Good morning and Happy Hump Day ! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.
Char is at the library in Mason Spring, Mo, where the librarian, Casey, has been assisting him with his research into his family. Not an easy task at all. See what's going on in this week's chapter of An Unholy Alliance. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!
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As I scanned the lists, I pulled out my phone to
take notes. Such an ingenious invention, this cloud. I was able to have access
to my spreadsheets and word documents without the inconvenience of having to
cart about a pc. I would crosscheck my sources against one another, searching
for and take note of overlapping information. Since I knew the approximate area
I was born, and somewhat of a timeframe, you’d think it wouldn’t be hard to
locate members of my family…but you’d be wrong. Even if I had an actual name to
search for, birth certificates were non-existent at that time, especially for
slaves, since they were considered to be property, not persons. People assume
that slaves were given the names of their owners for purposes of
identification, but this wasn’t necessarily so. Add to that the fact that slaves
were often passed down from one generation to another through inheritance and
that muddies the waters, making it difficult to follow any particular family
trail.
Sometimes I was able to locate bills of sale, but
these too often offered scant information, omitting actual names but including
such data as age, gender, and skin tone. In my case, I was stolen before I ever
reached an age where I might be sold, before I was of any real interest to
anyone outside of my family. And I came from an area where there were few, if
any, plantations. Most slave owners in Missouri possessed small farms they
needed help to work, often choosing to toil side by side with their slaves. That
would have probably been my lot in life, had Dominique not taken a fancy to me
and decided to make me her own, sometimes referring to me—somewhat facetiously—
as the jewel in her crown. Sometimes I find it hard to reconcile the life I never
had to lead—and what I gained in the process—with what my birth family must
have gone through, the terrible life they must have led as slaves, so perhaps
it’s fair to say there was a certain amount of guilt involved with my search.
On the other hand, I’d had to grow up with Dominique
and the brothers from Hell. Not exactly a day in Paradise either. But at least
I lived through what they dished out, when in the normal course of events I’d
have died years ago. Some days I’m glad about that, other days less so. Which
produces more guilt.
I’d recently begun to ferret out local folk lore, seeking
stories about stolen children. A long shot? Maybe. But this entire enterprise went
against all odds, so why not add a little bit more difficulty to the mix?
Although so far, in that regard, I’d come up with bupkus.
I added a few more names to my spread sheet,
comparing the two lists for families whose numbers had decreased in the decade
which spanned them. I found none. There were names that were not present in the
second census, but that could be for many reasons. Remember, there was a war
on. People die in war. Not exactly encouraging.
“Here you go.”
I’d already detected the soothing aroma of the tea
even before Casey spoke. Although blood was what I craved, for reasons beyond
my control, tea possessed a quality that seldom failed to charm this savage
breast, to paraphrase Congreve.
They set the delicate cup on the small table beside
me. Like all traditional Japanese cups, this one had no handle. Cherry
blossoms, aka sakura, adorned a black
background. I lifted the cup and held it gratefully between both palms,
relishing the heat it afforded, as she took a seat in a chair on the other side
of the table.
I raised the cup to my lips and sipped, waiting for
whatever she was about to say. I knew what she was really thinking—her eyes
gave that away. She thought I should see a doctor because I was always cold,
blaming it on poor circulation.
If she only knew.
But she was too polite to harp on that. She would
let at least a few months pass before she brought it up again. No, I could tell
she had other information to impart. I could only hope it was good.
But it wasn’t.
“So far, I haven’t found much from the Freedmen’s
Bureau,” she admitted. “But they’re transcribing more and more records all the
time. In the meantime, I’ve put out some feelers to an organization that
specializes in regional folk stories. I’m waiting to hear from them now.”
The Freedman’s Bureau was the more popular name for
the U.S. Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen, and Abandoned Lands. Set up after the
Civil War, during the turbulent period of Reconstruction, it was meant to
assist slaves in their transition from slavery to freedom.
Three guesses how well that worked.
In the end, it was every bit as corrupt and
inefficient as you can imagine, and not very effective. But they did have some
vital records, some that even predated the war by a little bit, and those were
the ones we were after. Apparently that wasn’t going very well either.
“Anything in what I gave you?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. I still need to go
through the books, though.”
“Well, take your time. I’ll stay as long as you
like. I have some work to do myself.”
Besides running the library and its various
organizations, Casey was working on her first novel. Didn’t I mention they were
talented. Not to mention, generous with her time.
“Hey, it’s you.”
My head jerked up at that strangely familiar voice.
What the hell was he doing here?
Before I could even word a reply, Casey had discreetly
slipped away and Tyrone had taken her place. As if he had a right to be there.
“Small world, isn’t it?” And there was that smile
again. The one I wanted to punch.
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