Kidnapped to Freedom

Phoebe attempts an escape

Phoebe hurried from shadow to shadow behind the row of cabins. The full moon had risen. She was late. Why did Massa Paddy have to send for her tonight, of all nights! He was drunk, which was no surprise, for he'd been drunk since the Master died. The drink, though, had left him limp, for which he blamed her, until the punishment he administered excited him enough to finish.

Then he'd collapsed on top of her, and it had taken time to edge out from beneath his weight.

Beneath the constant susurration of the cicadas, she could hear murmurs of conversation inside the cabins. He wouldn't look for her when he woke; he would assume she'd gone back to the cabin she shared with the children.

Had he made her miss her chance? Their chance—for she wouldn't go without the children.

Phoebe felt some of the tension leave her when she saw them waiting for her behind their cabin. Venus balanced little Patricia on her hip, and Joe cradled Baby. Jake ran to meet her, taking her hand for the few steps back to her family.

Now, if only whoever it was had waited. If only it were true and not a trap. Phoebe hoisted one of the bundles she and Venus had hidden here earlier this morning, before the day's exertions had begun.

"Jake, take this bundle, and Venus, give me Pat-a-cake, and take the rest of our things." The three-year-old didn't stir during the transfer, just settled her head into the curve of Phoebe's neck. She slept like a rock, that girl, just like Massa Paddy, who'd sired her.

She led her little flock down the path into the woods. She was putting a lot of trust in the letter the peddler had slipped to her three weeks ago. But what choice did she have? Miz Nettie was going to sell them to the slave trader—Phoebe and all the five children left to her.

When she'd first made the threat, Phoebe had hoped it was just the sorrow speaking. Miz Nettie had been wild with grief since her husband, Mist' Chan, fell from his horse and died, followed in short order by Ol' Massa Blake, his father, who took apoplexy when her husband turned up dead.

At least, Miz Nettie had been wild since the will was read.

But she meant her threat. Massa Paddy said the trader was coming this way next week. He was sorry, he said, because he was fond of Phoebe, but her sewing skills meant she would fetch a high price and find a good place, so she wasn't to worry.

Not to worry? Not to worry about her children being taken from her and sold away, probably down the river? Venus, at nearly twelve, was old enough and pretty enough to catch a master's eye, and Joe already did a man's job in the fields, but at least here, Massa Paddy had a reason to treat him fair, as long as she accommodated his needs.

Please, God, let the letter be true, please, God. It had been her constant prayer these last weeks. Please, God, it was from her brother, as it seemed to be. It would read like nonsense to anyone else opening it, but she knew.

"To the gentle Lady of the Lake. Sir Morien bids you, on the night of the first full moon after the natal day of the loathsome Sir Kay, to go to the place where the Parfait Knight shared his tales of chivalry, and from thence, to seek the Holy Grail."

She read, but not well. She couldn't ask for help, but she managed to puzzle most of it out. The names she'd seen before, long ago when she learned to read. What was 'natal day'? She fretted over that one for a week, until she overheard a visiting preacher comment how sad it was that the Master had died on his natal day.

Sir Morien—the name Mist' Phineas had given her brother, Cudjo, in the long sagas they had played out at his direction in these very woods. Mist' Finn was the Parfait Knight, of course, and they readily agreed to refer to his older brother, Mist' Chauncey, as Sir Kay. The Holy Grail, to them all, was freedom.

This was her third note in the twelve years since Mist' Finn had run away, taking her younger sister and brother with him. The first, some eighteen months after they had left, was just five words. 'We found Avalon. All safe.' The second, five years ago, had offered escape 'at the abode of the Lady of the Lake.' The little harbour where Mist' Finn had kept his sailboat might as well have been on the moon, for all the chance she had of reaching it that particular week.

But this time, the meeting point was right here on the plantation.

They were heading for the Woods House, behind which, in stolen moments, Mist' Finn had taught the three of them to read, using the books about the Arthurian legends he so loved.

Please, God, she was not too late. Please, God, it was not a trap.