Chapter 15 #3
I looked from Lovie’s Juniper to my middle child and shuddered as thankfulness rose in me, battling my melancholy.
Life hasn’t treated me none too friendly, but my daughters are here!
For my sanity’s sake I let gratitude win. “First, make sure the water likes you.”
“How do we do that?” Abigail wondered.
“Like this.” I scooped water from the pail I held and splashed her in the face. “See! It likes you. If it didn’t it would’ve run away.”
Abigail sputtered as the other children laughed. “Water doesn’t run!”
“What do you think this stream is doing? Bend down and get a look at the shoes it’s wearing.”
The group of little bits challenged my assertion even while bending for closer inspection. I took advantage of their lowered posture to pour water atop their heads.
Their squeals were immediate as cool water kissed their sun-drenched backs, their necks. Not ones to be outdone, they returned the favor by splashing me with the contents of their containers, dousing me from the stream when said vessels were empty.
I was outnumbered and easily overtaken, eventually slipping on rocks and losing my footing.
Falling on my bottom, my immediate thoughts were of Hattie in her harness on my back.
Her high-pitched giggles put worries to rest and left me engaged in a water war that offered no defeat.
Only the laughter of children that was as sweet as the cool liquid was refreshing.
It bathed my soul. Lessened my load. Felt like a golden gift from heaven until suddenly interrupted.
I felt it again. The same presence as yesterday. Immediately, I shushed the children, stopped our water game. I didn’t have to search the sudden silence or pray hidden things be revealed. When I found my footing, stood and turned she was there.
A fantastical hope surged through my chest as I prayed it was Alretha, like Moses coming back for me.
I encountered a wizened, white-haired woman instead.
Omaha. Potawatomi. Or another native tribe.
I had no idea. Yet—holding the hand of a small boy with long plaits—she was a mother among them. Ancient. Sharp-eyed. And very present.
Her speech was a song of rhythm and clicks. Her hands gestured, orchestrating me around ignorance. I was being asked to come. I stepped forward as if she was Christ whispering, “Thy will be done.”
Hers was a divine pull impossible to resist. I’d followed several feet behind her before I remembered the children. “Come outta that stream and do not move! Stay right here.”
I ensured their compliance before turning to hurry after the ancient one, afraid she’d slip into oblivion.
I stepped into that copse of trees and immediately felt blanketed.
I was shadowed in coolness. Brushed by greenery.
I stumbled to a halt when she stopped abruptly.
She spoke again the singsong language I didn’t comprehend while bending and plucking small purple blossoms from long plant stems.
As she extended them towards me, her tone was Mama Ruth’s. And that of my mothering women.
She pointed at Hattie in her harness. Then my belly. Slowly, she spread her hands out and forward, implying pregnancy. Smashing her hands against her stomach, she made sweeping gestures indicating the negative.
I spoke for the first time in her presence, voice hesitant. Reverent. “That keeps a woman from getting in a family way?” I pointed to the purple flowers she held.
She nodded vigorously, clearly understanding.
I experienced an odd ping of envy at her having her native language and choosing not to speak that of the dominant. “What is it?”
She spoke to the little bit standing silently beside her. He answered in her stead in their language I didn’t understand, but she quickly corrected him. “Pennyroyal.” He waited as she spoke again. “Dry it out then pound it into a powder to drink.”
“You mean like tea?”
He turned to his elder, who was speaking, gesturing. She held up a palm, struck it forcefully, rubbed her fingers up and down the lighter-colored flesh before affecting a posture that was menacing.
“It’ll keep you from growing the white man’s seed.” Such words from a child’s innocent lips were chilling yet liberating. I tremored with joy. This ancient mother knew other remedies.
“Mama? You been in there a long time. Are you okay?”
Annabelle’s call was filled with distress. I pivoted towards it and found the children cautiously stepping through the density of trees despite my instructions to remain where they were. “I’m fine, little bit. I’m coming. I just wanna know—”
How to keep plantation men from coming for me.
I turned back to the woman and child, but they were gone. The only evidence of their presence was the pennyroyal. It lay on the ground, its purple blossoms dainty and delicate. I questioned if God would be pleased at my playing Creator and deciding which life could or couldn’t be.
Slowly, I retrieved the herbs, wondering if pennyroyal was a gesture from heaven.
Perhaps, in a life of bondage, it was a small token, a talisman for the powerless.
Proof heaven had heard my cries for deliverance.
Proof that I was seen. I stuffed the purple plant in my apron pocket, deeming it a gift and offering.