Years had passed since Mary and her half-siblings buried Lena beneath the canopy of trees—among the unmarked graves —between Bethabara and Bethania. Each child said a prayer. Mary’s was brief: Thank you for her love. And for the light that remains. She did not ask the Lord for anything. She did not quote a scripture. That night, at the grave, she said goodbye to her mother, to her past, to everyone—except Sarah. Sarah, who had not come. Sarah, who was with child. Lena's first grandchild. Bethabara had become unbearable for Mary without Lena’s voice—the one that had once harped at her and held her close. So when they fetched her for Salem, Mary was ready. Not for what lay ahead. But for escape. Like Sarah, Mary never knew her father. But she'd heard enough to gather his shadow—one who belonged to this land before the Moravians came, before Christ. She never asked her mother. Some stories don’t ask to be spoken aloud. Instead, she tucked them away like pressed flowers in a dusty jar. Let the sun catch them. Watched the colors bend in glass. Especially on days when she felt lost. Her olive-toned skin. Her deep-set, slanting eyes. Her hair, sleek as river water. The way she walked sideways through the world. It was all different. And she'd made peace with the difference. The paper bag beside her mattress was worn, tearing at the corners as she packed the last of her belongings—dried herbs, vials of salve, a necklace her mother had worn like breath. She had never asked where it came from. Just as she had never asked about her father. She had assumed answers would wait for her. She had assumed mothers lived forever.
“This is where we let you off.” The driver’s voice broke the spell. Mary clutched her bags and stepped down, her skirt brushing the dust. “Thank you,” she said, holding her excitement tight to her chest like a spell yet to be spoken. The lamps on Main Street casted long, reaching shadows. For a breath, she let herself imagine what lay ahead. When she turned back, the wagon had vanished. Surely the tenements weren’t on Main, she thought, shifting the bags on her hip and walking east. In the morning, she would report to the apothecary. That night, she wanted to taste freedom.
And she did. For a time. She wandered past the tenement row, past the old sycamore that leaned like a question against the dark. The moon hung low, milk-white and pulsing. She slipped off her shoes, dried Bethabara dirt its second coat, and let the night kiss her soles, let the earth hum beneath her skin like something half-remembered. No name, no task, no weight. Just wind and soil and sky. She stood still long enough to feel the veil thin—the space between worlds softening like wax. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The stars already knew her by name. But when morning came, it greeted her half awake. Wrapped in mist—thick as wool, softening every edge—she tightened her shawl and stepped into the waking town. She could feel it in her marrow—Salem would be different. Not easier. Not kinder. But new. And for now, that was enough. Dr. Weavil’s shop sat at the edge of town, between the cemetery and the church. The stairs solid beneath her as she climbed. Inside, the scent of dried leaves and bitter roots welcomed her and she wondered who had been there before her. Glass bottles lined the shelves, catching the morning light in tones of green and gold. He stood, another thin and pale man, behind the counter, turning a vial in his hand. His eyes met hers with the sharpness of someone always measuring. “Mary, is it?” He blew the strains of hair from in front of him. “Yes, sir.” Mary brushed the light speckled of dirt from her skirt she'd attracted on her walk. “Healing work?” “Since I was a girl,” she said, eyes now scanning the shelves, more than she’d ever seen in one place. He grunted and waved her to the back. “Let’s see what you know.” She did not need to be shown. Her hands moved on their own—sorting leaves, grinding bark, pressing herbs into tinctures with the muscle-memory of many nights, many names. He offered little instruction. She didn’t need any. At midday, she stepped outside, leaned on the railing, and watched the world. Children raced through the dust. Women haggled at market stalls. The town hummed like a slow song. Inside, voices murmured behind the door. Men. Wives. Worry and sickness and talk. She passed Dr. Weavil’s office just as a few suited men emerged—hats in their hands, eyes unreadable. Dr. Weavil followed, his face lifeless, his gait heavy. “It was nice meeting you,” he said, nodding, his satchel across his back. Mary blinked. Had she done something wrong? Stayed out too long? Mixed the wrong root? “You’ll do well here,” he whispered. Then he left. Through the wide front door, she watched him pause—looking left, then right, then up. As if waiting for a sign from heaven. The next day, he returned, as if nothing had happened. They worked side by side for years. He taught her some German. She taught him to trust a little magic. But later, everything would change.
1817
The night air pressed thick against Mary’s skin as she followed Dr. Long through Salem’s winding streets. The scent of damp earth and burning wood curled in her nostrils, sharp and familiar. She carried both his satchel and her own—the weight of them dragging heavy at her sides, leather straps biting into her palms. Pebbles scattered beneath her boots, lodging in the holes at the soles, but she did not slow. “Keep up, gal.” His voice scraped the quiet. She was far past gal-age, but he always called her that—especially when time pressed in, when death and birth refused to obey him. He could not command a body’s timing. But Mary—like the others enslaved or borrowed—he believed he could. “Yes, sir.” Sweat slid from Mary's temple. Bruises already bloomed beneath her grip. “When we get there, go ‘round back. Boil the cloths—you’ll see them on the table.” She nodded, though he wasn’t looking. She had helped birth too many to count—first in backwoods' beds where the sheets held secrets, then beside Dr. Weavil. Her hands knew the way before Dr. Long knew which way the wind was blowing. The house came into view, two stories tall, white columns rising like teeth across the front. One of the grandest homes in Salem—newer than most. When Mary and another Negro women would pass it, they would slow their stride, wondering what it held. How many beds. How many books. Whether the floors creaked like the ones they once scrubbed clean back in Bethabara.
Dr. Long snatched his bag from her grasp and hurried through the front door. Mary rounded the back. She moved as her mother once had—quiet and sure, as if each step were divinely placed. But the kind of peace that had settled into Lena’s bones hadn't made its way into Mary’s. The back door was cracked open. She slipped inside. “Mary, the midwife,” she announced. Her voice landed low, grounded. A few young children sat at a long wooden table, their boney faces turned toward her. She said nothing more, just gathered the folded cloths and set her bag down in their place. A few vials disappeared into her apron pocket. She dunked the cloths in the basin, wringing them slowly, warm water darkening her sleeves. From the next room, the sounds of labor thickened—low cries, muttered instructions. Mary stood still, listening. She knew that sound. Knew how a woman fought to stay inside herself when the pain tried to pull her out. Mary entered without waiting to be called. Candlelight flickered across the woman’s face, sweat streaking her temples, legs wide and high on pillows. The air smelled of copper and blood and prayers left unanswered. Mary moved to the table, set the cloths down, and handed one to Dr. Long. Her fingers hovered near her apron itching to reach for her vials, to brush the woman’s skin with balm, to summon calm with the scent of crushed petals and fire-warmed root. But she did not. Not yet. She knew how to wait. Magic was patient. Mary could bring a child into the world with her eyes closed. Her voice could call angels down between a woman’s legs—white or Negro—and she knew it. Dr. Long did not. But it had been years now and she'd stopped expecting him to, just like any other white person. She stood at the edge of candlelight, cloths dripping in her hands, her mind drifted to the gossip she’d overheard before this doctor arrived in Salem. Women braiding hair. Whispering: "You know he’s bringing a whole plantation with him..." "They don’t even want him here." "I heard he’s got babies by some of his own slaves." In Mary’s bones, time never moved forward. It only folded in on itself. Nothing new. Just another version of the same story. “It’s a boy,” Dr. Long announced, his smile tight as thread. Mary stepped forward, handed him a towel. He wiped the child, clipped the cord, and passed the blood-wet body to its father. “We’re calling him Samuel,” the man said. “He’ll be baptized Sunday.” “Well then.” The doctor’s tone was brisk. “Congratulations.” He wiped his hands and draped the soiled towel across Mary’s arm like she were a hook. A pat on the father’s shoulder. A nod to the mother. “Stay in bed.” And he was gone. Only then did Mary move closer. She lowered her voice. “Keep him wrapped tight—I warmed that cloth just for him. If you need me, turn your light on. Tell the Night Watcher.” The couple nodded—tired, grateful, uncertain. As Mary stepped into the hallway, she saw the children again—watching from the doorway, pale and silent as ghosts. She passed them without a word. Outside, the lantern was gone. So was the doctor.
(posted 5/8/25) Rayne, 2024
Rayne woke cradled by the bed, as if the night itself had folded her into its arms. No tossing. No pills. Just a deep, weighted sleep that pulled her somewhere beyond reach. The storm had passed — she could feel it more than hear it — leaving the air outside scrubbed raw and new, like the earth had been turned over in the dark. She stretched, reaching toward the foot of the bed where her robe waited, then paused. There, against the dented pillow, sat her journal. Not where she had left it. It looked almost expectant. She smiled, running her fingers along its battered spine. You never leave me, do you? The robe forgotten, she drew the journal into her lap and opened to a fresh page.
Saturday, March 23 Old Salem, North Carolina I’m so excited to be here. I barely saw anything when the Uber pulled in last night — rain lashing the windows, cobblestones slick under my shoes. (Note to self: sneakers.) I slipped trying to haul my suitcase over the curb. Real elegant entrance. Miss Lucy — the innkeeper, I think — met me at the door. Crooked smile, vowels softened by a long drawl. There’s something about that Southern way of speaking that always makes me brace a little. You never know these days. Especially being Black. Especially here. Especially now. But she was kind. She checked me in, told me breakfast would be between seven and nine. And now — finally — the day is waiting.
The nightstand clock blinked 8:00. Rayne swung her legs over the side of the bed, the floor cool and sure beneath her toes. Light spilled through the windows like poured honey, catching the edges of the room — the scuffed floorboards, the chair beside the little writing desk, the brass-tipped mirror clouded by time. She moved toward the desk. One drawer hung slightly open, like a mouth mid-whisper. She pulled it wider. Not a Bible—as she half-expected in a place stitched with old ghosts—but a thick leather journal, hand-sewn, the strap twisted around it like a sleeping vine. She lifted it, the smell of parchment and earth rising to meet her. Moses had always said, "Smell the pages. If you’re lucky, they’ll carry you." She couldn't help to think of him and their last conversation before she left to come as she closed her eyes briefly, smiling. Unwinding the strap, she let the journal fall open in her hands. Words layered over words. Cursive spun like silk, careful print, brushstrokes of calligraphy. A chorus murmuring across centuries. One line shimmered up to meet her: This place is magical. Keep your eyes and ears open. Mostly, your heart. And another: We are more than pleased to have come here to rest and to reawaken. Rayne closed the journal, its weight oddly warm against her palms. No riddles. No hidden maps. Only prayers tucked between pages. She tucked the journal under her arm wanting to read more over breakfast, slipped into her gray sweatsuit, and laced her gym shoes loosely before heading downstairs, led by the rich scent of bacon and biscuits winding through the halls.
The foyer breathed around her. Wide-planked floors, hand-oiled walls gleaming in the low light, she turned toward the dining room -- and stopped. The room unfurled before her like a dream she didn't remember having. Couples leaned close over thin metal mugs, children sat silent in stiff collars, women wore bonnets pale as moth wings, men in suspenders hunched over polished tables. Black servers floated among them, quiet as shadows, trays balanced with impossible grace. Rayne’s heart tapped against her ribs. Was this a reenactment? Staged? Everything from the heavy forks to the flickering lanterns felt stitched from another century’s breath. She stepped back, pressing herself against the wall, invisible. A server passed, and she reached out, desperate. “Excuse me—” But he moved on without seeing her. Her skin prickled, hot and cold all at once. She turned to find Miss Lucy -- but the front desk was gone. In its place, a rough staircase climbed upward, fading into gloom. A deep unease rooted itself in her bones. The faces at the tables — all white. The servers — all Black. The way the white guests sipped and smiled, so unbothered, twisted something sharp inside her. This wasn’t a theme. This wasn’t history contained. This was history breathing. Not as a living museum but a time present.
“Gal, whatcha doing here?” a voice rasped against her ear. Rayne startled, spinning toward a wiry man whose breath reeked of tobacco and stale anger. “Me?” she whispered. “Yeah, you,” he said, scanning her like a sinner's stain. “I’m— I’m a guest,” she said quickly. “Miss Lucy checked me in last night.” Rayne's eyes still scanned the room looking for any hint of her. The man laughed — a dry, broken sound. Another man drifted over, rough-clothed, boots scuffed. “She says she’s a guest!” Their laughter cracked like a whip across the air. Rayne fumbled at her pocket, empty. Her phone, gone. “My phone— upstairs—” The man snorted. “Phone? Girl, you touched in the head?” The second man stepped closer, voice low and mocking. “Tell us who your people are. Who you belong to?” Rayne’s blood iced. She opened her mouth — no sound. The first man called across the room, voice slicing the charged air: “Billy! Fetch Elias! See if he knows this stranger.”
(posted 5/1/25) Sarah, 1780
Three weeks after the Negresses brought their daughters to Bethabara’s square for the Elders’ choosing, Sarah’s church sponsors gathered around her in the candle-lit cabin, draping fabric over her narrow shoulders. She stood atop a wooden box, the muslin pooling at her feet, the air thick with beeswax, pine smoke, and the soft clatter of needles. Then Ruth’s laughter split the silence like a log under an axe. “You scared me, Ruth!” Naomi gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “What you finding so funny?” Ruth tried to hide her grin behind her hand. “It’s just—Ms. Sarah ain’t but so big, and now she fixing to be somebody’s wife!” Esther shook her head, not looking up from her stitching. “Size don’t make a wife, nor a woman.” Sarah carefully gathered the hem of the gown and stepped down from the box. “Mind the pins now,” Ruth warned, still chuckling. Dinah, leaning in to inspect the fabric, smirked. “A man likes something to hold onto when the nights turn cold.” “T’is world always cold,” Esther muttered. Ruth, smoothing the fabric over Sarah’s waist, added, “And colder still if you ain’t got somebody warming your heart.” Naomi, now standing near the window, softened her voice. “Don’t matter how cold it get outside. What matters is the fire you keep inside.” Sarah bit the inside of her cheek to keep from shouting, I don’t want this. I don’t want to marry. But she knew better, her hands clutching the muslin, while her words burned her throat and died. She wanted to tear the gown from her body and run barefoot into the woods. But she stayed. If she opened her mouth, they would fill it with Scripture, duty, and "He’s a good man." So she let them pull the dress tighter around her ribs. In the lone chair by the hearth, Lena watched, her face hollow and worn from the sickness that almost took her. A quilt thrown across her knees, her breath rattling softly in the thick air. “Y’all leave my baby be,” she rasped, her voice still rough and dry. “She gon’ make a fine wife. That’s why the Elders chose her.” Sarah, again, said nothing. Her legs weak in the knees. She knew her mother’s pride was stitched from old griefs: Jacob, the first love who had disappeared like mist; Paul, the good man in chains who fathered her brothers and sisters; The Saponi man who left only the echo of a goodbye. Sarah carried all of it—the hopes, the regrets, the stitched-together dreams—like a second skin. She remembered the story Lena had once told her, late at night, voice trembling beside the fire. How Jacob had met her in the woods behind the tavern, midday, hidden deep among the pines. How he had placed a small parcel in her hands—two wide leaves tied with twine. Inside: a necklace, silver and etched with tiny grooves and dots, gleaming like something holy. “I made it,” he had said, pride lifting his voice. Lena had traced the lines with careful fingers before Jacob took it and fastened it around her neck. “When you wear it, remember: our love don’t die.” She had believed him. Still did. And yet, here they were. A daughter bound to a future chosen by others. A mother hoping love could be mended through obedience. Sarah stood while the women who had guided her through every rite of passage since girlhood fussed over her. Their hands moved surely across the fabric, their voices weaving prayers and warnings through the candle-thick air. She smiled for them, though inside she longed to run—to slip through the door and be carried away by the creek’s current, beyond the life they had sewn up for her. “The Lot chose him,” Naomi said, smoothing a wrinkle in the skirt. “And the Lot’s the Lord’s Word.” Sarah’s voice sliced through the room. “But what about my word?” The needles stilled. “You asked how I feel inside?” she continued, her voice shaking slightly. “Inside, I just want to see what else is out there. Beyond Bethabara.” Esther snorted. “Ain’t nothin’ out there but even more heartache, chile.” “You best stop all that dreaming,” Lena added, voice sharpened by fear. “Dreams don’t get you nowhere,” Dinah muttered. Ruth, adjusting the lace at Sarah’s shoulders, spoke more gently. “Dream with your husband. That’s love enough.” Sarah looked at them—at their busy hands, their worn faces—and wondered why they wanted her to settle for so little. Hadn’t they once dreamed, too? Didn't they desire freedom just as much? Seventeen years of her living under other people’s rules -- the ones her mother had them sold to. Surely she had earned the right to choose her own life now. “If you keep up with this foolish thinking, you gon’ miss your blessing,” Esther warned.
Sarah thought of Leonard. Leonard, tall and certain, his skin the color of maple bark, his voice heavy with the Word. Leonard, who made even the trees seem to listen when he preached. She remembered the day the Elders rode into Bethabara on black horses, boots gleaming, eyes sharp. At first, she thought they had come to punish her—for stealing flour to bake Lena a pie. They circled her like hounds. “Sarah,” the lead Elder had called, voice echoing over the square. She had bowed her head, heart hammering. “We come bearing good news. You are to marry--" Sarah's heart soared too soon because as soon as it did, it feel when the Elder added "--Elias" and not "Leonard." The crowd applauded. A hand pressed lightly at the small of her back, nudging her forward. Through the blur of faces, she saw Leonard standing stiff and silent at the edge. A tear swelled in her eye, but she swallowed it down. Swallowed everything down. That was two weeks ago. Today was her wedding day, to Elias. “This is the beginning of something holy,” Naomi's voice bringing Sarah back, fitting the headdress atop Sarah’s coiled hair. “To be blessed by the church—ain’t no higher honor,” Ruth cheered. “But what about love?” Sarah whispered. Esther laughed dryly. “Love don’t save you, chile. You save you. You are love. Remember that.” Sarah said nothing. Her heart pressed hard against her ribs. She turned toward the battered sheet of polished tin nailed to the wall—a poor man’s mirror—and stared. In its warped reflection, she saw a girl too young, too brave, too full of wanting. She lifted the hem of her dress and twirled once, the skirt billowing around her ankles like a sail. “I know exactly what love is,” she said, meeting their eyes squarely. And for one bright, burning moment, Sarah was free.