bluebird {h.s. - au}

.17

I awoke to the sound of dripping water. I was in my bedroom, I realized, lying on my bed and staring out the window into the rain. It was then, lying in the mansion at Roselands, that I felt- for the first time- depressed. I was so lost, I realized. My whole life had been a lie. My dad was dead, my mother a hoax. It became apparent to me that I was lost in the myriad we so often referred to as life. When you're lost in those woods, it sometimes takes you a while to realize that you are lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've just wandered off the path, that you'll find your way back to the trailhead any moment now. Then night falls again and again, and you still have no idea where you are, and it's time to admit that you have bewildered yourself so far off the path that you don't even know from which direction the sun rises anymore.

And that was me now. No direction, no one to turn to. Except for Harry.

Harry.

I jolted awake, sitting upright in my bed. I had to get to him, had to know how long it had been.

A knock on the door sounded. "Miz Ella?"

"Betsy?" A cry of joy slipped past my lips and I ran towards the door, opening it to reveal-

Betsy. Only it wasn't Betsy, it was the ghost of Betsy- a hollow, shadowy figure that hung about in the air such as a ghost. "W-what did they do to you?" I managed.

She shrugged. "They whipped me, as always."

"How many times?"

"20. Or 30. I lost count."

I dared to ask, "Harry?"

That was all I needed to say. "He got 40, Ella. Never, in all my days, have I heard a man get 40 whippin' strokes."

With a little moan I sank back onto the bed. "I have to get to him," I murmured, pushing past Betsy to see the clock. "How long...?"

"It's been about four hours."

"Is everyone else asleep?"

"I believe so, Ella. But it's not safe- if you get caught, they'll whip him again."

I stared out into the moonlight. "Maybe." The word was barely more than a whisper, a frantic call into the night sky. "But when the Chinese write danger, they write it with two strokes." I inhaled and relaxed my shoulders. "One is for danger, one is for opportunity."

-x-

Thirty minutes and three tied together cotton sheets later, Betsy and I had successfully managed to get me outside of the mansion through my window with disinfectant and food for Harry. My heart beat wildly against my chest; I was scared. Terrified. But I had to keep going. For the first time, I had a chance to do something. Not just tag along with Harry and follow in his shadow. This was my turn, my time. Because, sometimes, when we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change; at such a moment, there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not yet ready. The challenge will not wait. Life does not look back. One moment is more than enough time for us to decide whether or not to accept our destiny.

This was that moment.

Bravery wasn't just something I had dreamed of or fantasized about now. Bravery, courage, honor and dignity were in my vision; they were waiting for me to take them up on the offer of sanity. Courage is not having foolhardiness with fear. Courage is doing the hard things; walking down the hard road because that's what it takes. That's what it takes to be brave. It takes hardship, blood, sweat and tears to create an iron soul like Harry had. 

I think sometimes our world creates a false view of bravery. A lay-down-your-life sort of courage. A flashy, idealistic, 1945 type of courage that proudly stands up for their country. And, perhaps, that was real courage. But I know for myself that, before you exhibit that sort of courage, you must exhibit my kind of courage. The courage that may just mean turning my back on my home, my family. Courage is not always so much about the ending or the result.

Sometimes, courage is about the journey.

My journey down to the whipping block was heavy and depressing. Every step seemed to be drawing me further away from everything I'd ever known, yet it seemed like the right thing to do. It felt good- to be standing up to my mother, to my family, to the rich and empty, opulent life I had indulged in my whole life. But it hurt. It was like a blister. 

Angry.

I approached the rickety house, leaning against a nearby fence to catch my breath. I placed my hand on the door, opening it slightly. The moonlight just barely illuminated trickles of blood, drying on clumps of hay inside the shack. I swallowed.

"Harry?" I whispered, trying to hide the quaver in my voice. "Harry, it's Ella."

A groan came from the north corner of the cabin, and I advanced towards it. I opened the door more to receive more light into the humble abode, and was shocked at what I could see.

Blood. There wasn't even a body, it was just blood. Blood on his back, blood on his face. I let out a cry of despair and sank down next to Harry. He winced as I carressed his face, gently.

I felt like gagging, and maybe I did. My only love was in an empty and cold shack, with his hands tied and in excruciating pain. I couldn't imagine any worse of a punishment- and not just for Harry.

For me, as well.

"We're gonna get you out of here," I said shakily, grabbing my knife and slitting the ropes that bound his hands. He fell to the ground; too weak to even hold his own weight up. I cradled him, trying to figure out a way to get him back to the house. Which wasn't even feesible, I soon realized. Harry was in no condition to walk, let alone climb into my bedroom.

"No," he managed to say in a strangled voice. "Ella, no."

"Yes," I said through clenched teeth as I wrapped some cloth around his torso. "I'm not budging on this, Harry. I know you think this is just one more time that you can save me, but it's not."

Harry's eyes locked into mine, and I stopped moving. I continued, trying to hide my shaking voice. "When Betsy said you had forty, I was so-"

"Shh," Harry soothed, reaching up and smoothing a tear from my cheek. "S'alright. I mean, it really hurt." He laughed a little, then winced and stopped. "But s'okay."

I nodded, trying to compose myself. "Can you walk?" I asked. If he couldn't, I didn't know what I could do.

He shrugged and started to stand. I stood with him, insisting he lean on me as much as possible. He looked pained and incredibly uncomfortable, but he managed to nod.

We shuffled along the path leading to the house as fast as possible. It broke my heart to see how much pain Harry was in. Every few moments he would cry out- usually a muffled affair that lasted three or four seconds. His feet barely lifted; they just moved at a crawling pace that made me wish I was stronger so I could carry him.

But I wasn't.

It took us an hour to reach the house. Harry looked exhausted by the time we got there. Thankfully, all big mansions in the South had a slave entrance at the back. I led Harry to it and entered into the kitchen.

Betsy looked up from her place at the table; one lonely candle burning. "Oh, dear God," she murmured, rising from her chair and swiftly moving over to us. "Hurry. Upstairs, there's a room."

We managed to half carry Harry up the stairs with Betsy's help, and laid him down onto a bed in a small room that overlooked the back of Roselands. He let out a muffled cry of pain and clutched my hand tightly and Betsy applied a healing salve. I tried not to cry as I saw how much pain he was in.

"What are we going to do?" I asked Betsy softly as she finished. 

Her eyes were wide and scared. "I have no idea."

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