For Lamb


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright © 2023 by Lesa Cline-Ransome
 All Rights Reserved
 HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
 Printed and bound in November 2022 at Maple Press, York, PA, USA.
 www.holidayhouse.com
 First Edition
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 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
 ISBN: 978-0-8234-50152 (hardcover)
 
 
 
 
 For Lamb Whittle and those whose stories call to us to write, speak up, fight on
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 PROLOGUE
 And then, there, there in the torchlight, I see her. Pressed in close against the others. Her face red as a fever sweat. Hair bright as a flame. My friend.
 When the men let her go, I hear branches snapping and watch the crowd move closer. I search again for my friend, but I can’t hardly tell one from the other in this crowd. Pressed in tight, each one of those white faces looks just like the next. Smiling through shiny white teeth like a pack of hungry dogs.
 Simeon is long gone now, I suspect.
 Far.
 North.
 Safe.
 From this. From them. From all of it.
 A branch cracks as loud as a gunshot and the crowd cheers. I stay hidden behind the bush, just past the fence, and look up through the leaves at the dark. Not a star in the sky tonight. But the flickers of gold from the embers light up the sky in what looks like fireflies. Pretty almost.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Lamb
 “The choir will lead us in our devotional hymn,” Reverend Greer said, and sat down behind the pulpit.
 Soon as I heard the first note on the piano, the sweat started under my arms. In the back row of the youth choir during rehearsal every Saturday morning with everyone’s voice singing on top of mine, I didn’t know Miss Twyman even knew I could carry a tune. But one Sunday, after service, Miss Twyman told Momma I had a “lovely voice,” and Momma told Miss Twyman she already knew that but was surprised Miss Twyman was just finding out. And now, since she knew, my momma said, couldn’t Miss Twyman find a way to let me lead next week’s devotional hymn? Momma has a way of asking that lets you know she’s not asking at all. And now, here I was leading, when all I wanted was to follow, singing along quiet, in the back, with the rest of the choir. There were days, listening to Momma, I could make my ownself believe near anything she believed about me. Not today.
 At breakfast this morning, when she was braiding up my hair, she could tell I was getting the scared feeling I always get when I have to be up in front of people.
 “Now Miss Twyman wouldn’t have you up there looking like a fool if you couldn’t sing. You know that,” Momma said, pulling my braid tight.
 “Miss Twyman says everybody has a lovely voice,” I told her. “Not just me.”
 “I don’t know about everybody. She was just talking ’bout you.”
 In the back was where I felt I belonged, looking at Juanita Handy’s curly ponytail, swaying from side to side while she sang all the youth choir solos. Every once in a while her voice would crack when she tried to reach too high for a note, and Earvent would hit my hand or one of the boys in back would laugh, but I kept looking straight ahead, wishing I was brave enough to stand up every time like Juanita, not caring if my voice cracked or not, but knowing, like Juanita always did, that up front was just where I was meant to be.
 Now standing alone with the choir behind me, I was too scared to be mad at Momma. Just needed to get through one song and be done. Let Momma see I ain’t never been and never would be a soloist. I could almost feel Juanita Handy’s eyes staring in the back of my head. I could hear her sweet voice hitting those notes right and know she was wondering what I was doing in her spot. I wished I could tell her to go ask my momma. The blood was pounding in my ears, louder than the piano, but I came in,
 Would you be free from the burden of sin?
 There’s pow’r in the blood, pow’r in the blood.
 Too soft, too shaky, I could tell. I looked over at Miss Twyman and she pinched up her face. I closed my eyes tight.
 “Sing it, child,” Reverend Greer said beside me. I opened my eyes and looked out into the pews. Staring back at me was Simeon, grin stretched from one end of his face to the other. He saw me looking and nodded his head, telling me to go on ahead, give it some more. So I did. Now the front pew chimed in.
 “Yes, yes, Lord” and “That’s right” mixed in with the song, and I looked over at Miss Twyman, watching her hands tell my mouth what to do. She smiled up at me.
 There is pow’r, pow’r, wonder-working pow’r
 In the blood of the lamb...
 I looked over at Momma swaying, quiet, her head bowed low, one hand raised just above her head. The sweat dripped down my back now.
 In the pews together, when we sang this song from the hymnal, Momma would squeeze my hand, remembering.
 I closed my eyes again.
 Would you o’er evil a victory win?
 There’s wonderful pow’r in the blood.
 After the second verse, Miss Twyman was circling her hand, telling me and the choir to sing the chorus one more time, and this time, my voice got a little louder, a little deeper too.
 Let God move you, Miss Twyman reminded me after yesterday’s