moi,” said the man, head still down, as he stepped around her.
Abigail froze and she watched as the man began to walk up the pier. In a moment, he would disappear into the crowd. Two black freedmen passed between them, the thick bundles of tobacco slung across their shoulders momentarily blocking him from view. Her paralysis broken, she ran after him, the satin filled satchel for the dressmaker bouncing against her thigh.
“Mét,” she called. “Monsieur.”
But the man didn’t turn. He was moving quickly, his hat pulled low, barely seeming to register the crowd around him. At the street he stopped, waiting for a break in the heavy traffic.
“Monsieur,” she called again. “Monsieur Dreyfus.”
The man raised his head and when he turned, Abigail let out a cry.
It was André Dreyfus, the friend of her master. But it was an André Dreyfus terribly changed. The Jew was nearly skeletal, his blue eyes blank. A horrible scar deformed the left side of his face. An eye patch covered one eye.
“Je suis Abigail,” she said, speaking French. “Abigail, Monsieur. You know me, yes?”
The white man blinked, then raised his face to stare silently into the sky. He seemed to be having problems standing upright. She grabbed his sleeve to steady him, and he brought his eyes down to meet hers.
“Abigail?”
“Wi, Mét.”
André Dreyfus nodded and made as if to cross the street, to walk away. Abigail grabbed hold of his sleeve once again.
“Monsieur Dreyfus, please,” she cried. “What has happened to Far Water? What has happened to my sons?”
Far Water.
At the name, Dreyfus’s face cleared, and for the first time he seemed to truly see her.
“Abigail?”
“Wi.”
“Abigail.” His eyes began to fade again and she shook him hard.
“Monsieur Dreyfus, what of Far Water?” she pleaded. “Monsieur Rousse. Mes enfants. You remember? Claude? Henri? You called them lovely? You remember, wi?”
Her voice was shrill as she clutched the front of his stained waistcoat in her fist. People had begun to stare.
Dreyfus’s mouth worked but no sound came out. “Far Water,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “Far Water is no more.”
Her heart seemed to stop in her chest and she forced herself to say the next words. Because she had to know, had waited all these long months to know. “Petit mwen yo,” she murmured. “Mes fils? What of my babies?”
He looked at her for a long moment, his one good eye bright with tears. “I am sorry,” he said at last. “I am so very sorry.”
There was a roaring in her ears. The satchel slipped from her fingers, pale blue fabric spilling out into the mud. Dreyfus stroked his eye patch and stared at the cloth, his expression confused.
“Mes enfants,” she shrieked. “My babies. He promised. He promised to look after them. He said they would be safe. You are liars! You are all liars.”
She would have thrown herself at him them, would have torn at his ruined face, but suddenly the strange black man was there, the old woman’s companion. He grabbed her from behind, holding her as easily as if she were a child as she flailed and howled her rage, her grief.
Sailors, teamsters, merchants stared, but no one approached.
“I am so sorry,” murmured André Dreyfus again. He turned and shuffled across the street, vanishing into the crowd that was heading upriver toward the market.
The big man held her until she was spent. When he released her, she stood silent in the mud, staring numbly at the wide swatch of blue satin splayed in the road, her mind empty of everything except a quivering, bright hot pain.
Someone took her hand. She looked up and into the face of the old woman with the long braid who smiled kindly. She smelled sweet: of sugar and cinnamon.
“Come,” she said softly. Her voice was deep and she spoke French with an odd lilting accent.
“I am called Simona,” said the old woman in her singsong French. “And this is Josiah.”
Abigail glanced at the man. Up close he was even taller. His thick black hair was pulled back with a leather tie, and he wore a bracelet of red and white beads around one dark wrist. She looked at his face and inhaled sharply. Both of his eyes were covered with a thick white film, and though he stared at a point just beyond her shoulder, it felt as if he were peering deep into her being.
“Come,” Simona said again.
Abigail shook her head. She had to get back to the town house. Madame would be waiting for her.
“No,” said the old woman, as if reading her mind. “There is nothing there for you now. That part of your life is forever gone. You come with us now.”
She wrapped a warm hand around Abigail’s wrist and began to lead her across the street. Abigail allowed herself to be pulled away from the market, toward the back of the town, where the streets petered out into thick forests and dark bayou.
“Where?” she asked finally. She felt as if she were dream-walking. “Where are we going?”
Simona stopped and turned to face her, touching her face. Abigail felt a shiver of warmth. “We are taking you to the place you have been traveling toward forever. So that you can learn.”
“Learn?”
“What you are. What you can do.” Simona grinned toothlessly at the bewildered expression on her face. “Ah, chére. You have no idea.”
Abigail had a sense that she had seen all this, heard it all before. The road where they walked seemed to split apart, then melt back into itself, but not quite, the edges blurred, askew.
“When all is done you will have nothing else to fear from this world, but the world will have much to fear from you.”
Behind them, Abigail heard Josiah laugh.
Gaelle
“Girl, what in the world is the matter with you?”
Gaelle looked down. The carafe she’d been filling for coffee had overflowed, and water was pooling on the floor around her feet like a small lake.
“Méd,” she swore, grabbing a handful of paper towels.
“What is going on with you, Guy? I thought we agreed you’d stay home until your ‘dizziness’ passed.” Toya’s tone was light, but the worry in her voice was clear.
“That is not it.” Gaelle stopped sopping up the water and rooted through her purse until she found the letter. She thrust it at her friend.
The letter Beck Gardner had left was little more than charred scraps of paper—she tried to put that out of her mind—so she’d spent the morning and most of the afternoon ransacking her apartment for any evidence of the other letters the new owner said he’d sent. Finally, just before dark, she’d found them, mixed in a pile of papers meant for r
ecycling. She sat on the kitchen floor, her back against the stove, reading them over and over until long after midnight, when she’d fallen into a fitful sleep. Hours later, she woke, curled on the floor, feeling achy and punch-drunk. She managed to dress and get to work on time only out of long habit.
“Shit,” said Toya behind her.
“Yes, shit.”
“Man.” Toya sighed. “Why’s it always got to be so hard for folks like us? We scratch and save and work and go without, and the world just still comes along and kicks us right in the teeth.”
She stared down at the paper in her hands, her lips pressed in a hard line.
Gaelle stood, blinking back tears.
“Sweetie, you’re okay.” Toya tossed her head and forced a bright smile. “It’s gonna be alright. You know you got a place at my house anytime. And Rose, too. I’ll just throw those boys out in the garage. House’ll smell better anyway.”
Gaelle threw her arms around her and squeezed hard.
“Oh, lord! Get off now,” cried Toya, pushing her away with a laugh. “You’re making me sweat with your hot self.”
“It is going to be okay, sweetie,” she said again. “I promise. We ain’t got much, but we survive. It’s what we do, right?”
She gave Gaelle’s hand a quick squeeze. The two aides put on their badges.
“Oh, and don’t forget those Joint Commission certification folks start comin’ in today. Boss lady is runnin’ around here losin’ her damn mind.”
Gaelle groaned. The entire facility had been on edge for weeks. How could she have forgotten that the state inspectors would be on site for the next few days?
Toya grinned. “Yeah, this ain’t turnin’ out to be your week, is it?”
In the hall, Gaelle grabbed her arm. “Mèsi, Toya. You are a good friend.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just be on the lookout for Orr. She is seriously on the war path.”
* * *
A half-dozen inspectors were swarming the facility, the receptionist had called off sick, and the phones had been ringing nonstop. The director of nursing flitted in and out of rooms and around every corner of Stillwater like a rabid squirrel, barking orders, peeking into storage closets, snatching stray pieces of paper from every desktop. At one point, Gaelle passed Toya in the hall. The DON was rooting through Toya’s med cart muttering under her breath. Her friend pantomimed shooting herself in the head as Gaelle hurried away, lips pressed together, to keep from laughing.
She actually liked the DON, despite her constantly harried demeanor. Melody Orr truly tried to do the best by all of the residents. It had actually been her who’d fought to get the mysterious old woman with no name the benefits she needed so that she was allowed to stay in their nursing home.
Near the beginning of the shift, the director of nursing had grabbed her by the arm. “Gaelle, please! Could you man the front desk and answer the phones? We’re just so short-staffed. I’m sure I can get someone to cover your residents.”
Though she would never admit it, even to herself, Gaelle was relieved. She’d felt a stirring of unease all morning at the thought of entering the old woman’s room. All day she fielded calls from relatives asking about their families, hospital social workers inquiring about bed availability, insurance companies seeking additional information. Stillwater Care Facility was in muted chaos, and she was grateful for the distraction.
As the hours wore on, the foggy disbelief that had enveloped her since the day before gradually gave way to a simmering anger. It sat like a hot film on her skin. She would not lose her home again. She would fight. Somehow, she would fight. She had survived the earthquake, the loss of her family. This was nothing.
Survive.
Like Toya said, it’s what they did.
It wasn’t until a woman named Angie came to replace her that she realized the day had passed. Toya and nearly all of the early shift had already left for the day, and Stillwater was finally settling down. After signing the messages over to Angie, she headed to the lounge for her coat. She would not tell Rose about the letter, she decided, not yet. Not until she figured out what she was going to do.
The hallways were quiet as she headed for the door. The inspectors were gone for the day and the residents were either sleeping or on the other side of the building in the activity room, waiting for dinner.
As she passed the old woman’s room, she slowed. Despite her unease, it felt odd not to have spent time with her. She was about to turn away when she heard an unfamiliar voice coming from inside.
Gaelle frowned. The old woman had never had a single visitor, and except for the staff, no one should have been in there. Warily, she stepped to the door. In the dim light from the hall, she could see a male figure sitting on the edge of the bed. He was bent over the old woman, speaking to her in a low voice.
“Winter, can you hear me? Bad times comin’ and we got to be ready.”
“Excuse me.” Gaelle flicked on the light. “May I help you?”
The man turned slowly to look at her, seemingly unfazed by her appearance at the door. Gently, he laid the old woman’s hand on the bed and stood.
“Good evening.”
“May I help you?” she asked again.
The man smiled. He was late-middle-aged, slightly stooped but still powerfully built. His dark hair was streaked with gray and pulled back from his face with a leather tie. Gaelle took in his expensive jacket, the pipe jutting from one pocket. Despite the dim lighting, he wore darkly tinted glasses.
“My name is Josiah.” He held out a large, work-worn hand, and she took an instinctive step back. There was something unsettling about him. He seemed to radiate a chill that had nothing to do with the December weather.
“I’m looking for the director of nursing,” he said, dropping his hand.
“She is not in here.”
“No,” he said with a chuckle. His voice was thick with the South. “She is certainly not.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m with Joint Commission.” He flashed a card.
Gaelle’s eyes narrowed. Everything about him felt like a lie. She studied him a long moment, then stepped out into the hall. He followed, brushing past her, and once again she felt that unpleasant chill. She glanced into the room, but the old woman seemed no different than usual. The television blared an announcement about a bombing in the Middle East.
“At the very end of this hall, then take a left,” she said finally.
He gave a small bow and turned to walk away.
“Excuse me.”
He turned back toward her.
“A minute ago. Did you call her Winter?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
He grinned. “Because that is her name.”
“What? How can you know that?”
But he walked away as if he hadn’t heard.
Part Three
1852
Remembrance
Winter
Winter woke with a start, heart tripping wildly in her chest. The night had been filled with vaguely remembered nightmares: snarling dogs, screaming children, fire. It clung to her still, mixing with the sweat on her skin, chilling her. She kicked free of her blankets and sat up, feeling jittery and out of sorts.
Crawling from her bedding, she splashed cold water from the basin on her face, in her armpits, pausing for a moment to stare at the reflection that rippled on the water’s surface. Broad face, the color of a pine cone, hair tangled wildly about her head. She tugged at it, trying to separate the matted strands, but it was useless. With a sigh, she pushed one finger into the bowl of soda powder and quickly scrubbed her teeth, then pulled the cloak from the peg near the door. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she stepped into the cold fall morning.
It was barely an hour past dawn and Remembrance was already buzzing with activity. From the highlands far up in the hills that ringed the settlement, the mournful lowing of cows drifted down to her through the trees, punctuated by the high-pi
tched ringing of Thomas’s hammer as he worked the metal in his smithy.
Remembrance.
To Winter, it was simply the place she’d grown up, the only home she’d ever known. But to everyone else who lived here, down to the last man, woman, and child, it was a place of sanctuary. A place where people like her—colored people—could live in peace and safety.
Remembrance.
A place within a place.
Spoken of with a pride mixed with disbelief. A place that should not exist, yet did. A place created by some sort of poorly understood magic. Created by Mother Abigail. Priestess. Practitioner of vodun.
Instinctively, Winter turned to look up the wide, worn trail that led to the highlands. Mother Abigail’s cabin lay nearly at the summit of one of the highest hills, just below the wide, flat clearing where the men worked a few acres of crops and their small herd of sheep and cattle grazed. The priestess’s cabin was no different than all the others in Remembrance, a simple structure of rough wood planks and river stone.
Something’s coming—something big. Something terrible.
The thought came out of nowhere, like a slap in the face, and Winter inhaled sharply as a shiver snaked up her spine. The nightmares seemed to have followed her into the daylight. Clutching her cloak, she sniffed at the air. There was an uncomfortable sensation in the center of her gut, as if the settlement was just the smallest bit off-balance.
With a soft grunt, Winter stepped onto the path, following it as it sloped gently downhill, away from Mother Abigail’s cabin. The air was clean, crisp, the trees glowing scarlet and gold in the muted sunlight. The damp earth felt wonderfully cold beneath her bare feet. She waded into a mound of leaves, inhaling the scent of forest and earth just as Will, the blacksmith’s younger son, passed her, heading toward the highlands. The boy grinned, shaking his head at the sight of her standing shin-deep in wet leaves. By the time she reached the trailhead and entered the clearing for the Central Fire, the feeling of foreboding was fading.
