Mind Of A Slave

For Hannah

"CASS?" AMOS SAYS cautiously.

"What?"

"We was gone leave today..."

We sit by the stream, Hannah's head nestled in the folds of my skirt, our thoughts racing over the question that we've being avoiding. That is, until now. Now we need to discuss our options. Now we need to make a plan.

"We...could stay?" I propose, quietly.

"An' die? We ain't got a choice, Cass. We gotta go."

"We can stay 'ere a little while longer...can't we?" I answer my own question in my head. No. We can't. The longer we stay, the lower our chances are of survival.

"No. We's goin' tonight. We haveta go," Amos insists.

"What, an' I ain't got a say?" I say coldly.

"No, you don't, 'cause if it were your choice, you jus' choose to stay 'ere forever an' I ain't gone do that, so you ain't got a say." His tone is harsh all of a sudden.

"That ain't true," I spit.

"Yeah?! Then why ain't we already outta this place?" Amos yells. "Why ain't we lef'? Ev'ry time we's thinkin' 'bout leavin', you decides you wanna stay."

Hannah stirs and reaches for my hand, alarmed.

"Shhh," I whisper, although I'm trying as hard as I can to control my trembles of rage. I shoot Amos a furious glance, longing to voice my angry thoughts, to fire them at him like bullets, right into his head. I need him to know how I feel. I need him to understand that we simply cannot leave. Not when Hannah is sick. Not when there are people who need us.

"Can't we wait?" I say as calmly as I can.

Amos opens his mouth, but then shuts it, clamping his teeth and shaking his head as if to clear violent thoughts from his brain.

He speaks in a low, patient voice. "Cass...there's always gone be people dyin' and people who need us. But you gotta think 'bout us, now, an' think 'bout yourself. You ain't doin' yourself no good if you stay 'ere longer."

I look down at her closed eyes and shiny skin, at her gentle, loving, ignorant face. I can't leave. I have to stay for Hannah.

"Hannah's got no one," I say quietly. "I ain't gone leave her. I gotta look after her. Sorry."

Amos's eyes dart from me to Hannah. He bends his knees and hugs them to his chest, rocking from side to side, his eyes scrunched, his lips curled downwards. I watch his body sway to and fro for a long time. Finally his eyelids lift, his arms relax and his knees fall away from his body.

He doesn't look at me when he speaks. He doesn't look at Hannah.

"Fine," he says. "Fine."

He doesn't seem to be looking at anyone in particular. He's just gazing over my shoulder, staring into the depths of his own mind.

For the next week, Beckey, Amos and I take turns looking after Hannah during the day. Amos builds a small fort in the woods where she sleeps under a roof of branches and leaves, away from the healthy people and the dying people. She hasn't been able to walk for five days, and she can barely eat. We have to force crumbs of bread or drip peach juice into her mouth every morning, compelling her to swallow against her will.

I spend most days in the woods with Amos, and at night, when I can't sleep, I sometimes visit her and sit outside her shelter, listening to her shallow, uneven breaths, wishing that she would get better and fearing the misery she is sure to feel as soon as I uncover the truth about her parents.

One night, as the hot summer air begins to cool into fall, I venture through the woods with a blanket and a fresh bucket of water. I crawl through the opening of the fort and lie beside her hot body, spreading the blanket over me. I dip my fingers in the water and place them on her dry lips.

"Cass...you gone get sick," she wheezes.

"Shhh..." I splash water on her forehead, hoping it will remove some of the heat from her skin.

"Beckey's here," she says huskily, "You can go get some sleep."

"Beckey?" I say.

There's no response.

"She ain't here, Hannah. She's back at the Plantation, sleepin'." I wipe the water from her head with my blanket.

"She.. she's... she were..."

"Shhh... You ain't gotta talk. Jus' rest," I say, as the severity of her illness dawns on me. She's so sick that her thoughts are all muddled in her brain. She's crazed. Delirious.

"Where's my parents?" She asks.

In the cabin elected for the dead bodies to be stored until they are buried. I pretend I don't hear her. I pretend to be asleep.

"Is they dead?"

I'm sleeping, I think, I'm sleeping, so I didn't hear her, so I don't have to reply.

"They's dead, ain't they."

And then she starts to cry so I put my arm around her and I stay beside her for the rest of the night, consoling her as her tears run silently.