With so much on her mind, Jennifer doubted she’d fall asleep easily. The evening’s parting shot about transporting contents of the safe hung heavy on her mind, with no practical solution. She’d face it tomorrow. She wished to escape this chaotic Naples world to rewire her equilibrium, if only for a night. She wished she could transport herself to a faraway Alice-in-Wonderland place—a place where the buck no longer stopped with her.
She eased into bed, amazed at the relief of stretching her limbs against the cool, smooth sheets. Too exhausted to read, she looked over at the dragon on the bureau. “I bet you already know how this will all turn out,” she said to him. He stared back with his knowing look. “Will you make a spell to help me fall asleep?” she asked him as she turned out the light.
She lay in the dark, trying to turn off her conscious mind, which bristled with deadlines and decisions to get her mother north. Finally, her eyes closed. Her breathing slowed and deepened. Gradually, her thoughts drifted upward into clouds where she floated without purpose or destination. Then an unexpected scene below pulled her toward it…
Staring at the steel muzzle leveled at him in the hands of a menacing stranger, a young boy froze in fear.
Warily, Birdsong glanced about and, satisfied the boy came alone, he holstered his weapon.
The boy barked a nervous laugh. “Thought you was goin’ to drill me right here.”
Studying the boy, about seven years old, Birdsong looked down. “Sorry, son.”
“You ain’t from around here. You…you lost, mister?”
“Naw, just gettin’ a drink and some cookin’ water.”
“Whatcha cookin’?”
“Well, I don’t know cause I ain’t caught it yet.”
The boy laughed and so did Birdsong. He hadn’t laughed for a long time and it felt good.
“You want an apple?” the boy offered. “I got two.”
“Well, sure enough I do.”
The boy fished his hand into his overalls, produced the fruit and extended it toward the man.
“Why thank you, sir.” Birdsong said, biting through the peel.
The boy giggled. Nobody ever called him “sir” before and it made him feel important. He took out the second apple and they ate together.
“This is mighty tasty. You grow these?”
“Yeah, in our orchard. Them trees got spring flowers now but when the apples come, my maw stores ’em in baskets in the cellar for the winter.”
“You know your way around these parts?” Birdsong asked amiably.
“Sure do. Lived here my whole life.”
“You know where the Potomac River is?”
The boy pointed.
“You ever been there?”
“Lots of times. My paw and me and our handymen fish there sometimes.”
“So…is your paw a fisherman?”
“He fishes pretty good for a farmer.”
Birdsong laughed and the boy joined in.
“Have you seen any soldiers around here lately?” asked Birdsong, doing some fishing of his own.
“Time to time.” The boy hesitated, eyeing Birdsong with caution. “What…what side you on, Mister?”
“Born and raised in Virginny, just like you.”
“So…so you a Reb then?
“Love my homeland enough to fight for it. But peace is what I really long for. Do you know what a poet is?”
The boy thought. “Selby says it’s someone who writes down thoughts about what he sees to help other people understand life clearer. If you’s a poet, can you do a poem about me?”
Birdsong smiled. “All right. How about this? ‘A boy’s excited about every day, he frisks and funs along the way, he learns from chores and what others say, and his family’s love’s the best kind of pay.”
The boy grinned at him. “Guess you remember being a boy, huh?”
“Yes, son, I do. Now what does your paw say about these soldiers who come around?”
“He hopes them damn Yankees leave us be. We won’t bother them if they don’t bother us.” He covered his mouth with his hands and grinned. “I’m not supposed to say ‘damn’ even though my paw does.”
“And do they bother your paw?”
“All the time. They crawficate our crops and animals.”
Birdsong smiled. “You mean ‘confiscate’?”
“Yep, that’s what they do. Makes my paw angry something fierce. He says ‘thank God for Mosby, even if his men can’t be everywhere.’ But we ain’t seen ‘em for some time now.”
“You’ve seen Mosby’s Raiders?”
“Well, not up close, but my paw says they’re the likeliest protection we got these days.”
“I know Mosby.”
The boy jumped to his feet, face animated. “You do? Oh mah gawd.” He covered his mouth guiltily at saying this. “My maw told me not to say them words.”
Birdsong chuckled. “I won’t tell. Who’s this Selby who told you about poets?”
“She’s my big sister. Real smart. Reads books when her chores is done.”
“You live close by?”
“Coupl’a miles.”
“Happen to see a stray horse around last night or this morning?”
The boy stared at the ground, fudging his answer. “What’s it look like?”
“Black mare wearin’ a brown saddle with a rifle in the hitch.”
The boy kicked at a stone, knowing that this same thirsty, hungry animal had wandered into their barn lot at dawn, a windfall his paw aimed to use or sell.
“Maybe…”
Birdsong read this as a yes. “Any chance I could say hello to your paw?”
“Sure ‘nuf. He’s in the north field today. Want me to take you there?”
“Why, that’d be good, son. Thank you. By the way, is someone building a house up the hill over there?” Birdsong pointed toward the foundation.
“Yeah, that’s ol’ man Parker. He started building but then them Yankees killed his oldest son and right after that, his wife died. My maw says her heart broke when her boy died. My paw says Parker turned old real fast, and bitter, too. Paw thinks the son that’s left will finish the new house for the ol’ man one day, but up ‘til then, the two of ‘em still live at their old place.”
“What’s your name?”
“Wilbur. Wilbur Gentry. What’s yours?”
“Raiford… Raiford Birdsong. Real glad to see you today, Wilbur. Didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to meet up with someone like you.”
“Them’s funny names, specially Birdsong.”
“Yes, they are. But we can’t help what our parents name us, can we? Now would you point me toward your paw?”
“You jes’ foller me.” The boy skipped ahead.
Birdsong fell in step behind the boy, thinking as he walked he’d make a map on the piece of cloth tucked inside his coat, a map he’d give to the safe house or Mosby or Lee, since taking the treasure to either of them himself was far too dangerous now. But how could he make a map clear for the intended recipients to find the burlap bags, yet cryptic enough so nobody else would?
How indeed?