A Thin Porridge

By Benjamin Gohs

When Abeona Browne's renowned abolitionist father dies in 1860, her life of privilege and naiveté becomes a frantic transatlantic search for answers to devastating family secrets. Along the journey, Abeona learns of her father’s tragic and terrible past through a collection of letters intended for someone lost long ago.
Passage to the Dark Continent is fraught with wild beast, raging storm, and bounty hunters after those damning secrets that threaten the very anti-slavery movement Abeona’s father helped build.
Can Abeona overcome antebellum attitudes and triumph over her own fears to right the wrongs in her famous family’s sordid past?
A Thin Porridge is a Homeric tale of second chances, forgiveness, and adventure that whisks readers from the filth of tweendecks, into the treachery of Cameroons Town, across the beauty of Table Bay, and deep into the heart of the fynbos—where wicked Boer miners continue the outlawed scourge of slavery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Gohs
• Release date: Jun 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463938690

Benjamin Gohs

Born in 1975 in Cheboygan, Michigan, Benjamin J. Gohs has lived in over a dozen Michigan towns from Bay City to Indian River and a number of points in between.From his first job as chief cook and bottle washer for his five brothers and sister, when he was quite young, Gohs developed a taste for variety in work and a penchant for minor misadventures.Before becoming a professional writer in 2003, Gohs worked as a dog training attack dummy, dog-poop-picker-upper, landscaper, babysitter, house painter, cook, blackjack dealer, roulette mucker, truck driver, welder, mechanic, waiter, vacuum cleaner salesman, Easter Bunny, telemarketer, car salesman and stay-at-home dad.Despite being devastated that his poem did not win a school-wide competition in 1985—apparently, rhyming “money” with “honey” was not a genius move—Gohs continued to jot stories, ideas and rhymes while being an avid reader of sci-fi, comics, mysteries, horror stories and even a few shirt-rippers before rediscovering a love of literature.A lifelong scribbler of poems, short stories and essays, Benjamin quit his job as head cook and kitchen manager of a family restaurant in August 2003 with the goal of becoming a professional writer within a year.When he finally realized his chances of earning a living as a poet were somewhere between “Ha!” and “Go fuck yourself,” he decided to look into the more viable work of news writing.By December of that year, he had landed a freelance gig with the local newspaper. Soon, Benjamin was writing for three newspapers—in the cities of Petoskey, Charlevoix, and Traverse City—including publication of an essay in the L.A. Journal—and writing advertising copy (website, brochure) for several local businesses.In May of 2005, Benjamin was hired as a full-time reporter for the Charlevoix Courier Newspaper, a subsidiary of the Petoskey News-Review. His articles continued to be published in the Courier, News-Review and occasionally in the Gaylord Herald Times up until May of 2010.It was in 2005 Benjamin wrote his first humor column. When torch-wielding townspeople did not break down the front door, the editor suggested he continue writing weekly columns.Some readers compared him to some other more famous essay writers—which was pretty cool—and asked for more. Some readers said he should stick to flipping pancakes ... but what do they know.Pretty soon, Benjamin was writing columns centered on humor, politics, and other nonsense on a nearly weekly basis.In April 2008, Benjamin was named Editor of Charlevoix Courier Newspaper. Over the years, he tallied numerous awards for both news writing and his columns.In 2009, while still running the Charlevoix Courier, Benjamin consulted with Chris Faulknor to help found the Boyne City Gazette newspaper—now in its 11th year in business.Benjamin left the Courier in late spring of 2010 to help operate the Boyne City Gazette as its news editor.In 2010, Benjamin also created a short-run men’s humor magazine best described as a cross between MAXIM and MAD magazines.During his tenure as editor of Boyne City Gazette, Benjamin has earned over a dozen awards for news writing, page design, and humor/opinion columns, as well as editorials.For nearly seven years, Benjamin also made weekly appearances on The Vic McCarty Show on AM1270 radio where he discussed news, politics, and general tomfoolery with his signature brand of jocularity and snark.2015, the year he turned 40, Benjamin began work on what would be his first novel. He wrote this practice novel—think Dan Browne meets Stephen King at Edgar Allan Poe’s grave—to see if he was capable of producing such a lengthy manuscript.What resulted was a not-too-bad but not-great book which gave him the confidence to write the historical adventure story he’d long been mulling.His next three novels—set to be published over the next two years— are literary thrillers.

Book preview

Chapter One: Is it the Truth?

DANGLING FROM THE TAFFRAIL above infernal autumn seas, Abeona Browne's precious seconds comprised of three thoughts: pitiless mitts digging her slender fingers and wrists; silent glide of shark under moonlit murk below; and thrum of life which beat in her ears as had her delicate palms on the African drum she bought the day her father died.

****

Seven weeks earlier, before the secrets, the lying, the broken bones and blood, the girl rose in the house of fey determined to break the spell of bleak and heartsick lonesome.

Her father had been ill for some months. So she decided that fine summer day he might be stirred from his present languor by some preferred confection and perhaps a nice gift.

In truth, Abeona Browne was the only city soul of consequence yet unaware of the great Jon Browne’s imminent demise.

There was nothing deceitful about hoping for the best. Still, the old man’s words rang in her skull a fire bell. Is it true? That's what her father, could he have spoken, would have asked. The query beat upon her brain as accusation. For honesty was a burden she wasn’t sure she could bear if even she had cared to.

Abeona Browne tried always to be truthful, even when she wasn’t. Pretending to be cheerful, respectful, sympathetic. Wasn't a lie if no one got hurt. And the best way to ensure none ever lamented was to keep on smiling. When her mother died, she kept on smiling. When her father slipped away, she kept on smiling. When the pretty faces with the blue eyes scowled, she smiled and smiled and smiled—for their grace, for the privilege of their company, and for her own rage.

Sure is an ugly, scrawny little thing, said one white lady to the other.

Uppity as the day is long, said the other to the one.

Don't even get me started on that father of hers, said the third.

As much as she hated the pale coven for its rancor, Abeona despised the women for their shrewdness: she was a bit skinny and immature for her age, she did have skin as dark as their hearts; her father was an unapologetic rabble-rouser; and, in her fine blue-flowered dress and red button-down boots, ordered special from France no less, she was the best-dressed woman of color in town.

Aaand, a dime’s worth of peppermints, Abeona told the graying lady with the pained grin other side of the counter. Daddy's favorites.

Yes, Ms. Browne. Clerk blew in a slim paper sack and counted out the red and white fingerlings from a large glass jar and jotted the item and its cost on her notepad.

'Beans' will do just fine. I do find formality utterly boring. Don't you?

Indeed. Clerk shrugged and widened her eyes at the women far end of the counter. Suppose it all depends, Ms. Beans.

Fashionable girl of their contempt worked to appear too busy to notice them by searching her handbag. However, Abeona did hear the tapping of nails out of rhythm from each other, as well as the venomous whispers, loud enough for all.

Ms. is it?

Haughty so-and-so.

Right with you, ladies.

Please, take your time, said one of the women shoppers before turning to her companions. They were huddled before floor-to-ceiling shelves of tea tins, sacks of cornmeal, canisters of baking powder, jarred honey and strawberry preserves. Abeona had planned to pick up some orange pekoe for Uncle George but it would have to wait.

Harpies resumed their conversation in sharp derision.

What's she think she's doing in here?

Getting out of control, if you ask me.

Used to know their place.

Abeona closed her purse and stared at the sign below the counter: Nine Fine Cigars for 25 Cents. But the words did not register.

Clerk spoke to Abeona much louder while watching the counter more than she ought to have. How is your father? We'd heard—

Just fine. Stronger by the day. Abeona noticed a rustic drum on a shelf behind the clerk. It was mahogany in color, cinnamon animal skin drawn about with black cord, and the base was carved with some hypnotic arabesque of old. Thing would easily have stood knee high from the floor. What can you tell me about it?

They call it a ‘djembe.’ Authentic African. Clerk massaged the item’s aura with salesmanly reverence. Bought from a merchant who traded two pair of children's shoes for it when he was in Maryland, around Port Tobacco way. Imagine that. Made over here by someone from over there. Salesman assured me of its authenticity. A fine piece indeed.

It’s so big.

Clerk disappeared behind the counter and came up grunting with a smaller version of the drum, an oversized wooden chalice just under a foot tall. There were two in the set but I don’t see why we can’t simply split them up.

Perfect late birthday present for Daddy. What do you call it again?

A ‘djembe’ but don’t ask me how to spell it.

While the clerk wrapped the gift in newsprint and again in heavy brown paper, Abeona waited patiently, pretending not to notice the conversation which centered upon her.

I heard he's already dead in the ground. Waiting until the election to tell.

Ploy to curry sympathy, if you ask me. Dreadful cause.

Nonsense. He's in hiding. Knows he's been beat.

Actually, Abeona took her change and stacked the packages on one arm, walked past the trio and opened the door. Actually, he's on the mend. I'll be sure and tell him you send your best.

Jingle and clunk of the closing door silenced their baleful hisses.

Out on the street, Abeona trotted quick and steady, keeping pace with a horse and buggy. Her pigtail braids jostled out of time with the chamber music she hummed. She tried to appear as though nothing were wrong, but her cheeks were wet.

Girl stopped in an alley a few stores away to wipe her face and whip up a convincing smile when she was interrupted.

Child. You there.

The word was faint. Over Abeona’s shoulder. It came again from within the alley. Peeking over a stack of crates, a tall forehead and eyes which accused her with the faraway look of a dead thing.

Yes? Abeona backed away.

Please child, don’t go. A deep voice once feminine.

Food. You got’ny? Just a little. So hungry.

I’m sorry. I don’t. Girl took another step toward the street when the tattered figure lunged from hiding. The woman had large rough hands and a pink checkered dress and smelled of garlic and tallow.

Wait. The woman’s voice decayed from meek whisper to angry growl. You can’t tell no body.

No. Abeona tugged her arm, trying to pull free without upsetting her stack of packages.

Gimme sumpin, you little bitch.

Help! Abeona jerked so hard she fell back in the street with the crazed woman on top. Help! Please! Robber!

Shrill report of a whistle.

Why you couldn’t just help. Woman hiked her dress. Iron cuffs above gray ankles connected with heavy chain drooped between bare feet. Children screamed. Raggedy figure short-stepped-it quickly between buildings. Cop with his club drawn tore after, shrieks and slapping footfalls echoing off the brick.

Shoot. You good? Paperboy helped Abeona to her feet.

Girl looked around, dumbfounded. One of each.

She took copies of the Friday Aug. 3rd, 1860, Jackson Sentinel, and a Browne's Gazette. Front pages of both featured photos and headlines announcing the upcoming visit of a presidential candidate. Tall fella from Springfield.

Miss Browne. The boy tipped his flat cap. No charge. Give Mr. B my best.

Yes. Of … of course. Abeona strained to see down the alley, but her attacker and the policeman had vanished along with the commotion. Eaten perhaps by some natural force as morning sun consumes frigid haze. She stuffed more than the cost of her purchase into the boy's shirt pocket and went on.

An elderly white couple, ruddy-cheeked from the day’s heat, wished Abeona and her ailing father well as they passed. Others, too, echoed the heartfelt sentiments. The girl responded without thinking, wondering who the woman was and where she had come from.

Beans! A group of small, straw-haired girls jumping rope. Beans!

Abeona stacked her packages neatly atop the newspapers to keep the breeze from stealing them. She jumped a few times before becoming snagged. The sisters giggled and promised to show her, how gooder jump-ropers jump rope. Abeona clapped and cheered as they hopped and sang but still her mind was on the woman in the alley.

Tornado of white boys, elevens and twelves, appeared across the road. Shouted their warrior names and pledged their deadly oaths and swung sticks in some decisive battle.

When they were closer, one of the boys called, Get offa my castle!

The little girls scattered, ropes trailing, like some wounded albino squid giddy with escape. Abeona gathered her things and bid the jump-ropers goodbye.

I'm talkin to you, mutt. Whatta you doin over here?

Rocks caromed off the brick wall and hit Abeona’s foot. She pressed on, face forward, steps quickening as she pretended to admire the pink paver stones moving steadily underfoot, appreciating the white pickets below the gas lamps asleep in their black iron cradles.

Leave me be, she said in a voice no one heard. Trembling, Abeona glanced over her shoulder. Boys were distant now, congratulating one another for such bravery.

She stopped to rest at the edge of town before making the journey home. Should have let Jimmy drive her in like he’d offered but there was nothing to be done now. There, on the corner in front of the city’s other general store sat a small crying child. Abeona knelt next to him and tapped the drum.

Whatta you want? Boy looked up with wet cheeks, brown eyes, precious scowl.

Oh, nothing.

Boy wiped his face angrily.

Why so sad? It’s a beautiful day.

Mama gonna whup me.

Why would she ever do a thing like that?

Posta bring home sugar. He spoke in sobs. But they stoled it.

Abeona didn’t ask which they. She thought of the hungry slave woman and dug around in her pocketbook.

Chapter Two: Reinstating Order

COULD HE HAVE SAT IN THE RIVAL NEWSPAPER OFFICE near the eve of his death and spoken on his own behalf, Jon Browne might have told those rich white fellows that most men aren't wicked just for sport … but are so fearful of their own errant lust they live in terror there is another just as greedy.

And he would have spoken from experience.

Jon Browne might have reminded these robber barons the phrase all men are created equal bore no caveats. The only truth he would have held secret was that his daughter Abeona Browne, born of slaves and raised a freewoman, was much stronger than she looked.

Well, damnit, we've got to do something, said a tall slender man in the crisp blue suit. His pale face strained with crimson blotches. He spoke through his teeth. I will not suffer another boycott, and my businesses cannot survive without Southern linen.

The half-dozen others grunted in agreement. They formed a half-moon round the big oak desk in the small windowless room littered with stacks of old newspapers, notes, photographs, pencil nubs.

And now we hear he has the ear of that upstart Lincoln, said the shriveled gray man from his wheelchair.

Lincoln? He's a lawyer and a hick, said the short fat man dressed in a policeman's uniform. No one's going to lend support to that gargantuan hillbilly.

A hick with a sharp mind and a knack for making friends, said J. Arthur Barnett, from behind his great desk.

How they ever nominated him I'll never know, said the man in the blue suit. They're not really going to go forward with it are they?

Doesn't matter, said the policeman. They have declared it as an intention, and that is enough to embolden the rabble. I've already seen a change in the darkies. Mouthy no-accounts. Trying even to get a free one to tend his labors is an exercise in consternation. That's all we need is a half-arsed abolitionist in the White House giving people ideas.

Precisely why we must act quickly, said the man in the wheelchair.

What do you propose we do? said Barnett. I've already run six editorials this month. I’m at my wits’ end.

This Jon Browne, he and a lot of his ilk are friendly with Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Douglass, and others seeking higher office, said the man in the blue suit. We need to go after them, all of them. Destroy their reputations and splash their stink onto Honest Abe.

In the good old days we'd of just—

And make of him a martyr? Barnett interrupted. Good God no. Talk is he'll be dead soon enough. Besides, I'm working on something which may prove far more useful than a lynching.

Well, said the old man, wheeling himself forward until it touched the desk. Don't kill me with suspense.

Rumor has it our abolitionist friend has quite the colorful past. The kind of past that kills good reputations, said Barnett. I have detectives working on the matter as we speak. If what I hear is true, we may be able to chop a leg out from under these usurpers.

So what? The poster boy for morality is just another scoundrel, said the policeman.

Barnett’s right. This movement is only as strong as the character of those supporting it. Show them for what they are and the people will abandon this march to anarchy.

When my paper finishes with him, Barnett took out his pocket square and polished his spectacles as he spoke, there won't be one self-respecting Northerner willing to stand for the cause of abolition.

And what of the daughter? The man in the blue suit leaned over with both fists on Barnett's desk.

A child. Timid, witless. Of no consequence. At any rate, my sources are confident she'll be gone to university next month. When the old man dies, his paper will too. There's no one else to operate it. I intend to buy him out and that will be the end of it. Barnett looked in each of the apprehensive faces and added, Every man has a secret, gentlemen. Most of us have several. Jon Browne's will come to light soon enough, and order shall be reinstated.

Chapter Three: This is What Happens

ABEONA WAS UP THE GREAT HILL and past the easternmost fence post on the Browne property before realizing she was home. From the peak in the road where wagon wheels had not trodden, the southwest corner of Jackson County spread across the valley a great green blanket.

Abeona turned back, following black steel spires and brick pillars up to that house, looking as it ever had … as any respectable Southern Michigan mansion should look, with its white slats, black shutters, and bushes of yellow tea rose and giant perfumed peonies, whose flowers were already the size of drooping cabbages, bowing and standing as fat bumble bees bounced drunkenly from plant to plant.

Abeona continued up the path, sliding her hand along a sign, cracked white paint and faded black lettering which read:

J. & M. Browne

All Friends Welcome

All Foes, Too

Main house was fine and tall, with wide pale cheeks and dark brows, lacy eyes that glowed yellow after supper, and a thick green beard which stretched from the start of the brick path all the way up to the enormous mouth of French doors the color of ivory and ornately carved with all manner of bird and filigree, accented in brass fittings.

Abeona stopped inside the gate and bowed her head out of some reverence even she did not understand. As if the house, along with all those inside, was holding its breath.

Those great double doors had never before seen a summer evening. A stranger might not believe it this night, but a house has never talked so. Speeches and debates, lectures and friendly chats; but more often were there urgent whispers with trusted strangers. And always light and music filling this patch of countryside.

On other summer nights, the great happy abode would have had its mouth wide open, beckoning any passersby with piano and laughter and the clinking of glasses. If an old friend or colleague or admirer came calling tonight they would be politely and quietly turned away.

There would be no such visit this day, at this hour. So many of those intimate with the rooms and words and goings-on of this house had gone on to find their own lives far from here. As for the rest, they had already found their own final dusk.

Inside, a small and familiar group had gathered: doctor, lawyer, servant. Remnants of a hushed conversation faded like wisps of smoke upon Abeona's entrance.

"Well, what is everyone staring at? Abeona shifted under the weight of her freight. Is dinner on? I'm sure father will be famished when he awakens."

The quiet crowd looked upon her with expressions of disbelief and concern. The butler wore some fine old hand-me-down gray vest and trousers, bordered atop with a wild bush of fading charcoal hair, and below by impossibly shiny shoes. He was the first to step-to.

Beans, said Uncle George, How about I have Mrs. Moon fix a nice snack?

I can wait until dinner. Why are you all fretting?

It’s your daddy.

Have you no faith?

Uncle George reached for the girl’s things but she jerked them away.

Well, I best check on supper.

The lawyer Terence Swifte, not so much taller than the girl and with puffy sideburns the same talcum white as his wrinkled skin, chewed his pipe stem and sipped a brandy with the poise of good British breeding.

We have some important matters to discuss. Please do drop by the office as soon as is convenient.

Finally, as if having drawn the short straw, and not by virtue of being medically trained, the doctor stepped forward. The others withdrew to the dining room while he led Abeona into the library.

Look at him. I need you to really look at him and listen to me carefully: this won't pass. Need to prepare yourself for the fact he isn't getting any better.

Abeona looked the direction of Jon Browne as she was ordered but not at him. Instead, she considered the painting on the wall above, a gift from some mucky-muck Chicago newspaper owner. The white of the canvas, framed in unfinished pine, had one large word painted in black so skillfully as to replicate letters in type: Truth. That was all it said. Right there in black and white.

Is it the truth, Abeona? Is it? It was, in fact, one of her father's favorite sayings, and he plied her and everyone else he encountered with the intoxicating notion that finding and telling the truth was about as romantic a cause as ever there could be.

Is it the truth? Abeona asked the doctor.

Your father—

Will be absolutely tickled to see I brought his favorite. She slid a peppermint stick from the bag and tucked it into the side of her mouth where she used to keep her smiles.

Your father is sick.

Abeona tried to remain focused on the painting but the rise and fall of the old man's chest, and twinkle of the gold cross around his neck, proved irresistible. She considered the seemingly peaceful state.

Abeona. You must listen. He took the girl by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. Your father is dying. Likely as not he won't be here come morning.

She turned her head slow as the tears came. A snort of spittle clapped her chin as she convulsed. The packages and papers fell to the floor. She put her hands to her flat little belly and made fists over and over as if trying to reach the ache inside, to wrest it from within.

Does it hurt?

No. The doctor whispered, then louder, trying to match the volume of her sobbing without shouting. We'll keep him comfortable … long as it takes.

Can't you do something?

He's quite old, Ms. Browne. I'm sorry. This is what happens.

Is that the truth? Abeona broke free of the doctor's grasp and ran upstairs.

Chapter Four: One Last Appointment

AWAITING BACON SMOKE. In bed with the dogeared sheaves of fashion and romance, planning shopping trips to boutique and sundry. Not this Saturday. Girl who'd hardly been sad a morning in her life now sat raw, sore, eyes irritated by the drought which follows long nights of crying. Even her skin, which was too tight, betrayed any sense of calm in the pernicious jangle of disquietude.

Check again? Abeona rubbed her eyes. Was twice an hour enough? What good had it done. Each time daughter looked in on father, she held her own breath in sync with his pauses, breathing only when he breathed until she was too light-headed to stand.

One moment, the reality of it all made sense: he's old; old people die; doctor said so himself. The next moment, she was certain she had imagined it all and, if she ran downstairs, she would find them in bed, whispering of the future.

Long abandoned and empty of voices, the master bedroom's skin and teeth remained. Drop-clothed furniture and neglected paintings of bog stars and butterflies, dust-dulled hats and shoes, a still life birthed as an unwound clock run down by neglect.

Recent nights, Abeona stopped at the doorway. She durst no farther. Emptiness of that space held firm as a wall, as much for fear of disturbing the memory as of being sucked into its pitiless void. Hope, terrible hope, drove her to that empty room, feeling again as a child fleeing dreams of curious creatures leaning from the shadows of their birth to share the terrible secrets of their reckoning. Knew she would be made well if she could grope in the darkness for the foot of the bed and leap to safety between mother and father.

Over and over, desperation dragged her through the hall, over the stairs, to the doorway. Each time she found her safety gone; not relocated, not temporarily closed, but forever away. Each time she was confronted by truth, Abeona was forced to remember the people she sought no longer existed. For it was a different lodger taking up space in a different room. Her father could never return to his matrimonial bed chamber because her father no longer existed. He had been replaced by the moribund man, the charcoal apparition as a ghost in relief, to an action about to be. Never to be again.

He's dying. She thought this as she went downstairs. It finally felt real. He's really dying. You’re sitting around, waiting for it to happen. What’s wrong with you? Never occurred to her, even with mother’s death, that another person couldn’t be in fact the possession over which she assumed she exercised some control. That old age could simply blow in on a summer breeze and take him away and her as powerless as one fighting the sea to save a drowning man who doesn’t want to be saved? What master of centuries and souls could forge a world so cruel?

From behind the big oak desk, Abeona observed the wet grass with disdain, trees with jealousy, narrow sheets cutting across the window with ire.

What's the point?

Everything growing and flowing and for what? Flowers to wilt. Puddles to dry. Trees to fall over. Why bother? Yet, life carried on almost as if Abeona Browne's woes did not matter.

Stuffy in here. Uncle George came shuffling in. He struggled to open a window across the room. The wooden frame squeaked as the old man pushed. Jon Browne squirmed under his sheet, ashen-faced, lips split and desiccated from thirst. His first significant movement in days.

Abeona wiped her soggy brow and leaned over him.

Hot. His words the mere whispers of moans. Took him a breath for every spoken word. So … damned … hot.

I get some water.

No, Abeona said. I'll get it. On her way out, she patted her father's arm. I'll be right back.

Uncle George opened a third window as the rain let up. All the sultry wind managed was to disturb the stale odor of old leather, dusty books, and unwashed skin.

Abeona returned from the kitchen and held her father's hand. His eyes opened and blinked in wonderment. She tilted the cup and most of the water ran over his cheeks and chin. Old man tensed at the sudden coolness on his neck.

Send for the doctor. Abeona sopped the water with a cloth and wiped her father’s forehead.

Uncle George step-and-a-halfed into the hall quick as he could.

Be better, Abeona told him. Please.

Wrinkled body tensed and softened. Jon Browne stared until his wind returned to normal and he closed his eyes.

What do you dream? Abeona whispered. She rubbed the old man's hand, not expecting a response.

Outside the village. It's just outside.

Again Abeona wiped sweat from his face. She could feel the fever punishing his skin. What is?

Lion? Are you there, Lion? First he whispered. Then he shouted himself awake. Go away!

Old man goggled her in the silence and miles of space between the world of the living and the dying. Jon Browne had never wasted a day watching, wondering, waiting for anything. And now he had no choice but to linger on the edge.

You can't go. Abeona gritted her teeth to keep from crying. Please don't go.

What happen? He wheezed now, in short careful breaths, as if his soul would escape him if he so much as exhale.

It was just a dream. You're home.

No. He looked about the library. No dream. No. Oh, it was awful. The men wouldn’t stop yelling. Babies. Dogs. Lion. I can't find her. My mother. No. Your mother. Can't find her. Her voice but I couldn't see.

Oh, Daddy. Please don’t.

Mary. Where's she? Jon Browne's steady voice turned to sing-song with despair. Are we dead?

Abeona laced her slim fingers in her father’s and squeezed his hand. She regarded the room as if she expected his nightmare to have arrived. It's me, Daddy. Doctor's coming.

Mary?

No. She struggled to hold back the tears. Mommy's gone. Remember?

Mary. Jon Browne whispered again. How many? My God. How many left?

He gurgled and spoke little else. His dreadful gaze pointed far off.

Abeona wished to call again for the doctor but could not pull herself away.

The old man's lips moved in silence, mouthing unknown incantations at a world that would no longer have him. His words breathless pleas to ears of whom none could know.

No, Daddy. Don’t go.

The old man wilted into stillness.

Abeona stood in impotent horror as the rise and fall of her father's chest slowed. And then, as if certain to make one last appointment, Jon Browne exhaled one final great sigh as the doctor's carriage rolled to a stop past the library window.

Chapter Five: A Movement Deceived

RESTED FOR THE FIRST IN SOME TIME. Took sitting up for the ache to return to the back of her skull, and the fleeting dose of ethereal bliss to disappear in the words, Oh no. Abeona’s mind flitted between the dark and light of yesterday’s ordeal: screaming, books fluttering across the room, the pinch and burn of the doctor's needle.

Girl kicked off her covers and went downstairs to find the library transformed. There was no body, no bed, no papers littering the floor. Only the boarded north window, which had received a hardbound poetry collection—the 1845 edition of The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook—remained of the scene. The room was at once empty of its master … his patience, vibrancy, and purpose.

Now what? She slapped her thighs and listened to the hole her question had poked into the silence. This would be Abeona’s first Sunday without him. Yesterday was a thousand years ago.

She tried to think of what next to do but her legs were without reason. All agency out of reach.

Eat breakfast?

Stare out the window?

Pray for what, strength? Hope? Death?

Scream?

Run away?

Finally, she spoke her invective: what's the point you idiot?

Please, please, please. The girl flailed in exasperation and sobbed. Please don't leave meee.

Her body twisted and jerked, wrestling the silence, unable to grasp God's ultimate caprice.

I have much work to do … but I am always here for you, Jon Browne would sing-say to the little girl who sat outside his door and read and dreamt of faraway ports, hideous creatures, ghosts, and murderous plots.

Amidst all the sorrow and confusion, Abeona's stomach protested. Her belch echoed and she hiccupped as she wept. When she finished, Abeona wiped her face and left the library. She closed the door all but a crack to vent the faint scratch of a quill, so he might see her still.

Dining room. Tick of the cuckoo and compliant humming of Uncle George as Mrs. Moon ordered him about in her high serious tones. Only missing ingredient was the rustle of newsprint.

Never again would Jon Browne read of news near and far, to shout and guffaw at those headlines which so stirred him. Nor would he peruse a copy of Browne's Gazette, his life's work long in the care of trusted editors and bookkeepers.

This morning, the table was bare. Abeona searched the side stands and bureaus before yelling for Uncle George who mumbled something that prompted a retort of concern from Mrs. Moon.

Being first to read the morning news had, until recent weeks, not been an option or desire. Not when Jon Browne was well. Abeona had only newly become accustomed to picking over the dailies while they were still crisp and creased. Before, Father had always read every word and left his signature of coffee, jam, and yolk on their pages.

I said, where are the papers? Abeona had begun to yell but trailed off as Uncle George came wheeling the breakfast cart at a leisurely shuffle.

Did I forget those? My word.

Where's Peter? He can fetch them.

He out. And since when you so interested in the world's problems?

Where are they? Where the hell are the papers?

Old man brought the cart alongside the table and raised himself from his hunch with a wince.

Abeona unfolded her napkin and drummed her fingernails on the table.

Somebody woke on the wrong side. He laid out a plate of eggs and bacon, a dish of toast, ramekins of orange marmalade and strawberry jam, and a gleaming pot of steaming coffee.

I’m not that hungry.

Need to eat.

Uncle Geeeooorge. Abeona whined as she tugged his coattails. Trick from her youth. Only ever calling him by name when she really wanted something. The papers? Will you look at me? What's going on?

Uncle George’s eyes were red and full to bursting. Ms. Browne, I ...

Ms. Browne? Who the hell is Ms. Browne?

Beans, I'm sorry. I just can't.

Seeing Uncle George so caused Abeona to well up all over again. She folded her arms and slapped herself with her own elbows. I want them this minute, damn it.

Shock on her face as stark as the expression Uncle George wore. She'd never yelled at anyone, let alone him. He slunk back to the kitchen and returned with the objects of Abeona's angst.

She unfolded the top paper to find a large photograph of her father in the upper right corner under the headline A movement deceived

Abeona read closely the text under the picture of this 5th August 1860 edition of the Jackson County Sentinel. It featured an opinion piece from Editor-in-Chief J. Arthur Barnett. Abeona pored over each paragraph, scrutinized every sentence, and still found herself in utter disbelief.

A Movement Deceived

By J. Arthur Barnett

There lies dying, at this very moment, a man of a certain repute, of whom readers shall soon be shocked to learn is as undeserved as the truth is surprising.

After many months of research by a free agent working in conjunction, it has been discovered and will soon be revealed that a one Jon Browne of Michigan Avenue, and formerly of West Africa, known far and wide as a