Maggie has always accepted life's constraints: that is, until she witnesses a breathtaking moment of liberation as a butterfly breaks free from a spider's web. And this small, defiant act sparks a fire within her soul.
That's a dangerous thing for a field slave in 1850 Missouri.
As her daughter ascends to the coveted position of personal maid to the Mistress, Maggie's family is thrust into the intricate dynamics of power and privilege within the House.
But in the shadows, a chance encounter between Maggie's sons and Preacher, a burly, escaped slave, sets the stage for a risky alliance.
Meanwhile, Lucy, the Master's lonely daughter, hungers for the warmth and kindness that Maggie effortlessly exudes. The boundaries that separate them are as rigid as the times they live in, but the desire for connection and understanding defies the odds.
Maggie, recognizing an opportunity for freedom, finds herself entwined in a perilous dance between liberation and the relentless pull of her current station.
Preacher had run out of Poplar Bluff and never slowed through Perryville. A dog caught him just outside Hannibal. Beating the hound off with a heavy branch, he'd limped free, though days later he could barely crawl. The pain had swelled, and his strength had ebbed.
He'd avoided plantations till now. Old Merlin had told him plantations were perfect—slaves helped slaves, and the masters couldn't tell one from the other. But most slaves weren't tall enough to look their master's prize stallion in the eye, and Preacher could. And some slaves would turn you in for an extra portion of bacon fat. He'd found that out the hard way the night he ran. He'd stuffed food scraps into a feedbag as he had taken to doing several times a week. The next step was to snatch the last few scraps from the master's ancient hound. The hound never minded—it ate too well and liked its sleep. But that particular night, Old Ned had seen him. The man had nodded friendly-like and started walking away—before Old Ned's mother appeared and struck her son with a stick.
"He'll tell the master for bacon," she'd told Preacher. "Hell, he'd tell just out of spite. You go on now. Get!"
Seeing the look in Old Ned's eyes, Preacher left the scraps and ran. He ran for six days.
He'd been able to eat here and there, doing some hunting but more stealing from gardens. Hadn't ate much since that dog bit him. Last night he had crept into the plantation, dug up a potato, and devoured it dirt and all. The scent of honeysuckle had promised a sweet treat, but he found it too much effort to eat. So, he'd hidden in this bush, hoping the bit of food and rest would be enough to keep him going.
He woke to a sound.
"Snatch it off careful," said a boy's voice, innocent and unaware of life's burden. "Now bite round the end, but not all the way. See? Like this."
"And that drop's the honey?" said another boy, seemingly younger still and full of wonder.
A movement caught Preacher's eye, long and black and sliding through the grass toward his bad leg.
"That's the honey."
Preacher crept his hand into position. Saying a quick prayer, he grabbed the serpent farther down the body than he'd wanted, but close enough it couldn't bite him. That dog had outsmarted him, but no damned snake would do the same.
"I thought honey came from bees."
The reptile thrashed about, rattling the bush until two little heads popped through. "What you doing, mister?" asked the older boy, his eyes wide.
Preacher showed him the black snake. "Looks like I'm saving your ass."
"Shoot. That's just a king snake…he can't hurt nothing."
Preacher held it out to the boy, who pulled back. He then twisted around and threw it as far as he could.
"What's wrong with your leg?"
"Hound dog got it."
The little one finally spoke. "Booker had a hound dog."
"Buster! Tweed!" called a far-off voice. "You youngins hear me?"
Both boys looked over their shoulders.
"Don't tell on me," Preacher whispered. "We men take care of each other."
The older boy seemed affronted at the accusation. "We won't tell!"
"Where you boys at? Buster!" The woman's voice sounded annoyed but with an anxious tone creeping in.
"Our secret from the womenfolk." Preacher tried to smile.
Then the younger boy burst out, "Mammy!"
There was nothing Preacher could do but lie there and wait. When that third head poked through the flowering branches, the woman's eyes grew bigger than the boys' had been.
"His leg is hurt," the older one told her.
She didn't reply.
She looked old enough and then some to be the boy's mammy. Still had muscle, and she was a reasonable size as far as women went, with a faded purple scarf covering her hair. Her eyes were full of some emotion, but Preacher couldn't guess exactly what. He didn't know if he was safe or dead where he lay.
***
Maggie could only stare. She'd prayed for a miracle, and here he lay.
"Buster, go check the path is clear. Shouldn't be no one about right now." Buster ran off while Tweed leaned into her leg. She patted him soothingly as she eyed the man. "Who you be, mister?"
"You don't wanna know. Just go way. I'll be gone by supper."
Maggie took note of his thigh, his trousers torn and showing dark stains.
"Well, by tomorrow," he amended.
She pushed past the honeysuckle, kneeling to examine his wound. Something had ripped through the material, ripped through the skin. It needed tending, but she'd seen worse.
"Please, woman."
"You can't go far on that leg." Maggie peered over her shoulder, checking no one was about. The house slaves should be fixing the noon meal, and the field hands never came in till sunset. The Whites would be heading toward their fancy dining room so they could sit while they ate. Booker had sent her to fetch some chicken from the kitchen. She could tell some tale about being late, but the longer she took, the less he'd believe her.
"Ma'am, you don't want to get mixed up in this."
Maggie turned, grabbing his arm to pull the man up. He was a giant, powerful and reassuring. He'd get his freedom, she just knew it. And they might get theirs by sticking close by.
Once on his feet, the big fellow moved quick. Maggie guessed that leg must be paining him something fierce, but he paid it no mind.
Buster popped through the vines, eyes widening at the size of the man. "Ain't no one nowhere…clean to the cabin."
Maggie kept telling herself they were safe, that no one would see. But when the door appeared at the end of the trail, relief swamped her whole body. Two other cabins sat near hers, both silent as the grave. The slaves were all where they should be.
When the wood door slammed behind them, shutting out the world, the giant man crumbled to the floor. He managed to land on the pile of straw covering half the space. The entire cabin consisted of straw, a tiny stove, and the old table—Hank's pride and joy. There were only three tables between all fifteen slave cabins. The man's skin glistened with sweat, and Maggie knelt to study the injury proper. His trousers stuck to the wound when she pulled, but she had to see it all.
"Buster, go get me some yarrow," she told her son. The boy nodded, leaping toward the door. Tweed started to follow, but she held him back. "The little white flowers, mind."
"And feather leaves." Tweed grinned. "I know." He darted out after his brother.
Maggie thought the man had done passed out, but his eyes were open and practically stabbing her with accusations.
"Why you doing this?" he asked.
"I'm helping you."
"Huh."
The boys took their time but returned with two good handfuls of the plant. Maggie chewed it in three lumps, using the spittle wads to pack the wound. She knew it had to give the man some relief, but he just watched.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"In our cabin," Buster said.
"What state?"
"Missouri," Tweed piped up.
The man leaned his head back against the wall. "Missouri," he whispered. "Still Missouri."
"Chicago?" Maggie prodded.
He didn't even look at her.
"You heading to Chicago?"
"Canada."
"They say Chicago's a big city. A free city. You can get lost in it and never be found."
"They catch slaves in Chicago. They catch freemen and say they ain't."
"Take us with you." There. She'd said it.
The man reached for his sack, which Tweed had brought, and made to push himself up. His leg didn't cooperate. "Can't drag a woman and her boys all the way to Canada. Can hardly drag myself."
"And my daughter. She's older…be a help to you."
"She'd be useless." He thrashed around, wincing. "Weather's cloudy, woman. I can't see the Drinking Gourd at night—can't see which way is north. Can't seem to find my way out of Missouri."
"Stay here for the night," Maggie urged. "We got a privilege cabin. My man's gone, so they let us stay here together. No one comes in, just us. I'll bring you food."
He pushed all the harder to try standing, but seemingly his leg at least had decided to stay.
"I'm Maggie," she told him. "I'll take care of you."
The big man just shut his eyes.
Reluctantly, she left. She'd been twitching to leave for a bit now. Booker was likely flirting with Maisey, busying himself for a bit. But only for a bit.
Then he'd be wanting that chicken.
Excerpt from The Honey Tree by Jo Sparkes.
Copyright © 2023 by Jo Sparkes.
Reproduced with permission.
All rights reserved.
From humor and interview articles and the Pro Football Writers Association to the Film School at SCC, Jo's adventures in writing have run the gamut.
She's worked on scripts for Children's television, commercial work for corporate clients, feature writer on ReZoom.com, and humor articles and player interview pieces for Arizona Sports Fans Network, she got to write and game coverage. Jo was unofficially the first to interview Emmitt Smith when he arrived in Arizona to play for the Cardinals. She served as an adjunct teacher at the Film School at Scottsdale Community College.
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