The Freedom Maze by Delia Sherman Page B

her first question.
    “Um. What’s black moss?”
    Tibet answered. “You know that old grandfather moss hanging from the trees? Well, you takes that and puts it in a barrel of water for a week or two and . . . Wait — I show you.”
    She ran outside, returning a moment later with a handful of something black and drippy that smelled strongly of spoiled vegetables. She stripped off the rotten leaves and dumped what was left in Sophie’s lap.
    “This here’s black moss. You lying on it. White folks sits on it. We picks it, and Dr. Charles, he sell it in New Orleans and give us the money.”
    Sophie touched the springy, wiry black stuff. It felt like soft steel wool.
    “Cutting wood for the sugarhouse boilers pay better,” Young Guam broke in. “When I gets big, I going to cut me about a million cords, buy my freedom, and go to New Orleans. Now you tell ’bout your master’s house. I bet it ain’t as big as Oak River.”
    That day and the next, whenever any Oak River children could get away from their chores, they came to the slave hospital to explain things to Sophie. Some told her about sugar-making, from planting chopped-up sections of cane — billets — in the spring to burning the fields after the harvest was over. Others told her about the French Cajun peddlers who traded printed calico and pins for homemade jam and pickles and whittled wooden toys. In return, Sophie told them anything she could think of about New Orleans that didn’t sound too modern: the shops on Royal Street and the old Negro men playing trumpets in the French Quarter and the big houses in the Garden District where her godmother lived, and the balls her mother went to, dressed in silk and pearls. Sometimes she’d forget, though, and mention streetcars and movie theatres.
    The children listened to these unlikely wonders open-mouthed. Finally Young Guam said, “Sophie, you lie faster than a horse can trot.”
    The way he said it, Sophie realized he was paying her a compliment.
    At dawn Monday morning, Sophie woke up to Africa folding back the mosquito bar, and two white petticoats and a yellow dress lying across her bed.
    “Dr. Charles, he say you fit to go to work, so I brought your clothes.”
    By now, Sophie knew that the only servants on Oak River more important than Africa were Aunt Winney, who looked after Old Missy, Uncle Germany, the Oak River butler, and Mammy. Cooks were special. And Africa was not only a cook, but a two-headed woman. “Thank you,” she said. “For being so nice to me.”
    Africa smiled. “You welcome. My Canny’s taken a shine to you. Lie back now and let me take a look at you.”
    When she’d dug her strong fingers into Sophie’s belly and peered into her eyes, she said, “You’re mighty spry for a girl nearly dead with fever less than four days ago. The Orishas must be looking out for you. Still, no harm in helping them along some.”
    She pulled a little leather bag from her apron pocket, tied up with red yarn and smelling pleasantly of mint and lavender, and hung it around Sophie’s neck. “That’s a
gris-gris,
” she said. “For protection. Don’t you never take it off, now. And don’t let nobody see it.”
    Sophie touched the bag, the soft leather smooth and warm under her fingers. Another mystery, another thing she ought to know and didn’t. “I won’t.” She looked up into the rosewood face. “Thank you for taking care of me. I thought I was going to die.”
    Africa laughed. “Not for a long time yet, the Good Lord willing. You put on that frock, now, and get your tail on up to the Big House.”
    It was a good thing, Sophie thought later, that she’d seen in the hospital how slaves acted around white folks, or she’d never have gotten through her first day with Mrs. Fairchild. It was like living with Mama, only more so: never speak until she was spoken to, never raise her eyes, never sit down, always do what she was told, promptly and without argument.
    The children had told