Free Papers.

They had found them. Those cursed, horrible determined slave hunters were relentless. The journey had been long and arduous...the job thankless, the pay negligible, but bigotry and determination drove them on...and, well - someone had to do it.

The furious pounding on the door terrified the escaped slaves. They could hear the horses snorting and stomping, the terrible barking of the tired dogs which must have run for hundreds of miles...hungry and thirsty dogs could tear a person to shreds.

Abram, Alexina, Bass and Briget, among other cowering escapees listened to the great commotion outside.

"Come quickly, follow me".

Mr. Tredwell, the white owner of the house, had been very kind to them. He had made them wash the grime and mud off of themselves, provided strange clothing and fed them well. The were just about to get some sleep - for the other phase of their early morning journey would be an arduous one...when the thundering on the door began.

He hurried them to a room with no visible door. He picked up a book from the shelf and the wall opened up. The group stared in wide-eyed wonder, but he hurried them inside.

"Be very quiet if you wish to live, that includes me and my family as well". He warned the frightened runaways. He had done this many times before, while assisting Harriet with the Underground Railroad crossings.

With ears to the door, they all listened, hearts beating fretfully.

"Good evening. How can I assist you gentlemen". Tredwell asked innocently.

The voice that answered was gravelly, impatient.

"We’re looking for fugitives. Four of them. Maybe more. They were seen heading this way".

Tredwell’s tone remained calm, almost bored. "Fugitives? I’m afraid you’ll find only books and dust here. But you’re welcome to look".

A heavy silence followed. Then the creak of boots on wood. The door groaned open wider. Abram clutched Briget’s hand in the dark, his breath shallow. Bass mouthed a prayer. Alexina stared at the wall, imagining it melting into fire.

The hidden room was narrow, lined with old maps and strange artifacts - an ivory compass, a rusted lantern, a carved wooden mask with hollow eyes. Tredwell, explaining later, had called it "the passage room". though no one knew where it led.

Outside the room, the search began. Footsteps thudded overhead. A dog whined, sniffing near the bookshelf.

Then -

A loud thump. A shout. "What’s this"?

The fugitives froze.

But it was only a loose floorboard. Tredwell chuckled softly. "Ah, that old thing. Been meaning to fix it".

The men grumbled, unconvinced. One of them lingered near the shelf. His fingers brushed the spine of the book that opened the wall.

Inside the passage room, the mask began to glow faintly. Tredwell briefly explained later... told them it was carved by a freed man, a strange man who came with Free Papers. A man who conjured herbs to do his bidding, who claimed the mask could "swallow sound".

Briget leaned toward it, whispering, "Can you swallow fear too"?

The mask did not answer. But the room seemed to grow quieter, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Outside, the men finally relented. "We’ll be back". one growled. "If we find out you’re lying…"

"I understand", Tredwell said, his voice smooth as river stone. "Safe travels".

The door slammed. The horses snorted. The dogs barked once more, then faded into the night.

Inside the hidden room, the fugitives exhaled.

Tredwell sat for a while, then he got up and pulled the curtain in a dark corner of the room, left deliberately so, he could peek out without being seen. Satisfied that the men had left, he opened the wall again, pale and sweating.

"You leave in a few hours. The next crossing is dangerous. But I know a guide".

"Who"? Abram asked.

Tredwell smiled. "Her name is Aletha. She magically walks between shadows she claims. And she owes me a favor. Get some sleep, I will wake you all up when it is time".

~

The sun had barely crested the horizon, casting long golden fingers across the dew-slick fields. Inside the hidden room, the air was thick with sleep and silence. Then came the soft knock - three taps, then two. The signal.

Tredwell opened the wall. "Quickly. A small breakfast has been prepared, your guide will be here shortly".

"She’s here". Tredwell announced about fifteen minutes later.

They had only just managed to finish eating before Mrs. Tredwell ushered them to the back of the house.

Aletha stood outside, wrapped in a shawl the color of river mist. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the treeline. Behind her, the wagon waited - a humble looking contraption of a thing, its wooden frame groaning under the weight of hay, blankets, and secrets.

"Quickly," she whispered. "We’ve got two hours before the patrol circles back".

Bass helped Briget climb into the wagon first, nestling her between hay bales. Abram and Alexina followed, their faces still pale from the night’s terror. Aletha handed each a small pouch - dried apples, jerky, and a folded scrap of paper.

"What be dis"? Alexina asked.

"A map", Aletha said. "But not one you read with your eyes. It’s written in scent - lavender for safe houses, cedar for danger, mint for water. You’ll know when you need it". She spoke perfect English, an educated Free Woman was a rare gem...the slaves were impressed.

Tredwell handed Aletha a small tin box. "For the next crossing", he said. She nodded, tucking it beneath the wagon seat.

They thanked Mr. Tredwell for his kindness.

As the wagon creaked forward, the runaways lay hidden beneath the hay, hearts thudding in rhythm with the wheels. Aletha hummed a low tune -half Black spiritual song, half warning. It was a song Harriet had taught her, meant to calm the soul and sharpen the senses.

They passed through sleepy towns, past fields where scarecrows leaned like tired sentinels. At one point, a rider approached from the east. Aletha didn’t flinch. She reached into the hay and pulled out a bundle of herbs, tossing them into the cooking firebox beneath the wagon. Smoke rose - sweet and thick - and the rider turned away, coughing.

By midday, they reached the edge of the mysterious and beckoning woods. Aletha stopped the wagon and turned to the group.

"From here, you walk. The trees will guide you. But only if you walk with silence and purpose".

"What you mean, silence and purpose, and wat de trees going say, I don understand". Abram questioned.

"There will be guides along the way, remember the map and the message".

"A map,” Aletha said. "But not one you read with your eyes. It’s written in scent - lavender for safe houses, cedar for danger, mint for water. You’ll know when you need it". She repeated.

Briget looked up. "Will we see you again"?

Aletha smiled, her eyes glinting. "If you listen to the wind, you’ll hear me. If you follow the scent of mint, you’ll find me".

"Thank y..."......

But she was already gone, the wagon rolling back toward the horizon, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the scent of lavender in her wake.

The Mysterious Woods loomed like a cavernous ocean of unknown elements, where scent becomes compass and silence becomes shield.

The trees stared like ancient sentinels, their trunks gnarled and moss-covered, their branches tangled in omens. The runaways stood at the edge of the forest, clutching their scent-maps - scraps of cloth infused with coded fragrances. Aletha’s instructions echoed in their minds: Lavender for safety, cedar for danger, mint for water.

Abram was the first to step forward. He held the cloth to his nose and inhaled deeply. A faint trail of lavender drifted eastward, mingled with the earthy scent of pine. "Dis way", he whispered.

They moved in single file, careful not to snap twigs or rustle leaves. The forest responded in kind - shadows shifted, birds quieted, and the wind seemed to hold its breath.

At one fork in the path, Briget paused. The trail ahead smelled of cedar - sharp and bitter. "Danger" , she murmured. Bass nodded and turned toward a side path, where the scent of lavender returned, sweet and subtle.

Hours passed. The woods grew darker, though the sun still shone above. It was as if the forest bent light to its will. Alexina spotted a patch of wild mint growing near a fallen log. She knelt and touched the leaves. “Water’s near,” she said. Sure enough, a trickling stream revealed itself just beyond the underbrush.

They drank in silence, cupping their hands. The map had not lied.

As they journeyed deeper, the scents grew more complex - lavender laced with smoke, mint tinged with iron. They learned to interpret these nuances: lavender with smoke meant a safe house nearby, but one recently raided. Mint with iron meant water, but guarded by traps.

At dusk, they reached a clearing where the scent of lavender was strongest. A hollow tree stood at its center, carved with symbols. Abram approached and pressed his cloth against the bark. The tree responded - its trunk creaked open, revealing a hidden chamber lined with quilts, dried food, and a journal.

Inside the journal were more scent codes, written by past travelers. One entry read:

"If you smell honeysuckle, run. It means they’ve set traps disguised as kindness".

It was strange, they all understood the writing...although none of them had learned to read or write. What ancient spirits guarded their way.

But they all knew. It was the same spirits which were known to guide Ms. Harriet and show her the way.

They slept in shifts, the forest keeping watch. And in the morning, the lavender trail resumed - leading them toward the next crossing, where Aletha had promised a boatman who spoke mostly in gestures and accepted payment in service.

~

The ominous whispering woods thinned as the escapees followed the final trail of lavender. The trees grew younger here, less twisted by time. The air smelled of mint and morning rain. Ahead, a clearing opened like a breath exhaled.

There stood the boatman.

He was cloaked in patchwork robes, the kind sewn from old quilts and faded hardships. His face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and his boat - long, low, and carved with runes - floated on a narrow silent river that mirrored the moonlight.

"No coin", he rasped. "Only stories".

Bass stepped forward. "We be hunted. Hid. Saved by a wall dat de kind White man open wit a book".

The boatman nodded. "Truth always buy de passage".

Briget whispered, "Did I dream of a mask dat did swallow we fear".

"Dreams be currency", he said.

Alexina offered a scrap of her scent-map. "Dis did lead us here".

The boatman took it reverently. "Maps be directions. Secret be sacred".

Abram hesitated. "What if we ain't got no story"?

The boatman turned. "Then you be still living it".

They boarded the boat, one by one. As it drifted, the river grew wider, the woods receded, and the sky opened like a savior. Birds flew overhead - silent, watchful. The boatman hummed a tune that braided Aletha’s spiritual with something older, deeper.

~

Hours passed. Then, on the far shore, a small cabin appeared. Smoke curled from its chimney. A woman stood outside, holding a lantern made of courage and glass.

"You’re safe now", she said. "This is the last house before freedom".

Inside, quilts lined the walls. A warm stew bubbled on the fire. A journal lay open on the table, waiting for new entries.

Briget picked up the pen. "We should write it down".

"Yes", said Alexina. "So others can follow".

"Yesterday, we couldn't read...today we write".

"Its all in de magic of de crossin' chile". Mother Mazie told them, laughing in the mysterious knowing of the ones who work the Hoodoo spells.

And so they did - inscribing scent codes, stories, and warnings. Another mask was hanging above the door. The lavender cloth was folded into the quilt. The boatman vanished, but his tune lingered in the wind.

They were safe. But they were also keepers now...of the magic and secrets of the map that led through shadow into light.

Free papers awaited.

It was now their turn to listen for a knock at the door to freedom.