Promise Bridge (9 page)

I nodded and smiled to hide my mounting fear. We knelt over the map I had etched in the soil and traced her route one last time. Her eyes were wide and attentive, as if hearing the plan for the first time. “Try not to let the river’s strength frighten you, Liv. Never fight against the current. It’s a battle that is impossible to win. Flow with it and use its power to help you get where you are going.”

Coaxed by the urgent hoot of an unseen owl, we gathered ourselves for our journey down to the river. I scuffed the toe of my boot across the lines in the dirt. My foot stopped at a crude stick figure Livie had carved into the drawing. Twists of familiar braids protruded from the circular head, and a wide crescent smile looped from one side to the other. I don’t know if it was fear or superstition that kept my foot from smudging away that innocent expression, but I refused to brush her away into oblivion. Livie’s no-nonsense practicality took over as she shuffled her ragged feet across the happy face and erased the last remnant of our time spent together on the peak.

Moonlight bathed down from the forest ceiling, illuminating our path like we were winding our way through a dream. Raccoons and deer scampered as twigs snapped beneath our hurried feet and warned them of our approach. A hint of the day’s warmth lingered in the air, giving us one less obstacle to overcome. However, I was certain it would not be a courtesy extended by the bone-chilling waters of the Red Hawk River.

The sweet fragrance of mountain laurel wafted around us as we descended the cliff to the river. Livie kept pace until the heaviness of her pained hip required her to grip the back of her thigh and pull each hard-fought step from her injured leg. Finally, the ground beneath our feet softened and gave way to the mist-covered mud along the river’s edge. There, the lower end of the first set of rapids rushed into the slow, swirling currents of the Horse’s Bend. Livie and I stepped from the cover of evergreen and let the bright, full moon wash over our tight, breathless bodies. I looked out across the sleek, sparkling blackness that slid bleakly past us, silent and unyielding. In contrast, the rapids feeding her north and draining her south rumbled in the darkness like a stampede of angry cattle. My breath caught in my throat when the silhouette of an uprooted tree twisted helplessly by us, carried by the river like a feather on its current. My heart sank, realizing Livie had less of a chance in the unforgiving current than the dredged tree slowly swallowed by the Red Hawk. It was the first true moment of regret I felt since meeting Livie.

“You should sit for a while, Livie. You will need all the strength you can muster once you enter the river.”

Livie limped alongside of me, her dark saucer eyes entranced by the sight of the river. I wondered if she thought a lynching would be a kinder fate.

“Gots’ta keep movin’,” Livie said with eyes fixed straight ahead, “so my leg don’t have time to stiffen, nor my thoughts time fo’ frettin’.”

I rested my hand across her shoulders as much for my own reassurance as I did for Livie’s. The longer we waited, the harder it would be to go forward, so I drew in an anxious breath and struggled to unearth some parting words of encouragement.

“You will do fine, Livie. Remember what I told you about the strength of the river?”

“Don’t fight the current.” She nodded. “Jes’ go along with the flow so it don’t overpower me.”

“Swim straight for the other side as you ride the current downstream. Swim swiftly so you make it as far as Turtleback Rock.” I pointed to the dark mound a hundred yards below us. “See it down there, halfway across? Paddle straight toward the middle, and let the water drag you into the rock. Hold tight and rest until you have enough strength to swim the second half.”

“Tell me true, Miss Hannah,” Livie said with the uncertainty of someone about to throw herself into the unknown. “Do you think there’s a chance of me reachin’ the other side?”

How I wished I could keep Livie safe up on the peak. Or, at the very least, offer another option that might be more favorable than this. Here, with the river stretched before us, there was no denying the potential consequences, good and bad. This unspoken thought dropped between us like a ship’s anchor.

“If anyone can make it, Livie, it’s you.”

Livie’s eyes held on to mine through the darkness and would not release me. She paused, as if absorbing my words. Then a crooked grin slowly peeled the gloom from her face.

“Them is the best words yo’ fine breedin’ can come up with?” Her low chuckle took me by surprise. Waves of intermittent laughter came quicker, and shook deep into her belly. “You is sendin’ me into a cold, watery graveyard, sayin’ nothin’ more than, ‘If anyone can make it, it’s you.’ ”

Livie wrapped her arms around her midsection and whooped in amusement. There was absolutely nothing funny about this moment, but the humor embraced by Livie in the face of possible death coaxed me to play along with sarcastic amusement.

“Well, what would you rather I say, girl? ‘Hope you don’t sink like a big’ ol’ rock.’ Or how about, ‘Don’t worry, Livie. I expect the mountain water will freeze you, long before it drowns you!’”

Livie flung her hand over her mouth and stomped her feet in a futile attempt to muffle the burst of laugher that echoed in the woods. “Well, even a nappy-haired know-nothin’ like me has sense enough to say somethin’ powerful like, ‘Heaven’s angels will carry you to the other side, Livie
.
’”

Her grin was broad and sincere as we stood face-to-face, less than an arm’s length from one another. Our intermittent giggles slowed into a hesitant farewell. An overwhelming need to embrace her filled me in a way I had not felt in a very long time. Since losing my parents, my heart instinctively did not allow any vulnerable attachments to take root. I had grown comfortable in letting it be so. But somewhere within our bond of trust, Livie had penetrated my emotional fortress. Livie waited, as if sensing that the decision to reach out in friendship was mine, but the impulse to outwardly share my affection retreated back into the cocoon I had spun around me long ago. Or was I retreating from the uncharted complexities presented by our differences? Thoughts to be sorted out another time, I supposed. Now, as I gazed into Livie’s clouding eyes, I knew it was time for good-bye.

“I best get on with it,” Livie said with moist emotion rising along her short, curled lashes.

Hiding my fear, I blinked back tears and held the warm palm of my hand against her cool cheek. “Heaven’s angels
will
carry you to the other side, Livie.”

Livie lowered her head, but with a gentle nudge, I lifted her chin so there was no veil between my eyes and hers. “And don’t you ever call yourself a know-nothin’ again, because you possess more sense and courage than anyone I have ever met. You have the same fire and determination as Marcus, and you
will
make it, my friend.”

A wave of composure settled on Livie’s face as she lifted her hand for me to grasp. Our fingers intertwined as we stood for a moment, our hands bridged between us, letting the silence speak our feelings. Then, with a burst, she let go and dashed into the river.

Livie pushed deep into the swell. She squealed with each step as the cold water rose against her warm skin. The hem of her dress swirled atop the current and tugged her in the direction of the downstream flow. Livie paused in the moonlight. My hands clenched in prayerful desperation. When she glanced over her shoulder at me, I raised my hand in one last gesture of support. Livie whirled around, took three deep breaths, and plunged into the murky water. Overcome by paralyzing dread, I dropped to my knees in hope that my thoughts could will her to the far riverbank. In the halo of the moon, something fluttered against my heel. There, tangled and spattered with mud, was the chambray neckerchief Livie had tied to her ankle for luck.
An omen
. I popped back up on my feet and pressed the cloth against my bosom.

“Paddle, Livie,” I called as her arms slapped over her head in frantic strokes toward the opposite shore. For each body length she gained across, she lost four or five downstream. Her injured leg was not giving her the kick she needed to plow forward with any degree of gain. Over-matched by the river’s surge, Livie’s frail frame bobbed along its surface like a leaf washed away in a storm. The shadowy profile of Turtleback Rock loomed like an unreachable mirage in the distance.

“Faster, Livie! Faster!” I screamed, no longer caring if the echo of my voice fell on dangerous ears. However, my cries did nothing to change the fact that Livie had not gotten far enough to be within reach of the rock needed for respite.

“Grab on, Livie!” I cried out as she flailed her arms toward the elusive boulder. Its aloof shadow hung far enough from her fingertips to release a long, heart-wrenching cry from the pit of my stomach. “Nooooo!”

I sank to the ground with a gasp when Livie’s outstretched hand fell short of the passing rock, and she disappeared into the dark rapids below.

Chapter 10

I
have no recollection of my journey through the woods back to Hillcrest, but I remember well the agony coursing through me while sprawled on my bed, eyes raised and locked on the ceiling. In my mind’s eye, I saw the image of Livie slipping away into the roar of the river’s fury over and over again. The mantel clock stroked the hours, yet I remained imprisoned in a timeless limbo. I thought I would never escape the torment of night until mercifully the early rising catbirds wailed the coming of daybreak. Wrapped in a shawl, I settled on the front porch with hope the fresh air would clear my head.

By first light, the slave force of Mud Run buzzed in frenzied preparation for the return of Aunt Augusta from her trade excursion. Oddly, their activity transcended the dutiful. Slaves from all corners of Mud Run eagerly anticipated Aunt Augusta’s return home. They seemed genuinely attached to her, as she was to them. I never heard Aunt Augusta refer to any of her slaves in derogatory or dehumanizing terms. She called the slaves of Mud Run her Runians. It was almost endearing, and was the one trait for which I respected and admired her. And even though she was a strict and demanding mistress, the Runians knew they were protected within the boundaries of her plantation.

Aunt Augusta was expected late in the afternoon, so from sunup through midday, the Runians scattered with the urgency and teamwork of an overrun anthill. They cleaned the stables, washed windows, and prepared food. All needed to be perfect, so when they gathered to meet Aunt Augusta’s carriage as it pulled into the front yard, she would step down with a nod of approval, satisfied that responsibilities were not neglected in her absence. It was a subtle gesture of appreciation that the Runians embraced as affection. I envied them their value in her life.

By midday, the world was alive with plump honeybees bobbing from daisy to daisy along the pillars that framed the entrance steps of the porch. Red-breasted robins combed the emerald grass, tilting their heads close to the ground before delivering a swift peck into the turf to snatch a wriggling night crawler. Detached from the activity around me, I folded my knees up under my dress and held them tight against my chest, like a child clinging to a security blanket. Not very ladylike, but a natural impulse I indulged in, as no one was present to scold me. As the day dragged on, I grew numb with despair.

Esther Mae carried a wicker basket of freshly washed clothes to the clothesline in the side yard. My dress and stockings needed special care in scrubbing away the iron gray mud of the riverbank. Esther Mae asked no questions nor revealed any dismay over why my clothing was in such soiled condition, but for my benefit, she spent half the morning bent over the washboard, making them spotless before Aunt Augusta’s return.

The rumble of wagon wheels coaxed me to my feet. The rhythm of trotting horses grew louder as Uncle Mooney’s carriage appeared over the crest of the dirt road rising from West Gate. Twitch sat next to him at the reins, hunched over his knees. With a snarling howl, Twitch pulled the team to a standstill between the carriage house and the front porch.

“Good afternoon, Hannalore,” Uncle Mooney said in his deep, stern voice. “I want to extend a dinner invitation to you for this evening. With Colton and Augusta having business elsewhere, it leaves us with each other’s company.”

“Thank you, Uncle Mooney,” I said, unmoved by his hollow gesture. “But Aunt Augusta should be arriving home later today. She will surely be road weary, and I am feeling poorly as well, so I shall regretfully decline your invitation on behalf of both of us.”

“Suit yourself, child,” he declared with a nod of relief.

Twitch tongued his bulging chaw of tobacco from one cheek to the other. “Oh, come on, Hannah,” he wheedled with a seemly grin. “I will be joinin’ Mooney as well. Maybe an evenin’ with me will warm the chill in your heart.”

“That’s enough, Twitchell.” Uncle Mooney raised his arm in front of Twitch, corralling him like an unbroken stallion.

“Well, maybe our dear Missy here ain’t so much sick as she is in need of attention from someone who appreciates her delicate nature.”

“I said, ‘That’s enough,’” Uncle Mooney huffed with impatience rather than anger. Then with a disagreeable tug of his hat in my direction, he said, “Twitchell and I have business in town. Be sure to let Augusta know the invitation was offered.”

With a snap of the reins, Twitch wrestled the horses back toward the road leading to town and barreled off in a cloud of dust.

As the afternoon shadows lengthened and I fretted over Livie’s fate, I gravitated toward the kitchen, where Esther Mae joined Granny in supper preparation.

“Sit a spell, chile,” Granny said as she waddled to the table and slid a small plate of biscuits and marmalade toward me. Granny Morgan rarely spoke more than a word or two at a time. Mostly she hummed or sang spirituals, deep and aching like the pull of a bow across a bass fiddle. So when she thought it important enough to speak up, it got everyone’s attention, including mine. “Go on, now. Eat up. Be best fo’ all of us if you greet Miz ’Gusta with some color in yo’ cheeks.”

I was happy to oblige her. I cupped the warm tea she set in front of me and let the moist steam rise against my face. Warmth flushed across my skin, releasing the knot of tension that throbbed behind my left eye. Esther Mae swatted the sharp husks of her broom back and forth across the floor, using it to voice the frustration she dare not direct toward me.

“Don’t seem right fo’ the devil to poke me from dusk till dawn with apparitions of Winston strung from a tree, when those breathin’ the same air as me think nothin’ of draggin’ home mo’ work and trouble to set at my doorstep.”

“Hush up, Esther Mae,” Granny boomed, curling the slope of her flat nose to meet the downward scowl of her broad forehead. “Don’t growl at us ’cuz you miss yo’ man. Massa Reynolds will have yo’ hide if he stumbles in on you talkin’ out o’ turn. Go on now and fetch some lemons from the cellar. Miz ’Gusta will expect a cool drink to soothe the thirst of a long day spent in a dusty carriage.”

Esther Mae slowed her broom strokes into contrite circles until she hedged to the door of the root cellar. Then with tight lips and a distant gaze, she slipped from Granny Morgan’s hands-on-hips shadow and left me in a wake of confusion.

“Gracious be,” I sputtered. “I have never seen Esther Mae so upset or speak in such a manner. Why is she having fretful night terrors about Winston?”

“Don’t pay her no mind, chile,” Granny said, shuffling back to the kitchen pump. “She still feels the sting from the whuppin’ my boy, Winston, got in town a ways back. You would be doin’ ol’ Granny a powerful favor if you jes’ fo’get Esther Mae’s sour words. Granny will see it don’t happen no more.”

“They’s comin’! They’s comin’!” Elijah’s cry sliced through the activity on the grounds around the house.

Granny and I both jumped like startled rabbits and set off in opposite directions. Gathering the flounce of my dress, I hurried from the kitchen toward the front porch, while Granny bellowed for Esther Mae to fetch herself out of the cellar. The dozen or so Runians who were not tending the fields scurried after the pickaninnies toddling around the yard. James strode from the backyard, where he was mending a fence. He paused by the stable to remove his straw hat and drag his forearm across his dripping brow. My gaze followed Elijah’s pointed finger across the lower fields to where Aunt Augusta’s coach jostled down the road stretching between the house and town.

The lower fields were planted in well-maintained sections, growing most of the staple crops of the household: potatoes, carrots, onions, snap beans, tomatoes, corn, and an abundance of all else that blessed our table. The Runians lined up in the fields and raised their hands in welcome as Aunt Augusta’s coach rolled past them. Many emptied from their rows and followed in her noisy wake to the front yard. They circled the coach at a respectful distance as James secured the horses to the hitching post. Elijah stood, waving his arms over his head, near James, as Esther Mae rushed by me and placed an embracing arm across her son’s shoulder. She radiated a broad smile of relief. Elijah bolted to the stilled coach and climbed onto Winston’s perch, where his father tousled his hair and handed him the reins. Several Runians unloaded Aunt Augusta’s trunks and carried them to the house. I walked out among them, waiting for Aunt Augusta to exit the coach. Her unreadable eyes scanned the gathering through the window as James opened her door. When Aunt Augusta stepped into full view, she was met with a staggered chorus of “Welcome back, Miz ’Gusta.” She acknowledged them with an attentive nod that signaled each back to their abandoned chore.

“Esther Mae, today’s journey was particularly tiring. I shall retire to my room for a restful spell. You may serve me my refreshments there.” With each approaching step, the hunch in her back straightened into the usual stern posture of her confident shoulders. Her shadow draped across my face as I offered a modest curtsy.

“Welcome home, Aunt Augusta. I hope your trip was pleasant and successful.”

“You are looking gaunt and pale, Hannalore,” she said, examining me with more curiosity than concern. She pressed a cool hand to my forehead. “Are you feeling poorly?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Attend to your quilt squares on the front porch. The fresh air will do you good.” I was relieved when she dismissed me from her query and moved toward the house.

“Yes, ma’am,” I called after her with pleasure in hoodwinking her. If she only knew how much fresh air I had enjoyed during the weeks she was away! I was not foolish enough to push the matter further, so I retrieved my quilt squares and settled into the wicker rocker on the front porch. I busied myself adorning the squares with decorative stitching at a pace intended to make up for all that had gone neglected while I was tending to Livie.

Darkness eclipsed my thoughts the moment Livie came to mind, but I forced my concentration back to the unstitched material folded neatly on my lap. Busying my hands with needlework had been my emotional haven for as long as I could remember. Recollections of my mother and me nestled in front of a glowing hearth often soothed me. I held dear the memory of hours tucked safely in her lap as she guided my untrained hands from stitch to stitch. Patterns of stars, sun rays through treetops, forked rivers, and unusual rock formations were her favorites. And mine too, I supposed, because they were easy to learn and did not require the delicate stitching boasted by the icy debutantes gathered in self-righteous sewing circles throughout the county. I hated their air of superiority. They carried themselves with refined importance based on the misguided opinion that they were wildly desirable. I was surprised when Aunt Augusta did not demand my participation in this social tradition. Perhaps she did not want me viewed as inferior.

It mattered not to me that I and my unrefined needlework were held at bay as awkward outsiders. I cherished those simple patterns of my childhood because they took me home to Kentucky and to the fireside, where I could once again nestle in the warm, comforting memory of my mother. Aunt Augusta allowed me this one indulgence and required I make only occasional appearances in these circles to maintain the appropriate ties. For the most part, I was allowed to sew in the quilting room, where a handful of Runians, who were either too old or unfit to work the fields, were delegated to spinning cloth, making clothes, and working together at the loom, creating quilts.

There was a time when I thought her sisterly attachment to my mother was what stirred Aunt Augusta’s cooperation and encouragement in my quilting efforts, particularly because the patterns learned in my childhood were replicated in her household. However, I discovered early on that profit, not sentiment, drove her interest. She garnered great praise from her fellow planters for her inventiveness in gaining cash rewards out of otherwise unproductive slaves. Mr. Watkins of the town mercantile ordered a steady supply of quilts to stock his shelves; a modest profit for Hillcrest, but profit nonetheless. Aunt Augusta expanded this side business to include shops in many towns where she conducted her tobacco business. The demand grew to the point that a large compartment was built beneath her seat in the coach to allow for nearly fifty quilts to travel without chance of exposure to dust or rain.

My disgust in her greediness tempted me to abandon my passion; however, it was offset by the fact that many of the quilts that fell short of salable perfection were dispersed among the Runians, or passed along to Granny Morgan’s blind sister, Mabelle, who was owned by Mr. Watkins. Since losing her sight, Mabelle spent long, lonely days rocking her plump, round body on a wooden stool next to the apple barrel outside the mercantile door. She had withdrawn into her own world, rocking and singing the same mournful spirituals Granny Morgan often sang when she was alone in the kitchen. Every Sunday, Winston took Granny Morgan to town so she and Mabelle could spend an hour or two together. It pleased Granny Morgan each time she took an armful of faulty quilts to Mabelle. Her sister enjoyed giving them to needy slaves who passed through town on a master’s errand. Instead of being lonely and isolated, Mabelle became so well-known that slaves from across the county sought out the “quilt singer” during their trips to town. Mabelle looked forward to this social allowance, when news and stories were shared until the visitors had to rush off before their passes expired. Granny Morgan smiled, knowing Mabelle was alive and vital again, and I found myself purposely adding imperfections to completed quilts so Mabelle’s supply would remain abundant. I believed my mother would be pleased at the joy spread by those quilts.

“Wagon a-comin’!”

Elijah’s yelp caused me to prick my finger. I held my stinging finger to my lips and looked to where Elijah hustled with two large buckets sloshing with water. Elijah was our self-appointed lookout, and rarely missed the appearance of a wagon or horse over the far hill. He delivered the buckets at Winston’s feet, and his father paused in grooming the horses to rise on his toes and look over their haunches. An unexpected voice came from the doorway behind me.