Mind Of A Slave

Ghosts And Stars

20.

I DON'T GET a chance to return to Amos's cabin because Noah arrives a few minutes later to inform us jubilantly that cotton harvesting has resumed.

I trudge out to the field with a group of slave-women and young boys.

I can't see Amos.

When I retire to my cabin at dusk, I wash quickly, put on some clean clothes and go to find Amos.

I arrive at his cabin and the tall man, Jacks' Papa, ushers me inside.

"'e's still here, sleepin', but not sleepin'," he says. Confused, my eyes search for Amos and locate him on his bed in the corner. Instantly, I realise what Jack's Papa means.

Amos is sitting upright on the bed, his back straight, his head vertical. He twists to look at me when I enter and I see that his eyes are glassy. Beads of perspiration cling to his eyebrows.

"He work today?" I ask Jack's Papa.

"Noah said he ain't gone get outta work wid somethin' like shock," he responds sympathetically.

"Must've been other boys who's sufferin' like this too, right?" I say, "Others who was fightin' with Master Ramier. Ain't they shocked, too?"

"Naw," Jack's Papa shakes his head sadly, "They was all killed."

I draw in a sharp breath. Four people went, and only one came back. Amos. He's the only survivor.

I walk over to his bed and grasp his hand. As soon as I make contact with his skin, he clutches my wrist like he's never going to let go. He stands up. He wants to leave.

"Bye," I say to Jack's Papa. Then Amos and I walk towards the woods.

We have only travelled for a minute when Hannah runs up to us, crying.

"What is it?" I gasp, letting go of Amos and pulling her into my arms.

"Z-Zahhalll died," she sobs, "Jus' last night, all of a sudden. Couldn't fin' you this mornin'... I were wantin' to tell you..."

The three of us hurry to the brink of the Planation, to a grassy area that's unfamiliar to me. There is a stream running through the tall blades of grass and a few women are washing their clothes in the water. Apart from them, we are alone.

As soon as we stop walking, Hannah's body crumples into a heap on the ground. Amos and I sit beside her.

She breaks down.

She's bawling so much she's almost choking.

The longer I watch her, the blurrier my vision becomes, and soon it dawns on me that I'm crying, too.

Zahhall.

Eight-year-old Zahhall.

Hannah's little brother who liked to watch the sun set in the evening, is dead.

Looking into the stream's clear water, a reflection of misery bounces back at me. I can see Hannah's quavering body and Amos's lifeless expression. I can see myself, my hunched shoulders, my tired eyes, my damp hair, and I can see that I am slowly crumbling like everyone else.

✫ ✫ ✫

The rest of the evening spins past in a blur of tears and vexation.

I walk with Amos to his cabin, where Jack's Papa greets him and guides him inside. Then Hannah and I continue to her cabin. Her parents are already asleep when we arrive. I can't help but notice Zahhall's empty bed.

I lead her to her own pile of hay but she resists and heads towards Zahhall's bed, instead.

She sinks onto the bed, leaning against the wall of the cabin and staring out of the tiny window above her.

I slump next to her and she rests her head on my collar bone. Her face is wet with tears.

I look up, and its as if black ink has spilled across the sky. The stars are tiny white pebbles, and the moon, a sliver of bright light, relieving the darkness.

"Zahhhall thought it were ghosts," Hannah stutters.

"The stars?" I whisper.

"Yeah." She sniffs. "An' the moon...was the President a the ghosts. An' the ghosts was so small they sneak aroun' an' h-hide from the President. B-but the moon... didn't min' 'cause 'e...'e loved....." Her words falter and she begins to cry quietly.

I hug her tightly and hand her Zahhall's sheet to wipe her tears.

"'e...'e love all a the ghosts and they could do whatever they want," she says, her voice muffled by the sheet. "An' they was equal an' real happy...That's what 'e were tellin' me alla time."

"It's a nice story," I say.

"But it ain't like that," she says. I can hear the pain in her voice.

"No, it ain't."

"I wish it were. I wish we wasn't slaves an' I wish I were like one a them ghosts up in the sky, ain't doin' nothin' no one tells me I gotta do, an' doin' what I wanna do."

I look back into the black sky. I imagine that I'm Zahhall, gazing up at some other world, where there is freedom and equality and peace for everyone, every ghost, every star.