16.
I help Amos to his feet but I decide not to go back to the cabins yet. I don't think we'll be working today. The Planation seemed chaotic when I woke up and I couldn't see anyone in the fields. Noah wasn't ordering us around and I presume that Mrs Ramier was in no condition to take over.
I conclude to treat this day as a Sunday. A day free from work.
Even though Amos will not speak, I cherish the near silence of the woods. So instead of heading back towards the fields, I lead him deeper into the forest, letting the satisfying sound of bare feet squelching through mud calm my bustling thoughts.
We walk slowly, and I absorb every moment of the quiet, every moment of the freedom.
I watch Amos. He has an aesthetically pleasing side profile. His eyelashes are longer, longer than mine, and his nose is short and structured.
"You can talk, if you wanna, 'bout the war."
His eyes remain fixed on something ahead of him, but they widen slightly when I mention 'war' and my spirits rise because I know that he can hear me. He was processing what I said. He understood.
Then he says, "Cass."
I stop abruptly and face him.
"Yes?" I say, "Yes?" My heart thumps under my ribcage.
His head rocks forward so his chin touches his neck and his eyes close. His mouth moves, but all I can hear is a low rumble of inaudible words.
But I impel myself to be patient with him.
His head lifts. His eyes open.
"Cass, I ain't gone talk 'bout it."
A gigantic mass of concern falls away from my shoulders.
He is talking. He is finally talking.
"You gotta talk, Amos," I gasp, "Tell me. Tell me everythin'"
"Naw," he says, "I ain't gonna. It's... too hard..." He squeezes his eyes shut and his body begins to shudder.
"'kay," I say quickly. "You ain't gotta. You safe now."
He nods.
"Jus' gone be too hard for you," he explains. "I seen things nobody should e'er hafta see... an' you don' wanna know what I seen."
"I ain't scared," I say, "You can tell me, if you wanna."
He is silent.
He looks into the distance, at the marshland which seems to stretch out forever.
Once more his eyes go big and glassy, and I suppose he is remembering the war, remembering the violence, remembering watching men die.
We are at the edge of the woods. Hours must have passed. I don't recall walking so far, but we stand at the fringe of a muddy field, where I can see for miles and miles.
The grass by my feet glistens with dew and at the end of my sight it is a green blur which slides up to the pale blue sky.
It is magical.
I glance at Amos.
What if we could run, straight through the field, towards the place where the green meets the blue?
What if we could just run away and never look back?
What if. Those are the words that haunt me during the day and seep into my dreams at night.
What if I were free?
Amos' face materialises in my vision.
"Let's go," he says.
"Ok."
We start to walk back to the Plantation, and as my feet move, I feel the force of freedom pulling me back. But I have to resist it.
We take a different route to the one we came by. The trees and the ground are unfamiliar.
Amos spots the wagon before I do. It is parked beside a large pine tree.
He tugs my arm, bringing me closer.
I smile. Some of him is still the same.
His curiosity.
His rebelliousness.
We move covertly through the trees, and when we are near enough to recognise indistinct voices, Amos ducks behind a tree and pulls me into place next to him.
I peer around the trunk. The voices belong to a man and a women. They lean against the wagon, which is small and covered with a red blanket. I don't think there is anyone else inside it. I can just make out the thick eyebrows and black curly hair of the man, but the woman is facing away from me.
Amos pokes me. I shuffle around, making as little noise as is possible and am met by his questioning look.
"It's a man an' a woman. Slaves, I thinks."
One of his eyebrows raise.
I sneak another glance at the people. It's strange. The woman is wearing a thin brown dress, like the one my Mama always wears, but the man's clothes are unusual. I look more closely. A broad brown hat and proper boots support my suspicions that the man is a foreigner. He doesn't even dress like a slave. He seems out of place.
"Ain't from here," I mumble.
Amos indicates for me to shift sideways and he takes my position, peeping around the tree.
Suddenly he draws back.
"What's happenin'?" I hiss.
He puts a finger to his lips.
I wait, holding my breath.
Amos stays silent, watching intently.
"Amos?! What's happenin'?" I can't bare not knowing what's going on. I am too inquisitive. Too impatient.
"They's comin' closer," he says. "The woman's turnin' around. She's..." The rest of his sentence falls back down his throat as his mouth hangs open.
"What?" I say, "She's what?"
Amos squints at me. His fingers fumble around each other. His hair has grown considerably since before he left the Planation and it is plastered to his head in shiny curls. His eyes are so dark I feel as though they could swallow me.
My thighs burn from crouching for too long.
I try to move past him, to see for myself, but he thrusts his arm out as a barrier.
"What is it?" I demand, hot with frustration.
He looks away, and after a moment's indecision he says, "The woman's your Mama."
YOU ARE READING
Mind Of A Slave
Historical Fiction"The life we're living is the easiest of the difficult." Cass Jinney Jackson is a Louisianan slave girl. She has recently moved to a plantation near the woods, but her life there is far from ordinary. Growing up as the civil war rages on, she finds...
