by Carter, Noni
“What was it, Daniel?”
“Friend of Masta’s wagon broke down. Masta told me to take the man on to town to do his business. Made Masta Jeffrey ride wit us. Skinny man Masta’s friend was, with dark spots under his eyes an’ evil barks in his voice. Knew I hated him the minute I sawed him …”
“Don’t say that, Daniel.”
“I hated him, I tell you.” Daniel’s eyes burned.
“Name was Knocks, an’ he dragged a slave woman an’ her son out to the wagon. He had bound her up an’ put her in the back wit Masta Jeffrey. Her son, he say his name was Lil’ Lou, sat ’tween me an’ Masta’s friend. Knocks had tole her that Lil’ Lou was gonna be sol’ with her, jus’ so she’d hush. But I knew it wa’n’t the truth, jus’ knew it every time I looked ova at that lil’ boy. That boy jus’ sat there, quiet, bouncin’ with every ditch in the road. When we got there, to the sellin’ block, Knocks dragged her up there in front of all those folk. She wa’n’t smilin’, naw, but she looked at ease ’cause her son was standin’ next to her.” Daniel brushed both hands up across his face and over his hair.
“Then the biddin’ began. This man in the gatherin’ crowd wanna buy her. Knocks put chains round her arms. Then some otha man up there sayin’ he could use some young hands, an’ they starts biddin’ fo’ that young lil’ boy. There was no way they was gonna stay together, that mama an’ lil’ boy.” He took another breath before he continued.
“That’s when I sawed her face, horror drippin’ from her eyes. She was starin’ at Knocks as if she done seen a ghost. That’s when things got bad, Sarah. They got … they got bad. She fell to her knees, right in front of Knocks, yellin’ an’ demandin’ that he give her that child. He kicked her—his shoe went right in her face. Then he turned an’ ’pologized to her new masta. But she wa’n’t done. Shoulda laid there. Shoulda jus’ laid there! But naw, naw.” He was glaring at the memory.
“When she dragged herself up, face covered in blood, she say soft at first somethin’ ’bout that lil’ boy bein’ Masta’s baby. I heard it, ’cause I was lookin’ straight at her like there wa’ant no one else there. I sat there feelin’ hell breathin’ close on my neck. She started poundin’ near Masta’s feet wit her fist an’ screamin, ‘You gave ’im to me Masta, why you sellin’ yo’ own chile.’ His own, Sarah …” He stopped, and leaned his forehead on his palms. I sat with my face in my hands.
“Daniel, you don’t hafta …” I began, my voice cracking, but he hardly heard me.
“Knocks was red in the face—every soul knew he was mad. An’ that woman just kept screamin’ those terrible screams. I turned away from the block fo’ respect, an’ my eyes ran across Masta Jeffrey’s face.”
He stopped short and looked fixedly at me.
“Sarah, I felt so dangerous sittin’ there near him in the wagon, an’ I think he knew it. He sittin’ there breathin’ heavy, and I think he was scared, but it didn’t matta to me. Thought of you, thought of Mama, thought of that woman on that block, an’ felt that wrongdoing swimmin’ through Masta Jeffrey—jus’ felt it as clear as day. Anger started bubblin’ up. Cain’t explain how it was when we was drivin’ back. Some kinda terrible anger came a rumblin’ up thru me an’ bleedin’ thru my breath. Couldn’t even look at the two of ’em. Prayed to God Knocks wouldn’t say nothin’. Prayed the devil wouldn’t ask me nothin’, wouldn’t even move, fo’ I don’t think I would’ve controlled myself.”
“Daniel, it’s all right,” I said softly. He was pinching his chin with his fingers, all the muscles in his face fighting against each other, searching for a little peace. The night was still and the silence made it even more so. Daniel broke it with a whisper.
“Sarah, you tell me, you hear? Tell me ’bout Masta Jeffrey.” I said nothing. Daniel stood up after a long while and lent me his hand. I took it, letting him help me up, and we walked slowly back to our quarters. The intensity of the moment stayed behind, burying itself where we had sat.
“You see Tucker lately?” he asked me.
“Ya.”
“He tell you what he bin up to?”
“Sure,” I began, dragging my feet with fatigue. “He tole me ’bout bein’ hired out or somethin’.”
“Ya, that’s it,” Daniel said.
“Somethin’ special ’bout it?” I asked, wondering if he was using the conversation to take his mind off the pain-filled images in his head.
“Well, Sarah, there’s some blacks that live round this part of Tennessee, free folks. Ain’t many of ’em, an’ them whites hate ’em, but they here. When slave folks get hired out, they make it easier fo’ themselves to start blendin’ in wit them freed folks, becomin’ part of their organizations an’ all.”
“So you sayin’ he’s part of an’ organization or somethin’?”
Daniel laughed. “Well, ya—somethin’ like that. It’s nothin’ big. Tucker got a good mind on him, though. He didn’t jus’ hire himself out fo’ the money.”
“So what you sayin’, Daniel? Somethin’ important ’bout them groups?” I asked, feeling as if there was a message hiding beneath his words.
“Well, some of them groups—church groups an’ things—guess you could say they give folks, slaves, hope.”
“Daniel, I don’t understand …”
He sighed, then pursed his lips. “Sarah, you know me. I’m jus’”—he shrugged his shoulders, and continued—“I’m jus’ lookin’ fo’ somethin’ else to think of. Somethin’ of hope, you know? Somethin’ that’ll … help me escape it all.” The silence swelled too large for me to keep quiet.
“Escape that burnin’ feelin’ on the inside, you mean, Daniel? That’s what you mean, right?” I asked him, searching his face carefully. He licked his lips and placed his hand on my shoulder but said nothing.
“Daniel?” I asked, needing an answer.
“Yes, Sarah, that’s ’xactly what I mean.”
A woman’s face flashed before me plainly, but I couldn’t see it with clarity. The horror that had dripped from her eyes had come to life and built a mask for her to glue to her face. I glanced around and noticed ghosts that stood about—cold, silent, watching. The sky darkened above our heads and drenched the rest of us with rain. But not her: she stood dry, tall, proud, on that auction block. She was done asking, yelling, and pleading for her child. The woman had broken right out of her chains, snatched her son from the arms of her masters, and held him by his ankles, upside down. I heard words spilling from her, though her lips didn’t move at all.
You ain’t gonna have ’im. You ain’t gonna take an’ break an’ kill this child befo’ he even live decently. I don’t care what otha blood he got runnin’ through his veins, he’s my child. An’ if I cain’t have ’im, the only one who will’s gonna be my God.
I screamed, but a hand covered my mouth and a ghost figure with no face whispered in my ear.
Sarah, don’t you remember the auction block?
The images fell away quickly, and just as suddenly, I was somewhere else, skipping about arm in arm with a small boy who stood three or four inches taller than I was. We played beneath the glaring sun, hopped around trees, built structures in the soil, waded in the clear waters, until we were pulled without warning down, down, down through these waters and landed facedown in a strange cold new world.
A thousand feet dragged heavily against the ground. There were many sad faces—did they mirror my own? I fell into step with the weary bodies. Unfamiliar sounds, pale faces … I longed for nothing but my mother’s voice and touch.
Another ghost whispered, Sarah, you have got to remember the auction block!
I saw a platform, a whip, and more of those monster-men.
Glistening black bodies were herded like cattle; freezing water splashed over bareness; oil smacked on breasts and backs with fingers that liked to roam …
I sat in the crowd, cross-legged, a small wooden toy in my lap.
Madam, would you be so kind as to lean your umbrella just a little bit t
his way, please? The sun is rather harsh today, and I’d like to feel quite comfortable, watching this spectacle….”
Numbers two, five, and eleven were displayed before the crowd. Hands pulled lips apart to inspect teeth; fingers gripped muscles to place a price on able-bodied pieces of merchandise; eyes roamed up, down, front, back, determining who was in her prime for breeding.
Anger raged through my body like a wild animal. I ran to the platform, small hands pushing, small fists beating and beating at that monster-man. The inspector’s face abruptly snapped around, and he tossed my small body back into the lifeless crowd. His eyes settled on mine—the look of a master who knew how dangerous he could be. I turned away from Masta Jeffrey then, screaming, and ran headfirst into another whispering ghost.
Perhaps now you remember the auction block.
The small wooden toy I had been grasping in my tiny fingers leaped from my hands, and grew until it stood eye to eye with me. It turned to flesh and bone, staring with my mother’s eyes with features that mocked my own. The face was Sentwaki’s, and it bore the look of calm, distracted patience. He brought a finger slowly up and pointed to his shoulder, holding tightly to my gaze.
Branded—he had been branded. Searing, smoking metal pressed into flesh. The smell filled my nose, a nauseating stench. Four letters had been carved into his skin, though he sat, as always, on his gray cloud. A tear slipped from my eyes. I was afraid to read the word.
Brother, where has all your laughter gone to?
Read it.
Brother, why are we in this place, so far from home?
Read it.
Brother, I don’t want to be here. Take me back to Mathee, to Mama Mijiza …
Masta Jeffrey screamed in my ear, taunting with a whip held high overhead and demanding, Read it, read it. I dare you, read it!
S-O-L-D. The letters bounced past my eyes and chilled my spine.
Sentwaki, SOLD.
Ayanna, think of me. I’ll think of you.
Sentwaki, brother, what do you mean? You’re not leaving me, are you?
Yes, Sarah, that’s exactly what I mean.
I stared after his body until the last glimmer of his shiny black skin faded into the distance, though I felt his spirit linger a bit longer, felt it mark the place he’d sat when he had seen the glow in my eyes for the last time.
I cried, my teardrops becoming rivers that carried him farther and farther away.
“Sarah. Sarah, honey, wake up.” Mary was kneeling above me with tired eyes. She handed me a cloth and let me rub it across my wet face. My heart was wrapped tightly, and the tension I felt made my eyes spill more tears.
“Don’t like ’em at all, Mary, not at all.”
She sighed, climbing back into her own sleeping spot. “I know, chile. Hope you good an’ out of that one. You still got some time to rest yet. Try to get some real sleep.” I sank down beneath the rags that lay across my bed, trying hard to push away all the pieces of that dream my consciousness held on to.
CHAPTER
11
I DIDN’T ACKNOWLEDGE HIM WHEN I SAW HIM WALK BY IN the fields; it wasn’t that way. Fieldwork was fieldwork, hard enough without any distractions. But the smile I had glimpsed in the corner of John’s eye sat with me through the afternoon and the next day.
The air smelled fresh from rain that Saturday evening when I lay behind the cabin, remembering lessons I had overheard at the schoolhouse. After I was prevented from peeking through the window, I had found another way of listening in on some of the conversations that went on inside. There was a particular spot I’d stand at where, if I listened closely, the words from inside the schoolhouse would jump out at me and into my waiting, excited ears.
That evening, I spelled out words in the soil with a stick, putting them together and tearing them apart as I remembered.
“What you doin’?”
I jumped, quickly looking up to see John. I opened my mouth to speak, but words escaped his before I could succeed.
“Find me, wouldya?” he asked. With that, he disappeared around the side of the cabin. I laughed and rose from the ground. But when I rounded the corner, he was nowhere in sight.
“John—” I stopped quickly as I saw him disappearing behind some trees a ways away from the cabin.
I followed for a good few minutes, pulling back branches and whispering his name. Then, coming upon a tall tree, I found him leaning against it.
“Tell me I ain’t crazy chasin’ you out here,” I said, walking around to face him and hiding my smile.
“Here, blow on this,” he said, holding a wooden object out to me. I grabbed it and sat next to him, blowing in it like he said. It made the strangest whistling sound. John smiled at my laughter.
“So, what was it you was doin’ out there?” he asked.
I looked up, seriousness bathing my face.
“Wasn’t nothing,” I said simply after a few seconds of considering. I tried to turn my full attention back to the strange gift. He said nothing, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw him curl his lips against one another, waiting. I kept my mouth sealed as long as I could, stubborn against his silence, but finally, I relented. He knew the power of his silence, and he used it well.
“Can I trust you, John?” I asked, testing how ready my own heart was to share the fact that I was teaching myself to read and write. John leaned back, holding my gaze. A shadow seemed to pass over his eyes.
“John?” I asked again, waiting for his gaze to turn into an answer on his lips.
“I saw you, Sarah. I saw that look in yo’ eyes an’ knew you befo’ I even knew yo’ name. He was draggin’ you out there. I coulda sworn it was me, that day, unda that whip.” My cheeks flushed with color.
“Ain’ neva seen nothin’ like that look—nothin’ like it. You were hurtin’ befo’ he even laid that whip on your skin. You spoke to me, that day. Said, by the grace of God, nobody’d break yo’ spirit an’ rip from yo’ soul any dreams that was born there.” I bit my lip.
“Now, you ask if you can trust me, an’ I say, I’d sacrifice every piece’ve me befo’ I eva see any person on this earth bring out that look in yo’ eyes agin.” I heard his words but locked them away in my mind. They were so real, they scared me. Instead of responding, I picked up one of his hands and asked him to hold it open. But he didn’t do so; a slight frown appeared on his brow. I could see him concentrating, trying to form a decent question that matched his thoughts.
“Sarah …”
“Ya?”
“Ain’t nobody bin … bin tryin’ to break your spirit?”
I knew already what had crossed his mind.
“John,” I said softly, looking into his eyes. He pursed his lips. “Don’t think we should talk ’bout that, John.”
“Sarah …”
“John,” I responded softly, trying to coax him into letting his thoughts about Masta Jeffrey go for the moment. He looked away, shaking his head, and brought a patient face back around to me.
“All right. I ain’t tryin’ to talk of nothin’ you don’t wanna, Sarah. I won’t ask again. I jus’ …” I shook my head, then lifted his hand again.
“Nothin’, John. Hasn’t spoken to me or done nothin’. Now you gonna let me show you?” He stared at our hands for a moment, brushing his thumb against mine, and eventually opened up his palm. His eyes looked apologetic.
“Show me.” With my finger, I traced the letters of his name in his palm, watching his face while I did. A smile was drifting out from behind the clouds of his pride.
“Bin teachin’ myself to read, John,” I whispered to him. His head moved back and forth, and he sat grinning.
“Can you grin any wider?” I asked him. He laughed this time.
“Naw, that’s jus’ … it’s a good thing, a real good thing. Jus’ hope you ain’ goin’ round tellin’ folks …”
“John,” I said, placing a finger on his lips to quiet him, “don’t no one know. I ain’t no fool.”
“No, you ain’t,” he said. Both of us jumped when we heard a rustling nearby, then turned to see a field hand walking by us. He nodded in recognition without smiling and continued on his way.
That jolted me back to reality. “I best be gettin’ on now,” I said, and I stood up quickly, a bit fearful at the fact that I had so easily lost myself in a different world. John smiled softly and nodded, allowing his eyes to settle back on the wood and his carving tools that lay beside him.
CHAPTER
12
THE FIRST WEEK OF OCTOBER DRAGGED SLOWLY BY, AND WITH it came an inner battle with my learning. At this point, I had learned to read and write probably half as well as Masta Charles’s little children, and that was no easy task. There was no teacher, only me and the lessons I picked up from the young ones. Every night, before I went to bed, I would take out a small section of newspaper that I had pulled from the garbage in the Big House and hidden under a loose floorboard beneath my pallet. It was on these sheets of newspaper that I’d draw imaginary letters with my finger, or with a stick, so that I could practice my writing. I’d even try picking through the words, reading what I could, and storing things I didn’t understand for later.
Then, in passing one evening, I heard of a slave woman caught writing a letter to another plantation. I didn’t know who it was she was writing to, or what the letter was about, but her master was deeply angered in it all and sold her far down south. What was it that had caused her master to sell her like this? Was it the mere fact that she had gotten educated in hiding? This concern stood out, and because of it, the news hit me with a dreariness I couldn’t find the energy to rid myself of.
What, really, does this education mean to me? Is it worth the risk?
The weather turned sullen and gray and my thoughts in the fields dragged me to a place deep inside where the sunshine couldn’t have reached anyway, a place where dreams were crushed beneath the soles of a heaven I could not claim—a heaven where I had the basic right to be and act and live as a human being. I felt suspended deep inside that place, when I woke in the mornings and when I walked into the Big House. The feeling remained through the children’s bickering and reviewing of lessons at home. I stopped paying attention.
