Of the Spring

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. In 1812 Sussex County, Delaware, a slave named Vernal, aged twenty-six, had been tasked to go into town to fetch soap, nails, bread, and spices. His placard around his neck felt better than a noose for running away. It read that he was supposed to retrieve the aforementioned items and return them to his master. What’s curious is that he saw a red door on his way to the market.

His master instructed him not to go near that door and definitely not open it. Vernal envisioned the fires blaze all around him and the darkness away from him in his mind. He saw a sharpened ax prepared to sever his genitals after being shot, stabbed, set on fire, and strung up on a tree. Even with this, he ventured to the front of the door. He stood and looked all around him. His hand reached for the knob and turned it. A hand grabbed his arm and the door shut.

A family readying to go on the Underground Railroad looked at him under the dim light of a lantern.

“Your master didn’t want you to be here, huh?” Jita announced.

“I’m risking everything to be here. I didn’t know what it was.”

“Well, this is Balem, my husband. My young son, Kyro.”

Vernal waved. Balem looked serious.

“Don’t you think they’re not going to be after you? We’ve got this thing down to a way of life. You weren’t supposed to open that door. But you did. And I’m glad.” He opened his mouth and it looked like a jack-o-lantern. Jagged and missing teeth told a tale of someone who had been away from the plantation for some time.

“We’re on a journey. That’s it.…”

“Vernal.”

“Yes. Welcome aboard.”