When they arrived at the community hall, a neighbor took Cleo’s other arm. “Here’s the healthy mother and her daughter. We’re all set.”
They joined four other women grouped around a quilt stretched and held in place by a wooden frame. Flower settled her mother comfortably in a chair, then sat down herself and picked up a needle. Her hands were sore from gathering stones and, in spite of a season of quilting, the needle still felt awkward in her fingers; but she enjoyed listening to the women talk as they created a work of art that would keep someone warm on a cold winter night.
“Hear you folks have a visitor.”
“Someone we met when we started our journey. We had to travel different paths because he was recovering from a wound. Now he’s fine.”
“Is he staying?”
“Might be—for a while.”
“We’ll have a meeting, hear him speak.”
“Good idea.”
“Flower, how you doing there?” Mrs. Perkins glanced across the expanse of colored fabric.
“My stitches are still crooked.”
“Improving all the time.”
“Do we sign this?”
“Sign it! How are we going to do that?” The women laughed together.
“I was thinking of embroidering a flower in the corner here, where I’ve been working.”
“I think that’s a fine idea. Here, start with some yellow for the center.” Mrs. Perkins bit through the extended thread with her teeth, then licked one end before aiming it through the eye of the needle. “Watch how I’m doing this.” She plunged the needle into the fabric. “This is called a French knot.”
“Thank you.” Flower studied the twisting and stitching and then tried it herself. “Ma, do you recall Hettie?”
Cleo lifted her head. “Yes, I do, the Jensons—all those children.”
“Hettie gave me a flower when we left. She asked me to keep it and think of her.”
“Do you still have it?”
“No, but I do remember her.” Flower pushed and pulled the thread through the layers of cotton, crosshatching colors, creating delicate flower petals. “I wonder if she remembers me.”
No one answered. There was a companionable silence as the women bent over their work. Within her own thoughts, Flower decided that Hettie would remember her, would sometimes think of her and wish her well. As she sewed, faces and voices from the past paraded through her mind: the Pembertons, kind Sarah and heroic Noah, Dr. Simon, Jake, Abe and Abigail Buxton, odd-looking and brave little Hazel. Then the vivid memories of the near drowning, escaping from jail, and the fury of the mob. She stopped stitching.
“What is it, Flower?”
“Just resting.” It was good to be in a safe place.
CHAPTER 54
Felicia
FELICIA PEERED through the microscope. The tiny flatworm’s severed tail had started to grow back.
“Awesome! Have a look, Sophie.” Felicia vacated her position next to the instrument and wrote her observations in a notebook.
“Oh, thank goodness, it’s going to be all right.”
Renate had a turn. “It’s looking back at us!”
“Maybe it should have a name,” suggested Sophie.
“Puleeeze!” Dodie rolled her eyes. “It’s a worm!”
“It’s a living creature. We should treat it with respect.”
“That doesn’t mean we treat it like a pet. We cut it in half!”
Their teacher joined their group. “How are you doing?”
“Our worm’s growing where we cut him.”
Miss Peabody had a quick look through the eyepiece. “Don’t forget to note your observations. Five more minutes.”
The students returned to their work as the teacher strolled among them, glancing at notebooks, adjusting magnification, and making suggestions. She asked the class, “What are your thoughts on this creature?”
“That it’s ugly and disgusting.”
“Ashley, that statement seems harsh and without reflection. I’m sure you can do better than that.”
“It’s true.”
“Anyone else? Yes, Josh.”
“It’s neat that it can renew itself. It would be good if we could figure out how it does that.”
“Why would that be good?”
“’Cause then maybe we could grow parts of ourselves if we needed them.”
“Can you think of examples?”
Felicia remembered an uncle of Lenore’s who had burned his hand in an accident. The scars restricted the movement of his fingers. She said, “People who’ve had bad burns—it would be good if they could grow new skin.”
“Or grow new white skin.” Ashley’s stage whisper created a hush in the classroom.
“I beg your pardon!” Miss Peabody’s head pivoted like that of a barn owl suddenly aware of a mouse. “What did you just say?”
Felicia braced herself for a repeat of the nasty phrase, but Ashley was silent.
“I think you owe the class an apology,” Miss Peabody persisted.
“Sorry.” Ashley’s voice could barely be heard.
In the quiet that followed, Felicia was grateful that the teacher had not asked Ashley to apologize directly to her.
At the end of class, Miss Peabody announced, “Enjoy your lunch. I’d like to see you all in front of the school at 1:15. There will be a bus waiting to take us to the Sheffield Park Black History and Culture Museum.” In a much quieter voice, she added, “Ashley, will you stay behind for a moment? I’d like to have a word with you.”
This was the first field trip of the school year, so the bus ride was predictably lively. The driver made them stay in their seats, but couldn’t quell the din of twenty-five voices or the flight of paper missiles. Miss Peabody sat at the front and read a book, trying to ignore the chaos.
When they arrived at their destination, the students tumbled out of the coziness of the bus into chilled sunlight, so bright it made them blink. The recent snowfall had disappeared, but there was a hint in the November air of more to come. Forming random groups, they made their way from the corner of the highway down to the bay. Felicia admired the colors of the water, green deepening to blue farther out, whitecaps fringing waves as they furled into shore. Overhead, strings of late-departing geese angled into formation, calling to each other.
The museum was at the base of the street, where the beach met the water. Remnants of fishing skiffs lay embedded in the sand, like the bony carcasses of ancient animals. The faded gray-frame building was nestled among the broken boats.
The curator stood at the door, her eyes lively behind large frames. “Welcome, everyone! I’m Mrs. Wilson. Are you frozen? You must be. Come in and get warm. I’ve made you some hot apple cider, just the thing for a day like today. Winter’s on its way, don’t you think?” They were directed from coat hooks to a table set with plates of cookies. Mrs. Wilson ladled the steaming cider into mugs.
Felicia sipped the fragrant liquid as she moved from the treat table toward the historical artifacts. There were horse collars and lace collars, plow blades and buttoned boots, photographs and faded letters, and, side by side on one wall, a spinning wheel and a pump organ.
Josh ran his fingers across the keys. “What did people do for fun a long time ago?”
“They listened to music, often making their own. They helped each other, especially in small communities such as ours. If someone needed a barn, all the men would get together and build one. The women organized quilting bees. And now that leads me to show you something special.”
She led them into another room and stood in front of a colorful embroidered quilt. “This is like an artist’s canvas, only made wit
h cloth, not paint. A very talented woman created it and donated it to the museum. It shows the geography and routes of the Underground Railroad.” She began to tell the story. “In the early part of the nineteenth century, escaped slaves made the difficult journey from the southern United States north, to freedom. Our community was one of their destinations.
“There was no train, of course. Most people walked, or traveled hidden in wagons, or came in boats down rivers and across lakes. The term ‘underground’ meant it was a secret.” As she spoke, Mrs. Wilson used her finger to trace a route depicted, stitch by stitch, over mountains, up rivers. “They followed the North Star and, if they traveled in the spring, the geese flying north. You can see how these things have been included in the design of the quilt.”
“What did they do when they got here?”
“Settled in. They farmed, started businesses, and built schools, just like any other newcomer. And they’re part of our history here.”
Felicia stared at the quilt. Here was the history she had been reading about. She imagined what it must have been like to escape, to travel such long distances, hoping for a final safe haven. “They were so brave.”
“Yes, they were brave.”
Miss Peabody continued the tour with most of the class trailing behind her. Felicia stood back, absorbed with the quilt. Renate joined her. “Isn’t that amazing? All that work.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“There’s another one in the corner, not as nice. It’s raggedy and old.”
The two girls crossed the room. Renate stopped to look at a fan displayed in a glass case while Felicia studied the second quilt. The traditional patchwork pattern was worn and faded, but it had a dignified charm. She stepped closer, her eyes wandering over the appliquéd fabric, following the tiny white stitches. There was something different about the bottom corner. Felicia felt herself drawn to it, but knew she shouldn’t touch it. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the curator deep in conversation with Miss Peabody, not paying attention.
Felicia reached out with the tips of her fingers and traced the soft embroidered cotton, small, round knots of thread in the center, fragments of cloth shaped like petals, faded and fraying, but unmistakably a flower.
Acknowledgments
A few years ago I discovered that I lived in a place where slaves from the southern United States had made their way to freedom in what once was a terminus of the Underground Railroad. This history inspired me, and I decided to write a story for young people. I visited the Black History Museum, located now in Clarksburg, Ontario, and met Carolyn Wilson. She was busy doing some maintenance work but put down her paintbrush, and we talked as she proudly showed me the exhibits in different buildings.
Seeking information, I read several books. One was the biography of Josiah Henson, a man born into slavery in 1789. He eventually became a conductor for the Underground Railroad, helped found a community for escaped slaves in Canada, and traveled widely, speaking out against slavery. In his biography, he related the story of his father’s abuse at the hands of a slave owner. As punishment for his attempted escape, Henson’s father’s ear was severed. This image stayed in my mind and I used it to describe the fate of one of my characters.
When my book was near completion I decided to take a course of study in creative writing at Humber College. I submitted this novel and worked with Lawrence Hill, award-winning author of The Book of Negroes (published as Someone Knows My Name in the United States, Australia, and New Zealand). His suggestions were thoughtful and insightful, and I enjoyed his mentorship immensely.
I am grateful that Second Story Press’s Margie Wolfe and Carolyn Jackson took a chance on an unknown writer, providing me with constructive suggestions and encouragement. Alison Kooistra’s perceptive and skillful editing was invaluable in shaping the final manuscript.
Family is often the backbone that provides the support for any extended endeavor, and mine is no exception. My love and thanks to them, especially my husband Leonard, whose computer skills and good humor were always readily and generously available.
About the Author
JUDITH PLAXTON is a retired nurse with an avid interest in the environment, local history, and volunteering: she fund raises for the Stephen Lewis Foundation, is involved with the Georgian Lifelong Learning Institute, and visits her local elementary school to help children in the language department. She lives in Clarksburg, Ontario, a small community on the Niagara Escarpment.
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