Mind Of A Slave

News About Master Ramier

15.

I FALL ASLEEP late and I wake up the next morning long after dawn. Rays of sunlight stream through the open window, transforming the dusty cabin into a magical place.

I hear hushed whispers outside. I rub my eyes and scan the room. Two other women are still sleeping. Mama's bed is empty.

I grope along the floor under my bed for my head wrap. Taking my time to arrange it carefully over my hair, I walk outside.

I stand so that I am shaded by the roof of the cabin and I look down the line of houses as far as I can, watching the people scurrying around like ants. They disappear into theirs cabin and reappear as if they are being controlled, monitored, guided by some intangible power. Their faces are mixtures of irritation, contentedness and ignorance. Their mouths curl downwards at the corners. Their eyes are big and watery. Their cheeks are pinched, their skin is scaly.

I go to the outhouse and look at myself in the mirror. I realise I look just like them. I look sick and exhausted. I splash cool water over my face. It sprays onto the mirror, dotting the filthy surface. I wipe the water with my palm, smudging the dirt across the glass. I scrunch up my nose. The girl in the mirror copies me. I frown. The girl frowns. I smile. The girl smiles. Her lips are chapped and her teeth are stained yellow. Her cheek bones are so prominent that they stretch her dark skin.

When I leave the outhouse I can immediately sense the difference. I scan the fields. Nobody is working. I begin to walk back to my cabin. Hannah is standing at the door. I wave at her and she runs over to meet me. She is young and has energy I know I'll never have.

"How's Zahhall?" I ask.

Her smile seems to overpower her entire face. "Better," she says. "He's doin' real good."

"I'm glad," I say, relieved. I look over her shoulder and see men and women clustered in groups, talking amongst themselves.

"What's goin' on?" I say.

"We ain't been told to work today," she explains, "No one know why. There's rumours Master Ramier's back."

My heart jumps. I stare at her, and she seems a little taken aback because she shuffles backwards.

"He's back?" I echo, my voice small.

"He come last night," Hannah says.

I open my mouth and a small gasp escapes me, unaccompanied by words.

"That's why we ain't doin' nothin'," Hannah says. "No one's gave us orders."

I nod. "I'm.. gonna go... find out."

"Ok," she says cheerfully. "Can I come?"

"No." I say.

My words must have been too sharp and too abrupt because she looks heartbroken.

"I...sorry," I say, but I can't tell her that I'm going to try to find Julia. It's too dangerous for her to know about the secret, and I don't want to stay any longer to explain. I want to find Julia. I want to find Amos.

My legs move faster than I mean them too, faster than the rest of my body, faster than my mind. They travel miles ahead of me, drawn towards the house by a rope that I can't resist.

I open the door before realising that it's the front door, the one that slaves aren't supposed to use. I almost run into Julia in the corridor. I stop hurrying and my questions rain down on her, heavy as lead, flattening her.

"Is it true?"

"Is Master back?"

"Are they all back?"

"Where's Amos?"

I don't notice her trembling lips.

I don't notice her glossy, red eyes.

I don't notice the wet streaks on her cheeks.

Not until she turns to face me and I am shrinking under her gaze.

"He's dead," she says in a bare whisper. "Someone shot him. In the neck. He's dead."

I gulp, and as I look at her, my own emotions stare back at me.

"I'm sorry," I say.

She doesn't respond, but shakes her head, then sprints up the stairs and out of sight.

I leave before Mrs Ramier has the chance to see me inside the house.

Suddenly the reality of the situation hits me like a rock has been thrown at my stomach.

Master Ramier has been killed.

Shot.

Dead.

But what about Amos?

It takes too long to reach the edge of the cotton field. Too long to find Amos's cabin. It takes too long to bang on the door with my fists and he takes too long to answer.

"Cass?"

And the door opens a crack, then flies past my nose and all of a sudden Amos's arms are wrapped tightly around me and I notice that I'm crying.

"I thought you were dead," I wail into his shirt.

He hugs me tighter, resting his head on my shoulder.

"Master Ramier's dead," I sob. "And I thought you were too."

He doesn't reply. I can feel his damp breath on the back of my neck.

I don't know who breaks away from the embrace first, but we leave the field and start to walk towards the pond.

Neither of us speaks.

As we walk side by side, in the mix of emotions, tears and clammy breaths, I suddenly remember Patrick.

I should tell him. Sometime. Not now.

I only start to realise that something is wrong when we are sitting together on the bank of the pond, and I look at him carefully.

His skin is paler than usual, his lips are chapped, the beds of his fingernails are bloodied. I notice the tears and smears of blood on his shirt. Dried blood. Old and crumbling. He must not have washed for days.

But the most prominent difference that I can see is in his eyes. His eyeballs jerk around inside their sockets as if he is struggling to focus, as if he can't see me at all.

I touch his arm, tenderly.

For a moment he appears to be looking at me and his expression changes. Then a layer of sweat formalises on his forehead and he gazes at me blankly, with large stunned eyes.

"Amos?" I say. He stares at me. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even open his mouth. He hasn't uttered word than one word since he returned.

"Amos?" I say again, urgently.

He rolls onto his side and I have to reach out a hand to prevent him from toppling into the water.

He sits up again and starts to shake his head, side to side, over and over.

"Amos," I croak.

Now his whole body is vibrating.

"It's me, Cass," I say. I want to scream at him, to drag him out of his trance, but my voice comes out in a whisper. "You ain't fightin' no more. You safe. You're here 'gain. Home. Safe."

I slide my hand between his fingers, but he yanks his arm away from me. He shuffles backwards, spraying dirt in all directions.

I feel my throat tighten and I know I'm going to cry again.

"Amos, it's me. Looka me. Please." Tears tumble down my cheeks.

He blinks. He inches closer to me.

Then I feel his lips press onto mine.

And although he is not himself, he is enough.