Free Everfair by Nisi Shawl

Laurie’s indiscretions meant nothing; hers, far too much.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Jackie repeated. “Truly. I only meant to help.”
    â€œThank you.” She tried to feel grateful. She would have George. And the girls. Unless she went back home.
    No. Unless she went back to England. She opened eyes she hadn’t known she’d shut and looked around in a circle at the sturdy walls, boards stitched tight over thick layers of banana leaves. Her charming cottage. Home would have to be here.

 
    Bookerville, Everfair, December 1895
    Jesus didn’t mean for her to die here. Mrs. Martha Livia Hunter glared at the filthy white man before her, daring him to raise his gleaming gun. The wooden cross she wore on her bosom symbolized her protection: she was on a mission, doing the Savior’s work. She lifted her chin, stiffened her shoulders, and felt a faint stirring in the hot, wet air at her back as her fellow toilers in the vineyards joined her on the infirmary’s front steps.
    â€œThey’re not here,” she repeated.
    â€œBloody—beggin yer pardon, ma’am, but I ain’t even told ye their names or nothin!”
    He was a brave devil, she must admit, coming here all those miles, armed or not, with but one bearer. “You know the names of your escaped captives?”
    â€œThe two what ran away was Mkoi, an old nig—I mean, an old man, and a little wench he took with im, think he called her Fwendi—”
    The roaring inside her drowned out what he said after that. She knew them, knew all their patients: Mkoi, half-starved, half-mad, had stumbled into Bookerville only a week ago, yet was on his way to recovery. Fwendi, his grand-niece—the nearest any translator had been able to render their relationship—Fwendi would never recover her amputated hand.
    Oceans of rage surged in Martha’s bosom—black, clashing billows towering up and crashing down—
    â€œPeace; be still,” she prayed. The words of the Savior calming the storm on the Sea of Galilee: “Peace; be still.” And the waters subsided. And a dove rode down a sunbeam from Heaven and nestled in his hand, soft and angerless as her heart ought to be in his service.
    Leopold’s lieutenant seemed to have heard her, for his mouth hung open, silent, empty. She must have prayed aloud.
    â€œYou had better go back,” she said to the man, as kindly as she could. “You had better go back and tell your friends: you will not find the prisoners whom you are seeking here.”
    â€œWhy, that’s rich! When they’re standin right ahind ye!” The white man pointed.
    Martha shook her head, unwilling to fall for this transparent ruse. Then she saw Chester coming down the muddy path at a run, with a smaller figure just after him—George, the eldest child of Mrs. Albin. She smiled. Menfolk to the rescue. As they came to a halt, the midday mist turned to drizzle.
    â€œYou had better go back,” Martha repeated.
    â€œNot without them I come for! Mkoi! I’ll let you off light this first time if you—”
    Martha risked a look over her shoulder. Yes, Mkoi was there indeed, dark face blank as some heathen mask. At his side tottered little Fwendi, right arm swathed in bandages once white, now yellow, brown, and grey; skin shining with sweat; eyes dull with pain and hopelessness. Old at seven.
    She would not give the girl up. She whirled back to confront Leopold’s man, who had seized the chance to creep closer to the entrance. But now—
    â€œHi! Let loose of that!” he shouted.
    The Albin boy had both hands on the man’s rifle, trying to wrest it from his grasp. A second’s silent struggle and Chester joined in. A loud report—the gun had gone off! Chester gained control—of course. Martha looked to see if anyone had been struck. Not Chester—thank God! What would she have told his mother? Mkoi, Fwendi, her fellow