Running Out of Night

by Sharon Lovejoy

  Then things started lookin like I’d seen them afore. We was in the Horseshoe Bends near to Bush Crick where Pa brought his wheat to be milled.

  We come to a split. Wide waters one way, the other a narrow run I thought to be Bush Crick. We stood at the whirlin pool where the two met and looked up one and down the other. “Which way?” the trouble girl asked me, but I didn’t have no answer.

  Bathsheba, my favorite of Pa’s dogs, howled out her familiar yodel-like call from somewhere close by, and we took off runnin down the shinbone of water that rushed ahead of us.

  Finding a warm piece of wood from a tree struck by lightning will bring you great powers.

  The girl and me didn’t stop. We sloshed through the water not sayin a word. My sacks pounded up and down against my back and hurt shoulder as I run.

  We kept runnin till Bathsheba’s bayin sounded a county away. I knowed that the old hound must be right confused, smellin my scent out where it didn’t belong.

  The girl stopped runnin for a minute, bent over, her hands on her knees, and panted. Sweat dripped off her and into the fast-movin water. She straightened, clutched at her side, and bent over again.

  “You hurtin?” I asked. She nodded and stayed bowed like an old woman. I walked over to her, put my hand on her shoulder, and said, “Let’s stop. Let’s drink some water and rest a few minutes.”

  The girl backed over to a big flat rock in the middle of the crick and dropped her sack. I follered and dropped my bag and sling beside hers. We both knelt, cupped our hands, and drank till we couldn’t drink no more.

  The heaviness of the day were takin all the life out of us. We was both drippin wet, our clothes stickin to us, and every breath hard-like. I splashed water all over myself and then onto her. She turned toward me, laughin, and slapped the water hard till I were wet through.

  Once, on a day near as hot as today, my grandpa told me that even a fish would be sufferin. I looked down at the small streaks of silver minnows dartin from shadow to shadow in the crick. They didn’t look to be sufferin none. I wished I could be one of them for just a few minutes.

  The girl straightened, walked through the water, and climbed onto another big rock. I joined her, hauled up, and we set together back to back, our knees tented in front of us, the water rushin and whirlin around us.

  “What’s your name?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “Zenobia,” she said.

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “Zenobia is my gramma’s name, and Zenobia were a queen.”

  The girl pushed back her thick, dark hair and shook the sweat off her face. “Zenobia my milk name, and Ma say if I don’t like it when I get old enough I can change it. But I like it.”

  “Zenobia,” I said aloud. “Zenobia.” I rolled it around in my mouth like a smooth stone. “Come on, Zenobia, we got more travelin to do.”

  We stood up together, walked over to the flat rock, and picked up our sacks. We was soggy to the bone. The wind turned and carried the distant sound of the barkin and howlin of the hounds. And then a deeper sound and a long rollin rumble like the earth were goin to split open.

  Another rumble; then the wind started tearin at the trees till their leaves whirled through the air. Then a crack, like someone firin at us, and a clap of thunder louder and closer than any I’d ever heard.

  “Guess you didn’t bury that old snake good enough!” I yelled to Zenobia.

  Ahead of us a huge sycamore tree, its heart burnt out of it from the lightnin strike, stood smolderin.

  Zenobia took off and run toward the tree. I shouted a warnin to her about takin cover. She reached the blackened tree and peeled a short piece of the charred bark from its edge.

  “This lightnin wood save us,” she said as she broke the sliver in half and handed a still-warm piece to me. “Keep it for good luck.”

  I didn’t want to pass up any chance of good luck. I tucked the sliver into my sack, and we raced for a sheltered openin in the rocks.

  We smelt the rain afore it hit. Then it come down so hard and loud it wiped out the sounds of the crick.

  Zenobia reached the openin afore me. “It’s a cave,” she yelled over her shoulder. She shouted somethin else, but her voice were lost in the wind and rain.

  I ran and almost made it to the openin when a lightnin strike hit so close I heard a sizzlin sound, like fritters fryin in grease. Right with it come the thunder, ear-burstin loud. I ducked my head, and Zenobia’s hand yanked me inside just as a young cottonwood crashed acrost the willows and sealed the entry hole closed.

  A whistlin girl and a crowin hen always come to some bad end.

  I heard Zenobia pantin, but I couldn’t see her. I twisted round and looked back at the openin, all covered now by a crisscross of branches. I felt like I were lookin out of one of my willow baskets.

  “We be trapped,” I said as I shifted my bundle and sling and turned back toward Zenobia. Slowly my eyes got used to the darkness, and I could see her face peerin over the top of the bundle.

  “Trapped feel good and safe,” she said.

  “Trapped never good,” I answered. It give me the allovers when I thought back to the animals I’d seen strugglin to free themselves from Pa’s lines, workin so hard they’d gnaw off their own legs to get free. “Right now we need to rest, and then we’ll break through them branches and get out of here. Best travelin by night anyways.” I shivered and drew my wet pack up against my body.

  The floor of the cave were covered with twigs, leaves, and bits and pieces of fish bones and crawdad. It smelt thick, musky, like where the river otters rubbed and rolled on the banks of Catoctin Crick. I didn’t even want to think on what else were in the cave.

  Zenobia’s pantin quieted; then she settled into a purrin sleep. I were beginnin to think that she could drop off anywhere. My heart calmed. Some people are afeared of bein closed into dark or small places, but somehow they always made me feel safe. I liked it when I could see folk but they couldn’t see me. But bein trapped in here made me feel right rattled. I closed my eyes. The sounds of the crick and the rain stutterin onto the leaves of the fallen cottonwood seeped into me.

  Here I were, trapped in a cave with a runaway slave girl. A few days ago I’d been trapped in another way. Trapped at the cabin with Pa and my brothers and never a hope of much good happenin to me. Now, I were on my way, but on my way to where and what?

  We both slept. Zenobia woke first and called to me. “Girl. Listen.”

  I didn’t need her to tell me to listen. I heard dogs barkin, their yelps piercin right through the roarin of the water. Then I felt heavy feet thuddin along the sandy banks above us, and then the crashin sounds of someone slippin down the bank and through the brush. Then a loud splash and yellin.

  “Bank fall in!” a familiar voice yelled. “And them fool dogs. Where they go?”

  I could see movement through the tree branches and the flash of Pa’s red shirt. My heart took a jump. More yellin and then the sound of Pa workin his way up the cliff and through the brush. Finally, just the sound of the river roarin past us.

  I gulped air, Zenobia exhaled, and then the frenzied sounds of a pack of huntin dogs slidin down the bank and thrashin through the stream. They howled, barked, and lunged into the branches that laid acrost the openin to the cave.

  “We done for,” Zenobia said.

  I figured it wouldn’t take more ’n a few minutes for the trackers to circle back to us once they heard the familiar findin calls of the hounds. Their barks was so loud I couldn’t hardly think.

  “Zenobia!” I shouted. “Start breakin a hole in them branches so’s I can reach my hand through.”

  For once she didn’t ask me no questions, but she looked at me like I were a crazy girl. The cave were so small she could barely squirm past, but soon I could smell green and hear the snap, crack, snap of twigs as she broke them and tossed the pieces aside.

  The dogs yipped and barked as they pawed at the fallen tree. Two or three of the hounds
fought each other till one yelped and cried out in pain.

  I rolled onto my good side and curled up like a fiddlehead so’s I could turn around and wriggle toward Zenobia and the little circle of light. The bundle and sling got in my way. They snagged on tree roots and slid off my shoulders, but I tugged at them and slipped them back on. I couldn’t leave our food and Hannah doll behind.

  “Move,” I said. She looked back at me, nodded, tore at one last handful of twigs, and pushed herself against the side of the cave.

  Zenobia had made an openin the size of a fox’s hole. One of the dogs found the hole and worked his head into it. He snarled, teeth bared, as he lunged, pushed, and lunged again, all the while tryin to force his way into the cave.

  I slid the packs off my back, reached inside the sling, and grabbed some ham bones and a knuckle. I used one of the big knobs of bone to push the dog back from the hole, and then I opened my hand flat so’s he could grab the bone without bitin me. His mouth clamped over the bone; he backed out of the hole and disappeared. Another head poked inside the openin, this one whinin to get at me. Another bone snatched from my hand, and another, and another till each one of the five greedy hounds, not wantin to share with the others, slunk off to worry their bones in peace. I waited, expectin to hear the men shoutin to the dogs, or worse yet, lookin for us. What if the dogs carried them bones back to the trail? But no, I know hounds, and they loves a hunt, but once they get a bone they’ll hide out till it is eat to nothin.

  Outside, there weren’t a sound to be heard exceptin for the crick. I reached past the bag of food and grasped Zenobia’s fingers. She curled them round mine, and we held on to each other.

  I don’t know how much time passed, but the quiet stayed and slivers of peachy light shone through the cottonwood’s leaves.

  “It looks to be clearin out there and sun be settin,” I said.

  Zenobia lifted her head and glanced toward the openin. “I cain’t hear no more hounds.”

  “We safe for now,” I said. “Let’s eat a few bites and think on what we goin to do.”

  I cupped my hand to my ear and heard the sound of a kingfisher bird rattlin like a bucket of dried butter beans. That bird wouldn’t never stay close if anyone come nearby us.

  I fumbled around inside my sack, felt for the soft rounds of apple, the jerky, and cracklins, and pulled them out. I stuffed a sweet apple slice into my mouth and chewed, then bit into a tough piece of jerky and tugged at its stubbornness.

  Last night had been a fattenin moon. We could wait awhile afore leavin the cave and we’d still have plenty of light for travelin.

  “Girl,” Zenobia said. “What we goin to do?”

  The “we” in her question didn’t bother me none now.

  “Finishin our food so’s we can get out of here,” I said.

  I heard her chompin and felt her movin her bag. She wriggled sideways, then propped her face on her hands.

  “I were watchin from the porch when you was workin and pickin out in your tomater patch. You was whistlin like that yeller bird on the fence post. You whistle to him; he whistle right back to you; you sound jus’ like him.”

  “I’m a right fine whistler,” I admitted, glad that someone had noticed somethin good about me.

  Zenobia’s finger poked into my shoulder. “What were that bird you was singin to?”

  “That were a lark,” I answered.

  “I be thinkin on that and now I namin you Lark, and that ain’t a milk name, that a name you keep. You Lark.”

  “Lark,” I said, “I likes that name Lark,” and I whistled its sweet flutin song for her. We both giggled, but then I shuddered. I remembered one of the last times Pa let me go to school. My teacher caught me whistlin, and she said, “Miss Nicoll, whistlin girls and crowin hens always come to some bad end.” I wouldn’t let myself come to no bad end.

  I looked over my shoulder. The light were beginnin to fade. I dug my toes in the sand to gain purchase, then wiggled backward a few feet toward the openin. Then I realized that my toes was wet, covered with cold runnin water that had crept up from the risin crick and into the cave.

  “Mama, Grandpa, don’t let us come to no bad end.”

  Then I yelled, “Zenobia! We in trouble. The water’s risin fast. Either we get ourselfs out now or we gonna drown.”

  Make a heartfelt wish when you see the first star come out, and your wish will come to pass.

  Zenobia crouched by the openin and tore at the branches. I slipped next to her and pulled off the stubborn twigs till we could grab the trunk. The water rose quick—one second an inch deep, the next over our feet and climbin fast.

  We pushed against the trunk, rocked it back and forth, and pushed again till the tree groaned, slipped sideways, and rolled into the torrent.

  I looked down at my hands. They ran with ribbons of blood. I shook them and reached out to dunk them in the risin water, but Zenobia yelled at me to get out.

  “We don’t have no time to waste!” she shouted.

  I looked over at her and saw that she were bloodied too.

  “Lark, you go. I pass you the sacks.”

  I crawled out of the flooded cave and tried to reach for our sacks, but the water picked me up like a leaf boat and whisked me downstream. Small branches whipped acrost my cheeks, tore at my forehead, and caught in my hair. My hands, knees, and legs slammed into boulders, but I couldn’t take no time to think of the hurtin. I gulped water, gasped at the air, paddled like my Delia dog, and fought to keep my head above the powerful current.

  The water slowed and smoothed. I half floated, half paddled, and worked my way toward the bankside. I almost made it, but another crick, this one narrower, rain-swolled, and flowin as fast as any I’d ever seen, hit me broadside and twirled me round and round. I paddled but didn’t make an inch of headway. I spun and spun, down into the dark waters, sputterin and chokin and all the time thinkin to myself that I weren’t goin to let this be my end.

  I grabbed for a branch afore it washed past me and held on with both hands. I kicked hard and the branch shot straight up and out of the twirlin waters, then bore me along. Off to my side, I saw a light patch of sand juttin out like a long, white finger. I held on, turned toward the landfall, kicked hard, and my foot finally scumbled against the gravelly bottom so’s I could push myself onto shore.

  I laid there on the sand, pantin and feelin every bit of me hurtin now. “Mama,” I said, “I didn’t think things could get any worst.”

  “What you didn’t think to be worst?” asked Zenobia, who stood on the bank just a few feet above me. She were near dry, and our food sacks on her shoulders looked to be in fine shape.

  “You went heels over,” she said, and laughed. “I held on to them tree roots and climb along the bank.”

  Her humor made me mad. “Look at me. A fine thing for you to laugh at me all bloody and hurt.”

  Zenobia grinned. “You be alive; you not be broken; you not be caught.” She scrambled down the bank and reached for my hand. I didn’t want her help, but I looked up at her, grasped her tightly, and let her pull me up. My legs wobbled like a newborn filly’s.

  “We need to get back in the crick so’s they cain’t pick up our scent,” I said to her, actin like nothin special happened to me and like I were the boss of both of us. I reached for my sling and sack, which I didn’t want to carry, and slipped them onto my achin shoulders.

  “My buckeye!” I said, pattin at my pocket. “Oh, thank the good Lord, my buckeye is safe.”

  “Why you worryin now about a buckeye?” Zenobia asked.

  “It’s my good luck,” I said. “My grandpa give it over to me. He always carried it; now I always has it in my pocket. I’d never let go of it for nothin.”

  Zenobia shook her head back and forth. “Don’t seem like to me your good-luck buckeye been workin too hard for you.”

  We held hands and slipped and stumbled acrost the rocks and branches in the crick and worked our way downstream in the shallows. The nigh
t closed around us. I could smell the wet earth, wild mint, and skunk. We sloshed through the water till we couldn’t take another step, and finally, in the shelter of an overhangin sycamore, we dropped our packs and fell to the ground.

  We was both shakin from the cold and the wet, gaspin like a couple of fresh-caught fish tossed on shore. Neither of us had the breath to talk.

  Finally, Zenobia said, “Trapped in the cave weren’t so good and safe.”

  I rolled onto my back. “Like I said, trapped ain’t never good for the one in it.” I looked up through the lacework branches of the trees, saw my first star, squeezed my eyes together, and made a wish for a table full of hot food.

  We laid there, quiet, and all around us the night come into its fullness. Frogs, tree crickets, first one, then others, jar flies, all manner of sounds chorused together. Skeeters whined in my ears; I swatted, but no amount of hittin could keep them from feastin on me.

  Above us, a lightnin bug circled and flashed. When I raised my head, I could see them flickerin on and off, like little candles in the bushes and grass alongside the crick.

  “Zenobia,” I said. “Look at them lightnin bugs. How can there be so much good and pretty and such bad and ugly all mixed together?”

  I raked my fingers acrost the top of the grass and caught myself a handful of lightnin bugs, then sprinkled them over Zenobia’s head. They snaggled into her dark, wiry hair, sparklin and flashin so’s she looked like she’d walked into a cloud of stars.

  Zenobia struggled up onto her elbows and looked down the crick. “I seen bad and ugly,” she said, “but now I follers the North Star and finds me some good.”

  She laid back, tugged her food sack close, and clutched it to her body.

  I pulled off my wet sling and spread it on the ground next to the sack, then I untied the knot, stuck my hand inside, and fumbled through apples. Finally, I felt at the softness of my old Hannah doll’s skirt. Just rubbin on it made me feel safer.