The Sky Above, the Rivers Below, Ch 3: Southern Roots, Unfamiliar Soil

Margaret flees her family's past, only to find the future's judgment is a new kind of prison.

Margaret Shepard had paid a fortune to become someone new in this advanced timeline, only to discover she was either a ghost everyone looked through, or a specimen everyone looked at too closely.

Their Chronic-assigned apartment was nice. Each morning, a perfect, punctual dawn lit the window screen, a silent mockery of the humid, unpredictable sunrises back in Carolina. Margaret would get up, put on the strange, man-made clothes they were given, and try to make things feel normal for her son, Thomas. But normal was a faraway place they'd left behind, along with the smell of pine trees and damp earth.

The hardest part was knowing what Chronic knew. During their detailed processing, Chronic had dug into their family history with scary precision. The records of the Shepard plantation, the carefully kept books listing the people they owned - all of it was just information now, stored away in some Chronic file she couldn't understand. And that information, Margaret was sure, affected every conversation.

This advanced time period was proud of its "progressive and diverse values." That phrase was repeated over and over in the lessons and by the smooth-voiced Chronic people. Equality. Including everyone. An end to old hatreds. They sounded like good ideas. The judgment was in the polite, translated talks. An official's eyes would hold hers a breath too long during a check-in, a flicker in their gaze she couldn't read. The questions about their "adjustment" from a "less enlightened time" were always too careful, too neutral.

She stirred the nutrient paste. Their eyes on my hands. Branding me. Her thoughts came in fragments. A mother trying. Do they see that? Or just the ghost. The specimen.

Guilt was the metallic taste at the back of her tongue, a flavor she'd known long before Chronic's ships arrived. She knew the rot in the system her family had built, had felt its foulness on her own skin. That was why she'd grabbed Chronic's unbelievable offer. That was why she'd sold everything, faced the terrifying unknown - to give Thomas a chance to grow up free from that shadow, in a world where such things were truly, finally, just history.

History had a long reach. Here, the shadow felt sharper. Her time was presented as a historical crime, a case study in moral failure pointed out in perfectly controlled, non-judgmental voices.

Sometimes, she felt completely invisible. When other people who had moved from less "problematic" pasts talked about fitting into the new culture and their hopes for the future, she would try to say something. But they would just give her a polite nod and quickly change the subject, as if her voice, her experience, was too dirty to really talk about. She was the old relic, the uncomfortable reminder of humanity's darker times.

Other times, people watched her closely. She'd catch other residents in their Transition District - often those from time periods that had presumably "advanced" beyond such terrible things much earlier - looking at her and Thomas with a kind of horrified curiosity. The chip behind her ear would translate their quiet whispers: "...from one of those timelines, you know… the ones with the… plantations…" As if they were talking about some strange, dangerous animal.

It was a constant, tiring dance between her own deeply buried shame and a growing feeling of wanting to defend herself. She looked at Thomas, at the trusting line of his shoulders. This new world... another kind of chain for him. The thought was sharp, a piece of glass in her mind. She had wanted to escape, to make up for things in her own way by raising a son who would know better, be better. But this new world, with its bright lights and clean surfaces, seemed determined to keep her tied to the very past she'd paid so dearly to leave behind.

Margaret had tried striking up conversations with the other residents. Even the few who didn't immediately look uncomfortable would quickly change the subject. If she tried bringing up the differences between their worlds, the other person would usually become defensive or start lecturing her. "Oh, we've come so far since then!" "Surely, you can't condone such a horrid thing?" They would say it in a way that made her feel like an ignorant, backwards savage.

"Why is it wrong for me to speak up?" she thought, sitting in her small, quiet apartment after another dinner spent eating alone. "Do they want me to pretend that nothing bad happened in my time? Is it my fault for not knowing their advanced ways of speaking, the right way to think? Am I supposed to apologize for everything my family did, for things I had nothing to do with?"

How could she even explain it to these people? They saw it all in such simple, stark terms. In her mind, she grasped for the old, hollow words she'd once used to soothe her own conscience. She thought of the time her world lived in. Her family wasn't the only one who owned people. Everyone did, or knew someone who did. And if the men had been the masters, the women had been their helpers. The slaves were kept and worked, and the women were kept and married off. Margaret had hated it all.

In a world so full of death, disease, and hunger, was it not better to take what little happiness you could and live a good life for those you cared about? It was a weak, sad excuse, she thought, the words turning to ash in her mind. A comforting lie she couldn't even bring herself to believe.

"It wasn't an easy thing, what my family did," she thought. "But it was the only thing they knew. The world was built on those rules. How could I fight it? And now, in this place, these people seem to think I should be ashamed of a time and a place I can't even begin to understand, let alone control."

She sighed. This world was full of things beyond her understanding. There were machines that did everything, screens everywhere, and people who seemed to live as if the world was only what they could buy with their money. Yet, this world had its own horrors, ones that left wounds that might never heal.

She saw it when people walked past bums on the street, turning away without seeing. She saw it when a child's parents were so busy with their work that the child was left with a caretaker, or a machine. She saw it in the way Chronic looked down on anyone not "advanced." She had seen it in the faces of the Korean woman, Sook-ja, and her daughter, Min-ji.

The world had changed, or seemed to. But underneath, it was still the same. People were people, and they had the same weaknesses. There was no perfect time. There was no perfect world. And now, it was up to her to protect her son from that truth.

One morning, while weeding her assigned nutrient-plot, Margaret noticed Sook-ja on the other side of the garden. Another resident, a man from a timeline praised for its technological purity, was speaking to Sook-ja in a condescendingly slow voice, gesturing as if to a child. Sook-ja just nodded, her face a polite mask of endurance. Margaret watched the set of Sook-ja's shoulders, the polite mask of endurance she wore like a second skin. In that posture, she recognized herself.

The worst part, the thing that hurt the most, was seeing how this new world's judgment affected Thomas. He was only ten. He was a gentle, observant boy with a quiet personality. He had done nothing to deserve the shadows that now seemed to stick to their family name.

He'd started at the local Transition District school. It was a confusing place filled with children from a dozen different times. They all chattered in a confusing mix of languages that the chip in his ear carefully translated. Margaret had hoped, even prayed, that here, with so many different kinds of people, he might just be another new boy, finding his way.

But the whispers followed them, or maybe they were there before them. She saw it in the way some children would suddenly get quiet when Thomas came near their play group. Their eyes would dart towards him with a knowing, uncomfortable curiosity. She heard it in the slightly too-loud questions from bolder children during recess. Their translated voices carried across the yard: "Is it true you're from… before?" or, more directly, "Did your family really… own people?"

One afternoon, Thomas came home from school with his shoulders slumped. His usual quietness was now a withdrawn silence. He picked at the nutrient paste given to them for their evening meal, his eyes fixed on his plate.

"Is something wrong, Thomas?" Margaret asked, keeping her voice gentle.

He shrugged, a small, unhappy movement. "Some of the boys… they were talking. About… about home."

"Oh?" A sour heat rose in Margaret's throat. "And what were they saying?"

"Just… that it was a bad place. That the people there were… cruel." He looked up at her then, his eyes wide and troubled. "Were we cruel, Mama?"

Her next breath caught, shallow and sharp. My poor boy. This weight he never earned. "How can he find his place when the world keeps defining him by a history he didn't make? I brought him here for freedom, but this feels like another kind of chains."

She reached across the small table and took his hand. "The world back then, Thomas, was… a very different place. It had rules and ways that seem very wrong to us now, and they are. There was a lot of cruelty in it, yes. But you, my dear, you are not cruel. And your heart is good."

It felt like a terribly weak answer. How could she explain the difficult and unfair parts of their old life to a child? How could she do it without sounding like she was making excuses for things that couldn't be excused?

Another time, she'd gone to pick him up and found him standing alone by the school fence, his face red. A group of older boys were laughing nearby. As Margaret got closer, she heard one of them copy, in an exaggerated, slow drawl that was a cruel imitation of a Southern accent, "Well, I do declare, fetch me my mint julep!"

Thomas's own accent was a softer version of her Tidewater speech. She'd barely noticed it until then. But here, it was another thing that made him different, another way for him to be singled out, to be labeled as "other," as "backward."

Her hands curled, nails biting into her palms. She pictured herself marching toward those boys, their laughing faces turning to surprise. The image dissolved. What good would it do? It would only draw more attention. It would make Thomas known as the boy whose mother had to fight his battles. And what would she say to their parents, to the school officials, if they turned their cool, "progressive" judgment on her - the mother from the "problematic" timeline - for daring to criticize their children?

She felt completely powerless. She could smooth his hair, offer him comforting words, try to explain things that were impossible to explain. But she couldn't protect him from the whispers, from the pointed questions, from the small and not-so-small ways this new world reminded him - and her - of the heavy, inescapable weight of their past.

Each insult, each moment Thomas was left out, felt like a new failure on her part. It felt like proof that the clean start she had so desperately wanted for him was a lie - perhaps the cruelest trick of all in this so-called advanced time.

She was starting to feel trapped, caught between the need to protect her son and her own guilt. She had done so much to get them here. But she was realizing now, too late, that the price of escaping her past might be the loss of the future she'd wanted so badly for him.

And then, one day, the Korean woman, Sook-ja, walked up to Margaret while she was at the community garden. "Mrs. Shepard," Sook-ja said, her voice low, her eyes darting around to see if anyone was listening, "we have to talk."

Margaret had only met Sook-ja once, the day they'd first arrived. It was hard to forget that terrible, frozen look on her face. Now, though, her expression was different, almost nervous. But there was something else, a glimmer of purpose that felt strangely hopeful.

"What is it, Mrs. Kim?" Margaret asked. "Can I help you with something?"

"I have a favor to ask," Sook-ja replied. "You see, my daughter, Min-ji, is having a birthday soon, and I want to throw her a party."

Margaret was surprised. A birthday party? She had never thought of celebrating anything with her neighbors. But then again, the other residents she'd met were often from places that didn't celebrate such things, or at least not in a way that would interest her or Thomas.

"Oh, I see," she said. "Is there anything special you want me to do? I can get the food machine to make some sweets, if you'd like."

Sook-ja smiled, and Margaret was surprised at how warm it was. "Thank you, but I have a different favor in mind." Her smile faded. "You see, I think our children, yours and mine, are both suffering from being… different."

Margaret swallowed. "That is true."

"And yet, even as they are judged, they are also being pushed together," Sook-ja continued. "I hear the other parents whispering. They say your boy, Thomas, is an example of the 'worst of his time,' while my Min-ji is an example of the 'best of her people.'"

Margaret had heard those whispers, too. Even with the differences between their cultures, and the obvious problems of their past, it seemed the adults found a way to compare the children's worth, as if their histories were just another kind of competition. It was an ugly game, and she hated it.

"Yes," she said slowly, "that is true, too."

"Then let's stop letting them be examples of anything," Sook-ja replied. "Let's show them there's more to the world than their parents' sins."

The suggestion was surprising, and so very simple. "You mean, have them both at the party?"

"Yes, and why not have all the other children come, too?" Sook-ja said. "All the children are suffering from their parents' choices, from the mistakes of their worlds. Perhaps a birthday party is not a big thing, but it can be a start."

"A start of what, though?" Margaret asked. "How does a party help with… everything else?"

Sook-ja gave a small laugh. "I don't know. In my time, we never had birthday parties. But I think this is a chance for the children to see the world differently, not as something that's been decided for them. Maybe, just maybe, they'll find a way forward together. And, perhaps, so will we."

Her words hung in the air, like the first hint of a breeze. Margaret realized, with a sudden flash of hope, that they'd never actually tried to reach out, not as parents. The adults kept themselves apart, wary and judging, waiting for someone else to make the first move. Maybe Sook-ja was right. Maybe they could start with the children and, if that worked, eventually change the way the adults saw each other, too.

"Yes," she said, suddenly sure, "a party sounds wonderful. But, are you sure you want to invite all the children? What about the ones who've been especially… unkind?"

Sook-ja's eyes sparked, her lips curving into a smile. "All the children should be there. I don't want to leave anyone out. Let's show them, and ourselves, that we're more than what our pasts tell us."

"And what about their parents?"

"We'll just tell the truth: We're having a party, and they should bring their children."

"Are you sure? You don't think they'll take it as a challenge?"

"We will call it an invitation," Sook-ja replied firmly. "An invitation for the children to see beyond their parents' mistakes. And perhaps, it's a chance for us, too. Besides, the Chronic people keep telling us to try new things, to make friends, and get along. How can we say no?"

"Yes, how can we?" Margaret said, thinking. "Perhaps they will bring the children, and perhaps we can show them that the future doesn't have to be a mirror for their past."

"And, perhaps, when they see the children playing together, they'll realize the future is not about their mistakes," Sook-ja said. "Maybe it can be a future for all of us."

The idea, which had started so simply, suddenly seemed much bigger. The weight of her own past and the pressure of this new world pressed down, threatening to crush any chance of something new. But now, a light, fragile hope sparked inside her.

"If it works, then it works," Sook-ja was saying. "And if it doesn't, well, at least we tried."

"Yes," Margaret replied. "We tried. That's something, isn't it?"

"Yes. It's something."

And so, two weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon, the children's party began.

It was a small affair, held in the central square of the Transition District. It had been carefully planned and quietly announced, with invitations sent via the Community Liaison. At first, many of the families had politely declined, saying the children were too busy, or the weather was bad. But a few parents had quietly told Sook-ja that their children were "looking forward to coming." And finally, all the parents had said yes.

"I didn't think this many would show up," Margaret admitted, watching the square fill up with excited children and wary-looking parents. The Transition District had no parks, so the space was open and had been decorated with colorful streamers. Food machines were set up nearby, ready to make any sweet treats the children desired.

"Well, we had better get started," Sook-ja replied. "I'm going to go tell the children there's cake inside."

As she went, a couple approached Margaret. She recognized them from the District. They were an older couple from a time period that had, supposedly, "eliminated all prejudice" centuries ago.

"Hello," the woman said, her smile polite but cautious. "I'm glad you could make it."

"So am I," Margaret replied, her voice equally polite.

"It's a nice idea," the man said, looking around. "A way for the children to meet and play. But do you really think it will help with… everything else?"

"Time will tell, I suppose," Margaret replied, keeping her tone light. "But I think the children deserve a chance."

"I agree," the woman said, her smile tightening. "We should give them a chance."

"Yes," the man said, a touch too firmly. "We should."

They were clearly uncomfortable, and Margaret couldn't blame them. She didn't know what they'd been through, or what their world had been like. Maybe it had truly been a better place. Or maybe not. The important thing, Margaret decided, was to take a step. It wasn't the same as fixing the past, or undoing its effects. It was simply a chance for all of them to start again, together.

The birthday song was sung, the candles blown out with Min-ji's delighted laughter ringing across the square. The cake was cut and distributed on small plates, and the children's chatter grew louder and more animated as the sugar took effect.

Then the music began to play from hidden speakers—something light and cheerful that needed no translation. Min-ji, emboldened by her special day, looked around the circle of children seated on the ground. Her gaze settled on Thomas, who sat quietly to one side, picking at his cake.

"Come dance with me," she said shyly, extending her small hand toward him.

Thomas blushed a deep crimson, his movements stiff as he stood and placed his hands uncertainly on her waist. Min-ji smiled, a small, genuine thing, and began a simple step. Thomas followed her lead, his initial awkwardness melting into something approaching grace.

A boy who had once mimicked Thomas's accent watched from the sidelines, looking torn between wanting to join and maintaining his distance. Then, a small girl with bright ribbons in her hair grabbed his hand and tugged, giggling. "Come on!" she called in her native tongue, the chip translating for everyone. After a moment's hesitation, he let himself be pulled into the growing circle of dancers.

Soon, other children joined them, laughing and shouting as they twirled and dipped to the beat. Even the most reluctant children, the ones who'd been the most hesitant to approach the square, were drawn into the mix by the infectious joy of the moment.

Margaret scanned the ring of adults watching from the edges of the square. The cautious, guarded expressions were still there, but cracks were appearing. The older couple who had questioned her earlier were watching the dancing, the man's stern face softened by a flicker of surprise. A woman from a timeline known for its rigid social structures was actually smiling as her son spun wildly with two other boys, his usual serious demeanor replaced by pure, childish delight.

Margaret caught Sook-ja's eye across the square, and Sook-ja gave a small, triumphant nod.

The music ended, and the children, flushed and laughing, sat down to finish their cake. The square was filled with happy chatter and the occasional burst of laughter. Thomas and Min-ji, their hands still joined, were talking quietly.

"What are they saying?" Margaret asked, nodding towards the pair.

"Well, from what I can understand, he's apologizing," Sook-ja replied, smiling.

"Apologizing? For what?"

"For his time, I think."

"Oh. That's very thoughtful of him."

"And Min-ji is saying that she, too, is sorry, for all the times her people were unfair. She says she's sorry her mother's fear made her sad, and it wasn't Thomas's fault."

"She's a very brave girl."

"She is," Sook-ja said, a hint of sadness in her voice. "They're both very brave, these children. They deserve better."

"So do their parents."

"Yes, we all do."

"This isn't much, but it's a start," Margaret said, looking around the square.

"A good start," Sook-ja replied. "Perhaps this is the start of something new, for all of us."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," Sook-ja said softly. "That would be very nice."

In that moment, looking at the children laughing and eating and talking, the hope, still fragile, was strong enough to outshine the past, just a little. Margaret and Sook-ja had made a tiny, hopeful change, and it had bloomed. It was the start of a new path, one where they might all have a place.

The music started again, and the children leaped up, eager to dance. Margaret and Sook-ja stood and watched as the children whirled and twirled, the music filling the air with bright, joyful noise. The past was still there, of course, but now, the future seemed a little less impossible.

"It's a beautiful start," Margaret said.

"A beautiful start," Sook-ja echoed.

And then, the music took them, and they danced, too.

***

The good feeling from the children's party and the small connection with Sook-ja still warmed Margaret a few days later. Then, a message from Elara arrived on her Chronic slate. "Routine follow-up," it read, but Margaret's stomach tightened. With Elara, "routine" rarely felt routine.

She found the Community Liaison in her usual small, perfectly neat office. The calm smile was firmly in place. "Margaret, so good to see you. Please, sit."

Margaret sat. She smoothed her man-made skirt, a habit she couldn't stop. The office always felt a little too cool, the air a little too still.

"I wanted to praise you," Elara began. Her eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that was supposed to seem warm but only made Margaret more nervous. "The children's gathering in the square? A lovely idea. Exactly the sort of community building between different times that Chronic encourages. It shows you're willing to fit in, to… become like us."

The last words hung in the air. Margaret managed a polite nod. "It was… Mrs. Kim's idea, mostly. We both felt the children needed a chance to just be children together."

"Of course, of course," Elara said smoothly. "A wonderful thought. However," - and here, the smile tightened just a little, the warmth fading like the tide - "it's important to be careful with these new connections, Margaret."

"Careful?" Margaret repeated. A familiar uneasy feeling prickled her skin.

"Yes." Elara leaned forward. Her gaze was direct and didn't blink. "Chronic values peace, and that peace is built on a shared understanding of progressive ideas. We've received some… let's say, comments… about certain attitudes that might be… misunderstood, or perhaps, not yet fully in line with the morals of this time."

Margaret felt a chill. "Comments? About what, exactly?"

"There have been some reports," Elara continued, her voice still soft, still reasonable, but with a clear undercurrent of steel, "about talks you may have had. Whispers, if you like, that perhaps your… regret… about the old ways of work in your home time is not as… deeply felt as one might hope."

Margaret's cheeks flushed. The casual conversations, her attempts to explain her world, even her own private struggles - had they all been told to Elara, twisted, judged? "I assure you, Elara, slavery is a profound evil. My reasons for coming here—"

Elara held up a delicate hand, stopping her. "Evil in this time, Margaret, with the help of three centuries of society changing and Chronic's enlightened view. But the concern, however politely said by others, is that if you were to be returned to your own time… well, the suggestion is that you might fit back into its ways rather easily. That the old ways might not feel quite so evil then."

The polite words landed with the force of a slap. A hypocrite. The thought was sharp, bitter. She thinks I would go back. That all this... for Thomas... is a lie.

"That is a deeply unfair thing to say," Margaret said. Her voice trembled a little, even though she tried to keep it steady.

"Perhaps," Elara agreed, though her face didn't soften. "But Chronic's job is not just to move people across time. It is to encourage real change, to show that even those from… difficult pasts can choose a more enlightened path. We want to show that the injustices of the past can be overcome, not just moved to a new place." Her gaze sharpened. "The Shepard family represents a… unique opportunity for integration, Margaret. Chronic is watching your family's journey with great interest."

She paused, letting her words sink in. "You need to try harder, Margaret. To truly take in the values of this time. To show, without any doubt, that you are becoming a… better person, by our standards. This is not just a personal journey for you; it is an important goal for Chronic."

The unspoken threat was clear. Their comfort, their position, maybe even their being allowed to stay in this time, depended on this "progress."

"I understand," Margaret said, her throat tight. The small spark of hope from the children's party felt very far away now, almost gone.

"Good." Elara's smile returned, a little too bright. "I'm pleased we understand each other. I, and Chronic, will be keeping a close eye on your family's efforts to fit in. We are sure you'll make the… necessary changes."

Walking out, Margaret brushed her fingers against the perfectly smooth, cool wall of the corridor. She looked at her reflection in its polished surface and saw a stranger staring back.

She had wanted a new world for her son, a chance to escape the sins of the past. Instead, she found herself in a new kind of prison, one where her very thoughts, her deepest regrets and hopes, were watched and corrected.

***