Billowing in the fading sunlight is a wisp of white cloth.
Gracefully, it dances along the wind's nimble fingers, twirling and coalescing with each push of warm air. It's a rather fancy neck-scarf: white, dainy, and prominent. A waving hand to the dwindling sun. This neck scarf says a poised goodbye to the hot star in the sky as it lowers itself towards the everlasting ocean of the Caribbean. Ghoulishly, the scarf forms into loose shapes and coagulates into unknown lines.
This neck scarf belongs to Oria, the ground keeper and owner of Betty's Hope.
"Stupid scarf. How did you even get this far away from me?"
Oria snatches the article from the edge of the windmill blade looming above her. She never enjoyed the sight of these towering windmills, especially at night. Owning an abandoned sugar plantation was an exciting thought when she was more naïve.
Now the idea has become a reality. And it no longer holds the same exciting potential it once had. Dream has transformed into duty, and hope into hard work.
Oria must maintain the grounds for the batches of tourists that bake under the Caribbean sun to ogle and gape at historical sugar-processing buildings. They dive in and out of the cobblestone passageways to comment about the horrors of slavery. Muttered prayers and awestruck comments fill the stuffy insides of the Grand House of the plantation.
In the fields surrounding the compound, youngsters clinging to sunburned arms reach out to gingerly touch stalks of sugarcane. As their small fingers grasp the tall growing canes, paroxysms of grief smatter their expressions. Although they do not fully comprehend the unfortunate machinations behind plantation life at such a ripe age, they feel the low, sulking energy behind each plant. They feel the age-old blood roiling deep within the foundation of Earth. They sense the death that once plagued Betty's Hope.
Their imitations of frowns and scoffs pay homage to the victims of slavery, to the tribulation and unfortunate death reaped by this land.
Oria ties the scarf around her neck.
"There. Now you can't escape me."
Her fingers are shockingly cold despite the warmth of the island. She casts a desultory glance up at the windmill. It creaks in the gentle breeze, shaking slightly.
The last ray of sun slips away, eaten by the horizon. Oria sighs, walking away from the gigantic wind structures. She only has to lock up one last portion of the plantation before exiting the grounds. The Grand House.
Unlike the rest of the plantation, tourists who step through the Grand House always express disgust.
Ornately furnished with European-produced luxury brands, the interior of this home is a startling contrast to the harsh, wind-swept lands of the plantation. It's a dreadful reminder of planter aristocracy, of racist virtues, and all that is unfair in the world.
The peaceful sphere of the Grand House represents everything the slaves could not get. Relaxation. Serenity. A warm bed. Ample food to eat. Equality.
Oria opens the door and enters. The Grand House groans as her footfalls carry across refurbished floorboards. She briefly examines the corners of the home with her flashlight, shining the beam at every antiquated article. She has to ascertain no wild animal has burrowed inside. Once before, when she first agreed to become ground keeper of Betty's Hope, a bat lodged its way into the side wall.
She won't have that happening again.
"Anyone in here?!"
From experience, she knows that animals get startled easily by loud noises. This time shouldn't be any different.
YOU ARE READING
Corpus Civilization
RandomEveryone has a unique story. No experience is the same. Every life matters. Every hour counts. Down to the last second. They're ordinary humans, just like you. And they all have a tale to tell. - This account is under the control of two writers. T...
