Free Running Out of Night by Sharon Lovejoy

her.
    Lightnin bugs flickered in the meadow. I thought on how Zenobia looked just last night with that cloud of them little stars shinin from her thick hair.
    Were the moonlight playin tricks on me? Somethin flitted, moved through the grasses and wildflowers and in and out of the shadows, stopped, then vanished like a will-o’-the-wisp. I knowed if it were Zenobia’s sperrit, I shouldn’t be afeared, but my hands shook as I gripped the stick even tighter and melted into the bosky darkness.
    Heels down first. Heels down slow and easy. I crept along, kept my eyes on a faint trail that spooled through the trees and tried to think like a deer. If I follered this,would I circle round and end up along the crickside near my friend?
    Somethin snapped and crashed. Loud bayin and shriekin come at me from up above, beside me, all around. I stopped, my toes rooted into the ground. The frogs, the crickets, everythin quieted except the distant sounds of water. The night went quiet as an apple on a tree.
    Maybe a minute passed, maybe more, but I didn’t move. I learnt a long time ago that turnin into a shadow, disappearin into whatever was round me were sometimes the only way to stay alive. I knowed how to wait.
    From somewhere close by come a familiar call.
Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill
. The animals began singin their night songs again. I took one step, two, three, and slipped into the tangle of their sounds.
    Soon I smelt the sycamores, heard the rushin of the crick, and knowed I were close to Zenobia.
    Zenobia. My tongue licked at salty tears.
    I’d need to get her in her grave, mound rocks on it so’s no animal could reach her, and make my way toward Waterford afore the sun come up. I didn’t have no plans, but I knowed that I wouldn’t go back to Pa’s house and the life, if I could even think on it as a life, I’d had afore trouble girl stirred things up for me.
    The top of the big sycamore stood high above the other trees. I headed toward it, makin sure I stayed hid in the cover of the shadows.
    I walked along the edge of the meadow, then stepped into the bright, freckled moonlight under the sycamore. On the limb above Zenobia’s body set that white-faced owl. And on the bush where I’d tied our sacks of food were nothin.

S lave children must always be buried facedown to be set free to heaven
.
    T he stick felt like safe to me. I held it tight, rested it on my shoulder, and turned in a slow circle, searchin the shadows, the meadow, anywhere someone could hide. Silver-rimmed clouds run acrost the sky and smothered the moon. The dark under the tree turned blacker than a crow, too thick for me to see. The clouds passed. Slowly, slowly, things come into my sight, and I could see the empty bush.
    My eyes darted back and forth, between Zenobia and the woods. I shook and my skin turned cold, like it done when Pa put his eyes on me. More bad would happen.
    Were it Pa out there watchin and just waitin to catchme and drag me back to his cabin? Worst of all, takin me away and leavin Zenobia alone, unburied, critters tearin and worryin at her like she’d never been nothin to no one. But she had been. She had a family that loved her, and she were my onliest true friend—the first one since my grandpa who cared what my brothers and Pa done to me. She were the one who fitted me with my name. She would be buried proper by me—and not facin down like a slave. Zenobia were a free girl when she died.
    I stooped beside Zenobia, wiped my tears with the gritty back of my arm, and whisper-sang, “Back in the lovin arms of Jesus, precious Jesus take me home” to make myself feel easy. I moved alongside her, takin care not to step over her body so’s I wouldn’t end up in the grave with her.
    I walked over to the bank and stretched out on the ground where I were goin to dig the buryin hole, scuffed my feet, and dragged my hands against the sandy soil for a size marker. If someone watched me, they must be thinkin that I been bit