Stella by Starlight Read online

  “ ‘But I can’t! I’m a chicken!’

  “ ‘No, son,’ she said. ‘You have never been a chicken. And you have always been meant to fly. Now get up on that stump!’

  “The little eagle leaped for the stump. He fell down in the dirt. He jumped again. And fell once more. Then he did something he’d never tried before. He unfurled his wings and flapped as he jumped. And to his shock and delight, he felt himself lift into the air, higher than he could jump. He landed on the stump with ease and looked back at mama chicken wide-eyed.

  “ ‘Good-bye, my child,’ the mama chicken said tearily. ‘Find your family. Find your destiny. Find your wings!’

  “The young eagle flew effortlessly to the top of the fence, then to the roof of the house. He looked at the wide blue sky, took a deep breath, and leaped off. The wind caught him as he spread his wings to their full expanse and soared! He glided and swooped! He did turns and circles and somersaults. He screeched in delight.” Spoon Man was now standing—his own arms stretched out, his face turned to the night sky.

  Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. “And you know who heard that sound?” He looked at the children. “The mama eagle. Mothers always know the voice of their children.”

  Every mother in the circle gave a little hug to her closest child.

  Spoon Man settled back down in his chair. “The mother eagle flew out to meet him with great joy and brought him back to the top of the mountain, where he belonged.

  “ ‘I’m an eagle,’ the young bird said triumphantly. ‘And I was born to fly!’ ”

  At that moment, Stella almost felt like she could fly herself.

  15

  The Unseen River

  It took hours for Stella’s family to fall asleep that night. Stella had helped her mother clean up after all the guests had left. Then she helped her father set up a pallet in the barn for Spoon Man. And although Stella thought Jojo would have been exhausted from all the excitement, he tossed and turned until late in the night. Stella had to fight to stay awake.

  Finally she slipped on her father’s jacket and snuck outside. The fire pit still held the glow of the fading logs, but it offered very little heat.

  She wasn’t gonna be able to do this much longer—it was cold! Sneaking out here to write didn’t seem to be helping her writing in school anyway, she thought glumly, tucking her toes under the hem of her nightgown. In addition to the cold, her deep sense of unease was back, without the laughter and stories from earlier to chase it away.

  She thought about Spoon Man’s tale of the eagle, and his advice about writing away the worries, but mostly she just gazed at the stars and brooded about flight and birds and airplanes, which she’d seen exactly only four times in her entire life as they zoomed across the sky.

  So she nearly jumped out of her skin when the door opened. It was just her mother. She plopped down beside Stella and wrapped the blanket from Stella’s bed around them both.

  “You know I see you every time you sneak out at night,” her mother said, pulling her close.

  “You do?”

  “There’s not much around here that a mama misses.”

  “I guess not,” Stella said, thinking back to what Mama had said about her grandmother not sleeping for twenty years. “It’s just that . . . well, I like the night. And it’s a good place to hide.”

  “Hide? From what?”

  Stella inched away, making a face. “I come out here to practice, Mama. I’ve got stuff in my head, but I don’t know how to get it out. I try to write it down sometimes, but I’m not very good at it. It’s like my brains are dumplings in somebody else’s soup.” She looked up toward the stars, but even the sky had turned murky.

  Her mother hugged her closer. “I’ve talked to Gertrude Grayson a time or two,” she said gently.

  Stella stiffened. Betrayed!

  “She says you are the best thinker in the school.”

  “Really? I guess she also told you how I been messin’ up.”

  Mama stroked Stella’s hair. “You remember when I planted those strawberries a few years back? You must been about Jojo’s age.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The first year they came up sour and pink.”

  “I remember. I tasted a couple, and I couldn’t spit them out fast enough—so sour my tongue wanted to shrivel up and leave!”

  Mama nodded. “The next season I had enough ripe red ones to fill a pail and make a pie—long as I added sugar!” She paused. “But this past season—I know you remember, ’cause I couldn’t keep you away from them—they were so sweet and thick they made ordinary sugar be ’shamed.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Your time to blossom sweet is comin’, Stella. But I don’t want you outside at night anymore, you hear? It’s just not safe.”

  “Yes’m.” After a bit, Stella said, “Tonight was fun. It was kinda nice having the whole neighborhood around. And nobody seemed too scared.”

  “You know, back in slavery times, our people told stories and sang songs to pass on information when it was dangerous to say things out loud.”

  Stella considered that—she’d been told that before, but she’d actually never really thought about it. “Kinda like Papa’s newspapers, huh?”

  “A little. There’s an unseen river of communication that forever flows—dark and powerful. Tonight was about food and laughter, yes. But it was also about navigatin’ that river.”

  A dog barked in the distance. Stella listened close, but all else was quiet, so she said, “You know what I’ve been thinkin’ about, Mama?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I really liked Spoon Man’s story, but I kept thinking about stuff like why chickens can’t fly or why eagles live on mountaintops. I’d love to go the library in Spindale and read a book about how anything flies—that would be incredible.”

  “I’m sure books like that exist . . . ,” her mother said carefully.

  “But I’m not allowed to use the library.” Stella’s eyes flashed as she finished her mother’s sentence. “I know. And it’s just not fair!”

  Her mother brushed her lips against Stella’s ear. “Perhaps one day things will change.”

  “Not if the Klan has anything to do with it,” Stella replied, twirling the new bracelet on her wrist. “I really like the bracelet, Mama. I know you could have used that money for something more important.”

  “Every girl needs something pretty in her life, something special to make her smile,” her mother said. “But far more important than a glass trinket, Stella, is the joy you already got in you.”

  “I got something else special, Mama. . . .” Her mother waited, and Stella reached down and pulled out the cigar box full of clippings. “Did you know about this, too?” she asked, opening it up.

  Sounding amused, her mother told her, “I’ve wrapped quite a bit of garbage recently in newspapers with holes cut out of them. But I know the value of a secret.”

  Stella gave Mama her school notebook, the one that held the paper marked with a F, the incomplete assignments that sat there like half-plowed furrows, the jumble of scribbles and thoughts.

  Mama flipped through it all, squinting as the clouds continued to obscure the stars.

  Stella held her breath.

  “Gertrude is right,” Mama said finally.

  “I’m a dunce?” Stella said, fear clutching her chest.

  “Quite the opposite. You are an amazing thinker—a gemstone hiding inside a rock.”

  “So how come all I can feel is the rock?”

  “What I’m reading here is thoughtful and beautiful, just like you are.”

  “More like thick and tangled, like my hair,” Stella mumbled. She did, however, take the notebook into the house with her. “Would it be all right if I try to write a little something before I go to sleep?” she asked. “Maybe I can scribble some ideas while my brain is not feeling so fried.”

  Mama touched Stella’s cheek. “Sure, baby. But not for long.
We got church in the mornin’.”

  Stella plopped down by the embers of the fire. She smiled. Because words were starting to make sense. Bright, perfectly formed ideas smoldered in her mind. She opened her notebook.

  16

  Up in the Air

  UP IN THE AIR

  I don’t know how airplanes stay up in the air and fly. It must really be something to sit inside an airplane, then look out the window (I guess they have windows!) and see clouds underneath you instead of above like they are suppozd supposed to be.

  I don’t know how birds fly either. How can a clump of feathers with legs and wings take off and just float on a breeze? Their brains are much smaller than mine, but they know how to fly, and I don’t. I guess birds know more than I do about what clouds look like up close.

  Spoon Man talked about eagles and what their wings look like when they fly. Sometimes they are brown with white tips on the end. The pastor wears wing-tipped shoes every Sunday. That’s the first time I understood why folks call them that!

  17

  I Am a Man. Amen.

  Mama was already stoking the fire, sweeping the floor, and warming up a few leftovers from the potluck meal when Stella woke up. She reached under her pillow and touched the notebook she’d tucked there before she fell asleep. She got up and dressed quickly, hurrying to help.

  Spoon Man knocked on the door, jarring Jojo awake. “I come to bid you good-bye, Mills family,” he said. “Much obliged for your hospitality, your friendship, and your food.”

  “And thank you for the stories, Mr. Oglethorpe. How about a cup of coffee and a biscuit for the road?” Stella’s mother asked.

  “Why, yes, M’am. That’d be right nice,” Spoon Man replied, easing himself into a chair.

  As she poured his coffee, Mama asked, “You’re gonna stop by church services before you get on the road, aren’t you?”

  Stella smirked. Despite the late night, she knew that her mother would be extremely upset if any of them even thought about missing church this morning.

  “Well, now that you mention it, I suppose I will do exactly that, Miz Mills. Nothin’ better than a good sermon to send a man safely on his journey.” As her mother went to get the bread, he winked at Stella. “I shoulda left before dawn!” he whispered.

  Though the church was almost within walking distance, Papa always hitched Rudie, their mule, to the wagon for the trip to New Hope Church. It had been built some fifty years back, hidden in the woods, right near the river just in case somebody needed baptizing. About three-quarters of the colored families went to New Hope. The rest went to the Galilee Mountain Church, on the other side of town.

  Stella’s father helped her mother climb onto the seat up front, and Stella smiled. She loved it when her father was gallant like that.

  Jojo sat in the back with Stella, busying himself with a bag of marbles, sorting them by color and importance.

  “I will not see one single marble during the service, is that clear?” Mama warned without even turning around.

  “Yes’m,” Jojo said, putting the sack into a pocket.

  Stella felt especially dressed up this morning wearing the new glass bracelet. She turned her wrist in the air, the purple jewels glinting in the sunlight.

  Even from a distance, Stella thought their church was the prettiest in the county. It had been freshly whitewashed that summer, and flowers circled the wooden cross that stood in the front. The cross was mighty unusual—it was crooked. It had been struck by lightning a few years back, and the pastor had said it was a sign from heaven, like a blessing, and that they ought to leave it just like that. And so they did.

  Stella waved as they passed her friends. Most of the families were either walking or riding in wagons. Only one had a car—Mrs. Odom and Claudia. But Mrs. Odom rarely drove it, not even to church. She kept it in her barn, covered with blankets.

  The Spencer family were walkers. The line of them stretched down the road for what seemed like a mile as all fifteen ambled toward the church. Mrs. Spencer carried Hetty, the youngest. Hannah, the oldest, who was eighteen, held the hands of the three-year-old twins Horace and Harold. The rest, in stiff-starched dresses and trousers, marched behind. They filled up two entire pews. The Mills family usually sat directly behind the Spencers.

  The thing Stella liked best about church was that it was not quite perfect. There was, of course, the cross out front. But also, the piano was always just a little off-key. The ladies in the choir weren’t always in tune. The building was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. The floorboards sagged, and the wooden pews had been rubbed smooth by all the bodies that had slid across them over the years. The pastor usually preached too long, and the hallelujahs sometimes got too loud. Well, amen anyhow, Stella thought.

  She spied Spoon Man at the far end of the very back pew and smiled to herself, pretty sure that he would be gone before the first song was over.

  After the songs and the prayers, Pastor Patton finally went to the pulpit to preach. His long white robe swirled around him, and the morning sun shone through the front window, so he almost appeared to glow. Stella giggled and whispered to Jojo, “He looks like he just floated down from heaven or something.”

  Jojo laughed. “I saw him eat last night. That man can throw down some food—angels don’t burp like that!”

  Their mother shushed them with a finger to her lips, her eyes never leaving the preacher, who was talking about Moses and the Hebrew slaves. Stella had heard sermons about Moses so many times before that she thought she could give a Moses sermon. She slouched down in the pew and fiddled with the beads on her bracelet.

  Pastor Patton rattled on. “You know, church, we’ve been using the story of Moses since before slavery times to talk about freedom for our people. And yes, we are no longer slaves. But are we really free? How many of us still owe money to the owner of the general store? How many of us still sharecroppin’? How many of us are truly our own men?”

  Stella glanced around. More than a few men were looking down at the floor, shifting in their seats, her father included.

  Pastor Patton continued, “All of us have heard about the recent possible threats from the Klan. Are you afraid?” He waited. Nothing. He raised his voice. “I’m asking again—ARE YOU AFRAID?”

  Still, nobody spoke up. Mothers looked away to tend to children, and fathers cleared their throats and picked dirt from their fingernails. The same people who, just a few hours before, had been laughing and joking now looked taut and strained.

  The pastor then said, his voice gentle, “If you are afraid, then those who foster hatred will win. Is that what you want?”

  Stella could feel the tension in the room.

  “People of Bumblebee, we have a presidential election coming up next month. This is the year 1932, children. The modern world is upon us. Telephones! Airplanes! Radios! Who knows what will be invented next? I, for one, am excited to be a part of whatever is comin’ around the corner.” The preacher narrowed his eyes. “How many of us are registered to vote? How many are brave enough to try?”

  Old ladies began to fan themselves as if it were the middle of summer. Feet shuffled in place. Pastor Patton, arms raised so his robe looked like wings, reminded Stella of Spoon Man’s eagle—perched and waiting.

  “I shall be going into Spindale tomorrow morning,” he told them. “And I’m fixin’ to register to vote. I will be at the voter registration office at nine a.m. when it opens. Anybody who wants to come with me is welcome. I am a man. Amen. Amen.”

  With that, he sat down. The entire congregation sat stock-still, stunned. Then Sister Hawkins jumped up, called the choir forward, and led them quickly into the old spiritual, “Go Down, Moses.” After a shaky start, the altos started harmonizing mellow and deep.

  “Go down, Moses

  Way down in Egypt’s land

  Tell old Pharaoh to

  Let my people go!”

  After one last short prayer, church was quickly dismissed. U
sually there was a lot of handshaking and friendly conversation after service, but today everyone hurried out, grabbing their children and rushing to their own homes.

  As her family climbed into the wagon, Stella dared to ask, “What are you gonna do, Papa?”

  “I’m not sure yet, Stella girl,” he replied. “What do you think, Georgia?”

  “I think I trust every inch of you, Jonah Mills. So I trust you’ll make the right decision.” Stella’s mother sat up tall on the wagon seat, her gaze focused straight ahead.

  “What’s the sense of living if you’re ashamed of yourself?” Stella’s father said almost to himself. Then he gave the mule’s reins a slap, and they were off.

  18

  It’s Hard to Be a Tree

  Later that afternoon Stella could hear the raw sounds of chopping and hacking, the pounding of ax against wood. She glanced out of the window in time to see her father cleave a log into three separate pieces, which he then heaved onto a growing woodpile.

  “What you doin’, Papa?” she asked, coming out to the porch.

  “What’s it look like?” he answered gruffly, never losing his rhythm.

  “You angry, Papa?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Anger never fixed nothin’,” her father replied, picking up another fat log.

  Thwop! Crack! Brack! Thunk! He attacked the wood relentlessly. Sweat stained the back of his work shirt.

  “Know what I think?” Stella said after a few minutes of watching him hack at the wood.

  “What?”

  “I think it’s really hard to be a tree.”

  “Huh?” Her father paused to wipe his forehead. “Girl, you always got some strange way of talkin’ about stuff. What do you mean?”

  “A tree starts out thin and small, sort of like . . .” She thought for a moment, then said triumphantly, “Like Jojo. Then it gets tall and strong and green, like you, Papa.”

  He scratched his head. “And?”

  “And then, then it’s old and gets chopped up for firewood. That’s pretty sad.” She picked up a split log and walked it over to the stacked wood.