The Hardest Thing to Know, Part 3

The is the last installment of my short story, "The Hardest Thing to Know." I hope you have enjoyed reading this piece as much as I have enjoyed sharing it with you. Please leave me your thoughts below.

“He can’t even protect you” the master whispered.

Now, he was behind her and inhaled her scent. She turned to flee, but he caught her arm. Her tribeswoman’s words played in her ears. He grabbed her around the waist and threw her to the ground. She scrambled up and lunged for the door again only to meet his arm around her waist again. This time he climbed on top of her. She scratched at his face and managed to kick him. She fought the woman’s words away as she fought with her master. He landed an intricate punch.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” she heard him say as her eyes rolled and her body surrendered.

She awoke to the night. Her naked body felt the soft linens. Her eyes beheld fine furniture and soft candlelight. She saw her field clothes cleaned and neatly folded on a chair. Her hands caressed the cowrie shell necklace her Man had made her before the nets, ships, chains, and whips. Something was crawling around her shoulders. She jumped, then realized it was her own hair unbraided and in its full length and glory. She sat up in the bed and faced herself in a mirror, but she did not know herself. Her mind finally held the weight of all that had transpired and shoulders drooped. Now her mind was racing and her body was dressing itself, then was running full speed towards her Shack.

            She found her Man lying on his stomach there, bloody. He had been fatally beaten, whipped, and there were gashes and bruises all over his body. He was supposed to die. He looked as if he were only sleeping. She began gathering materials to clean and wrap his wounds. She could barely hold any of the cleansers. Her dark, thin hands were shaking and boiling hot tears ran heat all over her face. She realized the wounds were already cleaned. He let out a heavy sigh and the wounds began scabbing before her eyes.

He was dreaming. He saw them together in their old village. She was pregnant and he was walking with a little boy with her eyes. He was telling them stories of his travels in other times. Then, he saw himself running to the mansion. He saw the four white men sitting on the porch descend the steps. He clenched her machete and waited for them to approach. He heard the gunshot and felt the pain in his neck. He charged towards them only to be met with more gunshots. He kept charging and felt the whips on his back. He cut the whips and a few of the white men with his machete. He felt the bullet enter his skull. Then, he saw an Elder standing over him in his Shack with a bloody bullet in her hand. Then, he saw darkness.

She raced from the Shack, and back around the field the wind was whipping through her dress and her hair. Her loneliness began to creep around her and slowed her run. She began sobbing as she walked toward the beach. She felt the cool water caress her toes and she walked toward the current. She was the last of the tribe in this hell and she was no longer pure. The tips of her hair kissed the salty water. Her Man had been tortured to the point of death. She had nothing else to offer anyone. Not herself or her Man. She was standing under the water. He would have a better life without her. She knew she would love him again in another time and place. As she inhaled deeply and gave up the ghost, the cowrie shell necklace floated towards the shore and rested in the sand. 

A sharp pain raced up the Man’s back and he sat up abruptly. He could feel her spirit floating around him, but he had to be sure. He had no patience for running, so he flew to the beach. His heavy body thudded as he landed at the very spot her necklace laid. He did not need to see her body floating away from the shore to understand her decision. He picked up her lonely necklace, wrapped it around his thick wrist, then, turned toward the horizon and flew towards another time, so he could find her spirit’s next home. Maybe, in this new place, they could love again. Because the hardest thing to know is that in some times, love is not enough. 

The Hardest Thing to Know, Part 2

 This is the second part of my short story "The Hardest Thing to Know." I hope you enjoy it and please tell me what you think. 

The Field was bathed in heat by now. The Sun rained down heat. The soil exhaled heat. The bodies absorbed heat and heat bounced from body to body. All bodies in your rows before the Sun can make a shadow. The cane rose from the ground trying to touch the sky. We chopped it down. The leaves sometimes sliced Our skin and sweat seeped in to sting. Emerald sugar stalks stretched up from thick roots that hid biting insects and crafty reptiles each biting uniquely, but pain was pain.

Then, the songs began. Old songs that reminded Us of Home. So many tribes, but We learned each others’ songs. The stolen of her tribe were all dead now. She and her Man were the last. The white overseer wanted to stop the songs, but he was too impotent. Usually, his tribesmen tortured those who disobeyed. They were a monstrous tribe. Always screaming, yelling, fighting, violently. The white men whipped, and beat, and raped, and impaled and burned, and disfigured. But We were yet defiant. No one had been punished for songs, so the songs went on and so did the Day until there was Day no more.

In the shack, She fussed over another new cut across His back with water and cleansers and ointment. He let her. Then, he wrapped his heavy arms around her small waist and kissed Her deeply.  She held his chiseled face in her delicate hands that were rough on the inside. In one motion, it seemed he had removed her dress and his own clothing. He removed the cloth from her head and unbraided her hair. He buried His head into Her hair and breathed in her essence. It revived His spirit. The darkness would conceal their affection from the evil of this place. Now they could love. But they had made provisions. They would bear no children here. Never.

We all want to believe. Need to believe that love can conquer all and endure all. However, the hardest thing to know is that is not always true. In some times and places, love is undesirable. It can make you weak, vulnerable. It can kill you.

The next morning, the Man and Woman dressed in their customary fashion. They were oblivious to the events that would change their very existence in a matter of hours. Before they were in the field long enough to sing, the Master summoned the Woman to his house. While she was grateful for the respite from the labor, the trek from the field to the mansion was laborious as well. She hiked over the hills of tall grass, along the beach, and finally, up the steps and around to the path that lead to the rear door. By now the dirt and sweat bound her once long loose plaits to her scalp under her head wrap.

She entered the rear door to find one of her tribeswomen in tears. The woman’s scarred, caramel face showed tear trails that reflected too much pain. She tried to embrace her but the woman only spoke words close to her ear. “If you fight, he’ll make it worse for you here.” When she backed away from the woman, she noticed fresh crimson growing on her dress. She shook her head in disbelief. “But she’s just given birth,” she thought in horror.

“MARIE-EE,” the master sang out. That’s the name the Woman was given, but she never answered to it. This place was not her home. She was frozen in place. He called again. She could hear his boot steps but they were not enough to thaw her from her place. Her arms were still outstretched from the embrace she’d given her bloodied tribeswoman. He was up on her now, he was breathing on her, but she still hadn’t blinked. She saw his hand as it struck her face. She blinked finally. Unthawed, but still very, very cold.

He screamed and gestured wildly, but his words were still foreign to her. However, she had been a woman her whole life and she knew how to read the intentions of men. He, like the other whites on the Place, were wondering why she and her Man had not made children. The Blacks knew why. It was obvious to Us. Now, he was making a crude comment about her husband’s sexual abilities. He grabbed her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. She’d never looked at her master up close. His skin was dewy from sweat. His blue eyes looked genuine in contrast to his dark brown hair. No facial hair. He was young, handsome, and terrible.

“Don’t you see Marie. You can live in safety. All you have to do is what you already do. I’ve seen you with the Negro. I can offer you more.” He paused for impact. Nothing. 

The Hardest Thing to Know, Part 1

I am super excited about the upcoming movie, Django:Unchained. I wrote the following excerpt about three years ago. It is part of my short story "The Hardest Thing to Know." I hope you enjoy it and please leave me your comments.

            

          From space, the Place seemed peaceful. Serene. The emerald fields of sugar cane leaves swayed carelessly in the last of the night air. Mosquitoes hummed their vampire song. The crude brown shacks slept as the white mansion snored. From up here, the scene appeared serene, peaceful. But the Sun knew better, so it peaked over the horizon before it showed its entire face reluctant to begin another day of pain. There was no real rest here because there was no peace for the soul or mind. The sleep was artificial like the smiles We plastered on Our faces to live. Everyone would devour this “rest” like greedy pigs although We all knew it would not be enough. The heat rays snuck into the cracks of a shack like coolness thieves. A single ray of light hit a fragment of a strategically placed mirror and that light beamed right into the Woman’s face.
          Her eyes opened. She turned from the beam and looked at her Man. She touched his newest gash. It was an accident. She cut him deeply with her machete while working in the cane fields yesterday. She winced at the image of the abysmal laceration and crimson blood running from his arm. She had fussed over it all night, but it had already scabbed over. She was both relieved and grieved. He healed too quickly from the severest of injuries. Once, while in the old country, he tried to explain to her why. He told her how he had lived in Rome, Spain, and Egypt. How he came to West Africa to find a quiet, peaceful existence. He found his peace in her. Nothing good can stay. Presently, she looked around the Shack. Everything was brown and earthen. The wooden walls and roof, dirt floors, even their folded work clothes were dingy and beige. The only glimpse of bright was the bunch of bananas in the corner. She looked over at the large,ebony heap that was her Man.
          His health allowed them to survive the nightmarish Middle Passage to into this hell. So many people died on those vessels and many dying here. Often, she wished they had died too. She feared they would be here for their whole lives and that was tragic. The other sad thought, if they were here, who was looking over things in the village she wondered. She had heard that much of her village was scattered about in this new land. That thought killed her insides every time and she became infuriated before the Sun was over the horizon. If our generation is lost in this hell, who will teach the next? They will be lost because we have been stolen. A hot tear ran down her sable cheek and her full lips trembled with rage.
          He kissed the cheek. Her full, dark lips revealed spacey, white teeth. Without him, she would have been killed moons ago. Her anger blurs her sense sometimes. She buried her head into his neck and breathed in his heat. It revived her spirit. His hand wandered between her legs and she giggled. There is no time for love now, she told him in the old language. There is only time for work she said as she rose. Her glorious dark body was already beaded with sweat that ran a crooked path down her back along deep gashes from the whips. Souvenirs for not working hard enough. Fast enough. Long enough. She slipped on a work dress and began wrapping her long kinky braids in cloth. He stood. His own body was flawless as if he’d never endured a lash or gash. His body told a lie that only his soul could relay truthfully. He dressed in rough trousers and a torn shirt. As he secured his pants, kissed her neck, and held her in his black, muscled arms. His round, boyish eyes looked deep into her slanted, piercing ones. Dong! Dong! Dong! No time for love.
          They worked together in the fields. She chopped swiftly and he gathered what she chopped. He also chopped down the stalks she missed in her haste. He was watching the back of her dress dance and missed the stalks he swung for. Shhwick! She turned just in time to see the whip lick his back and blood run from His shirt. The white man screamed something in his tongue while shaking the whip at her Man. Unaffected, he chopped the stalks and gathered the rest. She was still staring at the white man and the other slaves moved past. Her fury returned. The white man screamed at Her and walked toward Her with his whip in hand. Her Man grabbed her machete. The white man stopped when he did that. Welding both machetes, He chopped down four stalks in one violent stroke and told her, in the old language: Gather. She obeyed and They advanced. Indolently, the white man returned to his post.