Historical Fiction Winners

Below are the winning stories in the Historical Fiction Contest, the first genre of Year Two in the C4WE Genre Contest. This was a fun contest for the judges, as well as for the contestants. Read on to see what they wrote!

First Place: Canal Boy

By Kim Van Sickler of Willoughby Hills, Ohio. Kim is a former prosecutor, grant writer, and marketing director, who would much rather be creating fictional worlds at her computer with her reading companion by her side. She started writing short stories to tighten her prose. Her ultimate goal is see her mermaid and witch MG novels perfected and published. She’s a member of Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and active in local and online critique groups. She’s also an active Girl Scout volunteer, gardener, biker/spinner, and mother of two, step-mother of three.)

Canal Boy

Ruby Sheridan’s fingers had puckered in the now-dirty water of her washbasin. She wrung out her husband’s shirt and placed it on the catwalk, a plywood walkway covering the hold of their canal boat. Seamus thought it was ridiculous for her to clean their clothes while they transported a load of filthy coal to Cleveland. Ruby knew, however, that if they waited for a good time to clean themselves, they’d never do it. And as long as she got food on the table when he was hungry, and laid with him at night, he didn’t fuss too much when she tried cleaning up after them.

A cloud passed over the early morning sun. “Gaddumn it,” Seamus yelled from the stern where he steered their 80-foot-long freight boat, Fortitude. “What in tarnation’s going on at Lonesome Lock?”

Ruby looked up to see a line of downstream canal boats waiting their turn to lock through.

Loomis craned his neck atop the bow cabin. “Upstream boats are piling up on the other side, Pa,” the twenty-one-year-old yelled toward the back of the boat.

Over on the towpath, fifteen-year-old Owen halted the mules. The boat floated another couple hundred feet to coast beside them. Owen unhitched the team from the towline and wrapped the reins around a tree stump. “I’ll find out what’s happening, Pa.” He scooted around other mule teams and people congregating on the towpath.

The freighter directly ahead of them had its name painted with a flourish over its stern. “Ahoy there, Rob Roy,” Loomis addressed their steersman. “Any idea what the hold-up is?”

“Someone found a body swinging from a tree beside the lock,” the steersman said.

“A body?” Despite the gnawing heat on this July morning, Ruby felt nauseous and dizzy, the way she’d felt in the first trimesters of being with child. Lonesome Lock claimed another victim. In 1835 it was already the spot where more deaths, and more reputed ghost sightings occurred, than anywhere on the Ohio Canal.

Seamus left the tiller and joined Ruby on the roof of the mule stable in the center of the boat.

“They say it’s that Goose fella.” The steersman from the Rob Roy tipped back his flask, sipped, and dragged a dirty sleeve over his mouth.

Seamus swore. Ruby and Loomis stiffened. When Seamus made no other move, Loomis relaxed enough to discuss the litany of Goose O’Toole’s tragedies with the Rob Roy‘s steersman. “You know his wife died trying to birth that boy of his about three years back?” the steersman began.

“I surely do. Did you know that boy and an older sister live with a family in Peninsula?” asked Loomis, pointing the way they’d just come.

“Nah, I don’t know too much about those young ‘uns. But I do know Goose owed money to Slice Fermer. Mostly from gambling.”

“My pa said Slice cheats at cards. Only problem is, no one’s been able to prove it yet.”

“I played poker with Slice once. Never’ll do it again.”

Seamus bent his head toward Ruby and lowered his voice. “Remember that paper between Goose and Slice I done witnessed last month?”

“That Indenture? Where Goose planned for his son to work out his debt on Slice’s boat when the lad turned ten?”

Seamus removed his stovepipe hat and ran his hand over his perspiring forehead and thinning white hair. “What I didn’t say was Goose looked roughed up some.”

From the shade of her bonnet, Ruby’s green eyes widened as she studied her husband. She hadn’t been married to him for twenty-two years without learning a thing or two. From a rough man, who thought nothing of striking out at anyone who crossed him, and normally left what didn’t concern him alone, this admission was significant.

“You think he mighta fussed about being forced to sign that Indenture, and Slice killed him? Or mebbe Goose got so distraught over signing he done killed hisself?”

Arcing a mouthful of spittle into the canal, Seamus readjusted his hat. “I don’t much care for Goose, but Slice, well, he’s a canker on the arse of every canaler on the Silver Ribbon.”

No one had to remind Ruby how mean-spirited Slice was. He used to crew for them for a time before Owen was old enough to drive the mules. Seamus barely kept him in line, and Ruby could hardly tolerate his sneering, demanding ways. Why it was right after he left to captain his own boat that he received the knife wound running from his eye to his chin. The wound that gave him his canal nickname: Slice. The unfortunate canaler who’d delivered it, ended up dead.

“It ain’t right.” Ruby blinked back hot tears. And that’s when an absurd, impossible idea scratched its way into her head. She whispered it to Seamus, heart humming in her chest. As preposterous as the idea was, it still felt good to think on it.

To her surprise, Seamus grinned. Gesturing to the bottleneck at the lock he said, “We’re stuck here anyways. Let’s do it.”

He called down to the towpath where Owen stood milling about with other young mule drivers. “What’d you hear from the lockkeeper, lad?”

“They found Goose O’Toole’s body hanging from a tree not even an hour ago. The sheriff’s here investigating.”

Seamus motioned toward the mules. “We’re heading back to Peninsula, lad. Hitch those mules. Look alive, now.”

Owen re-harnessed the mules to the towline. Neither he nor Loomis said a word about their change in travel plans.

It was a two-mile walk back to Peninsula. They waved to the boats they passed, warning about the pile-up ahead. Some of the boats changed course and followed them. “Might as well stretch my legs,” one captain told them.

“He’s going to stretch his legs all the way to the tavern,” Loomis predicted.

Ruby finished her washing, poured the dirty water into the canal, and left the wet clothes to dry on the edge of the catwalk. She made her way down the hatch into the stern cabin, the kitchen that doubled as her and Seamus’ sleeping quarters. She felt more alive than she had in years. Now that her boys were older, a powerful loneliness gripped her at times while they were all outside, and she was usually inside cooking their meals. Now that would change.

When they reached Peninsula, Owen tied up the mules, and Seamus ordered his sons to stay with the boat. “We’re going to stretch our legs some too.” He eyeballed Loomis. “You got a problem with that?”

Loomis averted his eyes. “No, sir.”

“You’re in charge.” Seamus patted the butt of the gun he wore in a holster at his waist. Loomis copied the gesture with his own gun.

Ruby left Seamus at the tavern. She continued down the street until she arrived at the shop of Gustavus Olmert, town cooper, the man who fashioned every manner of cask, barrel, bucket, and hogshead imaginable. The ruddy, blonde man was leaning over a waist-high barrel, using a hand adze to round off the end. Suddenly feeling breathless, Ruby laid an arm on his shoulder. “Where’s Aidan?”

Startled, Gustavus looked up from the barrel. Ruby told him what she knew.

“He’s upstairs with his ma. The Indenture don’t happen for seven more years.” Gustavus laid down his tools and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Aye, but you better believe Slice will come for him then.” Ruby spoke urgently. “Now’s his only chance to escape.”

Gustavus walked to the shop door and shut it. “Ach. We were to care for Goose’s children until they were old enough to join him on his boat,” he admitted. “Your husband and I both know Goose never wanted Slice to have his son.”

“Remember that lockkeeper’s wife way down in Zoar who died in childbirth a few years back?” Ruby asked.

“I reckon I do. Why?”

“That baby’s been passed around from family to family until he reached me.”

Realization dawned in Gustavus’ gray eyes.

“If anyone asks, Goose stopped by last night and took Aidan with him.”

The stocky man flinched. “We’re to say that his own pa killed him?”

“It’s the only way. Goose was upset, and most probably drowned his son in the canal, then killed hisself. Can you spread that tale around town?”

Gustavus grimaced, then motioned for Ruby to follow him upstairs. Ruby’s heart warmed at the scene awaiting her. Mrs. Olmert and a young girl, around six years old, were mending clothes. A much smaller boy with a shock of red hair, and freckles splashed across his cherubic face, played with a stack of wood chips. His chubby fingers were building a tower.

Gustavus pulled his wife aside and whispered to her. The wife nodded and pulled away, tearful, but resolute. Needle poised over her work, the young girl watched, her eyes wary. Finally Mrs. Olmert approached Aidan and scooped him up. “You’re taking a trip!” she said.

The boy’s observant eyes widened. “A trip! Fun!” He chortled.

Mrs. Olmert handed the boy to Ruby. He looked freshly scrubbed. A pleasant lye soap smell wafted from his clothes and tiny body. Ruby squeezed the boy a little tighter.

“Do I go too?” the young girl asked.

“Not this time, Adele,” Gustavus told her sternly. “In fact, forget you saw any of this. Aidan’s pa came and took him last night. He dragged Aidan away in a fit of anger.”

Mrs. Olmert bustled about, gathering a sack of clothes. She brushed back Aidan’s hair and kissed him on the forehead. Then she tied a bonnet under his chin. “You’re to take a canal boat!”

“I not a girl! I not wear girl hat!” Aidan tugged on the bonnet strap.

“Shh! We’re playing a game!” Ruby pulled Aidan’s little fingers away from his chin. “No one can see you until we’re safe on the boat.”

“A boat!” Aidan’s eyes sparkled. “I hide until I go on boat!”

“We best be leaving before anyone comes around asking questions,” Ruby reminded everyone. Gustavus led her downstairs and creaked open the shop door. She rushed out, holding Aidan close.

She nearly collided with the town sheriff, approaching the cooper shop at a brisk pace. He tipped his hat to her, eyes deeply troubled. Ruby’s heart thrummed in her throat as he swept past. She wasn’t even aware of the weight in her arms.

Her husband waited inside the tavern. As soon as Ruby approached, he threw a few coins on the bar and rushed out to meet her. “The sheriff’s on his way to see them.” Her breath came heavy. “He must know about Goose.”

Ruby bustled onto their boat. “This here is that baby born to the lockkeepers in Zoar we done heared about years ago,” she told her children. “He’s been passed about and needs a new home. He’ll stay with us now.”

Pulling away from Ruby, Aidan peeked at his new surroundings. “On boat now. No hat!”

Seamus smacked Aidan’s hand away from his bonnet. “Understand this little ‘un, you don’t do nothing on my boat unless you’re told, you hear me?”

Ruby’s blood ran cold.

Her two older boys shifted uncomfortably on the gangplank.

Seamus rubbed his chapped hands together. “This young ‘un is my retirement plan. In a few years we’ll have him driving the mules, Owen’ll move to bowman and Loomis—steersman.” A delighted laugh escaped the wiry canaler. “Yep, this worked out mighty fine.”

Twisting out of Seamus’ grasp, Ruby climbed into the stern cabin. Fighting a rising panic, she set the bug-eyed child on the cabin floor and got down beside him. His mouth quivered, and his hands stayed frozen in mid-air where they’d been clawing at his bonnet strings. Gently Ruby untied the troublesome hat and threw it on a chair. “From now on you’re Clay. A good strong name. You’ll need all the strength you can get, ’cause living on the canal ain’t easy. ‘Specially it won’t be for you.”

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Second Place: One Year After

by Kathy Wiechman, a former language arts tutor & teacher of creative writing & beginner french, Kathy Cannon Wiechman now writes full time. Her poems have appeared in Ladybug magazine & on the Meadowbrook Press web site. Her short stories have won prizes from the Children’s Writer. She lives in Cincinnati, OH.

One Year After

Thirteen-year-old Lucia Riccardi took off Pio’s cap and shook loose her braids. She slipped off the trousers that also had been her brother’s, rolled them, and stood on the outhouse seat to slide them into their hiding place above the rafter. She stepped into the coldness of her petticoat and skirt, ran her hand down the fabric, and tried to wish away the wrinkles.

Grabbing a tin pail, she hurried to the hydrant at the end of the street. Fetching water was a chore that gave her a chance to wash the guilt from her face and hands before going home.

“Lucia!” Francesca was out of breath from running, and her red nose dripped in the wintry air.

Lucia looked up from scrubbing coal dust from her hands.

“Oh, Lucia.” Francesca’s voice was almost a sob. “Mama came to school. She knows you weren’t there.”

“What did you tell her?” Lucia kept prying black grit from under her fingernails.

“I said nothing. I swear on Papa’s grave. Miss Vernon’s Italian and Mama’s English are not so good. But Mama will want to know why you weren’t there. And she will want to know where you were.”

Lucia had gotten good at telling lies this past year. Only Francesca and Pio knew the truth. And Father D’Andrea. But priests weren’t allowed to reveal what they heard in confession.

The two girls lugged the heavy water pail to their small house. They had lived in a bigger house last year, back when they had needed more room.

“Is the coal dust gone?” Lucia asked.

“Don’t worry,” Francesca said, rubbing at a spot near Lucia’s ear. “The dust is in the air all over town. It would be more telling to have your face clean.”

As they opened the door, a voice called from the rocking chair, “Vincenzo?”

“It’s Lucia and Francesca, Nonno, your granddaughters.”

“Of course you are my granddaughters,” Nonno said, “but you, Lucia, you look like your Uncle Vincenzo.”

“And like Papa. And like you,” Lucia said. All five of Nonno’s sons had had the Riccardi face, the face with the strong chin and deep-set eyes. It often haunted her to see Nonno’s eyes, so like Papa’s laughing ones—but without the laugh.

Papa had brought his family to America when Pio and Lucia were babies. Two years ago, he’d convinced his brothers and Nonno to join them. They could make good wages and eventually send for their families.

All five of Nonno’s sons were gone now. Papa and his brothers. Dead. One year ago tomorrow on the feast of St. Nicholas.

December 6, 1907. Lucia would never forget that day. Nor would anyone else in Monongah, West Virginia.

It had begun as a festive Friday morning, so filled with plans for the evening’s feast that the walls could scarcely contain them. Lucia scurried to get ready for school after finding a penny from St. Nicholas in the toe of her shoe, a special blessing even at twelve.

She struggled to concentrate in class when unexpected thunder rumbled. She hadn’t seen rain clouds. But the rumble grew louder, and Lucia felt it in her feet, felt it rumble right up her legs and grab hold of her heart. The classroom quaked, and Miss Vernon’s chalk rolled off her desk.

Everyone jumped up and raced from the building, emerging into daylight to stop and gape.

At the edge of the West Fork River, both entrances of Mine Number Six sent explosions of reddish-brown smoke into the air. Fire chased the smoke higher and higher. And, as readily as one hiccup follows another, Mine Number Eight belched its own black smoke and flames. More blasts rained dust and debris into the West Fork’s water, some pieces as large as trees.

Lucia and Pio rushed to the mine, where the ground still quaked and ash rained down around them. Papa and their uncles had worked inside Number Eight. One month earlier, Nonno would have been with them, but he had lost three toes under a mine car’s wheels, and his foot was still healing.

Crowds gathered around the now cavernous opening of Number Eight when the explosions finally quieted.

Rescuers ventured in, even as deadly fumes of afterdamp seeped from the mine. The fumes drove back every attempt.

Lucia clung to Mama. The family stood as close to the mine entrances as they were allowed—and waited. Hundreds stood. All day. All night. Just stood. Watching. waiting.

When the burned-out mines had been ventilated with huge fans, hundreds of charred bodies were carried out. Lucia would never forget the terrible screams from the families, from Mama—and from herself.

The First National Bank became a temporary morgue. Nonno identified four sons, but Vincenzo was never found.

Ceaseless music of Requiem Masses pulsed from Our Lady of Pompeii Church. Lucia cried for Papa. Everyone cried. Even Father D’Andrea, as he prayed the Latin words for Grant them eternal rest, wiped tears on the sleeve of his alb.

The newspaper called it the worst mine disaster in the whole country—ever.

After his sons’ funeral, Nonno came inside and sat in his rocking chair. He didn’t rock, just sat in that chair, as still as death itself.

He brought his chair with him when they moved from the large house, which they could no longer afford without wages of five men. This smaller one was possible only because Pio quit school and went into the mines. How Mama hated letting another Riccardi son become a miner. But they needed money to live.

Now one year later, Pio still worked in the mines and Nonno spent every day in that chair—not rocking.

Today Francesca spoke soothing words to Nonno, while Lucia looked for Mama, silently honing her lie about why she hadn’t been in school. But Mama wasn’t there.

The door burst open, and Pio rushed inside.

“Vincenzo?” Nonno called out.

“It’s Pio,” Francesca told him.

Pio grabbed Lucia’s sleeve and pulled her into the kitchen. “They’re here,” he whispered. “They came by train to Fairmont. Father D’Andrea went to meet the interurban cars.”

She hugged him until she wore coal dust from his clothes.

“Father D’Andrea will bring them in time for St. Nicholas,” Pio said.

Before Lucia could wipe the smile from her face, Mama stormed into the house, her temper steaming in the cold air that followed her from outside.

“Vincenzo?” Nonno called out.

Francesca patted his hand. “Only Mama,” she said.

Lucia braced herself, but her smile would not disappear.

“Six stores in this town, and none has the right cheese for filling the cannelloni!” Mama fumed. “And you, Lucia, you stand there like the cat with canary feathers on your face. A girl who lies has no reason to smile.”

Lucia stood in front of her mother, within reach of Mama’s hand. The time for lying was past.

“I haven’t been to school for months, Mama.” Her voice came out weak. She swallowed hard and put strength into her next words. “I work the picking tables.”

Mama’s face went pale. “They let girls sort coal now? They want to kill my whole family? Your dear Papa was not enough? His brothers were not enough? An old man in a chair waiting for the son who will never return is not enough?” Mama’s voice dissolved into sobs.

Lucia reached around Mama’s shoulders. “They do not treat me as a girl,” she said. “I wear Pio’s old clothes and work the picking tables with the young boys. The bosses never look at the Italians anyway. As long as I do my work, nobody cares.”

Mama covered her face and shook her head.

“I do a good job, Mama. I earn money to finish what Papa and Uncle Vincenzo began.”

“Vincenzo?” Nonno called.

“Vincenzo sent money to Italy to bring his wife and children here. I sent my pay, too. Maria still wanted to come, even after he died.”

“Vincenzo?” Nonno called louder. Francesca tried to calm him, but he brushed her aside.

Francesca’s hand stopped still where Nonno’s arm had been. Pio’s mouth dropped open, and Lucia’s eyes didn’t blink a single blink, as Nonno rose from that chair and pulled open the door.

Father D’Andrea stood in the doorway, and Nonno ushered him inside. He was followed by a woman with two small children.

“Maria!” Mama shouted, and the younger woman fell into Mama’s arms.

“And Angela.” Father D’Andrea pushed forward a timid little girl. Angela! The daughter Vincenzo had left behind in Italy! This was the day Uncle Vincenzo had waited for, but not lived to see.

“And Renato.” Maria’s arms tried to circle her darting toddler.

“Vincenzo!” Nonno said, and snatched up his grandson.

“Vincenzo’s son,” Maria told him, “his son born after he sailed for America. Renato.”

Tomorrow they would take Maria to visit the uncles’ graves. Tomorrow Mama would dole out Lucia’s punishment for missing school. Lucia didn’t think it would be severe, but she was certain the picking tables would be short one worker come Monday. She patted her pocket. Tomorrow Vincenzo’s children would find pennies in their shoes.

Tonight there was talking and hugging, and everyone heard the creak of Nonno’s rocker as he sat with Renato in his lap. “Renato,” he said.

*          *          *

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The Riccardi family is fiction, but the 1907 Monongah mine disaster remains the worst industrial accident in US history.

Most of the miners were immigrants, and the largest number of immigrants were Italian.

Father D’Andrea was real, as was Our Lady of Pompeii Catholic Church, the first Italian church in West Virginia history. The wood church still stands in Monongah.

The explosions were likely caused by the ignition of coal dust and methane gas. Just before the first explosion, a train of mine cars got hung up on an elevated trestle and careened back down the hill into Mine Number Six. This was the probable cause, but speculation has offered other possibilities for the ignition.

Like the fictional Vincenzo, some miners were never found. Some bodies were too mutilated to be identified. Other bodies were blown apart and buried in rubble deep inside the mines.

The practice of off-the-payroll helpers working in the mines has prevented the exact number of dead from being determined, but estimates vary from just under 400 to more than 550.

In spite of the tremendous loss, both mines reopened within two months.

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Third Place: Gift in the Darkness

by Janie Peterson.  Janie graduated with a Masters in Music Performance in 2006. Having grown up outside of Philadelphia, she is a huge Phillies fan. She married her best friend, a carpenter named Chad, and currently lives in a suburb of D.C. She teaches private music lessons in violin, cello, piano and guitar, and homeschools her two step-children, Morgan and Nathan. Her hobbies include writing, scrap-booking  making faerie houses out of bark and twigs, reading to her step-kids and spending time with family.

Gift in the Darkness

She pressed her cheek against the dirt and tried to still her beating heart. She could feel the ground vibrating with each strike of horseshoes. She could hear the crunching of leaves, the breaking of branches, the laughter and chatter of the white men—her pursuers, her unwanted, fearsome shadows.

“She couldn’t of gotten too far on foot. Leastways, not much further than this.”

“Where could the little devil be hidin’?”

The horses snorted and shuffled their feet.

She strained to hear the voices, to hear that familiar tenor that sent more terror to her heart than the most hideous of dreams.

“Shh!” someone said.

Trees swayed, leaves brushed leaves, branches rubbed branches. She was thankful for these noises. They covered the pounding in her chest. She parted her lips, trying to breathe evenly, silently.

“She ain’t around here. We’d of found her by now.”

“Oh, she’s around,” a low voice replied. “And when I find her, she won’t never run away from me again.”

It was him! She could never mistake that voice. She’d heard it too many times. Memories that she wanted so badly to forget raged through her—the cutting of the whip on her back when he was drunk; his hands on her throat and arms, forcing her down beneath him when he was sober. God, make ‘em go away! she screamed within. And she didn’t mean the men.

“Sarah!” he shouted. “Sarah! Where you hidin’? You’d better get out here right now!”

He thinks I’s gonna answer? He thinks I wanna go back?

“We probably missed her. She mighta been hidin’, and we passed by her.”

“All right. Let’s go back,” he replied. “Jest wait ‘til I get my hands on her. When she can walk again, runnin’ away’ll be the furthest thing from her mind!”

She heard the horses struggle to turn, the men impatiently snap at them. The vibrations against her cheek grew gentler as her pursuers moved further away, back to the home of her nightmares, the village where freedom was only a word and a scarred dream.

When only the sounds of the woods remained, she crawled out of the pile of thorny brush and copper leaves that had camouflaged her earth-toned skin. Being colored had its advantages.

Looking cautiously around, she imagined white men leaping out at her from behind trees, charging at her on horses, ropes dangling from their hands. But in the fading light, she saw only moss-covered oaks, towering evergreens, silver maples, and overgrown grasses and shrubs. Patches of grey sky helped shield her from the dusky gleams sneaking through the spreading branches. She breathed with relief and whispered, “Thank You, God.” In just a few minutes, a blanket of darkness would cover the woods. Darkness was frightening, but once caught in its midst, she knew it would be easier to disappear.

She tossed a black braid behind her shoulder, and picked thorns from her arms and neck. An unnatural rustle from behind made her scream. She whirled around.

A white man rose from behind the pile of brush. She saw a metal star pinned to his vest and a rope hanging from his belt. She knew that rope was for her. Her stomach twisted with pain. The freedom that had been hers seconds earlier was gone.

“You Simeon Gold’s girl?” the sheriff asked. He was tall and broad shouldered, with shaggy, dark brown hair peeking out from under a leather hat. His blue eyes watched her, waiting for her to speak, though he looked as if he already knew the answer.

She wondered how long he’d been hiding there, whether he, too, had heard the horses tearing through the bracken, and seen her dive beneath the briars. She wondered why he hadn’t exposed her to her torturer.

“You Gold’s runaway?” he asked.

She felt a strange, squeezed pain in her chest, and realized she’d stopped breathing. She tried to force herself to relax and exhale, but it was a struggle. Don’t let this be real! she prayed, yet at the same time, she wondered why she bothered praying anymore. So many times in the past, she had begged God for help, and He’d ignored her—every time Gold pinned her down and yanked up her dress. That had been every other day for the last three years. And just seconds earlier, she’d thanked God for protecting her from him; but it had been for nothing. Well, she’d never make that mistake again.

She heard the sheriff move around the brush, closing in on her. In her mind, she could see him pull that rope from his belt and make a noose with it. She could even feel it around her neck, the rough, frayed threads rubbing raw spots into her skin.

“Hey,” he said, stopping just in front of her.

She refused to meet his eyes. She hated him. She hated all white men. She looked down, and noticed the bloody scratches on the tops of her feet.

“You his runaway, ain’t you?”

She gave him a vague nod, an unacceptable response on Master Gold’s plantation. Anything less than a “Yes, sir,” resulted in a whipping.

“Look at me,” he said.

She wondered if this was a precursor to some kind of punishment. Her eyes travelled reluctantly up his frame, taking in the scuffed black boots, the dark pants stained from crouching in the dirt, the gun hanging on the left side of his belt, and that rope hanging on his right. Her vision blurred. Angered at this weakness, she blinked the tears away, forced a brazen look and met his eyes. He was a head taller than her and looked about ten years older. She would have guessed he was thirty. She knew this man. She’d seen him before when she’d gone to the market for Mrs. Gold. He’d been bringing back other runaway slaves.

Standing before him now, she expected to see triumph and satisfaction in his expression. He’d done his duty and done it well. Again. But that wasn’t what she saw. To her surprise, she saw in his eyes a desire to understand something he was afraid he never would. She’d seen that expression in her mother’s eyes another dusky, grey evening when she was ten years old and being sold on an auction block. To find this expression in a white man’s eyes puzzled her. She wondered what it meant.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and sliding his thumbs into his belt, said, “So, why’d you run away?”

A dumb question, she thought. She didn’t bother to answer. It wouldn’t change her fate. She lowered her head, looked past her torn, ragged dress, and studied her feet again. They looked small compared to his boots.

“Why?”

Intrigued by his gentle tone, something unknown in her corner of the world, she gave him a half-shrug. “I want to be free,” she whispered.

“But, he paid for you. You belong to him.”

Of course he wouldn’t understand. He was one of them. An angry tear escaped. She quickly rubbed it away with her shoulder, hoping he didn’t see. There was a good chance he didn’t. Darkness was increasing as quickly as the pain in her heart and stomach. “It wasn’t Mas’r Gold I run from,” she finally said.

“No?”

She shook her head.

“Who, then?”

She didn’t want to answer.

“Tell me who you was runnin’ from? Was it . . . was it his son?”

She gasped and looked up. How did he know that?

“He take advantage of you?” he asked gently.

She nodded cautiously, wondering what that confession might entail.

“A lot, too, don’t he?”

She nodded again.

“Figured as much. I knew it when he come askin’ me to find you. The amount of money he offered, the way he went on and on about bein’ cheated. Besides, I seen him in his father’s cotton fields beatin’ the older slaves for not workin’ as hard as the young ones. He’s low-down white trash.” He crossed his arms and looked around. “You know, it’s my duty to bring you in. It ain’t like I want to, you understand? But if I don’t, it could cost me my badge.” He shut his eyes and sighed. With a shake of the head, he muttered, “Though, I reckon, compared to what he’ll do to you, that don’t mean much.” He looked back at her. “Listen here. I’m gonna close my eyes and count to ten real slow-like. And when I open my eyes, I want you to be gone, all right?”

She gaped at him.

“You look like a strong, young girl. I reckon you can run real good,” he said.

She nodded.

“All right, then.”

“You don’t really mean dat,” she said, afraid to believe.

“I really do.”

Stunned, all she could do was stare at him.

He smiled. “‘O ye of little faith.’ Didn’t you jest thank God for rescuin’ you?” He lowered his head and shut his eyes. “One . . . two . . .”

She grabbed her skirt and dashed passed him. Stumbling in the darkness, she ran until she knew he had to be close to ten. Then she ducked down behind a fat oak tree. She pressed her back against it, trying to catch her breath, ignoring the rough bark that cut into her skin through her thin dress. After a moment, she peered around the trunk. She could just make out his form. His back was to her. He was walking toward the village. She leaned against the tree again and shut her eyes. “Oh, God Almighty, how good You is! How good You is!”

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Honorable Mention: Right Under Your Nose

by Rhonda Jackson

You can read Rhonda’s story in the Third Annual Fiction Anthology, due out in July, 2013.