The Blood of the Land by Angela Korra'ti

The Blood of the Land
    Because their lives depended on it, Dorcas and Caleb ran.
    They’d been lucky beyond all dreams of fortune so far; they’d put miles between themselves and the McCreary farm, escaping as they had done in the deep hours of the Kentucky night. But the McCrearys had horses. They had dogs. And they had guns. Soon enough, Dorcas knew, they’d lose their slender lead if they didn’t run with all their heart and strength.
    If only, she thought, she didn’t feel Caleb’s exhaustion along with her own. He wasn’t in danger of collapsing, not yet. But lack of sleep and the exertion of their flight would eventually have their way with him. Dorcas could tell, for she was nearly blind with the effort of keeping the weariness at bay. It would be she, not staunch, devoted Caleb, who succumbed first to its grasp; she could only hope they would reach a safe haven before that came to pass.
    They did have a haven of sorts to aim for, and that much was a comfort. Those who’d worked to help their escape had brought them whispers of a lonely barn—seemingly ruined, yet containing provisions to sustain them in their flight. Without those whispers, Dorcas was sure she and Caleb would never have made it as far as they had. But as they reached the final mile that lay between them and the ruined barn, they heard shooting and calls. “Hell!” Caleb swore, uncaring that it offended the religion of the white men. “They’ve found us!”
    â€œMaybe not,” Dorcas said, stumbling to a halt, aware of her senses—the normal ones that normal people, black or white, possessed—straining against the night. “They’re ahead of us. If they’re after us, they went around.”
    â€œI should’ve stolen us a damn horse,” Caleb said.
    â€œQuiet,” Dorcas hissed. Her other senses, the ones that wailed of the ache in Caleb’s knee where he’d struck it against a fallen log in their dash up the creek to hide their trail, were roiling in dismay. Someone was hurt up ahead. And whoever it was, man or woman or child, was setting her blood to roaring in a way she’d never felt before.
    â€œSweet Jesus, Caleb,” she rasped. “They’re not after us.”
    â€œThen they ain’t none of our business!”
    â€œThere’s Power up there,” Dorcas said, and felt herself wither as Caleb’s face fell.
    All the other slaves on the McCreary plantation had been afraid of her; they’d called her witch and worse, even after she’d healed their broken limbs and their ailing babies. She drew too much attention, the oldest of the men had told her, and he’d been right. Josiah, the master’s son, had coveted her. When she’d refused him, he’d unleashed his temper, telling her he’d either have her—or he’d have her hung. Only Caleb had stood with her, as he’d done since the master had bought them both. Had she asked it of him, he’d have killed Josiah McCreary. But she’d wanted no more blood upon her hands, and so instead, she’d begged him to help her escape with her to Canada.
    Yet even Caleb feared what she could do, and he rebelled now. “Why do we care?” he demanded.
    It was a good question, one that Dorcas had to fight to answer. “Somebody’s hurt. Somebody with Power. God help me, Caleb, it’s calling me. I don’t think I can stand not to go.”
    In the deep gloom of the trees she could barely see him, much less what expression he might wear, yet she heard worry choke Caleb’s voice. “Then it better be God Himself come to take us to Heaven, woman, ’cause if it’s anyone else, we’re dead.”
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    In the end, it was easier to reach the barn than it should have been. For Dorcas, at any rate; that strange Power tugged her like it was a child that’d done gone and grabbed her hand, only it was the biggest child