I sat alone in the dark, feeling the boat rock from side to side. The hollow sounds the boat made as the waves hit it told me how deep the water was beneath us. “Creaak, Creaak.” What was that noise? “It’s nothing,” I told myself. “It’s nothing.” But it is something: the sound of a woman, starving in the hills, begging by the road for a coffin for her dead child. The sound of a man pulling blackened potatoes from the ground. No, that was in Ireland. We weren’t in Ireland anymore. We were thousands of miles away, in the middle of the ocean. Ireland was where Ma, Da, and Nealy were. They were definitely not here. “Creaak, Creaak.” Ireland was where there was no food, where people were starving. I shifted slightly. Where my family is, I thought. I got up on my knees. “Good God, help me, I’m so hungry.” I grabbed my empty dinner plate and threw up into it. The boat swayed violently back and forth and I leaned back against the hull, feeling my stomach twist like a blade of grass in the wind. “Oh,” I moaned. I threw up again, this time on the floor. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I remembered when I ate grass once. It was on the way to the boat when I had been so hungry. I had taken a handful of grass and shoved it into my mouth, trying to push it down my throat. As I chewed, I was crying. If I had been home I would have eaten potatoes around the fire with my family. We would never have eaten grass. “Hush,” I said, “hush, everything will be all right” But that was gone now. The potatoes had died and Ma, Da, and Nealy were buried in the empty harvest field outside the house. My brothers were gone, too. They had left for America before me and I didn’t know exactly where they were. “I miss them,” I whispered. “I wish they were here.” I left Ma, Da, and Nealy behind when I closed the door to the house. I walked along the path, past fields of dead potatoes, past families taking refuge in the shadow of stones and dirt dugouts. I began to cry. I remembered how this had all started the night the potatoes had died, how the wind moaned softly through the fields as we all got down on our knees to start an early harvest. * * * “Maggie, wake up,” Da said. “What’s going on?” I wrapped my blanket around my shoulders. “Nothing; nothing at all. We are just going to have an early harvest this year.” Ma waited outside quietly. “Come children, get down here with me.” “What’s going on?” Nealy asked. “Hush, Nealy. Please help me.” Nealy and I had pulled up potatoes while Da, Barrin, and Cahan collected them in their baskets. We worked hard until slowly the sun began to rise over the hills. “Smell your hands,” Nealy told me. “They smell horrible.” “Keep quiet,” I whispered. “We were told not to talk.” Inside the house Da dumped his potatoes on the ground. “Get me a knife,” he said. One by one he opened each potato. “No,” he would say, “no, this one is not good either.” Cahan picked up one of them. “Look,” he whispered as he ran his hands through the slit, “it’s black.” Da looked up. “Yes,” he said. He put down his knife. “They are black. They are rotten.” * * * I remembered it was then that Da first went out to ask for food. He walked everywhere, to every house in Killala Bay, asking if they had any potatoes left. Some did have a few and some were like us and had lost their whole harvest this year. Those who did were unwilling to part with the potatoes they had, so Da came home empty-handed each day. I dried my eyes. Now, I thought, even those who had potatoes before have lost them. They are all starving now. Somebody coughed. I could hear a few more creaks as people stretched along the floorboards of the ship. It smelled horrible in steerage, like waste and death. Yes, death has a smell. I had smelled it before when I had taken care of Nealy that night she had been sick and when Da and I had buried Ma. Every night I would fall asleep in the ship, lying in someone else’s filth, and every morning I would wake up to darkness. I no longer strived to keep myself alive; now I just wanted to get off the ship There were long days that I spent sitting alone, listening to the sounds of people getting sick. I could feel myself get weaker and weaker, slowly fading into the other hundred people who were crammed below deck. I no longer strived to keep myself alive; now I just wanted to get off the ship. I wish it would sink, I thought, then I would hold onto a piece of driftwood and float to America. Or back to Ireland. I could feel my stomach start to churn again. My mind went back to the third week Da could not find any food. * * * “We can live off the remaining potatoes from last harvest,” he said. “It will pull us through the winter.” “But what about after that?” Ma asked. “What will we eat then?” Da looked at the ground. “We’ve lost everything,” said Ma. “What will we do?” “I have asked everyone; nobody is willing to spare any potatoes.” Da put his hands up to the fire. “People have suffered losses, too. There is no harvest this year.” We sat around the hearth, all six of us. The hollow silence seemed to echo through the room. There was no harvest; there was no food. “What will we sell?” asked Nealy. “How will we earn money?” “Hush.” Mama ripped
Historical
Building the Pyramids
The smell of hot bread rose to Lomea’s nostrils as she removed a freshly baked loaf from the small fire. She handed it to her younger sister, Hemufe, who in turn gave it to the last worker waiting for his lunch. She fell back onto her mat with a sigh. The desert heat that the twelve-year-old had ignored while serving lunch slowly crept up. Her hand searched for the water skin, but to her dismay she found it empty. She grabbed the skin and ran to the well in the middle of the makeshift village. She looked to her left and saw the thousands of men finishing their lunches ready to continue work on what the great pharaoh Cheops claimed would be the largest pyramid in Egypt. She filled the skin and took a long drink. She made her way back to her house to help with the cleaning. When she reached the house, she found the cleaning almost done and her other, older (by four years, but certainly not wiser) sister, Noch, looking very annoyed. “Where have you been, Lomea?” she half-yelled in Lomea’s face. “Our parents left me in charge while they travel so I make the rules! Moreover, do you know what those rules include? You not wandering off like some nomad, that’s what those rules include!” She stopped for a long breath. “And what’s more…” Lomea interrupted, having heard this speech before. “I know, I know, and you would sell me to the next camel merchant that came within twenty miles if Mother and Father would allow.” Lomea had no tolerance for her sister at that moment, for she had just gained the courage to get a closer look at the pyramid as soon as lunch was over. Unfortunately, her sister was even less tolerant than she was. Noch had her finish the cleaning, do the laundry, make lunch, and go to town to buy something for dinner. What she saw brought her to an immediate standstill and robbed her of every ounce of her breath Lomea ran out the door as soon as she was done with her chores. She raced across the hot, gritty sand just as the sun began to set. As she ran she looked up, and what she saw brought her to an immediate standstill and robbed her of every ounce of her breath. It was the pyramid, majestically rising, half-finished, out of the sand against the setting sun. She rubbed dust out of her eyes. She paused to take in the new and exciting sights and smells. She saw the rock ramps set against the pyramids for the transportation of the stone blocks. Lomea was startled, but awed and inspired, by the caw of the lone vulture circling above her head. Suddenly, she heard the sound of small feet fast approaching. She turned around and saw her younger sister, Hemufe, coming towards her with open arms. “Lomea! Lomea!” the four-year-old squealed excitedly. “I just fell down a dune but I got up, and I didn’t cry!” the little girl yelled triumphantly. “Good, good,” Lomea said distractedly, thinking of how it wasn’t fair that girls couldn’t take part in building such a marvelous wonder. She felt sweat trickling down her forehead and her lips cracking in the heat. She heard the grinding of the stone blocks against the ramps. Lomea knew that building the pyramid, listening to the overseer yelling every day, and experiencing the aching hands from pulling the stones up the pyramids with ropes would be extremely tiring and difficult. She also believed it would be worth it. It would be amazing if you could look at the beautiful wonder, what would surely be the pride of all of Egypt, and know that you had taken part in making it a reality! Lomea picked up her little sister and showed her the beauty of it all. “See,” Lomea sighed dreamily “this is where the pharaoh will be buried when he passes on to the afterlife. See how it rises up, out of the desolate desert to rule the sands, just as Pharaoh rules the people? Even though the tomb of the pharaoh is not yet completed, is the structure not the most wonderful thing you have ever seen? Is it not amazing how something in the middle of the desert, made out of common stone, can be more majestic than the graceful lioness? Even more remarkable is that I had never seen the beauty in it before. Father had always…” The mention of her father, a farmer who had been called to Thebes, the capital of Egypt, to help harvest crops, made her stop in mid-sentence and gave her a lump in her throat. Her mother had gone as well, leaving her and her sisters home alone. Lomea’s father had not wanted this. He believed they were not old enough to take care of themselves, but Noch had insisted that she was almost an adult and could take care of the household. They had been gone for three months now and Lomea wished they had never left. She set her sister down and felt tears gently falling down her face. She suddenly felt strong, sturdy arms around her waist. “Why do you cry, little one?” She heard a deep, gentle voice coming from behind her. She quickly turned around and her eyes met a sight grander than the pyramid itself. Her mother and father, home at last! Timmi Ruth Kline, 11Jones, Oklahoma Megan Snide, 13Dublin, Ohio
Hope
On the dark wood table, a plain plate lay inches away from Abigail. Her blond hair flounced around her shoulders. Her light blue dress with darker flowers brought out the bright blue in her eyes, which contrasted strangely with the rich brown of Hope’s. Hope, on the other side of the room, was sweeping the grimy floor with a homemade broom of stiff bristles. Abigail was watching Hope’s every move disconcertingly. Suddenly, she ordered, “Fetch me that plate.” Hope’s eyes bore fire into Abigail’s. Abigail ignored Hope and her smug nose tilted up into the air as Hope replied with no choice, “Yes ma’am,” though Abigail was only a year older than her. But Hope did as she was told. After Abigail had the plate in her hands, she leaned against the kitchen wall, holding it. Hope could feel her disapproving gaze upon her working back. “Abigail,” someone said in a harsh voice from another room, “are you doing your embroidery?” “Yes, Father,” Abigail replied stiffly, reaching for her sewing on the chair. Hope’s gaze averted to the floor and she swept faster. “Good,” the tall man said as he came into the room. “I am going into town,” he declared, straightening his overcoat. “Be good. I’ll be back soon.” Abigail gave a small nod and looked into her busy father’s eyes. He left the room briskly and it gave way to silence. Then all Hope could hear was the scratch of the broom on the floor. Abigail was watching Hope’s every move disconcertingly * * * Later that evening, Hope was pouring water into tall, thin glasses for her master and his guest. Sitting down beside her, grasping a fork elegantly, was Master Thompson. He was talking to Mr. Stevens, a fat, jovial man who Hope couldn’t imagine would own slaves. Spread across the white tablecloth was a large, colorful array of soup and turkey and vegetables prepared carefully all day by Auntie Edna, who would only get to try the leftovers. Steam rose from Mr. Stevens’s heaping pile of food. A warm, meaty aroma wafted through Hope’s nose. But she did not care to envy this small advantage she did not possess—there were many things far worse, and anyway, her concentration was now on only the plump, stout silver jug she held coldly and tightly against her creamy brown palm. That is, until she heard something distressing. Master Thompson was talking about selling someone to Mr. Stevens! Grimly, she considered who might be leaving. Could it be Sarah, the twenty-something-year-old woman who worked here? Or Sam, the hardworking young man who tended the horses and brought in the firewood, who had taught her jokes and riddles? Might it be Auntie Edna, who had cared for Hope when she was sick and her mother was working, gathering cotton or fixing clothes, a grandmotherly old woman with a kind nature? Hope would miss anyone who left so! She fought her thoughts and tried to listen quietly to the conversation. “She is a hard worker. She could help you with many things. She knows how to patch things up and sew well,” Master Thompson insisted in a businesslike way. Oh no. Is it Sarah? Hope pleaded, not Sarah, oh please no! Hope dreaded the thought of the woman who had acted as an older sister to her leaving. “But she would be willing to go alone?” Mr. Stephens inquired. Hope grimaced. Master Thompson wouldn’t mind. She had seen him separate families. “We could arrange it,” Master Thompson assured abruptly. When Hope had refilled both glasses, slowly so she could hear what the men were saying, she went into the kitchen. Edna was there, washing dishes. “Oh, Auntie Edna,” Hope cried. “Master Thompson’s gonna sell someone!” “I’m sorry, baby.” Edna opened her arms. Hope flew into a hug. Sobbing, she told Edna what she heard. “I think it might be Sarah!” Hope wailed. “But I don’t want none o’ ya to go!” “Shhh,” Edna soothed, rocking Hope back and forth. “Shhhhhhh.” “Girl,” Master Thompson ordered sharply minutes later. “Take away the plates.” Hope went into the dining area and lifted up the plates, stacking them. When she was back in the kitchen, she saw that Edna had left. But Sam was there, with wood for the fireplace. “Sam!” Hope said. “I heard ’bout the sale,” Sam said, glancing at Hope grimly. “But I’m afraid it’s not Sarah.” “Hope, we’re gonna have tuh run” “Afraid? Why, do you want Sarah to go?” demanded Hope. “No, no, no. I’m worried who it might be.” “Who?” whispered Hope anxiously. Sam hesitated before responding. “I think it might be your mama.” Hope gasped. Gaping at Sam, she asked why he thought so. “Well, Master Thompson said whoever it is, is a good seamstress, can cook, and can’t read, and you know yo’ mama can’t,” Sam answered, concern and sorrow in his eyes. “But he said she ain’t got family!” Hope remembered in horror. Sam stacked up the wood on the ground next to the fire. Avoiding Hope’s eyes, he said, “I heard him say they could arrange fo’ her tuh leave. Not that she ain’t got no family.” “B- but!” Hope stammered. “He can’t do that!” Sam stood up and brushed himself off. He looked at her as if to say, do you think it matters to him? Hope ran to the living room, where her mother was calmly stitching up a sock. “Mama, oh Mama, they… Master Thompson… he gonna sell you!!!” she panted desperately. Hope’s mama, Caroline, froze. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide. Her hand was still clutching the needle when she said, “When, Hope?” sharply. “I don’t know! wailed Hope, feeling helpless. “Soon!” Caroline rose from her seat in a wooden chair. She held Hope close to her and whispered, in perfect, quiet diction, “Hope, we’re gonna have tuh run. To the North. To Philadelphia, or Canada, maybe, I don’t know where ’xactly, but I can’t let you stay
