Chapter 1

Seed Sown, Tree Grown

The year was somewhere round 1840 or so. I can’t remember too good now, memory ain’t what it used to be. At that time, I was just a baby myself, could barely talk. But I do remember that evening quite well. Miss Elizabeth and Master McCullen was celebrating the soon arrival of their baby. You see, it had been a long time coming. For months, Master McCullen and everyone on the plantation watched and waited, wondering if the good Lord was gonna take this one too on account of Miss Elizabeth’s first two babies dying, one in the womb and the other not long after she took her first couple of breaths. Many said Miss Elizabeth was cursed…said that God had turned her womb against her because of her evil ways. Now that I’m an old woman myself, I have the right mind to agree. God don’t bless ugly. He just don’t work like that. And that there Miss Elizabeth was ugly to the bone.

Now when my mama, Clarabell—went by Clara—got to McCullen plantation, she was just a young one herself, but she was old enough to remember the hangings, the whippings and the evil that walked this land. She didn’t like to speak too much on it, don’t blame her one bit. Story goes, Master’s daddy, Senior is what they called him, was the devil dressed in flesh; but when he died, Master swore that the dark days at McCullen would die with his father, and for a while they did. You see, that’s the thing ‘bout evil—doin’ good don’t kill it. You gotsta be good, but that’s a lesson that would be learned much later in life, by all of us. But by then, Mama knew the lessons and the secrets. She knew the things that even the soil tried to keep quiet. So maybe Mama was right. Maybe all the pain that Miss Elizabeth was feeling was of her own doin’. Seed sown, tree grown.

Now, back to that night. All of Wilmington’s finest came out to celebrate or gossip, but nonetheless they were there. Regardless of their reason, Master couldn’t have been happier. That man was floating on thin air, I tell ya! You see, Miss Elizabeth hadn’t been sick with this baby like she was with the others, so he had reason to hope and be happy.

Even though I was nothing but a child myself, even I could see all of the wives and husbands alike looking at Master and Miss Elizabeth with proud, whispering eyes. They all congregated underneath the candlelit maple trees and pretended to be there to help them celebrate, when that couldn’t have been further from the truth. No, they were there to watch; you know, be the first to join into midday conversations ’bout how cursed Miss Elizabeth was, and how foolish Master was for marrying her.

I watched them use their lace-gloved hands to cover their mouths as they whispered death over Miss Elizabeth’s unborn child. I guess it made them feel better ’bout themselves, knowing that while Miss Elizabeth was easily one of the most beautiful women eyes had ever seen—and add to it, she had managed to marry one of Wilmington’s finest and wealthiest men—she couldn’t do what every white woman was supposed to do, give her husband a male child, and that made them feel better ’bout themselves. “Why should this outsider have it all?” they murmured. But what they failed to see was none of that mattered to Master. While it might have served him to care, he didn’t. He loved her, shortcomings and all. The more they hated her, the more he adored her.

Now I have to admit, Miss Elizabeth looked good with child, carried it well. You might think that after a woman’s body went through all that death, it would wear her down, but it didn’t. Perhaps it was a good sign. Perhaps this child would live past its first breath. Perhaps as love grew in her belly, it would finally take root in her soul. Maybe that’s why there was something different about that night. Oh my, it was as if the stars’ only will was to see their reflection in her eyes.

She was as beautiful as I had ever seen her. Her hair was long and full, and fell perfectly down her shoulders. She had the glow, and everybody saw it. The night bent to her. Just talkin’ ‘bout it brings it all back so clear. I can still hear the violins that played in the courtyard. I can almost feel the breeze that blew just enough to play with the candles that lit the nights’ skies, and smell the vanilla orchards that filled the air. Oh yes, Miss Elizabeth had God’s attention that night, and nothin’ could compare to the splendor that His grace gave her on that night, nothing.

When most people saw Miss Elizabeth for the first time, they usually talked ’bout how pretty she was, almost like her eyes demanded it. Ignore her beauty, and her sweetness quickly turned to bitterness, and without pause she marked you as enemy, but real sweet like, not having to say a word. I had never seen anything like it, a woman who could yield to evil as easy as takin’ a breath. Indeed, she was a suspicious woman, and she trusted no one. In her mind, everyone was out to get what she had, her husband and his money, so she was always ready, her kind “hello” perfectly shaded with a smile, disguising her wickedness.

At first, Master loved her freely, but somewhere along the way it turned into obligation, something he owed her. But I’m getting ahead of myself; there’s plenty of time for that tale. Back to the good part of that night. Finally, she was going to have his rightful child and maybe now her soul would rest, and the women of Wilmington would stop their whispers over midday tea…perhaps.

Now remember, back then I was just a little bitty thing, maybe three years old or so, from what Mama said. That was the first night music became something else for me. Mama said I learned to sing before I learned to talk; said I came right out the womb singing. Now I’m not sho’ ‘bout all that—mothers have a way of making the most out of very little—but I can tell you I knew music. Oh, I knew music well.

***

I sat there listening to my mother, Nady, recall stories of her childhood, stories I thought I would never hear. But there they were, the stories of her life, and therefore the stories of my life. For the first time, I was really learning about the woman they called “Nady, the Singing Slave,” her mother Clara, and the people of her time. I am the tree grown from the seed she had sown.

***