In Dire Need of Cessation

Eight

After the tedious task of explaining what I had seen to my family, I didn't delay getting into the shower and finally scouring my skin, ridding myself of the dirt that had inhabited on me for the past few days. 

After my shower and a change of clothes, I pondered over what I could do now; unfortunately, with being the black sheep in my family and not having a mate to either explore the territory with or just converse to, I settled on hunting instead, excusing myself from the family.

I sought the territory from top to bottom, hunting around the perimeter as we were miles from human civilization; that was how, after I was fully fed, and my eyes butter golden, I discovered the cemetery that could be seen from my bedroom window.

The area was immensely secluded, with thorn bushes, large yew trees, conifers, and sharp iron fences poking up from the ground, forcing me- unless I wanted to ruin the landscape easily- to walk to the entrance, a simple gap between two yew trees- which was difficult to see with the branches hanging down like hands, ready to yank me from the ground with their falling heavy fingers, sweeping the floor with their leaves, and making me use my hand to clear my path. With no effort, I moved the divider and hesitantly, powered by curiosity, stepped forward.

Unlike the rest of the grounds of the plantation, light and open as I could see the whole territory, this small place was completely isolated from the outside world as the trees created a canopy above, with knotting branches and soon to fall leaves, shadowing the ground below as if they were distant green clouds rejecting Earth from the cheerfulness from the sun.

As the trees were centuries old, strong and bold like monarchs, the roots were too, lifting the ground beneath my feet and channeling contorted in all directions, like the veins of the spirits that laid here. There was no distinct pattern to the gravestones dotted around, each facing their own angle as if someone had shut their eyes, threw the shovel, and dug wherever it landed.

The uneven ground made it slightly odd with the coordination of gravestones too, as some were at least two feet above the next as they were perched on a hill. The blanketing ivy that was being sourced from the yew trees, crawled around the stones, covering the freeze thaw that cut through the weathered names engraved in the rock, which were also harassed by the lichen. Nature was the last insult of whoever laid beneath, as it tore away the ability to remember who once was here, with memories of their own that would never be retrieved. That was the hardships of unrecalled history.

I stepped forward, over the roots and crushing the dead leaves, further into the cemetery, hungry to know more. The barricaded plot, at least three-hundred square feet, was vaguely set into categories, as the farther I walked to the back of the plot, the more extravagant and larger the stones became.

To the front of the cemetery, there were fifty-one stones, similar in size and description- which was, unsurprisingly, roughly a number of slaves that were here- minus one- from what Carlisle had informed. From the few I could see, there were only two names, first name and surname, engraved in those stones, some with only their first name.

Maha Jalloh.

Bunme Turay.

Chiamaka.

Issa Jalloh.

Four names, hardly recognizable letters, displayed my prediction to be correct of them being slaves, from them not being the normal names of this country in that time, and how little was said about each. It also brought me sorrow to see that there were people who were related here, with the same surname, as it would have been a hideous environment to love another- especially with the normality of torture that was witnessed- or produce life.