Chapter Four
The sky has darkened to another clear night by the time I arrive at the farm. Above, the Harvest Moon sheds light over the tops of the cornfields. Stars splash across the sky like fireflies, and I wonder, just for a brief, insignificant moment, which star holds Tavdora.
A warm breeze sweeps in from the west, bringing with it the musty scent of hay, cows, and dirt. Ahead, a fire has been built. Every weekend we gather around the bonfire, roasting deer meat, and occasionally sing songs. Sometimes Daniel tells us tales that were passed down to him about the way the world used to be, before the parasites took over. They’re always joyous occasions, these nights of unity and laughter.
But as I approach the circle, I notice a different mood filling the air. Fear. Or in Johnson’s case, anger. I sink down onto a log, my hands still trembling from my meeting with Kalen, and decide it’s better keep quiet for now, rather than start a whole new wave of unnecessary panic.
Resting my chin on my propped up fists, I listen in on the ongoing conversation, trying hard to avoid all forms of eye contact with Josiah. This being Daniel’s farm, he has always been the leader, taking on the role of what some might consider a chief.
“Now, just ’cause the runaways are taking up residence on my farm,” Daniel is saying, “doesn’t mean the parasites are gonna raid the camp. They’ve been somewhat civil with us this long, maybe they’ll listen to us.”
“What do you think the parasites are gonna do?” The firelight shadows Johnson’s features, but even from across the circle, I can see his eyes lit with rage. “Allow the runaways to live with us?”
“They might pay us a visit,” Daniel says calmly. “They’ll probably find the runaways, no matter how hard we hide them. And they’ll probably take the runaways with them. But I don’t think they’ll harm us.”
“Why don’t you hand over the runaways and spare us the gamble?” Johnson stands up, veins popping out of his neck, and glares at the others. “I’ve been a slave. I grew up ’round these parasites. There ain’t a grain of humanity in them. If anything, us keepin’ these runaways will give them the excuse they need to enslave us all!”
Daniel closes his eyes, as if he’s struggling to keep his patience.
“We gotta think about our families,” Johnson continues, his voice dropping a notch. “We’re risking all our lives by keeping these runaways. Send ’em back, Daniel.”
I can hear the murmurs of agreement from the others.
Daniel pinches the bridge of his nose and releases a heavy sigh. “We’ll talk on the matter tonight, and I’ll inform you of our decision tomorrow.” He nods at the other elders, and they leave the circle.
“Tomorrow might be too late,” Johnson mutters once they’re gone. “Lark, you should talk to Daniel. You’re like a daughter to him. He’ll listen to you.”
All eyes are on me, and my mouth is suddenly full of cotton, because I’m the center of attention. I hate being the center of attention. But people are looking at me, expecting me, me of all people, to do something, and all I can think is, why do I have to get involved? Why does Johnson have to turn this on me?
I shift gears in my head and think about the runaways and the fear in that girl’s eyes and the aura of terror haunting her. And then I remember those guards—the coldness in their eyes, the vicious hunger for violence. No. I could never send her back. Not ever. Not after everything she said and not after seeing the scars on her back.
“My gran took the same risk of running away with my mom.” My words are barely audible, and others in the circle lean in to hear. “If someone had returned them to the plantation, I would have been born a slave.” I brace myself for the onslaught of curses that’s no doubt to come. “It’s not right to send them back. They have a right to live free, like we do.”
Johnson curses and curses and curses, and glares at me with eyes so full of rage that I wonder if he can even see right now, or if his rage has literally blinded him.
“We’re not giving them a death sentence, Lark!” He begins walking toward me, appearing somewhat calm, but his hands have balled into fists at his sides. He’s all pent-up anger and heated emotions and stomping feet. He stops six inches from my face, the rancid smell of sweat and dirt wafting off his clothes. I shrink back, my heart pounding.
“Look at you,” he says, giving me a once-over. “Little empathetic Lark Walker. Always putting others’ feelings above your own. Never considering that every time you let someone walk all over you, you’re losing a piece of yourself. Your dignity is in tatters because you never stand up for yourself.” He spits in the dirt at my feet and then storms into the house, slamming the door behind him.
I’m trembling. My face is hot and people are staring at me. So I keep my eyes on the ground, but the air is getting thicker and it’s hard to breathe. A drop of sweat rolls down my spine all the way to my tailbone, and I have the sudden urge to disappear.
But then Josiah stands. He clears his throat. He picks up his guitar and strums a few notes, and I can breathe again, because all eyes are on him now and I’m not being watched. His gaze meets mine, and he offers a warming smile. And I realize, there’s no way anything is happening between him and Ariana. I must have misinterpreted the whole conversation. He loves me. He cares for me. He’d never hurt me like that.
He begins singing. And his voice is my undoing. His voice is deep and raw, and it soothes my restless spirit like honey. The song is ancient, written in another lifetime, but the words couldn’t be more fitting than they are now.
I’ve been livin’ in the same ol’ town
Tryin’ to find my way out
But I don’t know, I don’t know where to start
I’ve been hangin’ with the same ol’ crew
And none of us know what to do
But I know, I know, I know that it’s hard
So tell me everything is gonna be
okay, everything is okay
tell me everything is gonna be
fine, fine, fine
Josiah strums a few notes, and my heart syncs with the rhythm of the beat, and I realize everything really is going to be okay. Everything is going to be fine. My fears were blown way out of proportion.
He is my anchor. He is my gravity.
Mom approaches and sits beside me on the log, handing me a clay mug filled with something warm. I notice a new lesion by her wrist as I accept the mug.
“How long have you had that one?” These sores—they seem to be appearing on her skin quicker than we can get rid of them. “I have some herbs inside—”
“Rest,” Mom says. “You’ve done enough work today. Daniel told me all about how you helped tend that runaway.”
I take the hint and look away from the sore on her wrist.
“He’s a good healer and teacher,” I say.
“You’ll make a good healer, too, someday.”
I smile. The whole reason I decided to become a healer was so I could help Mom with her seemingly incurable disease. It struck her months ago, and while Daniel has tried a variety of herbs and remedies, nothing has taken away the chronic pain. Nothing has stopped the lesions from appearing or her spasmodic coughs from worsening. Her clothes have been especially loose lately, her eyes larger than usual, making me realize time is not in our favor. I’d give her a few months, Daniel informed me only a week ago. Definitely less than a year, at the rate her symptoms are appearing. My throat closes at the memory of that devastating conversation. I can’t lose Mom. She’s the only family I have left. If I lose her…
I lift the mug to my lips. My body melts as the flavor of lavender tea spiced with milk and honey washes over my tongue. Terrence’s honey. He was the one who started up beekeeping in our community. I don’t know how we ever lived without honey before. I pour the sweet nectar into my tea with milk every evening, turning it into a sweet bedtime dessert.
“No one’s afraid of one bee,” Terrence once said, while setting the honeycomb in a jar to drain. “But when the bees swarm together, even the most courageous intruder hightails outta their territory.”
I have a feeling he was talking about something more than bees. Because a week later, he left me and Mom to join the Colorado army.
Even her own brother left her.
Mom wraps her arm around my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “What’s wrong, songbird?”
I press my lips together and stare at the fire. “I miss Terrence.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “He did what he thought was right.”
“Do you think what he did is right? Or do you think he was just trying to escape?”
Concern fills her eyes. “Why would he need to escape?”
“You know why. He was unhappy here, with his limited availability of partners, so he walked out of our lives forever. Isn’t that it?”
She links her bony fingers together. The veins pulse on the back of her hands like rivers flowing across a landscape.
“Sometimes people find their purpose outside of the community,” she says, her voice gentle. “It has nothing to do with unhappiness, but has more to do with following one’s heart. Everyone has a voice, Lark.” The wrinkles around her mouth deepen in thought. “Yours is in your compassion. Mine is in serving the community. Josiah’s is in his music. Even Johnson has a voice in his brutal honesty and anger. Terrence…” Her voice trails off and she presses her lips together, swallows, stares at the dying flames of the fire. “Terrence couldn’t find his voice here. But he had a fire raging inside of him. He had to be heard, and the only way he could do that was to leave and serve a larger purpose. And who am I, Lark? Who am I to say whether someone’s purpose is a suicide mission or a rescue mission?”
“He was blinded by his hunger for adventure. He left us, Mom. He abandoned us because he was so discontent. How could he be so selfish?”
“Not selfish, Lark. He’s risking his life to fight for every slave’s right to freedom. Elohim called him to another purpose, and who are we to question that?” Her voice cuts off in a coughing fit. She hunches over, and I rub her back as her body convulses. When the fit subsides, I hand her my tea, and she drinks deeply.
The mention of Elohim opens the door of curiosity. Though I’ve wanted to find this assurance Mom clings so tightly to, and I’ve wanted to experience this faith that brought her to her knees so many nights, I’ve never found it. I’ve never felt the need of a higher power to pull me through the darkness, or required it to tell me how to love or how to live. I guess I always felt like the divine is that which is in us all. Loving and living, they come out of our being. And prayer…prayer is what connects us to each other. It has nothing to do with the gods, but with our innate need to be heard, loved, and accepted. But I also realize that there is no harm in finding hope in a higher consciousness.
“The important thing…” Mom rasps, bringing my tumbling thoughts back to our current conversation. “The important thing is that…you use your voice.” Then she looks at me, really looks at me, and the embers in her eyes are glowing and her spirit is a burning flame, and I can feel the searing heat of her convictions as she says, “In everything you do, Lark, no matter the consequences, be heard.”
I’m struck by the force of her words.
If there’s anything I’ve ever done in my seventeen years on this planet, it certainly hasn’t had anything to do with being heard. If anything, it’s been hearing and hearing and hearing what everyone else has to say and never opening my mouth to form the words burning in my mind. Because I’m mute. I’m invisible. I’m incapable of being heard. Even in the rare moments when I try to speak up, I don’t get far before I choke. Like tonight, with Johnson.
It’s late when I go to bed. I crawl onto the straw mattress beside Rika.
“Do you think they’ll come?” Rika asks, her eyes drooping with the need for sleep.
I offer my most reassuring smile. “No.”
She snuggles in closer so our body heat creates a furnace to keep the cold world out.
I look through the open window at the stars. They always seem brighter just before fall, and tonight is no exception. Their light blazes through the night sky, searing through the black void of night and offering hope to the hopeless.
My soul reaches out and clings to their light.
…
“Lark.”
Something soft brushes across my forehead and down my cheek, drawing me out of the wonder of sleep. My eyelids slide open. Josiah’s looking down at me, the pale morning light illuminating his features like a golden sunrise. Something strange unfurls in my stomach, like joy and disbelief and wonder, and only one word finds its way to my lips in a breathless whisper. “Josiah.”
His lips curve up in a tender smile, and my bones melt.
“We’re going to the slave plantation to talk to the parasites,” he says. “Do you wanna come?”