I wake up early the next morning to birds chirping. My back hurts from being uncomfortably strained all night. Everyone is still asleep, and I'm thankful for the few minutes to regain my composure after what happened last night.
I look at Isaac, who lies next to me. His face is sticky and covered in blood from the night before. Bruises line his arms and face. He does not sleep peacefully, as wrinkles line his young forehead. I wonder what nightmares trouble him.
My blood boils when I see Harold exiting the inn. He did this to Isaac. I feel a sick pleasure when I see he has a bruise on his face too; the only punch Isaac was able to land before being beaten.
"Breakfast, ye runts! Geddup, I have till nightfall te get you to the Whitley Farm."
The slaves in the crate stir, but Isaac doesn't move.
"Hey, Isaac. Get up you lazy butt, dincha hear him?" I tease
He grunts.
"Isaac, come on! Don't you want food?"
His eyes open wide, and I laugh.
I notice he winces painfully when he moves to get up. I worry how he will cope today.
I hear a faint rumbling, and survey the sky above. Storm clouds. Though rain may slow us down, it will help with the heat.
Another rumble, this one much quieter. I mentally slap myself--it's just my stomach. I look up eagerly to see Harold tossing pieces of bread into the crate. The slaves claw at it like animals. It's their first meal since yesterday morning, I think.
I curse myself for letting Abby carry all the food the day we were captured. We have no supplies and are entirely at the mercy of Harold.
He approaches us with the basket, and I look into his beady eyes eagerly.
"Well, would you look at that." he remarks dully.
Only one loaf remains.
"We can share" I say quickly, and Isaac nods to confirm.
"But why would I want to share with you?" he sneers, and stuffs the last piece into his mouth.
I look at him in disbelief.
The stains on his shirt tell me he already ate this morning. This was to spite us.
"Let's get a move on then!" he yells, and whips the horses to go.
"Come on Isaac. We'll find something along the way."
So begins another day's walk behind the wagon.
I look up to see the woman who sang with me last night. She holds a small portion of bread in her hands, and I eye it greedily.
She tosses it onto the ground, and I pick it up eagerly.
"Thank you" I say.
She smiles sadly. I split it with Isaac and we feast on what we get.
"What's your name?" I ask
"Ruth. And you?"
"I'm Alice." I smile, and I nod at Isaac to join the conversation.
"Isaac."
"Well Zac, you're a very brave young lad. I should like to thank you for teaching him a lesson, but your fight was in vain, m'fraid."
"Some would say" he remarks, and then we fall silent.
I wonder how he keeps himself moving at all. His pride cost him his health.
We walk for about five hours (though it feels more like ten), Isaac panting hard before we stop by a small pond for Harold to refill his water.
YOU ARE READING
A Game of Colours
Historical FictionBorn to a middle class family in New York City, Alice's life changes forever when she and her family are kidnapped and sold into slavery. She is torn away from everything she loves and only allowed to keep her name. She is forced to work long hours...
