SUSANNA

2| DREAMS

Susanna was led to a courtroom in Batavia. She trudged with a stomping gait that left a rhythmic, clank, shuffle, clank, shuffle in its wake.

The chain around her ankles weighed down her feet. The rope around her wrists, tight and dirty, left her fingers swollen and blue but she concentrated, like the old woman said, and took small steps. One at a time, one good eye on the rope.

Her guard, a dark-skinned local with pitch black hair who drowned in an oversized blue uniform held on to one end of the rope tied around her hands. He looked as if he had just woken up after a long night at one of the public taps. His eyes flashed with irritation when she lifted her arm to scratch her brow above her swollen eye socket. She touched the eye. It was warm and it throbbed beneath her fingers.

He turned around. The bloodshot eyes flashed with anger in the long, unshaven face. He tugged at the rope with exaggerated force and well-timed skill. When she stumbled and fell he pulled with ferocity as she struggled back onto her feet. She resumed her strained procession, eye glued to the yank-and-release tug of the leash.

The chains collided with the floor. Clank, shuffle, clank, shuffle the sound followed her, hurt her, held her back, forcing every muscle in her body to push her forward.

The abrasion of the shackles had scarred the skin on the outer layer of her ankles and tattooed a blue-black ring where she used to tie the straps of her sandals.

The tender frame buckled under the weight of the chains. Clank. Shuffle. Clank. Shuffle. The guard stopped. Her bare feet stopped. The clatter stopped.

The face lifted. Buried inside her swollen socket was one black eye.

The head pivoted. The dark hair was caked on one side and the rest, a mangled nest, trailed over her bent shoulders all the way down her back.

'Honourable Council,' said the judge seated behind a wooden bench. On his head was a curly, white wig, and from his neck down only his black cloak was visible. He turned to the prisoner who stood in her designated place. Their eyes met for one single heartbeat before he spoke. 'The powers conferred on me by the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Companie here in Batavia demands that the case of this slave appearing before this Council of Justice, Susanna van Bengal-' He paused, uncertain. But then his brows and face creased.

Susanna rattled the chains around her ankles, and started muttering. At first it was incoherent. Muffled. But then it picked up, increased in volume and gathered momentum. It crested into a cry that bounced off the walls and etched itself into the grain of the long benches.

'I am Kismia,' she screamed.

A hubbub erupted amid the feathered hats. Expressions of disgust, cursing and calls for punishment dissipated as the wooden mallet banged down on the block beneath it.

'That prisoner will remain quiet in my courtroom.'

'My name is Kismia,' she shouted once more.

'Guard, control the prisoner, or I will have you flogged.' She cowered under the lashes of the dishevelled guard. Whoosh. Whoosh it rained down on her. When the whip was tired, the judge continued.

'Mindful of this slave's resistance to law and order, I now administer justice in the name of the Lords States General of the free United Netherlands.' His eyes swept across the audience. 'Having seen and read the charges against this prisoner's thieving propensity and, after careful consideration and consultation with counsel, this is her punishment.' He addressed the guard. 'The prisoner will face me when judgment is passed.'

'Yes, Your Honour.' He wrapped her hair around his hand, held it at the nape of her neck and pulled her head backwards.

'The prisoner will be taken to the public place where punishments are carried out. There she will be handed over to the executioner.' He paused and lifted his head, sifting through the faces of his audience. 'To brand her as a runaway, and a thieving convict, her right ear will be cut off, in public. After punishment is carried out, she is banished to the Cape of Good Hope where she will serve a life sentence in service of the Company.'

***

She struggled against the force of the two guards who shoved her face in a rusty iron vice and locked it into place. Susanna tossed and turned her legs and body, but it was trapped in the harness. Her head remained clamped in the metal brace of rusted steel bolted at the back of her skull. She squirmed as the scissors cut into her flesh. Long, drawn-out screams cleaved the air as the knife severed the ear from her head.

The blood rushed down her neck and back and onto her rags. Wide eyed she followed her raven locks. They dangled downwards, swirled around and brushed against her urine-soaked legs before settling beneath her feet. Her eyes flickered a few times at the sight of her lifeless hair, curled up among the blood and the body parts of previous executions, before they closed.

***

Two guards dragged her unconscious body back to her dungeon and flung her body inside. The old woman hurried to the door and inspected Susanna's body. It lay limp and unconscious, blood streaming from the sight of her missing ear. The rest of the women stepped forward and helped her carry Susanna to her mat.

For days the old woman watched over Susanna. She sighed as the girl's expression of identity dwindled. Each passing night the infection from the severed ear spread and gnawed at her strength.

When the old woman doused her lips with her last ration of water the guard called.

'Minah, the hour is upon you.'

She took off her shawl, covered Susanna's body and muttered one last prayer over her soul queued in the valley of death.

The guard stepped inside and shouted for a second time.

'Minah, the hour is upon you.'

she bent down and kissed the dry lips that repeatedly whispered the same sentence over and over.

'I am Kismia. I am Kismia,' mourned the parched lips and a mouth that refused to heed the call of death.

Susanna had no strength. She could not speak. Powerless against the spasms and fog of unconsciousness that engulfed her

The old woman smiled as she walked past the rest of the women who had formed a guard of honour for her, their fists on their hearts and their heads bowed.