by Smith, Skye
* * * * *
Robert guided the horse cart close to the steps of the house. As soon as it stopped, Britta stepped off, took Robby in her arms and took him upstairs to the nursery to put him down for a nap. When she hadn't come down again after an hour, Lydia went to look for her. She was asleep on her bed, which was close to the crib. Lydia looked down at the sweet girl, and then noticed that she had been doing some crying. Her pillow case was soaking wet.
Lydia sat on the bed beside her and rubbed her back. "Oh love, what has happened?"
Britta turned over and sat up. She had a handkerchief in her hand and she used it to clean up her face before she spoke. "Last week I was surrounded by drunken louts in a tavern, and endured their touch and their smell and their coarse remarks, and yet, and yet, and yet five minutes with four girls my own age made me want to cry and cry and cry."
Lydia took her hand and squeezed it. "There are no worse demons than bitchy little girls. You know that. Think of the children that run wild around here. Two boys have an argument and punch each other and ten minutes later they are back to being best friends. Two girls have an argument and they seethe, and play mind games, and are evil to each other for weeks."
"What made it worse is that one of them could have been my twin, and yet she can still live like a child while I have to live life as a grownup, alongside grownups, grasping grownups that want to use me."
"I was nineteen when I first came to this valley," Lydia told her. "It was the same then for me. I hid in this house and refused the company of the young women of the valley. The stories they spread about me were horribly wicked."
"They had no stories about me yet, but they had many about Robert. They told me that...."
"Wait," Lydia stopped her, "I will call Robert and you can tell them to the both of us. Come with me to my bedroom so that we don't wake Robby."
Lydia pulled Britta to her feet and led her to the big bed and sat her down and then went to call Robert. When the three of them were sat on the bed, Britta told them what the other teens had said. When she got to the part about the black baby killing his first wife, she stopped and could not go on. It was too evil. She could not repeat it.
Robert thought she had finished so he started to talk. "Britta, what they told you is not all lies. For instance, my horses are all jealous of how well I am hung."
Lydia punched him in the arm, and for the first time since church, Britta smiled. He began again. "My father and grandfather were slavers, and so am I. When I was a teen I was eager to do the stud work myself, and bragged to the local men about the number of women I mounted. When I held my first born child in my arms, however, it suddenly became very real that all of my children, and there would be many, were destined to be slaves for the rest of their lives. This bothered me, deeply into my soul.
My father did not understand my guilt. He knew many men willing to pay him to do the stud work. I ran away and did not come back for ten years. By then I was married to my first wife, Ellen and I had a son and a daughter who were not slaves. Still my father and I used to have terrible arguments, and years later when the French war started, I bought myself a commission and left my family here with my father, and hid from my own inner turmoil by seeking out battles.
The war ended and I returned, but by then my father was old and quite ill. I was forced to take over the running of the farm and become a slaver. I was trapped into a life I hated. My father had created a successful business and I had no choice but to run. Many livelihoods, many meals, many lives, depend on this farm doing well.
What would all these women and children do if I quit? They would still be slaves, but for someone else, somewhere else. The women here work at their own pace, and are not belabored by overseers with whips. They have a similar life to the other farm families of this valley. They work well. They eat well. They sleep well. They have the joy of children and of good company. "
His voice lowered to a sadder note as he said, "My son was killed in the war, and when I lost him, I knew that this farm could not go on in this way."
"Why," asked Britta, "why, can't it go on?"
"Without my son, there will be no one to keep it going. No. That is not true. He was never interested in farming. He wanted to live in Boston as did my daughter. I suppose the real reason is because when my grandfather settled here, he paid no attention to the border that runs just a few miles from here. This farm is in Massachusetts, not Rhode Island, and soon chattel slavery will be abolished here."
"And debtor slavery. Will that be abolished too," asked Britta.
"As long as there are people who borrow money and live beyond their means, there must be debtor slavery. Otherwise there is no incentive to repay a debt," he replied.
Britta felt a rush of guilt flush her face. If a knight in shining armor swept her away from this farm, she would not think twice about running away from the debt.
Robert continued. "Someday I must either make changes so that the farm is profitable even without chattel slaves, or trade the land for land in Rhode Island and move the whole operation. I had a plan once, but then Ellen became pregnant again, a sickly pregnancy. I was, well, aroused by Lydia as Ellen refused me her bed, and I became ever more lustful for her. While my wife was slowly dying in her bed, we were... well we did it a lot.
Now I have a new wife and a new family, but still I have the same problem. How do I unwind the slavery that pays me so handsomely? That is what Jennison and I were discussing when you arrived here with James. So, now you can understand that what the village girls told you was not wrong, but it is old gossip and there is much more to it than they know."
"So you are against slavery?" asked Britta.
"I didn't say that," said Robert. "That would be foolish. There have always been slaves and there always will be slaves. How can there be an elite wealthy class if they have no one to do their work for them? I feel no guilt for owning slaves. I feel no guilt for having used the women sexually. That was my right as their master.
It is the children I feel guilty about. They were born slaves. That is wrong. That is just wrong. No one should be born a slave. And yet, if I did not breed my herd of blacks, then I could not live in this grand house and keep the company of other slave-owners and moneylenders who also live in grand houses."
Britta was silent, expecting more, but Robert said nothing more. He bent forward and kissed Lydia's forehead, for Lydia had gone very stiff, and very quiet.
"The girls said more," Britta said, "They think that all bond women are harlots. The girls assumed that I was, was, well, your mistress. A young man offered me money to go to the barn with him. And yes, I endured many such offers at the tavern, but this was in a church. And look at how I am dressed. I look like a nun, not an ale wench."
Lydia moved closer to Britta to hug her. "As I said. Bitchy little girls are evil."
"No," replied Britta, "they are not evil, they are just unthinking. The evil ones are their mothers who smile at me, and greet me warmly, but tell their daughters that I am a harlot."
"Ah yes," said Robert, "these Puritans who preach forgiveness, yet never forgive. They came to New England because of religious intolerance in Europe, yet they are intolerant here. They were executing Quakers for their beliefs until the king stopped them. Perhaps the intolerance in Europe was also of their doing.
One of the reasons that my father switched from African blacks to Caribbean blacks was because the African blacks were Mussulmen. They would prey to God six times a day. I mean it. They would stop their work, stop everything and bow and pray."
"But to a false god," said Lydia, "not to the God of our church."
"The very same God of Abraham, just a different Bible," he corrected her. "There was no tolerance here. You would think that the Bible was more important than God, the way the elders complained about humble people praying to the same God of Abraham." He looked at Britta. "While we are speaking of this, I suppose I should ask Britta what church she belongs to, in case the elders a
sk."
"I sometimes went into the abbey in Ely on market days. You know, if it started to rain. One of my fathers once took me into a grand chapel in Cambridge. It had wonderfully colored windows. Those churches were far, far larger and higher than the little one we went to today, and they were made of stone and had stone statues."
"But your daily religion. On Sunday which service did you attend?"
Britta looked at him, "Oh, well we would climb the watch tower and watch the full moon rise, but that is only for a few days every four weeks, and could fall on any day, not just Sunday."
Robert felt the panic rise in his chest. If this girl was not a Christian, and the elders found out, there could be big trouble. "And you gave thanks to God there."
"My mother was the healer and the midwife of our village. We would give thanks to the moon goddess, Freyja, of course. She controls the moon and therefore she controls the fertility cycle in people and in animals and in plants. She even controls the tides that brought the fish to my father's traps."
Robert's mouth hung open for more than a minute. Lydia kept trying to speak but she could not find the words so she waited for Robert. Finally he said, "Britta, what you just said to us, you must never, and I mean never, ever say to anyone in this valley." He looked at Lydia and said, "Do you agree Lydia? I think it would be a good idea if you taught her to read by using the Bible."
"I will do that," Lydia replied, relieved that Robert had kept his head and suggested a solution. She would start Britta off with a few tired old quotes that everyone recognized.
Robert spoke quietly, "Britta, if anyone ever asks you to name your church, just say Baptist. Can you remember that. Baptist. Never mention Freyja or goddesses. If you must say anything about a fertility goddess, say Mother Mary. Mary was the mother of Jesus and most women pray to her. But you must call her a saint, not a goddess."
"Are you a midwife, Britta?" Lydia asked.
"I have trained as one for half my life, but I have never yet been alone at a birth. I already discussed this with Lucy after she told me that she was the midwife to the Blacks. She agreed to let me do some of the births."
"No wonder you are so good with Robby," Lydia said and touched Britta gently on the arm.
"Robert, when you said before," asked Britta slowly, "that, ugh, it was your right to use your slave women sexually, well, was that what happened with Lydia. You claimed your right."
"It seems that my confessions must continue," replied Robert. "Well then, first let it be said that Lydia's bond belonged to my wife, not to me, as your bond belongs to Lydia, not to me. A bond is like a marriage vow. If a man takes a woman by force and she is not his wife or his slave or his bond servant, then that is rape. Morally it is rape, but not legally. Assault, yes, rape, I think not."
"What are you trying to say?" asked Britta. It was important to her to have this answered.
Robert thought for a while, "What I was trying to say is that legally a master likely has the right to sexually use his bond woman, but morally he does not. An immoral man or one who is drunk or angry or filled with lust could still try to claim that right."
He saw a mask of fear cross Britta's face. He reached for Lydia's hand and held it. "Lydia seduced me. My wife, when she learned that she was dying, asked her to. There was no rape. When I inherited her bond and then found out that she was with child, I had a moral dilemma. The solution was to marry her. We delayed the wedding for as long as we could out of respect for my late wife, but Robby was born into wedlock."
Lydia froze, clamped her mouth shut, and looked away.
Robert hung his head and squeezed Lydia's hand. "Our marriage could be better but I still carry the deep guilt that while I was enjoying such pleasure with you, Ellen knew she was dying." He looked at Lydia. "I am so sorry."
Britta went all thoughtful. How could she trust this man? Lydia had already told her that he was forced to marry her because his paternity for her child had been witnessed. Or had Lydia lied? One of them was lying. She had to find out which.
* * * * *
* * * * *
MAYA’S AURA - the Redemptioner by Skye Smith
Chapter 11 - Trip to Providence
Lucy came into the room without knocking. Beth was calling out her name. Beth was naked and on all fours on the bed with Jon behind her. She looked around at Lucy and said. "He just isn't big enough. I need a man with a longer reach."
Jon stood behind Beth looking along the back of the huge black woman. One of her thighs weighed as much as he did. Her shoulders and arms were that of a man, a big man. The problem, however, was the size of her bottom. It was big and round. He shrugged his shoulders at Lucy.
"Why can't we get that man from three years ago back again. That man had a real cock on him. A good foot long and thick." Beth said this to Lucy and then looked at Jon. "Boy, I like you fine, but you just ain't long enough."
"Master Robert said he would shoot that man if he ever came near here again," said Lucy. "Try laying on your back."
"We tried that," said Beth.
"Did you try it with your legs in the air, and him standing beside the bed."
Jon wasn't enjoying himself any more. The pleasure to his ego of being asked for sex, was no longer a pleasure. This woman smelled of cow shit and sweat, despite having just bathed. Her hands were rough and calloused, but worse, she was right. He was not long enough to service her. Lucy told him to keep trying.
When he finished, more or less successfully, he went looking for Lucy. He found her with his sister. They were patching up some cuts on the knees of one of the boys. Lucy took one look at him and assured him, "Don't worry, sugar, she is the biggest."
"Who is this man she keeps talking about, Walker?"
"He was a drifter that came through here three years back. He looked white, but he was hung like a black. All these women have had children, you see, so they all have been stretched by babies' heads. They, we, all enjoyed Walker's length and girth." She smiled at him. "He completely filled us. It is wonderful to be filled."
She rubbed his blonde hair playfully, but was careful not to touch his cheek. "That sister of yours knows her poultices. That face of yours has healed quickly. I can't believe how fast she drew the swelling."
"What happened to Walker?"
"There was trouble in the village. There was gossip that he was doin' village wives. Then some tracker men came lookin' for him saying he was a runaway slave. Anyway, he lit out and no one knows what happened to him. Likely caught by them trackers. He sure looked white, until you saw him naked."
Britta listened as she finished cleaning the cuts and then told the little boy. "There, the cuts are clean. Now you must keep them clean. Stay out of the river. No swimming until they have scabbed over."
"Yeh," said Lucy as she watched the boy run towards his friends, "like that is going to happen on the hottest day so far this summer." She turned to Britta, "So I noticed you were using your crystal on those cuts. What is that all about."
"Umm, well, my mother and I have 'the healing touch', you know , with our hands. Well it's actually a 'not touch' because it doesn't work if you actually touch the skin. The crystal just makes it a lot stronger."
"I've heard of this before," said Lucy while she took a closer look at the crystal and at Britta's hands. "So the healing power is not in the crystal, but in your hand."
"Umm, I think that the healing power is inside me, like in my heart, but I can send it out through my hand. My mother told me that it was the same power of love that everyone has inside, only with us, we can send it out."
"Why did she think it was the power of love?"
"Because when we use it on women and children it heals. When we use it on men it gives them an erection. I suppose it is why I am so strange around men. They are not just excited by my looks, but also by this healing power."
"And it really heals. Of course it does. You've been using it on your brother's face, haven't you. That explains why it is healing so wel
l."
"It is not a strong healing power, not like some of our herbs, but it can reach under the unbroken skin." Britta explained. "I use it mainly to sense what is wrong, where the sickness is."
"And you use your crystal for this too?" Lucy nodded. "I have seen women do that before. They hold the crystal still on its thread and then hover it over the body. When the crystal is overtop of the inner sickness, it begins to swing."
"No, that way is false magic, a trick. I hold the crystal flat against my palm and I hover the palm over the body. The sickness inside, well, it makes me sense a darkness in my mind. My hands are much more useful in finding sickness than in curing it."
"A darkness?"
"Yes, like a gray or black color, and sometimes it smells dark, like the smell of someone burning the bread."
"But only to women and children."
"No, it works for men to, it's just that it also has the other effect, you know. Like I said before. It makes them horny. Unfortunately for me it seems to make evil men very horny. Worse. When an evil man touches me, I can feel his darkness. Sometimes the darkness is so strong I can't breath and want to faint."
"You must show me more of how you lay on hands. Next time someone is sick. Promise." Lucy cupped the girls hands in hers and turned them over as if searching for the mark of Christ on her palms.
Britta spoke in a more confidential voice. "Your story of this Walker reminded me of something strange that some girls at church told me. They said that a white woman cannot give birth to a black baby. That the baby will poison her, kill her. Is that true?"
Lucy quickly turned away from the girl to hide her face while she answered. "How would I know?"
"If anyone would know, you would, Lucy. How many black children have you delivered? Hundreds."
"Jon, go and help the women with their work," Lucy said. When he was gone she turned to Britta and said, "The white women in this valley don't use a black midwife."
"The girls made it sound like it was here. Like it was Robert's child."
