The chilling night air swirled around James Henry as he stumbled blindly over the treacherous forest floor. Just above the treetops, the full moon hung low in the sky, swathed in a shawl of thick clouds. James hurried breathlessly through the dense undergrowth, ignoring the brambles that cruelly cut and scratched his skin. Tree branches snagged at him, like claws of demons, and spooky noises all around him seemed to be sounds of his pursuers. A sudden hooting of an owl sent him sprawling across a fallen tree trunk in fright and he rose in a panic, his sweating face a mask of terror. He lurched forward into the bushes once more and continued his desperate flight. His thoughts raced back to that fateful Wednesday afternoon. The day had been a blistering heat bath and the air was so thick you could barely breathe. While working in the fields, he had fainted from exhaustion. The overseer, who had a horrible temper, was already in a foul mood from the scorching weather. He threw himself upon James in a fury, and whipped him frenziedly until his back was thick with blood. James decided that night he would run away. He had had enough. Gathering his small bundle of pitiful belongings, he stole off just as dusk fell. At first all went well. By night, he traced his way using the North Star as his guide. By day he hid and slept. But then the nights turned cloudy, blocking the stars, and he lost his way. Then, this night, a group of slave-catchers had stumbled upon him while he was resting, and he just barely got away. But they were hot on his trail and it was only a matter of hours before they caught up with him. His thoughts raced back to that fateful Wednesday afternoon Suddenly, he stopped, chest heaving from exertion, heart pounding. He heard it. The sound of hoofbeats echoed in the distance, like drums heralding an execution. He paused an instant, stricken with fear, then broke into a run, his small bundle of possessions slapping against his back with every step. James did not have any memories of his father or mother. When he was just a little boy, the Wicomico plantation he was born on went broke, and he was sold off to Talbot County. He recalled having a brother, but hadn’t seen him since he was sold off. He was now, as best as he could calculate, some eighteen years of age, and until a few days ago had lived at the plantation of Mr. Stuart Henry. Mr. Henry’s plantation was enormous, and tobacco was the staple crop grown there. The field hands had to do backbreaking work from dawn to dusk each day, watering the precious tobacco leaves, tending to them, and worst of all, picking the horrid tobacco worms from off the undersides of the leaves. James had experienced this horror every day for as long as he could remember: the scorching sun pounding on his back, the lash of the overseer’s whip, and the constant humiliation of being a slave. He had also hated it for as long as he had known it, and he had always promised himself that one day he would get out; one day he would escape!!! Now here he was, running through the woods driven by sheer panic, branches stinging him as they slapped at his face. Suddenly, he saw the faint glow of a light about fifty feet ahead. He slowed down and approached it cautiously. He emerged at the edge of a clearing, and saw a house, with a lantern swinging on the gate. Swinging!!! He had just registered this when strong arms grabbed him from behind and he found himself looking into the face of a bearded, heavyset man. Paralyzed with terror, he opened his mouth, but then the man chuckled and said, “Heh heh, ain’t safe for someone like you to be out here this late!” They walked up to the house and the man ushered him in quickly. “Sarah!” he whispered hoarsely into the gloom, “I’ve got someone here who needs help.” Seconds later, a smiling, plump woman appeared and hurried James down the hall to a room on the right, while her husband left and went upstairs. “You’ll be safe in here,” she whispered, picking up a rug and opening a trap door. James looked down and saw that below the paneled floor there was a pit, about fifteen feet deep. He looked back at the woman and began, “I can’t tell you how much . . .” But she interrupted him, “Shhh, no time for this. Get in!” He lowered himself down, and just as the trap door closed, there was a knock on the door. James huddled in the darkness listening intently. After a short pause, he heard a shuffle of feet, and the sound of a door opening. “Yes, may I help you?” said the woman. “Yes ma’am,” a deep raspy voice replied, “we’re looking for a runaway. Would you mind us having a little look?” “Oh no, there’s no problem,” said the woman. More shuffling of feet sounded, accompanied by the sharp click-clack of boots on the wood floor. James heard them walk down the hall, pausing every so often as the man looked in a room. “. . . with the new Fugitive Slave Law, business is really good. I can even get away with returning slaves without a trial . . .” The man was nearing the room in which James was hidden. Suddenly, the man’s voice trailed off and the footsteps halted right outside the room. “Is anything the matter?” James heard the woman ask. “Oh, nothing . . . nothing,” mumbled the man. James’s palms began to sweat as he heard them enter the room and he shivered, despite the stuffiness of the pit. He crouched there for several terrible seconds. Without warning, the rug was swept off the floor. He heard
May/June 2003
A Stroke of the Bow
It had been almost a year since that fateful day last June when Lucy Livingstone’s baby boy had died at the age of ten days. Catriona Livingstone, her twelve-year-old daughter, was accompanying Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone to the cemetery to visit her brother on what would have been his first birthday. The day was cloudy, with a hint of rain in the air, quite unlike the lovely June day when Ty, her brother, had been born. Catriona was somber as they drove through the dreary streets to the graveyard, but inside she was concentrating on her hope that after this day her mother would be less grieved and her father less tense. She didn’t know why she expected this; probably because it had been almost a year since their son’s death and she thought it time to get on with life, and stop dwelling on the past. Catriona, too, had suffered for days after the loss of him, as had her parents, for she’d welcomed her new sibling into the world graciously; she even decorated his future room and attended a baby-sitter’s course to learn how to care for babies. But now she was ready to move on, eager to hear her mother laugh again and her father crack silly jokes once more. Today, in the car, she felt she’d burst if things didn’t change soon. She decided to go sit down awhile, somewhere she could think things out “We turn here,” said Mrs. Livingstone stiffly to her husband, who was driving. He nodded dismally, and flicked on the signal. Catriona began to idly drum her fingers in time to it, but one stern look from her mother silenced her. In a moment the car had turned into the parking lot, and the three of them got out, Catriona hurriedly—she was tired of sitting in the gloomy atmosphere of the car. Mrs. Livingstone set off at a brisk pace, and Mr. Livingstone and Catriona followed, the silence unbroken except for the sound of their feet on the grass and the wind in the trees. Ty’s grave was a small one, hidden behind a neatly tended wild rose bush. Mrs. Livingstone knelt down when they reached it, her fingers trembling as she touched the cold stone. Catriona peered over her shoulder to read the inscription. Tynan Philip Livingstone, son of Lucy and Bradley Livingstone. Born June 8th, woo, died June 8th, 2000. Rest in Peace. Under the headstone bearing these words, her baby brother’s body lay, imprisoned by the chilled earth. Catriona’s heart ached for something she could do to bring him back again. She wanted to complete the family, add the missing piece. But he was gone, and no one could ever restore his life. Mr. Livingstone, Mrs. Livingstone and Catriona remained silent for a few moments, their thoughts as bleak as the gray sky. Finally Mr. Livingstone murmured, “He would have been a good boy, I’m sure of it.” Catriona sighed and straightened up. She decided to go sit down awhile, somewhere she could think things out. In a soft voice, she excused herself, and hurried over to a neighboring spruce tree. Its branches formed a low canopy, so she crept under it to seek shelter for her thoughts. Her feelings had been mixed and twisted together since her brother had died. First of all, she had been swallowed in sadness, her own and that of the people around her. Next, her feelings had been regret and longing, and reluctance to accept the fact that he was gone—never to return. Further, still, into the following year, she had felt neglected, and bitter over the fact that her parents were rather guiltlessly ignoring her. And, finally, she had become impatient and rebellious, angry that her parents couldn’t—or wouldn’t—get over their lost infant. Lately, Catriona had been enduring a detestable combination of each, unable to pick apart her complex thoughts. One day one feeling would overcome her, the following day, a next. Now, as she sat in the protective security within the dark spruce’s greenery, she pondered this as the gentle lull of the tree’s slight swaying coincided with her parents’ hushed conversing. What to do? Catriona’s thoughts were being interloped by the realization of the truth; her parents weren’t likely to come home any differently than they had arrived, she had seen it in her mother’s eyes as she fingered the headstone. Should she speak to them about her feelings and demand change? Or should she continue to bear the burden of emotional loneliness? She couldn’t decide. She would have to simply practice the virtue of patience. And, she thought ruefully, I might as well begin now . . . who knows how long I have to wait. * * * When Catriona arrived home that day she went off to attend a dress rehearsal for a concert she was in. She played the violin, or rather the fiddle, as it was called in the Celtic fiddling group in which she was involved. The concert was on one of the main stages in town, and Catriona was both apprehensive and excited about it. At the rehearsal, however, as her fingers flew over the strings and she drew quick, light bows, as her foot kept the beat by tapping the floor, she forgot about the stress which barred her way. She forgot her muddled feelings, she forgot how her hopes for a new beginning had just been dashed, and how her mother had rushed to her room and wept uncontrollably when they’d returned home. All she focused on was the optimistic laughter soaring from the fiddles, and the joy that music brought her. During the last tune, a slow and mournful melody, Duana, Catriona’s talented instructor, stopped the group. “Excellent. As long as you play from your heart and blend together as one, this will be superb.” She beamed reassuringly at Catriona, one of the youngest (many were adults). “I believe we are behind time, so I’ll let you scatter.
Precious Time
John McCarty was warming up his arm. “Whip it in there!” yelled his friend, Stuart Johnson. He and Stuart played for the Rockets. The Rockets were the best baseball team in the league, all because of John, their pitcher. Or at least that’s what Stuart thought! John was great at baseball, but he also loved school and got A’s in almost every subject. He loved history the most. Stuart, on the other hand, hated school and especially hated history. The one thing the boys had in common was that they both loved baseball! They both rocked at it too! John was the pitcher for the Rockets and could pitch 60 mph. Stuart played shortstop and was the fastest runner on the team. They were both drafted to the Rockets last year when they were only ten years old. Before they joined the team, the Rockets were in last place. The Rockets easily picked up the two friends in the first draft. As soon as John and Stuart joined the team, the whole team seemed to burst with skill. The Rockets started winning again. Last season they were undefeated all the way to the championship, which they ended up losing to the Devils. Today, John was going to pitch the whole game for the Rockets’ second championship attempt. John was warming up his arm with Stuart. They played catch until Mrs. McCarty came. “Are you sure your parents know we’re taking you to the game?” questioned Mrs. McCarty. “I’m sure,” replied Stuart. “They said they would be late to the game.” The one thing the boys had in common was that they both loved baseball! “OK then, pile in boys,” said Mrs. McCarty. Stuart felt energetic and excitedly ran to the car. John felt like running, but he didn’t want to tire himself out before the game. As John walked to the car, he noticed a sparkle on the ground. He bent down to study it when he heard his mom calling him from the car. “C’mon, John, or else you’re going to be late to the big game!” “One minute,” John yelled back. John looked back down at the ground. He could barely make out the shape of a ball as big as his palm. He dug at it with his fingers until he pulled it out of the dirt. The bottom side of the sphere was clean and shiny like a crystal. He would have examined it more if his mom didn’t grow impatient. “John! Now!” He couldn’t wait any longer without getting in trouble, so he stuffed the ball into his pocket and walked to the car. Soon they were en route to Callahan Park, named after the city’s founder. As they turned at an intersection, all that was on John’s mind was the game. John didn’t give a second thought to the mysterious, shiny sphere. John was so caught up in thinking of the game that he never saw the car speeding toward them from the opposite direction. Mrs. McCarty had reached for the Chapstick she had dropped on the floor and didn’t see the car. When John looked up and saw the speeding car, he knew something bad was going to happen. Before he could tell his mom to watch out, the car impacted Stuart’s side of the car with enormous force. Stuart was thrown forward and then backward. John heard a crack and then everything went black. When John woke up, he was still in the car, trapped in his seat. When he looked over at his friend, he was shocked. He saw his friend hunched over, but the thing that scared him the most was that Stuart’s neck was in a weird position. John saw that Stuart wasn’t breathing. He is just holding his breath, John thought hopefully. But five minutes passed and Stuart still hadn’t taken a breath. John had been feeling an uncomfortable sensation by his right pocket. When he reached down, he felt the sphere bulging into his leg. He carefully took it out and rubbed off some of the dirt. He had noticed an inscription on the sphere before he got in the car, but he hadn’t had time to examine it. He could barely make out the inscription, “Precious Time.” As John kept rubbing the sphere, he noticed it started to glow. The ball jumped out of his hands and started spinning, making a kind of a force field around him that lifted him up out of his seat and out of the car. After the force field stopped, a screen popped up in front of him. It had “year, month, day, and time,” with blanks after each word. Right next to all of that there was a button that said GO. A thought came to John. Could this be a time machine? Could he bring Stuart back to life? John quickly typed the information on the keyboard. “There!” exclaimed John, “I’m all finished!” He wasn’t too sure about hitting the GO button. He thought of Stuart and knew that helping his friend was all that was important. John pushed the button. Nothing happened! He tried it again. Then he realized that he had typed in the present time and not the time of the accident. He looked at his watch and noticed that the second hand wasn’t moving. He estimated the time of the crash and typed in the information. Then he hit GO. At first, nothing happened. Then suddenly, he saw everything go into rewind. He saw his car go backwards and go back around the corner. Then it stopped and he was teleported to his car. The car went forward around the corner and approached the intersection. His mom dropped her Chapstick. “Stop!” yelled John, and his mom slammed on the brakes just in time to stop from being hit by the car. “That was close,” said Mrs. McCarty as she breathed a sigh of relief. John reached into his pocket and noticed the sphere
