Mind Of A Slave

Code

23.

WHEN YOU'RE A slave, living on a large Louisianan Plantation, working under the control of a highly ranked white family, you don't know much. You don't know about events that have occurred outside the Plantation. You don't know about war. You don't know about anything unless it directly involves you, simply because nobody tells you. If you don't need to know something, they won't tell you.

So instead we rely on rumours, and there are an abundance of rumours, so many that sometimes they don't help you at all. One week you might overhear that the South is losing the war, and the next week people are saying that the Northerners are only three days away from defeat.

Information travels quickly by word of mouth. It's easy to find out the thoughts of others. The hard part is figuring out what's true.

All my life I have been surrounded my rumours. I've been turning them over in my mind and extracting, from the blizzard of knowledge, the small parts that I think are true, the parts that I decide to believe in.

When I need answers, I go to Mama because I can always trust her to tell me the truth. I have faith in her that she will always tell me exactly what she thinks, even if she isn't always right.

But now, while Mama is still missing, I can't ask her for a solution. I can't run to her and beg for her comfort. I can't ask her for help, the way I have for the past fifteen years, because she isn't here, and the thought that she's missing makes me feel ill to the point where I might throw up.

✫ ✫ ✫

I don't know how long I stay on the ground, fighting the sick feeling in my stomach, but I do know that Amos never leaves my side. I can hear his steady breathing and when I open my eyes for a few moments, I can see his chest rise and fall.

He sees me watching him and reaches for my hand. His fingers curl around mine. They are hot and sweaty but I don't mind. His thumb moves back and forth over my palm.

He rolls closer to me so that my shoulder is touching his bare chest. He smells of damp wood and peaches.

"You's been pickin' fruit for Noah today?" I ask him.

He shakes his head slowly, and I sigh.

"I needed them, Cass," he says.

"What for?"

"Jus'..." He hesitates, "Jus' for me."

I turn onto my side, facing away from him. I'm too tired to warn him about the dangers of theft. And he knows he shouldn't steal. I don't need to remind him. But that's the problem with Amos: he realises the consequences that come with being caught, but he does it anyway.

But someday his crimes will catch up with him, and on that day I don't know what will happen.

"Sorry," he mumbles. He knows that I'm mad. I don't respond. "I got one for you," he says.

I can't help but smile.

"They gone fin' her, right?" I say, taking the peach from Amos.

"Yes, an' soon. You'll see."

"You's sure they will?" I ask.

"O' course," he says confidently.

We remain beside each other on the grass for a long time. By the time dusk arrives, with soft pinks and oranges that glow in the sky, I am feeling a little better. They'll find Mama, I know they will. And for now, I have Amos and Beckey. I can survive without her for a few hours.

When my eyes start to close with fatigue, I retreat to my cabin after Amos returns to his. It's almost completely dark now, but I find my way by the light of the moon and the soft yellow glow from the windows of the house.