Corner of the Housetop: Buried Secrets (2 page)

He walked by the carriage house to the small shed that stood behind it, fishing around his pocket for the key. Once he found it, Derek opened the door and stood the broom by the wheelbarrow. He stepped inside, forgoing any relief the shade might offer to the humidity that clung to his clothes. The stench of rotting boards choked him. Squinting into the dark, he lifted the shears off their hook then turned to leave, pulling the door behind him and closing the latch.

The distant babbling of running brook water floated up from the forest in the thick heat that settled over the grounds. It was the only sound aside from a soft song rising from the open front window as Beth, the slave woman who tended the house, bustled by with her cleaning rag and bucket. She seemed to be the only person the oppressive weather had not completely stifled, though her voice sounded muffled and wilted in the humidity. Even the overly enthusiastic cardinal that always perched on the apple tree outside Derek's bedroom window wasn't in the mood to sing.

Despite the weather, Derek couldn't help noticing that everyone around the housed seemed to be in a better mood than usual, though he couldn't have said why.

Perhaps,
he mused dryly,
it's because no one is getting yelled at today.
That was something rare indeed.

Beginning to hum tunelessly once more, Derek made his way around the hedges, clipping back the stray branches that had started shooting out with the first heavy rains of the season.

Mud holes along the drive were evidence of the spring as much as the green on the apple and dogwood trees. White blossoms were coming out in small bunches here and there on the honeysuckle bushes that stood around the small pond to the right of the carriage house, drawing bees out of their hives, and the violets that grew across the side field were bright and healthy.

An hour later, Derek was back in the shed, putting the shears in their place. Only the horses to feed then he could sneak away to the river—

Any ideas of swimming left Derek's mind as he turned and saw Gabriel and two of his friends—Derek's other reasons for not wanting to follow Gabriel to the old mill—coming through the bushes. All that was left of his thought was an annoyed groan and a silent reminder to himself that getting into an argument would not be the best way to finish his day.

"I thought so, but I didn't know," Marcus Baxter laughed, shaking his head.

"How could you not have noticed—" Anthony Clayton stopped, his broad grin turning into a slight smirk. His eyes narrowed like a cat's as it sights a fat squirrel. "Derek, why didn't you come swimming with us?" he asked in an overly friendly voice. "It's awfully hot today. A swim would be nice. Especially after spending all morning working like a nigger. You're not a nigger, right? You're skin's so dark, sometimes I forget."

Without answering, Derek turned from the boys and started towards the side field where the stables and riding corral stood.

"Awfully rude," Anthony sneered loudly. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners? Oh, wait. You don't have a mother. That's right. I always forget that, too."

Marcus snickered.

Just ignore them,
Derek told himself, quickening his pace.

The last time he had argued with Anthony, he had ended up with extra chores and two days without meals. Mrs. Worthington had said it was idleness that bred discontent in boys like Derek, and that some good old-fashioned hard labor should work it right out of him.

"And, for extra measures"-he recalled her sugary voice vividly-"we'll just starve it a bit, too, I think."

Of all the people in the world who Derek felt he had a right to hate, Martha Worthington was at the very top of the list. She was an elderly woman with a sweet voice and a biting tongue. Having been widowed for nearly ten years, Mrs. Worthington was bitter about everything. In truth, she seemed to enjoy being bitter, and she especially seemed to enjoy taking out her bitterness on Derek.

On the opposite note, Derek also felt Mrs. Worthington was one of the few people to whom he should be most grateful. Before he turned a year old, both his parents had died. Mr. and Mrs. Worthington had let him stay in their home, and clothed and fed him out of their own pocket. His parents had been servants in the Worthington home. Dear, beloved servants who were devoted and loyal, as Mrs. Worthington reminded him frequently.

Just what sort death they met, she never said, only that it was terrible, and it was evil of him to even ask her to recount it. Even speaking of the dead was evilness because wasting breath on things that could not be changed, and which, therefore, did not matter, was idleness. Wasting good time was the worst form of idleness, and idleness was the devil's work….

After so many extra chores, and so many lectures from Mrs. Worthington about how he was evil in one way or another, Derek had given up any hope he had initially had of ever learning about his parents.

As the stables and corral came into view, the other boys' ringing laughter faded behind Derek. It was nothing he wasn't use to, especially from Anthony Clayton and the youngest of the Baxter boys. Knowing it was coming didn't make it any easier to hear, but there was
some
consolation in knowing that his parents had, in fact, been good and honorable people. Holding tightly to that idea, Derek satisfied his anger in knowing that Anthony's parents rarely did anything that could have been considered good or honorable. They were wealthy, conceited socialites from Richmond.

"Yer late."

Derek smiled a little as he walked by Devon, the old slave who cared for the horses. "I know. Sorry. I had to do the hedges today and they took a little more time that I thought they would."

"Tell that to the horses. They're use to gittin' fed at a certain time."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Planting his hands on his hips, Devon shook his head, the loose skin under his chin wagging from side to side. His black, leathery face was set in a stern frown as he watched Derek take the metal pail off the nail it hanged on and fill it with oats. "Sorry ain't gon' feed them horses!"

"No, but I am. So everything's fine." Derek reached out and stroked Blueberry's neck. Blueberry was a tall horse with thick, brown hair. "Look at you, Blue. Withering away. That a rib sticking out, old boy?"

"Don' git wise," Devon snarled before stalking out of the building, pitchfork in hand. Despite being old and shrunken, Devon was fairly formidable. He had been a slave on the Worthington Plantation for nearly thirty-five years and had obviously taken a few leafs out of Mrs. Worthington's book over the decades.

Derek poured the oats into the feeding trough, patting Blueberry's nose. "He's just jealous because he doesn't eat as well as you. Brought you a carrot, but don't tell anyone."

Blueberry nudged his arm and took the offered gift.

A loud bray made Derek look at the second stall. "Jealous? Well, you're just a bullying, old bag of bones, so you can wait your turn."

The mare in the second stall was Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth Worthington, Mrs. Worthington's very own pride and joy. She was white with a dark, bobbed tail and a dusty brown mane. Pushy and demanding, she stretched the limit to which a pet should resemble its owner. It was sometimes difficult to see where the woman stopped and the horse began when Mrs. Worthington took Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth out riding, which didn't happen very often anymore.

As much as Derek would have loved the opportunity to call Mrs. Worthington a "bullying, old bag of bones" to her face, he was too happy at her sudden show of kindness earlier that morning to be very upset that he would never actually have the chance. In a rare good mood, the woman had smiled at him when they passed in the hall and offered to let him feed the horses: one of the few chores not on his regular list, but which he was constantly asking to do.

Derek loved being in the stables. Not only because that meant he didn't have to be in the house where he was an open target for criticism, but also because it was quiet and peaceful in the dim building. Also, he'd had an affection for Blueberry ever since the horse was bought as a birthday present for the then seven-year old Gabriel. Blueberry seemed to be the only one on the plantation who didn't enjoy giving Derek a hard time about one thing or another.

Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth neighed once more, kicking the stall door and snorting viciously.

"All right. If it'll shut you up." Haphazardly scooping oats into the pail once more, Derek sauntered to the other trough. "Yes, ma'am," he said with a slight bow, dumping the contents out unceremoniously.

With another snort and huff, the old mare dipped into her trough, grunting contently as she ate.

Looking at the mare, Derek asked, "Are you a pig or a horse?" Walking back to Blueberry, he hopped up on the side of the gate, perching on the wooden divider between the two stalls. He stroked the horse's neck once more. "You know, you should have been mine. When was the last time Gabriel visited you?"

Just then, Devon shuffled in, his feet slide-stepping over the dirt floor, pushing up a small pile of hay at the toes of his battered shoes. "If yer done, ya can git back up the house. I have things to do an' yer just in the way. And don' sit up there!"

"Sorry," Derek said yet again, swinging his legs over the front of the gate, jumping down, and jogging towards the door. The last thing he wanted was another lecture.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry! Sorry never got nothin' good done!" the man yelled, whipping his hat off and swatting Derek on the back of the head on his way out the door.

"Yes, sir," Derek called over his shoulder, jogging up to the top of the little knoll that separated the field from the lawn in front of the main house.

Up on top of the hill, looking down at the house, he scowled. The thought of going inside did not appeal to him, especially if Anthony and Marcus hadn't left yet. With barely a moment of thought, he turned left and ran towards the forest. No one would notice if he was a little later getting back, and the thought of a quick swim was too tempting to pass up.

Jogging along the back of the lawn until he reached the break in the bushes, Derek ducked down and scurried through the hole. He gave no heed to the few branches that caught his clothes and skin. Just as long as he was out of sight before Mrs. Worthington decided to send Gabriel and his friends out to find him, he really didn't mind a few tears and scratches.

Under the shade of the canopy, Derek left the pounding sun behind only to be choked by humidity in the midst of the tall trees and bushy shrubs, the need to breathe almost painfully persistent in the thicker air. Banana ferns and saplings leaned over the path, brushing against his legs. Spanish moss clung to the old trees as he moved closer to the water. Humidity and perspiration soaked his shirt.

As he made his way down the winding path towards the sound of the river, Derek couldn't help but feel like he was lost in some great adventure like the ones Mr. Worthington used to read to him and Gabriel out of travel journals when they were very young.

He was now wandering in the thick of some exotic jungle with nothing but his own survival instincts to keep him alive. The pines grew vines and the rush of the river was transformed into the crashing of a thundering waterfall. Around every bend in the pathway there could be any number of giant beasts waiting to pounce on him and eat him for dinner.

A rustling rippled through the low underbrush, scattering leaves as a gray squirrel popped its head out from behind one of the trees just to the right of the walk.

"Some giant beast," he muttered, chuckling at himself. Derek was not one for imagining fairy tales, but every now and then, especially enveloped in the playground of his youth, he let his mind wander.

It had been nearly eight years since he and Gabriel had first come exploring down in the forest, pushing back branches and crawling under bushes. As the years went by, their roughly hewn path to the river cleared more and more into a decent walkway.

It was also well used because it was the easiest way to get to Derek's quiet spot; the place he went when he needed to be alone and sure no one would find him. Every time he had too much of Mrs. Worthington or Gabriel's friends, he would duck into the bushes and make his way along the familiar path to his Village. It was so much his own that Derek had never told Gabriel about it, not even back when they were friends and spent their days playing and getting into trouble together.