Chasing the North Star (27 page)

“Oliver can make locks, too,” the woman said. “Not just anybody can make a lock.”

“Want to see the lock I made for the basement?” Oliver said.

“I best be on my way,” Jonah said. “I need to cut the cornstalks afore dark.”

“Won't take but a second to see the lock,” Oliver said.

“Whose cornstalks are you going to cut?” the woman said.

Jonah pretended he didn't hear her. It was too risky to make up a name. “Reckon I could have a quick look,” he said. “Ma'am,” he said to the old woman, bowing slightly.

“We best be on our way,” Angel said.

“Won't take but a minute,” Oliver said.

Jonah followed Oliver around a clothesline hung with sheets to get to the back of the house. The backyard was not as neat as the front yard. Tools were scattered around a wheelbarrow, and farm implements littered the ground between the house and the woodpile. The house was bigger than it appeared from the front, with a wing that reached back toward the barn.

“I heard there was a runaway slave spotted in Harrisburg,” Oliver said and looked him in the eye.

“A runaway, sir?”

“Actually two runaway slaves.”

“Ain't heard nothing about that,” Jonah said.

“They say they're dangerous,” Oliver said.

At the end of the house, stone steps descended to the basement. A heavy door with a big lock was visible at the bottom of the steps. “This is where we keep cider and store apples over winter,” Oliver said. “Also pertaters and other roots.”

“I best be on my way,” Jonah said.

“What's the hurry, my friend?” Oliver said and slapped Jonah on the shoulder. “Maybe you'd like some pertaters, or a jug of cider to go with the apples.”

“Got about all I can carry,” Jonah said.

“I could find you a basket or a sack,” Oliver said. “Here, let me show you the lock.” He put his hand on Jonah's back and urged him toward the steps.

“You can leave your things here beside the steps.” He took the scythe from Jonah and set it on the grass. Jonah felt naked without the scythe.

At the bottom of the steps, Oliver drew a large key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock and turned until there was a click. The padlock was big as an iron purse. The door swung open and Jonah saw the floor of the basement was paved with rocks swept clean as the floor of a parlor. The air smelled of apples and cool earth.

“Go ahead and I'll light the lantern,” Oliver said. He pushed Jonah forward so hard he fell on the stone floor. Before he could stagger to his feet, the door closed behind him and the lock snapped in place. The basement had no window and was dark as midnight except for a little sliver of light around the edges of the door.

“Hey,” Jonah called, “what are you doing?” He thought he could feel a cobweb on his neck. Several apples had fallen out of his pockets and he stumbled on them beside the door.

“I have caught myself a thief,” Oliver called on the other side.

“Ain't no thief,” Jonah yelled. “I can pay.”

“And maybe I've caught something bigger,” Oliver said and laughed.

“I be on my way to work,” Jonah said. He didn't want to sound like he was pleading.

“What's your name, boy?” Oliver called.

“I be named Jeter,” Jonah answered, “Jeter Jenkins.”

“Have yourself an apple, Jeter, and think about property, stolen property.”

“Open the door,” Jonah called.

“I'd better go forge some manacles,” Oliver called and laughed again. “You'll need some irons for the journey back to Virginia. I bet your master will pay well.”

With the strong wooden door and the heavy lock between him and the steps, Jonah knew it was hopeless. He'd been stupid, and he'd been caught in the most obvious kind of trap. A few ripe apples, his own hunger and greed, had landed him in this dungeon. It wouldn't do him any good to call out to Oliver, to beg or plead or threaten. If Oliver suspected there was a reward for him, he could hold him in the basement until a telegram or letter brought Mr. Williams. Jonah decided he'd say nothing else. He sat down on the swept floor of the basement. The stones were cold, and he got up on his knees to think. The basement was damp and chilly. He looked at the wires of light around the sides of the door.

Jonah knew that at the first sign of danger Angel would have run into the woods. She might have dropped the kettle to run faster. She would run as far away as she could, and there would be nobody to help him escape from the cellar.

“Are you cold, Jeter?” Oliver called. “It'll be warm when you get back down south.”

Jonah found tears in his eyes. He'd come all the way from South Carolina and survived a flood and Mr. Wells's cruelty, the jail in Winchester, only to be trapped in the dumbest way possible. He would not answer the smirking Oliver.

“If you get hungry have an apple,” Oliver called. “Or a pertater if you want one.”

Jonah wiped his eyes and listened. He thought he heard a mouse, or maybe a bat, rustling in the basement. It stirred among leaves or shucks or papers. He shivered, and then he heard another voice outside. It was the old woman talking to Oliver. It was hard to tell what they were saying. Jonah placed his ear against the wood.

“That's enough of that,” the old woman said. “Now open the door.”

“But Ma,” Oliver said.

“But nothing,” the old woman said. “The girl has run away. Where is that key?”

“I just wanted to show him the lock,” Oliver said. “And he stole the apples. What's the hurry?”

“The hurry is because I say so.”

Jonah didn't hear anything else. He thought they'd gone away. Maybe they'd decided to leave him locked in the cellar. Maybe Oliver had persuaded the old woman he was worth reward money. Jonah wiped his eyes again.

There were footsteps outside and he heard the key scratch in the lock. He stepped back from the door as it swung inward. He wondered if he should lunge out and make a run for it. He had nothing to hit Oliver over the head with.

“Come on, old boy,” Oliver said. “Time to get out of there.”

“I ain't done nothing,” Jonah said.

“Everybody has done something,” Oliver said and laughed.

Jonah blinked as he climbed the steps. The scythe was still lying on the ground where he'd laid it.

“Didn't mean no harm; just funning you,” Oliver said. The old woman stood by the clothesline watching Jonah. “Be on your way,” she said. “The girl run off into the woods.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Jonah said and picked up the scythe. “I be going now.”

“You watch out, boy,” Oliver said.

Jonah turned away and started around the corner of the house toward the road. Two Plymouth Rock hens pecked in the grass by the woodpile and he walked around them. When he reached the muddy road, he turned north. He knew Angel was watching him and would join him when he got out of sight of the house. Sure enough, as soon as he rounded the first bend, she stepped out of the trees, still holding the kettle full of apples.

“Next time you won't be so sociable,” she said.

Jonah saw no point in answering her. His knees were weak from the scare, and he concentrated on avoiding puddles and the worst ruts.

ONE NI
G
HT A FEW
days later Jonah and Angel couldn't find a barn, but they did come upon a haystack at the edge of a pasture. The farmer had stacked his hay close to where his cattle grazed. It was almost dark, but Jonah thought he could see a feeding trough and white block of salt just inside the fence. “We'll have to sleep in that,” he said.

“You sure this ain't a snake nest?” Angel said.

“I'm not sure of anything,” Jonah said. Angel dropped into the hay and he covered her up with handfuls of straw. Tired and full of boiled eggs cooked beside the river, he left the scythe and whetstone on the ground, parted an opening into the hay, and with his coat wrapped tightly around him slipped inside. The hay was spicy and pleasant as the smell of a warm autumn day.

Jonah must have slept soundly, for when he opened his eyes, gray light came through the hay. It was a special gray light, as if something was glowing close by. He stirred the hay and wet crumbs fell on his face and neck. He wondered if it had rained during the night. When he pushed the straw aside, more crumbs shook in his eyes. As he lifted himself from the hay, he saw everything was white. The haystack was covered with snow, and the field and pasture. Snow stood two or three inches high on the fence rails. The trees on the mountainside were covered with white.

Jonah could smell the snow. It was not a smell he could describe, almost the absence of smell, as if the snow had swept all the dirt and dust and smells from the air. It was the scent of cleanness and freshness. The air had been brushed pure.

“Get up!” he shouted to Angel.

When she pushed the hay aside and looked out, snow fell on her face. “Oh,” she yelled, like somebody had dashed cold water on her. “What happened?” she said.

“It has snowed.”

“I can see that. I ain't blind.”

Jonah swept the hay off his coat and shook the snow off the scythe and located the whetstone under three inches of snow. His hands got wet and cold. He needed gloves, if he was going to be traveling in snow country. With the scythe on his shoulder and the stone in his pocket, he handed the kettle to Angel.

“Maybe the apples are froze,” Angel said, her teeth chattering.

“Not likely,” Jonah said. They headed back to the road. Every step left a track in the snow that anyone could follow wherever they went. The trackers wouldn't need dogs. If you slipped into a henhouse and took two or three eggs, the farmer could see you'd been there.

Slow down, old boy, Jonah said under his breath. Whoa there now, for sure. The road ran along the edge of the pasture and then over a hill. A wagon had already passed on the road, leaving horse tracks and wheel slices in the snow. Mud puddles stained the whiteness. Jonah's shoes slipped on the steep places and he had to find footholds on the uneven road. Angel walked in her broken shoes in the snow, staining the white cover.

“I've got to find some new shoes and a coat,” Angel said.

“How do you propose to do that?” Jonah said.

“Have to think about it,” Angel said. “You think about it; you're so smart.”

As they crossed the hill Jonah could smell smoke drifting through the trees. It was not just smoke, but something else as well, steam or damp fumes. They descended the hill into the smell. Before they reached the floor of the valley, he knew where the steam was coming from. Two men on hands and knees were scraping hogs beside a pot of boiling water. Smoke from the fire under the pot and steam from the water fogged the barnyard and drifted up the valley. A third man splashed smoking water on the two dead hogs as the other men scraped hair off the carcasses with butcher knives. Smell of scorched hair and blistered skin reached Jonah on the road. Along with the smell of blood and manure, that was the stink of hog killing.

Though he'd never had to do it himself, Jonah hated the smell and sight of hog killing. He knew the ritual well. After the bodies were scraped they'd be hung up and gutted. It took an axe or a saw to break through the breastbone. The entrails and lungs and heart would have to be carried away and buried. Men always got bloody and dirty, tearing out entrails, cutting off the big, fat head, and cleaning out the brains for frying with eggs and onions. Just the smell of hog blood and fat rendering always made him feel a little sick at his stomach. Much as he liked fresh tenderloin and ribs, he dreaded the bloody work, the stink of scalded hair and skin.

Jonah hoped the men butchering hogs wouldn't call out to him or Angel. Much as he would like some fresh meat, he wanted to avoid the bloody mess. There was something almost human about hogs, or something almost hoglike about humans. Their pale skin reminded him of white folks. He had watched hogs squeal when hit over the head, seen them die in mud and manure.

As Jonah and Angel got closer to the barn, the man who dipped the scalding water and splashed it on the carcasses looked toward them. Jonah took off his hat and bowed slightly, and kept on walking. The bucket carrier nodded in his direction and dipped more water from the steaming barrel. Jonah knew it looked odd for a Negro to be walking along the road in these snowy hills, and it looked even stranger for him to be carrying a scythe while the ground was covered with snow. There were not many jobs done with a mowing blade in the snow. Perhaps he could claim to be carrying the blade back to the owner from whom he'd borrowed it.

As Jonah and Angel got even with the barn, the two men scraping hides looked up at them. They stopped work and watched him walk past. “Howdy do?” Jonah said and lifted his hat again. If he'd been in South Carolina one of the men would have yelled, “Where you going, boy?” They would have ragged him and inspected the scythe and asked if he'd stolen it. They would have asked who his owner was.

Jonah expected one of the hog killers to call out to them and ask if he wanted to work. He expected them to ask where they were going, and what he was doing with the mowing blade. He was certain they'd ask who he and Angel belonged to. He'd walked past the barn and was almost even with the farmhouse when he realized they were not going to yell at him or accost him. The men scraping and scalding hogs were going to let him go about his business as they went about their own business. They seemed to have no interest in stopping him. It was too good to be true. He expected every second to be called back and told to do something hard and dirty. He walked farther, almost past the house, and no shout came. The silence of the men was almost as scary as a shout would have been. Jonah wondered if they were quiet because they were afraid of him, afraid of a runaway black man with a mowing blade over his shoulder and a whetstone in his pocket. Afraid of a black man and black woman together? Would they wait until they were out of sight and then run to get a sheriff? Would they follow them and seize them while they slept?