Something watched from inside the house.
She went past the broken door. Chairs were spilled and scattered on the floor. A pot squatted over the slackening flames in the hearth. The floor beneath her was packed dirt, not so different from that of the healer’s cabin. A figure in a light-blue dress lay on a pallet. Only when Hazel came closer did she see the head was gone.
In the next moment she noticed the missing head upright in the center of the table. The hair was matted with blood, but she recognized the healer from the river. In dream fashion the facial features shifted and became her mother’s. The girl was terrified now. Blood dripped through the table, ticking, as steady as a mantle clock. Hazel came closer, saying “Mama?” Her voice sounded strange in her ears. When she was right next to the table the eyes opened, white and empty. Her mother’s jaws parted with a crackling sound and the carmine petals of the redbud tree spilled out and flooded the room. At last when the stream of petals stopped, the head spoke. “Hide,” it said. “You must hide.” There were footsteps outside the cabin. The thing that had done this was coming closer. Hide. She was up to her ankles in red petals, her feet fixed to the floor.
The door swung open.
THE RELUCTANT
ABOLITIONIST
H AZEL WOULDN’T EVER forget seeing her pa as he was laid out on the kitchen table, his body splotched with spots of viscous tar. Kate cast a shadow over him. Armed with a boar-bristle brush she scrubbed the black spots on his thickly haired arms and chest. His jaw clamped down as he strained to keep from crying out. When Kate lifted the brush, flecks of his skin came away. The flesh beneath was pink and raw. Light in the room wavered as Hazel—standing on a nearby chair and holding a tallow candle so Kate could see properly— nearly fainted at the sight. “Hold still,” Kate said. Below the girl, a sour-smelling bucket of well-water, lime, and lard soap sloshed around. Oil and tar and blood scummed the surface.
How did it come to this? the girl thought. She could still hear the bad men outside and she was terrified for Pa. He will live, I know it. And if he lives, what will become of us?
In the shadowy corner, an old man leaned against the wall. He balanced on one mud-streaked boot, a broad-brimmed hat hooding his features. Sometimes, Kate glanced in his direction, anger rising in her cheeks. Josiah, town squire. Josiah, slaveowner. Josiah, her father who had done this. A vein surfaced in her temple, a danger sign that Hazel and her brothers had learned to recognize in the few years since they had lived with her.
Hazel clutched the melting tallow candle and strove not to swoon. Her pa wasn’t much to look at now, stripped naked, only a damp washcloth covering his genitals like an Indian breechclout: a short, bowlegged man whose breathing was ragged and uncertain.
Outside in the yard, riders had dragged the press from the stable and worked with blacksmith tools to dismantle it. The tin box of letters lay scattered across the meadow. When nothing remained of the press but loose hinges of iron and wood, the men mounted their swaybacked horses and rode back to town.
The old man had to raise his voice to be heard above the rain spattering the shingled roof and coursing down, darkening the window frames. “I will not protect this man the next time they come for him.” A white flash rippled and faded outside the window, followed by a close grumble of thunder. It was early in the year for such weather; a surge of warm air that came from the south and made men think and act in ways that went against nature.
Kate’s expression was shrouded beneath the fall of her auburn hair, glistening in the candlelight. The skin of the hand working the brush was callused and chapped, not ladylike at all, too large, like the rest of her. Without looking at Josiah, she said, “You went too far.” She didn’t say any
She went past the broken door. Chairs were spilled and scattered on the floor. A pot squatted over the slackening flames in the hearth. The floor beneath her was packed dirt, not so different from that of the healer’s cabin. A figure in a light-blue dress lay on a pallet. Only when Hazel came closer did she see the head was gone.
In the next moment she noticed the missing head upright in the center of the table. The hair was matted with blood, but she recognized the healer from the river. In dream fashion the facial features shifted and became her mother’s. The girl was terrified now. Blood dripped through the table, ticking, as steady as a mantle clock. Hazel came closer, saying “Mama?” Her voice sounded strange in her ears. When she was right next to the table the eyes opened, white and empty. Her mother’s jaws parted with a crackling sound and the carmine petals of the redbud tree spilled out and flooded the room. At last when the stream of petals stopped, the head spoke. “Hide,” it said. “You must hide.” There were footsteps outside the cabin. The thing that had done this was coming closer. Hide. She was up to her ankles in red petals, her feet fixed to the floor.
The door swung open.
THE RELUCTANT
ABOLITIONIST
H AZEL WOULDN’T EVER forget seeing her pa as he was laid out on the kitchen table, his body splotched with spots of viscous tar. Kate cast a shadow over him. Armed with a boar-bristle brush she scrubbed the black spots on his thickly haired arms and chest. His jaw clamped down as he strained to keep from crying out. When Kate lifted the brush, flecks of his skin came away. The flesh beneath was pink and raw. Light in the room wavered as Hazel—standing on a nearby chair and holding a tallow candle so Kate could see properly— nearly fainted at the sight. “Hold still,” Kate said. Below the girl, a sour-smelling bucket of well-water, lime, and lard soap sloshed around. Oil and tar and blood scummed the surface.
How did it come to this? the girl thought. She could still hear the bad men outside and she was terrified for Pa. He will live, I know it. And if he lives, what will become of us?
In the shadowy corner, an old man leaned against the wall. He balanced on one mud-streaked boot, a broad-brimmed hat hooding his features. Sometimes, Kate glanced in his direction, anger rising in her cheeks. Josiah, town squire. Josiah, slaveowner. Josiah, her father who had done this. A vein surfaced in her temple, a danger sign that Hazel and her brothers had learned to recognize in the few years since they had lived with her.
Hazel clutched the melting tallow candle and strove not to swoon. Her pa wasn’t much to look at now, stripped naked, only a damp washcloth covering his genitals like an Indian breechclout: a short, bowlegged man whose breathing was ragged and uncertain.
Outside in the yard, riders had dragged the press from the stable and worked with blacksmith tools to dismantle it. The tin box of letters lay scattered across the meadow. When nothing remained of the press but loose hinges of iron and wood, the men mounted their swaybacked horses and rode back to town.
The old man had to raise his voice to be heard above the rain spattering the shingled roof and coursing down, darkening the window frames. “I will not protect this man the next time they come for him.” A white flash rippled and faded outside the window, followed by a close grumble of thunder. It was early in the year for such weather; a surge of warm air that came from the south and made men think and act in ways that went against nature.
Kate’s expression was shrouded beneath the fall of her auburn hair, glistening in the candlelight. The skin of the hand working the brush was callused and chapped, not ladylike at all, too large, like the rest of her. Without looking at Josiah, she said, “You went too far.” She didn’t say any
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