by Carter, Noni
A teardrop slid down my cheek as I raised my head.
“I see you, Sarah, I see you when you know there ain’t many folks who’d care for you in this evil world. I see you an’ have seen you for a long while wit your spirit obviously not intended fo’ this world. Don’t know how to ’xplain it, but you remind me of Aunt Pearl—you rememba, my grandma?”
I nodded. “Said she didn’t want no masta’s name, so she had us callin’ her Bell, Gramma Pearl Bell. She said if she could be anythin’ otha than herself, she’d be a bird, an’ birds reminded her of bells when they sing.” He sighed.
“You jus’ like her, headstrong an’ everythin’. She used to be proud to speak of freedom when those in her presence shook with fear at the word. Don’t know if they ain’t understand it, or if they was jus’ too scared to talk ’bout it. But not her, not her. An’ there’s just somethin’ . . .” He shook his head and looked down at the ground. When he lifted his eyes back up, a tear glistened in one of them. His sincerity made me turn away, his words touching me deeper than any slave should allow. Soon, I would find that out.
The wave washed over me then. I felt the truth of it all stare me right in the face as thoughts of Masta Jeffrey swam through my mind. I had to tell John. The topic of Masta Jeffrey was one we had agreed not to talk about, but even as the months drifted by and my fear of being confronted had died away, John would sprinkle conversations with questions that hinted at his deep-seated fear and his realization that he had no control over what Masta Jeffrey chose to do with me. John’s sly questioning never caught me off guard, however, and my answer was always the same.
“He hasn’t done nothin’, John.”
“Sarah, Sarah, you tellin’ me right?”
“John, we said we ain’t gonna talk like this. He hasn’t done nothin’.”
He’d nod, gathering up his fears and tossing them back into the deep waters they’d come from, and pretend to forget. But tonight, concerns about Masta Jeffrey seemed to be the farthest thing from his mind, and I began to see that I’d have to remind him of those concerns, and of how real they were.
“John,” I said softly, turning completely to face him, letting his arm fall off my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around one knee. “Got somethin’ to tell you. Scared to tell you, but I know I got to.” He peered at me silently.
“He came back again, to me.” I hesitated, every bone in my body begging me not to tell him what was on my mind. John sat up straighter.
“He? You mean . . .”
“Masta Jeffrey, ya.”
He looked at me, his breath becoming more rapid, and his eyebrows arching. “But, Sarah, you . . . you tole—”
“I know what I bin sayin’, John, an’ all that’s bin true. But he came to me a few days ago. Didn’t do nothin’ but scare me this time, but said he’d be back real soon. That’s when I knew I gotta go with y’all. I gotta. I ain’t gonna stay here an’ let no masta of mine breed me ’gainst my will.” I blinked up at him. The corners of his eyes no longer laughed like they always did: They were screaming down at me.
I continued. “John, you know that’s the difference here between bein’ a slave an’ not bein’ one, an’ I ain’t got no choice ’less I’m free. I think ’bout runnin’ north to freedom an’ gettin’ caught; I’m scared, I’m really scared, but that’s what I gotta do. Ain’t got no soul here, John, no dignity. I ain’t no little gal now, an’ Masta Jeffrey, he see that. If you go an’ come back for me after you done reached freedom, you be surprised when you see me workin’ in the fields with a light-colored chile strapped on my back. That the kind of bondage you comin’ back to rescue me from? ’Cause Masta Jeffrey sho’ ain’t gonna wait that long, an’ I thought . . . I thought you’d figure that yo’self.” A tear slid down my face as I watched him sitting there with a balled fist raised to his tight lips.
“John, let me . . .” I began, raising a hand to him, but rage broke through the chains of calmness that had held him there on the ground, and he abruptly stood up. I hugged my knees as he walked over to a tree, which he struck with his fist.
He staggered back and fell down next to me. I wrapped him in my arms and squeezed him close. He forced a long breath of frustration out of his mouth.
“Cain’t stand it like I thought I could. All these months, I tell myself ova an’ ova they cain’t control us that way. No matta what happens, no matta what, we still got our minds. But . . . Sarah, figure I bin jus’ a lyin’ to myself. I’d die befo’ that man put his hands on you like that,” John said with a vengeance in his voice that seemed foreign.
“John, don’t talk like that. I’m runnin’. He ain’t gonna have that chance.” He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned more weight into my arms. I ran a hand across his forehead.
“You gotta run,” he repeated, pain in his voice. I knew he was searching for other possibilities, but no others were good enough. I knew, because I had already searched my own mind.
“We . . . I could . . .”
“Naw, John, I’m runnin’,” I said with finality in my voice. He sighed again, deeply, and we fell silent for a long time. I listened closely to his breathing, my breathing, and then the union of our breath, a small measure of warmth and bliss that pierced the nighttime chill.
John sat up straighter and began fooling with my hair.
“What you think Daniel gonna say?” he asked me.
“I don’t know, but he ain’t stoppin’ me, either,” I said softly. “Don’t think he would stop me. It’s jus’ I want my freedom, that’s all,” I whispered more to myself than to John. I felt my nervousness at the thought of our escape silently creeping up on me as the minutes ticked on into the night.
I’m really going through with all this!
The two of us filled the sullen spaces with whispers that blended into the night.
“Wanna know somethin’?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Cain’t no one stop me from namin’ my joy Sarah.”
“Ayanna,” I whispered. He smiled again with wonder.
“Ayanna . . . yeah, Ayanna. You wanna dance?” Something in his question spilled over like a warning, but I had too many worries to think much about it. Excitement lit up his face. The worry I felt swam from my mind, for the moment, as John pulled me up into his arms.
“Put me down!” I said forcefully in his ear, but he paid me no attention, satisfied by my laughter, until we neared the festivities once more. He set me lightly on my feet and guided me to the center of the music and dancing, where some of the slave folk busily plucked at banjos while others beat out rhythms with sticks.
It had to be the magic of the night—the music, maybe, or better yet, the spirit of the young man I danced with. With a step or two in time with the music, I was suddenly free: free as the wind, the stars, the birds, and the angels, just free! I was in a dream, swinging, flying, and spinning, around and around, in delicate motions with two hands on my waist. Then I was floating in my own grace, deftly defying gravity itself, like the wind, and I was spinning and spinning, back into his waiting arms. Indeed, I was not a slave. There was no question of that. The seconds were minutes and the minutes were hours. The world twirled away and it was just the two of us dancing—flying! Then we were still again, lost in a world far from the shuffling feet and smiling couples moving about us. His dark brown eyes shone brighter than the stars that laughed down upon us. His face came close, his nose resting softly against my own, and his lips took mine . . .
Then came the crash.
So dazed, I couldn’t understand how one minute, John had brought me back down to the ground and was pulling me close to him, and in the next, I was lying on the ground with a stinging sensation on my left eye. The reality of the cruel world I was in came crudely back into focus.
The white man had slapped me down and kicked John to the ground. When John looked up, his lip dripped with blood, which concerned me more than the blood running down my own face. He moved his hand toward his m
outh and slowly sat up. But his eyes were closed, and I feared the devil I would find when he opened them. The music subsided like a symphony of birds suddenly hushed by a poacher’s voice, leaving nothing but scowling silence.
“All y’all, get.” Those were the first words he spoke. Hardly anybody moved as Masta Jeffrey, who had stumbled into the middle of the gathering, staggered forward, drunk. A few voices rose among the small crowd, kindly asking Masta to let us be. But another harsh yell from Masta Jeffrey sent slave row—many of whom stumbled with drunkenness—dragging their feet away from the dancing grounds.
“You were supposed to stay away, weren’t you?” Masta Jeffrey said with a slow drawl after he felt enough of the others had gone far enough away. He kicked in John’s stomach. But no answer came out of John’s mouth, although he was fully conscious and able to talk. His eyes were open, but his focus lay intently on the ground. My heart stood still.
“I told you, didn’t I? Didn’t I, boy?” I looked on with growing horror as John dared to lift his eyes and stare straight into Masta Jeffrey’s with a scowl on his face. His nose flared out wide as if he smelled poison. John was doing more than treading dangerous territory: He was throwing himself to the lions. He shouldn’t look Masta in the eyes like that, and he knew it. That was equated with a crime against God! Whether or not he thought of himself as a slave, he knew how Masta viewed him. Was he trying to get himself killed before the night was over?
“How dare you, you stupid animal!” Two more blows landed in the middle of his face, and with a terrible cracking noise, John’s now-disfigured nose flowed blood. But he made no noise of pain and held fast to his death gaze. I brought my trembling hands to my mouth in horror. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the blood that dripped in procession from his nose to his lips to his shirt as if it, too, wanted to escape what was coming next. As John lifted himself again, Masta beat him back down with his foot. This continued as I winced, using every ounce of my strength to stop from crying out. I looked around wildly and watched an overseer make his way over to the scene.
What is John thinking? Doesn’t he want to escape?
With the overseer’s help, Masta dragged John’s body to the beating tree. I wrung my hands dry, but John didn’t struggle at all, which was both a blessing and a curse. They tied his hands to the rope and ripped off his shirt. I alone could see the pain on his chest, burning like fire—pain telling him he had to strike back—if not for himself, then for me.
I wanted to run away so as not to bear witness to this, but I knew Masta wouldn’t let me. If anything, he was beating John to anger me.
What have I done? My soul was crying.
Behind me, I heard the hushed whispers of slaves. “Naw, Lord, not on this day. Please, not on this day!”
Masta Jeffrey turned around and told them, “Get!” Then he turned to me, and I watched a grin slowly light his face as if the world sat idly in his palm. He told me to stay where I was, and it sickened me to think that he could find humor in his cruelty.
The overseer yanked out his bullwhip and raised it high.
What could I possibly do?
One, two, three . . . The lashing continued, and John’s eyes rolled back in their sockets, so I could only see their white, but his lips remained firmly set. I felt every lash as if the whip were striking my own skin. I couldn’t stand it. My body seemed to take on a mind of its own as I jumped from the ground and ran to Masta Jeffrey. I begged him to stop, apologizing for disobeying his orders. He raised a hand, and the overseer paused, the whip raised high. Masta Jeffrey grabbed my arm. I almost screamed—almost—but John’s red eyes now stared at me, and with that I knew I needed to stand as tall as I could for him. My eyes tried to persuade him not to go against orders; he would not be less of a man for just enduring a little more of Masta’s brutality.
“This, nigga,” Masta Jeffrey blurted out, “is because you disobeyed your Masta.” Turning back, he motioned for the overseer to continue to beat John’s back, and he held me in place so I could see the chaos I had created. I wished that he would just strike my back instead. Only then would I feel less pain.
Around strike fifty, I couldn’t count anymore, let alone look. An eternity seemed to pass before he hit the bleeding mound of flesh that had replaced John’s back for the last time and Masta forced me to look. Masta Jeffrey dragged me away as Mary and a few others ran to help John. But Mary’s gaze never left mine, even as Masta dragged me far enough away so that no one could hear his words. He then dropped me on the earth. His grip on my arm was very painful, but it was nothing compared with the pain I felt in my heart.
“Did you tell him?” His breath was nauseating, reeking of strong liquor. “Did you tell him?” he asked again.
With every jerk, I bit my lip harder, tasting my own blood.
“No, Masta, I swear . . . I swear it, Masta. I didn’t, Masta.” He patted his whip, his lips still close to mine.
“You better be sure, gal, you better be sure . . .” I was sweating now, despite the cold, and fought desperately to hold back the tears.
Our tears were a source of their pleasure.
Yes, I was a slave in his eyes, but I would not let him see me cry.
Then I heard a sound in the distance, a sound I prayed his ears would quickly pick up on before he could start fooling with his pants.
“I told you not to hang round with this here slave dog.”
“Yessah, Masta.” There the sound was again, and yet again, but he ignored it. He shoved me down further and pressed my arms into the ground.
“Gonna show you what—” The noise came again, now louder, closer. Masta Jeffrey staggered backward in his drunkenness and turned his head toward it. The woman’s high, shrill voice called out his name once more, and this time it could be heard clearly.
“Jeffrey, son, where are you?” He looked back over at me, his lips curling into a half-conscious smile, and threw up the contents of his stomach onto the ground so close to me, I almost threw up myself.
“Cain’t trust you,” he said, staggering backward.
He repeated the accusation twice more, then turned back toward the Big House, stopping several times to vomit.
I stayed there on the ground contemplating what had just occurred. I was alone, and only then did the fit of sobs rush through me like a storm, soft but angry. I was glad I had been spared Masta Jeffrey’s body, but I wondered why everything had to happen the way it did.
But I was not alone. Daniel approached silently and helped me up. On seeing him, I started, “John . . .”
“He gonna be all right.”
With a soft cry, I buried my head in his shoulder and cried some more. How was I supposed to get out of this? How were we going to get out of it?
CHAPTER
17
DANIEL HAD TAKEN ME BY THE THE ARM AS WE HEADED BACK to the cabin the next morning. I was too ashamed to drag my sleep-deprived eyes around to look at his face. I felt as if everything was solely my fault.
“It ain’t yo’ fault, Sarah,” he said, reading my thoughts as we entered the cabin.
“We shoulda talked it out wit you,” he whispered.
Confusion settled over me. “You shoulda talked it out?” I repeated.
“Ya. Shoulda talked a long time ago ’bout you goin’ wit us.”
“You knew I was thinkin’ ’bout goin’?” I asked, my heavy heart finding solace in the idea that he knew.
He nodded. “Knew that’s wat you’d say to us, at least.”
“How? Was it—was it Mary?” I asked, my face drowning in tears. His face showed no signs of surprise.
“I talked to Mary ’bout it,” he said. “She said you told her ’bout us. She never tole me you were thinkin’ ’bout travelin’ wit us, though, but I jus’ knew.”
“But, Daniel, how’d you know?” I asked.
“How couldn’t I, Sarah? You my sister.”
I wanted to respond, but I felt too drained.
John was in a pitiful
condition. He could barely walk, and he surely couldn’t run. His insistence on running despite this would’ve torn my heart to pieces if I had been there to hear him plead; but I wasn’t. The only two with John that night were Mary and another elder woman. They both let him know that he wasn’t going anywhere until he healed. The older woman told him he shouldn’t have disobeyed Masta in the first place.
“Wa’n’t no way I’d give up the best day in the year I got to spend wit the person who keeps my heart safe an’ warm an’ protected fo’ me. Gotta give up that day jus’ to make sho’ I don’t go too far wit her?” Mary told me those were his words to her when she was putting her healing medicine on his back.
“If you had just saved this day, though, and obeyed Masta, then you would’ve had all the world with her,” Mary had whispered to him.
When Masta’s family left for church and the overseers were slacking off their jobs, I went to see John.
“Looks like things is switched round, huh?” John asked, trying, as he always seemed to do, to find some humor in downright bad situations. Not moved at all, I shook my head, standing with my arms crossed over my chest. He had covered his back with a rag before I came in, trying to hide all the blood, but it showed through anyway.
“What’s wrong?” John asked me, a question requiring no response.
“If I . . . if I hadn’t danced with you,” I said, “I would not’ve gotten you in any trouble.”
“Sarah,” he said, “why you sorry? I should be the sorry one! I’m the one brought you out to that dance floor. Anyway, what’s done is done an’ I can truly say you the best danca I eva met!” he said, with a soft laugh. I wasn’t fooled. I saw right through John to the disbelief deep within him. Last night was his night—his time to escape—and that moment had been snatched from under his feet. But, as he tried to make me feel myself again, my tight, worried, and anxious face relaxed a bit. We were alone, so John told me what he wanted us to do. I kneeled down beside him as he sat up to face me, his pain, which he did his best to hide, clawing at him. The fresh cuts covering his bare ankles revealed that the overseer hadn’t aimed well for John’s back. His nose was roughly bandaged with a bloody cloth.
