The Cursed Ground

by T. R. Simon

  “Then how do you account for what we saw, Mr. Scientist?”

  “I don’t have the faintest notion what y’all saw. Maybe it’s this crazy weather and that spooky place playing tricks on our minds, is all.”

  “Is that what you think?” Zora huffed with frustration. “Honestly?” It usually pained me to see my two best friends at odds with each other, but after how Teddy had treated me earlier, I was in no mood to defend him.

  “I’ll bet you don’t want to admit we saw a haint,” I said a bit haughtily, “because the idea scares you too much.”

  Teddy looked at me steadily for a few seconds. “If y’all are going to gang up on me no matter what I say, then I’m calling it a day. I probably should have gone home a long time ago.” And with that he got up, hung Mr. Polk’s rope back on the wall, and started home. A few yards off, he turned and waved at us.

  Neither of us moved a finger to wave back. If Teddy Baker could choose the pretense of common sense over what we saw with our own eyes, well, who needed Teddy Baker? But deep down I was secretly glad. If Teddy was at odds with Zora, too, she would be less likely to notice my anger at him.

  Zora turned to me. “Do you believe in haints?” she asked.

  I hesitated. My feelings about spirits were complicated. When my father went missing for such a long time, even though we didn’t have hard proof of it, we knew he was dead. Still, I would wake up at dawn sometimes, sure I’d felt the touch of his rough palm on my cheek. Or I would be walking alone at dusk and the air would carry the soft sound of my name in his deep bass.

  “Well,” I answered Zora, “I think maybe a haint is something that’s left over from when a person was living. Like the shadow of all their feelings still floating in the air.”

  “Mm,” she said, nodding. “But I always think of haints as the spirits of people. You think animals can have haints, too? Why would a horse haunt a place?”

  “Horses have souls, too, don’t they? I reckon anything with a soul can have a haint.”

  Zora sprang to her feet and started pacing at top speed, looking so much like a small version of her father on the pulpit, full of fire and gospel.

  “Carrie! A dead horse showed its spirit self to us, you and me. What business you think an animal haint can have with us?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Unless,” she went on without pausing, “it was sending us a message!”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, but Zora was on a roll and there was no point in trying to stop her.

  “I remember one time my mama talking about Mrs. Johnson calling on Old Lady Bronson after her husband died from a rattler bite. Mrs. Johnson told Old Lady Bronson that Mean done learn everything it knows from her husband, and that dying had barely slowed him down. She said his meanness was still pushing her clean wash into the mud, stopping her cow’s milk, burning her chicken even as she stood there watching it fry, and a dozen other things to boot. Old Lady Bronson said there was only one way to knock the mean out of dead Mr. Johnson so he could rest, and that was to find out what he wanted. Old Lady Bronson had Mrs. Johnson sleep with a piece of coontie root under her pillow for a week. Sure enough, on the fifth night Mrs. Johnson said her husband came to her in a dream, talking about how he wanted to be buried with his pocket watch, which was hid in a little tin under their front step. Once she went out and buried the watch in his grave, Mrs. Johnson didn’t have no more trouble out of him.”

  “What you saying, Zora? You think we need to sleep with coontie under our pillow?”

  “No, silly! I’m saying that there’s surely a soul in that plantation house that still ain’t settled, and I’m not all that surprised. Something in Eatonville has been tingling my senses and pushing at my feet since last night. I’m saying that what we saw just now on Polk’s land was likely just a taste of what’s waking up — and I mean to be there ’fore it gets dressed!”

  The next morning Master Frederic’s body was moved to the cool dark of the root cellar. Prisca did not leave her room, and we slaves went about our business.

  Miss Caroline was wearing one of the dresses I had dyed black two weeks earlier in readiness for this occasion. For days after, my hands carried the dark stain of preparing for death.

  Westin was set deep in Florida, and I could count on both hands the farms that could be reached in a day with a couple of fingers to spare. And although word had gone out yesterday, our closest neighbors were only arriving today to pay their respects.

  I knew Rebecca would need me at the table. She called me in and I served the guests. They spoke softly to Miss Caroline and to Miss Alice, and Miss Caroline responded with quiet apologies for her tears.

  Miss Alice stepped into the hall and asked me to bring Prisca. I knocked on her door, but she refused to answer. Even when I spoke in our old language, she would not respond.

  I returned downstairs without her, and Miss Alice frowned at me but said nothing in front of the guests.

  The next night Miss Alice once again asked me to summon Prisca, but this time she followed me up the stairs. She stepped in front of me and knocked on the locked door. “Prisca, honey, you’ve got to come down,” she gently urged. “Mama is already suffering. Please don’t add to her sorrow. Come down now and condole with the person who feels the loss as you do.”

  We heard a rustling from inside and slowly the door opened. Prisca stood before us dressed in black. Miss Alice smiled at her and took her arm. Prisca bowed her head and allowed herself to be led down. I followed behind, closing her back buttons as quickly as I could.

  On my way back to the kitchen I saw Miss Caroline stand and embrace Prisca as she entered the dining room. Prisca melted into her arms and began weeping again.

  At dinner they sat side by side, neither eating much. Miss Alice and Master George kept a light conversation going while their son, Timothy, finished everything on his plate.

  When Miss Alice turned to engage her mother, Timothy sought his father’s attention.

  “Pa, up in an oak right at the tree line, what do you think I saw?”

  Master George turned to his son, and though he didn’t say anything, Timothy took that notice as a sign to continue. “It was a raccoon, but not just any raccoon. This was the biggest coon I ever saw — the biggest I’ll bet anybody ever saw. It must have eaten five other raccoons to get that big. And what do you think I did?”

  “What?” Master George asked, his interest piqued.

  “Well, I took my time, I took aim, and I fired!”

  Master George smiled then. “You got him?” he asked, looking pleased.

  “No,” said Timothy. “He moved at the last second, but I got the branch he was on, and boy did he go tumbling. He must have fallen twenty feet!” He was grinning, looking for his father’s approval.

  “Did you get him then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When he hit the ground,” said his father. “After that twenty-foot fall. Did you get him then?”

  Timothy looked confused. “Well, no. How could I? He was too fast. He just scrambled back in the brush. There wasn’t time to reload.”

  Master George’s smile sank. “Son, a man doesn’t tell a story about his failure. No one wants to hear that story. Wait till you do something worth telling before you go bending people’s ears.” With that, he went back to his food.

  Timothy’s face darkened and his lip set tight. He had lost his father’s fleeting attention. He looked over at his mother and grandmother, who were still in conversation, and Prisca’s eyes were on her plate. He caught me looking at him then and gave me a nasty scowl.

  I dropped my eyes immediately. I knew how quick he was to lash out at any slave who witnessed his humiliation.

  At Christmas the year before, when Master Frederic and Miss Caroline had gifted Master George with a new stud, Master George turned to Horatio to break it in. It was a challenge even for Horatio, who could calm the most anxious horses. Nevertheless, he set out to do it as he did everyt
hing — with patience and persistence — and Master George was extremely pleased with his progress. To Master Frederic and Miss Caroline, he said, “The boy has the makings of a real trainer. He is doing a better job than I could do, and I know a thing or two about horses. You’ll be hiring him out before long.”

  Timothy heard this, and I believe that his father’s praise of a slave was an insult to him, a sharp wound.

  Burning to prove himself a horseman the equal to his father — and certainly better than a slave — Timothy took the new steed into the corral. As soon as the boy got in the saddle, the animal threw him with such force that in landing he broke his large toe. Master George chided Timothy about the incident for as long as he needed a crutch afterward. Timothy used that crutch not only for walking, but to strike out at Horatio whenever he found himself alone with him. Openly hitting Horatio would have betrayed his jealousy, so his attacks on Horatio were furtive, quick, and painful. Horatio never said a word, not even when I touched those wounds as we sat reading from the books I stole from Prisca’s room. He would push my hand away, drawing my attention to the lesson.

  My thoughts were abruptly brought back to the present when Prisca spilled her wine. I rushed to stop the spread of its stain on the tablecloth.

  Master George took this as a signal to end supper, asking everyone to join him in the library. I moved to clear the dishes so I could pull the tablecloth for soaking, but George turned to me and said, “Leave this, Lucia. Our conversation includes you.”

  My mouth went dry and my stomach tightened, and I stiffly followed the others to the parlor.

  I stood by the door while everyone else took their places, Master George next to Miss Caroline, Miss Alice next to Timothy, Prisca by herself. Master George began without preamble. “Alice and I have decided to leave Saint Augustine and move here.”

  “What?” Timothy stood. “No!”

  “Do not question your father, Timothy,” Miss Alice said in a firm tone that suggested she had anticipated this protest.

  “But I don’t want to leave Saint Augustine! I have no friends here!”

  “Timothy!” Master George’s voice resounded against the dark wood panels. “We all have to make sacrifices. Your mother and I are also leaving those whose company we care for so that we may see your grandmother through this time of mourning. I am leaving my law practice to run the farm.”

  I stood perfectly still, silent as the drapes, but watchful as an owl. I had often suspected Master George wanted Westin, and now the opportunity was presenting itself.

  Unlike Prisca’s father, who considered himself above the daily disciplining of slaves, Master George seemed enlivened by the task. Since his arrival eight weeks ago, Master George had given Mr. Krowse free rein, something Master Frederic had never done. “Do what you must, Krowse. The ends justify the means.” For the field slaves, this meant more lashes for more infractions, and smaller rations for longer days. There would be heartache when they heard this news.

  Sullen, Timothy pointed at Prisca and asked, “What about her? What does she have to sacrifice?”

  Prisca almost smiled. “What do I have left to sacrifice? I’ve lost my mother and my father. I have nothing else.” She turned to Miss Caroline, who nodded solemnly.

  “It’s true. Your father did not leave you anything.”

  Prisca blinked. I think she had not until that moment given a single thought to her material needs, but the words did not leave you anything gave her a notion that there might have been something for her father to leave her. But he had not. Her mouth formed a small O.

  Miss Caroline continued, “Of course I will care for you until you marry.” She paused, perhaps to let her words find purchase in Prisca’s mind. Prisca blinked slowly but did not move. “I am not a mercenary person. If I were, I would not have married your father. But between your upkeep and Alice and George’s removal from Saint Augustine, I’m going to need for your father to now, belatedly, adhere to the terms of our marriage contract.”

  Prisca’s eyes widened. “Marriage contract? What do you mean?”

  “I am having George and Alice take Lucia to Saint Augustine. She will be sold there, and the proceeds used to support the farm.”

  I felt pressure behind my eyes, and my hands turned to ice in the hot room.

  Prisca was on her feet. “No! Lucia will not be sold!” She looked at me. “She’s mine! She’s always been mine! I would never sell her!”

  Miss Caroline looked pained. “Prisca, I know this comes at a terrible time, but I don’t have a choice. It is what’s best for the family. If you listen to reason you’ll see . . .”

  “I will not! That’s not reason, selling Lucia. That’s the opposite of reason!”

  I tried to look at the faces in the room, but I could not make my eyes see them clearly. All I heard were the words She will be sold.

  “Prisca, dear, I implore you,” Miss Caroline continued. “You yourself just acknowledged it. You said so yourself — you have nothing!”

  “Yes, but not Lucia! I didn’t mean Lucia! My father would never have consented to sell her!”

  Sweat pooled under my arms. Prisca was defending me — not because I was a person and should not be sold, but because I was her property and could not be taken from her.

  Miss Caroline looked stricken. “It was never a question of consent. He brought her to the marriage; he promised a bar of gold and the sale of a girl slave. When you arrived and he saw how upset you were at . . . how isolating the farm can be, he wanted to wait. He didn’t want you to be lonely. He asked if we could hold off selling her for as long as the gold lasted, and I, against my instincts but because I loved him and because I saw how unhappy you were, I said yes. I said yes, but now your father is gone and the gold is gone, and I have no choice.”

  Prisca shook her head violently. “No. I refuse to believe it. My father would never allow this.”

  Miss Caroline shook her head and began to rise from her seat, but Master George stood first and said, “I’ll get it, Mother Caroline.”

  He went to the corner desk where Miss Caroline always sat to do the accounts, and from a drawer he drew a rolled scroll tied with a ribbon. He slid off the ribbon and unrolled the parchment as he approached Prisca. “It’s the marriage contract. Read the fourth paragraph from the top: ‘In consideration of . . .’ Right here.”

  Prisca held the stiff document open with one hand at the top and one hand at the bottom. “‘In consideration of the above,’” she read aloud, “‘the Husband agrees to bring his extensive library, a bar of pure gold weighing not less than four hundred troy ounces, and a girl slave to be sold upon arrival. . . .’” Prisca’s voice trailed off and she lowered the contract. My stomach churned.

  Master George put a hand on Prisca’s shoulder. “You must understand how distasteful this is to all of us.” Miss Caroline and Miss Alice murmured their assent. “But we have to think about the good of the whole family, and it would be unconscionable to indulge one at the expense of the others.”

  Prisca’s voice was hollow. “Is there no money left at all?”

  George looked uncomfortable at the question. “The fact is that we need ready money to remove from Saint Augustine to here. Lucia has learned to be a good servant. She has manners and a pleasing appearance, and she will bring a fine price in a port city. Mother Caroline has brought up the matter now because I will leave for Saint Augustine after your father’s funeral, sell Lucia at the market there, and then undertake all the other measures we have discussed.”

  Prisca went to kneel before Miss Caroline. “Caroline, please, I beg of you. Please don’t sell Lucia. Please.”

  My body was on fire. The whole conversation revolved around me and I could no more speak for myself than could the chair beside me.

  Miss Caroline stroked Prisca’s head, even as she looked imploringly at her son-in-law and daughter.

  George spoke. “The decision has been made. The decision is final. The girl will be sold.” />
  Prisca stood up and rushed over to me. “Never. Never. Never,” she said, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me out of the parlor, up the stairs, and into her room.

  I sat with my back against the wall and hugged my knees to my chest. A storm was coming, and there was no shelter for me.

  Prisca sank to her knees, covered her face, and sobbed. “We are undone. We have lost everything! All that could be taken from us is gone. My father is dead and now we are at the mercy of these heartless people!”

  I could only stare at her. I was full of so many feelings: anger that even she believed I could be owned — that any person could be owned; despair that in only a few days’ time I would be ripped from everything and everyone I knew; horror at the thought of what awaited me at the hands of a new owner. All those feelings I had spent three years stifling wanted to come roaring out of me, and it took all my will to keep them in check.

  I waited until the tempest of her tears subsided before I spoke. “I was brought here three years ago with no say in the matter. In that time I have been shown no mercy.”

  Prisca’s eyes met mine and she squinted slightly, as if emerging from a fog. “Except by me!” she proclaimed. “I’ve done everything possible to lighten your burden!”

  I dropped my eyes. I could not lie without erasing myself, and I could not tell the truth without erasing her. I wanted to tell her, No. You are not an exception. As long as there are slaves, the free benefit. If it were not for slavery, we would all be merely human. It’s our slavery that makes you free.

  She pressed on. “I will not let them take you! I won’t!”

  I took her hand, hoping that would make her hear my actual words. “Prisca, there is nothing you can do for me.”

  She recoiled and started weeping again.

  Though my words were true, they did not bring me satisfaction. To cause her pain would be to seek revenge for something that lay beyond what either of us could control.

  I pressed my brow to my knees and tried to still my terror. To be sold. The words kept echoing in my head. I was no more than a bale of hay, a pallet of wood, a sow for slaughter. I was nothing, and if you are nothing, anything can be done to you. I burned with fear, sorrow, humiliation, and helplessness. And not one of Prisca’s tears could extinguish that fire.