Good Fortune (9781416998631)

by Carter, Noni

  “’Scuse me, ma’am,” I said, walking up to a woman who stood alone, taking care of laundry. I was making myself vulnerable to the daytime on the outskirts of a plantation. The woman looked up kindly at first, but seeing me, she became irritated.

  “What you want?” she asked, turning her eyes away again.

  “I’m goin’ back to my masta’s plantation. He gave me leave, an’ I been travelin’ some days. Would like it if I could have some food.” I looked with pleading eyes, searching for the kind soul I knew had to lie beneath her irritation. She looked at me sharply and tried to walk away, but I followed her.

  “What you want?” she asked again without looking back at me. I could see she was afraid—afraid I was a runaway. For most of what I’d seen and heard, harsh punishment would be given to any slave who helped a runaway. So I lied to the woman. I had to.

  “Ma’am, I need some food, that’s all. I ain’t . . . I ain’t no runaway or nothin’, I jus’ . . .”

  “Go!” she whispered harshly, spittle flying in my face. I could see her fear playing across the creases in her forehead. “Go away. I ain’t got nothin’ to do wit you.” She hurried from me, beyond where I was willing to venture, out into the fields. I stared after her mournfully, my hunger buzzing in my ears. I crouched down and disappeared back into the woods.

  But someone followed me. I squatted beneath a bush, watching a male figure creep into the woods. Once well out of view of the fields, he stood up to his full height and stared in my direction.

  “There’s dried meat hangin’ in the buildin’ near the outhouse. You should take wat you need, miss, an’ get goin’ quick.” The man stood, waiting for me to come out of hiding. But I didn’t move. I stayed hidden and watched him walk slowly back toward his work.

  I tried listening to my reason rather than my hunger. I knew that certain slaves existed that would take it upon themselves to tell on runaways. These slaves sought only to appear loyal to their masters so that their plight as a slave would not be so bad. I knew I looked very suspicious. The man seemed sincere, but I didn’t know for sure.

  What if this is a trap? What if someone is there, just waiting for me to come out of hiding?

  I didn’t feel good about this, but I needed food. The day slipped by, and I found a new place to hide about half a mile from the plantation, though I was too nervous to fall into full sleep. I knew I couldn’t run any farther without food in my belly, and so I waited.

  When night came, I hastened over as quietly as I could to the area near the smokehouse the man had pointed out. I squinted through the dark to get a good view of it. All seemed still and silent, but the fact that the door hung open made me cautious.

  Aren’t smokehouse doors almost always kept shut?

  I sat back against a tree, still hidden in the woods, but only a few paces away from the clearing. All I needed to do was get in, cut however much meat I could hold, and run back out. But anyone who saw me could grab me by force and throw a sack over my head, or even knock me out with a rock or stick. So first, if there was danger lurking, I had to get rid of it.

  I emptied my mind of the longing for food, and focused. I opened my sack, laid a piece of fabric over the top for the meat, and held it close to my body. I took out my knife, then found a few small stones and a large, thick tree branch that I was able to carry. Backing farther into the woods, I threw the stones, one after another, as far as I could to the left of the smokehouse, then watched with quickening heartbeats as a figure emerged from the shadows near the house and disappeared in the direction of the sound.

  Just what I thought. He had been waiting for me.

  Taking my chance, I ran as low and as quickly as I could to the smokehouse and passed through the doorway. The smell of meat hit me instantly. How hungry I was! Without wasting time, I found a piece of meat that didn’t look so tough. But my small knife wouldn’t cut quickly enough.

  Panicked, I glanced back toward the door. Nobody was there—not yet, at least. I searched desperately, walking through the hanging meat, for tool I could use.

  A butcher knife!

  I picked it up, and sliced the meat I had chosen into portions that fit into my sack. I was almost there. Just a couple more strokes.

  I paused to wipe away sweat that had dripped into my eyes, took another worried glance toward the door, and steadied my shaking hand. I would make it out, I would.

  When the last piece snapped free, I almost let out a cry of thanks to God. But I still needed to escape. Moving to the door, I glanced out, to see if the man was anywhere in sight. Grasping the large stick, I darted out. But the night remained silent as I slipped away from the smokehouse and traveled on.

  By the time I was far enough away that I could stop and eat what I had taken, anger was rushing through my body. I tore viciously at a large chunk of meat, tying the rest of it up for later. Whom could I trust? The man who had told me about the smokehouse had betrayed me. So what stranger could I trust? I could trust my loved ones, but at this point they seemed like nothing more than memories in my mind. I was angry at how close I had come to being captured back into slavery by a person who knew how it felt to be bound in bondage.

  I washed these thoughts away as best I could with a sip of water from my gourd.

  A few nights later, I came to a little house in the woods. I had slept in a ditch close by and come upon it soon after I awoke. There was no plantation, no corn, tobacco, or cotton field, just a small garden and the house. But what especially drew my interest was a basket that sat in front of red shutters, adorned with a cloth that almost glowed in the evening light. Dusk had just fallen, so it was still early, but I saw no movement or light inside the house.

  “Might be food, Sarah,” I whispered to myself as I crept up to the basket to peer inside. But just as I did, candlelight flickered behind the cracks in the shutters. I darted a few feet away, then heard a rustling, followed by the shutters flying open, just missing the basket. A white woman, whose hair was tied neatly back, dumped bread and other food I couldn’t see into the basket.

  “I wonder, dear, if they’ll notice these leftovers. We can’t eat them. Might as well leave them here for whatever can get to them.” The words seemed to have been directed over her shoulder to someone in the house, but I saw her eyes dig deep into the night. I listened carefully to her words, then waited until a few minutes after the shutters had closed before I advanced toward the basket.

  As I reached into it, the shutters opened again, and this time, I had no chance to hide. I could have run, but some instinct kept my feet planted as I watched the woman, whose head was turned, say “Dear, do you think they’re hungry tonight?” But when her head came around, she gasped and took a timid step back. I simply stared at her, convinced that this had to be one of the safe houses Daniel had spoken of—it had to be.

  She recovered quickly, and approached the window again. She nudged the basket closer to me. “Go ’head,” she said in a gentle whisper, “you’re safe.” I stepped closer but remained partially obscured in the shadows, ready to depart as quickly as I could if I needed to. But the woman was now wrapping the food in the cloth, and she held it out for me to take. I stepped up, grabbed it from her fingers, and backed up to the spot I had left. I watched her a bit longer, and she watched me just as closely. Her hands were busy with something, and eventually she lifted a wet cloth to me. I stepped closer and gently took it from her.

  “Wipe the dirt from your eyes. You can, well, . . . this is a safe place to stay for a day, if you need to,” she began, softly as a cricket’s breath.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and turned to dart away, even after she called, softly, after me. I left her sight, but stayed by the house to see what she would do.

  “Well, anyway, dear,” she said, calling behind her back again. “The weather’s not warming up any. Figure it may get pretty cold.” As she said that, she lifted a small blanket through the window, a blanket small enough to serve as a coat, and placed it on the
windowsill. Then she retreated, closing the shutters.

  I grabbed the blanket and ran on.

  CHAPTER

  22

  THE WEATHER DID TURN COLDER, AND I HAD NO SHELTER. THE ground was my floor, the biting wind my walls, and the sky my only roof. The day was a routine, a monotonous drone of walking, creeping, running, eating, and sleeping. With the strain of this routine, my continual efforts to keep a decent food supply, the burden of constant fear, and the cold, my body grew tired.

  I don’t remember when the fight began, but suddenly, my mind and body were battling against each other. I was getting weaker, but I didn’t want to accept it. My body would ask me if I could keep this up. But why did it matter if my body could or not? I had to. It was as this fight raged that another one of my dreams came, sneaking up on me in the silence of daytime, when I slept, and leaving me sweating heavily, even in the cold, the tears on my cheeks and the heaviness in my chest shoving me further into a gloom that was hard to find my way out of.

  Some days, the loneliness ran so deep, I had to fall asleep to conjure up memories and the faces of loved ones. I sought them out for comfort, but their distant faces were from a yesterday that seemed almost like a dream. What was real was my escape, this running.

  During those brief moments that hopefulness would slip up to me, I allowed my mind to wander to places I had not yet seen, to a life that sat waiting for me on the other side of this struggle to stay alive. I daydreamed sometimes about sitting in a classroom with other students, answering questions and reading books—daydreams that occasionally seemed so real, I longed to disappear forever into them. Education seemed to be an odd incentive, but thoughts of it spurred me along when nothing else could.

  I knew there was a large river I had to reach, a river much bigger than the one I had already crossed, one I couldn’t possibly miss. If only I could make it there. But where was it?

  The days turned even colder. I began coughing and sneezing, but I stumbled onward. My chest rattled and my throat was sore, and I had headaches that left me kneeling for hours at night as I tried to relieve myself of them.

  Then, one night, as snow fell steadily, heaven must have decided to turn all the elements of nature against me. Down came icy rocks, hurled my way as if the skies were taunting me for the slowness of my pace. I dropped down and tried to shield myself, but they came crashing upon my back and shoulders. I fought to get up again, to seek shelter. My throat burned while the rest of me shook with cold. With the surrounding land mocking me as I stumbled over its bumpy surfaces and my own feet, I searched for refuge from heaven’s assault. Then I saw it.

  Fire!

  A fire blazed wildly amid the snow. I ran for it, mustering strength I didn’t know I had. But the closer I got, the farther away it ran from me, until I stopped altogether and watched it disappear in the wind.

  No . . . I’m seeing things.

  Weary, as if carrying a full-grown person on my shoulders, I walked on, beaten by the rocks of ice and blinded by the wind and snow.

  Then I saw the ledge.

  Perhaps it would offer shelter—but, no! I shut my eyes tightly, trying to banish the mirage from my mind. But when I opened them again, the image had not disappeared. I felt a bit of relief. I was going to make it. My body lunged forward, racing in blind pursuit. But as I ran, I tripped over a mound, a large rock, and the impact hurled me straight to the ground. I lay there, cringing, crying, and realizing how blinded by snow and defeat I really was for the moment. I was sick, alone, and freezing. It was my time, I just knew it. I could hear the drums and the voice of Mathee, Mama.

  Look up, Sarah.

  Her voice in my ear came clear and absolute. I looked up and there was the ledge, waiting for me. It was a thick frozen slope jutting out over the ice: another ancestor.

  I pulled myself up and stumbled on until I reached the slope and collapsed underneath it in a fit of coughs, huddling against the ice. My eyes narrowed, searching for something, anything, anyone, to save me. But the more I strained to see, the more difficult it became, until I closed my eyes altogether. I tried to force a prayer through my lips.

  “God . . . I . . . help me. . . .”

  My head throbbed powerfully, and I couldn’t think clearly. I had just enough energy to put my sack under my head for a pillow and curl my body into a ball. But that didn’t help. I could not stop shivering.

  Then the coughing began again. The painful fit seemed to last forever, but soon enough, it died down. When it did finally end, and I opened my eyes, I saw tiny spots of blood splattered on my cloth and on the ice around me. My insides were freezing. Was this how it was going to end for me?

  My head beat like war drums. I began to lose feeling in my limbs. I wanted to cry out, but I couldn’t find my voice. It was a struggle to simply stay conscious. This was the end of my journey. I thought of all who loved me and wished I could pull through for them. I saw their faces: Mary, Mama, Daniel, John. But I couldn’t. I felt the little warmth I had in my body seeping out of me. At least I didn’t have to die a more painful death. At least I would die with my pride still intact.

  I was back, back in the motherland. The cloth, the pots, the drums, Mama’s hut—they were all there. I walked through our hut, touching everything I could—the baskets, the jewelry, the walls. I eagerly sniffed the scents that filled my nostrils—Mama’s perfumelike fragrances, the strange scent of Sentwaki’s bow, the meal being prepared in an adjacent room.

  How did I get here? What had I been doing? I couldn’t remember. It felt as if time had been suspended and I had been carried back to the place where life should have left me alone.

  Everything was so vivid, so real, all except for the light. There was a brightness I couldn’t touch that emanated around me. Had I died and returned to my place of birth, as I had prayed for when I was younger?

  Outside, the sun shone brightly, its rays stretching far across the land, traveling in and out of homes, forming shapes among the treetops. And yet a chill hung within the brightness. Then a touch. Dark skin, beautiful legs, neat curly hair, large lips. It all came into focus.

  Mama Mijiza.

  Mathee gave me a bucket to take to the lake and fill up with water. She wasn’t any older than I remembered, just a few years my senior now. Then I remembered. The white men, the guns: they had taken her life. Mama Mathee, so young and vibrant, so loving. They had taken Sentwaki and me away from our mother, dragged us across wretched seas, torn my family apart. Angry, I glanced up at Mama’s face, but she simply placed a strong finger over her lips and held my hand.

  With Mama Mjiza by my side, I walked barefoot through the village, watching little ones scurrying over feet, women gathered at the monger posts, little boys leaping through the grass and racing through skirts, thighs, and shifting hips. They were all as I remembered them to be. The smiles melted hearts. The loud chatter filled the streets. The crying babies were gently rocked by the village hand merged as one.

  I walked past the memories to the water’s edge. Splashing the water over my face, I felt renewed. I let the memories of another life wash away.

  But when I brought my hands back down into the water, it was no longer clear blue. My hands were now submerged in a water that was thick, deep red.

  The scent of blood permeated the air. I tried to snatch my hands from the bloody liquid, but it curled up toward me, animate, and grabbed my arms, pulling me down into it.

  Images flashed before my eyes. A small, smiling African girl twirled around in circles, as if dancing. Then her face was awash in pain. White men fired guns into the night, their bullets plunging into the depths of an African heart. An innocent heart. My mother’s heart.

  No, no!

  I was awake, but my eyes weren’t open. What I thought to be tears slowly ran down my face. But I felt my fingers wipe sweat from my head. My eyes opened, barely, and I could just make out a figure sitting over me. I shivered and fell back into a deep sleep.

  I plunged deep into th
e blood. And as soon as the red waters consumed me, I felt my legs jolting, running. I was fleeing, stumbling, running away from barking dogs and the pale-skinned monster-men. The devils.

  I was soaked in blood. I looked down and saw that the blood was my own, that it spewed like an angry fountain straight from my heart. I gasped in horror as I let my own blood run through my fingers.

  Am I dying in death? How is this possible?

  I looked up and found myself staring into the face of my mother. She gently lifted her two hands and placed them over her heart. They rested there, soothing me so that I felt peace and warmth enter my own heart. I looked down to see my hands pressed against my chest. As I withdrew them, and she dropped hers, I saw that the blood was gone. A slight smile passed across her face. Then, with a wink, she began her ascent, light as a summer breeze. After crossing the threshold that stood between the two of us, her body scattered into a colorful array of warm breath and energy, and Mathee flowed over me. I shut my eyes tight, breathing in the love that was seeping into my bones—the strength, hope, and warmth. Oh, the warmth!

  I was healed.

  CHAPTER

  23

  WARMTH BROUGHT ME BACK TO CONSCIOUSNESS. AS I LAY waiting for another episode of shivering, I slowly became aware of my surroundings. I didn’t think I was in heaven—it felt far from it—but I wasn’t dead, either. My body was wrapped in a damp quilt, and a thicker covering was set on top of that. I studied my surroundings as my eyelids fluttered half open.

  Where am I? How did I get here? What time of day is it?