“Why is that funny?”
“Because, above all, when faced with death, you regretted such a small thing, a hidden thing—caring for your mother.”
“It wasn’t a small thing.”
“It was not. But the world sees it as small.”
He shrugged. “I suppose so.” He tugged on the sleeve on his wounded side. “You said you would tell me—before I collapsed, I saw that Mosby’s raider shot a hole in your forehead. It couldn’t have been you.”
Bess entered with the service tray, glasses tinkling. She set the tray on the table and poured dark wine in glass goblets beside fragrant bread and cheese. Bess paused and Hept waved her away, knowing that Bess would listen from the kitchen door.
Hept cut bread and cheese for Ammon, then for herself. When she replaced the bread knife, she nicked her thumb. She used the dishtowel, rather than the lace napkin, to staunch a few drops of blood.
He reached out to help, but she waved her other hand at him. Hept said, “We have a bargain. You have given me your name. I will trust you with my secrets, Ammon Granger.”
“Secrets, no.” He held out a hand, palm forward.
She continued before he could protest further, saying each word distinctly, “I know you. I trust you.”
“All right. You can,” he said. “You can trust me.”
“I was shot in the stables, and lived, without a scar.” She took his rough hand in her slim fingers, raising it. She gripped his fingers and ran their tips over her forehead.
“Five years ago, when field hands hired from the Henry farm helped me clear another acre, a rope that bound a stump snapped and lashed my throat. They carried me into the house, bleeding.” She folded the rug back at the corner with a pointed toe and tipped the lantern toward the spot with her free hand. “That is the bloodstain on the floor. Since I did not want my woman to notice my swift recovery, I left a bloodied bandage on my throat, whispered for a week and sold her to a reverend in Tennessee.”
She exposed her throat to him and moved his fingers, tracing along the smooth skin of her neck and jaw. With her other hand, she steadied herself. He wet his lips with his tongue. “Do you feel the scars?” she asked.
“There aren’t any.”
She took his hand and pulled up the hem of her skirt. He pulled his hand back.
She whispered, “It is all right. You must see.” She placed his palm on her bare knee. She looked into his eyes, but he was looking downward at her bronzed leg and lower thigh. “I was thrown from my horse ten years ago. This knee was smashed on a rock, bone ripped through skin. Did you see the scar? Do you feel it?”
He shook his head, his mouth open as he stared.
She took his other hand in both her hands and pulled the skirt’s hem up again, exposing her other knee. She placed his hand there. “Nor any flaw with this leg?”
He passed his shaking hand over her knee. He squeaked a broken syllable. She placed one hand on each of his hands and said, “Look into my eyes, Ammon, Creator of Paths, Hidden Creator of All Things.”
His pupils were gaping wells. His shoulders rose and fell with each labored breath. He said, “Those—those could be tales.”
She whispered, “You do not trust me?”
“I . . .”
She raised her hands, palms up, to him. “Which thumb was wounded by the knife?”
He shook his head slowly, glancing down to the drops of blood on the towel.
“This one.” She placed her thumb on his lips. He kissed it.
The pit of her belly burned for him. He kissed her palm as if feeding from her.
She said, “Do you trust me?”
He whispered, “I do.”
Thunder rumbled from afar, waking Hept. Lying on the divan, she listened to Ammon’s heartbeat against her ear. She planted a single kiss on his breastbone. A sheet covered them—Bess had been stealthy. She was an intuitive slave. How many masters in this age would beat a slave who eavesdropped on their lovemaking and covered them afterward? Bess somehow sensed the customs and views that Hept retained from ancient days.
“Miss Hept!” Bess whispered intently from the kitchen.
“Not now, Bess.”
“Livia from the Randolph farm just woke me up and tole me that a man rode up looking for that Mosby soldier.”
Hept shoved upward from Ammon, minding the healing wound in his side. He roused. “Ammon, love. Mosby’s men are nearby.”
“No,” he whispered. “I should not have stayed so long.” He sat up and began pulling on the loose clothes that Bess had bought from Jim Henry.
“We can leave quickly,” Hept replied. “They may expect us to travel north, so we will cross the Rappahannock to the west. There is no fighting to the south around Charlottesville—they would not expect us to venture in that direction.” She glanced at the clock. Two o’clock—plenty of time before the sun rose.
Hept sent Bess to the cellar to pack supplies, but she would not go at night without accompaniment, so Hept sent Ammon to assist her. Hept went to her room and stuffed a fresh sheet into her carved apothecary box, so that the tins would not rattle and the bottles would not break when placed in the wagon. From her satchel, she drew four vials and one tin of powder to carry in her pockets.
There was a loud knock at the front door. Whoever was there would have seen the light in the bedroom. She took a deep breath. Ammon would not answer the door, but Bess might, and might unknowingly reveal Ammon’s presence. Hept hurried down the stairs.
The lantern illuminated a young man, dressed in dark gray, hat in hand. His beard ended in two points jutting from his chin. “I apologize for calling at this indecent hour. You are Miss Hept Hawthorn?”
“I am. And you are?”
“My name is Chapman, ma’am.”
“Please come in, Mr. Chapman.”
As he walked in, she saw two pistols on his belt. He paused and surveyed the dimly lit room. She placed the lantern on the table.
He said, “You dined in the parlor this evening.”
“Please sit down. The bread is good. I confess my woman is not the best at making cheese, but it is passable. The wine is from the Grayson farm. Their scuppernongs made well last year.”
She leaned over and filled the glass that Ammon had drunk from, spying the pistol grip protruding from Chapman’s boot top. She set the wine down, pointing at his boot with her left hand and reaching into her pocket with her right. She thumbed the cork off a bulbous little bottle. Still pointing to his boot, she said, “Is it safe to carry your gun like that? It must be uncomfortable.”
As he looked downward to his boot, she passed her hand over his wine, dosing it from the bottle. He said, “I reckon that gun in my boot is more comfortable than the grave that a Yankee would shove me in if he bested me.”
She filled her glass and adjusted her bottom on the couch, dropping the bottle behind her as she did so. He raised his glass. “You have my thanks for the refreshments.”
She cut bread and cheese for them and lifted a piece. “You are quite welcome. What brings you to my home at this late hour, Mr. Chapman?” She took a small bite.
“Miss Hawthorne, do you always ask questions that you know the answer to?”
She sipped the wine. A tinkle of breaking glass came from the cellar. Chapman cocked his head. She ran her finger around the rim of her wine glass, making it sing, hoping he would not investigate immediately.
His dark eyes bored into her. He said, “I found your home lit at this ungodly hour, and further, you, an unmarried woman, asked me in and sat with me, unchaperoned. Now I find that you have prepared an excellent morsel for a guest, but there is no guest about.” He smiled and tasted the wine.
“My woman and I work during the night, when it is cooler. It is a habit that we have always observe
d. You may confirm that fact with the slaves from other farms who know her.”
He took a bite of cheese and washed it down. “This cheese is much better than you let on. For whom was my place set? Surely you do not take your meals at the parlor table with your woman.”
“I do. It has ever been our custom. We discuss the management of the house as we eat.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That is a tidy story. But I am afraid it is too unusual for me to credit. Would you mind if I spoke to her? Her name is Bess, isn’t it?”
“You are thorough, Mr. Chapman—you have even taken care to question the neighbors about my slave. She is sewing in her room. We can speak to her now. May I replenish your glass?” She reached for it.
He handed it to her. “No, thank you, ma’am. I must keep my wits about me.”
“Look at me, Mr. Chapman.”
He squinted at her in the lantern light.
She drank the remnants of his wine and whispered, “Eld sfir t’nhali. H’she nens khiw’epta. M’em phot’th.”
“I don’t . . .” he said.
She stared into his eyes and said, “I woke Miss Hawthorne from her sleep and found nothing suspicious. She and her woman survive as best they can.”
He stared into her and worked his jaw, the twin spikes of his beard making circles.
She repeated the words twice more.
He replied, “I woke Miss Hawthorne from her sleep and found nothing suspicious. She and her woman survive as best they can.”
“Eph’ta,” she said and kissed him, mingling the essence of the potion on her breath with his. “You may leave, Mr. Chapman.”
He walked to the door, replaced his hat and left.
She collapsed onto the couch. The potion she had dropped in the corner wet her backside.
“You kissed him?” Ammon said from behind her. “Have you betrayed me to them?”
Hept rose. “You said you trust me, Ammon Granger. If I had wished to betray you, I would have led him to you and not sent him on his way.”
“But . . .”
She retrieved the bottle from the stained divan. “This is an old medicine which makes men pliable, as if it were liquor, but with no drunkenness. I dosed his wine.”
He approached her and took the bottle. He looked at it, then at her.
Hept placed her hand on his chest and said, “Ammon, I have shown you that I care for you, that I trust you, that I love you.”
He nodded and looked down.
“I have shown you that I cannot be harmed, and you believe what your eyes have seen.”
“I do.” He placed his hand on hers.
“I have one more secret to reveal.”
With his head lowered, his blonde hair obscured his eyes. “Tell me.”
“I am older than your father and your grandfather. I am older than this nation and this nation’s mother. I have served the One God and am favored of Him. He has given me abundant life. I have wished to give that life back to him for ages, but he would not have it. But now, I wish to live, for you. If the God suffers that I tarry here, I will care for you, for our children and for our grandchildren, through whatever ages remain in this world. It will be my work, if it pleases you.”
Ammon looked up. He searched her face. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
“It is true.”
“Then I will care for you. It pleases me.”
She hugged him close.
She said, “We must leave this house soon. Mosby’s man’s drunkenness will not endure forever. We will cross the Rappahannock at the Kellysville Ford.”
They hitched the wagon and piled in their most important possessions. Hept and Bess loaded the cedar chest that had stood at the foot of her bed for years. When the women could not pry the lid up, Ammon pitched in, laying it on its side, kneeling on it with one knee and pounding the lid back with the heel of his palm until it popped open.
Hept said, “As if it were sealed for the ages.”
They removed surplus linens that Hept had not needed for years. In one corner, Hept placed the urn with the fused lid where she kept the gold that had sustained her household in this land.
After all was packed, she spoke to Ammon. “We may be seized by Mosby’s men, or by others. If they find you, they will kill you. You should ride in the cedar chest. If you hear that we have been found and the wagon is being searched, swallow this medicine.” She handed him a thimble-sized vial, etched with the setting sun. “You will sleep deeply, so that you will be mistaken for dead.” She held up another vial with the lotus flower inscribed. “With this, I will wake you.”
He swallowed hard. “I trust you.”
He climbed into the chest and curled on his side. As she shut the lid, he said, “Wait.”
She peered in at him, shadowing him with her body.
“This may not go well for us. I don’t want us to part in fear. So kiss me,” he said, turning his head up to her.
Their lips touched. He extended his free hand out of the box and snaked his fingers through her hair, pulling her body closer. His mouth sucked at hers, as if feeding, taking her life to him. Moaning, Hept gave, silently praying that the One God would allow her to give more.
Afterward, she and Bess stacked large-folded linens onto him, taking any small opportunity to avoid detection. They closed the lid and stretched a tarp over the wagon. As they rode out Hept looked toward the sundial and, again, saw the hour of death.
Hept gripped the side of the wagon with one hand and snapped the reins with the other, calling to the horses in the ancient tongue so loudly that they could hear her over the tumult. The wagon thundered down the road leading to the ford. There were lights in the mill on the other side of the river. Beside her, Bess gripped and yelled, “I can see them riders back there! Must be five or six.”
Hept did not look back. Either the potion she had given Chapman had not lasted, or Mosby’s men had been watching the road to the ford for some other reason.
Hept’s horses slowed as they approached the water, high for summer, and Hept knew that the riders would be on them all too soon. When they were halfway across, Hept stopped the wagon and handed the reins to Bess.
“Miss Hept! You done gone crazy!”
Hept stepped into knee-deep water. “Ride to dry land.”
Bess protested.
Hept repeated, “Ride!” She drew her rod of acacia, shod in gold, from under the tarp that covered their possessions. The wagon pulled away.
She turned toward the riders, now approaching the water, planted the rod, and chanted in the old tongue,
“Hail to thee, oh Rappahannock!
Who manifests thyself over this land!
Hail, oh Hap, come and prosper!
Oh, you who gives man life,
through his flocks and through his orchards!
Hail, oh Hap,
Come and prosper!”
Hept raised the staff slowly and the water rose with it. Her knees quivered as the River God drank from her spirit. She stumbled in the swelling current. She pushed herself upright with her staff, hearing only the rushing voice of the God.
In the moon’s light one rider took aim. The crack of the shot and its answering splat against the bank behind her focused her mind on her surroundings. One of the gunman’s companions yelled and backhanded him, then they spurred their horses into the flow.
Hept struggled toward the bank, leaning against the current, stumbling, righting herself with the staff, water now above her navel. The wagon was on dry ground. Bess’ cries were lost in the wind.
From the dark water, a driftwood log struck her right hip. The staff slipped and she plunged below the surface. She lifted her head above the water, coughing and sputtering. The current unbalanced her and her knee hit the bottom. Something stabbed it. S
he lost her staff and went under again.
She tried to regain her footing, but she was below the ford and the water was deeper. The Rappahannock rushed her into darkness near the west bank. Her left shoulder exploded with pain as she smashed into a tree. She clawed at it with her right hand.
She found the bottom and dragged herself onto the grass on the bank, too far to see the lights of the mill that stood near the ford.
Hept wept with pain. The River God had taken much. She shivered with exhaustion. Wet hair plastered across her face.
She shoved herself up on her good arm. It trembled. Only her left elbow and left knee worked properly as she dragged herself upward toward the crest of the bank. Her wet dress tugged at her. A stand of tall weeds spread before her. She crushed them under her. Her good arm collapsed.
She lay in the weeds. A shaft of moonlight revealed lambent purple clusters of Dead Men’s Bells on the end of the stalks that she had pressed flat. Their sweetness of death played in her nostrils.
“Bess,” she meant to scream, but only whispered. Her body wanted to sleep—to heal. Hept growled in frustration, pulling her arm under her and inching onward.
The road was on the downhill side of the bank. She lay on the grass beside it, panting. Bess would not know to find Hept here. But Ammon was safe. The two were heading south, toward Charlottesville. She ran her hand over her swollen, seeping knee.
A horse cantered from the south, its rider calling to her. She cursed herself under her breath for not hiding. The uniformed man dismounted and bent over her. A pistol’s ivory handgrip protruded from the top of his boot, but this was not Chapman.
“First I thought you was a pile of rags,” he said. “Then I thought you was dead.” She cursed herself again, this time for not playing dead. He reached down. “Are you Mistress Hept Hawthorne, that bought the old Whitehall farm?” He knew who she was.
Hept said, “I was taking stored grain to the mill. My horse spilled me into the river. I either climbed out—or someone pulled me out. I woke and could not walk.” She showed him the bloodstain on her skirt. “Only now did I find the strength to crawl to the road.” She felt her dress pocket for the vial with the lotus flower inscribed. But the Rappahannock had it now, taking her last chance to set things aright, should they go wrong. She could only hope.
Writers of the Future, Volume 27 Page 41
