by Ken Brosky
July 15, 1864
He caught me. Sure enough, he crept right up on me again and took me prisoner. The Hessian. And after he clamped my wrists in cuffs, he chained me to the back of his cart full of books.
Nothing quite like a six-hour walk to make a man miss New York City. And nothing like feeling cold steel around my wrists to remind me why I put myself in danger for the Underground Railroad. Brought back a lot of bad memories. Memories of my parents, too. Memories of seeing them put out in the field, while I sat on the dirt outside our little home, crying.
The Hessian, he didn’t care what I had to say. I knew it the moment he had the cuffs securely around my wrists. Smiled a wood-toothed smile, just a glint of pleasure in his rusty brown eyes. Only thing that would have made him happier was if he was smack-dab in the middle of a battle.
Violence corrupts the soul. Blinds the eyes. Makes a man into something less. The Hessian, he wasn’t no different. All he could think about was getting back into the fight. Poor sweet Eugene was just an afterthought. He was someone who could feed the horse pulling the cart, set up the camp at night, and whatever else he needed done. And when I was no longer useful? Well, then he’d just sell me off to the nearest plantation.
And it would be oh, so easy. See, after he tied me up, he took my free papers and burned them. Poof. A man’s freedom … gone.
July 16, 1864
Where was I? Of course … the great escape!
The Hessian didn’t have much use for my pen. In fact, he looked downright disappointed when he unwrapped the cloth covering it. He set the pen and my knapsack in his cart, next to a wooden crate filled with books. Some of the books were damaged, with wrinkled covers. He had six crates full of books and two of the covers for the crates were made of old, blistered wood. Probably pine. Bad choice, Mr. Hessian. It was no wonder rain was leaking in.
Might explain his bad mood.
That night, after I made his fire and laid out His Majesty’s sleeping quilt and got a kettle burning, he chained me back up and sat beside the fire, making himself a nice cup of tea while he read from his copy of King Lear. Everything was nice and peaceful … for him, at least. Me? I was chained to the back of a cart, lying on the hard ground without a blanket, shivering like a cat out of water.
The upside of having a dirt floor to sleep on is you don’t fall asleep too quick. But the Hessian? Well, he was all tucked in next to that roaring fire, sawing logs before I even had time to convince myself to not reach for the pen.
I knew the risk. If the Hessian woke up, he’d probably shoot me. Nothing worse than a slave who gets an itching to do some writing. Heck, there’s even laws against it for cryin out loud. But I wasn’t going back.
Never.
Eugene Washington is a free man.
Heart racing, I crept around the cart as far as the chains binding my wrists would let me. The chains made a rattling sound as they bumped against the wooden baseboards. I stopped, wincing and holding my breath. But the Hessian was still asleep. I reached out with my left foot, touching the pen sitting next to two crates of books. I could just touch it with my big toe, which had pushed its way through my shoes sometime during the forced march. I slid the pen closer, carefully, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the Hessian was still asleep.
Closer.
Closer now.
The moment it was close enough to grab, I reached out, unwrapping it from its cloth. I grabbed the pen and felt a surge of electricity run through me. The man who’d given it to me said my knowledge was my power. Well, if that was true, then there was only one thing to do.
I drew a door. Quite specifically, I drew a door leading down, and when I imagined it, I imagined the basement of my abolitionist friend, Timothy. Not even a basement, really. More of a storage space, where he could keep canned goods and the occasional escaped slave.
I drew a line through my metal cuffs, cutting them clean in half.
“Oh, Mr. Mercenary,” I called out.
The Hessian started awake. He sat up, looking around and blinking furiously.
I held out my hands. “My bindings seem to have come undone.”
The Hessian stood up and skulked his way over, not botherin to put on his weapon belt. I guess he thought what he had on his hands was a man more than ready to spend the rest of his life in bondage. Don’t blame him, really …
After all, how many people expect to step on a trap door outside? In the woods?
One mud-encrusted black boot stepped down on my little square-shaped creation, and I felt my heart skip a beat. It wasn’t going to work. This pen wasn’t magic at all. Poor Eugene really had gone crazy.
Then the door opened. The Hessian fell like a sack of bricks, tumbling right down the familiar staircase that led into Timothy’s basement. Only it wasn’t Timothy’s basement, and at the bottom of the stairs was just an empty space. I quickly hurried over to the cart, grabbing one of the heavy crates of books and setting it on top of the trap door opening. Then I grabbed another and set it there, too.
The Hessian pounded on the bottom of the crates, shouting something in German.
“Speak English,” I said, crouching down. I separated the two crates just enough to peer inside. Both of the crates were heavy, on account of all the hardcover books. A gloved hand shot out, nearly grabbing me by the throat.
“I’ll kill you!” the Hessian screamed. “I’ll destroy you blah blah blah blah blah!”
I let him drone on for a while. You know, so he could release some steam. He had a lot of anger, on account of being fooled by a Negro.
“I coulda killed you,” I said once he was finished. “Or I could leave you for dead. But I won’t. In fact, I’ll make sure the next person passing on this here road helps you out.”
“Kill me you coward!” he said, his eyes as big as dinner plates.
I shook my head. “Why, then I’d be no better than you, sir.”
“You are making a grave mistake,” the Hessian hissed.
“Nope. No I’m not. Showing compassion for another human being is never a mistake, sir. It’s what separates people like me from people like you, and I don’t ever want to become someone like you.”
I closed the crates, then set one more on top of them. There. Not even someone as tough as the Hessian could move all three. I unhitched his horse and sent her on her way, too.
Then I grabbed my journal and some new books.
“You can have my books,” I said to the Hessian, flashing him a smile bright enough to light up the entire night sky. “I’ll take a few of yours, and when I’m done with em, I’ll give them to some other soul.”
Well! That just riled the Hessian up even more.
“Do not take my books!” he yelled through the crack between the crates. His fists pounded the bottom of them, to no avail.
“Oh, you’ll get em back eventually,” I said, grabbing a copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales and Les Miserables from the top crate. “You’ll find them! It’ll be a treasure hunt. You’ll find clues in the towns you pass. And the more time you spend looking for them, the less time you have to hurt other people.”
He shouted something else in German, but I got the gist of it. A fella knows cursing when it hits his ears in any language. I took two more books from another crate, Frankenstein and The Count of Monte Cristo.
“I’m much obliged that you read in English,” I told him, stuffing the books in my knapsack. “Suppose these books are hard to find in Germany. Suppose you haven’t been to Germany in a long time, have you? Suppose you follow the bloodshed.”
More cursing. I decided to take my leave of the Hessian.
July 17, 1864
Hungry. Tired. Passed a stream and wet my whistle. Not sure which stream it is. Not sure exactly where I am. The trees are familiar, but I’m too famished to think straight. I passed a town in the early morning. Thought I recognized it. I slipped around the edge of town in the darkness just before dawn, wandering around brick buildings that seemed familiar.
Even the library looked familiar. I set down the Hessian’s copy of Frankenstein on the doorstep, then walked confidently to my safe house on the north end of town.
I swear, it was my safe house. It was a bona fide “station” on the Underground Railroad. I swear it. But when the gentleman opened the back door, something strange happened.
My eyes stung. I stepped back. I’d knocked six times, which was our code. The door had opened. But standing in the doorway was a short man not half my size, wearing a gray suit and positively lit up like a glow bug. As if there was a lantern right behind him, sort of slipping its way underneath his pale skin.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Is … is Mr. Walter White here?”
“Mr. White,” said the little man, “is gone from here, dear boy. Who are you? Who do you belong to?”
“The … the Beauregard Plantation,” I said, thinking fast. Come on, Eugene! You’re more clever by half! “I was told to pick up a sack of flower from town.”
“At night?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why are you looking at me so?” he asked.
“Never … never seen a small man, sir.” I tried not to squint. But my eyes were so used to the darkness … the light coming from this man burned my eyes. “I should go,” I said. “So sorry to bother you.”
The man shouted something, but I was already making my way through the little cotton field on the north end of town. Back into the forest.
Not sure that was such a good idea. I’m hungry and tired and only put in a couple hours of walking before the sun came up. Not sure if the little man is going to send anyone after me.
July 18, 1864
There’s a Confederate army moving west. At the northern edge of the forest, near the Virginia border. A big army. They’ve got lots of men on horses, and they’re moving slow. It’ll take a day to get around them, especially in this are of the forest full of big southern red oaks. Too thick with undergrowth to make good time. And I need to make good time. Something is following me.
Don’t know what I’m doin. Hungry. Scared.
Was reading Grimms’ Fairy Tales during the afternoon, waiting for dusk so I could creep around the Confederate army. But whatever is following me seems to be waiting for night, too. Definitely not the short man. Definitely an animal.
A page slipped out of the book. Feels strange. Can’t quite explain it, but the fountain pen seems drawn to it like one of those magnets magicians sometimes use. I’m going to try writing something.
July 19, 1864
Here’s what I wrote on that blank page. First thing that came to mind …
Well now, Br’er Rabbit was always a clever little rascal. A trickster.
My pa’s favorite way to tell a Br’er Rabbit story. Br’er Rabbit the trickster, always getting into trouble. He’d sit on my bed all sweaty and sore from working in the field, and he’d tell me a story about Br’er Rabbit. It helped me sleep. So did feeling my ma’s warm, calloused hand on my bare back.
“Ahem!”
I fell over the log I’d been sitting on. A terrified scream escaped my throat. I peered cautiously over the log and gasped.
“Oh dear, sweet Eugene you’ve gone mad as a hatter!” I exclaimed.
Br’er Rabbit eyed me suspiciously. He was wearing a pair of gray trousers and a brown vest, just like a human would wear. His ears were standing straight up. Brown fur. About five feet tall. Definitely a figment of my imagination.
“You know a wolf is hunting you, right?” he asked.
“I … I had an inkling something was following me,” I said carefully. Not wanting to spook my imaginary rabbit.
Br’er shrugged and looked around, spotting a berry bush. “Them edible?”
“I dunno,” I said. “I dunno what rabbits eat.”
“Oh, I suspect I can eat most anything,” the rabbit said. He hopped over, grabbing a pawful of berries. He hopped back, munching on a few and staining his big buckteeth a bright blue.
I shut my eyes. Get a hold of yourself, Eugene.
When I opened them again, the rabbit was standing in front of me. His paw was held out. Three blue berries sat there.
“Thank you,” I said, taking them and popping them in my mouth. They tasted heavenly.
“Don’t thank me,” Br’er Rabbit said. “They’re gonna make yer stomach hurt like there’s no tomorrow. And I do apologize, but that wolf chasing us is more than a little hungry.”
“Wh … what?” I asked. My stomach answered with a sharp pain, doubling me over.
“Again, so sorry,” said Br’er Rabbit. “But I am a trickster, as you may know.”
“As I may know … wait! Come back!”
But he was already hopping away, making his way between the tall trees.
From somewhere in the empty woods came the haunting howl of a wolf.
“Come on, Eugene,” I said. “You’re the hero, right? That’s what the nice soldier man said.” I looked around frantically for something to defend myself with. But all I had was the fountain pen.
And the piece of paper! I stared at the words I’d written. Whatever magic it was using … maybe I could use it again. So I started writing again.
Br’er Rabbit was the hero’s friend. And when he sensed Eugene was in trouble, he returned to lend his friend a helping paw.
“I have had a change of heart,” said the rabbit.
I fell back. He was sitting on the fallen log beside me, watching me with his two big blue eyes. The tips of his ears were flopped over.
“You gotta save me,” I said. “My stomach …”
“I can lend you a helping paw,” said the rabbit. “But you are the only one who can stop the wolf.”
“How?” I asked.
The rabbit pointed to my pen. “That will do the trick, I should think.”
“How’s a pen going to kill a wolf?” I asked.
Another howl, so close it tickled the hairs in my ears. My eyes darted from tree to tree, searching. The setting sun cast long shadows inside the forest.
Br’er Rabbit just shook his head. “Come on, now. You know that pen is magic. Do I really need to spell it out?”
“No … no, I suppose not.” I took the pen, holding it over the fat trunk of the fallen log. Last time, I’d drawn a book. Well, I didn’t think any book was going to stop a wolf no matter how good the book was.
So I drew a pistol. The image glowed on the surface of the log. I stared at it.
“No offense,” Br’er Rabbit said a bit nervously, “but you might want to hurry. I do believe we’re not alone.”
I looked up and nearly wet my drawers. There, standing—standing!—beside one of the southern red oaks not ten feet away was a wolf.
A big, bad wolf.
I pulled the gun from the log, aiming it at the wolf with a shaky hand. I pulled the trigger.
Click!
“Er, do you know how a gun works?” asked the rabbit.
“Not really.”
“Well then why did you think that contraption would work?”
The wolf answered with a growl, lunging at me A pair of soft paws grabbed the back of my shirt, spinning me around. The wolf missed me, reaching out for my knapsack and tearing it away from my shoulder.
“We should probably run,” Br’er Rabbit said, hopping back on the log, “since you obviously have no idea what you’re doing, and I’m a delicious juicy rabbit!”
I took a step back, watching the giant wolf tear at my knapsack with its big snapping jaws. It quickly lost interest, skulking its way around the oak tree. So close I could smell him. Smelled like a big old wet dog.
“How about a saber?” Br’er Rabbit asked. “You know what that is?”
“Course,” I said. “It’s a piece of sharpened steel.”
“Then draw it,” Br’er Rabbit said. “And … if you could, please be quick about it.” He began hopping up and down on the log. “Hey you! Yeah, you!” he called out.
Th
e wolf looked at him, cocking its head. Then it turned back to me. Drooling.
“Hey!” Br’er Rabbit said, grabbing my journal off the ground. He threw it at the wolf, knocking him right in the kisser. The wolf turned and growled, crouching low.
And then it was flying through the air! Br’er Rabbit hopped back over the log, turned, and ran with the wolf right on his puffy white tail. “Hurry now!” he called out.
I drew a general’s saber into the trunk of the log. It glowed bright and golden, and when I pulled it out, the cool steel sent goosebumps up my arm. I tested the edge: sharp as a butcher knife.
From the shadows came an “Eep!” The rabbit appeared from behind a tree, followed by the terrifying wolf. “Get ready!” he called out.
“What do I do?” I asked, clutching the saber’s hilt with both hands.
“Point the sharp end at the monster, dagnabbit!” Br’er Rabbit jumped into the air, right over the log. The wolf was only a hare’s breath behind, lunging right at us.
I pointed the sharp end at the wolf. And closed my eyes.
July 20, 1864
We had to straighten some things out today. First and foremost, I leveled with Br’er Rabbit and told him everything the soldier had told me about the magic pen. About the Brothers Grimm and their voodoo silliness. About the Corrupted. He seemed to know a little bit, maybe because when I’d written those first few words on that blank piece of paper, I’d been thinking about the stuff the soldier had told me.
“So we hunt down these monsters and destroy them,” Br’er Rabbit said. He slapped his paws together. “It’s downright heroic!”
“Yeah, lots of fun,” I said, laying on the sarcasm.
He paced the forest floor. We’d made our way around the Confederate army, back into Union territory where we could at least breathe a little easier.
“Of course,” Briar added, “that means I’m also Corrupted. After all, this magic page of yours is no doubt a leftover from the magic paper used by the Brothers Grimm. How the Hessian got the book doesn’t matter. Magic is magic, no doubt.”
So I added this to the piece of paper:
The Corruption couldn’t touch Br’er Rabbit, as he was pure of heart.
