Read Online Silent Thunder by Andrea Pinkney - Free Book Online Page B

to her. She folds his blanket back around him, double-checking to make sure he’s properly wrapped.
    Then something happens to make me holler. Mama and her baby rise from the land and float up toward the sky. Same way seed pods rise from a dandelion. The two of them are floating fast and far. Soon they grow smaller and smaller among the clouds. With a breeze blowing at them, Mama’s dress billows up to reveal the brand on her thigh. I look away from shame, from not wanting to see my own mama’s bare legs. I’m calling out, “Mama, Mama!” until I realize that I’m not dreaming no more, that I’m coming to wakefulness.
    My eyes flew open. Twilight was creeping. “Mama’s left for the main house,” Summer said in a sleepy voice. “You all right, Ros?”
    â€œIt ain’t nothin’,” I said. “Just askin’ for Mama, is all.”
    But this time, Mama wasn’t there to chase away the haints in my dream. So I found comfort in just saying Mama’s name.
    My lips made a silent sound, more hushed than a whisper.
    Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama.
    I hugged myself and rocked and rocked, like Mama would if she knew demons had flung up in my dreams again.
    Soon I felt morning sleep coming. Easy sleep that would let me rest a bit before I had to wake for good. As long as I kept up with my quiet call, I knew I’d feel safe.
    Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama.
    Near a month had passed since Parnell had taken ill. Near a month of changes and turmoil among all of us who call the Parnell plantation our home.
    Most everyone at Parnell’s had gone grim. For years, we’d been livin’ under the same rules. Wake when the master said wake , work when the master said work , sleep when the master said sleep.
    Now we didn’t have no rules. You’d ’a thought Parnell’s sickness would’ve been the go-’head for slacking. For the crop slaves to let the fields go fallow, and for us house servants to loaf. But each and every Parnell slave worked just as hard as ever. It was all we knew.
    If I’d come to Parnell’s plantation for the very first time, I’d have sworn it was Missy Claire who was suffering from some sickness, not her husband. Missy looked more wilted than a thirsty lily. While Parnell was holed up in his study, refusing to come out, MissyClaire spent most of her time perched near the parlor window. She poked nervously at a needlepoint sampler, making little progress on it. She had dipped into a frightful silence. Her squawkiness was all but gone.
    It wasn’t Rance, the overseer, who was running things. It seemed Missy Claire had given all the authority over to Mama.
    Mama was always the one with the strong backbone and the ability for managing folks, and now she was ruling the roost. Ruling it with hands of iron.
    Mama had become downright surly. Even little things riled her. She snapped a lot. It could have been that Mama felt the burden of Master Gideon’s feebleness, and the heavy duty of having to keep the Parnell homestead going.
    For every annoying bit of nitpickiness that had left Missy Claire, Mama now had it double:
    â€œRosco, child, mind me when I speak.”
    â€œRosco, don’t drag them feet o’ yours.”
    â€œRosco, make your fetchin’ snappy.”
    I just did like Mama said, and stayed out of her way.
    Soon after Parnell’s stroke, Missy Claire gave in to Mama’s know-how for healing. For the first time ever, she let her use the cayenne liniment to help quiet Lowell’s cough.
    â€œKit,” she’d said timidly, “maybe we ought to give your ointment a try. Now that October’s come, we shouldn’t take any chances with Lowell’s well-being.”
    Then, fanning herself with one of her hankies, Missy said, “We certainly wouldn’t want Lowell to catch himself any kind of cold.”
    Missy went on about how autumn always ushers in the threat of