When you’re running from enemies, never look over your shoulder or their bad luck will snare you.
I crost the porch and went down the rickety steps, then made my way through the barnyard. A few things needed doin afore I left. My grandpa had taught me how to tend his beehives and harvest the honey, but he had also cautioned me to always tell the bees of any great happenins. I picked up my bee stick and walked over to the bench line of log gum hives where the stragglers, the last of the hardworkin bees, was findin their way home for the night.
Tap, tap, tap, the stick moved from log to log to log. “I’m leavin here, all you good bees. I’m leavin here and all the bad times. Forever. I’ll miss you,” I said.
I moved away from the hummin log gums, said a fare-thee-well to my tidy little garden and to the last of the hens headin in to roost.
I passed my little square of tomaters. There, lyin on the ground, lookin up at me sure as the buck’s eye it were called after, were my good-luck charm. I picked it up, felt at its smooth, then slipped it into my pocket. I’d be needin all the luck I could find.
Grandpa’s two old workhorses, Delilah and Samson, hung their heads over the crooked-rail fence between the pasture and the barnyard. I stroked the blaze on Delilah and smoothed Samson’s forelock, all the while thankin them for the hard work and good comfort they always give me. Delilah whinnied when I reached into my sack and pulled out two apples for them. I always spoilt them, just like Grandpa did, but who would spoil them now?
Afore I left, I had one last thing to do. I stopped by the side of the cabin, picked a handful of the pink roses planted by my mama’s own hand, and carried them over to the little buryin ground I’d tended since Grandpa passed.
Small wooden markers had the carved names of brothers and sisters I’d never met. Next come my mama—Hannah Cullen Nicoll, and Aaron E. Cullen, my dear grandpa. I knelt down and tucked tiny pink buds near the graves of my brothers and sisters, and a handful of the sweet-smellin roses atop Mama’s and Grandpa’s markers for the last time.
“Good-bye, Mama. Good-bye, Grandpa. Won’t you stay by my side?” I asked as I turned and walked into the comin night.
Dozens of tiny bats weaved through the darkenin sky and flitted past me. I knowed that it were just an old tale about them catchin in your hair, but I couldn’t help shirkin from them. I ducked my head, hunched my shoulders under the weight of the bags, and limped along the trail above the crick.
When I found the narrow path that led from the bank through the brambles and poison ivy, I slipped and slid all the way down. Them thorns tore at me like cat claws and rooster beaks. The poison ivy never bothers me none, nary an itch nor a bump when I hold it, but the brambles—they hurt somethin fierce. I had to bite at my lips to keep from cryin out.
When I finally got to the water, I waded till my feet sank into the mud and disappeared. I stopped, crouched, and splashed my face and arms. Then I drank its cool sweetness from my cupped hands. I could’ve stayed there forever, the water runnin over me and soothin my torn arms, but I made myself get up and keep movin. I could feel the smooth pebbles and the suck and pull of the mud as I walked along the crick bed and headed south. My guess was that Pa and my brothers had probably headed north up top along the sycamore trail. By now, they’d be takin another track as they searched for the girl. Too bad for her if she went the wrong way and ran into them, but good for me.
The moon, her horns pointin to the east, were waxin fair and clear. I could see ahead along a goodly piece of the water that stretched in front of me like a wide silver ribbon. From the edge of the crick, the big rocks, the ones I loved to play on, loomed dark-like and not near as friendly-lookin as they was by day. My heart pounded and I glanced quick side to side, searchin for anythin movin along the bank. The noise of the runnin water wrapped round me, hidin my sounds, but also hidin the sounds of anyone passin nearby. I stopped myself from lookin back over my shoulder; I didn’t want to court no trouble.