Beyond the Searching River by Jacquelyn Cook

Author:Jacquelyn Cook [Cook, Jacquelyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BelleBooks Inc.

Chapter 12

Black smoke plumed against the winter sky above the towering chimneys on each end of Magnolia Springs. Panting, Libba ran toward the house as fast as her stubby, five-year-old legs would carry her. The terrifying sound of drums beat louder, louder. She dropped Sudie, tripped, fell flat.

With her breath knocked out, she lay dazed. Up ahead her playmate turned. His chubby black face became all eyes, white, rounded with horror. He ran back, tugged at her limp arm.

“G’up, Libba,” Joshua lisped. “Wun!”

Scampering for the safety of the log kitchen behind the tall white house, the children did not understand what sort of demons were behind them. They only knew that for three weeks distant drumming had sent the grown folks scurrying about hiding things, hauling bales of cotton to the swamp, burying barrels of syrup in holes in the ground as they whispered fearfully of some strange monsters called, “Sherman’s bummers.”

Outrunning Libba into the steamy kitchen, Joshua flung himself against his mother, rooting beneath the canopy of her white apron. Libba followed him, and the long-limbed woman cuddled her equally close.

“Hush yo’ crying, chirrun. Old France won’t let nothing harm you.”

Bustling into the kitchen, a tiny wisp of a woman with thinning white hair drawn back severely from her fine-boned, transparently pink skin, bent to kiss Libba. Patting the child absently, she spoke in a breathless voice.

“Do you have the rotten eggs ready, France?”

“Yes, Miss Nannie.”

Libba followed her grandmother into the chicken yard. Looking about furtively to make sure her movements were concealed, Nannie went inside the rickety fowl house and dug a hole in one corner. Surreptitiously, she slipped an ebony and ivory box from the folds of her black taffeta skirt. Libba stood on tiptoe to watch as she opened it. She loved to look at the twinkling jewels.

Nannie took out a turquoise ring. “You’ve seen this ring before. Your father had it specially made for you. Watch me now. I want you to remember its secret.” She pressed a carved gold flower. The ring popped open. Pointing to the plaited hair preserved beneath glass, she said, “This is a lock of your mother’s hair. She was my daughter. And, see. Your mother and father’s names.”

With her lips clamped firmly together and her eyes forced wide to hold back tears, Nannie threaded a gold chain through the ring and fastened it about Libba’s neck.

“Keep this hidden beneath your dress. It, and the teaching I’ve given you, might be your only legacy.”

Nannie put the jewel case in the hole. Packing the earth, she covered the spot with straw, made a hen nest, and added the rotten eggs. She grabbed the feet of her maddest setting hen and plopped her on top to guard. Brushing off her hands with a self-satisfied smile, Nannie put a finger to her lips.

“Shhh, Libba. Don’t tell a soul. Now. We must get you cleaned up. We shall look like Southern ladies when our guests arrive and trust that our dignity . . . ”

They went upstairs where Nannie scrubbed Libba’s freckled nose.

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