Across the River - an 1800s Black / Native American Novella

Chapter 4

Naomi stood by the river, holding Polly against her chest, watching as her son chunked stones across the roiling surface. He managed to get one to bounce and he threw his arms into the air in victory.

"Did you see that, Mama? Did you see?"

"Yes, that was amazing!"

He beamed, then grabbed at another rock. "I can get it further!" His brow screwed in concentration and he set at it.

A birch tree to her right shimmered, and then a wren hopped out onto a nearby branch, its small tail bobbing in rhythm.

She looked at it, her eyes welling. "Oh, look, Johnny. It's a wren. It's here for wren day."

Johnny spun in a circle. "Wren day! Wren day!"

"Your grandpa always loved wren day," she smiled down at him. "He grew up in Ireland. There, the day after Christmas was a special holiday."

"For wrens!"

"Yes, for wrens," she agreed. "The boys would catch a wren and then go around town asking everyone to donate money in order to bury it. Then they'd all have a big dance in the evening, to celebrate."

Johnny smiled up at her. "I like to dance."

"And you're a very good dancer," she agreed. "Your uncle William used to dance with me every wren day. My father would play the fiddle, my eldest sister, Mary, would sing, and we'd dance all night long."

"We should have a dance!"

Naomi glanced back toward the house, hidden through the trees. "I don't know, sweetie. Bill really doesn't like to dance."

Johnny's face fell.

Her heart went out to the small child before her. The wren on the branch hopped closer, and it seemed a sign.

"I'll see what I can do."

He brightened, and he nodded. He seemed to believe she could work miracles.

Somehow, she would.

She brought out the fishing gear, got herself set, and after an hour of chilly, attentive work she had hooked a plump pumpkin seed. Her stomach turned inside out in hunger but she held it in, bringing her prize home. She held it out to Bill as she stepped into the room. "Look what I've got you for Wren Day, Bill! I'll grill it up, just the way you like it."

His eyes lit with interest. "Now that's the way I should be eating," he agreed. "Even if it is for that stupid Mick holiday."

Johnny looked up in confusion. "Grandpa's name is William. Just like Uncle William."

Bill's eyes sharpened. "Mick means he's Irish, you dolt. He was born over in Crack-filth."

Naomi pressed her lips together. "Carrickfergus."

Bill laughed. "Right. And he was dirt poor. The bottom of the bottom." He turned to his son. "So you know what happened?"

Johnny shook his head.

"Well, boy, the English moved in with a giant broom and swept up all the dirt. They gathered up all those louse-ridden kids and packed them into ships. Sent them over to the colonies to be good little slaves."

Johnny looked up at Naomi. "Grandpa was a slave?"

"Many were slaves," agreed Naomi sadly. "But your grandpa was lucky. He was an indentured servant, so he gained his freedom once he turned eighteen."

Bill snorted. "He was definitely lucky. Micks are worse than Negros. You could buy six Micks for the price of one Negro, and if a few died off, you'd still have a few left over."