Morning Star (21 page)

CHAPTER 53

Flower

FLOWER LUGGED
a heavy rock
to the growing pile under the tree. Gabriel toddled after her, his hands full of
stones. He threw them at the collection. “See Flower?”

“Yes, I see what a helpful boy you are. Come and
get some more.”

Her father and two other men worked steadily,
choosing each stone according to its size and shape, setting it in with the
others, crafting a fence that would last for generations.

“This ground's been growing nothing but rocks.”

“Since the beginning of time.”

“Next year this field will be golden with
grain.”

“I can taste it now.”

Flower brought them one more stone, then looked
down at her hands, scraped and sore.

“Pa, my hands are done with carrying for now.”

“Fetch us a pitcher of something cold and tasty
then.”

Flower took Gabriel's reluctant hand and led him
back to their house. His howling “no!” could be heard all the way to the front
yard.

Cleo appeared in the doorway. “What's all the noise
about?”

“Gabriel wants to stay and help Pa, but he's just
in the way without me to tend him. My hands are sore and Pa's thirsty.”

Cleo opened her arms to her disgruntled little boy.
“We'll make up some cold tea.”

Flower carried a pail to the pump. She worked the
handle up and down to get the water flowing, rinsed out the pail and set it
aside, then thrust her scratched palms under the cascading water, enjoying the
icy relief.

She heard someone whistling over the sound of the
running water. Flower looked back to where her father was working and then up at
the road. A man walked along with his hands in his pockets, a bag slung over his
shoulder. Flower squinted into the distance. There was something familiar about
him. He came closer, and she recognized him.

“Samuel!” Flower stopped pumping water and rushed
back to the house. “Ma! It's Samuel coming down the road!” She turned from the
door and ran toward the field. “Pa! Come quick and see who's here!”

Her father dropped a stone and trotted to the front
of the house. Cleo came to the doorway. “Welcome! Welcome! You're a sight for
sore eyes!”

“Isn't he, though? How did you know where to find
us?”

“I heard about you, and I thought to myself how I'd
like to see you folks again!”

Eldon made introductions to the neighbors. “This is
our friend who we met on our journey.”

“Seems like a lifetime ago,” said Samuel.

“Not so long, just two years.”

“How've you been? Come in and we'll have a meal,
all of us. We were just making some tea.”

They settled around the table. “So, tell us where
you've been and how you've been doing,” said Eldon.

“It's been a mighty long road. Thought I'd never be
warm and dry again. Once, I even spent a whole day hiding up to my neck in a
pond amongst the reeds.”

“Just like Moses.”

“He, at least, was in a basket.” As they laughed,
Samuel turned his gaze to Gabriel. “Look at that boy, a baby no longer.” His
eyes found Flower. “And your daughter, growing into a beautiful young lady.”

Flower searched out her mother's reassuring face.
“I forgot the pail of water. I'll go get it.”

Samuel stood up. “I'll help you.”

They walked across the yard to the pump. “Tell me
how you've been, Flower. Was it a hard journey for you to come here?”

“Yes.”

“I always tried to picture you and your family safe
from harm.”

“We were caught. Papa was treated real bad. They
put us in a jail.” Flower's voice trembled with the retelling. Samuel took her
hand, but she withdrew it and started to pump water into the pail.

“I never was caught, but I sure got hungry. I know
eggs taste better cooked.”

There was a bench near the pump. They sat down
together. Flower said, “You cooked squirrels for us.”

“You remember that?”

“Yes.” Flower studied her lap, then looked up at
the side of Samuel's head. “Your wound has healed nicely.” Her finger traced the
fluted remnant of an ear. “Does it pain you at all?”

“Just on a windy day.”

They sat and gazed at the bay, glistening blue in
the distance.

“A man could die of thirst waiting for you two!”
Eldon shouted from the house. “And it's time for lunch.”

As they ate their bread and cheese, Samuel asked,
“What about you folk? You're looking fine.”

“After we crossed the water, we stayed with some
people for a while, waiting for Cleo to recover her strength,” said Eldon. “I
helped and worked on their farm, made enough money to buy a horse and wagon. We
came up here a while back. What you see is what we have.”

“You own some land?”

“That I do.”

“My dream,” said Samuel.

“Stay here. This is a good community. We help each
other.”

Cleo stood and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Eldon, it's time for the Women's Institute meeting. Flower and I are on our
way. Gabriel will be in your care, on his best behavior.” She gave an emphatic
look to her little boy.

Flower took her mother's arm as they left the
house. “Feeling all right?”

Cleo arched her back, took slow steps. “I'm
thinking our wee visitor can make its presence known anytime.”

Flower glanced at her mother's swollen belly. She
couldn't imagine the arrival of this ‘visitor' would be an easy process. The
neighboring women had promised to help when the time came, especially Mrs.
Perkins, who was said to be proficient in handling such matters.

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 with 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.